The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1) Read online

  Lord Roth’s face went still and he echoed quickly, “Paul Dupree? You have studied under him?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Well, in that case, we must certainly have a bout!” Lord Roth picked up his foil and said, “Choose your weapon, Parson.”

  Gilbert peeled off his coat and gave his sleeves a turn up to the elbow. Picking up a thin-bladed rapier already tipped, he slipped his own sword off and turned to face his opponent. “I am ready, Lord Roth.”

  They touched blades and it could not be said that Simon Roth was a rash man. He knew the formidable reputation of Paul Dupree better than anyone else in the room, and any pupil of his was no novice.

  Carefully they circled the room, and the fire threw huge contorted shadows on the masonry walls. Swaying back and forth, they moved catlike across the rushes, their feet making swishing noises, and ever the ring of steel sounded in the ear.

  Gilbert knew that he had never faced such a master—except for Dupree, who was not quite human! Roth had a fencer’s body—lean, muscular; his timing was exquisite.

  There were no cheers, in fact, the only sound was the sliding feet of the fencers and the steel pinging out repeatedly. Once Gilbert almost failed to parry, and the button on his opponent’s sword almost touched his breast, but he recovered and drove Simon back with a desperate show of physical strength.

  It would have ended with a touch had things continued. But the button fell off the tip of Lord Roth’s foil—and suddenly Gilbert backed away from a violent rush from the older man, managing to turn aside the needlepoint of Simon’s foil by a series of minor miracles.

  He had no chance to look into Roth’s eyes, but the man must realize that he was playing with an uncovered tip! He must! Then, one quick glance during a moment’s respite and he saw the catlike cruelty in his opponent’s eyes. Roth knew—but he was going to keep on until he buried the blade in the heart of Gilbert Winslow.

  It was relatively dark in the room, and by the faint blaze of fires, and in view of the fact that Lord Roth never let his sword stop, no one saw the condition of the foil. And of course, if Lord Roth killed him, he could look sad and astonished. “Poor fellow! I never dreamed the guard had fallen off!”

  Desperately Gilbert gave ground, his sword arm tiring. Simon drove himself forward, thrusting, twisting, darting like a madman; then Gilbert felt the table strike the back of his legs!

  Lord Roth must have seen it, must have maneuvered him into that position, for he lunged forward, ignoring the feeble parrying thrust that Gilbert managed to achieve. The next thrust, Gilbert knew, would go right through his heart! And as he saw the arm of Lord Roth draw back for it, he threw his arms over his head and did a violent and awkward back-flip over the table! Dishes and goblets flew everywhere with a tremendous crash, and the top of his head struck the floor with a dull thud—but he was alive!

  Several women screamed, and as he started to scramble to his feet, an inspiration struck Gilbert. If he got up, Lord Roth still had that naked point—and there was no doubt about his willingness to use it.

  Instead of standing up—which was exactly what Lord Roth was expecting—Gilbert rolled under the table. There was Roth, poised and ready to skewer him across the table, and he had time only to catch a quick movement at his feet as Gilbert reached out and slapped Roth’s sword wrist with all his strength!

  Lord Roth’s sword fell, and Gilbert quickly got to his feet. He said with scorn, “You’ve dropped your weapon, my Lord. Use mine.”

  He tossed his own blade to Roth, handle first, then in a single motion scooped up the fallen rapier and faced Lord Roth with the naked tip pointed right at his throat.

  “Shall we continue, my Lord?” he asked, and Simon saw that he was bested.

  Before he could speak, however, Lord North said loudly, “Wait, Gilbert! That sword—the point has been knocked off.” He rushed forward and took it from Gilbert’s hand. “Why, this could have been most tragic!”

  “A good thing you noticed it, Lord North,” Gilbert said, not taking his eyes off Lord Roth. “Someone could have gotten killed.”

  “I can’t think how such a thing could happen,” Lord Roth said, taking it from North. “They don’t make these as well as they should.” Then he laughed and said to Gilbert, “Well, Mr. Winslow, you do well—for a parson. Perhaps we can try it again at a later date?”

  “At your pleasure, Lord Roth.”

  Gilbert stared at the man, knowing that he’d made a deadly enemy, and he cursed himself for his foolishness.

  He was still angry at himself the next morning when he mounted his horse and rode out of the stable. All night long he’d tossed and turned, trying to think how he could have behaved with more wisdom.

  “Gilbert—Gilbert Winslow!”

  He pulled his horse up, and there, leaning out a glass window opened to the weather, was Cecily. She was more beautiful than he had thought. The snow on the sill and the white stone of the castle set off her dark beauty like a foil.

  “Lady Cecily,” he said with a rueful smile. “I must take my leave. Your father is my employer now, and I am his to command.”

  She laughed and leaned out a little farther. “So? But he is mine to command! Didn’t you know that? I can wind him around my little finger!”

  “Him or any man,” Gilbert smiled.

  “Will you come back soon?”

  “If you would have it so.”

  “You are a daring man, Gilbert Winslow; therefore, I dare you to come again. Come to see me, not my father. We have something more important to talk about than business,” she smiled; then loosed a scarf and let the breeze carry it down to where he waited. He nudged his horse with his spurs, caught the snow-white fragment of lace, kissed it, then put it in his inside breast pocket.

  “You will see me soon, my Lady Cecily—and the next time we meet, I trust I can think of a better name for you. Cecily—that’s for parents, for friends. I must think of something much better.”

  “You’ll steal it from some poet, Gilbert,” she laughed, then turned quickly to look inside. “Someone is coming. Don’t forget—I’ll be waiting!”

  As Gilbert rode toward London to meet with the lawyer, he thought himself a very fortunate fellow. His future now was secure! No more pettifogging little parson’s life for him—no, indeed! With a man like Sir Henry North to favor him—and a woman like Cecily North to inspire him—to what could he not aspire?

  If he could have seen, at that moment, the face of Lord Simon Roth, he might not have been so cocksure. Simon had not missed Winslow’s leavetaking with Cecily, and for a long time his pale eyes remained fixed on the road where the young man had disappeared. Finally, he nodded as if to himself, and a strange smile of satisfaction appeared on his thin lips. “I think the parson must be seen to,” he said softly.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A MATTER OF HONOR

  “You know London, do you, Mr. Winslow?”

  Gilbert felt a sudden pull at his arm, and looked up just in time to avoid being flattened by a coach-and-four driven by a haughty driver in livery. “Well, I’ve not been in this part of the city.” The lawyer nodded and plunged into the thick of the heavy traffic, skillfully threading his way between vehicles and pedestrians.

  “This is Cheapside,” Tiddle said out of the side of his mouth. “Our man lives not far from here. Step lively, Mr. Winslow! Our ship weighs anchor in three hours!”

  “I think you’d best call me Gilbert—since we’re to be together so much, Mr. Tiddle.”

  “Fair enough. I’m Lucas.” He lowered his head and led Gilbert down the street almost at a lope. Carts and coaches made such a thundering it seemed as if all the world went on wheels. At every corner they encountered men, women, and children—some in the sooty rags of the chimney sweeps, others arrayed in the gold and gaudy satin of the aristocracy, gazing languidly out of their sedans borne by lackys with thick legs. Porters sweated under their burdens, chapmen darted from shop to shop, and tradesmen scurr
ied around like ants, pulling at the coats of the two men who fought their way through the human tide that flowed and ebbed on the street.

  “Watch yourself!” Tiddle said sharply, pulling Gilbert back just in time to avoid a deluge of slops that someone threw out of an upper window. “Nearly got you, lad! But now that the city’s put the drain in the street, why every rain will wash away all this garbage.” He waved his hand at the ditch about a foot wide and six inches deep in the center of the cobblestoned street. “That carries all the slops and garbage away quite nicely, you know? Wonder what a change modern improvements make, isn’t it? Why, most cities just let the garbage and slops pile up—but not London! No, sir!” Tiddle paused in his admiration of the open sewer to wave his hand and say, “There. I think that’s it.”

  Gilbert followed him up two flights of rickety wooden steps, then down a dark corridor. The lawyer knocked firmly on the oak door and at once it opened, as if the young man who stood before them had been waiting for their appearance.

  “Mr. Tiddle, I saw you coming up the street.” He was a husky fellow, perhaps twenty-five, with warm brown eyes set far apart under a pair of bushy brows. Turning his head to one side like a bird to stare at Gilbert, he asked, “Be this Mr. Winslow?”

  “Yes,” Tiddle said. “This is John Howland, Winslow. We must hurry. John, I suppose you’re ready?”

  “All packed,” Howland said. He picked up a wooden chest bound in brass and followed the two men into the corridor, pausing only to fasten the massive padlock on the door.

  “We’ll take a coach,” Tiddle said. “Wouldn’t do for us to miss our ship.” He gave Howland a sharp grin and said, “You’ve been away from that wench of yours so long I daresay you’d swim the Channel to get your hands on her, eh, John?”

  The young man’s tanned face grew rosy, and he answered, “You mustn’t talk like that ’bout her, Mr. Tiddle; she’ not one of your tavern wenches!”

  Lucas laughed and slapped the husky young man on the shoulder. “I know she’s not, John. I know.” Then he glanced at Gilbert. “John’s got himself a real preacher woman, Gilbert. Got him so holy he won’t even spit on the Sabbath! But she’s a good cook—and a fine figure, too! You did notice that, I trust?” He dug his elbow into Howland’s ribs and gave a piercing whistle at a coach which stopped as if the horses had run into a wall.

  Tiddle and Howland kept the conversation rolling as they threaded their way through the narrow, crooked streets of London. Gilbert had seen only a little of the city, but he felt a warm glow as he realized that before long he would know it as well as Tiddle.

  Winslow had left the university with a sense of adventure rising in him. Tiddle met him at his office, and the next three days were spent learning the rudiments of the business affairs that would occupy him in Holland. They had packed and left to pick up Howland for the journey.

  Tiddle was a talker and Gilbert was a listener. The lawyer was not impressive in appearance, but he had a mind like a razor. He was, after all, the most trusted advisor of the second most powerful man in all of England, and Gilbert wanted to gain his confidence.

  Once Tiddle stopped abruptly in the middle of a complicated explanation and gave Winslow a straight look. “This is tedious, Gilbert—but you must learn it if you are to become the man Lord North desires.” Then he grinned and peered up at Gilbert in his shortsighted fashion, adding, “And I do not mean a man of business!” He laughed aloud at Gilbert’s blank look, then continued, “You may be aware that North is shopping for a son-in-law?”

  “Well—I hardly think he need look my way,” Gilbert said with a rueful laugh. “He’s got the pack of English nobility to pick from!”

  “He’s already sorted through that crowd,” Tiddle sniffed. “Nothing there for him. No, he’s a man who’ll pick his own raw material, pour money into the man he likes, and that’ll be it!”

  “Modesty forbids me to say how much I think I deserve such an honor, Lucas.”

  The shrewd eyes of the lawyer held a sly twinkle, and Lucas smiled as he said, “You may just do it, Gilbert. It wouldn’t be the first time a young fellow such as yourself made his way to the top by way of a rich father-in-law.” He paused and added, “I see that doesn’t trouble you; but have you made up your mind as to this business with William Brewster?”

  Gilbert shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I must admit it seems pretty raw. I’ll be a spy no matter how you try to refine it.”

  “That’s the way of it, I’m afraid. I’m thinking you may have too much religion for the world of business, Gilbert. You were preparing for the church at Cambridge, and the world is no church!”

  “It’s not that,” Gilbert answered slowly. It was difficult for him to explain his distaste for the mission, but he felt he had to try. “I’m not really a churchman. That was my brother Edward’s idea. And I would never have fit into that world in a million years! But—well, church or no church, Lucas—there is such a thing as honor! What I’m being asked to do is beneath a gentleman!”

  “Oh.” Tiddle stared at the young man as if he were scrutinizing a rare animal. He took a pinch of snuff, then said gently, but with a barb in his tone, “A gentleman, is it? If you’d seen as many ‘gentlemen’ as I have—selling their souls for a shilling, all ready to step on anyone who gets in their way—well, you might have to adjust your ideas somewhat.”

  “But there is such a thing as honor!”

  “There’s such a thing as doing the job Lord North has assigned to you! You will either do it or you may as well go back to Cambridge. It’s not at all complicated, Gilbert.” Tiddle lifted his hands in an abrupt gesture and spoke to the young man before him as he would have to a slow-witted apprentice. “You either pack your rather antique sense of honor away and do what you have to do—or you leave the world of business alone.”

  Gilbert bit his full lower lip and stared out the window. Finally he said, “All right, I’ll do it.”

  “I thought you might,” Tiddle nodded dryly. Gilbert felt as if he had parted with something that had been quite valuable, and the emptiness which he carried about in its place sobered him considerably. Tiddle patted the young man’s broad shoulder. “Don’t feel too bad, Gilbert. The loss of innocence is rather painful—but I assure you the time will come when you will cease even to think of it.” He stared at Gilbert soberly, then shrugged and ended, “And the good news is that no man ever died from losing it.”

  Gilbert stared at Tiddle and finally gave a tight grin, saying in his husky voice, “Well, now that I’ve sold my soul, when may I expect to gain the whole world, Lucas?”

  The lawyer laughed suddenly, but there was a note of sadness in his face as he looked at Gilbert. “Now that you have put the next world out of your plans, Gilbert, I think you will soon see your barns begin to fill up. I’m a little sad to see a young man like you sell his soul for a mess of pottage, though!” he jested to take away the sting.

  “A mess of pottage!” Gilbert exclaimed, then grinned at Lucas. “Why, I’m getting a much higher price for my soul than that! I’m new in business, but even such a novice as I can drive a better bargain with the devil than a mess of pottage!”

  Tiddle stared at Gilbert for a long time, then spoke so quietly that the young man almost missed it: “Well, I trust you will enjoy your bargain—but it may be more expensive than you think now, Gilbert Winslow!”

  * * *

  “There’s Leyden just ahead, Gilbert,” Lucas nodded out the carriage window. He turned to look at the young man slumped in the seat beside him and gave a wink in the direction of Howland sitting across from him. “Don’t tell me you’re still seasick, lad? Come now, you can’t have anything left in your stomach—not after the way you heaved all the way across the Channel!”

  Gilbert raised a hollow-eyed face the color of old ivory. The voyage had been a nightmare for him, for he had discovered with the first roll of the twenty-ton merchantman that he was no sailor.

  By the time the ship touched at Amsterd
am, Gilbert had long ceased to be afraid that he would die—he only wished he could! Howland had practically carried him off the ship and put him in a carriage, and he had been unconscious for most of the trip to Leyden. They had stopped for a meal at a small inn, and while his companions had wolfed down a huge meal of veal and cheese, Gilbert had managed to keep down a half pint of cold ale and a few swallows of fresh bread. Deciding he was going to live, he finally managed to sit up and take in the scenery that unrolled as they made their way toward Leyden—mostly flat fields silvered with winter’s touch. Windmills everywhere turned their huge sails, and neat stone and clapboard houses dotted the fields. “We’ll put you off at your brother’s house,” Tiddle said. “He’s expecting you. I wrote to him myself.”

  “When will we . . .” Gilbert began, then glanced at Howland and bit off what he was about to ask. The husky young man with the innocent face was to be his key to opening the mystery of William Brewster, but the plan to infiltrate the church fellowship was to be between him and the lawyer.

  Tiddle said quickly, “You have your visit out, Gilbert, and John here will be courting his young woman. Just make yourself at home.” Lucas’s face did not change, but at the words make yourself at home, a light touched his small bright eyes, and Gilbert nodded slightly, knowing that it was his role to become a familiar figure in the little community of Separatists.

  When the coach finally pulled up in front of a snug little cottage set in the midst of a small grove of trees, Gilbert felt ill at ease. “We’d better hurry,” Lucas said. As Howland got the baggage from the boot, he whispered to Gilbert, “Remember, we must be quick. Don’t go too fast; your brother is no fool—and neither is Bradford. But the thing must be done quickly before the man gets away for good. I’ll probably leave you here for two or three days.” He got in the coach with Howland and they rolled away, leaving Gilbert feeling very much alone.

  There was nothing to do but go on, so Winslow moved to the door. He had raised his hand to knock when the door opened, and he found himself face-to-face with his brother, who reached out and pulled him into the house.