Les Holgate, having recovered from being shoved down the corridor, now pushed back in, stepping between me and Sir Edward and shouldering Sir Edward down onto the mattress. He then stumbled over Sir Edward’s flailing legs and was obliged to steady himself at the far wall by the window. He spoke to Tristan. “Stay on task. This other guy’s not important. All that matters is making sure Sir Edward doesn’t give his money to the Boston Council. The rest of it, these other people, it’s a sideshow. You,” he continued, to Sir Edward, “your future father-in-law is standing outside. You do as we say, or he’s going to know you’re a sodomite and you won’t get to marry your rich girlfriend.”
“And what is it you want of me?” asked Sir Edward, scrambling to stand.
“Swear on the Bible not to give any of your money to the Boston Council.”
“Abort,” said Tristan crossly, as Sir Edward gaped, perplexed. “This is not the time or the way, Les. You’ve royally fucked this up. For now, for today, we pay off the Constable and everyone disappears out the back way. You and I go straight back to the ODEC. But first, you need to go downstairs and tell Beresford there was nobody here. You’ve botched this.”
“I haven’t!” Holgate said. “You’ve been totally ineffectual for all the times you’ve come here. I’ve come here once, and look: results!” He gestured round the wee room.
“Abort,” repeated Tristan. He reached to a peg on the wall and threw the clothes that hung there—shirt and drawers and a very fine vest it was—at Sir Edward, and spoke to him: “You, sir, go out the back way with the Constable, and pay him whatever is required for your own good. You”—Tristan turned his eye on Kit now—“will vanish. Disappear. Wherever you’ve been hiding, go back to hiding there. Sir Edward will keep your secret. Will you not, Sir Edward?”
“Naturally,” said wan Sir Edward, looking ever so much more wan.
“This is the perfect moment to demand submission,” said Les Holgate to Tristan.
“Shut up,” said Tristan, almost fatigued he sounded, and not bothering to look Holgate full on. “Don’t you get this situation? If these two men go outside and are revealed to Simon Beresford, there will be such a scandal—”
“Exactly!” trumpeted Les Holgate. “That’s why this is the perfect moment to make demands of Sir Edward! That’s our leverage—their wish to avoid that scandal!”
“That scandal cannot happen,” said Tristan, in a low, quiet growl. “We—you and I—we cannot let it happen. The consequences are too great for us to allow it to happen. It’s on us, it’s not on him.”
Exasperated Holgate looked. “You idiot, by saying that in front of him, you’ve just lost our best bargaining chip. If he even understands what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I do, sir,” said Sir Edward, as he dressed with shaking hands. He was trying to calm his breathing, and his color was returning somewhat. “You yourselves do not want this to be revealed. Therefore I need not pay you to prevent you from revealing it.”
“You do have to pay me, however, milord,” the Constable reminded him, with a neighborly chuckle, and waving a finger at him all affably-like. “As I have no hesitation to reveal it.”
“Neither do I,” said Les. “This man”—it’s Tristan he means—“does not speak for me.”
“Yes I do,” said Tristan. “I have operational command here.”
“He doesn’t,” Les assured Sir Edward. “Listen, Ed, I don’t want your money, I want your compliance. I’m revealing you to Simon Beresford unless you agree to my demands. He’s right below this window.” And he called at once: “Simon Beresford! Lord Simon Beresford!”
“Shut up,” Tristan commanded of Les Holgate, and immediately stepped right over Kit, snatched Sir Edward by the arm, and hauled him back toward the door, while the poor fool sputtered in amazement that he was being trundled about so.
Shutting up was not of interest to Les Holgate, who continued to call out: “Lord Beresford! There’s a fellow up here who looks a heck of a lot like Sir Edward Greylock.”
“Sir Edward Greylock? Up there?” cried the older man’s voice from below, and horrified it was he sounded. “Sir Edward! Pray reveal yourself, sir!”
“Of course he won’t reveal himself,” called Les. “You’d better come up here and see for yourself.”
Moving with the swift and sleek efficiency of a wolf, did Tristan now fling an arm around Les Holgate’s neck and get Les’s throat nestled in the crook of his elbow. With his other hand he pressed forward on his captive’s head, shoving him deeper into the trap. Les’s voice dried up into a squawk. His eyelids fluttered. And then he went altogether limp. Tristan let him down onto the mattress like a sack of grain, and devoted a moment to arranging him on his side.
“What have you done!?” the Constable demanded.
“He’s fine. I put him to sleep with a vee choke. Now I’m putting him in the recovery position,” Tristan explained. “He’ll wake up in a few minutes.” He stood up and turned to face Sir Edward, who by now was sufficiently dressed that he could move about in the streets without drawing overmuch attention to himself. “Go with the Constable out the hidden exit,” Tristan commanded. “Give him a lot of money and do not set foot in this building again. Never speak to anyone in this room again, except for me when I come to find you at the Bell. At that time you will agree to obey my further instructions to make sure there is no further scandal. Do you understand?”
Sir Edward nodded, looking ill at ease. Tristan stepped back to the window and showed himself at the casement. “Pray pardon us, m’lord,” he called down. “There has been a confusion. There is no Sir Edward anyone up here.”
“Who are you?” came the agitated voice from below. “What in the name of Heaven is going on up there?”
“’Tis nothing to do with you, milord,” Tristan returned, and gestured at me. I understood at once and joined him. This took me past Kit, who reached out a hand toward me, but I slapped it away. I had a score to settle with him; but there’d be time for that later.
“Is that Milord Simon Beresford?” I asked, using my best London accent. Tristan backed away into the room, leaving me to hold Beresford’s attention. Like Juliet with Romeo. Not an easy performance, what with the jealousy and rage in my heart and the squabbling behind me: Tristan again commanding Sir Edward and the Constable to leave by the back way, the two of them protesting they didn’t know where the back way was, Kit scrambling to collect and don his drawers and shirt, offering to show them the back way as soon as he was dressed. He only knew the back way because of all the times he had visited me here and taken such delight in me. And now he was using the knowledge he had of me to save that ponce of a so-called gentleman? Why should he care if Sir Edward be saved or not? ’Twas the shock he was causing upon myself that should be chief amongst his worries!
“And what shall we say when the likes of you are seen loitering about a bawdy-house?” I meanwhile asked down to Beresford with a smile.
“’Tisn’t a bawdy-house,” Pym shouted up at me in annoyance. “’Tis a respectable establishment and you know well!”
“Politely waiting your turn, is it?” I grinned at Simon Beresford. “Don’t be shy, come on up!”
The man’s face reddened. “I will not set foot in a place of ill repute.”
“Oh, but milord, it’s marvelous repute we have,” I informed him cheerily. “Sure nobody’s got better repute than the girls of Tearsheet Brewery. It’s the talk of London, so it is. Just ask the proprietor, that’s him beside you.”