The Bride Wore Scarlet Read Free

grunt tinged with weariness.
    Not a young man, then.
    This assessment was proven accurate when the man turned his face toward the lamp that swung from the Prospect’s riverside balcony. His was a worn and weathered visage, with small, hard eyes, and a nose that hung from his face like a bulbous wad of sausage. To complete the disconcerting picture, a scar slashed from his chin up through his mouth, horribly twisting the bottom lip.
    The waterman’s consternation was understandable.
    â€œFine weather tonight, is it not?” Bessett said.
    â€œ Oui , but I hear it is raining in Marseilles.” The voice was like gravel, the accent thick and decidedly French.
    Bessett felt the tension inside him relax but an increment. The phrase was right, aye. But there could still be trouble—and he never entirely trusted the French.
    â€œI’m Bessett,” he said simply. “Welcome to London.”
    The man laid a heavy palm across Bessett’s right shoulder. “May your arm, brother, be as the right hand of God,” he said in flawless Latin. “And all your days given to the Fraternitas , and to His service.”
    â€œAnd so may yours,” Bessett answered in the same.
    Sensing no animosity, Bessett eased his left hand from his pocket, releasing the hilt of the dagger he’d instinctively clutched. “So you are DuPont,” he went on. “Your reputation, sir, precedes you.”
    â€œMy reputation was made long ago,” said the Frenchman. “In younger days.”
    â€œI trust your journey was without incident?”
    â€œ Oui , a swift, easy crossing.” The visitor leaned into him. “So, I have heard much of this new safe house you keep here. Even we French cannot but admire your effort.”
    â€œIt is a good deal more than a safe house, DuPont.” Bessett motioned him down the narrow passageway that linked Pelican Stairs to Wapping High Street. “We are dedicated to rebuilding this sect. We live practically out in the open, in the guise of a sort of intellectual society.”
    The visitor snorted with Gallic disdain. “ Bonne chance, mon frère ,” he said, stepping out into the gaslight. “As you know, we in France are not so bold—but then, we have good reason.”
    Bessett smiled thinly. “I take your point, DuPont. One begins to wonder if the political upheaval in France will ever end.”
    The Frenchman lifted one thick shoulder. “ Non , not in my lifetime,” he answered evenly. “And all your fine efforts here in London will never change that fact.”
    â€œAye, sadly, you may be right,” said Bessett. “As to the house—the St. James Society, it is called—any brother of the Fraternitas Aureae Crucis who passes through England is welcome to quarter with us—even those who do not support the unification.”
    â€œ Merci , but I must not linger.” The Frenchman rolled his shoulders uneasily. “So, my new Fraternitas brother, do we walk? Have you a carriage?”
    Bessett jerked his head toward the public house adjacent. “The Society has come to you, DuPont. They wait within.”
    Just then, the Prospect’s door flew open and a pair of garishly dressed nightingales burst out, laughing, a hapless young naval lieutenant hooked arm-in-arm between them. He looked wealthy, besotted, and thoroughly foxed—the prostitute’s holy trinity.
    The Frenchman watched them go assessingly, then gave his disdainful grunt again. “Ah, mon frère , life is the same the world over, non ?”
    â€œAye, he’ll be pissing pain till All Saints’ Day with that pair,” Bessett muttered. “Come, DuPont. The brandy here at the Prospect is passable, and the fire is warm.”
    Inside, the front taproom of the public house was abuzz, with every scarred and beaten table surrounded by men of the dockyards, with tavern maids swishing and weaving between