reminded me of myself at that age. Frederick Sutcliff, the prefect, was tall, lanky, older than the other students, and generally despised. He was full of himself and not above a little harsh discipline that he did not report to Rutledge. His father was also one of the wealthiest men in England.
The Classics tutor, Simon Fletcher, gave me a nod. He did not live in this house, but in the one opposite, called Fairleigh. Fletcher liked a quiet pint in the village tavern, and I'd met him there on more than one evening. The mathematics tutor, Tunbridge, was lecturing his star pupil as usual, a spindly youth of sixteen with a heavy brow.
The lads stared at me as I made my way down the stairs and out of the house. They always stared because I was a tall, broad-shouldered man obviously wounded in the war, and also because they'd heard I'd refused to toady to Rutledge. This had raised me to a certain admired status.
Some of the boys nodded and said a polite, 'Captain.' Most of the others simply watched.
Cool damp air awaited me outside in the quad, and I breathed it in relief. Rutledge's study was comfortable enough, but his moods fouled the air.
The setting of the Sudbury School was fairly peaceful. The houses had been built in the time of Henry VIII. They had dark, narrow staircases and galleries that creaked, small windows, and crumbling plaster. But the estate had been owned by a family of vast fortune, who were able to fortify the houses and modernize them as time went on without marring their beauty.
The Head Master's house comprised the north and east sides of the quad, and Fairleigh, named for one of the founders of the school, the west side. The south building housed a large hall and two smaller ones for lectures, tiny classrooms, a common dining hall for the boys, and a more formal dining room, in which Rutledge hosted visitors to the school.
I left the quad through the gate and began walking to the stables. The Berkshire countryside certainly smelled cleaner than London's grime-filled streets. Here was the fragrance of new grass, wet earth, and the faint musty odor that came from the quiet canal that flowed past the school.
Rutledge at least did not mind me taking a horse every morning and riding about the green swards or along the towpath beside the canal. Rutledge was mad for sport and approved of men who liked to ride. I was still a cavalryman at heart and was glad to have the opportunity to ride regularly again.
I reflected as I walked that I had come to Berkshire to find peace, and so far, it had eluded me. But perhaps peace was not in a place but within one's self. In that case, I might never find it. There was little at peace inside Gabriel Lacey.
In the stable yard, I met Sebastian, a young Romany who had been taken on by the head groom to assist him. He was cleaning tack and not looking happy about it. Sebastian was excellent with horses, and he and I had become friends of a sort. I had been surprised at first to discover that Rutledge allowed a Romany to work in his stables, but Sebastian told me Rutledge had not known about it until after the fact. Sebastian had proved handy enough-and came cheap-and Rutledge had decided to look the other way.
'Good afternoon,' I said genially to Sebastian.
He gave me a nod. The other stable hands ignored me. Two leaned on rakes and chatted, one sat on a crate smoking a pipe while he mended a bridle.
Sebastian was usually effusive, but today, he frowned at the saddle he polished. 'Did you want a horse, Captain?' he asked in his melodious voice.
'No. I'm out for a short stroll, that's all. Is everything well with you?'
'Yes.'
It was not, I could see, but Sebastian closed his mouth in a tight line. He was about twenty, not much older than the oldest boys at the school. The pupils generally liked him, because he was good-natured, kind, and knew everything there was to know about horses.
A door at the end of the line of stalls led to the quarters for the groom and his stable hands. A man emerged from this door just then. He was tall and burly, with black hair under a coachman's hat.
I stared at him. I recognized him-or thought I did.
He saw me, stopped, then ducked back into the shadows of the doorway.
'Who was that?' I asked Sebastian.
He looked up, puzzled at my tone. 'Mr. Middleton,' he answered. 'The groom.'
I had not seen this Middleton since my arrival. I usually visited the stables very early in the morning, and Sebastian alone prepared my mount.
But I knew Middleton. Or at least, I'd seen him before, in London. He had once been the lackey of a man called James Denis.
James Denis was a criminal, or should have been labeled so. He was a gentleman to whom wealthy gentlemen went when they wished to obtain a fine piece of art that was unobtainable, to gain a seat in Parliament that was already filled, to succeed in whatever enterprise they wished. In return, they gave their loyalty and a high percentage of their wealth to Mr. Denis.
I had encountered Denis far more often than I cared to. He had helped me once or twice, but he had also threatened me and once had his lackeys kidnap me and beat me to teach me to respect him. He wanted me to fear him, and my friends, like Grenville, advised me to, but Denis had only succeeded in making me very, very angry.
I watched the door, but the man did not reappear. 'What do you know about him?' I asked Sebastian.
He shrugged. 'Not very much. He's a coachman, or was. He's very good with horses. A gentle sort with the beasts.'
'How long has he been here?'
'Don't know.'
I moved to the stable hands still leaning on their rakes and asked them. Like Sebastian, they eyed me in surprise, but answered. Middleton had been employed at Sudbury for six months.
I might have been mistaken, I told myself. I had only glimpsed the man. But I did not think so. Why one of James Denis' men should have taken up a post in Berkshire, at a boys' school, I hadn't the faintest idea. But if I was right, this boded no good.
'You sure it was him, sir?'
Bartholomew held my coat in one hand, his stiff-bristled brush in the other. The blond giant had stopped and stared, wide-eyed, when I'd announced what I'd seen.
'No,' I answered. I drank the thick coffee Bartholomew had brought after my supper. The quarters allotted to me consisted of a rather plain but cozy room on the top floor of the Head Master's house. My windows looked over the meadows behind the school and the line of trees that marked the canal. 'He did not come out again, and I could not go charging in after him. He looked just as surprised to see me.'
'But he must have heard you'd come here,' Bartholomew said. 'That's why he's kept scarce whenever you came to take a horse, I'd wager.'
'Well, if he is Denis' man, why is he here?' I wondered. 'Did Denis send him to keep an eye on me?'
'Could be, sir. Or could be he's quit of Mr. Denis. Or could be he doesn't want Mr. Denis to know where he is.'
'True.' If I was correct about who he was, Denis had once sent the man Middleton to my rooms in Covent Garden to fetch me. Denis generally employed pugilists and former coachmen to serve as rather menacing bodyguards and lackeys. This one had been no less menacing than any of the others. I had refused the summons. Bartholomew's presence had helped, and the man had left in defeat.
I had never seen him again. Though I'd visited Denis not long ago, while pursuing the affair of the Glass House in London, Middleton, as far as I remembered, had not been there.
'Well, it's interesting,' Bartholomew remarked. 'What are you going to do?'
I lifted my cup. 'I will let it lie for now. He obviously did not want me to see him. But I'll watch. I do not trust Denis, nor any man associated with him.'
'No, sir.' Bartholomew resumed brushing. 'Of course, it does no harm asking about in the kitchens. Why he's here, I mean.'
'Your curiosity might prove as dangerous as mine, Bartholomew,' I said.
'Yes, sir.'
