His feet were shod in heavy working boots and he carried a cane in one hand. Marcus narrowed his eyes.
“Yes?” he asked.
The man came closer and narrowed his own eyes before grinning. “No, you ain’t. Sorry to trouble you mate. Mistook you for another.”
He turned to go but Marcus called after him.
“If you seek the Duke of Valebridge, then I am he,” he said.
The man looked back over his shoulder, grin knowing.
“Arthur Roy, yeah?”
“Yes,” Marcus said.
He had no choice but to lie. This man had clearly known Arthur, but Marcus couldn’t ask him about his brother without giving away the fact that he was an impostor.
“No, mate, you ain’t,” the man said, more firmly now.
He turned away again, but this time Marcus seized him by the arm. The man whirled. He was broad of shoulder and walked with a slouch but there was speed and agility in his burly frame.
“I am the Duke of Valebridge,” Marcus said, not relinquishing his grip.
The man’s jaw firmed as his lips sneered. He clasped a broad hand onto Marcus’ hand, attempting to remove the hold. But Marcus stepped closer, tightening his fingers.
“Take care that you do not insult me further,” he murmured, deciding to brazen out the lie.
The consequences of caving in before the man’s assertions were too much to contemplate. If word spread that the Duke was not actually the Duke, then who knew how far the news would spread. Certainly, Parliament would want a possible impostor to be investigated because Valebridge came with a seat in the Lords.
“I don’t insult nobody, guv,” the man snarled, “I did business with Arthur Roy. I knew him to look at. For one thing, he had hair white as snow. He was also twice the age I judge you to be.”
That last part, at least, could not be true. Unless Arthur had looked far older than his actual age, leading this ruffian to judge him older than his years. Marcus released his grip, having no answer to this. The man nodded.
“Where are my manners, eh? My old mum would be turning in her grave at my rudeness. Bill Baxter, at your service, my good sir.”
Baxter put on a mockery of an upper-class accent and made a clumsy bow, grinning derisively. Marcus wanted to ask what business Baxter had transacted with Arthur but was afraid he could guess. Besides, he could hardly ask and also claim to be Arthur.
“Arthur Roy was a good customer of mine so I was sad when he stopped coming around. A little bird told me he’d taken a house here in Lambeth though.”
Baxter pronounced the name ‘Lambef’ and dropped the ‘h’ sound from the word house. Despite his uneducated speech, he had an intelligent gleam in his eye and watched Marcus like a hawk.
“So, I thought I would head over here and see if my old friend needed anything,” he continued.
“Well, I do not. I have recently recovered from an illness and my memories are a little jumbled. Possibly why I do not remember you,” Marcus replied, thinking fast and unable to come up with anything better.
Baxter laughed, a grating, ugly sound.
“Aye, that sounds like it, mate. Sorry, I mean, Your Grace, isn’t it.”
“Yes,” Marcus said.
“Well, maybe I should remind you. Our business was in the nature of a transaction, so to speak. You gave me money in exchange for goods. Goods you was very keen on having on account of your health. Perhaps, not being able to get a good supply of said goods was what affected your health so badly, eh?”
“Quite. Whatever it was, I have no more need of it. So, I will bid you a good evening.”
Marcus turned to the steps.
“Not so fast, guv. Not so fast. You may think you don’t need it but I’m sure if you give it some thought, you’ll realize you was wrong. I’ll be around. You’ll find me at the Black Boar, Bank Side most nights, just next to the Southwark bridge. Think it over. Problem with me is drink has the opposite effect on me to most men. Makes most men spill every secret they’ve got. Not me though, I stop talking when I’m drinking. Problem is, you can’t drink without money to pay for it, can you? See you around, squire.”
