The Gilded Scarab (18 page)

And so on and so on. Ad infinitum.

He was so sorry and apologetic it was worse than the histrionics. It was uncomfortable. Not to mention embarrassing. I kept glancing around to make sure no one had noticed, and once Walter caught my gaze and gave me an amused little grimace.

Damn. This needed to stop.

Sometimes, I am too kind for my own good. So, I patted Daniel’s hand and said, “Don’t worry about it.”

He turned his hand under mine to clutch it, and made an odd gulping noise that I feared might presage another round of apologies.

I had to stop that in its tracks, so went on, quickly, “Really, Daniel, I don’t want to talk about it. Let us forget it, please.”

I repeated this a time or two until he caught himself up, his breath hitching. He managed a shaky little smile that was, I thought, calculated to show how he could pack up his troubles and be a brave little Aegyptologist. I patted his hand again, nodded encouragement, and sat back.

I used to pat Trixie too. And with much the same result in doggy-eyed devotion.

So we made up, and when Daniel’s breath stopped hitching, I summoned a waiter. I needed a stiff scotch, and he needed… well, something. He got a scotch, anyway. Neither of us had much appetite, but when we finally retired after dinner to a room at the Hundred Marks, Daniel was very attentive to my pleasure, very eager to please me. That night we had an extraordinarily energetic time. Daniel evidently felt that if I felt well-loved and well-pleasured, I would put his little outburst behind us.

I left the next morning with kisses and caresses and mutual exhortations that we wouldn’t give the events of the previous evening another thought.

I lied. I couldn’t help but think about it. Somehow, without me realizing or intending it, I was now in a fully fledged
liaison amoureuse
. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with that. I’d thought I’d found someone with whom I could have regular sex without ties, but Daniel wanted someone to love and cleave to. He wanted that someone to be me.

“You are really so beautiful,” Daniel said, with one last kiss. “I’m so lucky to have met you.”

I said, “Mmmmph.”

But—and I hold myself culpable here—I allowed the kisses and the caresses and the promises that we wouldn’t think about the previous night.

I walked back to Bloomsbury in a chill gray dawn. I broke my promise before I reached the corner of Charlotte Street and Tottenham Court Road. I was thinking very hard about his agitation, his anger, and the way he thought he could put his hand on me to restrain and, if he could, to hurt me. I didn’t for one moment truly believe that Daniel wanted to keep me happy and content.

He just wanted to keep me.

A
ND
THEN
there was my last and perhaps most pressing cause for disquiet. Mr. Pearse concerned me greatly.

The occasional looks of anxiety and strain on his face I had first noticed before Christmas were more common now. The old man’s shoulders stooped until he was curling in on himself, and he looked ill, his face pale and more than usually frowning. I saw it but hesitated to say anything. After all, I’d known the man a mere couple of months, and it would be the height of insolence to interfere.

In the course of our acquaintanceship, I’d learned from Mr. Pearse that he had little in the way of immediate family. The details came from elsewhere. I learned from Mrs. Deedes that, while there were a sister’s children somewhere whom Mr. Pearse rarely saw, Mrs. Pearse was long gone. Their only child, a son, had died with Gordon in the Soudan. It explained Mr. Pearse’s grimace when he greeted me that first day, when I mentioned my rank and service. I came to realize that I had been accepted by Mr. Pearse despite being a member of the Imperium’s forces, rather than because of it.

So, whatever worried the old man wasn’t likely to do with family. Since Mr. Pearse appeared to be sincere in eschewing anything to do with his old House, it didn’t seem likely House politics were bothering him at this late stage, either. Whatever it was, though, had the old man dropping weight and looking gray and aged.

“I don’t know,” said Sir Tane, when I sought a second opinion. “I do wish Ned Winter were here! Pearse would listen to Ned, I’m sure, and he’s far more likely to confide in Ned than in anyone else. He might deride House politics, but some loyalties run very deep.” Sir Tane pursed his lips, glancing to where Mr. Pearse stood behind the counter staring down at his hands and looking so old my breath caught in my throat. For the first time, Sir Tane used my name. “Rafe, my boy, you’re here more than I. Do keep an eye on him, and if you need to discuss matters with me, take this.” He fished a calling card out of his waistcoat pocket and pressed it into my hand. “If you think I can help and need to talk about it away from here, then come and see me.”

It was nice Sir Tane had such confidence in me, but I was not entirely certain I was up to the job. I did my best to cheer up Mr. Pearse, but the old man’s interest in anything I proposed—racing, boxing, the forthcoming second Olympic Games to be held in Paris later that year when even women were to be allowed to compete—was fleeting, although he did brighten briefly at the ludicrous notion of female athletes. Mr. Pearse’s attempts to hide that he was troubled about something failed miserably. He didn’t confide in me, not that I really expected him to on such a short acquaintance. All I could do was keep an eye on him, as Sir Tane had asked.

Enlightenment came one dark day as January faded out and February came in with another rush of freezing snow, when I arrived at the coffeehouse to find Mr. Pearse in close consultation with a gentleman armed with a notepad and a measuring rule. Mr. Pearse gave me an uneasy look, but I stayed out of the way and retired to my usual chair, making a conscientious effort not to overhear. But the visitor had no such feelings of delicacy, and had a loud voice. Within five minutes of my arrival, I was staring at Mr. Pearse, feeling a little as if I’d been struck in the face by something unexpected. Like the way I’d been smacked in the face by the South African veldt, perhaps. It felt exactly like that.

Mr. Pearse was selling the coffeehouse.

Chapter 12

M
R
. P
EARSE
was
selling the coffeehouse
.

The little man with the notebook proved to be a legal clerk, connected with a local solicitor and land agent who sold properties on commission. While I watched, the man busied himself with measuring the exact dimensions of the coffeehouse front room before disappearing into the back premises to measure those as well.

Mr. Pearse winced visibly when the clerk went into the back room, leaving him alone with me and a couple of inconsequential strangers who sat in the window watching the world go by. Mr. Pearse shot me a look in which he undoubtedly appeared guilty—he grimaced, ducked his head, and hunched his shoulders up to his ears, the tips of which were red. His hands shook a little when I went to the counter.

“A refill, Rafe?” he asked, with an attempt at least at his old easy manner.

I shook my head and put out a hand. “Mr. Pearse?”

“Damn!” He grimaced again. “Damn.”

“You’re selling up?”

Mr. Pearse’s face flushed red to match his ears. He hesitated, eyes darting around the shabby old room, and up came his shoulders again, hunching protectively. “I don’t have very much choice, Rafe. I’m… I’m tired. This place has always been a struggle since I lost… I…. Dammit, boy, but I’m tired.”

I caught the old man’s hand and grasped it. “Are you ill? Are you?”

Mr. Pearse gripped back, hard. “Oh no, Rafe! No. I promise you, it’s not that. Merely that I’ve allowed this place to run down, and I’ve never had reason to restore it. Do you know about my boy? Yes, I thought someone would have mentioned it. Well, since the Soudan, I’ve not had reason to bother myself with keeping this place up, not after my boy…. Well. There was no reason. And now it’s too late. It would take more than I have. Oh, not money, though I don’t have much, it’s true. I mean here.” He struck himself on the chest. “It will take more than I have here.”

The old man lifted his hands and let them drop again while I mumbled something, anything, to take that look from Mr. Pearse’s face. I said I was sorry and agreed it was all damnable, and I was sincere when I asked if there was anything I could do to help. I liked the old man. It was horrible to see him so upset.

Mr. Pearse’s smile was thin and shadowy. “No, my boy. Thank you and bless you for your kindness, but no. I’m seventy five, did you know that? I’m too old to do what needs doing here, before the place goes under. And it will go under. I’ve kept it ticking over, but trade is slow. It’s very slow. My own fault, I know, but still. That’s the way it is. Philtre Coffee—have you heard of them?”

“I had the misfortune to try one of their coffeehouses the first week I was back in Londinium. The coffee was abysmal.”

“Yes. But their coffeehouses are bright and pleasant, and they attract trade in a way I never have. I would love to know who’s behind that business. They seem to have unlimited funds. They’re spreading everywhere. They’d love this place, since it’s so close to the museum and the tourists, but it’s very hard to get a lease here. Gallowglass owns everything around here, and they’re very cagey about who they allow in.”

“Would you sell to them, to Philtre?”

Mr. Pearse snorted. “Not ever. Not if selling stood between me and the workhouse. They shame the entire coffee business with their substandard brews, but more than that… well, I can’t forgive them for what they did to Ned Winter. He and his wife were mown down by a Philtre delivery wagon in ’98, Rafe. Mrs. Winter did not survive, and Ned was lucky not to be killed or maimed. They had young Harry in the back of their autophaeton with them, and what that poor child saw with his mother lying there dead and his father unconscious and bloodied… no, I’ll never sell to Philtre.”

Oh. Ned Winter. The absent Aegyptologist. I made a mental note to mention him to Daniel Meredith, to see if they were acquainted. “What will you do, sir?”

“I should get enough for the lease to be comfortable. I thought I might retire to Eastbourne.”

“Eastbourne? Why on earth would you retire to Eastbourne?”

“Everyone retires to Eastbourne, Rafe. Or Hove. I think the Queen made it a law. They say the sea air on the south coast is bracing. Refill?”

On my nod, Mr. Pearse busied himself with making a fresh brew. Each of the furnaces in the coffee machines needed to be tended and the milk steamed before he could hand me a refill. While the old man worked, I looked around the room.

It was a good-sized front end for a business, the room running the entire depth of the main building, with deep bay windows on either side of the central door. I could put a small sofa in each window with a low table, have the half-decrepit armchairs reupholstered, and add a few tables and more comfortable chairs. The high wooden backs of the two booths on the wall opposite the fireplace needed repolishing. A couple of tables out on the pavement would be a good idea, too, for those two or three days in the English summer when it wasn’t actively raining. The walls were dingy with years of smoke from the fire, but would soon freshen up with a lick of paint—a deep cream would look clean, but warm and inviting—and a picture or two to make it look homey….

I froze. Frowned. Looked around again.

The coffeehouse could be made a good, going concern, I knew it. Brighten it up and redecorate, and for a relatively small outlay, the place would look very different and more inviting to the casual passerby. There was the potential to work with Will Somers, too, selling the baker’s pastries and cakes, and that could benefit both businesses.

The coffeehouse was for sale.

I was looking for a new career.

“Mr. Pearse!”

The old man started, jerking a can of coffee beans so they rattled all over the counter, bouncing everywhere. “Good God, Rafe! I’m only three feet away.”

“Sorry.” I leaned over the counter. “Mr. Pearse, are you serious about selling?”

“Of course I am! I wouldn’t be going through all this if I weren’t….” Mr. Pearse’s voice trailed off, and he raised an eyebrow. “You’re interested?”

“I’d have to look into it properly, of course, but yes. I need a business of some kind, and I like this place. I really like this place.”

“But you don’t know anything about coffee!”

“I can learn. You had to.”

The old man stared, and his mouth twitched up into a faint smile. “You know, I always thought that when I gave this up, it would go to someone who knew the business. But I was wrong, wasn’t I? It has to go to someone who loves the place.”

I grinned. Mr. Pearse grinned back and stuck out his hand to be caught and shaken.

“Well, now,” I said. “Well, now.”

I was in the right place at the right time. The Lancaster luck peeked out from wherever it had been hiding and gave me a shy little smile.

The Lancaster luck was back.

M
R
. P
EARSE
named a price above what I had in capital. Actually sufficiently above what I had in capital to worry me. I’d have to raise more funds somehow, since the old man explained he wasn’t personally setting the price.