Chapter Eighteen

 

 

 

“Has it risen?” William enquired with as much levity as he could manage as he entered the kitchen where Dee was working his magic, readying himself for the Riot Act. “You wouldn’t have wanted us in here with all that mud—your carpets would have been ruined. And a muddy Frenchman is a squawking Frenchman.”

“As ever,” Dee turned from the stove and regarded William with a deep frown, folding his arms, “this is not my house and it contains no carpets. I should not even be in France, putting my daughter in danger.” Dee sighed, picking up an incongruous china teacup and taking a sip. “But a little discretion, perhaps?”

“For swimming?” William frowned. He peered at Dee, certain he was missing something of great importance.

“Better to save entanglements until you are safely back in England,” Dee told him, those bright blue eyes too piercing. “Try to avoid naked embraces until then?”

“Naked what?” William blinked.

“Each man to his own,” Dee said plainly. “But for God’s sake, Knowles, keep a clear head.”

“We were swimming.” William had the distinct suspicion that he was repeating himself. “To get clean.”

“That diamond is going to pay for you and I to do nothing for the rest of our lives. It comes first.” Dee took another sip of tea and observed, “Le Havre isn’t so distant—don’t get the playwright hanged before you get there.”

“You think,” William managed to keep his voice calmer than he felt, “that I am buggering a French playwright?”

“Well, if not yet, then looking at the two of you in that lake, I doubt it can be far away.”

“I need a drink.”

Gaudet’s voice sang out through the house, calling for his Guillaume, and Dee addressed William with a raised eyebrow and repeated, “Guillaume? You have told him your actual name?”

“That isn’t my name,” William protested, “my name is not French.”

“Keep your breeches buttoned until you see the white cliffs of Dover,” Dee told him, turning to open the oven with a smile of satisfaction before he retrieved a fine loaf of bread. “And I wish you luck, sir, because with a jewelry habit like his, you’ll need it.”

“What I need,” William decided weakly, “is a drink.”

“Guillaume!” came another shout. “Be a love and bring up my new coat.”

“He’s got you well-trained,” was Dee’s wry observation as he settled with his tea once more. “You’re better behaved than Harriet.”

With a roll of his eyes to the heavens, William turned for the door, certain that the day could not get any worse even as he scooped up the coat and called, “Give a man a moment.”

“Monsieur Gaudet has spruced up very well,” Harriet told William when she passed him on the stairs, still cuddling Pap. “He is in the room at the end of the hallway.”

The playwright had indeed spruced up well and was once again immaculate, though the plain and simple shirt and breeches he wore were a world away from the fine suit he still carried in the portmanteau. Gaudet’s hair was somehow perfect once more and he lay back on the mattress, hands pillowed beneath his head. He met William with a bright smile and declared, “Chérie, I may have had a moment outside, I do apologize—”

“I have your coat,” William told the reclining Frenchman, “here.”

“Did you get very badly told off? Isn’t he commanding?” Gaudet gave a rather wistful sigh. “I rather think he should have a dashing white charger.”

The response that came then was something close to “Hmph,” William setting the coat down none too gently on the bed before going to the window, the view of a field full of fat pigs doing little to improve his mood. “You won’t say that when you hear what he thinks we’ve been up to.”

“Do tell.” Gaudet picked up a flask and threw it to William. “Brandy.”

William needed no further telling, uncapping the flask to take a deep drink. He closed his eyes as the warming liquid burned its way down his throat and he wondered whether he could get drunk and stay drunk until Le Havre…until England, perhaps.

“I wonder if our new, tall friend might be tempted into a lake…” At his own words, Gaudet gave a hoot of laughter and William felt him leave the bed. Seconds later he heard the unmistakable sound of the playwright sliding his arms into the thick brocade coat.

“He thinks we’re buggering each other.”

“Did you tell him,” William asked, even though he could almost hear the pout, “that it was only in your dreams?”

“I told him no one was buggering anyone.” He took another swig, the very idea growing more absurd with every passing moment. “Good God…”

Gaudet was suddenly standing beside him, looking out of the window at the pigs. He took the flask from William and swigged from it. “You were virtually kissing me, Guillaume.”

“I was not.” William reached for the flask once more, fingers inadvertently brushing Gaudet’s hand. “I have a job to do.”

“Then do it.” The playwright beamed. “And I shall do someone else.”