“Quality?” The woman harrumphed, dismissive. “What’s he doin’ with his clothes all tattered, then? He ain’t nothin’ more than a fisherman. Or worse.” She paused. “He could be from theother side.”
What did she mean,the other side?He concentrated. Ah, yes. War. Between the kingdom and France.
Chev lifted his head. “Not”—he coughed—“French.”
“You see?” The man said.
The woman folded her arms. “Just what a...Frenchmanwould say, ain’t it?”
Good Lord.
“What’s this here on your ankle?” The man tapped Chev’s bone.
Cheverley yanked back his leg. As he stared down at a trio of crests, two faces from his boyhood pieced together.
“Hurth...Hurtheven,” he repeated the title the man had supplied.
Yes, one of the faces was Hurtheven. Hurtheven—whom he’d met...at Eton? That sounded correct. Hurtheven...who was a good sort, even if he had been mad enough to insist the three of them scar their ankles with pins and ink. It hadstung,damn it all.
He frowned again.
How had he remembered that detail? And what of the other boy? He touched the second crest. The boy’s family title remained elusive, but as he touched the third, the name of his own family seat came rushing back.
Ithwick.
Suddenly, he knew he was Captain Lord Cheverley, the second son of the Duke of Ithwick—not that he was going to proclaim the fact to these two. He didn’t know where he was. He barely knewwhohe was.
Hurtheven would have to be enough.
“I work...for”—Almighty!Every dammed word was a struggle—“the Duke...of Hurth...even.”
“Knew it!” the man crowed.
“Pfft.You said hewasquality. Not that heworkedfor quality.”
“It doesn’t matter,” the man replied. “Hurtheven’s sure to give a prize. A shilling at least.”
“A tuppence at best. What good’s this one to anyone, let alone a duke?”
“Hurtheven will...reward. Get word...Please.” Forcing out the final word, Chev collapsed.
He closed his eyes against a wave of nausea. The louse had better provide a reward, even if it had been a long time since they’d seen one another.
But why?
He couldn’t remember, and the reason was important. Very, very important. There were other things he should remember too. Things even more vital.
The image of a woman shimmered beneath his lids. A woman with blonde hair, smooth as corn silk. Graceful and willowy yet brimming with a determination that was the essence of life.
Penelope. His wife.
A prize he had whisked away to store and to protect.
In his memory, his lips touched her collarbone before sliding over to the adjacent valley in the v at the bottom of her throat.
Heaven.
His longing stretched out into the ether, grasping for balm that could soothe his soul. What returned, however, was a sense of foreboding.
