The night was cool, as nights were wont to be in April, and he strode through the streets, his greatcoat swirling around his legs and memories of the last time he had walked this particular street invading his mind. Louisa, defiant and proud, refusing to give in to his entreaties to leave. The way her body had pressed against his, and the awakening he had experienced. Bad enough that he had been forced to employ his restraint not to touch her; worse that she would have thrown off any attempt at affection.
Worse still that he now knew what said affection felt like.
He banished the thought and came to the creaking sign and spooling light of the tavern. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of ale and cheap wine, candlelight casting as many shadows as it illuminated. Barmaids wound through the crowds of men with large jugs, filling tankards as they went, and giggling every time an errant hand squeezed their backsides.
Henry could only hope they were both inured to and desirous of such treatment, and he averted his eyes, picking a table at the back of the room. He had not long to wait: the man soon entered, ducking through the door and grinning his welcome at a plump maid. Henry kept to his place, accepting a tankard of watery ale (it would be more suspicious if he refused), and pretending to sip it at regular intervals. Markham, just as before, joined his fellows at the other side of the room and they immediately brought out a tattered pack of playing cards.
The minutes slipped by as Henry waited for Markham to drink, which he did with gusto. Eventually, he judged enough time to have passed, and rose, crossing the tavern with an exaggerated stagger and slumping into the only free seat around the table.
Up close and straight on, Markham had a broken nose, possibly as a result of a boxing match, and bloodshot eyes. Those eyes narrowed at Henry. “Who are you?”
“No one you’d know,” Henry said, slurring a little.
“Then why are you here?”
“I believe you know my friend, Mr Knight.”
“Friend? Hah.” He spat on the floor. “He’s like the rest of you bastards with your titles and your airs and graces.”
Seeing an avenue, Henry rested his elbows on the table, something he would have chastised Oliver for doing. “And they never pay on time,” he said.
“Aye, they’re all promises, you lot.” He frowned at Henry. “Thought you was a friend of ’is?”
“A reluctant acquaintance.”
“Well ain’t that just how it goes. What did he promise you?”
Henry sighed dramatically and waved to one of the barmaids. He had a roll of money in his pocket—the last easy money he had in his possession, in fact—and he gestured for the girl to fill Markham’s tankard. “I’ll pay his tab,” he said, and the girl nodded, giving him an appreciative glance he ignored. To Markham he said, “Promised me a painting.”
“Oh.” Markham took a swig, belched, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and squinted at Henry. “What painting?”
“Of a girl. Called something foolish and whimsical. Said it would give me a chance to get one over its artist, but as always . . .” Henry let the thought trail away and busied himself staring at the dubiously sticky pool in the middle of the table. Ale, he hoped. “What did he promise you?”
“Money,” Markham said, sniffing. “If I protect that painting you talked about. But I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him in days, never mind the money he promised me for trailing that gentry mort.”
Gentry mort, Henry surmised, must refer to Louisa.
“Can’t trust him,” Henry said.
Markham grunted and finished that ale. “Wine,” he decided, pushing the tankard away from him. “This stuff makes your insides rot, take it from me. First time in here, my lord?” He gave an unpleasant smile, displaying two missing teeth. “Come to fleece me?”
If there was one benefit to being the son of an inveterate gambler, it was that Henry had been taught how to play since an early age. His skills were a trifle rusty, not having played since he left for Cambridge, but Markham was visibly drunk and he was sober. And he’d always had a head for numbers.
The odds were in his favour, so long as he did not make a mistake.
“How about a wager?” Henry asked, and brought out his roll of money. “Five hundred in exchange for the picture.”
Markham chewed on his bottom lip, but there was a greedy flare in his eyes that Henry didn’t miss. The man frequented this tavern; it could be assumed he had little by the way of ready cash. “What makes you think I have the painting?” he asked.
“I know you can get it. Mr Knight isn’t yet home.”
“He’d have my skin for it.”
Henry flicked through the bank notes idly. “Believe me when I say he doesn’t have a penny to rub together. Your patron is relying on the success of his blackmail endeavour to have the funds by which to pay you.”
“Can’t without the painting,” Markham pointed out.
“I’m acquainted with the—thegentry mortas you referred to her. She won’t pay up.”
