the cold face across the table. ‘Stephen Hebden. It is you, isn’t it?’
The man gave a nod and his smile disappeared, as though to remind Nate that any meeting between them would not be a happy one, no matter how close they had been as children. ‘I am Stephano Beshaley, now. And you call yourself Nate Dale, even though we both know you are Nathan Wardale.’
‘Nathan Wardale died in Boston, several years ago.’
‘Just as Stephen Hebden died in a fire when he was a child.’ The man across the table held out his hands in an expansive gesture. ‘And yet, here we are.’
Dead in a fire? It shamed him that he had given so little thought to what had become of his best childhood friend, after their fathers both died. But circumstances between the families had made the break between them sudden and complete.
Nate pushed the past aside, as he had so many times before. ‘Very well, then. Mr Beshaley. What brings you here, after all this time? It has been almost twenty years since we last saw each other.’
‘At my father’s funeral,’ Stephen prompted. ‘Do you remember Christopher Hebden, Lord Framlingham? He was the man your father murdered.’
Nate pretended to consider. ‘The name is familiar. Of course, my family was so busy that year, what with the trial and the hanging. But I do remember the funeral. It is a pity you could not return the favour and come to my father’s funeral as well.’ He waited to see if there would be a response from the man opposite him. Perhaps a small acknowledgement that Nate had suffered a loss as well. But there was none.
So he continued. ‘When the hanging was done, we had to wait until he was cut down, and pay to retrieve the body. With the title attainted, using the family plot was out of the question. He is in a small, unmarked grave in a country church where the vicar did not know of our disgrace. I rarely visit.’ He locked eyes with the man across the table, willing him to show some sign of sympathy, or at least understanding. But still, there was nothing.
‘That burial was an intimate gathering, for all our friends had abandoned us. Although there was crowd enough to see him kicking on the gibbet. I thought the whole town had turned out to see the peer swing. And then your mad Gypsy mother screamed curses out of the window and hanged herself in full view of everyone. It made for quite a show.’
And that had done it. For a moment, Stephen tensed as though ready to strike him, the rage blazing hot in his eyes. And Nate welcomed the chance to strike back at someone, anyone, and to finally release the child’s fury he had felt that day.
But then, Stephen settled back in his seat and his face grew cold and hard again. Despite that brief flare of temper at the direct insult to his mother, there was nothing left in his dark face to prove that the words had any lasting effect. If they had still been playing cards, Nate might have found him a worthy opponent, for it was impossible to tell what he might do next.
At last, Nate mastered his own anger again and broke the silence. ‘Why are you here, Stephen?’
‘To remind you of the past.’
He let out a bitter laugh. ‘Remind me?’ He spread his arms wide. ‘Look at my surroundings, old friend, as I do whenever I feel a need to remember. Are they not low enough? Was I born to this? The title is gone, the house, the lands. My family scattered to the four winds. At least you found a people again. Do you know how long it has been since I have seen my own mother? My sisters? Do you know what it is like to stand helpless as your father hangs?’
‘No better than to have him murdered, I suppose. And to know that somewhere, the murderer’s line continues.’
Nate laughed. ‘After all this time, is that the problem? I am as good as dead, I assure you. I have nothing left, and yet you would take more.’
Stephen snorted. ‘You have money.’
‘And a nice house,’ Nate added. ‘Two houses, actually. And horses and carriages. Possessions enough for any man. I gained it all at the cost of my honour. We are not gaming at Boodle’s, as our fathers did, Stephen. Because we are not welcome amongst gentlemen. A Gypsy bastard and a murderer’s son. Society wants none of us. We are in the gutter, where we belong.’
His opponent tensed at the word—bastard—but it was no less than the truth.
‘I am sorry that I am not suffering enough to satisfy you. If you wish, we can go out in the alley, and I will let you remedy the fact. If you mean to frighten me into losing with this?’ He looked down at the rope at his feet, and kicked it until it lay in front of his former friend. ‘I have the real rope that did the job. My family bought it to keep it out of the hands of the ghouls gathered round the gallows. There is nothing left for you to do that will frighten me. Since irony is not likely to prove fatal, I suggest that you cease playing games. We are no longer children. If you truly want me dead? Then be man enough to shoot me.’
For a moment, he thought that the taunting had finally hit home. For Stephano the Gypsy nodded and smiled, as though there were nothing he would like better than to kill Nate and put an end to the meeting. But then, he said, ‘I am afraid it is not that easy, Nathan Wardale.’
Nate cringed for a moment, and felt the old fear that someone might hear the name, and know him for the child of a murdering traitor. He might be cast out as unworthy, even from the Fourth Circle. And then where would he go? He recovered his poise and demanded, ‘What is it to be, then?’
‘That is not for me to decide. I am but an avatar in this. I bring you the rope. And now, fate will decide the method of your punishment.’
‘My punishment?’ Nate almost laughed. ‘For what? When the murder happened, I was ten years old. Hardly a criminal mastermind, I assure you.’
‘You are the son of the murderer.’
‘Then your coming here serves no purpose, Stephen. My word is no good for anything but wagering. But if it were, I would swear to you on it that my family is not to blame for what happened.’
‘Your father…’
‘Was hung for something he did not do. He swore on the stand that Kit Hebden was dying when he found him. He did not strike the blow that killed him. He said the same to me, my mother and my sisters. By the end, there was no reason for him to lie to us. It would have gained him nothing, nor given us any comfort. He was sentenced to die, and we were quite beyond comforting.’
For a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of emotion on the other man’s face that might indicate understanding, belief or some scrap of mercy. And then it was gone. ‘If it is true that you are blameless, then circumstances will prove that fact soon enough. And I will break the curse and set you free.’
He laughed. ‘It is a bit late to talk of freedom, Stephen. I have wealth, but no one to share it with. I have no friends. No one trusts me. No decent woman would want me. In the course of gaming, I have ruined many and caused men to do unspeakable things, convinced that one more hand will be all it takes to break me.
‘And now, you will set me free? Can you wipe out the memory of the things I have done? Will you go to the House of Lords and insist that they clear my family’s name? Can you get me my title? And my father, as well? Can you raise the dead, Gypsy? For I would like to see you try.’
Stephano the Gypsy spat upon the floor, and passed his hand before him as though warding off the suggestion.
