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The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

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2018
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‘A brandy, please. Make it a double.’

Dorkin lifted a bottle and shook it. ‘I’ll have to go to the cellar,’ he muttered. ‘Won’t be but a moment, sir.’ He swung up a trapdoor in the floor and clattered down the steps.

Christopher leaned one arm on the battered oak bar. A couple of country labourers in traditional smocks, clay pipes clamped in whiskered jaws, clacked domino tiles in swift sure movements. An occasional chuckle or mutter indicated the state of play. A shepherd, his dog at his feet, nursed a tankard on the settle beside the red brick medieval hearth. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement in the shadows at the far end of the bar. In a pool of light cast by an oil lamp, a square strong hand, the wrist covered by the cuff of dark green coat, lifted a mug. The horseman.


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