for himself. That was a lad who knew which side of his profile was the best and wasn’t afraid to display it.
“Did you tell him we wanted to speak to him?” Ambrose murmured, so as not to disturb the show.
Hugh nodded. “I caught him at the stage door and said we wanted to meet him in the pub at midnight.”
“Was he amenable to the suggestion?”
“Nay, but I told him I’d stick him if he didn’t come.”
“And?”
Hugh lifted his eyebrows briefly. “He might be carrying a sword up there, Ambrose, but it isn’t sharp, if you know what I mean.”
Ambrose did. “Very well, then, let’s go await him down the street.”
The crowds outside the Globe had thinned to a mere handful of the braver sort, which made it easier to wend their way to the nearest pub, The Bard’s Board and Keg. Ambrose settled himself in a secluded corner with Hugh, then plucked a mug of ale out of the air to his right. He indulged in a sip or two, then sat back and looked at his compatriot.
“Aye?”
“This is a tricky one, isn’t it?” Hugh ventured. “Complicated.”
Ambrose had to concede that point. There were times, he had to admit, that endeavoring to keep the strands of time woven in their proper order was a dodgy business indeed. And if orchestrating events in their proper order wasn’t delicate enough, trying to add in the choices of two headstrong mortals . . .
It was enough to lead a shade to thinking perhaps ’twas time to hang up Cupid’s arrows.
If the shade in question had been made of lesser stuff, of course, which he was not. He was already sitting up straight, naturally, but he mentally threw back his shoulders and steeled his resolve. The souls in question were difficult and stubborn, but when pointed in the right direction they would no doubt do what needed to be done.
There was honor at stake, after all.
“I don’t like it here, Ambrose,” Hugh said suddenly, clutching his own mug of ale in his hands. “Still too many bloody Brits cluttering up the place.”
“It can’t be helped,” Ambrose said, though he had to admit he shared the other’s unease. If he’d had a back in which a dagger might have successfully rested, he might have been somewhat tempted to take the odd glance over his shoulder. But since he was leaning back against a sturdy pub bench, he felt very confident in ignoring any unusual and unaccustomed unease.
Hugh gulped.
Ambrose looked up to see a man swathed in Elizabethan finery sweeping in through the front door. Through being, of course, exactly what he was doing. Apparently he hadn’t been willing to wait for someone of a more corporeal nature to open up for him.
“Perhaps we should have looked harder,” Hugh whispered.
“We did,” Ambrose murmured into his cup. “That one is the necessary lad.”
Hugh sighed as the man flung his cape back over his shoulders and glanced disdainfully over the crowd as if he searched for someone in particular. Or two someones, rather.
He pursed his lips with the vigor of a man who had sucked on a particularly tart lemon, then strode across the floor as if he were performing in a particularly passionate scene. He came to an abrupt halt next to the table and looked down his long, pointed nose at them.
“I am Sir Richard Drummond,” he said, the crispness of his consonants slicing through the air like a finely sharpened blade. “I was told I must meet you here.” He looked around, then lifted an eyebrow as he reached out to swipe a finger across the table. “In this place.”
“I can’t believe this,” Hugh muttered under his breath. “I could have found someone more suitable at Euro Disney.”
Ambrose looked at Hugh in surprise, then had to stifle a laugh. He was inclined to agree, but decided discretion dictated that he refrain. He looked up at their guest. “How kind of you to join us.”
Sir Richard sniffed. “Threats were issued, threats I didn’t have the time or the desire to address properly.”
Ambrose ignored Hugh’s snort and gestured to a chair he conjured up for their guest. “Please sit and take your ease.”
Sir Richard examined the chair for dust, took off his gloves and brushed at it a time or two, then sat down and spread out as if he’d been Henry VIII himself sitting on his throne. “Well,” he drawled, reaching up and drawing a heavy pewter mug from a spot to his right and imbibing