Page 8 of The Shadow Key

‘She has no wish to.’

‘I see.’ Mentally he marks this. ‘And why is she not yet married?’

Julian ghosts a smile. ‘Linette shows no interest in that, either.’

Henry marks this too. Still, the butler stares.

‘Where are they?’ Henry asks. ‘Lady Tresilian and Linette?’

A look of discomfort crosses Julian’s features before he shields it with a sigh.

‘Gwen is abed. Linette, however …’ He trails off, shoots a glance at Powell. ‘I take it she has not yet returned?’

‘Not as yet, my lord.’

Julian sighs. ‘You see what I mean, Henry? Past dark and still abroad at so late an hour. Linette truly is a wildling, has not one regard for her own well-being or those that care for her.’ He sits back in his seat with an expression now of deep concern. ‘You must understand – I think of Linette as if she were my own daughter. I truly fear her mother’s madness might have tainted her.’

There is a step at the threshold, and both Henry and Julian look up to find the housekeeper standing at the door, a dinner tray in hand.

‘Ah, splendid,’ Julian says in a much brighter tone. ‘Please, Mrs Evans, bring it in. Our guest will be ravenous! You’ll forgive me for not joining you – I dined earlier. I couldn’t be sure of the time of your arrival.’

Mrs Evans has placed the tray down onto the table and the offering, Henry marks, is exceedingly generous – a small chicken, its skin cooked to a perfect golden crisp accompanied by a jug of bread sauce; a tureen of fresh minted greens; a portion of buttered potatoes. Like the port, Henry can see this is expensive fare. Never would he have eaten so richly in London. His purse-strings could simply never stretch that far.

‘Thank you, Mrs Evans,’ he says faintly, and the old woman dips her knees in response. She does not look at him. Instead, she keeps her focus so intently on the ornate rug that Henry feels her gaze would burn a hole in it if the notion were at all possible.

‘A most excellent dish, I think,’ says Julian now. ‘I never allow mediocre cooking when I am in residence.’ He clears his throat with another fleshy rumble. ‘That will be all, Mrs Evans.’

‘Yessir.’

‘You may go too, Powell. Leave the port.’

There is a pause. Then the bewigged man fills their glasses once more before placing the decanter next to Henry’s tray.

‘Very good, my lord.’

As Powell moves to go Henry tries to catch his eye, but the butler’s features are as blank now as a redcoat at orders, and so giving in to his hunger Henry applies himself to his plate.

The bird is tender, its skin beautifully seasoned, and the bread sauce melts deliciously on his tongue. It is (Henry is quite sure of the fact) the best meal he has ever eaten. Julian watches, breaking the silence with observations from his travels – the unmarked beauty of Italy, the dry heat of Jerusalem, the icy climes of Austria in winter – but, at length, Henry begins to tire. All he can think of now is the prospect of finally sleeping in a comfortable bed with a proper mattress, a bowl of warm water with which to wash off the dirt of the day. It is just as Henry is trying to conjure the right words to beg his leave without appearing rude that there comes a loud bang like that of a heavy door swinging open against a wall, and the hurried echo of footsteps on stone.

Julian’s dark brows draw together so hard that a deep groove appears between them like a gully.

‘And there,’ he murmurs, ‘is our errant dove.’ He loudly clears his throat. ‘Linette!’

The footsteps stop. Henry can almost hear the reluctance in the pause that follows. Then the footsteps start up again, together with a strange clicking, almost immediately softened by the soft runner in the corridor. As one Henry and Julian look to the doorway where in that very moment a woman appears at the door.

Uncommonly tall, she holds the frame with long-fingered hands. Her cheeks are flushed, and across her shoulders there hangs a mass of long blonde hair that looks as if it has not seen a brush in days. Yet this is not the most surprising thing about Linette Tresilian. No indeed, what takes Henry by surprise is the fact that she wears from head to foot the ill-fitting clothes of a man.

Flouts conventions, her cousin had said. Indeed, there can be no more proof of the claim than this!

A grey dog pushes its way in between her thigh and the door frame, surveys the room before resting its gaze on Henry himself, cocking its head. Henry marks its dark wiry coat, its long snout and flopping ears. A lurcher, he recognises. The governor at Guy’s had a sighthound much like it, before he offered the poor beast up to a surgeon’s knife.

‘My dear Linette.’ Julian’s voice is low now, tired. ‘Where have you been?’

Linette Tresilian looks slowly between Julian and Henry, eyes bright as if with fever.

‘Cousin,’ she says finally, and her grip on the door frame is so hard her knuckles are white. ‘It has been destroyed.’

CHAPTER THREE

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