The Proposition (5 page)

When the second cup of tea came, he wouldn't let the waiter take the old cup. Then Mr. Tremore reached under the table and withdrew a surprise—the animal from his pocket, the one he'd saved at his own expense.

It was a small, weasly-looking thing. A ferret. It had to be, though Edwina had never seen one. But that was what ratcatchers used, wasn't it? Ferrets and terriers? What a vocation.

It had a shiny brown coat and a long, supple body, which it folded in half to "kiss" Mr. Tremore on his dark-stubbled cheek. The animal's shape was strange but good, she supposed, for wiggling through rat mazes and rabbit burrows. One of nature's better adaptions.

When Mr. Tremore lowered it out of sight, he also took the teacup. A moment later, the cup returned to the table, missing tea—or rather tea was in different places, in little sprinkles all around the inside of it.

She frowned. While the two brothers continued to argue, she argued with herself, staring at a ferret's tea-cup. A ratcatcher. Don't be preposterous, Edwina. An illiterate, crude ratcatcher— Yet Mr. Tremore's eyes, as they remained intent upon his animal, his livelihood, were alert. Astute. He was a slurp one, there was little doubt. Not well-educated, but not unintelligent.

He glanced up suddenly, from re-pocketing the ferret, then caught her staring. He winked at her.

She jerked, blinked, then picked up her own teacup, pouring her attention into it. Goodness. Certainly, if he were willing to tone down his swagger to mere arrogance, he would have enough of it to fit in with Arles and his lot. A little help with his diction, a few rules and manners…

Besides, he only had to get through one evening, not a lifetime. And he seemed able to wind his impromptu way through any number of scrapes.

A ratcatcher. Oh, yes. It was delicious. To pass a London ratcatcher off on the duke as a … a viscount.

Not so dangerous, she told herself. She could do it. No one would know. Just herself, a thirsty Cockney-fled Cornishman, and two quarrelsome brothers—none of whom would want the truth to come out.

Meanwhile, what a gift that knowledge would be: I outdid him, outfoxed him. Made a mockery of what deserves to be mocked. It would be her triumph, her little joke for the sake of her own amusement. At the expense of her old cousin, the Duke of Arles, also known as the Marquess of Sissingley—once her own father's title—and other lesser titles, who, by any and all his names and titles, deserved to be made fun of. Most surely he did.

The brothers must have sensed her willingness, for Emile Lamont suddenly began to discuss expenses, how much she would need to begin. As if the bet were laid, her part agreed.

It was only at the end that Mr. Tremore folded his thick-muscled arms over his broad, tableclothed chest and leaned back in a lordly manner. He said, "Well, I be a very important bloke here, seems to me. But I ask ye: Whot's in it for ol' Mick?"

All three of them went quiet. Edwina herself had assumed the man understood. "A better way of speaking, for one," she said. "Without question, I can give that to you, provided you cooperate."

He eyed her suspiciously. "Ye'd be in charge?"

"Yes, in matters related to your learning how to speak and conduct yourself."

"Yer a woman," he observed.

Well, yes. She thought about shoving away from the table then, withdrawing from the whole farce. Here she sat, thinking to tutor a big oaf, who, though theoretically clever, was apparently not smart enough to appreciate that a woman—heavens, anyone—in matters of speech and genteel behavior might know more than he did. She stared at him, her gaze dropping to the brutish, thick mustache that took up most of his upper lip—

His chest has hair on
it
. The idea popped into her mind, just like that.

She jolted, scowled, and looked down into her teacup. What a strange leap of thought. Chest hair. No, no, don't think about such things, she told herself.

A good trick, though, how not to think about something.

Any glimpse of his mustache seemed now to proclaim the fact to her: Beneath that tablecloth was the strangest sight. A naked chest with dark, smooth-patterned hair—black, shiny hair, a thick line of it down the center of his chest between heavy pectoral muscles. Why, who would have thought— No,
don't
think—dear, oh, dear. The mustache. Oh, she wished she didn't have to look at that wicked thing—wait, that was it! The mustache should go. He should shave it off. It was wiry, rough, like a broom on his lip. Not gentlemanly in the least.

Yes, oh, yes! Edwina thought as she stared at Mr. Tremore's mustache. The knowledge that she could tell him to clean himself up, smooth himself out, starting with his upper lip, made her feel jubilant all at once, eager for the whole business.

Meanwhile, Emile Lamont sneered at Mr. Tremore across the table. "You brawling, ungrateful swine," he said, "what you get out of this is you won't be hauled to the gaol for all the damage you wreaked today. I have a good mind to go demand our money back and call the constable again."

"No, no, no," his brother broke in quickly. "Mr. Tremore. Think of it this way: You'll have a cushy place to live for a few weeks. You'll get a regular gentleman's wardrobe, which you can take with you when you go. And"—he raised his finger dramatically—"you will be given a new manner of speech that will be yours forever, taught by an expert. Why, there is no telling what a man with your resources can do with such an advantage."

Mr. Tremore eyed them, a man suspicious of so much good fortune.

Then he drained his own teacup again, wiped the wet from his mustache with his arm, and smiled across the table at the three of them. He said, "I need twenty pounds today. It be fer me family who won't be getting anything from me while I do this. Then I want fifty pounds when I be through—"

"Why, you—" Emile Lamont came up out of his chair.

"Be quiet," Jeremy said. "Of course, Mr. Tremore. You'll want to have something to start yourself out in whatever new direction you take. It's only fair." He withdrew his ever-open notecase again, took out a bill, then with a flourish of his wrist he offered a twenty-pound note between two fingers.

His brother, however, quickly cupped his hand over the money, holding it back. "All right," he said. "But fifty at the end only if you manage it." He smiled condescendingly. "Not a ha'penny if you're too stupid to carry it off."

Mr. Tremore contemplated him stonily for several seconds. Then he said, "A hundred if I do it."

Emile laughed, a dry burst of reluctant amusement: disbelief. "You have some gall," he said, then shrugged, giving in. "Done." Taking his hand off the money, he glanced at his brother. "The loser pays."

The twenty-pound note sat there now between Jeremy's fingers, available, while Mr. Tremore stared at it for an uncomfortably long minute, as though it had turned to dung in the meantime. In the end though, he reached across and took it. "Yes," he
said
—Ace—
"done." He stood, scraping back his chair as he pocketed the bill. "Now, where be the loo? I gotta shake 'ands with an ol' friend, if ye know what I mean. Blimey, but tea runs through a bloke. I don't know 'ow ye nobs do it."

Chapter 3

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T
he Lamonts took Mick to a tailor's on a street called Savile Row. Bloody hell, it was a dandy place. And so long as Mick held out his arms or let them measure him up his leg, everyone let him crank his head and have a good look. The carpets on the floor were so thick and soft, the tailor kept having to haul him up by the arms—he wanted to touch them. The wood floor was polished up so shiny it looked wet. Old velvety chairs reflected like they stood on a lake. Tea tables floated on the floor's shine. The place had mirrors, gold vases with armloads of flowers that took up half a wall, and show-offy glass boxes as tall as a man's waist, with things inside he could buy, like buckles and buttons to sew onto the clothes they made him or neckties out of silk as colorful as peacock feathers. Who would've thought a place for blokes could get so fancy? He liked to think he'd seen some of the world, but he was impressed, he couldn't help it.

In the end, though, the Lamonts only wanted Mick to have dull things. Pah. Some brown trousers, some gray ones, a couple shins, all white, a coat and waistcoat—Mick was allowed to pick the lining when he made surly over the whole ordeal. He picked a fine purple with gold cloverish things on it, like some draperies he remembered from a first-rate bordello he'd ratted.

When the bell over the tailor's door rang and Edwina Bollash stepped through the doorway, he was delighted to see her. His new partner, come to fetch him, in what was turning out to be a choice adventure.

He wanted to tell her all the good done them today. "We ordered some right fine clothes, then had some fixed up they be sending later."

She only froze in the doorway, though. Like he was bald and naked. "I thought they were going to see to a bath," she said.

"Naw. I don't need one."

He looked at the Lamonts who, in turn, looked at the tailor. They'd all had a little to-do over the bath idea.

He said right away, "You should feel some of the stuff we got, like God's own miracle under your fingers. And
hoo,
the rare, sweet smell what come off a bolt of new fabric." He laughed just remembering. "The whole shop smells new, don't you think? Like beeswax and varnish. No"—it was so true that it made him grin for having thought of it—"like fresh-printed money, etched and watermarked." It was a smell he knew from helping his friend Rezzo print near-perfect flyers in the cellar of the Bull and Tun. Not that he spent any of the false money himself, but Rezzo had fifteen children, and there was no other way for a dustman to feed them all.

Miss Bollash's voice, though, was a little unsteady when she repeated, "Etched and watermarked?" She let out a fainthearted laugh before asking, "What do you know about fresh-printed money?"

Didn't take him a second to know he wasn't answering that. He turned and said good-bye to the tailor and thank-you-very-kindly to the Lamonts.

He and Miss Bollash stepped out into the street, with her eyeing him and him ignoring her. Begger me, he thought. There they were, starting out off-kilter. Magic, his terrier, picked up and followed them as they walked shoulder to shoulder. He kept thinking, If he could see her face, he'd know better where he stood. But he could only see the lower half of it—the brim of her hat was that big.

She was sure a puzzle, Edwina Bollash. He thought she could be pretty. It was possible. She dressed nice. Quality. Her clothes sounded pretty, like reedy grass rubbing together in the wind—a noise that always sent him into heaven, silk on silk. He loved, too, the way she smelt like sunshine or clover or something. Not all flowery and perfumey, but a little cloud of smell around her. He wanted to get closer to it, sniff it in, but even he knew it wasn't polite. Anyway, she could be pretty under that hat. Or not.

She was a long girl, that was certain. In her shoes here, she must've pushed six feet. Almost as tall as him. A lot of woman, lengthwise speaking. Width-wise, though, the top of her was on the skinny side. Long bones, small bristols—sweet though, little dumplings on her chest. The bottom of her wasn't so skimpy maybe. Her backside looked pretty full, though it was hard to tell what with the way fancy ladies padded out their bums these days.

She didn't have a pretty woman's way about her. He couldn't say why he thought so, except maybe how her hat tilted down when she walked. Like she was looking at the pavement, keeping track of it to make sure it didn't leap away from her. Smart steps, no doubts or dithers, but there was something nervy in her quick movement. Like a jill who been down the rat hole once too often, he thought: knew the job, knew her part in it, but knew, too, what it was like to be bit and just couldn't get over it. He wondered what bit her.

At the carriage, Mick could tell he surprised her when he held out his hand. He'd seen gents do it, so he tried it out.

He helped her into a carriage that had all its windows open, then got a bonus as he followed her in: a chance to look close up at her bum, no one to tell him not to. And yessir, it was all her own, he was pretty sure. A bottom as round as a pear. It made him smile. Her jacket fanned out into a little ruffle over her backside. It pinched in at her waist. Pretty. My, oh, my, he thought, weren't the gentry's clothes full of details plain folk didn't dream of—gold buttons, velvet ribbon sewed around the edges, skirts the color of lavender—

Wait one minute.

Tall.

A purple skirt. And Miss Bollash's legs here'd be long.

Did they go forever?

Would there have been time for his leggy lady to put on her dress, walk over, and order tea? As he reasoned this out, though, another woman walked past them—in a skirt with a lot of dark purple in it—and Mick laughed at himself. After what he saw in that mirror this morning, he must have legs on his brain, hoping they were walking under every skirt he glanced.

Still, as he sat down opposite Miss Bollash, he couldn't help but stare at where her knees made her skirt bend. Yessir, her legs'd be right long. Slender, too. There was no telling, though, how pretty a woman's legs were till you actually got her undressed. He folded his arms, sat back, and stared, smiling. He wondered if the woman under that hat fancied mud in any form.