All his muscles stilled. A woman would not be going about with such a rip in her skirts. Particularly not one sitting so straight and gloves locked on her satchel.
He stood, mug still in hand, planning to offer her his assistance. At his movement, her eyes darted to him. She took in a breath and the back of her head bumped against the wall.
He gave her a grim-lipped smile. The woman didn’t want him to approach her, obviously. Perhaps she was at Wren’s hoping to find her husband. In that case, William certainly didn’t want to draw notice her way. He sat the mug at the table and moved to stand at Sylvester’s side.
Putting a hand on the woollen shoulder of Sylvester’s coat, William leaned forward. ‘I must talk with you.’
‘Anything you have to say,’ Sylvester’s voice boomed, ‘you can say in front of my friends.’
‘I’m sure I can,’ William answered. ‘But I thought we might step out to speak of family matters.’ Sylvester had to have noticed if the Viscount was sotted when he gave the horses away.
‘These men are like family,’ Sylvester answered. ‘Only better, because they do not gift me with horses not worth feeding.’ He spoke to the man on his left. ‘Did I tell you my uncle gave me two horses? Broken-down old things. I could hardly refuse them and hurt the man’s feelings, particularly if his mind is clear as a cloudless day.’
Sylvester wouldn’t have said the Viscount’s mind was clear if it wasn’t true. ‘I will take them off your hands.’
‘Oh, I could not do that to you.’ Sylvester let out a breath. ‘I’ll just keep them for now, though I don’t see feeding them like they’re used to. A bit on the plump side. A few less rations will be good for them. Or maybe I should just put them down.’
William tightened his grip on Sylvester’s coat. ‘You will feed them properly and you will care for them.’
Sylvester laughed. ‘Just having a jest with you, dear Cousin. I know those beasts are your favourites. Your father does as well. Can’t think what he’s up to.’ He brushed a hand over his chin, tugging at it. ‘Or maybe I can.’ Sylvester spoke to the other players. ‘If Cousin William doesn’t get it on his mind to marry and have an heir, sadly, the title will pass to my son, should I have one, and I intend to have a full brood. I can’t think if I were in his boots that would be difficult. I’d be wedded, bedded and enjoying the bondage of matrimony, although that is not how I put it to Uncle. I told him I’m deeply in love and near to proposing. And I am.’ He smirked again. ‘Deeply in love with William’s inheritance and near to proposing to...’ Looking around the table, he asked, ‘Any of you have an unmarried sister who wants a husband?’
‘Not that we’d let wed you,’ one of the men answered. The rest laughed.
‘I will have Marvel and Ivory back.’ William released his cousin’s shoulder.
‘Well, I’m going to wager the horses if I run out of funds. Of course, with the way my luck is going tonight, I’ll own everyone’s livestock before I leave.’
‘I’ll buy them from whomever you lose them to.’ William leaned forward and briefly met eyes with the others at the table. ‘If any of you men win those horses from Sylvester, I’ll buy them from you at double what you’d get at Tattersalls.’
The others grinned, chuckling.
‘That’s why Uncle is concerned about you, William.’ Sylvester pulled out a card, waved it for others to see the back of and then dropped it on to the table with a flourish. ‘You’re planning to buy a pair of old horses not worth a pence when you might be able to win them with a single game of chance. Yet, you gambled away a carriage once. You’ve even lost your own boots and then threw in the stockings. It’s all a game to you, but you don’t care if you win or lose.’ He raked in the coins. ‘I play to win.’
‘I enjoy the sport,’ William said. He’d had enough of the night.
Turning to leave, he made it as far as the door before looking back at that feathery trimming. His youngest sister had once pulled such an adornment from his middle sister’s bonnet and the roof had barely stayed on the house in the aftermath.
He retraced his steps to the sticky mug. He sat, staring straight ahead. The joy of being called a wastrel by one’s father meant William could sit all night watching a plume on a bonnet. He tried to imagine the bird that lost the feather, but he could only see a caricature of a bird prancing, preening, and sprouting a blast of unnatural feathers from its head, while wobbling under the weight.
He needed to stop with the ale.
The singer returned to the stage and opened her mouth. He would not call it singing, exactly, but if one didn’t care much about quality of voice, then it could pass the time. He swatted at a fly that landed on the edge of the mug. Just because he didn’t want the drink didn’t mean he intended to share.
The woman with the tear in her dress adjusted the bag in her lap. The singer hit a high note, or had her foot mashed by a carriage. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could do the same for his ears. As the note ended, he opened his eyes while pulling the cleaner mug to his lips. His hand stopped when he caught Miss Plume watching him.
She looked away and his hand moved again. He finished the drink, not tasting it. He would wait until her husband arrived to take her home. If the husband walked in with some woman hanging on him, William would make sure to give the man a reminder of propriety. A man didn’t embarrass his wife so. To let her wait alone in a place like Wren’s was unforgiveable.
William looked directly at her, not able to see through the glove on her left hand, or into her mind to see what memories resided there.
He eased back in the chair. He wasn’t leaving until she did.
* * *
Isabel knew the man who wanted his horses was aware of her. But he was hoping to get his stock returned and he wanted them fed properly. The other men even seemed more decent after he’d spoken with them. When she’d noted him walking to the door, leaving, fear tremored in her midsection and she’d had an urge to follow, not wanting to remain without his presence. But he’d paused and returned to his chair. He must want to be certain he received those horses.
She peered around her bonnet brim, searching for Wren.
Mr Wren should be about. Earlier she’d asked that barmaid and the woman had glared and mumbled that he’d be in when he walked in. Wren had told Isabel he would meet her. He’d said he spent each day working, except when he attended Sunday Services. She no longer believed that, unless he attended with her aunt.
The one, William they’d called him—his face had pinched when the singer got stuck on that dreadful note. Apparently he could hear quite well. And when he’d opened his eyes and caught her examining his expression, he’d looked startled.
He was rather ordinary except for those legs that didn’t want to fit under the table, but yet, he made her feel safer.
Then the barmaid approached and brought him another mug. He’d not requested it, but he took it. The woman brushed a lock of his hair over his ear, which hadn’t needed touching, but Isabel couldn’t blame the woman. That hair did make a person curious about what it felt like.
The woman whispered something to him. He laughed, changing everything
