The boy darted past Apollo, his shirt clutched in his hand, and Daffodil, who had been milling about, sniffing at dead vegetation, barked and happily raced after.
Apollo followed more slowly, watching Miss Stump as he did. She was bustling about the room, settling her son at the table, instructing Maude, and then disappearing abruptly into the bedroom he’d taken last night.
When she reappeared, her hair was dressed—much to his regret—and she bore a thin blanket. “Caliban, would you like this until you can find another shirt?” She held out the blanket and then her brows knit. “You do have another shirt, don’t you?”
He gave her a sardonic glance that made her blush and then nodded.
“I hope you like tea, because we don’t run to coffee,” Maude said, and banged a teapot down on the table.
That apparently was the signal to sit for breakfast, and so Apollo did.
The table held bread and butter and a plate of cold sliced meat. There wasn’t a lot of anything, and he was reminded of Makepeace’s words. Miss Stump was out of work.
Apollo was careful to take only one slice of bread and only a little meat. He knew what it was like to be without food. He’d often been weak with hunger in Bedlam, despite Artemis’s heroic attempts to keep him supplied with food. Hunger was an affliction worse than beatings. It made the mind narrow to only that one point: food and when one would next be able to eat. Damnable to reduce a man to the state of a starving dog.
Once he’d been lower than a starving dog, mindless with want.
So he was careful now to eat in slow, moderate bites, as a gentleman should, for he was, beneath everything else, a gentleman.
The tea was weak but hot and he drank two cups of it, watching Miss Stump nibble at her own bread. She caught his eye once and bit her lip, as if hiding a secret smile. All the while Indio chattered about everything from the sparrows he’d seen in the trees the day before to the dead snail Daffodil had attempted to eat the previous week.
But pleasant as the morning meal was, it wasn’t long before Apollo recollected that he must be at work—and to do that, he’d have to fetch his only other shirt from the musician’s gallery.
He pulled out his notebook and, turning to a new page, wrote, Thank you—for the meal, the physicking, and the bed—but I must be off to my labors.
Miss Stump blushed when she read it and gave it back. “We were glad to help.”
Indio, who had been watching the exchange, slumped in his chair. “Aww! Must Caliban go? I wanted to show him my new boat.”
“He’s a man grown, dearest, and must be about his job. But perhaps”—she cleared her throat, peeking at him beneath her lashes—“we could take Caliban a picnic luncheon?”
“Yes!” Indio was so excited he knelt up on his chair as he turned to Apollo. “Say yes, pleeeease?”
Apollo’s lips twitched as he inclined his head.
“Huzzah!” Indio cried, making Daffodil leap and twirl in excitement. “Huzzah!”
“Sit down afore you spill your tea, lad,” Maude said gruffly, but even she had a smile upon her face.
Apollo walked out into the garden feeling better than he had in months—even with the headache. He could hear chopping coming from somewhere in the garden, so at least some work was being done—whether it was the correct work might be another matter. He hurried to the musician’s gallery.
It was as he was buttoning his waistcoat—sadly he’d only the one, and that was now stained and slightly damp from lying on the ground all night—that he heard the distinctive sound of Makepeace’s voice raised in ire.
Hastily he finished his crude toilet and jogged in the direction of the yelling, which became comprehensible as he got nearer.
“If you think I’ll take on some wet-behind-the-ears, overeducated, dilettante architect to design and rebuild my bloody garden just because you met him at some aristocratic ball in Sweden—”
“Switzerland,” drawled an obnoxious, familiar voice.
“Bloody Switzerland,” Makepeace amended without even taking breath, “than you’ve lost your blasted ducal mind. This garden is going to be the most wondrous pleasure garden in all of London, which might as well be the world, and to do that we need an experienced, working architect, not some silly aristocrat who’s decided that he’d play with blocks and see if he could build something that wouldn’t fall down after three damned minutes.”
By the time Makepeace had come to the end of his loud and foul objections, Apollo had rounded a corner and caught sight of him.
Makepeace was standing in the middle of the ruined path that led to the dock, hair on end, hands on hips, glowering thunderously at the Duke of Montgomery, who didn’t seem to realize the mortal peril he was in.
Indeed, as Apollo came to a stop beside the two men, the duke flicked open a jeweled snuffbox and smiled slyly at him. “Why, Mr. Makepeace, I’m surprised you have such objections to the blood of my architect, considering you’re such good friends with Viscount Kilbourne.”
Apollo froze. They’d never made mention of his real name or rank in front of Montgomery. The man was supposed to have been out of the country for years until last summer. How in hell had he figured out who Apollo was?