Gideon knew who it was. Since Elizabeth Bevan's visit he had been waiting for this. Surprise was on his side, although he found that did not make the situation any easier.
Gideon surveyed his rival. Orlando Lovell, alias Boyes, looked like someone to be reckoned with. He was compact, small-boned, sanguine-complexioned, assured to the point of arrogance, with hooded eyes that saw too much and kept much hidden. He had long brown hair, sun-bleached at the ends where it curled down on his shoulders. He wore a beard, though Elizabeth Bevan had said she had seen him with it trimmed close. He was currently passing himself off as a gentleman. His suit was gunmetal, his cloak and hat black. A gloved hand lay easily on the basket-hilt of a sword. If he had brought pistols, they were not visible.
He seemed not much older than Gideon. A few years, maybe. Any appearance of other experience was due to their absolute difference in looking at the world. Nothing would change that. It was why they had fought their war.
'You must be Colonel Lovell.'
'And who the devil are you?' A well-bred accent. Haughty enough to rile a Londoner.
'Your wife's husband!' answered Gideon cheerfully. He allowed a tactful pause so the statement would sink in. 'This is awkward, for us both. I suggest we don't shake hands.'
Lovell stared. Gideon had the satisfaction of seeing the man grow hot under his weathered skin. But Lovell recovered; he knew how long it was since he contacted Juliana and he accepted that she might have made other arrangements. That did not mean he would allow it. 'You have stolen my wife! Where is she?'
'Not here. You will have to rampage at me.'
'You are a Roundhead!' Lovell accused him with disgust. He used Roundhead as a term of abuse; Gideon only squared up and was proud of it. 'I suppose it gives you satisfaction, to ravish one of the enemy — '
Gideon kept his temper. 'That's a cavalier trick! Besides, Juliana is no enemy of mine.'
'You dog! Who are you?'
'Captain Gideon Jukes, late of the New Model Army. Everything you fight against, everything you hate.'
That was certainly true, thought Lovell sourly. 'A rebel!'
'No, sir. A Commonwealthman. You are the rebel now.'
'I'll not take this from you.'
'Oh you will, Colonel. You are proscribed. The authorities know you are in London. You will be apprehended.'
Lovell was infuriated by the man's calmness. 'I have come for my wife.'
'Then you will go empty-handed.'
'We shall see.'
'You are a dead man to her.' Gideon Jukes pretended to explain: 'She thought you were drowned. You left her to think it, abandoned and destitute. The time allowed by law expired. She married me — she'll have none of you now.'
'You have made my wife a rebel!'
'Made her? Oh no.' Gideon rebuked him gently. 'Not Juliana! I liked her just as she came to me. I never sought to change her.'
Lovell's chin came up. He could hardly believe this outrage, yet controlled himself enough to say with mock politeness, 'Well, sir. I thank you for the care you have taken of my family. Your task is done. I retrieve them from you. I will have what is mine — '
'No, sir!' snapped Gideon crushingly. 'They are mine now!'
He surprised himself. He surprised Lovell too.
Orlando Lovell gripped his sword, though the room was too narrow to employ the weapon. Gideon saw his thought. He bent swiftly, opening a low drawer where Juliana stored an expensive braid. The wound cards were bulky; a man's wedding suit could take a hundred yards of ornamental ribboning. But this was hideous, spangled purple stuff. Gideon had been confident Juliana would not look here. He was right and he found what he had hidden, preparing for this moment. Nestled among the cards of decorative braid, a weapon lay. When Gideon stood up, kicking the drawer shut, he held a carbine. Lovell had no way of knowing whether it was pre-loaded, but he saw it was set at half-cock. It was a good gun. It was new, bright, well cared for, not some rusted antique hidden under a bed for a decade. The tall, fair Roundhead handled it with confidence. He put the carbine at full cock with a smooth and confident movement, keeping his eyes fixed on Lovell. He knew guns.
'You were expecting me!' jeered the cavalier, still struggling to get the measure of the situation. 'But you will not fire.'
'Try me.'
Gideon released a safety catch. His calmness was close to contempt, his steadiness said everything. He was not some half-witted, rabbit-scared shopkeeper. Lovell saw that this man had indeed been a soldier, the kind who would never forget his training or his service mentality, a man who could kill without bothering to work up hatred, then justify it coldly.
Lovell took no risks. He had been a soldier too, a good one; he had outlived many desperate circumstances. He always used his head.
'Go now,' ordered the Roundhead. 'Take yourself off, do not come here again. Leave us in peace, Colonel Lovell.'
Lovell made one last try: 'I have come to visit my wife, to see my boys — '
Gideon knew this was a distraction. He raised the carbine from covering Lovell's heart to aiming steadily between his eyes. The weapon was heavy, but Lovell would not know how this strained his shoulder. They were ten feet apart; less than that, allowing for the length of his arm and the two-foot gun barrel. Gideon could not miss.
Orlando Lovell never lacked courage. He took a pace forwards. 'You cannot kill an unarmed man, Captain — '
Gideon pulled the trigger.
The carbine failed to go off.
Gideon hurriedly dragged open another drawer.
'Damme!' Lovell had gone pale; Gideon was too fair-skinned for any pallor to show. For an instant, despite themselves, they shared the fleeting grins of soldiers who had had a narrow escape. 'You have the pair?'
'Of course!' boasted Gideon. Carbines and pistols came boxed in twos. They were cavalry weapons, one for each saddle bow, one for each hand. Two shots. A man who loaded one would load them both. Any ex-soldier who fired one, would be prepared to fire two. The next shot could be good.
Lovell let out a 'tsk!' of annoyance, shrugged, and while Gideon rummaged in the drawer noisily, the cavalier gave up. Turning on his boot-heel, Lovell flung open the door and, as the bell jangled, walked out of the shop. He made no threats; he knew absence of comment would feel more sinister. The bell stilled, the door closed. Gideon slowly pushed in a drawer of ruffle lace. He was sweating more than he liked; this had been a bluff; his second carbine was upstairs.
As soon as he recovered composure, he went to the door and looked out. There was no sign of Orlando Lovell in the alley. Gideon came in and locked the door. He unloaded the carbine for safety, cursing this new, useless gun. Rather than investigate immediately what had gone wrong, he hid it again, then ran quickly upstairs.
In their bedchamber, Juliana was asleep; so too was their tiny daughter, newborn only the evening before. Juliana looked peaceful, but was still exhausted. The baby was too small for her lace cap and gown, as yet insignificant in her deep cradle. Gideon checked them — even touched a knuckle gently to the babe's cheek — but woke neither. Unless he had to, he would not tell Juliana of today's encounter.
Colonel Orlando Lovell was no longer a shadowy figure who could be ignored. He was here. He was in London for a reason. It might not be primarily to find his deserted family, but he had said that he came for them.
The man had intelligence and courage; he exuded menace. He was also better-looking than Gideon had imagined. The haughty expression and rakish tilt of his hat would haunt Gideon annoyingly.