Free Cupids by Paul Butler Page B

face.
    â€œBecause you, like me, are a servant. You own nothing of your life, least of all your time.”
    â€œSo you bring me another sleepless night. Thank you.”
    â€œHave you had many since we met?” His eyes glisten, sad yet playful.
    I pause for a second. “Yes,” I say, “many.” I feel the sudden lightness of an unburdening.
    He smiles. “We must meet sometime, Helen, and are only we free to do so when our masters sleep.”
    I weigh the idea for a moment. Everything he says is pleasing, the implication that our fates are joined, the suggestion that we are equal in servitude and that we must then understand each other with the minimum of explanation. But I’ve been here before, and know that comfort can flip like a coin into trickery.
    â€œYou are hardly a servant,” I tell him. “You are Mr. Guy’s deputy.”
    â€œNot exactly, Helen,” he says, raising his tankard to his lips, sipping and lowering it slowly. His eyes are all the while on me, and strangely intense. “Guy’s deputy is a man named William Colston. He is in Cupers Cove still.”
    â€œBut you are not a servant,” I pursue. “Not like me.”
    â€œNo, not like you,” he says. “I am beneath all servants, Helen. The rope around my neck ensures that. I must do Guy’s bidding no matter how foul the task.”
    There is heat and bitterness in his face now.
    â€œWhy? What rope?”
    His head merely shakes in answer as though shrugging off a fly, and his gaze returns to the tankard before him.
    â€œLies,” he says, “just lies. But the false witness of a gentleman is worth more than the truth on the lips of a thousand peasants. Guy is wielding the accusation over me. This is why he has me follow him around in the guise of a friend, and attend the feasts to which he is invited. I am the eyes that covert on his behalf, the ears that eavesdrop at his command, and the hands that steal at his pleasure. I am a wretched, miserable slave, my Helen.”
    â€œWhat about Mr. Egret’s pendant? How was that theft committed on his behalf?”
    He is surprised by the question, I can tell. His body lurches sideways as though avoiding a knife throw.
    â€œFor once I decided to use the skills gained under his command, but for a different purpose. I had to, Helen.” His hand jumps across the table to mine, and I feel the warmth of his fingers. His eyes search my face, almost pleading now. “I had to be sure of you. I had to know that you had the courage.”
    â€œCourage for what?” I tug my hand back, but not strongly enough to break contact. “Don’t trick me again, Bartholomew.”
    He holds my gaze for a moment and he is close enough for me to feel his breath upon my face. He seems like a man in turmoil, but with Bartholomew I have learned to distrust my own judgment.
    â€œOn my life,” he says slowly, drawing out the words as though they were stones that pained him to disgorge, “I swear. No more tricks. I knew you were the one the moment I saw you. I knew the path we could both travel together in life, but only if I could shake this noose from around my neck, only if I could break Guy’s shackles. And he has promised me freedom and more, wealth and position enough to bring up a family free from penury and threat of prison. Can you imagine that, Helen: the two of us making our own way in the world? There is just one final task I must perform. And I need your help.”
    â€œWhat task?” I ask. It is not the answer to this question that I need. I am more than willing to help him. What I need is proof of his sincerity. “Tell me how this may be achieved!”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Bartholomew
    T HE FIRE BURNS LOW now. The residue of ash shows white like powdered snow against the iron bars of the grate. Helen’s fury still burns like a comet through my mind, but there is something blessed in the