Netherby Halls

“He baits me, and at this point, I don’t even think his courtship is in earnest. For one thing, he is too young and has an eye for the ladies! I have witnessed him picking up that damned quizzing glass of his and flirting outrageously when he thinks Sophy is not looking! And well he should. He is just a boy—what, twenty years old? He shouldn’t be setting about looking for a wife.”

“Aye, the wonder is that she doesn’t see it.”

“Oh, mark me, Justin, she does. That is just it. She can barely stand to be in his company, but her mother is forever throwing them together—like today, when her mother cunningly sent her off in his carriage.”

“Yes, it did surprise me when Sophy asked Miss Winthrop to accompany her. I may have been a bit too cynical about your Sophy?” the marquis mused out loud.

“Dash it, man, of course you were, but that has nothing to say in this matter. How am I to get Mrs. Delleson to accept my suit?”

“Isn’t for you to do that, I am afraid. It will come down to Sophy,” the marquis said.

“Poor darling. I don’t know how she can stand up to the woman—a veritable tyrant!” He sighed heavily. “Do you know what? I need a drink! Let us stop at a tavern in Bristol before retiring to our lodgings.”

“Deuced good notion,” agreed the marquis.

A few minutes passed before the marquis pulled his team up at a tavern that looked lively. The marquis gave the reins over to a livery boy with instructions to undo the harness and stall the horses with hay and water, as they would be awhile. With this off his mind, the marquis and his friend strode jauntily inside the tavern, determined to have a good time. Well, at least Percy was. The marquis had other matters on his mind.

Tables were occupied for the most part by locals and seafaring gentlemen. A few sporting gentlemen were talking horseflesh and hunting, and everyone seemed to be in a rollicking good mood.

Percy looked around and frowned. “I say, Justin, this place looks more than a little shabby and a bit … disreputable, don’t you think?”

“I do, but here is where we need to be,” the marquis said enigmatically as he pulled up a high-backed stool at the worn oak counter. As he sat he gazed thoughtfully at the proprietor and waited for the short, stout man to take notice. Oblivious to this, Percy pulled up a similar stool and sighed heavily while he waited for service.

A pretty young woman whose breasts were too large for her scoop-necked gown got up on a round table at this point, hiked up her skirts, and began to dance to the lively music to which the men around her were swinging their tankards.

Ale had been served, and Percy picked up his drink and took a long drag. He then held up his pewter mug to the woman and shouted out to her that she was a beauty.

The marquis eyed him quizzically and shook his head in amusement, for that was not his friend’s style. However, as Percy joined in the revelry with his fellows all singing with the woman, the marquis spoke to the tavern keeper behind the counter. “Sir, a moment of your time.”

The man sidled over and said, “What, sir, a shot of whisky to go with yer ale?”

“No, but I will take another of this very excellent ale, and you appear to me to be a man who knows his business and might be able to provide me with … information.”

The tavern keeper wiped the counter vigorously, nodding his head, and silently poured a tankard of the foaming brew. “Now whot information I could give ye perplexes me, it does.”

“I have only just come in from London, and while my friend here is courting a lovely, I am not, and the truth is I need a bit of er … fun. My tastes, however, are somewha

t particular.”

“And how can I help ye with that?” the stout man asked warily.

“Use your noddle, man! I was told by a mutual friend, a Mr. Delawar, that you were the man to see when I was in Bristol. He told me you could find what I need,” the marquis said, brushing off an invisible speck of lint.

“Well now, covey, I disremember any flash by such a name, but we do have pretties to set your heart afire, aye, that we do, jest cast your famble out, and one will be pleased to keep ye warm.” The tavern keeper smiled broadly with this announcement.

“Stubble it!” the marquis returned impatiently, using flashhouse cant. “It seems you have chosen not to understand me or don’t have the wit I thought you had.” The marquis looked at a few pretty ladies and pulled a face. “I could have any one, two, or three of those. I don’t need you to tell me that. I don’t have to go to a filthy dive to get some of that.” He shook his head. “Not what I am here for.” He lowered his voice. “Listen carefully, and you will be rewarded. What I want, what I know you can supply, will get you more, much more than a coin or two.”

The stout tavern keeper played with the stubbles on his round face, obviously vacillating between the desire to grab the pouch the marquis had set on the counter and the wariness and rules he had set for himself.

“Right then … no need to get hipped over this. I was just trying to figure yer fetch before I showed m’phaz.” He took the pouch and buried it within the wool vest he wore over his filthy white shirt.

“Right then—don’t keep me waiting,” the marquis replied quietly and with a sure warning in his tone.

“Right. I’ll need to know yer direction, and someone will contact ye,” said the stout man after looking behind himself.

“Very well. I am the Marquis of Dartmour and am presently residing at 10 Northwell Road in Bristol. But mark me, this is private matter, and if anyone hears of my doings, be certain I will come for your neck first.” The marquis eyed him darkly.

The mention of the marquis’s title had set the tavern keeper at ease almost at once. The danger that this gentleman might be an investigator was at once put to dust. Noblemen were all given to such queer starts. For his part, he would have preferred any of the buxom beauties waltzing about his floor. What men wanted with the dainty frailties supplied by his silent and too often absent cohort was more than he could fathom. “My partner will see ye by the end of the week.”