“Am I to be coddled by the landlady now, as well as suffering your rough and ready ministrations?”
His henchman declining to answer such a provocative speech, Giff tasted the brew and found it soothing. “It’s good.”
A sour smile greeted this admission as Sattar set about preparing his master’s clothes. Giff was content to sit back against his pillows and sip, his sore muscles easing a trifle. It hurt to use his mouth, and it struck him that he could see through both eyes again.
“Has the swelling gone down in my face?”
His henchman glanced his way. “Your eye is black, sahib.”
“Give me a mirror.” He took the silver-backed hand mirror and handed the empty cup to Sattar, inspecting the damage. “Capital! I look like a regular bruiser. I’ll be obliged to endure a barrage of comment, I suppose. And that cursed captain is coming for breakfast, did I tell you?”
“No, sahib, but it makes no matter. What time?”
“Can’t recall.” Giff gave back the mirror. “Take this away, I don’t wish to see myself. What’s the time now?”
“Near eight, sahib.”
“The devil! I remember now. Rhoades is coming at nine. You’d best bustle, man.”
Throwing up his eyes, Sattar went off to fetch his hot water and Giff struggled out of bed, groping for the chamber pot. He washed and dressed with the swiftness of long habit, never one to linger over the necessities of life, and was ready in the parlour with a pot of steaming hot coffee and a basket of warm rolls on the table when Captain Rhoades put in an appearance.
“A pity your man let that fellow go,” remarked the visitor, casting an eye over his host. “Show that face to the magistrate and the felon would be thrown straight into gaol.”
Giff laughed and winced. “Well, I’m glad he escaped, I don’t mind telling you. Sit down, man. Coffee?”
The captain accepted a cup and added a small amount of cream, declining the sugar. Giff poured a cup for himself, but left it black.
“I prefer tea myself, but our supplies are low.”
The captain had no comment to make on this. “Why are you glad that rascal escaped?”
“Because I don’t need the complication. I’m confident he won’t be used again. Or either of them.”
Rhoades frowned in mute question, but the plump little landlady’s entrance with a heavily burdened tray kept Giff from answering.
“There’s fresh fish, Mr Giffard, sir. But I’ve brought beef too, as there weren’t a big catch today. But I’ve took the liberty of doing baked eggs, which I hope will be easier if you find the meat too tough or can’t cope with the fish bones with that horrid bruise on you, sir.”
Giff responded suitably and the landlady’s effusions coming to an end at last, she curtsied her way out and he invited the captain to serve himself, indicating the fish and meat.
“And you, sir?”
Giff grimaced. “I’ll stick to the eggs and some rolls. The woman judged aright.”
Once he began upon his repast, carefully filleting the flesh from the bones of his fried fish, the captain lost no time in pursuing his reason for being there. “What did you mean by saying those men won’t be used again? Who has been using them?”
Giff buttered a roll. “My cousin, Piers Gaunt. You’ll likely know him as master of Waldiche Keep.”
“Indeed? I don’t know him. I’ve heard of the Keep. Gaunt, you say?” He regarded Giff as he chewed, not with suspicion, though his eyes were keen.
“Gaunt, yes. It’s my name too.”
Rhoades showed no surprise. “I see. Not Giffard?”
“My Christian name.”
The captain nodded, his mouth full. When he’d cleared the obstruction, he took a draught of coffee and set the cup down with a determined air. “I hope you mean to enlighten me, sir.”
Giff gave him a wry look. “I didn’t invite you here for nothing, Rhoades. I’ll tell you the whole story. But I must first request your promise to honour my confidence, especially as it concerns Miss Burloyne.”