Discreet Young Gentleman by M.J. Pearson Read Free Book Online

follow Dean from the Red Lion, not forgetting a courteous bow in Mrs. Smart's direction. "But if she did something they disapproved of, they could have made her life hellish enough to have tempted her into leaving it.
    Poor Patsy," he said softly.
    "Wickett might not have meant anything at all. She might have died in childbed, or of influenza. I suppose we could..." Dean hesitated with his hand on the door, looking back toward the kitchen.
    "Ask?" Rob shook his head. "I wouldn't. Ancient tragedy is fair game, but one can't inquire about recent troubles just out of sheer curiosity. Was Mr. Wickett her father?
    From what remains of his hair, he appears to have been fair himself."
    They exited onto the street, both of them squinting at the bright sunlight after the dimness inside. "I remember Patsy's father," Dean said, raising a hand to shade his eyes, "and he was nothing like Wickett. Husband, perhaps, or brother, if he were a few years older or didn't age well. Patsy would have just turned twenty-eight this spring—I seem to recall that she, Peter and I were all born within a week of each other in May of 1787."
    "I'm the elder, then," Rob said, leaning against the sun-warmed stone facade of the Red Lion. "I was born that April."
    Dean looked at him with surprise. "I'd have thought you were younger."
    Rob grinned. "No, the flower of my maiden youth is well behind me, I'm afraid.
    And I'm very unlikely to retire before I'm thirty, as you once suggested. Thirty-five, if I'm lucky." His smile faded. "Although if I get desperate, I could always reconsider a few commissions I've refused in the past."
    Dean rolled his eyes. "This from a man who sleeps with the elderly? I can't imagine anything less attractive."
    "Can't you?" Rob's voice was unaccustomedly cool. "Perhaps you lack imagination."
    "What, then?"
    "Don't you remember? Recent troubles are not subjects for idle curiosity. Look, here's Erich with the coach."

Chapter Five
    Abel Wickett looked up from the table he was clearing when the door opened, spilling a rectangular shaft of sunshine into the Red Lion's taproom. He blinked against the unaccustomed light. "Back so soon, sir? Decide on a little eel pie to take with you, or another drink for the road?"
    But the figure that emerged from the shaft of sunlight was not that of either of the young men who had just exited his establishment. It was a woman, wearing a traveling dress of dove grey, with a veil of the same color to protect her equally against the dust of the road and the eyes of curious strangers. The dress was not of the finest quality, but there was something about the way its wearer held herself that commanded respect. "A drink would be most welcome indeed." Her voice was that of someone trying hard to overcome a country accent, and very nearly succeeding. "I'll have...I'll have..."
    Wickett, a kind man at heart, thought he divined the problem and hurried to help her out. "Ladies here often enjoy a small glass of ratafia, they do. Just the thing for a lady." He emphasized the last word.
    "That would be excellent." She sat at the table the gentlemen had recently vacated, which was the sturdiest the Red Lion could offer, and removed her gloves. The hands beneath were clean, well-tended, and seemed to belong to a woman not yet above thirty, but the signs of years of hard work were unmistakable.
    Left over from the days when trade was busier were a few cordial glasses, which Wickett fancied were small and delicate enough. He blew the dust off a bottle and filled one of them with amber liquid, then dug in a box of odds and ends beneath the counter. "Ah," he said with satisfaction, retrieving an item. Returning to the table, he placed a yellowed square of lace on its surface before setting the glass upon it with care. "Here you are, mistress, here you are. Perhaps a bite of luncheon to go with it?"
    "I thank you, good sir, but no." His guest stared at the liqueur, making no effort to remove the veil that separated her