Trapped by Scandal by Jane Feather Read Free Book Online

knew about her brother she would knowbefore she laid her head on her pillow that night. If, indeed, the luxury of a pillow was afforded her.
    â€œSit down.” William gestured with his head to the bench on the far side of the table as he ladled stew into bowls. Marcus set two crusty loaves on the table and filled pewter cups with dark red wine.
    â€œSo how did you get to Paris, Lady Hermione?” Marcus inquired, swinging a leg over the bench as he sat down.
    â€œPlease, I answer to Hero,” she said, flashing him a smile as she inhaled the rich scents from her bowl. “A fishing boat from Dover. It landed at Calais, and I made my way from there.”
    â€œHero, then.” Marcus gave her a quick smile in return, asking through a mouthful of stew, “How many passengers were on the boat with you?”
    â€œJust one other . . . a man. We did not introduce ourselves,” she added with an ironic smile, breaking bread to dip a crust into her bowl.
    â€œWhat did he look like?” William regarded her over his wine cup.
    Hero frowned. “It was dark and very windy, hard to see properly. Besides, he was swathed in a boat cloak, and I wasn’t anxious to draw attention to myself.”
    â€œSo you can’t give us a description?”
    â€œI didn’t say that.” She ate the sopping crust of bread with relish. “I could draw him if we had pen and ink, paper . . .”
    â€œBut you can’t find the words?” William was looking at her quizzically.
    She shook her head. “No, but I can fashion the imagefrom my head onto paper. It’s just something I can do,” she added, sounding almost apologetic.
    The two men once more exchanged looks. “I can probably scrounge some paper and ink from the old man upstairs,” Marcus said. “In return for a bowl of stew and a crust of bread.” He got to his feet and fetched a bowl from the dresser.
    â€œAre you certain he’s safe?” William asked with a frown, once again flicking aside the persistent lock of hair.
    Marcus shrugged. “As safe as anyone these days. It’s all a risk.” He ladled stew into the bowl.
    William nodded. “True enough.” He handed Marcus a thick chunk of bread to accompany the stew. Marcus nodded and, still chewing on his own mouthful, disappeared into the kitchen yard.
    â€œWho else lives in this house?” Hero asked, washing down a mouthful of stew with a deep draught of wine.
    â€œThere are no fixed inhabitants,” William replied. ­“Except for an old man in the garret who’s always lived here. He keeps himself to himself, and we do the same.” He refilled her cup from the flagon. “The garret can only be accessed by the outside stairs.”
    â€œCan he be trusted?” Hero glanced anxiously over her shoulder at the door to the yard, repeating William’s question to Marcus.
    William shook his head. “We don’t take chances. We keep him sweet, and we keep out of his way. When the owner of the house ran at the start of the trouble, the old man took advantage of his absence and set himself up as landlord. We pay the rent, supply him with wine, and heseems content enough. I suspect he’s no more interested in drawing attention to himself than we are. The Committee of Public Safety could as easily turn on someone they suspected of making money out of the revolution as on an aristo. They’re not choosy when it comes to naming enemies of the state.”
    Hero nodded, glancing over her shoulder again as the door opened and Marcus came back into the kitchen. He set an inkpot, a quill pen, and a single ragged sheet of coarse paper on the table. A smear of blood decorated a corner of the paper. “Sorry about that. I gather something from the butcher was wrapped in it.”
    Hero wrinkled her nose, but at least the blood was dry. The quill was blunt, and the ink in the pot was little more