Free A Divided Inheritance by Deborah Swift Page A

still waiting. Her heart went out to him. The foolish old
thing; he must be worried that something had befallen Zachary. It pained her to see him thus, standing out in the cold.
    Curse Zachary. Why couldn’t he keep to his agreements? She found herself uncomfortably torn between hoping Zachary hurried on home, and hoping he would never come back. She heard the
servants go to the dining room next door to collect the rest of the dishes, and in the quiet she could not help but hear their whispered conversation.
    ‘Not back yet, then?’ came Martha’s reedy voice.
    ‘No. Mr Leviston’s in a rare old lather over it.’
    ‘Shh. He might hear.’
    ‘No. He’s gone out to look for him. I heard the door go.’
    Elspet paused in her sewing and strained to catch their conversation. Of course her mother’s warnings that those who eavesdrop hear nothing good about themselves came instantly to mind,
yet still she could not help herself.
    ‘You know what they’re saying, don’t you?’ The kitchen maid.
    ‘What?’
    ‘That he’s not his nephew. Master Zachary. That he’s his . . .’ Here the sound fell into a whisper.
    ‘Never!’
    ‘Ssh! I heard it from the apothecary. I was at his counter as they passed by this morning, and I said to that nice Mr Hollis, “Look, there goes Mr Leviston’s nephew.” He
says, “No, miss, it can’t be.” He says he’s seen him afore and he’s a ruffian. Says he’s a cloak-snatcher from St Giles. Can you believe that?’
    ‘No. That can’t be right. He must have got the wrong lad—’
    Elspet was on her feet without thinking. She threw open the door so that it banged against the wall. Both maids jumped, their eyes wide with shock.
    ‘Have you finished clearing the table?’ she asked.
    They nodded dumbly in unison.
    ‘Then stop your gossiping out here and return those plates to the kitchen.’
    ‘Yes, mistress,’ they bleated in chorus, and dived below stairs.
    Elspet’s heart was thudding behind her wooden stomacher. Heaven forbid Father had heard any of their scurrilous nonsense. To conjecture, well, that was natural. But to spread malicious
gossip, that was quite another matter. She would not brook servant chatter about the family, not even about Zachary, whatever her own personal thoughts on him were.
    She pulled the front door open and called impatiently from the threshold, ‘Pardon me, Father, but I think you will do him no good standing out there. Why don’t you come inside? If
something has happened, someone will surely come to tell us of it.’
    ‘They may not know where he lodges,’ he protested.
    ‘But I fear for you; your chest is still weak after your fever. Far better to wait indoors than stand out there in the cold.’
    ‘I thought he would be back.’ His face was crestfallen, like a small boy.
    ‘Where did you last see him?’
    ‘At the Dog and Bucket. He was going to the fencing master.’
    ‘Then let us send the stable lad to Hanging Sword Alley to see if he can discover where he is.’
    ‘Do not fuss. But perhaps you’re right. I’ll send a lad out.’
    But the stable lad could find no news, and it was the early hours of the morning before Zachary returned. A rapping at the door made Elspet sit up sharp in bed, confused with
sleep. She listened and caught the sound of something clattering. Then curses and the noise of metal scraping on the wall.
    She reached for her shawl, grabbed the night lantern and stumbled out on to the gallery. She peered down the stairwell into the shadowy hall. A servant had obviously opened up, despite her
father’s express command that after night curfew the house be barred to entry.
    Zachary was slumped against the wall, still wearing his sword and, by the look of it, blind drunk. A flickering candle sconce cast a yellow glow over his crumpled form. He sported a black eye, a
bloody ear and a deep gash to his forehead. His hair was wet and matted to his scalp.
    Father must have lain awake all night, for he