ROBERT’S ALCOHOL-laden brain was trying to tell him something. Surrounded by his chums at the King’s Arms, he was drinking too much and eating too little. He felt sick. Still, something in the back of his head was working its way out.
Kendra. Kendra. He took another swig. Was there not…
Yes! That worm Greystone had a sister named Kendra.
They’d come into the shop only once, but the way the fellow had looked at Amy, and Amy’s flushed reaction, still burned in Robert’s memory. He hadn’t paid the sister any attention, having no taste for red-headed girls, but this could easily be her.
He rubbed his aching jaw. This Kendra, with her iron fist, didn’t look much like Greystone. His hair had been black, and his eyes were a darker green than hers, too. She was petite, and the worm was tall—so tall that Robert had felt intimidated, although Greystone had ignored him.
Well, the sister intimidated him, too. Now.
Yes, she must be his sister. He squinted his bloodshot eyes, trying to better picture them both. They shared the same facial bone structure, he was sure of it, and the same shape eyes. And they both had the same cocky self-assurance.
And they were both “friends” of Amy’s.
Amy. Pretty, elusive Amy. She’d promised to marry him. For five long years he’d sat at her father’s bench, with the promise of Amy and her riches in time.
The time had come. She was in London. If she wouldn’t wed him willingly, he would have to force her. There were places he’d heard about, “privileged” churches where a man could marry a woman without posting banns, without taking out a license.
Without her consent.
He turned to the man next to him, one of the many who spent their evenings in this popular middle-class tavern. “Hey,” he said, surprised to hear the word wavering, “have you knowledge of a privileged church? Not too far?”
“St. Trinity, in the Minories,” the man answered.
“St. James in Duke’s Place is another,” a man sitting across the table put in. “They’re the only two, I think. Claim they’re outside the jurisdiction of the Bishop of London and can therefore make their own rules. M’sister was wed at St. James.”
“Against her will?”
“Nah. She was just in a hurry. Got a predated certificate, too, so the babe wasn’t early.”
Robert nodded, digesting the information. Both Duke’s Place and the Minories were nearby, just outside the old Roman wall. “I won’t need a license or anything?”
“Nah. Just two crowns for the curate and a couple of witnesses.”
Not a problem, thought Robert, imagining the stash of coins, gold, and gems that awaited him upon his marriage.
His stomach roiled, protesting another swig of ale. He was sorry it had come to this, sorry she wasn’t submitting to him of her own accord. But she was his due, and once the deed was done she’d get used to the idea. She’d come to his bed and bear his children. Eventually. She’d always been a cold one, anyway—he’d never expected to find her a warm and willing wife.
And when she was his, everything she owned would be, too.
He looked up at his two drinking companions. “Either of you heard of Lord Greystone?”
“Nay, never heard of him,” the man next to him muttered.
“Nah.” The man across from him shook his head.
“Hey,” he called out, his voice slurred. “Anyone here know a Lord Greystone? Colin Something-or-other?”
“Chase,” someone called out. “Colin Chase.” The man wore a long, crimped periwig and was dressed a tad more stylishly than the average patron of the King’s Arms; Robert believed he could be acquainted with Colin Chase, or at least know of him.
“He got a brother? The Marquess of something?”
“Cainewood. The Marquess of Cainewood. Jason Chase.”
“Right.” And Amy had been riding in Cainewood’s carriage, with Cainewood’s sister. It all fit together.
Pleased with his powers of deduction, Robert paused for another swallow and dragged his sleeve across his mouth. “Anyone know where Cainewood lives? I’ll pay someone”—he burped loudly—“ten shillings to show me where he lives.”
There was a scraping of benches as men rose, eager to collect ten shillings for such an easy job. Robert wasn’t so sotted, however, that he didn’t realize most of them probably didn’t know Cainewood’s house from the London Bridge.
“You,” he said. He rose unsteadily and pointed at the man who had answered his questions. “You’re the one. Come along.”
Gesturing for the man to follow, he stumbled through the door and out into the street. His companion pressed himself up against the wall as Robert paused to throw up in the gutter, his vomit barely adding to the refuse and filth already there.
Robert stood up, swiped a sleeve across his mouth, and let loose a loud belch. “That’s better. Let’s go.”
Shaking his head in disgust, the man led the way all the same.
Ten shillings was ten shillings.