The Vagabond Duchess

‘I am the draper,’ she said coldly. ‘Your man said you want a length of linen and a length of muslin.’

‘You have them?’ His red-rimmed eyes focussed on the bundle in her arms. ‘Show me.’ He stepped back into his private room and she had no choice but to follow.

She didn’t particularly want to do business in public, nor did she relish the thought of being alone with this well-born lout—but when she entered the smaller chamber she saw he had a friend with him.

‘Has that damned caterwauling finally stopped, Tredgold?’ the other man demanded.

Temperance bristled with indignation at the insult to the musician. Caterwauling? The dark-eyed vagabond might be as arrogant as the devil, but he had the finest voice she’d ever heard, and his musicianship was remarkable.

‘Give me the linen.’ Tredgold grabbed the bundle of goods from her arms and tore it open.

‘Be careful!’ Temperance protested, as the piece of muslin fell into a puddle of liquid on the floor.

Her customer ignored both her and the muslin. He shook out the length of linen and tossed it over his head. Temperance watched in disbelief as he stuck his arms out and swayed from side to side. Then he started to moan and groan.

‘OoooOOOOooooOOOOoooo…Arghhhh…. OOOooooooOOO!’

His friend stared at him with an open mouth for several seconds, then clutched his head and cowered in his seat.

‘Oh! Oh, I’m so scared. Oh, my poor heart! Oh, I’m dead!’ At his last dramatic exclamation, he collapsed sideways, disappearing from view beneath the edge of the table.

Temperance’s own heart thudded with alarm and confusion. For an instant she almost thought he really was dead, then she realised he had been sitting on a high-backed bench. He’d just fallen sideways on it. Now he was lying there, laughing like a lunatic.

‘Do you think it will work?’ Tredgold demanded.

‘The old goat might die of laughter—but not fear,’ his friend replied, sitting up again. ‘Whoever heard of a ghost with brown velvet arms? If you take off all your clothes and wrap the linen around you, you could pretend you’ve risen from the grave. That might work.’

‘Hmm.’ Tredgold threw the length of linen across the table—where it soaked up some spilled wine—and took off his coat. For a horrified moment Temperance thought he was going to disrobe further but, to her relief, he seemed content to experiment in his shirt sleeves and breeches. He wrapped the linen around himself in untidy folds.

‘Give me the muslin, wench,’ he ordered, pointing at where it still lay on the floor.

Temperance handed it to him and hastily stepped back. He twisted it round his upper body and head and turned back to his companion.

‘Now what do you think?’

‘I’ve never seen a corpse wrapped in pink,’ said his friend, looking at the spreading wine stains on both the muslin and the linen.

‘It’s blood, of course!’ Tredgold said impatiently.

‘Not that colour. You’ll never frighten the old man to death in pink muslin.’

‘What are you trying to do?’ Temperance asked.

‘Scare his grandfather into his grave,’ the friend said.

‘What?’

‘He’s nearly ninety. Until he dies I can’t claim my inheritance,’ Tredgold said as if he had a genuine grievance.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself!’ Temperance exploded. ‘I won’t be party to such an evil scheme. Take off the linen at once!’

‘I am taking it off,’ Tredgold snarled. ‘It’s not going to work. I’ll have to think of something else.’ He tossed the fabric on the floor, flung himself into a chair, and poured some more wine.

Temperance stared at the stained, crumpled cloth. She couldn’t sell it to another customer now.

‘You must pay for the goods you have spoiled,’ she said, trying to control her anger.

Tredgold laughed. ‘I’m not paying for those useless rags.’

‘I did not bring you rags. I brought you lengths of fine linen and muslin—as you requested,’ Temperance said. ‘It is you who have ruined them. You must pay for what you have played with and spoiled.’

Tredgold raised his eyebrows superciliously, allowing his gaze to move up and down Temperance’s body in an insulting assessment. Then he shrugged one shoulder. ‘Send your master to claim his dues,’ he said. He turned away from her, tilting his chair on to its back legs as he reached for the wine jug.

Temperance kicked the nearest chair leg as hard as she could. Tredgold crashed backwards with a shout of alarm. The wine jug flew into the air, its contents drenching Tredgold and splashing Temperance’s skirt. It hit the edge of the table, then smashed to the floor.

Temperance stood over Tredgold as he blinked up at her. Her heart was pounding, but she was far too angry to be afraid.

‘You will pay me,’ she said. ‘Get up and give me the money.’

Tredgold stared at her for a few seconds, then his dazed expression turned spiteful.

‘You bitch!’ he raged. ‘I’ll teach you—’

She took a step back, reaching through the slit in her skirt for her stick. She was taller than Tredgold, but under no illusion she could match his strength.

Tredgold disentangled himself from the chair and staggered to his feet. He was too dazed to move quickly. There was time for Temperance to flee, but it wasn’t in her nature to run away. She cursed her decision to come to the tavern, but she held her stick by her side and kept her watchful attention on Tredgold and his friend.

Tredgold shook his head and winced. Then, without warning, he lunged towards her.

She only just had time to lift her stick and jab him in the stomach. He swore and reeled away. He hadn’t realised she was armed.

Temperance released a jerky breath. The first victory was hers. But though the stick extended her reach, she hadn’t managed to get as much power behind her blow as she’d hoped. Tredgold wasn’t incapacitated, and now he was forewarned.

Since there was no further need to conceal the stick she held it in both hands in front of her, ready to defend herself from Tredgold’s next attack.

He came at her in a rush, faster than she’d expected, his mouth drawn back in a snarl of rage. Both fists were raised—

The next instant he was spun around and slammed back into the edge of the heavy table. The table screeched across the floorboards until it hit the end wall. The vagabond musician had come to Temperance’s aid. Now he waited, a mocking smile on his lips, for Tredgold to recover.

Tredgold leant on the table, his head bowed over his braced arms as he took several heaving breaths. Suddenly he reared up and around with a feral growl. He threw a wild punch, which the musician easily avoided. He blocked another flailing punch, then replied with a blow of his own that laid Tredgold cold on the wine-soaked floorboards.

Temperance started breathing again, her wits slowly catching up with events. She didn’t know when the musician had entered the side room. She’d only become aware of him after his lightning intervention saved her from Tredgold’s charging attack. She stared at him. He looked back at her, absently flexing his left hand, the one he’d used to hit Tredgold. Apart from that small gesture he seemed unperturbed by the brief, violent incident.

Temperance’s thoughts and emotions were in total disorder. She should be making a dignified exit from the tavern, but she kept staring at the musician. It was the first time she’d seen him standing up. He was a couple of inches taller than her own five feet ten inches. It was so rare for her to have to look up to meet a man’s eyes, she couldn’t stop looking. He was lean-limbed and graceful, but there was unmistakeable power in his broad shoulders. Even dressed only in shirt and breeches with his hair ungroomed and his chin unshaven, he was the finest figure of a man she’d ever laid eyes on.

His mouth quirked up at the corners as if he was well aware of her admiration.

She jerked her gaze away from him.

‘Cocksure,’ she muttered, annoyed with him for being so arrogant and with herself for being so easily bedazzled.

He grinned. ‘What does he owe you?’ he asked, indicating Tredgold with a nod of his head.

‘For the linen and muslin,’ Temperance replied, trying to collect her wits. Even when she was still half-dazed with shock she was determined the musician understood she was a respectable tradeswoman. ‘He ruined them.’

‘How much?’ The musician searched for and found Tredgold’s purse.

‘Hey!’ Tredgold’s friend exclaimed.

‘How much?’ The musician looked at Temperance, ignoring the half-hearted protest.

She told him, and watched as he counted out the coins in full view of Tredgold’s friend.

‘There,’ he said to the gape-mouthed youth. ‘You can tell him you witnessed a fair accounting of his debts when he recovers.’ Tredgold was already stirring and groaning. The musician dropped the purse on to his stomach and gave Temperance the price of her linen and muslin.

‘Thank you.’ She blinked at the coins, hardly able to believe she’d been paid after all.

‘And now I’ll escort you home,’ said the musician.

‘Escort me?’ Temperance looked up. ‘Oh, no, sir, there is no need—’

‘Are you not here alone? If you have an escort, he did a poor job of protecting you,’ the musician said.

‘My apprentice is sick,’ said Temperance, standing straighter as she consciously gathered her dignity and authority. ‘I will hire a link boy—’

‘Certainly,’ said the musician. ‘And I will escort you.’ He headed for the taproom as he spoke. The watching men fell back to allow him easy passage.

Temperance followed him. She had no choice. He’d created the only clear path through the room. But she couldn’t help being exasperated at the way the men parted for him just like the red sea had parted before Moses. After all, he was…

‘Just a man who doesn’t own a comb,’ she muttered. And nearly bumped into him when he stopped suddenly.

He grinned at her over his shoulder. ‘But I do have a useful left,’ he said. ‘And I’m even better with my sword. I doubt a comb would be much protection against footpads.’

Temperance opened her mouth, then closed it again. However much she wanted to put him in his place, she couldn’t forget he’d saved her from Tredgold’s attack, and made sure she was paid for the spoiled goods. She was in the musician’s debt.

She watched as he buckled on a sword belt with a brisk familiarity that suggested he was indeed competent with the weapon.

‘Are you a soldier?’ she asked.

‘A soldier?’ He quirked an eyebrow at her. ‘No. The only cause I’ve ever fought for is my own.’

One of the men in the crowd laughed. ‘Jack Bow’s a soldier of fortune, lass. He goes a-venturing with his sword and his lute. He’s got a host of tales to tell about the far-off lands he’s visited.’

‘Oh.’ Temperance’s gaze focussed on the musician’s hands as she considered that unsettling information. It sounded as if he was a mercenary. He’d saved her from Tredgold when there were witnesses to applaud his actions, but was it wise to be alone with such a man in the dark city streets?

‘I’m afraid there are no interesting adventures to be had in Cheapside,’ she said, making a final, half-hearted attempt to dissuade him from escorting her. ‘You will be very bored, sir.’

‘The man hasn’t been born who could be bored in your company, sweetheart,’ he replied, shrugging into a plain olive-green coat. He slung his lute case over his back and grinned at her dumbfounded expression. ‘Let’s go.’

Temperance followed him out of the tavern. ‘I am not your sweetheart!’ she said as soon as the door closed behind them.

‘So where is your man?’ asked Jack Bow. ‘The one with the right to call you sweetheart?’

‘There isn’t one,’ said Temperance. Her public status as a virtuous spinster was essential to her continuing right to trade in the City as a member of the Drapers’ Company. It didn’t occur to her until too late that she should have been more circumspect with this stranger.

‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘Why…? That’s none of your business.’ She strode off down the road.

‘Such a pretty, hot-blooded wench must have suitors queuing at your door,’ he said, falling into step beside her. ‘Do you beat them off with that stick?’

‘Just because you helped me doesn’t give you the right to make fun of me!’ Temperance exclaimed. ‘Go away and vex someone else.’

‘Oh, sweetheart, the night’s young—and I haven’t finished vexing you yet,’ he replied. ‘You do respond so charmingly.’

‘What?’ She blinked at him in the darkness. ‘You are a cocksure knave. I don’t believe anyone who speaks so brazenly can possess a scrap of delicacy or proper modesty.’

He laughed.

Temperance walked faster.

‘What of father or brothers?’ he asked, easily keeping pace with her. ‘Why did they send you to answer Tredgold’s summons?’

To her surprise she detected an undercurrent of disapproval in his voice.

‘Surely a man of your ilk would have no qualms about sending a woman to the Dog and Bone?’ Temperance said, dodging his question. ‘It ill behoves you to criticise others.’

‘A man of my ilk…?’ he mused. ‘What a pretty picture you have of me. Are your menfolk sick or just lazy?’

‘Isaac is sick,’ said Temperance, uncertain what to make of his persistence. ‘Otherwise he would have come with me.’

‘And Isaac is?’

‘My apprentice.’

‘Your apprentice?’ he repeated. ‘You are the mistress?’ He laughed softly. ‘No wonder you did not take kindly to Tredgold’s insolence.’

‘It is my draper’s shop,’ Temperance said proudly. ‘I am my father’s only surviving child. I inherited it from him and I manage it in every particular. I do it very well.’ She refused to let her voice falter as she made the last statement. There were many things in her life she couldn’t claim, including a queue of suitors calling her sweet names, but she had worked hard to learn her father’s business. ‘I have no wish to marry and be ruled by a man.’

‘But you could continue to do business as a feme sole, could you not? As long as your husband had his own trade and took no part in yours?’

‘In certain circumstances. But if my husband wasn’t a freeman of the City I might lose the right to trade completely.’ Temperance paused, surprised by Jack Bow’s knowledge of City practices.

‘How do you know that?’ she demanded.

She sensed, rather than saw, his shrug. ‘My great-grandfather was a grocer,’ he replied. ‘I know a little about the customs of the City.’

‘A grocer! Why didn’t you follow in his footsteps? If you didn’t care to be a grocer, there are many trades in which a strong, quick-witted man can prosper.’

‘He died before I was born,’ Jack explained. ‘I followed in my father’s footsteps.’

‘And he was a rootless vagabond.’

Silence followed her hasty retort. As it lengthened she wished her words back. She hadn’t meant to insult a man she knew nothing about. There was something about Jack Bow that prompted her to speak far too recklessly.

‘I’m sorry—’ she began, wanting to apologise for her slight to his father, though she had no intention of softening her manner to Jack himself.

‘Uprooted,’ he said at the same instant. ‘Uprooted, not rootless. He knew where he came from. He was thwarted in his efforts to return there.’

‘I do not know him. I should not have said such a terrible thing,’ Temperance said.

‘Why not?’ said Jack. ‘It was me you were describing, not my father, after all.’

‘Well…’ Temperance swallowed. She could sense the change in Jack’s mood. For the first time humour was absent from his voice. He spoke quietly, with perhaps a hint of fatalism in his manner.

‘Where do you come from?’ she asked. The simple question took more courage than she’d anticipated.

‘Most recently from Venice—by way of Ostend and Dover,’ he replied. ‘I must have lost my comb along the way.’

‘Venice! Truly?’

‘Very truly,’ he said. ‘The biggest wild goose chase I’ve ever taken part in. I might as well have stayed in London and lined my barber’s pockets for all the good I achieved. What’s your name?’

‘Temperance,’ she began, disconcerted by the sudden question. ‘Temperance—’

‘Temperance?’ He started to laugh. ‘You were misnamed, sweetheart. Restraint of any kind seems to be completely alien to your character. Tempest would be far more apt.’

Chapter Two

Saturday 1 September 1666

I t was a warm, sunny afternoon as Jack strolled through the City. The wooden shutters of all the shops were opened for business. It was fortunate Cheapside was such a broad thoroughfare because in some cases the lower boards projected as much as two and half feet beyond the shop front. The upper shutters were raised to provide a modicum of protection for the goods displayed on the lower board. Shopkeepers stood or sat in their doorways to guard their goods and attract the attention of potential customers. Often it was women who occupied the carved seats in front of the shops. Cheapside was one of the fashionable meeting places in the City. It had become famous for the pretty tradesmen’s wives who bantered with the men-about-town sauntering past. More trestles and stalls were set up in the street itself, though hundreds of other sellers sold their wares from nothing more than a sack or a basket on the ground.

Jack was in no hurry. He paused to exchange compliments with the blue-eyed wife of a goldsmith, then strolled on a few more yards. He was taller than most of those around him, and an instant later he was grateful for the advantage it gave him. Coming towards him was the last man he wanted to meet in London or anywhere else. He ducked into the nearest shop, which happened to be a mercer’s, and watched the Earl of Windle walk past the door and on towards St Paul’s. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Windle since their encounter at Court six months ago. As far as Jack was concerned, the longer their next meeting was delayed the better.

He left the mercers and continued along Cheapside, his blood quickening in anticipation as he approached Temperance’s shop. He’d enjoyed his encounter with the hot-tempered draper the previous night. They were well matched in several pleasurable ways. For once he was in no danger of getting a crick in his neck when he talked to a woman. She wasn’t a classic beauty, but he’d felt the pull of attraction to her from the moment he saw her in the taproom. It had been impossible to miss her in the crowd. Her personality was so vivid that, even when she was standing quite still, her thoughts and emotions had been easy to read.

Most of all, he enjoyed the way she challenged him at every turn. She was very different from the women who tried to win his favour at Court. He could not imagine Temperance heaping him with false flattery or pretending to trip up at his feet to catch his attention. She’d thanked him for his help with Tredgold, but she clearly wasn’t the woman to gush her undying gratitude. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise him to discover she believed she’d been capable of dealing with the contretemps in the tavern on her own.

As he drew closer he saw the shutters of the draper’s shop were open and goods were laid out on the board, but Temperance wasn’t sitting in the doorway. Mildly surprised by her absence, Jack lengthened his stride.

‘Go back to bed, Isaac,’ said Temperance.

‘But, mistress, I must not shirk my work,’ he protested.

‘You are not shirking,’ she replied. ‘You spent all yesterday afternoon and most of the night groaning about the pain in your head or throwing up. You know when these headaches come upon you, you are fit for nothing the next day. Go upstairs and rest. I will expect you to work doubly hard on Monday.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ Even though he tried to hide it, she saw the relief in his face.

He was turning to the stairs when the light from the open doorway at the front was suddenly blocked. They both looked towards the customer.

The newcomer had his back to the light, and his appearance had changed in one, very startling way since she’d last seen him, but Temperance recognised Jack Bow immediately.

‘What have you done to your hair?’ The disconcerted question escaped before she had time to think better of it.

He grinned. ‘I traded it for someone else’s,’ he replied, stepping into the shop. ‘No doubt a buxom country lass was glad to sell these locks for a profit.’

He was wearing a black periwig. The hair was as black as his own but, instead of the wild, shaggy mane of the previous night, it fell in thick, graceful curls around his shoulders. It was longer than his own hair, and changed his appearance considerably. He was smooth shaven as well, and Temperance caught the faint scent of orange flower water when he moved. Today he looked far less like a rogue and a lot more like a gentleman. But he still wore the same travel-creased coat, and his lute case was slung across his back just as it had been when she’d last seen him. His hawklike nose and piercing eyes were those of a vagabond.

Her heart began to beat triple time. She was nervous and excited all at once. She wanted to invite him in. She wanted to send him on his way before he turned her life upside down. She was conscious of Isaac staring at her. For pride’s sake she wanted to treat Jack Bow like any other customer, but for several long seconds she couldn’t think of anything to say. All she could do was look at him.

He returned her gaze just as intently. She wasn’t used to such concentrated scrutiny from a man—not unless he was bargaining with her. But Jack Bow wasn’t looking at her like a tradesman. He was just…looking at her. Heat rolled over her body.

‘Mistress?’ Isaac said uncertainly.

With an effort Temperance wrenched her gaze from Jack’s face. She could see from Isaac’s expression that he was worried, unsure what he should do.

‘Go to bed,’ she said. Her voice didn’t sound as if it belonged to her.

‘Bed?’ said Jack. ‘It’s the middle of the afternoon.’

‘He is not well,’ Temperance defended her apprentice.

‘Ah.’ Jack’s shrewd gaze rested on Isaac for a few moments. He nodded as if accepting 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.’