Henry’s face is a crinkle of lines as he laughs, but he doesn’t take my hint to heart. “You’d make a good duchess, and she was watching your arse the way the travelers watch their pints in the Goose.”
“Henry!” James, a cobbler by trade, shakes his balding head. “What I want to know is areweat risk? Young Jamie and the lads are in thewood right regular. The missus said they shouldn’t, but you know how the lads like to collect the coins the Hunter passes out.”
“I do.”
“Will you be keeping the tradition?” James peers at me.
“My father is hale and hardy.”
“He sees Maria’s lot often.”
I pause. Father has not shared word of illness or injury. Neither did Maria mention anything just now when I was in her care.
“Your man Girard over at the Goose might know more.” Henry nods toward the tavern, as if that wasn’t where I was already going. “A lot of talk is spilled over a few pints.”
We make our goodbyes, and I head toward the Dancing Goose. All requests asking for the Hunter to investigate come to the Goose. It is a hub of information, as well as where rents—small as they are—are collected. The ruse feels thin, but it seems to have worked for generations, possibly because most people never hire the Hunter outright, and those who do keep the secret in gratitude.
The Dancing Goose looks like every small tavern in every village I’ve visited, and despite my being a part of the peerage, the list of such places is longer than I likely ought ever to admit. The interior is dim, and a fire burns in the back. A few patrons sit and drink. Several have a midday meal. Two others play a game of chess with an audience. In a few hours, the pub will be raucous, but even then, the citizens are loyal enough that I am welcome here to drink among them.
I don’t often indulge, but the temptation of forgetting my station, my duty, and my fears makes me ponder what will change when I am properly the Hunter.
Inside, a few more villagers greet me, but I don’t linger. I don’t see Girard at the fire or at the seats inside. So I walk to the house on the backside of the Dancing Goose. In truth, I’m not looking forward to seeing Girard. He once seemed so charming, but that changed after bedding him.
Was that just a consequence of sex? Or is it because Father suggested he marry me?
The door is standing open, but after our history, I won’t be going inside. I call, “Girard?”
Plenty of other women have decided to have sex with Girard without consequence, so I foolishly thought I could do the same. I blame my father mentioning matrimony for the awkwardness that fills me as Girard walks to the threshold of the door and bows from the waist.
“Your presence graces us.”
“Why must you do that?” I snap.
He is undeniably handsome, but his exaggerated courtesy makes me uncomfortable since we’ve had sex. I tried to find the naked sport pleasurable. Truly. The act wasn’tunpleasant, and from all accounts from locals, he isgoodat it. The thought of a lifetime of it turns my stomach more than the blows to my head. Girard simply doesn’t make me feel the way Isabeau can make me feel with a simple look—or with the way she says “love.”
“Come into my home,” Girard offers. He is handsome in the way of soldiers and nobility both: an indulgent mouth and a physique with the sharp-hewn musculature of soldiers. Heaving barrels of wine and hoisting patrons from the floor has left Girard with a body that draws the eyes of matron and maiden alike.
I ought to like the look of him,guilt reminds me.
“Girard ... I told you I could not continuethat.”
The flash of hurt on his face is brief. “Let me look after you. Didshehurt you? Is that why you were at the physician’s?”
“Isabeau? No. Not at all.” Before I can turn away to hide the flush of longing that comes of thinking of her, Girard touches my wrist—wholly inappropriately—and says, “One of my cousins will take the duties of the tavern in another year. I am joining theWächter.”
“Oh?”
“I have motivation,” Girard says. “If my station were improved, perhaps we could—”
“No.”
“The earl said—”
“No, I am my own person, and I will not be marrying you, Girard. What we shared ... It was not a promise.”
“I would be a good Hunter,” he objects.
“You will not.Iam the next Hunter. I realize I may have set up a false hope for you, but—”
