The Guardian

Chapter Eight

It was late when Jack and Nora stopped in front of Fraunces Tavern in New York City and tethered their horses. "This is not the kind of establishment that I am accustomed to, Nora." Jack frowned as he looked through the window at the elegant clientele inside. The patrons in the tavern were clearly wealthy, gentry, landed, possibly nobility and it was the very last place on earth where a man like Jack Justice frequented or could blend in.

"No, I would think not," Nora agreed daintily removing her riding gloves. "But Ben said many of his ... friends ... gather here on the second floor. Perhaps, they will be here tonight and will help us secure lodging."

"Your father's men could be inside," Jack reminded her. "We are no longer in the concealment of the forest. We are out in the open now."

"It is a possibility, yes," Nora agreed. "However, I know my father. He will be waiting for us in Boston, if he has learned of our destination. He would not tarry trying to guess where we might stop along the way, not while he could be planning our ambush at the end of the journey."

"And how can you be so sure of that?"

"It is what I would do," she shrugged and started up the stairs. He beat her to the door and gave her a glare, the one that reminded her, again, that she did not enter before him. She sighed in response and gestured impatiently for him to open the door.

The tavern was elegantly decorated. Most of the tables were full, despite the late hour. Men and women dressed in finery dined and enjoyed the entertainment of the string quartet playing in a corner. Evergreen bunting and ribbons hung around about the rooms, heralding the Christmas holiday. Game tables were set in corners and before roaring fires and a haze of pipe smoke hung about the ceiling.

"Good evening, good sir," Nora said to the maître d. "Would you be so good as to inform the gentlemen upstairs that Lady Rogan has arrived from Philadelphia?"

The maître d stared in astonishment and looked from Nora to Jack, obviously taking in their rough and travel-soiled attire. He crinkled his nose in disgust. Believing he was about to order them to leave, Nora took another step forward. "Perhaps I did not make myself plain enough, good man. We have been traveling quite some time and are in need of lodging and refreshment. My benefactor's colleagues are upstairs and I ask you, once again, to go and inform them that I have just arrived from Philadelphia." When the maître d neither spoke nor moved, Nora continued. "Perhaps if I spoke with Mr. Fraunces himself?"

Suddenly, the man came to life. "My lady! I apologize most abjectly. You have given me a start. Indeed, there are gentlemen meeting upstairs in our whiskey bar. I will go to them at once and deliver your message, my lady. You said your name was?"

"Lady Eleanor Rogan," Nora replied. "Promptness would be appropriate."

The man hurried off up the stairs behind him. Nora grinned and looked at Jack. "It just takes a little diplomacy."

"I am impressed. He's tripping over himself to do your bidding, even though he doesn't believe a word of your story."

"There were no lies in my story, sir. I did not say that anyone upstairs would actually be expecting us, I merely implied so."

"And what happens when the wrong men descend the stairs, Nora?" Jack questioned. "What if it is your father's colleagues and not Ben's?"

"I suppose in that event, you will think of something. You have your pistols and our horses are not far. We are well practiced of abrupt exits by now."

Jack couldn't prevent his lips from twitching. He admired her sheer bravado in her dealings with the maître d. It seemed that the lady of the manor attitude could come in quite handy when needed. That was the first time he had witnessed its full effects, but he suddenly saw her for what she was raised to be. A very great lady, mingling among rich and powerful people. Her husband's perfect hostess, charming his guests, dancing with the most important ones, laughing at the jokes, remembering all the names. Would the unknown man had been born a lord like her father? Perhaps a duke or an earl, or maybe a wealthy banker. Whoever he would have been, he would never have been a poor vagabond with nothing but his wits and strength to his name.