"Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - Saint-Germain Story - A Question of Patronage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

The Vengeful Spirit of Lake Nepeakea



A Question of Patronage
A Saint-Germain Story
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Outside it was dank and clammy; inside it was stuffy and over-
warm. The clerks in the merchants' emporium office yawned as the
afternoon ran quickly down to the early falling November night.
"Do you lock the door, John Henry," said the oldest of the clerks to
the youngest, exercising his privilege. "No one will come at this
hour."
John Henry Brodribb got off his stool and bowed to the senior clerk
with a flourish that amused and annoyed the other clerks; John
Henry was known for his lavish, theatrical manner. He pitched his
voice to carry. "Whatever you desire, Mr Tubbs, it is my honour to
perform for you." His accent was a curious mix of London public
school flavoured with a broadness that might be Devon or Cornwall.
He was long-headed and lanky with the last remnants of youth; he
was three months shy of his eighteenth birthday.
Before he could reach the door, it opened suddenly and a man in a
black, hooded cloak stepped into the office, looking like a visitor
from another age; a monk from the Middle Ages, perhaps, or an
apparition of a Plantagenet in disfavour with his cousins. "Good
afternoon. Is Mr Lamkin available?" he asked in a pleasant, foreign
voice, taking John Henry's startled surprise in his stride. There was
a suggestion of a glint in dark eyes within the shadow of the hood.

file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Chelsea%20Quinn%20Yarbro%...n%20Story]%20-%20A%20Question%20of%20Patronage.html (1 of 30)31-12-2006 14:23:53
The Vengeful Spirit of Lake Nepeakea


"Is he expecting you?" asked John Henry, recovering himself
adroitly, and doing his best to match the style of the man.
"Yes, but not necessarily at this time," said the stranger. "I have
only just arrived in London, you see." He threw back his hood,
revealing an attractive, irregular countenance, fine-browed and
mobile if unfashionably clean-shaven; his hair was dark and waved
enough to make up for his lack of mutton-chop whiskers or
moustache. Although he was somewhat less than average height, he
had a presence that was commanding no matter how amiable his
demeanour; it originated in his dark, compelling eyes.
"Mr Lamkin has left for the day," said John Henry, glancing
towards the door of the office of the man who handled the firm's
overseas business. "He will not be back until Thursday next. He is
bound for Southampton, to inspect the arrival of a cargo of muslin."
"From Egypt or America?" asked the foreigner with enough
curiosity to require an answer.
"From Amer—" John Henry began only to be interrupted.