The Water Nymph by Michele Jaffe

act of near impossibility given the way his eyes bulged out of his head, then recognition flashed across his face and he smiled gaily at Crispin. “Sandal, what a pleasure to meet you here.” His eyes moved to Sophie, and his smile broadened. “Glad to see you brought one of your own. I hate having to share.”
    Only Sophie’s surprise at how much Kipper looked like a flounder, despite his thin red hair, kept her from explaining that she was not there in the capacity he had assumed. Whatever the cause of her silence, Crispin was grateful for it as he slid onto the bench on the other side of the table from Kipper and the blond woman, and motioned to Sophie to slide in next to him.
    When they were seated, Kipper took them in, a sly smile spreading across his face. “She’s foreign, isn’t she?” he asked Crispin. “One of the ones that you brought back from France with you, right?”
    Crispin saw his chance to continue her blissful silence and seized it. Before Sophie could reply, he was saying, “Yes, French. She can’t speak a word of English, or understand it either.” He drained the tankard and leaned confidentially across the table toward Kipper, upsetting a dish of sugared almonds. “And you know what they say about Frenchwomen.”
    Sophie glowered at him. “Pompous caterpillar,” she gritted out under her breath. She had been having such a nice time during her first visit to the Worshipful Hall, despite his presence, but now he had ruined it.
    “What did she say?” Kipper asked immediately, his eyes bulging even more than usual with innuendo. “Did she propose one of those French things? You know, that ‘Men Age a Troy’?”
    Crispin was about to reply that she had actually requested a tête-à-tête with Kipper alone, when the murderous expression on Sophie’s face caught his voice. “No, not a ménage à trois . She said simply that my friend seemed nice.”
    Kipper smiled fishily. “Tell her I am nice. Very nice. And very rich. My wife has pots of money.” He pantomimed a pot of money, eliciting only a glare from Sophie, but increased interest from the blond woman next to him.
    Crispin leaned over to whisper in Sophie’s ear. “If you do not stop scowling this moment, I shall leave you alone with him. Is that clear? If it is, nod once, smile brightly, and coo something French sounding.”
    “ Vous êtes un bastard ,” Sophie cooed through clenched teeth with a nod and a sweet smile.
    “She says she will remember that,” Crispin translated. Then, noticing that the rekindled ministrations of the painted blonde upon hearing of Kipper’s pots of wealth threatened to occupy Kipper’s mind entirely, Crispin decided to proceed with his questions. “Kipper, I was wondering. Have you ever done any business with Dickie Tottle?”
    Kipper rolled his fish eyes, trying to think. “Dickie Tottle? Never heard of him,” he said, popping a sugared almond into his mouth. He extended the bowl toward Crispin. “Try one. They are very good. A specialty of the club.”
    “No thanks,” Crispin declined, frowning slightly. “It’s strange that you have never heard of him. He told me that you were one of his investors. Something about you giving him twelve hundred pounds for a new undertaking. That doesn’t sound like a sum to forget about easily.”
    “Tottle told you that?” Kipper asked, his eyes popping. “The bastard. I was promis—” Kipper interrupted himself. His mouth opened and closed in the air, highlighting his resemblance to a fish, before he went on. “Now I remember. It was for a subscription. You know, so every time Old Bess gives a new proclamation or law, he’d print it up and send it over. Also any news from court. Very handy. Must stay on top of such things.”
    “I can imagine. What was the latest number about?” Crispin asked casually. “Was that the one about the war with Naples?”
    Kipper nodded so furiously that Sophie feared his eyes might fall out. “Yes. Naples.