Free Silken Threads by Patricia Ryan Page B

and her brother
mustn’t suspect that the attack on him was anything other than a
routine robbery, or Lord Gui’s secret might be exposed. “It is daft. Never mind.”
    “But
—
”
    “That’s quite a house,” Graeham said to
divert her. By the light of day, he had an excellent view of the
back of it. Through the ground-level windows, he saw a kitchen
wench with shiny red cheeks singing as she cooked. The second-floor
windows were even larger. To the left was the opulently appointed
sitting room he’d been in yesterday. To the right he saw an equally
grand chamber, in which the maidservant, Aethel, was smoothing the
counterpane of a massive, curtained bed with the aid of a long
pole. That must be le Fever’s bedchamber. The windows of the solar,
on the third level, were shuttered.
    “A dreadful house,” Joanna said. “I gather
he thinks it’s quite grand. He has...aspirations. Likes to play the
nobleman, but he ends up looking more like the court jester.”
    Which was why he’d married Ada, of
course
—
to help propel him beyond his station. No wonder he
became so incensed when he found out his new bride was, in fact,
Lord Gui’s “shameful little secret.”
    “Is he married?” Graeham asked
carefully.
    “Aye. Pretty young thing.”
    Graeham bit his tongue to avoid asking How pretty? What does she look like? His impending betrothal
to Ada’s twin sister was, of course, tied into the rest of it, so
he must needs conceal that, as well. “You’ve met her?” he
asked.
    “Nay, but I’ve seen her
—
from a
distance, when he first brought her back from Paris last year. She
did a little gardening out back last summer. I understand she’s
been suffering with a rheum of the head since Christmastide,
though. The apothecary’s daughter brings her a tonic every day, but
it doesn’t seem to help. Some people are like that
—
they
nurse head colds all winter and get better once spring comes.”
    “It’s spring now,” he said. “It’s mild.”
    She shrugged. “Mayhap she’ll show herself
soon. It’s time to plant her garden.”
    From the window that faced the alley,
Graeham heard a steady clacking that grew louder as the source of
it
—
a leper, undoubtedly
—
approached. The sorry
creature, wearing a black, hooded cloak and tattered straw hat that
disguised both disease and gender, shuffled into sight with a
walking staff in one hand and the required wooden castanets in the
other. A shabby pouch, which probably held all his worldly
possessions, was slung over the poor soul’s back.
    “Good morrow, Thomas.” Joanna approached the
window.
    The leper paused and looked in, smiling.
“Good morrow, mistress.” The gruff, thick-tongued voice was the
only indication that this was a man, for his face had been so
ravaged by thickened skin and discolored nodules as to nearly
obliterate its distinguishing features. One eye was clouded and
clearly blind and his ear lobes drooped with ulcerous flesh, but
strangely, it was his complete lack of eyebrows that Graeham found
most unsettling. He’d seen many victims of disfiguring maladies,
yet still it took an effort of will to regard this man impassively
when his instinct was to look away in horror.
    “I looked for you when I passed by the
stall,” Thomas told Joanna. “I got worried when I saw the front
window still shuttered.” That he spoke like a gentleman, despite
his affliction, surprised Graeham.
    “I’m just a bit late getting set up this
morning,” she said.
    The leper’s one-eyed gaze fell on Graeham,
lighting on his bandaged ribs and splinted leg. “You’ve graduated
to taking in human strays, I see.”
    Joanna’s chuckle had a pleasantly rusty
sound. “This is Graeham Fox, who stumbled upon a bit of bad luck
yesterday. Serjant, I’d like you to meet Thomas Harper.”
    “Who no longer plays the harp
—
”
Thomas raised the scaly hand that held the clacker to display his
curled-up fingers “
—
having stumbled upon a bit of bad