The Swordmaster's Mistress: Dangerous Deceptions Book Two(2)
‘Could you use any furniture?’ Cal pushed back his chair and got to his feet. ‘The Lord knows we’ve enough here and, if I know Sophie, she will be reorganising the place soon.’ He waved a hand around the dining room with its view over St James’s Square. ‘Borrow what you like.’
‘I appreciate it, but I have all I need.’ Which was essentially nothing but his clothes and his weapons. This was his new life and he was going to build it exactly how he wanted it, one object at a time, starting tomorrow at Mr Christie’s auction rooms just around the corner.
‘Then come and tell Sophie and her parents about your plans and be prepared for an onslaught of good advice on setting up home.’ Cal paused just before the door and grinned. ‘You do realise they will start matchmaking now?’
‘They may try,’ Jared said, smiling back at the teasing. And they will fail. Because when a man uses a name not his own, lives a life far removed from what he was born to, there was a snowflake’s chance in Hades that he could ask a woman to be his wife. Not and retain a shred of honour.
The bed was truly magnificent, the kind of object that a sultan or a Tudor monarch might consider just about adequate. Hopelessly out of fashion and almost as big as his new bedchamber, of course. But what the hell, Jared thought, picking his way through the piled-up auction lots around it. I like it and what is a bedchamber for if not for sleeping? He prowled round the bulging bedposts, looking for signs of woodworm or rot, but the ancient black oak was hard as iron. If it can be got up the stairs… Yes, it took to pieces. Replace the network of ropes, put a new mattress on top of them and give it a coat of wax, that was all that was needed. Fancy bed curtains could wait, although crimson damask would be in keeping.
‘Now that is a bed that would either fill a man with confidence in his own prowess or cause a severe case of the droops,’ a voice said behind him. It was a deep voice with real humour beyond the amusement at the risqué remark.
Jared turned and found himself facing a big man, almost as tall as his own six foot and a bit, wide in the shoulders and beginning to sag comfortably in the belly. Mid-sixties, he guessed, then took another look, saw the puffiness below the eyes, the loose skin around the neck, and adjusted his estimate upwards by ten years. Seventies but as sharp as a cut-purse’s blade, he’d wager, meeting the faded blue eyes that assessed him right back, considerably more frankly. The gentleman – for he was not one of the dealers who virtually lived in the auction house – was too close, had arrived there too quietly.
A man to be wary of. Jared cursed his own lack of attention, smiled politely, replied mildly. ‘I was contemplating a good goose feather mattress and an even better night’s sleep rather than energetic bed-sport. Are you also in search of a bedstead, sir?’
‘No.’ The older man smiled, still jovial, still close. ‘I was in search of you, Mr Hunt.’
For a split second, in the wake of that remark about the bedstead and sexual performance, Jared thought he was being propositioned. It had happened before. He was no eyesore, he knew that without vanity, and some people, of both sexes, found the swordplay arousing. But not this man, he corrected himself after a moment’s scrutiny. He was being studied, but there was no heat in that inspection.
‘Indeed, sir? And in what way might I assist you?’ For all the greyhead’s apparent fitness, he seemed an unlikely candidate for fencing lessons, let alone anything more strenuous.
‘It can wait until you have completed your business, Mr Hunt. Mine is urgent enough, but I would prefer your full attention on the matter.’
‘I am bidding on a number of lots, sir. Perhaps if you were to give me your direction I could join you later.’ The auctioneer was walking to his rostrum, the crowd shifting to face him.
‘My card, Mr Hunt. I will look for you this afternoon.’ He gave Jared a nod and turned to make his way through the audience, taking his time, using a cane although not leaning heavily on it.
Used to being obeyed, that one. Jared glanced down at the rectangle of engraved pasteboard. Augustus Quenten, The Viscount Northam, Northam Hall, Dorset. Clarges Street, London.
He rubbed his thumb over it, feeling the depth of the engraving, and tucked the card into his pocket book. Never heard of him, good address. But then he had been out of England for seven years and only back for a matter of six months or so, much of that in the countryside. It was no wonder that many of the ton were unknown to him, although they seemed to know his name and reputation. His ignorance needed remedying fast because the fashionable classes were where his future income lay, although he had enquiries enough to begin with. Possibly Lord Northam had some spotty sprog of a grandson who needed fencing lessons.
‘Lot One, a fine walnut table and ten chairs including two carvers, lately the property of a gentleman – ’
He turned his attention back to the rostrum.
Jared emerged from the auction house at two, the owner of the vast bed, a mahogany dining table, six chairs, a sideboard and a pair of leather wing chairs. In addition he had acquired a large mixed lot, largely for the sake of the big copper bath tub and handsome set of fire irons that were included with the pots and pans.
His wallet was lighter, but not by as much as he had expected, and he was surprised to find he had enjoyed the experience, possibly because he had never had a home of his own to do with as he wished. It was an interesting exercise to build a new life, one saucepan and dining chair at a time.