The Vagabond Duchess. Claire Thornton
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the accuracy of her claim. ‘You may safely obey your mistress, lad. I’ll not do her any harm.’
‘No, you won’t!’ Temperance retorted. ‘And I’ll thank you not to make so free with your orders in my shop, sir!’
Jack grinned. ‘Why don’t we step outside so you can keep an eye on your goods?’ he suggested.
Temperance followed him to the door as Isaac went upstairs. She looked across the width of board, automatically checking nothing had gone missing while her attention was elsewhere. She smoothed a piece of linsey-wolsey beneath her hands, then glanced up to see he was watching her with a half-smile on his lips.
‘Why were you so extravagant?’ she burst out. ‘There was nothing wrong with your hair. If you’d only combed and dressed it properly—’
‘Don’t you admire my new locks?’ His long fingers briefly caressed one of the black curls that lay against his shoulder. The gesture reminded her of the preening fops she sometimes saw strolling past her shop, but there was nothing remotely foppish about the wicked gleam in his dark eyes.
‘I suppose you’re bald underneath,’ she said, feeling disgruntled and not sure why.
‘Not quite. Are you regretting the lost opportunity to run your fingers through my hair? You should have mentioned your preference last night.’
‘Keep your voice down!’ Temperance ordered, alarmed at his indiscretion. She glanced around to see if anyone had heard him. Fortunately, Agnes Cruikshank, her neighbour to the left, was engaged with a customer.
‘Yes, Madam Tempest.’ Jack grinned.
‘All my cloth is of the finest quality,’ she declared. ‘Are you thinking of a new coat, sir? Something to do honour to your fine new hair. This pink would go nicely with the sweet little curls.’
‘Black or blue might be more appropriate,’ he mused, testing the quality of the fabric between his fingers and thumb. ‘To match my bruises when you pull out the stick banging against your thigh.’
‘I never beat my customers—’
‘Unless they refuse to pay,’ he reminded her.
‘I didn’t! I just kicked his chair. It was you who—’ She broke off. How on earth had he lured her into this ridiculous argument? But all he had to do was look at her with that exasperating, disturbing gleam in his eyes and she forgot all proper reticence.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.
‘I came to make sure you’re none the worse for your adventure last night.’
‘Thank you. As you can see, I am very well,’ Temperance replied, trying for a note of sedate formality.
‘Very well indeed,’ he said. ‘Your eyes are as clear as the summer sky…’
‘Blue,’ she said weakly.
‘Obviously, otherwise I’d have compared them to something else. And your hair…’
‘Brown,’ she said.
‘Are you determined to destroy the poetry of the moment?’ He frowned at her. ‘I am famous for my sonnets, you know.’
‘You are?’
‘Humorous, witty or romantic, as the occasion requires.’
‘I’ll bear you in mind, should I ever find myself in need of a rhyming couplet,’ Temperance said.
‘Excellent. Would you, perchance, accept a sonnet in praise of your beautiful eyes in exchange for a length of this nearly as fine blue broadcloth?’
‘No.’
Jack put one hand over his heart and assumed a pained expression. ‘You’re a hard woman to do business with, Mistress Tempest.’
‘I can’t buy coal with pretty compliments,’ she said, feeling flustered.
‘Have you ever tried? The coal merchant might be susceptible to cornflower blue.’
‘I don’t think so. He… You do talk nonsense!’ She pulled herself together.
He smiled, and butterflies swooped in Temperance’s stomach. His smile was quite different from his teasing grin. It revealed a kinder, quieter side of his personality and called forth a much more profound emotional response from her than his cocky grin.
‘How long have you been mistress here?’ he asked.
‘My father died nearly two years ago,’ she said.
‘A difficult time to take on such a responsibility.’
‘Yes.’ She pushed a strand of hair back from her face, her eyes unfocussed as she remembered that time.
‘Did you stay in London?’
‘During the plague?’ She glanced at him. ‘I had nowhere else to go. We all survived.’ She shuddered as she recalled some of the terrible things she’d seen. ‘But it does seem the worst is past now,’ she added optimistically. ‘And I pray it will not return.’
‘So do I,’ Jack said quietly.
‘Were you here then?’ She looked at him curiously.
He shook his head.
‘Venice?’ she asked, remembering his comment the previous night and wanting to lighten the mood. ‘Or some other exotic location?’
‘Last year I was very dull. I went to Bruges…Oxford…but mostly I stayed in Sussex.’
‘Oxford? The King and Court went to Oxford to escape the plague.’
‘So they did,’ Jack acknowledged with a half-smile.
‘Did you…? Have you ever played for the King?’ Temperance asked, and held her breath waiting for the answer. He would surely laugh at her for asking such a silly question. But he was such a fine musician she could easily imagine him entertaining kings and queens.
Jack grinned.
‘What does that smirk mean?’ she demanded.
‘The King has more appreciation for my sonnets than you do,’ he replied. ‘The witty ones at any rate. He particularly admired one I composed about a lady’s—’
‘Never mind,’ Temperance interrupted, sure it would be scandalous. ‘Have you really spoken to the King? Or are you just teasing me?’
Jack smiled his quiet smile. ‘I have spoken to the King,’ he said. ‘And played my lute for him. I’ve played for Louis too, though that was several years ago.’
‘Louis? The King of France?’ Temperance stared at him. ‘We’re at war with France.’
‘We weren’t when I attended the French Court,’ Jack replied. ‘But the war was a cursed inconvenience when I was making my way back from Venice this summer. I got stuck at Ostend, waiting for the packet boat to form part of a convoy. By the time I’d languished in an inn for several days I could hardly afford to pay my fare home.’
‘What did you do?’ Temperance was half-fascinated, half-horrified by his revelations. She couldn’t imagine anything more terrifying than being stranded so far from home.
‘Played my lute, of course.’ This time his grin was shot through with pure wickedness.
Temperance knew—she just knew—his next revelation would be outrageous, but she had to hear what he did next.
‘Did you convince the captain of the packet boat to exchange a sonnet for your passage?’ she asked.
‘No. It was the good housewives of Ostend who showed the greatest appreciation for my talents,’ he replied.
‘What?’ She looked at him warily. ‘They gave you money when you sang?’