Horn should have him.
He came up behind Lord Horn, sliding his hands onto the man's shoulders. Horn took his hands and seemed to wait. Touched by the formality of their moves, Michael turned him in his arms and kissed his mouth. He tasted spices. The man had been chewing fennel seeds for his breath.
The expert tongue flicked eagerly. Michael pressed closer. 'Lydia's eldest,' Horn murmured. 'You have grown up.' With nothing between them but the costly fabric of their clothes, Michael felt the man's need, twin to his own. Over the roar of blood he heard the ticking of the clock.
A polite knock broke them apart like a nutshell. A roaring breath of mixed lust and annoyance tore through Horn's flared nostrils. 'Come in!' he called gruffly. The door opened to a liveried servant carrying a tray with steaming mugs; behind him another bore two branched candelabra, fully lit. Horn stepped
forward irritably to hasten their office, and the light caught him full in the face like a mailed fist.
For a moment, Michael could only stare.
Slackness had invaded the carefully tended skin, blurring the fineness of Lord Horn's features. Little folds hung like someone else's laundry from the sharp lines of his face. What had been uniform ivory skin was turning sallow, except where blood-vessels had broken along his cheeks and the sides of his nose. His blue eyes had faded, and even the lustre of his hair was dimmed like old summer grass.
Michael gasped, and choked on his breath. The handsome man in the green velvet coat was gone, swept back to his youth in his mother's garden. Olivia had thrust him into the arms of this revolting stranger. The mug shook so badly in Michael's hands that hot punch spilled over his knuckles onto the carpet. 'I'm sorry - terribly sorry.'
'Never mind,' Horn growled, still annoyed at the interruption, 'sit down.'
Michael sat, paying close attention to his hands.
'I was with the Duchess Tremontaine,' Horn was saying in a loud voice meant for the servants. It would not do to be caught hurrying them.
'Charming woman. She extends me such courtesy. Of course I was a close friend of the late duke's.
A very close friend. I am to dine with her on her barge next week, when Steele sends up his fireworks.'
The liquor, and the effortless inanity of the conversation, were soothing Michael. 'Are you?' he replied, and was shocked at the weakness of his voice. 'So am I.'
The servants finally bowed out. Horn said, 'Perhaps we are destined to become better acquainted, then,' his voice heavy with innuendo.
Michael sneezed violently. It was timely but unintentional. He found himself genuinely relieved to realise that he really did feel horrible. His head ached, and he was going to sneeze again. 'I think', he said, 'that I had better go home.'
'Oh, surely not,' said Horn. 'I can offer you hospitality overnight.'
'No, really,' said Michael, as miserably as he could. 'I can see I'm going to be no fit company for anyone tonight.' He
coughed, praying that Horn's persistence would not outlast his courtesy.
'Pity,' said Lord Horn, flicking an invisible bit of thread from his coat into the fire. 'Shall I order you up the carriage, then?'
'Oh, please no, don't bother. I'm just a few streets away.'
'A torchman, then? It wouldn't do to have you falling again.'
'Yes, thank you.'
His wet overclothes were brought steaming from the drying fire. At least the water was warm. He walked home, tipped the torchman, and climbed the stairs to his bedroom with a candle, leaving his clothes in piles on the floor for his servants to find.
Michael slipped between cold sheets in a heavy bedgown, a handkerchief balled in his fist, and waited for sleep to overcome him.
Chapter V
The next day came cold and sullen. Layers of grey cloud blanketed the sky. From Riverside the effect was oppressive: the river roiled yellow and grey between the banks, swirling darkly about the struts of the bridge. Above it stretched the city's warehouses and commercial buildings, interrupted only.by patches of dirty snow. Richard St Vier got up early and put on his best clothes: he had an appointment in the city to pick up the second half of his payment for the Lynch fight.
It was a substantial amount, which only he could be sure of carrying back into Riverside unscathed. He was to meet someone, probably the servant of the agent of the banker of the noble who'd hired him, in a neutral place where the money could be handed over.
Both St Vier and his patrons appreciated the formalities of discretion in these matters.
From the Hill the view was quite another matter. The distant rivers glittered, and houses sent up cosy trails of smoke. The sky stretched out forever in rippling layers of silver, pewter and iron, over the domes of the Council Hall, the University walls and ancient Cathedral towers, on across the eastern plain and into the tiny hills.
Michael Godwin awoke at noon, having slept a round twelve hours, feeling remarkably fit. He coughed experimentally, and felt his throat, but the cold that last night had threatened to overwhelm him seemed to have vanished
Just then his manservant came in to rouse him. Michael had forgotten his promise to dine with his friend Tom Berowne that afternoon. There was just enough time to dress and wash. His dry, clean, nicely pressed clothes felt remarkably luxurious after last night's escapades. He put the memory behind him and went whistling out of the door.
Dinner was predictably excellent. His friend's cook was legendary, and Lord Thomas was full of gossip. Some of it, gratifyingly, was about him. Bertram, Rossillion's son, had lost 30 royals gambling in a popular club last night, and as he left the table had been heard to damn Michael Godwin.
Michael shrugged angelically. 'I wasn't even there. Felt a cold coming on, and stayed in all evening with a hot brick. Oh, much ' better now, thanks. Poor Bertram!'
He was in no hurry to get home. There might be a note waiting from Bertram, or, worse yet, one from Lord Horn. What a lot of trouble from one night! Of course he would run into Bertram sooner or later. Better make it sooner and turn up at the club tonight after supper.
He could tell Bertram pretty stories, and take him home with him. Horn, on the other hand... hadn't he mentioned the duchess's barge supper next week? It was too bad, but maybe he'd better miss that one. Horn didn't have the air of a man who knew when to give up. But the image of the duchess intruded itself between Michael and his resolves: her silvery eyes, her cool hand... and the voice that mocked and possessed and promised. Perdition take Horn. He couldn't refuse her invitation!
To draw out his walk Michael chose the distracting route home, along Lassiter's Row, where elegant merchandise was displayed before each shop to tempt the wealthy pedestrian. But there was little to distract today. Although the snow had been cleared, merchants were leery of setting much out in the cold, and few people were out walking. His thoughts turned again to the duchess.
He'd never heard of her taking any lovers; but she was beautiful, a widow... he should have asked Tom whether there were any rumours... Michael stopped, half meaning to turn around and return to his friend's, when an odd sight caught his attention.
A man was being ushered out of Felman's Bookshop by old Felman himself with the kind of pomp usually reserved for nobles with enormous libraries. But the man enjoying these favours hardly looked like a book-collector. He was young, athletically restless, anxious to depart. No noble of breeding would show such ill-ease before servile homage, however gross; and no noble would be caught out in a pair of such undistinguished boots, topped by a brown cloak of old-fashioned cut whose edges verged on the shabby.
Michael let the stranger make his escape before he descended on the bookseller.
Felman nodded and smiled, agreeing that, no, it was not the sort of fellow you'd expect to find in his establishment. 'My lord will scarcely credit it to hear who that was. That was the swordsman St Vier, sir, purchasing a volume here.'
'Well!' Michael was properly astonished. 'What did he buy?'
'What did he buy... ?' Felman ran pink fingers through the remains of his hair. 'I offered him many fine illustrated volumes, sir, such as might be suitable, for I like to think I know how to mate each customer to the appropriate work; well, sir, you will scarcely credit what he did buy: a scholarly volume, sir, ‘On the Causes of Nature’, which is in great demand at the University, being the subject of much discourse these days, I might even say disagreement. I only had the one volume, sir, very handsomely bound indeed; if you would like to order another I can oblige, although the binding will of course take some time....'
'Thank you,' Michael said automatically, making his excuses as he headed for the door. Hurried by an impulse he did not quite understand, he went down the street after the swordsman.
Lord Michael caught sight of the swordsman a few streets down, and hailed the brown cloak imperiously: 'Sir!'
St Vier looked quickly around, and kept walking. Michael broke into a run. As his footsteps neared, the swordsman was suddenly against the wall with his cloak flung back, hand gripping his sword. It was not the sword a gentleman would wear, but a heavy, undecorated weapon whose stroke would almost surely kill. Michael skidded to a halt in the slush. He was glad no one was there to see this.
' Master St Vier,' he panted. 'I wondered if - if I might speak with you.'
The swordsman's eyes were, incongruously, the deep lavender colour of spring hyacinths. They raked Michael up and down.
The man hadn't dropped his guard; his hand still held the pommel of his ugly sword. Michael wondered what on earth he was doing with this fellow. Something of his mother's complacent laughter and the duchess's piquant scorn moved him closer to the swordsman. They thought he would have nothing to
do with the profession. His mother was sure of it; and something in the duchess seemed to despise him for it.
St Vier seemed satisfied with what he saw; his hand relaxed as he became briskly businesslike. 'Do you want to talk out here?'
'Of course not,' Michael said. If he wanted to talk to the man, of course he would have to take him somewhere. 'Why don't you go along with me to the Blue Parrot for some chocolate?'
Why don't you go along... He sounded as though he were talking to an equal. St Vier seemed not to notice. He nodded, and followed Michael back up the street toward the cafe. Michael had to lengthen his stride to match the swordsman's. The man's presence was very vivid, at once sensual and aesthetic, like a fine blood-horse. He didn't match Michael's idea of a swordsman: there seemed nothing coarse about him, or surly, or even humourless.
'I'd better say now that my fees are high,' St Vier said. 'I don't want to put you off, but it usually has to be something pretty serious.'
'Yes, I've heard.' Michael wondered if he realised just how extensively his fees were discussed on the Hill. 'But I don't really want anyone challenged right now.'
'No?' St Vier stopped walking abruptly. 'If it's not about a job, then what do you want?'
He seemed less curious than annoyed. Quickly Michael said, 'Of course, I'm willing to pay you for your time, at your usual rates. I'd like you to... I'd like to learn the sword from you.'
The swordman's face closed with indifference. Later, Michael realised it was the same bored impatient look he had been giving Felman. 'I don't teach,' was all he said.
'Please believe that I'm in earnest.' What was he saying? He had never been anything of the kind. But the words came spilling out: 'I realise it's an unusual proposition, but I would make sure that you were properly recompensed as befits your skill and reputation.'
Barely concealed distaste showed on the swordman's face. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'I don't have time for this.'
'Wait - ' Michael stopped him from turning on his heel. 'Is there anything I could do to..."
For the first time St Vier seemed to soften, looking at Michael as though he saw a person behind the massed signals of breeding and grooming. 'Look,' he said kindly, 'I'm not a teacher. It has nothing to do with you. If you want to learn, there are plenty of others in the city who will teach you. I only do my own work; you can reach me in Riverside if you want me for that.'
'Will you... ?' Courteously Michael indicated the cafe a few doors down, determined to salvage some dignity.
The swordsman actually smiled at him. There was charm in it, unlooked-for humour and understanding. 'Thank you, no. I'm really in a hurry to get home.'
'Thank you, then; and good luck.' He didn't know if that was the appropriate thing to wish a swordsman, but the man didn't seem to take offence. It occurred to Michael later that St Vier had never asked him his name; and he never found out what the book was for. But he made enquiries that day, and the next, until he finally found himself a teacher.
Alec was mending a sock. His hands were bathed with the grey light from the window, and his stitches were tiny and careful.
'You should let Marie do that,' Richard said, hiding his surprise.
'It's a skill I learned at University. I don't want to lose it. I might need to earn a living some day.'
Richard laughed. 'As a tailor? Look, get yourself some new socks; get yourself ten pairs, get them in silk. I've just been paid for the Lynch job. We're going to be very comfortable, as long as it lasts.'
'Good,' Alec grumbled. 'We need more candles.'
'Beeswax,' said Richard giddily, 'of course. The best there is. Look, I've been shopping uptown.' He took out a brown paper parcel and held it out to Alec. 'A present. For you.'
'What is it?' Alec made no move to take the package.
'Well, it's a book,' Richard said, still holding it. 'I thought you might like it.'
Alec's eyes widened; then he converted the expression into a raising of the eyebrows. He fussed with the sock. 'You idiot,' he said softly.
'Well, you've only got the three you brought with you. And they're almost worn out. I thought you might like something new.' Feeling a little awkward, he began undoing the brown paper himself. It released the rich smell of leather. The binding alone, Richard thought, was worth the price: burgundy leather with gold tooling, gilt-edged pages; the book was as beautiful as a rug or a painting.
Alec's arm shot out: his hand closed on the book. 'Felman's!' he gasped. 'You got this at Felman's!'
'Well, yes. He's supposed to be good.'
'Good...' Alec said in strangled tones. 'Richard, it's ... he's ... they're wall decorations for noblemen's libraries. He sells them by the inch: "Do you have Birdbrain in red leather?"
"No, sir, but I have him in green." "Oh, no, that won't go with the rug." "Well, sir, I do have this lovely work on the mating habits of chickens in red. It's about the same size."
"Oh, good, I'll take that one."'
Richard laughed. 'Well, it is beautiful.'
'Very,' Alec said drily. 'You could wear it to Chapel. I don't suppose you know what it's about?'
'Natural philosophy,' he responded promptly, 'whatever that is. The man said you might like it. He seemed to know what he was talking about. I could have got you The Wicked Uncle, or, True Love Rewarded or The Merry Huntsman's Guide to Autumn Deer Droppings. But he said this was what everyone was reading now.'
'Everyone where?' Alec's voice was stiff, the Hill accent pronounced.
'At University.'
Alec went to the window, placing his long palm against the cold glass. 'And you thought I would be interested.'
'I thought you might be. I told him you went there, to the University.'
'But not that I'd left.'
'It was none of his business. I had to tell him something: when he thought it was for me he tried to sell me a book of pornographic woodcuts.'
'At least they would have been of some use to you,' Alec said acidly. 'On the Causes of Nature - the new translation. They've just lifted the ban on it after fifteen years. Have you any idea- no, of course you haven't.'
With a languid motion he turned from the window. The glass was freshly streaked with blood. His palm was scored with the mark of the darning needle.
Richard's breath caught. But he had faced dangerous opponents before. 'Come on,' he said; 'let's go down to Rosalie's and pay off all our debts. I've been drinking on credit for the past six weeks. You can bet gold against Greasepole Mazarene; he'll have hysterics.'
'That will be pleasant,' Alec remarked, and went to collect his cloak and gloves.