As if she might want more.
He’d spent four years in Bedlam, most of them chained in a stinking cell. He’d escaped last July, but in the months since, he’d been in hiding—not a situation conducive to finding a willing wench. And of course there’d been that last beating—the one that had stolen his voice. The prison guard had reached for his falls. Had—
But he wouldn’t think of that now.
Apollo inhaled, shoving aside a black mass of shame and anger.
Indio looked up at him. “Caliban?”
Apollo realized he’d squeezed the boy’s hand. Deliberately he made himself relax his hold and shook down his shoulders. Stupid for a man as big as he to feel such wretched fear. He was out of Bedlam. He’d made sure—damned sure—that guard was no longer a threat to anyone.
He was free.
Free.
Free.
He tilted back his head, watching the sun cast her flame-colored skirts upon the sky as she set over his ruined garden. Beyond the theater, between the tops of blackened and burnt trees, one could just make out a glitter that was the mighty Thames.
This had once been a lovely pleasure garden. When he was done with it, it would be a wondrous pleasure garden, even better than before.
But right now they were nearing the theater.
Apollo assumed the blank expression that he wore around the other gardeners—and only just in time. The door flew open and a tiny, gray-haired woman stood in the opening, arms set akimbo on hips.
“What,” she barked, “is that?”
“We have a guest for supper tonight,” Miss Stump replied, and as she glanced back at him he thought he saw a mischievous glint in her eye. “Indio’s monster, in fact—though Indio now calls him Caliban.”
“Caliban?” Maude narrowed her eyes, cocking her head as she examined him critically. “Aye, I can see that, but is he safe in the theater with us is what I’m wanting to know?”
Apollo felt a tug on his hand. He looked down at Indio, who whispered, “She’s nice. Truly.”
“Don’t fuss, Maude,” Miss Stump murmured.
“He’s my friend,” Indio explained earnestly. “And he fed Daff all his dinner.”
At the mention of her name, the little dog ran over and, growling in what she no doubt considered a ferocious manner, began to worry the ragged hem of Apollo’s breeches.
“Humph,” Maude said, her tone as dry as dust. “If that’s the case, better come inside, all of you.”
Indio bent and rescued Apollo’s breeches by picking up Daffodil, who immediately began bathing his face with her tongue. He laughed and trotted past Maude. His mother gave Apollo an indecipherable look and motioned him in ahead of her. Apollo ducked his head and entered the charred theater, trying to quell his unease. There was no reason to think she’d seen through his subterfuge.
The last time he’d been in the building was on the night the garden had burned. Asa Makepeace was an old friend and the only one Apollo had trusted to keep his whereabouts secret when he’d been rescued from Bedlam. He’d hidden in the garden for only a day before the place had burned down. Then the theater had been smoldering and had stank of smoke and devastation.
Now there was still the faint smell of charred wood, but there were other changes. Miss Stump had obviously attempted to make the place more comfortable—a table and chairs were in the center of the room, and a print of ladies in bright dresses hung on the wall. A fire crackled on the grate, and a rack had been erected nearby to dry clothes. Someone had been knitting, for two knitting needles and a half-finished sock were stuck in a ball of gray yarn on a stool near the hearth. A tiny side table held a messy sheaf of papers, a corked bottle of ink, and a chipped mug with several quills. On the mantel sat a single, rather ugly black-and-green enameled clock—working, unlike Makepeace’s. Before the fire was an incredibly plain purple settee, one corner propped up with several bricks.
It wasn’t much—certainly not as grand as some of the houses he’d once seen as a young buck new to town, before his fall from grace—but it was homey. And that was all that mattered.
“Well?” Maude demanded, pointing to one of the chairs at the table. “Have a seat, milord.”
For a terrible second Apollo couldn’t breathe. Then in the next moment he realized that the honorific had been meant sarcastically. He nodded, hoping his face hadn’t betrayed his surprise, and pulled out a chair to sit.
Maude was still scowling. “What’s wrong with him? Can’t he talk?”
“No, he can’t,” Indio said simply, saving Apollo from having to do his dumb show.
“Oh.” Maude blinked, obviously taken aback. “Has he had his tongue cut out?”