Free Easton's Gold by Paul Butler Page B

the serving fork and spearing a slice of beef, “to be here dining among you gentlemen. But I have to say it is also a surprise.”
    Henley smiles at her, then looks over at Easton.
    â€œAn honour that I hope will be repeated many times.”
    Gabrielle replaces the fork on the dish. She looks not at the captain but at Easton.
    â€œI almost begin to suspect,” says Gabrielle, “that the Marquis, who I honour, has exaggerated my importance to his household.”
    â€œCome now,” says the smiling Easton, now helping himself to a slice. “You tend my sickness, cure my melancholia, find the best apothecary in London and persuade him to uproot himself for a voyage a quarter way around the world. How could I exaggerate such an importance?”
    Easton and Henley exchange grins.
    â€œYou flatter me, my lord. I did not persuade Mr. Fleet. You did.”
    Now Easton looks at Fleet.
    â€œIs it true, sir? Is it true that my Gabrielle played no part in your persuasion?”
    Fleet knew it was coming. He senses Gabrielle’s heated discomfort as keenly as if she were an overfed hearth whose flames grow a danger to the room.
    He busies himself with the meat tray—trying to spear a piece, letting it drop, then spearing another—and glances over it at Gabrielle. “It was a combination of many things, my lord, that persuaded me,” he says calmly, “though I will not deny that the young lady made a sincere appeal on behalf of your own health.”
    â€œA most ungallant answer,” laughs Easton, “but I understand your professional pride. The challenge of restoring an old ruin holds more allure than the pleas of a lady.”
    The server goes now to the captain. Henley’s pale eyes fix intently upon Gabrielle, and he forks a large piece of meat onto his plate. He nods to the serving man, who goes back to the side table.
    â€œI confess,” he says with a dry cough, “that when it comes to beauty, I do not have Mr. Fleet’s unmoveable disposition.” He glances at Gabrielle, whose tanned skin is already tinged with pink. Frowning, Gabrielle looks to Easton and attempts to hold his stare. But Easton’s smile is still directed at the captain.
    â€œYou are a good judge, sir,” he says. “With the exception of our uncommonly skilled friend here, I can think of no excuse for a man to deaden his senses to beauty, which is the very wellspring of our existence.”
    The serving man returns with a wine jug and fills each goblet in turn.
    The captain waits for all to be filled then raises his. “Then,” he says with a nod, his eyes skipping toward Gabrielle before returning to Easton, “to beauty!”
    He drinks, as does Easton. Fleet is caught for a moment, but he acquiesces, raises his goblet and takes a sip. He looks over at Gabrielle, who fidgets with her stem and stares down at the table.
    By the time Fleet returns to his cabin, he is slightly drunk. He said little at dinner but was praised lavishly each time he did speak. Gabrielle said next to nothing. The wounded glances she gave her master early in the evening ceased; instead, Fleet found her once or twice staring across the table at him.
    Easton and Henley talked of politics.
    â€œThe King,” Henley at one point proclaimed, “is in constant battle not only with the Scots but with Parliament, from which he demands money to wage his foolish wars.” Henley pressed his forefinger down so hard upon the table that the nail became red and the joint above it bloodless white. “It is madness, sir, madness,” he continued in a voice beginning to boom, “if he believes his war is a divine prerogative…if he believes he is doing the will of the Almighty, then would the Almighty not send him the means by which to pay for it?”
    Henley looked around the table, giving a short laugh each time he caught one of his listener’s faces.
    But Easton was pensive.