A Broom at the Masthead (The Drowned Books Book 1) by M J Logue Read Free Book Online Page A

delicately.
“That would have kept you busy.”
    “If they were
all like you, mistress, I should be even greyer than I already am.” The corner
of his mouth lifted in a reluctant smile. “Unexpected. Aye. You might say so. I
had thought – well, I was a regular guest at their table, before the wars. Am I
so changed? No, don’t answer that, Thomazine. A regicide, a most notorious
Roundhead, and now I’m turned up out of nowhere with a beautiful young woman to
wife, after twenty years missing. They probably think I’ve spent the last
twenty years smuggling fleeing Malig- King’s men to France, at an enormous
profit. Or selling arms to the Dutch. Or something.”
    Thomazine’s mare
heaved a blubbery sigh and shifted her weight onto one back foot. “I’ll not
have them be rude to you, Zee,” he said, and she looked up expecting her watery
husband to be blinking back tears. Instead he looked rather frighteningly
purposeful. “I’ll tell you one thing straight off, mistress. They rent a farm
at Walter’s Ash off my estate, and that lease is terminated. As of now. I will
be instructing my bailiff to write and put an end to that agreement, and they
can have till the end of the quarter to find new grazing for their benighted
stock. She wants to play silly buggers, and I intend to play silly buggers
right back. And I bet Henry Lane won’t thank her for that, when they’re put to
the trouble of finding new pasture.”
    “There’s no need
for –“
    “She was
discourteous to you, Thomazine. And I will not tolerate insolence, from an aged
parasite in, in borrowed finery!”
    “ Borrowed ?”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Well, unless Lane’s been spending the rent money
on those god-awful gowns of hers, I’m fairly sure they’re not paid for, tibber.
Since I’ve not had a penny off ‘em since the turn of the year.”
    Thomazine looked
down at her gloved hands on the mare’s reins. Neatly gloved, as well they might
be, since they’d been made by Uncle Luce’s father, and he’d been a member of
the Guild of Glovers. Very neat, and well-made, and well-kept, in plain russet
leather. But plain, and a little worn, and neatly mended in places.
    Looked at the
lace on her husband’s cuff, which was narrow, and discreet, and hellish
expensive. “Dear,” she said, carefully, “I had always assumed you were, well,
you were. Ah. I don’t really know how to say this. I had assumed you were like
us.” He was looking amused, now, that long, slow, cat’s blink that was the
closest he could get to a smug grin. “Would I be right in guessing that you
are... significantly better placed than I had assumed?”
    “Tibber, you
behold the last of the noble Russell household.” He gave her a sly sidelong
glance. “I don’t take much feeding. I am, I would argue, cheap to keep.”
    She took another
deep breath. “Your," she swallowed, "land. Lands. Which bits are
yours? I mean, did the King – did His Majesty – does he not mind , with
you being a, a, you know -?”
    “If you are
asking do I own half of Buckinghamshire, mistress, I may assure you, I do not.
And does the King mind that I do happen to own a proportion of it, well, as I
have no objection to his mistresses being my next-door neighbour, then I trust
he has no objection to a notorious regicide living next door to Radnage Manor.
Why, Thomazine, I do believe you are shocked!”
    “You live next
door to one of His Majesty’s mistresses?” she squeaked.
    “There is a
respectable distance between us, madam, I guarantee. I have yet to see the lady
in question, but I am assured she is in no way remarkable, and nor does she
live as to excite comment in the neighbourhood. Although my bailiff assures me
that she is frequently visited by a plain country gentleman who goes by the
name of Rowley. That being why he gave her the wretched place in the first
place.” He turned his head, and looked at her solemnly. “That’s the King, dear.
Though I’ve only met him