he need not explain why…
Elizabeth dropped her voice. 'This is quite understood! Keep your tatters, Mr Boyes, and I wish you well in your designs.' She rearranged her mighty bosom and gave Boyes a narrow scrutiny. 'I would have taken your garments to a gentlewoman with whom I have a slight connection — she is esteemed an excellent needlewoman and keeps a notions shop. Indeed she has — or, I should say she previously had — the same name as a man my husband knew in the Kentish rebellion. He was a great cavalier, very sure of himself and a determined schemer, who had fought with Prince Rupert, it was said. His name was Lovell. I believe he was a colonel in your army. Do you know him, Master Boyes?'
'I believe I do,' drawled Boyes. 'And I should enjoy renewed acquaintance with his wife. Can you tell me the lady's whereabouts?'
'Indeed I can!' smiled Elizabeth Bevan, folding her arms across her chest and looking so helpful it could hardly be taken maliciously.
Rarely for him, 'Mr Boyes' then made a bad mistake: he left the widow's house without paying his rent.
After much thought, hoping to redeem some profit, Elizabeth upped and brought herself to Gideon Jukes. She confessed what she had told the cavalier. 'You know, Gideon, I am the loyallest woman in the Commonwealth and think it my duty to warn you of this dangerous renegade…'
Gideon's voice was clipped: 'Did you tell him Juliana remarried?'
'I was a widow alone in my house with a short-tempered, armed man! I quailed from it. I feared he would kill me.' Her quailing was true, though Gideon guessed she had dropped hints.
'You have been harbouring a Delinquent,' he growled. 'Best to get down to the intelligence office with your story, and hope you are not too severely questioned. That way you may save your skin.'
And what will you do?' asked Elizabeth inquisitively.
'The man is disaffected — but no danger to me.' Still, Gideon's heart pounded.
Chapter Seventy-Eight — Shoe Lane: 1656
Orlando Lovell kept the shop under observation from a doorway for several hours. The building was narrow- fronted, one room wide, perhaps two deep, three storeys high, better maintained than those next door. It stood halfway down an alley off Shoe Lane, in a commercial district, more dingy than dangerous. There were worse stink-holes in London. A prostitute had accosted him in a desultory fashion as he turned the corner, but she made no move to follow him down the alley, nor did she curse him when he ignored her. Sparrows pecked in the gutter.
A succession of women in all shapes, sizes and qualities, some of them servants, called at the shop; most went away carrying little parcels. Through the bright crown-glass panes it appeared they were served by a young girl. Sometimes she came to the door when they left, curtseying politely. About sixteen — far too young to be the shopkeeper, she seemed to be unsupervised today. She wore a brown unbleached apron over a saffron skirt and collared jacket, her hair hidden respectably by a white cap. Though her face was like a half-baked white muffin, she had eyes that a man who thought he had been chaste for too long could convince himself were lascivious. Lovell ogled her, as a cavalier was bound to, although the belief that she was employed by his wife acted as a natural deterrent.
About mid-afternoon he became bored. The young girl was no longer visible inside the shop. He walked across; he had already heard that a bell hung on the door but by opening it extremely slowly he managed to squeeze indoors with no alarm, only a faint quiver. The shop was neat, packed with products, thriving. He stood for a moment, contemplating the unpleasant fact (to him) that his wife, Juliana Lovell, was now engaged in trade. What bastard with no sense of the appropriate had put her up to that?
He walked quietly past the long counter, into a lobby at the foot of the stairs where he listened but heard nothing. He noticed an old sword, which he thought he recognised, hanging on a nail. Making his way along a slabbed corridor, he came to the back yard. He passed two bowls of cold water, presumably for dogs. His wife still had not acquired the garden she once hankered for, but barrel-halves stood in a line on the sunniest wall of this internal space, full of growing pot-herbs. An unappealing horse huffed over a stable door at him. He discovered the privy and, being the man he was, blatantly made use of it.
When he emerged he heard movement. He walked back to the shop, expecting to surprise a woman; he saw nobody, passed into the room, then was startled as a tall fellow straightened up behind a counter, holding a plank. Apparently he was about to nail up an extra shelf. Orlando Lovell found himself being assessed as a potential snatch-thief by what he presumed was a hired workman.
The fellow was in shirtsleeves, his blond hair casually tousled. He had the kind of half-translucent fair skin that accompanied near-invisible eyelashes and blue eyes. There was nothing effeminate about him, however. His face was masculine, his build strong, his manner competent. He would be defined for the rest of his life by his past service in the Parliamentary army. There was far more to him than Lovell yet saw.
Some men can put up shelves. They know their superiority. Others merely stand about, pretending they could do this if they had to. Orlando Lovell, the interloper, was one of the latter. As a part-time joiner, Gideon Jukes knew what he was doing. He was the son of a man who had loved projects; John Jukes had had to equip himself with skills, or he would have been at the mercy of half-hearted craftsmen who promised to come on Thursday, then failed to show up.
With a mouth full of nails, Gideon did not bother to speak. Hammer in one hand, shelf in the other, he turned his back and more or less calmly continued his carpentry. Having tapped in a support at one end, he levelled the shelf by standing a saucer of water upon it, knocked in the other support lightly then made good with strong blows. Perhaps these blows were a little harder than necessary. Only when he had relieved his feelings did he turn and face Orlando Lovell.
Gideon knew who it was. Since Elizabeth Bevan's visit he had been waiting for this. Surprise was on his side, although he found that did not make the situation any easier.
Gideon surveyed his rival. Orlando Lovell, alias Boyes, looked like someone to be reckoned with. He was compact, small-boned, sanguine-complexioned, assured to the point of arrogance, with hooded eyes that saw too much and kept much hidden. He had long brown hair, sun-bleached at the ends where it curled down on his shoulders. He wore a beard, though Elizabeth Bevan had said she had seen him with it trimmed close. He was currently passing himself off as a gentleman. His suit was gunmetal, his cloak and hat black. A gloved hand lay easily on the basket-hilt of a sword. If he had brought pistols, they were not visible.
He seemed not much older than Gideon. A few years, maybe. Any appearance of other experience was due to their absolute difference in looking at the world. Nothing would change that. It was why they had fought their war.
'You must be Colonel Lovell.'
'And who the devil are you?' A well-bred accent. Haughty enough to rile a Londoner.
'Your wife's husband!' answered Gideon cheerfully. He allowed a tactful pause so the statement would sink in. 'This is awkward, for us both. I suggest we don't shake hands.'
Lovell stared. Gideon had the satisfaction of seeing the man grow hot under his weathered skin. But Lovell recovered; he knew how long it was since he contacted Juliana and he accepted that she might have made other arrangements. That did not mean he would allow it. 'You have stolen my wife! Where is she?'
'Not here. You will have to rampage at me.'
'You are a Roundhead!' Lovell accused him with disgust. He used Roundhead as a term of abuse; Gideon only squared up and was proud of it. 'I suppose it gives you satisfaction, to ravish one of the enemy — '
Gideon kept his temper. 'That's a cavalier trick! Besides, Juliana is no enemy of mine.'
'You dog! Who are you?'
'Captain Gideon Jukes, late of the New Model Army. Everything you fight against, everything you hate.'
That was certainly true, thought Lovell sourly. 'A rebel!'
'No, sir. A Commonwealthman. You are the rebel now.'
'I'll not take this from you.'
'Oh you will, Colonel. You are proscribed. The authorities know you are in London. You will be
