Page 35 of Two Rogues Make a Right
“Why don’t you, then?” she asked, and her tone held more challenge than it did curiosity.
“Because there’s enough bad in the world. I’m trying to put my weight on the other side of the scale. Which I know is both futile and self-important but there you have it.”
“You should talk to my mum,” Daisy said as she handed him a sheet of slightly crumbled paper.
Martin pretended he didn’t know what she was talking about, and set about writing his letter.
“I’m sorry,” Will blurted out as soon as Martin walked in the door.
Martin shook his head. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. You’re a dramatic bastard and I should have guessed.”
“Then we’re all right?”
One corner of Martin’s mouth hitched up in something resembling a smile, even though it didn’t get anywhere near his eyes. “We’ll always be all right.”
Will felt a wash of relief sweep over him, and even more so when Martin put his arms around him. He didn’t tell Martin that he loved him, not then, not when they were tangled together in bed, not in the morning when they drank tea or the evening when they read by the fire. It was always there, in his heart, on the tip of his tongue, but he was afraid that speaking those words aloud would only make them rehash that last argument. Saying those words would be the end of something.
Two days later, when the sound of hoofbeats woke them from an afternoon nap, he had occasion to realize that “We’ll always be all right” didn’t mean much of anything.
“What the hell is that?” Will asked, sitting up in bed. The lane was wide enough for a pony cart but he had never seen any conveyance come within a hundred yards of the cottage. And now he could hear that this was no pony cart—he could make out at least two separate sets of hoofbeats. He got out of bed and stepped into the first pair of trousers he laid his hands on, then scrambled into a shirt and waistcoat. He collected the clothes he had removed from Martin a few hours earlier and tossed them onto the bed. Martin’s hair was rumpled and his lips were still swollen with kisses. Will hoped whoever this was would promptly go away.
Will waited until Martin was decent, then unbolted the door. In front of the cottage was a chaise and four. Two liveried servants rode on the chaise, one in front of the body of the carriage and one behind. One of them hopped down and swung open the carriage door, which Will could now see was emblazoned with a coat of arms. As he watched, the servant helped a woman step down from the carriage.
“What the hell,” Will muttered. The woman was swathed in about an acre of dark green fabric, and on her head was a hat the approximate size and shape of a punch bowl, apparently consisting of feathers dyed the same unlikely shade of green as her gown, or cloak, or whatever that sort of getup was called.
Will’s first thought was that Martin had found some rich woman to hire Friars’ Gate and neglected to tell Will about it. He knew Martin had written to his solicitor some weeks ago. But in that case, surely the new tenant would confine herself to correspondence with the solicitor, rather than squeezing her elaborate chaise down a cramped country lane and calling at a tiny cottage. Whoever and whatever she was, she didn’t belong here. As if to prove him wrong, Martin came up beside him, and Will was forced to remember the fact he had been trying to shove from his mind all these months—Martin didn’t belong here any more than this stranger with her elaborate hat did.
“Oh no,” Martin muttered.
“Martin?” the woman said. “Well, you aren’t dead. That’s something, I daresay.”
“Aunt Bermondsey,” Martin said faintly.
“This is your aunt?” Will said. “Thisis your aunt?” The way Martin talked about her, Will had imagined a dragon of a grand dame, at least sixty, with gray hair and a certain amount of gravitas. This lady was not much older than they were, although it was difficult to tell with her face shadowed by the brim of that hat. She was willowy and unmistakably fashionable. When she tilted her chin up to get a look at her nephew, he could see that her mouth was set in a familiar wry twist.
“Lady Bermondsey,” Martin said, “this is William Sedgwick.”
Will managed a small bow, and she flicked a glance at him as if surprised to have been introduced to a servant.
“How did you manage to find me?” Martin went on. “In my letter I only told you that I was well.”
“And that you were in need of stagecoach fare,” she said, dropping her voice as if loath to be overheard speaking of such common things.
“Stagecoach fare?” Will repeated. Both Martin and his aunt ignored him.
“Some weeks ago, your solicitor kindly informed me that you had requested his aid in finding someone to let Friars’ Gate. He mentioned that you were staying in one of the outbuildings.” She spoke as if Martin had been living in a root cellar or milking shed, and Will had the mad urge to defend their cottage against her insults.
“I specifically requested that he not divulge my whereabouts,” Martin said. His face was a mask of bored passivity that Will realized he hadn’t seen in a while.
“Well, then, I suppose you can number your lawyer among those who don’t wish to see you die in poverty. Not a bad quality in a solicitor,” Lady Bermondsey observed. “In any event, I didn’t seek you out immediately. I waited to hear from you. You may congratulate me on my restraint when we’re back in town. You didn’t think I’d actually let you take the stagecoach, darling. If we leave now we can be back in London before dusk.”
“Thank you for your solicitude, ma’am, but I’m not prepared to leave quite yet.” Martin’s hands were clenched into fists by his sides. “As I said in my letter, I have business in town at the end of April.”
Will’s mind reeled. That business in town was Will’s play. “I thought we were traveling up together. If you had wanted to go earlier, I would have given you the money for the fare.”
Martin didn’t look at him. Lady Bermondsey, however, lifted a lorgnette to her eyes and peered at him closely. “Nephew, have you been living entirely on the charity of this man?”
“No!” Will said. Martin said nothing. “It’s his house,” Will added feebly.
