Page 45 of The Lady Plays with Fire

Something that probably wouldn’t sell a single ticket.

He tried to push away the peculiar mood. He could hardly afford such an indulgence. But he hadn’t quite succeeded in dismissing the idea when his gaze fell upon a house—a cottage, really, with stone walls and a slate roof. It sat alone amidst fields whose crops had already been taken in, at the end of a straight drive whose tracks showed little sign of recent wear. No smoke rose from the chimney.

He slowed his horses enough to take a cursory inspection of the place. Too well-kept to have been abandoned, he judged. But clearly uninhabited at present. Though rarely given to romance, his mind began to concoct a story about the owner, some star-eyed but sturdy fellow who had set out on an adventure and left his sensible neighbors shaking their heads.

A mile farther on, he came to a village. Thirsty enough to bear conversation with strangers, he went into the pub to ask for a pint and something to eat. The beamed ceiling of the Spindle and Plow was low enough that he had to stoop. Both his entrance and his question to the barman about the solitary cottage were met with chary looks.

“Belongs to Squire Brereton, like everythin’ else in these parts,” the man said, turning toward a nearby cask.

“He’s away for the winter?”

A foaming mug of ale was his only answer.

The girl who brought his food was more talkative. “You’re Scottish, ain’t ye?” she demanded as she laid before him a trencher of pale-yellow cheese, cold mutton, and crusty bread.

Graham fished for a coin and slid it across the rough-hewn table to her. “Aye.”

“I heard ye ask himself about Brereton Cottage.” At Graham’s encouraging nod, she went on. “The squire had it fixed up for his second son and the girl he was to marry. Then the boy announced he were going off to war—said it were his duty. Guess his girl didn’t agree. She packed up and left in the middle of the night not a week later.”

“Alone?”

The girl’s knowing grin revealed a missing tooth. “You look like a clever fellow. What d’ye think?”

So much for his imagined tale of noble adventure; the tawdry truth was far more suited to Blackadder’s usual fare.

He nodded again, more curtly this time, and picked up his knife, grateful when the girl took those for signs of dismissal.

The Spindle and Plow’s scattering of patrons showed little interest in him, though he overheard a few words exchanged about his curricle that made him smile behind his bread and cheese. Once he’d drained his mug, he steeled himself for the return to Town, the playhouse, and the problems that awaited him there, so far removed from young Mr. Brereton’s bravery and betrayal.

A shadow fell across the table. He dragged his gaze upward to find a man standing there this time, a fellow somewhere between thirty and forty years of age, clad in dark garments.

“Tetley,” he said, thrusting out a hand. “I’m the curate here. But I also handle matters of business for Squire Brereton when he’s away.”

The double duty made some sense, Graham supposed. Tetley was surely the most literate man in the village, and his profession doubtless gave him a reputation for trustworthiness, though whether that reputation was deserved or not was another question.

Reluctantly, Graham shook his offered hand. “McKay.”

His surname no longer rose more naturally to his tongue than his title. But here—in what felt like the middle of nowhere, despite being at most a dozen miles from London—he was determined to cling to something like anonymity.

Uninvited, the curate slipped into the chair opposite. “Kitty tells me you’re interested in Brereton Cottage.”

Regretting his decision to stop at the little pub, Graham made no answer.

But Tetley was undaunted. “I can offer it to you on very reasonable terms.”

Astonished, Graham made a scoffing noise in his throat as he shook his head. He opened his mouth to decline in no uncertain terms. But from somewhere came the words, “How much?”

He didn’t need another house. At such an extravagance, Keynes would peer at him disapprovingly over the tops of his spectacles. He might even dare to mutter something critical beneath his breath.

But the appeal of a place with no connection to Graham’s past or even to the rest of his present life was too strong.

“How much to rent the cottage until next quarter day?” he clarified. Once the play was over, he would return to Dunstane. He might never come this way again.

Tetley couldn’t hide his disappointment; clearly, he had hoped for more than a month. But he named a number that wasn’t unreasonable.

Graham countered nonetheless; what sort of Scotsman wouldn’t try to drive a bargain? “And I will expect to take possession straightaway.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Tetley nodded and signaled to the barman. “Have another pint, sir. I’ll have Mrs. Tetley freshen up the place for you.”