Ashton strolled across the room and selected a dimly lighted table where he pulled out a chair facing the door. Almost before he settled into it, a gaudily dressed strumpet was at his side. Her cheeks were heavily rouged, and when she braced her arms on the table and leaned toward him with a smile, letting the bodice droop away from her breasts, she presented him with a full view of other areas where the red color had been applied.
“What’s yer favor, handsome man?”
“Tonight,” he responded, drawing a deck from his vest pocket, “only a game of cards and a drink.”
The trollop shrugged. “If ye’re only aftah a drink, mistah, I’ll send Sarah over here to serve ye. I can’t waste no time with a man who won’t buy, even if he is pretty. But if ye should change yer mind, me name’s Fern….”
Casually Ashton began to shuffle the cards while he slowly scanned the faces of the men who watched him. They were a disreputable lot, and one by one they turned away as his gaze touched them. The reputation of this man had preceded him, and they were not fooled by his unthreatening mien or his fancy coat and spit-polished boots. A fire had destroyed a warehouse that morning, and the word was already out that it had been set. They also knew whom it belonged to and could smell trouble brewing. No one bothered with Ashton Wingate’s property or possessions without meeting the man; it was like sending out an invitation.
Ashton felt a presence near his elbow and, leaning back in his chair, peered up into the bone-thin face of the woman who stood awaiting his attention. In the smoky haze it was hard to discern the color of the pale, lusterless eyes or the hue of the snarled hair that was drawn into a crude bun at her bony nape. Rags were tied around a badly worn pair of oversized shoes, securing them to her feet, and the coarse blue dress had obviously been made for one a good twenty pounds heavier. He made a rough guess as to her age, placing it somewhere near his own, but he had a feeling she looked much older than she actually was. When she spoke, her tone was flat and void of emotion.
“Fern said you were wanting a drink.”
“What’s the best one in this place?”
“Ale,” the serving maid returned promptly. “It’s the only thing that can’t be watered much.”
“Give me an ale, then…Sarah?” He looked at her inquiringly and received an answering nod. “And in a clean mug if you can find one.”
“You’d have better luck finding one at Belle Chêne,” she advised. “And you’d be a whole lot safer, too.”
Ashton’s brows lifted in surprise. “Do you know me?”
Sarah cut her eyes toward a group of men who had gathered near the bar. “I heard them talking about you and how you took a madwoman into your house and claimed she was your wife. Those are some of the same ones who came out to your place looking for her. They’re saying they lost some good horses because of you.”
Ashton responded with a soft chuckle. “Then why don’t they come and make their complaints known to me?”
Her heavily lined brow puckered into deeper furrows as she pondered his question. “I guess they’re afraid of you, but I don’t understand why. There’s more of them.”
“Just find a place to hide if they manage to gather up their courage,” he suggested.
“You’d be wise to take your own advice. I haven’t been here very long, but I’ve seen what some of these ruffians can do. In fact, you’d be wise to leave now.”
“I came looking for a man, and I haven’t found him yet. He has two fingers missing from his left hand….”
“No one in this room fits that description,” she stated and moved away. Beneath the ragged hem of her gown, her loose slippers made a slight flip-flop sound on the sawdust floor. Her appearance seemed very much a part of this desolate life, and yet as he studied her, Ashton wondered if she might not have known a different way once. She carried herself with a subtle grace the harlots could not match. While they slumped and sauntered their way among the men, trying to provoke some business for the night, she moved with the delicate air of a queen, albeit a ragged one. Even the way she talked hinted of some tutoring.
Coming back to his table, Sarah set down a sparkling mug and a tin pitcher of lukewarm, foamy ale beside it, then stood back and folded her hands as she waited patiently for him to lay out the necessary payment. When he did, her eyes widened in astonishment at the shiny gold color of the coin.
“Oh, that’s far too much, sir, and I doubt if I can get the proper change from the barkeep. He’s sure to raise the price and keep as much of it as he can.”
Ashton reached into his pocket and placed the larger, duller coin on the table beside the gold piece. “This is for the barkeep; the gold is for you…for finding me a clean glass.”
She hesitated briefly, seeming bewildered by his generosity; then with tears in her eyes, she gathered the coins into her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Wingate. I won’t forget this.”
Ashton sampled the ale from the mug and then wrinkled his nose at the acrid taste of the brew. If this was the best drink in the house, he mused with repugnance, he would certainly be hard-pressed to sample any other.
With unhurried aplomb he settled his black, low-crowned hat upon his head, disregarding the manners of a proper gentleman, and laid out the cards again, playing with the casual air of one ultimately bored. He continued in this vein for some time, and was just about to give up his watchful vigil when a group of four men pushed open the swinging doors. The leader was a thickset hulk of a man whose forehead sloped toward bushy brows and narrow, recessed eyes. A remarkably large, purple-veined nose jutted out and downward over thick, sneering lips. Just inside the door he halted and braced his left hand on a post while he surveyed the crowd. Ashton was quick to note the absence of two fingers from the meaty paw, and he felt a prickling on his neck when the piggish eyes settled on him.
The hulking brute straightened and squared his shoulders, straining the seams of his short jacket as he thrust out his barrel chest. He hitched up his trousers over his protruding belly and then raised both hands to settle his knit cap at a jaunty angle on his head. He strolled ponderously forward, swinging his heavily muscled legs wide with each step before planting his large feet firmly beneath him. Ashton stiffened as the ungraceful fellow approached, for the man seemed to be leading his cronies directly toward his table. His tension eased considerably when the miscreant settled at a table next to his, and he let out a slow breath of relief.
“’Pears we’ve got the hoity-toity folks from Upper Town acomin’ down to our digs these days.” The huge lout chortled as he jerked his thumb in Ashton’s direction.
Ashton surmised that it would not be long before the foursome found some excuse to set upon him, yet it was as if some perverse patience urged him to wait them out. Lazily bracing a booted foot on the rung of a chair, he continued his game of solitaire, but was no less primed for action.
The bear-sized giant banged a beefy fist on the rough planks of the table as his voice rose to an ear-numbing bellow. “Here now! Where’s a servin’ wench? Bring us some ale!” He lowered his voice and sneered aside to his companions: “H’it’s gettin’ so’s a man has to beg to get a drink ’round here.”