The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,18

asked, stifling a yawn. Jago was tired, but it was warm and pleasant by the fire and he was in no hurry to get up. Besides, he decided that he liked the other man’s quiet, almost soothing, company—although they’d scarcely exchanged a word over the past hour and a half, so intense had the play been.

“Oh, there is always something to do,” Ben said, his answer vague enough to make Jago suspicious.

“I hope you aren’t working all night, Ben.”

“No, sir. Not working. Sometimes I read.”

Jago shouldn’t have been surprised by the answer; Ben was exceptionally well-spoken—his speech far more like that of a butler than the postilion he’d been when Jago hired him. “I believe you said you were from outside Bristol?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are a long way from your family.”

“My father died a few years ago, so there is nobody left.”

“You have no siblings?”

“I had a brother, but he died.” The tight way he spoke did not invite more questions on the matter.

“Was your father also a postilion?”

“He was a teacher, my lord.”

Ah, that explained his polished speech, the chess, and the reading, among other things. “Where did he teach?”

“Just a small village school.”

“I expect you had a good education.”

“Yes, sir. My father was quite a stickler about certain things.”

“Like your diction?” Jago guessed.

Ben nodded.

“Why do you sometimes try to disguise how well-spoken you are?”

Ben’s cheeks darkened and his lips twisted into a wry smile. “If you’ve noticed then it sounds like my efforts to disguise myself are not too successful.”

Jago would not be deterred. “Why, Ben?”

“At my first job one of the other post boys accused me of putting on airs because of the way I talked. I decided it would be easier to fit in if I sounded the same as everyone else.”

Jago didn’t bother telling him that his accent did not resemble any Bristol accent he’d ever heard. Indeed, the lad had almost no regional accent but spoke more like a gentleman. His father must have indeed been a stickler.

“Where did your father go to school?”

“Oxford, sir.”

“Ah, an Oxford man. He must have been clever.” Or possessed excellent social connections, but Jago kept that observation to himself.

Ben hesitated, and then said, “He was the youngest son of a baronet—one of seven sons. He, er, lost touch with his family after he married my mother. She was a chambermaid, sir.”

Jago took a minute to digest that surprising information. Actually, it wasn’t so surprising when he thought about it. Ben certainly spoke like the grandson of a baronet.

“You have not considered asking for their help?”

“I wrote my grandfather after my father died, but he wanted nothing to do with me.”

Jago was disgusted, but not surprised. He’d had a mate at university—the youngest son of a duke—who eloped with an actress. It had not gone well for him. Or his wife, for that matter.

“You didn’t wish to follow in his footsteps and become a teacher?”

“I like working with horses more than people.”

Jago chuckled at the blunt response.

“That doesn’t sound very kind, does it?”

“Perhaps not, but I like that you’re honest. Besides, I think I know what you mean—animals are far easier than people.” A yawn slipped out before he could catch it. “Well, I’m for bed, young Piddock.” He stood and the boy got up along with him.

“Give me a few days to lick my wounds—and do a bit of practice supporting my pawns—and I shall want a chance for revenge.”

Ben stopped, his hand on the doorknob, and looked up at Jago. “Thank you for the games, sir. It was good to play again.” He smiled almost wistfully and then let himself out.

As Jago snuffed the candles in the room and replaced the fire screen, he couldn’t help thinking that the more he learned about Ben Piddock, the more impressive—and mysterious—the boy seemed to become.

Chapter Five

Durham

1812

Six-ish Years Ago

Benna stared at the contents of her pocket and counted nine pence; it would be another evening of ‘sleeping rough’ tonight—her third since leaving Newcastle.

She sighed and surreptitiously slid the coins back into her pocket. She should have stayed in Newcastle, but after the debacle with the stolen mail bag she’d not wanted to linger.

Although it was well-known that the post boys who delivered expresses—risking their lives for a pittance—were often set upon by robbers while on the road, the postal official who’d questioned her about her empty mail satchel had not been very understanding. Indeed, he’d eyed Benna with so much suspicion that even she had begun to think that she might