the worn wooden counter with pride. Mateo took the furthest stool and gestured for the girl to perch next to him.
‘No, tonight I have been lost indeed—thinking of fathers, and of sons. Do you know,’ he continued in a conversational tone, ‘that my father once caused a citywide riot over a wh—’ Etta straightened in her seat and he cleared his throat ‘—over a celebrated courtesan?’
She relaxed. ‘He never!’
Mateo smiled at her obvious interest. Even the innkeeper sidled closer to listen. ‘Oh, but he did. It happened in Naples, long ago. La Incandescent Clarisse, she was called, the greatest beauty in Europe. Endless poems were written to the soft pink of her lips, to the sweet curve of her hips. Playwrights named their heroines for her, artists worshipped her as their muse. Men followed her carriage in the street. My father was only one of many caught firmly in her spell.’
‘What happened?’ The girl’s face shone bright and she had briefly forgotten her practised seduction.
‘The inevitable.’ Mateo shrugged. ‘La Incandescent got with child. All of Naples held their breath, fascinated to hear who she would name as the father.’
‘Who was it?’ she breathed. ‘Not your da?’
‘After a fashion. You see, Clarisse could only narrow down the field. The father of her child was either my father, or Thomas Varnsworth.’
‘No!’ The innkeeper gasped.
‘Him what’s the Earl of Winbury?’ Etta asked, amazed.
‘The old Earl, rather,’ Mateo replied.
The innkeeper could not contain his shock. ‘But his daughter lives—’
‘Yes, I know,’ Mateo interrupted. ‘Shall I continue?’
They both nodded.
‘Upon hearing the news, Lord Thomas—for he was not the Earl yet—and my father got into a terrible row. They fought long and hard, nearly destroying La Incandescent’s apartments, and still they raged on, until the fight eventually spilled out into the streets. Spectators gathered. Someone spotted the tearful Clarisse and the rumour spread that La Incandescent had been harmed. The crowd grew furious, for Clarisse was a favourite of the people, and soon the two men found themselves fighting for their lives.’
‘And all over a strumpet?’ the innkeeper said in wonder.
‘Hush, you,’ the girl admonished. ‘Let him finish.’
Mateo shifted. Too late he worried about raising the tavern wench’s expectations, but that thought set off another surge of bitterness. It had been a woman’s damned expectations that had ruined his life. Portia Varnsworth had once expected to marry him. Mateo’s father had expected him to go along with the idea. Mateo might have expected somebody to consult him on the matter, but no one had bothered.
Etta, however, appeared to have taken the tale as a challenge. She raised a brow and tossed him a saucy grin. ‘I’m summat well known, myself, in these parts,’ she said.
‘Indeed?’
‘Oh, aye,’ she purred. ‘Would you like to know what I’m famous for?’
‘He don’t need to know now,’ grumbled her employer, ‘and not in front o’ me. What ye do upstairs is yer own business. Down here, it’s mine. Don’t ye want him to finish his tale? And you’ve a taproom to straighten first, in any case.’ He nodded for Mateo to continue.
‘Ah, yes, well, my father and Lord Thomas were arrested—for their own protection. They spent two days in a cell together and came out the best of friends.’
‘And the lady? Clarisse?’ Etta leaned closer.
‘When they were released, she had gone. She left Naples and disappeared. No one ever knew where she went, although rumours abounded. My father and Lord Thomas made a vow to find her and searched for years.’
She stilled. ‘Did they? Find her, that is?’
‘No,’ he said soberly. ‘Notto my knowledge. But they never stopped looking, either, until their dying days.’
Her eyes shone in the dim light, bright with unshed tears. ‘That’s the most romantic thing I ever heard.’ She sniffed.
The innkeeper snorted. ‘Then I would say you were in sore need of a little romance.’ He nodded towards Mateo. ‘He might be the one to give it to ye, but first—’
‘Aye, I know, I know, the taproom,’ Etta grumbled. The weight of her gleaming gaze felt nearly solid on Mateo’s skin. ‘I just mean to give him a taste of what comes after.’ She slid down from her stool and reached for him.
Mateo saw the stars in her eyes. The girl’s mind tumbled with fancies and dreams and he knew that he had perhaps not been so wise in his choice of tales. It is no bad thing to create a vision of things that might be, but of a certainty he would not be the one to bring her grand ideas to fruition.
He stilled as her arms went around him. He had no wish to damage her feelings. A woman had brought his world to a crashing halt, but he would not take his revenge on this, her artless sister. He sent a swift plea to the heavens for something, anything to distract the girl and extract him from the awkward situation of his own making.
The knob on the taproom door rattled. A floorboard creaked in the passage outside. Mateo jerked to attention along with the others as the door opened swiftly and his name echoed through the empty room. He stared, speechless, at the figure framed in the shadowy entrance and he knew that in the future he would be more careful in what he wished for.
A breeze wafted over Portia Tofton’s flushed cheeks as she approached the Eagle. The night air was cooler than she had expected. She didn’t care. She had her indignation to keep her warm, her dead husband’s pistol to keep her safe and a fervent desire to shock the wits out of Mateo Cardea to keep the purpose in her step.
Coming to a halt in front of the inn, she cast it a look of loathing. The beady eyes of the building’s painted namesake returned her glare. The raptor’s outstretched talons glittered in the moonlight, sending a shiver down her spine
Mateo had arrived in the village today; word was out and spreading fast across the county. Weeks it had taken for him to take ship and make his way here, but had he come to her? She snorted. Of course not. Apparently not even the loss of his family legacy was enough to tempt him to her side. Despite the urgent wording of her request he had holed up in the most disreputable tavern for miles around. No doubt he’d spent the day drinking, carousing, and who knows what else, while she had been left to twiddle her thumbs.
How utterly predictable.
No. Portia squared her shoulders and took a step forwards. Such treatment might be standard in her old life, perhaps, but it was not at all acceptable in the new. She was a widow now. Her husband’s death had granted her a new freedom and independence that she meant to take full advantage of. Heaven knew—and everybody else did too—that it was more than he’d given her while he lived.
She raised a fist to knock loud and long upon the tavern door, but noticed it stood slightly ajar. She put her hand on the knob and paused. Gone were the days that Lady Portia Varnsworth—or
