Page 21 of The Return of the Rake

“And if I won’t?” she asked, but King noted the breathless way she spoke, saw the rapid rise and fall of her chest as he took a step closer.

“Then I shall do my level best to persuade you otherwise,” he said gently, taking another step towards her as he lowered his voice. “Would you like me to persuade you, Mrs Adamson?”

“No,” she said, turning suddenly away from him and hurrying to the door. “We shall dine at eight, Mr King, but I give you fair warning: you may eat at my table and enjoy my company if you will, but I am not on the menu. Goodnight, sir.”

With that, she walked out of the room and closed the door behind her. King listened to her quick footsteps march briskly away, quite unable to help the self-satisfied smile that curved his lips and remained there long after he retired to his room.

Chapter 5

The Reverend Honeywell – 1 Jasper King - 0

The Mermaid’s Tale, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 4th October 1815.

“If I might suggest the blue coat today, sir,” Repton said, his tone expressionless.

“You can stop sulking, you old goat. I’m not letting you shave me when I’ve done the job myself all these years. The idea of your less than steady hand at my throat with a razor is enough to give me shivers,” King remarked, shaking his head as Repton returned a disapproving expression. “If I’m to get my throat cut, I want a better reason than you trying your hand at valeting.”

“Will the blue coat be acceptable, sir?” Repton repeated, refusing to acknowledge King’s words with so much as a flicker of his eyelids.

King raised his eyes to heaven and prayed for deliverance but said no more than, “Yes, Repton. It will.”

Repton nodded gravely and stepped forward, holding out the coat so King might slip his arms into it, and then easing it carefully up over his shoulders. Then he fussed about, picking invisible bits of lint away and smoothing the lapels until King couldn’t bear any more.”

“Excellent, thank you, Repton. That will be all,” he said, brisk and eager to escape. “I am going down for breakfast and shall see you later. Make certain my black coat is ready for this evening. I am dining with Mrs Adamson, though you keep that information to yourself or you’ll be sorry.”

“I never gossip,” Repton said reprovingly, affront stiffening his lean frame.

“I know it,” King replied, for it was true. “But a reminder of what’s good for one’s health never goes amiss,” he added with a wink, before leaving the room.

He made his way down to the dining room, where the sound of voices was audible despite King being the only guest at present, to his knowledge at least. This surprised him less than it might have, as Repton had explained that the locals often ate at the hotel, breakfast being one of the most popular times as it was generous and exceptionally well cooked, whilst being reasonably priced.

Once again, King thought Mrs Adamson a most astute woman, for a hotel of this kind might flounder in the offseason with no holidaymakers to cater for, especially with two pubs and a tea shop to provide for the town. Yet the dining room was busy. The tables and chairs that had been removed yesterday were once again in place, each laid with an embroidered tablecloth and pretty china, and a small vase of fresh flowers. A merry fire crackled in the hearth, chasing away the chill one felt after a brief glance at the overcast view outside, for the day had begun damp and drizzling, though a small patch of blue on the horizon showed promise.

King’s spirits were far from dampened, however, and he thanked the little serving maid who showed him to a table by the window. At the table beside him, two men were chatting amiably, both looking up as he took his place.

King nodded a polite greeting, unsurprised and unperturbed by the slightly stiff nods they returned. Old soldiers, unless he missed his guess, though one was not old so much as weathered. They lowered their voices, and he did not doubt they were discussing the disturbing quality of certain guests of the hotel and wondering how best to voice their concerns to the proprietress.

As if he’d summoned her with the thought, Mrs Adamson appeared in the room, and the older gentleman hailed her.

“Anne, my dear, come and have a cup of coffee with us. You’ve been flitting back and forth all morning without a break. You will wear yourself to flinders.”

The lady moved forward, the picture of style and elegance. This morning she wore white once again, the purity of the finest jaconet muslin making her red hair so strikingly vivid, King could only stare.

The weathered soldier seemed likewise transfixed, though King could hardly single him out. The eye of most every man in the place followed her, making King feel oddly out of sorts. He forced himself to take in the details, the white satin spencer, richly ornamented with blonde lace, was of exquisite cut, shockingly expensive, and certainly a la mode. He felt sure she always dressed with the utmost care. Wearing white was a choice, and he suspected that choice had been made to ensure those who viewed her wearing it knew that she owned this place and did not dirty her hands with menial tasks like the cleaning of it.

Somehow, King suspected that was not true. Not because she had no choice, for the hotel was clearly prosperous, but because she was the kind who needed to ensure a thing was done just as she wished. Mrs Adamson noticed things, details mattered to her, and a fellow would be a fool to underestimate her intelligence or her abilities.

King’s mouth felt suddenly dry with longing. He remembered the night Mrs Fairway had put that box in his hands and his hungry gaze had devoured the sight of diamonds and rubies, the cut and quality so exquisite he could only stare, having never seen their like before. He’d known then that he’d do anything to own them, and yet the hunger that devoured him now made that desire appear frail and insubstantial in comparison.

Mrs Adamson was quality of the kind he had never encountered before, not in all his life.

King forced himself to look away, shaken by the force of wanting that assailed him. She was just a woman, he told himself sternly. Yes, she was clever and interesting and certainly beautiful, but he’d dallied with plenty of beautiful women, perhaps lovelier even than her, and yet his mind rebelled against the idea. He allowed himself a glance in her direction as she greeted the men at the table beside his with warmth and such familiarity it was clear they were well acquainted, if the proprietary manner in which the old man had used her given name had not told him as much.

King was relieved he was old, at least, but felt compelled to watch the younger man, unsurprised to see the blatant admiration in his eyes and feeling a surge of annoyance all the same.

“Major Hancock, you seem determined to forget that this is my hotel. It is my job to ensure all runs smoothly. I assure you, I will take my rest once service has ended.”

“Nonsense, you will make yourself unwell, working your fingers to the bone as you do,” the Major insisted, pulling out a chair for her. “You will indulge an old man and sit a few moments with us.”