The Vagabond Duchess. Claire Thornton

in the direction of the singer and instead tried to locate the tavern keeper.

      A door on the far side of the taproom crashed open. Temperance couldn’t see who came out, but then an irritable voice shouted, ‘Where the hell’s the draper I sent for?’

      Temperance pushed her way towards her still-unseen customer. When she got closer she saw he’d just emerged from a private room that led off from the main taproom. He was a fashionably dressed young man, but his clothes were the worse for wear. He was also at least two inches shorter than Temperance.

      He scowled at her when she stopped in front of him.

      ‘I want a draper, not an overgrown doxy,’ he said.

      Temperance swallowed an angry response. His appearance was at least as unappealing as hers. Worse, in fact. She might be unusually tall and no great beauty, but at least she was sober and well groomed and didn’t wantonly insult strangers.

      ‘I am the draper,’ she said coldly. ‘Your man said you want a length of linen and a length of muslin.’

      ‘You have them?’ His red-rimmed eyes focussed on the bundle in her arms. ‘Show me.’ He stepped back into his private room and she had no choice but to follow.

      She didn’t particularly want to do business in public, nor did she relish the thought of being alone with this well-born lout—but when she entered the smaller chamber she saw he had a friend with him.

      ‘Has that damned caterwauling finally stopped, Tredgold?’ the other man demanded.

      Temperance bristled with indignation at the insult to the musician. Caterwauling? The dark-eyed vagabond might be as arrogant as the devil, but he had the finest voice she’d ever heard, and his musicianship was remarkable.

      ‘Give me the linen.’ Tredgold grabbed the bundle of goods from her arms and tore it open.

      ‘Be careful!’ Temperance protested, as the piece of muslin fell into a puddle of liquid on the floor.

      Her customer ignored both her and the muslin. He shook out the length of linen and tossed it over his head. Temperance watched in disbelief as he stuck his arms out and swayed from side to side. Then he started to moan and groan.

      ‘OoooOOOOooooOOOOoooo…Arghhhh…. OOOooooooOOO!’

      His friend stared at him with an open mouth for several seconds, then clutched his head and cowered in his seat.

      ‘Oh! Oh, I’m so scared. Oh, my poor heart! Oh, I’m dead!’ At his last dramatic exclamation, he collapsed sideways, disappearing from view beneath the edge of the table.

      Temperance’s own heart thudded with alarm and confusion. For an instant she almost thought he really was dead, then she realised he had been sitting on a high-backed bench. He’d just fallen sideways on it. Now he was lying there, laughing like a lunatic.

      ‘Do you think it will work?’ Tredgold demanded.

      ‘The old goat might die of laughter—but not fear,’ his friend replied, sitting up again. ‘Whoever heard of a ghost with brown velvet arms? If you take off all your clothes and wrap the linen around you, you could pretend you’ve risen from the grave. That might work.’

      ‘Hmm.’ Tredgold threw the length of linen across the table—where it soaked up some spilled wine—and took off his coat. For a horrified moment Temperance thought he was going to disrobe further but, to her relief, he seemed content to experiment in his shirt sleeves and breeches. He wrapped the linen around himself in untidy folds.

      ‘Give me the muslin, wench,’ he ordered, pointing at where it still lay on the floor.

      Temperance handed it to him and hastily stepped back. He twisted it round his upper body and head and turned back to his companion.

      ‘Now what do you think?’

      ‘I’ve never seen a corpse wrapped in pink,’ said his friend, looking at the spreading wine stains on both the muslin and the linen.

      ‘It’s blood, of course!’ Tredgold said impatiently.

      ‘Not that colour. You’ll never frighten the old man to death in pink muslin.’

      ‘What are you trying to do?’ Temperance asked.

      ‘Scare his grandfather into his grave,’ the friend said.

      ‘What?’

      ‘He’s nearly ninety. Until he dies I can’t claim my inheritance,’ Tredgold said as if he had a genuine grievance.

      ‘You should be ashamed of yourself!’ Temperance exploded. ‘I won’t be party to such an evil scheme. Take off the linen at once!’

      ‘I am taking it off,’ Tredgold snarled. ‘It’s not going to work. I’ll have to think of something else.’ He tossed the fabric on the floor, flung himself into a chair, and poured some more wine.

      Temperance stared at the stained, crumpled cloth. She couldn’t sell it to another customer now.

      ‘You must pay for the goods you have spoiled,’ she said, trying to control her anger.

      Tredgold laughed. ‘I’m not paying for those useless rags.’

      ‘I did not bring you rags. I brought you lengths of fine linen and muslin—as you requested,’ Temperance said. ‘It is you who have ruined them. You must pay for what you have played with and spoiled.’

      Tredgold raised his eyebrows superciliously, allowing his gaze to move up and down Temperance’s body in an insulting assessment. Then he shrugged one shoulder. ‘Send your master to claim his dues,’ he said. He turned away from her, tilting his chair on to its back legs as he reached for the wine jug.

      Temperance kicked the nearest chair leg as hard as she could. Tredgold crashed backwards with a shout of alarm. The wine jug flew into the air, its contents drenching Tredgold and splashing Temperance’s skirt. It hit the edge of the table, then smashed to the floor.

      Temperance stood over Tredgold as he blinked up at her. Her heart was pounding, but she was far too angry to be afraid.

      ‘You will pay me,’ she said. ‘Get up and give me the money.’

      Tredgold stared at her for a few seconds, then his dazed expression turned spiteful.

      ‘You bitch!’ he raged. ‘I’ll teach you—’

      She took a step back, reaching through the slit in her skirt for her stick. She was taller than Tredgold, but under no illusion she could match his strength.

      Tredgold disentangled himself from the chair and staggered to his feet. He was too dazed to move quickly. There was time for Temperance to flee, but it wasn’t in her nature to run away. She cursed her decision to come to the tavern, but she held her stick by her side and kept her watchful attention on Tredgold and his friend.

      Tredgold shook his head and winced. Then, without warning, he lunged towards her.

      She only just had time to lift her stick and jab him in the stomach. He swore and reeled away. He hadn’t realised she was armed.

      Temperance released a jerky breath. The first victory was hers. But though the stick extended her reach, she hadn’t managed to get as much power behind her blow as she’d hoped. Tredgold wasn’t incapacitated, and now he was forewarned.

      Since there was no further need to conceal the stick she held it in both hands in front of her, ready to defend herself from Tredgold’s next attack.

      He came at her in a rush, faster than she’d expected, his mouth drawn back in a snarl of rage. Both fists were raised—

      The next instant he was spun around and slammed back into the edge of the heavy table. The table screeched across the floorboards until it hit the end wall. The vagabond musician had come to Temperance’s aid. Now he waited, a mocking smile on his lips, for Tredgold to recover.

      Tredgold