Page 34 of A Merry Christmas
The two men did not drink. Their silence weighed heavier than the talk. One of them—a wiry fellow with a narrow face and eyes like steel pins—took out a pocket ledger, turned a page, and tapped his pencil once. Joshua caught the motion and understood.
The first blow came after the last round of throws. Tremaine lost badly, cursed the pins, and demanded another go. When no one would answer, the tournament carried on. With a furious glare at the assembled, Tremaine walked into the tap-room and demanded more drink. Surreptitiously, the two men followed him into the inn, crossing the room with unhurried purpose. Trailing in their wake, Joshua sidled close enough to listen.
“Mr. Tremaine,” the taller one said. His voice had the edge of London in it. “A word with you, if you please.”
Tremaine gave a laugh that had lost its shine. “My dear fellow, can it not wait? You will spoil the sport.”
“It has waited long enough.”
The shorter man jerked his chin toward the back door. The landlord, wiping a pewter mug, looked down and said nothing.
Tremaine hesitated, saw the eyes on him, and straightened his shoulders. “Of course. A private matter. Excuse me, gentlemen.”
Joshua watched them leave, then he moved after them, as silent as a shadow.
The yard behind the Crown was half frozen mud, half puddle, the air sharp with smoke from the kitchen chimney. A cat streaked away as the door creaked open.
Tremaine stood between the men now, still playing at bravado. “I shall have funds within the week.”
“A week?” the shorter man said, his voice a rasp of mockery. “You are lucky the master gave you till New Year’s Eve. You ’ave stretched that, too.”
“I have a new arrangement in hand. A betrothal to an heiress.”
The taller man shifted his stance. “Is that so? We know Dunning left and took ’is daughter with ’im. ’E ’ad you looked into. ’E did not like what ’e found. Called you—what was it, Ned?”
The other man spat into the snow. “A worthless wastrel, sir, and that were the kindest bit. Said if ’e lent you a guinea, ’e wud want the watch off your wrist as proof you couldn’t wager it first.”
Tremaine’s face drained.
“We watched ’is carriage roll out this mornin’.” The shorter man’s boot prodded a patch of ice. “You’d best find another ’eiress to mend your fortunes, an’ quick.” He laughed.
Joshua could see Tremaine’s mind considering his options, and he knew before the man spoke what he would say.
“Dunning was my father’s choice!” Tremaine’s voice cracked. “I have a betrothed—Roxton’s daughter. It only wants a license. Allow me three days and she will be my wife.”
The two men exchanged wary glances.
“I assure you!” Tremaine pleaded.
“What do you think, Marv? Is ’e tellin’ the truth?”
The next sound was the thud of a fist. Tremaine folded against the wall, gasping.
“Mebbe. Mebbe not.” Another brutal fist met Tremaine’s eye then another split his lip.
The taller man gave a dry chuckle, half contempt, half scorn. “Seeyou marry this ’eiress. You ’ave three days, no more. Fail, and you’ll be wishing for my fist instead of what waits fer you.”
The second man gave him a parting kick, precise and merciless, before turning away.
“Three days, and we will be watchin,’” the Cockney said again, his grin all rotten teeth. “We ain’t the sort to count to four.”
They vanished into the lane as quietly as they had come.
Joshua stepped forward. Tremaine was hunched by the barrels, hands pressed to his ribs, breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. When he looked up, his eyes flared with resentment rather than shame.
“Fielding,” he spat. “Here to congratulate yourself?”
Joshua bent, caught him by the arm, and pulled him upright. “Save your pride. The ground’s cold.”
