“I apologize,” he said to Miss Trentham, when they were back in the hackney carriage. “I just . . . I couldn’t lie to him.”
“No.” She tilted her head to one side and surveyed him gravely. “You hold Sergeant Houghton in high esteem.”
Icarus nodded. He looked down at his gloved hands, and then back at her. “I told him about our charade,” he confessed. “Because, the thing is . . . he’s coming to Exeter with us. I’m going to take him as my partner—because I trust him, and because I can’t just leave him here!”
She studied him silently, and then gave a nod. “The sergeant won’t accept charity, but he’ll accept employment.”
“Yes,” Icarus said, relieved that she understood. And then he wondered at himself for doubting she would. Miss Trentham was astute and perceptive. She’d taken Sergeant Houghton’s measure at a glance. “Thank you for giving us privacy. I’m grateful to you.” And he was grateful to her for much more than that. I don’t appreciate her as I ought to.
Back at the Swan, he spoke to both Green and Eliza. “For God’s sake, don’t offer him pity! Treat him as if he has two arms, unless for some reason he does need help, in which case be matter-of-fact about offering it. Green, he has the room next to you. I wish you to look after him as you would me, but don’t fuss over him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He should be here shortly. See that his room’s made ready, please, and put out a change of my clothes for him. He’ll need a bath and a shave. How are you at cutting hair?”
“I’ve never cut anyone’s hair, sir,” Green said apologetically.
“Never mind. He can see a barber tomorrow.”
Sergeant Houghton arrived at dusk. Icarus showed him to his room, introduced him to Green, and left.
An hour and a half later, the door to the private parlor opened. Icarus glanced up from the Bristol Mercury. His mouth dropped open.
The shabby crossing-sweeper had been transformed. Gone were the ragged clothes and the grime, gone the shaggy hair, gone the beard. Instead, Houghton was clean, combed, shaved, and dressed in top boots and breeches, a waistcoat, and a tailcoat with the left arm pinned up. A neckcloth was neatly arranged at his throat.
Icarus closed his mouth. He stood hastily. “Good Lord, man. Have you seen yourself in a mirror?”
“I have, sir.” Houghton’s expression was hard to read. Icarus guessed that he was self-conscious about his borrowed finery, perhaps even faintly embarrassed.
“I’m glad to see my clothes fit.” He crossed to Houghton and shook his hand. “Can you bear to wear them until Exeter?”
“Of course, sir.”
Icarus released his hand. “Have a seat. Miss Trentham will be down shortly. Would you like something to drink? Claret? Sherry?”
“No, thank you, sir.”
This Houghton was closer to the man he remembered, but still not quite him. Less confident, slightly stiff. He’s a coalminer’s son, wearing gentleman’s clothes. Of course he feels awkward.
The parlor door opened again and Miss Trentham entered the room. She halted, and looked them both up and down. “Goodness, how alike the two of you are! No one could mistake you for anything but soldiers.” There was nothing aloof in her manner. Her smile was warm and friendly. “I must say, you clean up very well, Sergeant!”
Before dinner was served, Icarus found a moment to run upstairs. “Green, you’ve performed a miracle! And you even cut his hair!”
“Eliza cut his hair, sir.”
“Did she? Well, I must thank her for that, then—but everything else is due to you! Thank you.”
He pressed a guinea into Green’s hand and hurried back downstairs, arriving in the parlor half a minute in advance of the meal. The landlord supervised the placing of the dishes. Eight dishes tonight. The smell made Icarus’s mouth water.
Miss Trentham glanced at the meal, and gave the landlord a nod of approval. The man nodded back, looking pleased with himself.
Icarus examined the dinner. It took him a moment to realize what it was that Miss Trentham had seen: there was no dish that would pose a problem for a one-handed man.
He looked at Miss Trentham. Was this her doing?
Houghton had noticed, too. He became fractionally less self-conscious.
Miss Trentham was Tish tonight. Within ten minutes of sitting at the table, she’d managed to put Houghton completely at his ease. Within fifteen minutes, she’d even made him laugh. Not only that, she cheerfully browbeat Houghton into eating two helpings of everything. “You must have more of the fricassee, Sergeant. You need to put some meat on your bones!”
Icarus glanced at Houghton, and discovered that the man wasn’t offended; on the contrary, he was amused. He likes her. And she likes him.
Icarus felt a prick of something that might almost be—but most definitely wasn’t—jealousy. This so disconcerted him that he ate a second portion of fricassee himself. And later, a second portion of syllabub. Finally, full almost to bursting, he pushed his plate away.
After the servants had cleared the covers from the table, they sat talking. Icarus leaned back in his chair. It’s been a long time since I had an evening like this, mellow and relaxed, with friends.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck ten. He glanced at it, surprised.
Miss Trentham looked surprised, too. “Is that the time? Poor Eliza will be wondering where I am!” She stood, and held out her hand to Houghton. “Eliza tells me she’s responsible for your hair, and I must say, she did a good job!”
“She did indeed, ma’am.” Houghton took her hand in a friendly clasp.
Miss Trentham smiled at him, exactly as she had smiled at Matlock and Lucas Kemp. “I’m glad you decided to come to Exeter with us, Sergeant.”
“So am I.” Houghton released her hand and turned to Icarus. “Good night, sir.”
“Good night, Sergeant.”
Houghton left the parlor. Miss Trentham made to follow him, but Icarus detained her with a light touch on her arm. She glanced at him, her eyebrows lifting.
“The meal. Was that your doing?”
“My doing?”
“It needed no knife.”
“Oh, yes. I thought it would be more comfortable for him. He was bound to feel self-conscious.”
Icarus took both of her hands in his and looked down at her. “Bless you.”
Miss Trentham colored faintly. “Any hostess would have done the same.”
Icarus gazed down at her. She was wearing a gown of soft sage green, and her eyes were green, too. He frowned. Hadn’t they been gray yesterday? “Your eyes change color.”
“No, they don’t,” Miss Trentham said. She tried to pull her hands from his grip.
Icarus didn’t release them. “They were gray yesterday, and blue the day before. And now they’re green again.”
“My eyes aren’t any particular color,” Miss Trentham said, tugging her hands again.
Icarus tightened his grip. “They’re definitely green today.”
Miss Trentham stopped trying to free her hands. “They’re a little bit green,” she said, in an extremely patient voice. “And a little bit blue, and a little bit gray. They’re not any one color.”
Icarus looked at her eyes more closely. She was correct—and incorrect. Her eyes weren’t green or blue or gray; they were the color of the sea. “I like them.”
Miss Trentham flushed faintly. She tried to pull her hands free again.
Icarus retained his clasp on them. “Thank you for tonight. Thank you for seeing to the meal. Thank you for putting Houghton at his ease. Thank you for making him eat so much. I know I don’t thank you as often as I ought to, and I want you to know that I’m grateful for everything you do. Deeply grateful.” He bent and kissed her lips.
He felt her jolt of surprise, heard her intake of breath—and then her hands clasped his back, and her lips softened beneath his, and they were kissing properly, the way they did at night in his bedchamber—and then the door opened, and they broke apart, Miss Trentham blushing furiously.
A maidservant entered the parlor and began tidying the room.
Miss Trentham muttered a hasty good night, and fled. Icarus felt scarcely less discomposed than she was. Lord, what had made him kiss her here in the parlor, where anyone could walk in on them!
He climbed the stairs to his room in a state of mild perturbation and stood for a moment looking at the tray Green had prepared: the brandy bottle, the new vial of valerian. He could almost taste their flavors in his mouth.
I shouldn’t let her come to me. I should latch my door. But even as he peeled out of his tailcoat, he knew he wouldn’t. Miss Trentham’s nighttime visits had become almost as important to him as the air he breathed.