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him.
    “Crispin.” She glanced at Jack who smiled in hopeful anticipation of a bowl of wine, and ignored him as usual.
    Eleanor set down the leather jug and sat across the table. A white kerchief, neatly draped on her head and expertly tucked about her face, revealed nothing but her hazel eyes, light brows, and stern nose and cheeks, both slightly red from the cold. “What vexes you? You were miles away.”
    “Was I?” He drew up the bowl in his hands and drank nearly the whole thing.
    Eleanor and her husband, Gilbert, were always ready to lend a kind ear. Yet what to say? Why did Adam’s news affect him? How could this Walcote woman, this woman he barely knew, mean anything at all to him? He knew little of her, which forfeited any serious consideration.
    And yet.
    Crispin ran his hand over his forehead and up his scalp, raking his thick hair between his fingers. He glanced once at Jack. “There is nothing to speak of,” said Crispin.
    “Oh! I’ll wager it’s a woman!” cried Eleanor.
    “Why do you always think it involves a woman?”
    “Because nothing can bring out that melancholy look about you but a woman.”
    Crispin slouched and cradled the bowl in the curve of his arm. “Think what you like.”
    “Crispin,” she said in her best conciliatory tone. “When have I ever left you alone to brood? Come now, out with it. You know it will make you feel better.”
    “It never makes me feel better. It only makes you feel better.”
    She leaned forward and rested her arms on the table, buttressing her ample bosom. “We worry so over you, Crispin. Thank God for Jack Tucker here,” and she patted Jack’s hand. He smiled grimly and pulled it out from under her attention. “At least someone is looking after you, but I’d rather it were a wife.”
    “Not this again. I tell you, woman, if you don’t let me alone on this matter I will find another tavern to patronize.”
    “There’s none on Gutter Lane that would let you maintain an account month after month like we do, and you know it. Besides, Gilbert and I are your family now. That’s the only reason I bring up the subject of a wife time after time.”
    “…after time,” he muttered into his bowl. He wiped his mouth with the side of his hand and poured more wine. The ruby liquid drizzled into his cup. It swirled around the bowl and settled in diminutive waves. “The thing of it is…” He shook his head, amazed that she managed to drag the words out of him. Again. “I don’t even know her. Not truly.” He let the thought of Philippa ripple in his mind. The thought stayed longer than anticipated. “She’s completely unsuitable. But she is intriguing.”
    “Is she a client?”
    “Of a sort…no…maybe.” He chuckled halfheartedly. “I don’t know.”
    “I’m pleased that’s settled.”
    “Truly, Nell, it does not bear discussing.”
    “Then why do you look so sad?”
    “I’m not sad!”
    Jack pressed forward. “You would not wonder if you saw the lady,” he said, wincing under Crispin’s sharp glance. He opened his hands in apology. “It is true. She is something to behold.”
    “When did you ever see her?” he asked.
    “I’ve seen Madam Philippa Walcote before at market.” He whistled and winked at Eleanor. “Rich and beautiful.”
    Crispin measured Jack before he sighed and slowly withdrew the portrait from his scrip and handed it to Eleanor.
    “Oh, Crispin, she is fair. Is this a good likeness?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where did you get it?”
    “From her husband.”
    Aghast, Eleanor slowly lowered the picture to the table. “Crispin Guest!”
    “It’s not what you think—God’s teeth! I don’t know what you think! The husband is dead. He was murdered last night.”
    She crossed herself and handed back the miniature as if it were the dead man himself. “Bless me! Crispin! Not you?”
    His look of disdain mollified her, but only briefly.
    “Well you cannot expect a woman who has recently lost a husband to look your