man without a name had offered to take her home. Would he do as much for her son?
CHAPTER 5
St. Pancras Church, London, England
August 19, 1802
T HE ARCHBISHOPâS GUMS were purple .
The dentures were the latest innovation for the wealthy, made in porcelain instead of ivory, fixed into his head with gold screws that flashed when he smiled. The ousted Archbishop of Narbonne looked like a Botticelli cherub, with chubby cheeks, a sweet smile, and a halo of white hair, but those teethâ
âYou must be wondering why I asked you to meet me, Commander.â
Click âthe top denture dropped as the archbishop spoke, then clack âit moved back into place. A piece of half-chewed meat stuck above the denture showed every time the teeth dropped . And as for his breathâwhen Duncan was a child, heâd seen a two-headed goat at a fair. Now, he felt the same horrified wonder mingled with a churning belly.
âCommander, did you hear me?â Narbonneâs voice was cold.
Caught out mid-run. He forced his gaze up to the old manâs eyes and bowedâa swift, jerking movement, with none of the grace Eddie had taught him. âI beg your pardon, Votre Ãminence .â If a man of the archbishopâs exalted status requested a meeting in a tomb-cold church with underpriests stationed outside every entrance on the hottest day of the year, he must have vital news. Moreover, if he wore gentlemanâs attire rather than luxurious vestments of gold and purple, especially when inside the church heâd frequented since fleeing France, he must have information he didnât dare allow anyone else to overhear.
With a haughty nod, Narbonne forgave him. Duncanâs jaw tightened, and his hands curled into fists. Oblivious, the old man waved his hand at the crypt and nave beyond. âThis dates back a thousand years. So-called improvers with their gold leaf and plaster pots are fools.â Click-clack-click. Meat and spittle. âThese things tie us to the faith of ages past. In the Revolution, so much beauty was lost to the world.â
Duncan suppressed a sigh. Elderly people liked to talk, and any informant of his standing expected and deserved a respectful hearing. But he wasnât saying anything that didnât happen during the Reformation, the Dissolution, the Wars of the Rosesâname a war, or a country.
The silence stretched thin. It seemed Narbonne wanted an answer. âTo lose your bishopric under the terms of the Concordat must have felt like betrayal.â
An irritable look settled on the archbishopâs face. âDonât patronize me, boy. Youââ
Duncanâs stomach jerked. You are nothing. You will live up to the name youâve been given, boy! Even with his eyes open he saw Annersleyâs hand lifting, the whip descending . . .
Halfway to his face, Duncan forced his hand down. The scars had been there so long he mostly forgot they were there.
The old man sat ramrod straight on the pew: a highbred bird with ruffled feathers, every inch as imperious and easily offended as the old bastard at Mellingham Hall. He knew what Narbonne expected, but damned if heâd grovel. When heâd run from Annersley the last time, heâd sworn never to cringe or bow before any man again.
Eddie had asked him to display patience. âI will refrain from patronizing you if you do the same for me. If I was a boy, or not from your class, I doubt youâd have agreed to meet me.â
Unexpectedly, Narbonneâs lips twitched. â Touché. So which of your names do I use, the oh-so-English Commander Aylshamââ click-clack ââthe equally French Monsieur Borchonne, or perhaps I should call you Tidewatcher?â
Duncan stiffened with the quiet use of his code name, given by the British Alien Office when he was given his first Continental assignment, back in â93. âCommander Aylsham will do.â He spoke with an edge of
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley