halt. “Crispin! I will not take one more step until you tell me where we are going! And what did that terrible man want?”
“You are going to a safer location and stay with some friends of mine.”
“But Crispin.” She melted naturally into his arms. Her touch brought an instant response. “I thought you wanted me all to yourself.”
He wanted to kiss her, but the reality of their public surroundings sunk in. He gently pushed her back. “I want you alive.” He glanced up and saw a few turned heads. It took all his strength to step back. “You have enough scandal to contend with without talk of your living with a man.”
She set her jaw and planted a fist at her hip. “What’s the matter? What tidings have you heard?”
“Mahmoud threatened you.”
She laughed, a hearty, throaty sound, one that made him tingle with desire. He had felt that laugh tremble against his chest only last night. It almost made him lose his resolve. “He can’t have me anymore,” she said triumphantly. “That game is done!”
“He wants the cloth.”
“You didn’t give it to him!”
“No, nor will I. It is a tangled tale, to be sure. There is more than one syndicate at work here. Yet there is one thing I am certain of. Neither killed your husband.”
“But they must have. Who else could it be?”
“I’m afraid it puts the murder back on you.”
“Crispin! I did not kill Nicholas!”
“Others will not see it that way. Who else knew about Nicholas Walcote’s true nature?” He gently steered her up the road toward the Boar’s Tusk. They picked their way over the rutted, muddy lane. Shopkeepers’ apprentices called out their wares. A boy—a servant—was holding up a coney by its back feet and waving the limp creature to the passersby. The long ears flopped from side to side.
“Adam did,” she said reluctantly. “He found out accidentally. He overheard us talking.”
He pulled Philippa out of the way of a cart moving quickly up the street toward Newgate Market. “What did Adam do?”
She shrugged. “Nothing. He is very loyal.”
“To you.”
She glanced sideways at him. “Jealous?”
Crispin ignored the comment. “He could have made trouble for Nicholas. It could have come to a head.”
They reached Foster Lane and the smells of the fish market swelled like a tide of the Thames. Some boys, hefting a basket of eels between them, stopped at the nearest seller and began to bargain. A woman nearby, having just left the steps of a well, lifted a dripping water-bouget to a man astride a draft horse. He fitted it behind him on his makeshift saddle.
“No, Adam is no such man,” she said, watching the handsome man on the horse lean down to kiss the water girl farewell. “And I doubt he knew about the secret passage.”
Crispin brooded. Adam Becton could easily have discovered such a passage. He was the household steward, after all. It was his business to know the doings of the house. That would also give him access to the ledgers.
“Why do you believe that murderer Mahmoud?” asked Philippa. “He did try to have you killed.”
“That was business. I don’t take it personally.”
She looked askance. “Is that the sort of business you are in?”
“What did you expect? A nice little shop with a shingle above my door? The business of murder is ugly, populated with equally ugly people.” She said nothing to this. A cloud shadow moved over them, dimming the street and bathing it darker than its usual gauzy gray.
“Where are you taking me? Is it truly for my protection? Or yours?”
He looked back at her and stopped. There was something different to her demeanor, something cautious; a tilt to her shoulders that protected her, a dull sheen to her eye.
“I told you. You won’t be safe at my lodgings. I’m taking you elsewhere.”
“A moment ago when I was in your arms, you seemed almost embarrassed.”
Crispin set his jaw and stared somewhere near her feet. “I am unused to such public displays of affection.”
She shook her head. Her hair was coifed in its two looping braids again, but a loose strand fell over her forehead and lifted in a timid wave with a passing breeze. He watched it rise and fall. It was easier than looking in her eyes.
“You mean it ain’t proper.”
He shrugged stiffly. “As you like.”
“Suddenly I wish I had that Mandyllon right now,” she said. “Then you’d speak the truth whether you wanted to or not.”
He wanted to speak, to say something that would put that spark back in those eyes. His lips twisted on words that might have brought a smile and another kiss from her mouth. But there was too much to say, and he was ill-equipped to utter any of it. Perhaps Jack could have done. But not him. He could never say the words she wanted. He was glad the Mandyllon was gone. He had no more desire to peer into his true image than at the one etched on that bit of muslin.
“I can’t change who I am,” he rasped. It wasn’t quite what he wanted to say, but it was all he had.
Once animated, her face now became stony. Her lids drew down as they were used to doing, but not in a seductive manner.
“No,” she said soberly. “I don’t suppose you can.” She hugged herself, whether from the cold or the coldness of his words he could not tell. The stray thread of hair lifted again and fell across her eyes, forcing her to blink and look away. A mercy. It prevented him from having to say more.
The Boar’s Tusk loomed before them, white daub speckled with mud and timbers dark from dampness. The great door—wide and arched, its size and splendor fit more for a church—welcomed all comers. The Boar’s Tusk had seen better days. Now it was the kind of place where men sought solace in bowls of wine and beakers of ale, not in one another.
Out of the corner of his eye, Crispin watched Philippa straighten her clothes and brush the dirt from her skirt before they entered.
Crispin scanned the room and spotted the tavern keeper, Gilbert. “Come along,” he said huskily. This was exposure he’d rather not have. His feelings had been his own for so long, he didn’t like waving them about like a banner.
Gilbert spied Crispin and hailed him. He approached with a lumbering gait and looked pointedly at Philippa.
Crispin made the introductions. “Gilbert, this is Philippa. Can you give her work and lodgings?”
Gilbert stared at Philippa before turning a questioning glare at Crispin, an expression that seemed to say “you must be mad!”
Philippa took on an entirely different demeanor for Gilbert. She was not the haughty lady nor the sultry lover, but now the self-effacing servant.
Chameleon, Crispin mused.
Gilbert’s gaze brushed down her clothes. “That dress will not do. Have you other clothes?”
She glanced at Crispin before looking away. “No, this is all I have. And even this is not mine to keep.”
“I see,” Gilbert mumbled. “Well, my wife will surely have a gown for you. Ever done kitchen work?”
“Aye, sir. I was a scullion for ten years.”
“Well then. Go on in and ask for the mistress. I’m certain she’ll show you what needs doing. Tell her”—he glanced at Crispin—“tell her Crispin sent you.”
She smiled. “Bless you, Master. I am grateful for your kindness.”
“Nothing to it,” he said, wiping his hands down his apron for the hundredth time.
Philippa disappeared through the kitchen curtain. Both men watched her go. Crispin cleared his throat. “I, too, thank you, Gilbert. I feel she will be safe here.”
“Crispin.” Gilbert took him aside and spoke into his shoulder. “That’s Philippa Walcote!”
“Very good, Gilbert. I thought I’d have to explain.”
