The Lady's Slipper Read Online Free PDF

Ibbetson had taken it, he was sure. Yet if he were to openly accuse her it could lead her to the pillory, and he baulked at being responsible for putting any woman, particularly a woman of breeding such as she, through such a cruel indignity. But she had lied brazenly to his face and a part of him wished her come-uppance; he felt like shaking her and telling her to come to her senses.
    Surely she did not think him so lacking in intelligence that he could not see the nose in front of his face? It was possible–since he had changed his silks for homespun, people assumed he was an unlettered tomfool, and this riled him more than he cared to admit. He sighed, turning the conundrum over in his mind.
    The market was getting quieter now; the bustle and heave had become dribs and drab, and the light would soon be gone. The sky was turning to ochre, and the manure in the pens began to steam in the chill autumn air. The drovers moved their livestock away down the road, calling out hoy, hoy! , and flicking their hazel switches over lazy rumps.
    Returning his thoughts to the task, he rubbed his hands on his apron and prepared to lay the leftover gooseberries in nests of straw before loading the crates. He was glad to be going home. Standing at the stall made him restless. Almost everything was on the wagon except the fruit–he always left that until last in case it should bruise.
    ‘Fetch me two of those bottles. My lady will need sweetening, since I am so long away.’
    The voice was loud and irritable. Richard stiffened and instinctively reached for his sword, forgetting momentarily that it was no longer there. He knew that voice. Still staying low, he raised his head from the punnets of gooseberries to look at the speaker. He scanned him quickly, almost unconsciously, observing him from the feet up: broad-tongued shoes with silver filigree buckles, long legs in blue silken hose, fine woven breeches, blue damask embroidered coat and matching waistcoat. Above it, a long, pale face with a thin mousy moustache. He was right, it was Geoffrey Fisk.
    What was he doing here? He swallowed hard. A tightness squeezed his chest and throat. He looked down at his own thick grey worsted breeches and then back to Geoffrey’s fine attire. He could almost feel the goosedown texture of the soft-coloured silks and brocade on his own skin, so well did he know them. He longed sometimes to feel the slip of silk stockings instead of the itch of the woollen ones he was now wearing. More than anything else, he felt naked without sword or musket. Keeping himself low, he reminded himself that giving up his sword and his fine things had been a free choice.
    He watched Geoffrey covertly–his expression of bored impatience, the way he slapped his thigh with his riding crop, his face half turned away from the market stalls, looking over to where the horses were tethered. He saw him chivvy a lad and repeat the instruction.
    The lad ran over, calling, ‘Two bottles of rosewater, for the gentleman.’
    The soap-maker placed two bottles in the lad’s basket. ‘Two farthings, if it please you.’
    Geoffrey interrupted, imperiously. ‘There will be no payment. We will take it as tithe.’
    ‘With respect, sir, I have already paid my dues.’
    Richard ducked well out of sight and watched as Geoffrey raised his eyebrows and slowly approached the stall himself. ‘Are you so insolent that you will argue with me?’ He leaned towards the soap-seller, one gloved hand resting on the table. ‘I think you have not paid quite enough. Pass me your purse.’
    The soap-seller backed away, his eyes darting side to side, as if looking for a place to run. ‘If I have offended, Sir Geoffrey, then beg pardon,’ he said hastily, bowing low, his hat in his hand. ‘There will be no charge for the rosewater.’
    ‘I said, hand over your purse.’ Geoffrey’s voice echoed in the sudden quiet. He signalled to the lad with his gloved hand.
    The old man did not move. He looked