Linda Barlow (38 page)

A commotion at the front of the house attracted his attention, and Roger leapt to his feet, startling his guests. Someone had arrived whom his servants were dubious about admitting. "God's teeth," he muttered, fearing the worst. He caught Alan's eye, grimly noting that his brother had picked up on his anxieties. The lad looked pale, his eyes huge in his face. Dammit. Had it been a mistake to take Alan into his confidence? Roger had learned during his years of leadership that giving trust and responsibility to untried young men will often bring out the best in them. On the other hand, if the young man was the sort who caved in easily to pressure, it could lead to trouble.

Roger tossed a lighthearted grin in Alan's direction, mentally sending him encouragement. Then he went to see what the fuss was about.

Roger did not recognize the woman who swept into the chamber, chased by two servants; at least, not until she threw back her hood, revealing clouds of red hair and snapping green eyes.

"Body of Christ! Are you mad?" He waved the servants away. "You know full well your father's spies survey this house twenty-four hours a day."

Alexandra pursed her lips, glancing from him to his friends and back. "Perhaps they'll report that you've hired a whore for the afternoon. I'm sure it isn't the first time."

In spite of himself, his mouth twisted up. She always had a comeback, the quick-witted wench. "No. Nor is it likely to be the last." He gave her body a deliberately appraising look. Her court finery was absent today; instead she was clad in the simple garments of a middle-class Londoner. It was very becoming. Instead of the stiff bodice and heavy jewels fashionable at Westminster, she wore a laced gown with a soft neckline that curved beguilingly over her small breasts and set off the neatness of her trim waist. "You look the part," he added, to goad her. "D'you intend to play it?"

Before she could reply, Alan was at their side. "What are you doing here, Alix?"

"You have an excellent answer to that question, I trust," Roger said. He took in the distress in her eyes. "What on earth is the matter? Has somebody died?"

"No. It's more a matter of somebody remaining alive." She flicked her eyes over Alan and the others, and then returned to him. "I wish to speak with you alone."

"Ah, but we can't be trusted alone, can we? Although which of us would ravish the other first is a matter for dispute."

Alexandra caught her breath. She was feeling uncomfortable enough as it was, pushing past his servants, walking in on what was obviously a conference of some sort. What were these men up to? She recognized one of them, Richard Bennett, as the sailor-explorer she'd met the last time she'd been here. Heretics all, no doubt. What were they talking about? Were they plotting a rebellion? Alan looked self-conscious and guilty, and as for Roger, of course he would be nasty. It had ever been his best defense. Very well, she would use his own tactics against him.

"If you refuse us privacy, I'll say what I've come to say in front of your friends. After our last discussion, however, I had not thought you would hold your secrets so lightly. Did you expect me to ignore a plot of this magnitude? Or do you fancy I'm so besotted by you that I'll tolerate anything?"

The expression on Roger's face turned dangerous. "I bow to your threats," he said, placing his hand on her arm. Through the coarse fabric of her gown, she could feel the tension in his fingers. "We'll talk in the library. No, stay," he told his friends, who were rising as if to leave. "This won't take long. If you hear screaming, pay no attention, unless it should be my voice. She's damnably clever with a knife."

"Just a minute," Alan objected.

"Stay out of this, brother, and take that chivalrous-knight expression off your face. I'll return her to your keeping within ten minutes, pure and unsullied as ever. Come, my Amazon, and explain why you're so hot to have my blood."

He pushed her through into a small book-lined chamber, slammed the heavy wooden door behind them, and locked it. The curtains were drawn and the room was ill-lit. A cavernous hearth on one wall boasted no fire, so the room was cold. Alexandra drew her cloak more tightly around her.

Roger released her and backed several paces. "Well? What crime are you accusing me of this time? I haven't assassinated any siblings lately, I'm quite sure of that. Alan, as you can see, is hale and hearty, if slightly more corrupt than he was last summer at Whitcombe."

"Those men with him, they are heretics?"

"I haven't inquired into their individual sources of ghostly comfort. As long as I worship correctly, which, you'll have noted, I invariably do, I consider my religious obligations to be at an end."

"You hypocrite."

"Introduce me to a man or woman of sense in these troubled times who is not a hypocrite. Have you included Smithfield in your tours around London? Or perhaps you enjoy the pungent odor of roasting human flesh?"

"I thought you simply were helping them, but you're one of them, aren't you? You and Alan both. You’ve joined the Reformers."

"I'm not answerable to you for my personal beliefs. If there's one thing I would fight for, it would be the individual's freedom of conscience. Which edition of the Bible I choose to read is between myself and God."

"Very rational! Then how, pray, do you justify destroying the lives of those who worship differently?"

"'Tis the queen and her priests who are doing that, not I."

"So that makes assassination justifiable? She's a tyrant, so she deserves to die? Even though she’s your crowned and anointed monarch?"

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the boatman who rammed the queen's barge on the river yesterday and nearly flung her into the Thames. A careless accident, supposedly, except that the boatman vanished afterward, and looked suspiciously like one of the Argo's seamen."

Roger's eyes narrowed and his whipcord body tautened further. "I've heard nothing of this. Alix?" He took a step toward her, then abruptly stopped. "Tell me exactly what occurred."

Alexandra was relieved that he seemed ignorant of the event. Thank God! She sank into the elaborately carved armchair behind his massive desk and told him what had happened. By the time she had finished, he was pacing and his face was grim. "Describe the careless boatman." When she had done so, he said, "That sounds like Peters. A vicious little troublemaker whom I personally dismissed a few weeks ago. God's teeth. How very subtle of somebody."

"You dismissed this man? So he's not one of yours, after all?"

"No, although he did work for me for two years. I probably should have rid myself of him sooner than I did. I didn't realize he was harboring a grudge against me. Such men are always dangerous."

She didn't speak. She noted, dispassionately, that her hands were unsteady.

"I take it this wasn't a close thing? There would have been an investigation otherwise."

"I suppose not. It did seem an accident. As an attempt on her life, it was rather inept, especially for you."

"I wasn't behind it."

She looked up, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. "Of course I want to believe you. The only trouble is, at Whitcombe last summer you and Francis Lacklin discussed killing the queen and replacing her with the Lady Elizabeth. And the last time I was here, I heard him proposing a murder."

"A proposition I declined," he reminded her.

"Yes." She paused in silent thought. Her anger had already deflated; face to face with him, she found it impossible to maintain her suspicions. "There's another suspect for this villainy. I would like to believe him guilty, and you blameless, but the things we want most in this world are not always the ones that are true." She looked up, her green eyes imploring him. "Promise me that whatever you and Lacklin are involved in, it doesn't directly threaten the queen. Helping heretics I can understand, perhaps even condone, but regicide is another matter altogether. I can't turn my eyes away from that, I simply can't."

He came and leaned over her, his hands on her shoulders. "This was bound to happen sooner or later. I tried to warn you that your divided loyalties would tear you apart."

"Oh God." She was trembling both from his nearness and her overwrought emotions. "I'm at Mary's side night and day. To me, she's not a symbol of religious tyranny, but a real woman. I don't agree with everything she does, but I've come to care about her, Roger."

"Calm yourself, please." His voice was strained but gentle. "I wasn't behind this plot, but suppose I had been? You owe your allegiance to Mary Tudor, and to fulfill it you would have had to denounce me."

"No." She shook her head vigorously. "That I could never do."

"You could if you felt you were choosing the greater good. Wouldn't you have to place your honor, your integrity, your loyalty to your queen before your fledgling and unrequited love for me?"

"It's not fledgling! And if it were as unrequited as you continue to insist, you'd have found a way to silence me before this. I know too much."

"That's the understatement of the month. Who's your other suspect, as you put it, for yesterday's so-called accident?"

"Geoffrey de Montreau, of course. 'Twas he who called it to my attention, in hopes that I'd blame you. He's always trying to sow mistrust between us." She looked into his troubled eyes. "Which reminds me. How did his sister die?"

He whirled away, pacing. "Oh Christ, Alix, not now."

"Is it true she was expecting your child?"

His face when he turned back to her was controlled and impassive. "Aye, it's true. It’s also true that I lost my temper and frightened her into the miscarriage that killed her. Geoffrey has reason enough to hate me. "

"Is that why you're doing nothing to stop him in his campaign to disgrace and destroy you?"

"You know, Alix, this is a bit odd, coming from you. It has come to my attention that you’ve danced with Geoffrey on multiple occasions. You have even been seen ducking into alcoves with the fellow. He’s a good looking man, and charming when he tries to be. Have you added him to your collection of suitors?"

"Good heavens, no. Are you spying on me?"

"I try to keep informed."

Could he possibly be jealous? The idea was delicious, in a twisted sort of way. Twisted because Geoffrey was absolutely the last man she would ever develop a
tendre
for. He was Roger’s avowed enemy. "Your information can’t be very good if you imagine I could ever be interested in Geoffrey de Montreau as anything other than a serpent who means you harm."

"Serpents have been known to tempt women before."

He
was
jealous. If they had been speaking of anyone other than Geoffrey, she might have teased him a little. It was a rare thing to have an opportunity to exercise her newly-acquired feminine wiles on Roger, who still made her feel like a schoolgirl most of the time where such matters where concerned. But she couldn’t even pretend to feel anything but loathing for Geoffrey. And besides, this was hardly the time for teasing. "The best thing to do with this particular serpent would be to crush him beneath your heel."

He gave a short laugh. "Now you're beginning to sound like Francis. What do you suggest, that I assassinate a member of the embassy of France and start the bloody war single-handedly?"

"What does Francis suggest?"

"Just that. Geoffrey is the man Francis wanted me to kill."

Alexandra felt a surge of relief. Of course! That made sense. "For once I'm tempted to agree with him. Geoffrey must have suborned your former employee and paid him to try to dunk the queen, hoping you would be held responsible."

"Probably, although it seems a trifle inelegant to be one of Geoffrey's plots. Even if the dunking had succeeded, Mary would have quickly been pulled out. You'd have jumped in after her, I have no doubt."

"That's true," she admitted with a grin. "I certainly wouldn't have allowed her to drown."

"With you as her defender, I pity any hapless assassin who targets the queen."

"Seriously, though, about Geoffrey, Francis may be right. That Frenchman is obsessed with you."

"That's all I need: you and Francis in agreement. If he had any idea that you know as much as you do about my messy affairs, he would slit your throat. Francis is touchy about security."

"Very touchy," someone said.

At Alexandra's sharp intake of breath, a figure materialized in the fireplace. It stepped into the room, dusting itself off. Alexandra made the sign against evil. It was either Francis Lacklin himself, or the devil assuming his shape.

"The thing that eavesdroppers so frequently fail to remember is that other people also have ears," said Mr. Lacklin's pleasant voice. "Not to mention opportunities."

Roger moved instantly to place himself between Alexandra and the apparition. His hand had snapped to the dagger at his belt, a gesture that Lacklin grimaced to see.

"You needn't say it," Lacklin said. "I won't touch her. Much as I would like to propose a quick and efficient throat-slitting, I know a sacred object when I see one. Good day to you, Alexandra. It was you in the corridor a couple of months ago, wasn't it? How careless of me not to see through your disguise."

"There's a secret passage to the cellars," Alexandra guessed, staring into the hearth. No wonder there was no fire there. The soot-darkened walls concealed a secret doorway there in the recessed stone of the fireplace. "Will, Roger, and Alan used to play in it as children when their parents brought them to London—I remember their tales about it now." She raised her eyebrows ruefully. "How careless of me to forget."