Love's Labyrinth (14 page)

Olivia burst out laughing as she slid to the floor. “Oh, Allie. I think that would give both of them heart failure.”

“Humph.” Alison rolled her eyes. “If Geoffrey can’t figure out how to get us back, he’s going to wish that’s all he gets.”

They dined by candlelight, even though the light lingered long into the summer evening. A soft breeze blew through the open windows of Geoffrey’s study, making the flames flicker on the creamy white tapers. Nicholas had said he felt it wisest to keep the two women away from as many of the servants as possible, and he had sent his agent, an older man who normally dined with the brothers, off to Canterbury on some pretext of pressing business before his trip.

Olivia watched silently as Geoffrey and Alison discussed the calculations with great animation. She chewed her food carefully, watching her friend’s face. Alison’s cheeks were flushed a delicate pink. Geoffrey’s eyes sparkled, clearly mesmerized by her nimble mind. There could be no doubt that Geoffrey found her the most entrancing woman he’d ever met. Olivia’s gaze shifted, and she happened to meet Nicholas’s eyes. He was watching her, eating as silently and as carefully as she.

“Is the food to your liking?”

His words startled her. “Why, yes,” she managed to say without dropping her bread. “It’s very good.”

“You sound surprised.”

“We are surprised,” said Alison. “In our time we think you all had constant cases of ptomaine poisoning.” She laughed.

Nicholas and Geoffrey exchanged confused looks.

“Toe-main?” asked Geoffrey.

Alison held up a piece of meat. “Like this meat—the perception in our time is that since you didn’t have reliable means to preserve it, it was constantly going bad and making people sick.”

Nicholas wiped his mouth and fingers delicately on his napkin. Both brothers had faultless table manners. Olivia noticed. “It is a problem indeed, mistress—but one that your age has resolved?”

“Oh, yes,” answered Alison.

“Tell me,” said Geoffrey, leaning closer, his eyes alight with curiosity. ‘Tell me, how—”

“Forgive me, Geoffrey.” Nicholas rose to his feet. “There’re matters I must discuss with Mistress Olivia concerning our trip. If you’re finished, mistress, will you join me?”

Olivia picked up her napkin and carefully wiped each finger just as he’d done. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’m quite finished.”

“You don’t mind. Geoffrey?”

“Not at all, not at all.” Geoffrey gave an airy wave. “Please, mistress, pray continue. How is this accomplished?”

Before Alison could launch into a description of modern refrigeration methods, Olivia rose to her feet and slipped out of the room with Nicholas. She gave him a wink as she joined him in the hall. “And I beg your pardon, mistress,” he said as he offered her his arm. “My brother’s constant questions would try the patience of a saint.”

She allowed him to lead her down the stairs into the great hall. “I understand his curiosity. He’s accomplished something quite amazing, all things considered.”

“Hm.” For a moment, Nicholas looked grim. “Will you walk with me, mistress?”

She nodded assent, and he led her out of the hall and into the gardens once more. The summer twilight had darkened into a wash of deep purples and violets and pinks across the sky, and the stars were beginning to twinkle over their heads. Without the interference of artificial light, they looked like fairy dust sprinkled over silk. A hush had descended over the gardens, and the night air was warm. Insects chirped steadily, and from the wide beds of flowering shrubs and herbs, a sweet, grassy scent arose, warm and green. Olivia breathed deeply. There was so much here that was truly beautiful—no wonder Nicholas loved his home so much. And unlike the Talcott Forest she’d seen at the end of the twentieth century, this Talcott Forest had a homey, lived-in feeling to it that was totally different from the cold sterility of the future.

“First of all,” he said without preamble, “I want to apologize for the way Sir John behaved towards you today. It’s my fault—I forgot he was coming, and I suppose it wasn’t prudent of me to allow you to walk about in the garden dressed”—he paused and ran his eyes over her “dressed the way you are.”

“What about now, then?” she asked, the hint of a smile playing on her mouth. He was so obviously torn between his desire to play the good host and his discomfort with the whole unbelievable situation. But was it really that? A little pulse beat a rapid tattoo at his neck.

“No one’s about now,” he replied. “But—Sir John was wrong to speak to you as he did. I want to assure you that despite what you may believe, I do
not
think of you as a woman of loose morals, and neither should anyone else.”

“Thank you.”

They walked a little farther in silence, and then Nicholas said, “He was here to speak to me about a betrothal with his daughter.”

“Oh?” She waited.

“Patience.”

Olivia waited, and, when he did not continue, asked, “Patience?”

“That’s her name. Patience.”

“Ah.” She wondered, fleetingly, why he was telling her, and why he seemed to struggle so with the words. “Lord Nicholas, please—you need not explain yourself. I understand that Sir John had no idea of the real situation. And I suppose that, given the mores of this time, I
do
appear somewhat—startling.”

He laughed, and she was startled to hear how deep and rich his laughter was. “Indeed, mistress. The fact of it is that, Puritan that Sir John might be, he’s rich—rich with an only daughter, who, while she may be skinny as her father, and half as toothsome, is yet considered by many to be a great catch.” He paused. “You understand me?”

It was her turn to laugh. “Yes, indeed.”

“Sir John,” he went on, his tone growing serious, “has long desired the Talcott lands—what’s left of them,” he finished with a bitter twist of his lips. “He offered to buy them some time ago while my father yet was living, and just a few years ago, there was a dispute over the property lines. But now, now that his daughter’s come of marriageable age, he’s found a new way to acquire the lands—he thinks.”

“Will Sir John make trouble for you, since he saw me dressed the way I am?”

Nicholas shrugged. “I doubt it. I find I care little what he thinks in general, and even less what he thinks of you.”

“And what will you do? About his daughter? Will he still allow you to marry her?”

Nicholas drew a deep breath. “In truth, mistress, at one point, I found the idea tempting. The prospect of a rich wife is not one to be spurned lightly. But…” he hesitated.

“But?” Olivia prompted.

“I do not think after today there will be any more conversations with Sir John.”

An odd feeling shivered through her. What on earth could this mean to you, she asked herself. So he’s not going to marry some skinny Puritan wench with an insufferable father. What’s that to you? “Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?” she asked, choosing her words with care.

He paused in midstride and swung her around to face him. In the falling dark, his eyes were difficult to see, but his tone of voice was solemn. “If all goes in Calais as I hope it will, mistress, then I’ll be able to be a bit more selective when it comes to wives—rich or not.”

The full August moon hung like a round silver coin over the rooftops of London as Christopher Warren slipped into the side door of a large town house. The servant who admitted him wordlessly indicated the stairway with just a nod. Warren silently slipped up the narrow flight of stairs to the heavy oak door on the upper floor.

“Enter,” a voice said at his knock.

“My Lord.” Warren sank upon one knee before his master. The room was deep in shadow, but for the single pool of yellow light cast by the lone candle on the desk.

Walsingham did not pause in his writing. “Master Warren.”

“All is in readiness, my lord.”

“You’re sure you have the right man?”

“Beyond all shadow of a doubt, my lord.”

“Good.” Walsingham paused long enough to shake sand across the surface of the parchment. He waited a moment, then emptied the sand into a container on the desk. He folded the parchment, poured a bit of wax on the edge, and sealed it with his ring. “Take this message to my Lord Cecil. Assure him that every precaution’s been taken, and that I will personally deliver the plans as soon as we have them from the traitor.”

“Lord Cecil knows you’d rather die yourself than let any harm come to Her Majesty,” Warren said as he got to his feet. He took the parchment and slipped it into his shirt.

“Of course he does,” answered Walsingham, taking up his quill and a fresh sheet of parchment. “It’s everyone else who must be reminded.” With a pointed look that inexplicably chilled Warren’s bones, he turned back to his writing.

The London streets were crowded with people hurrying home in all directions. Warren slipped out of the same side door and joined the general throng of humanity hurrying through the crowded streets. Just before he reached Bishopsgate, he paused as someone jostled his arm. Before he knew it, a pickpocket was taking off down the street, the precious parchment clutched in his hand. Warren swore beneath his breath and took off after the urchin. The packet had no value at all—the idiot boy must be desperate not to realize that he held no treasure. Slipping and sliding through the muck and filth that filled the streets, he dashed after the shadowy runaway. The boy was just about to tear around a corner and down a dark alley, when a tall shape reached out, grabbed the lad by the scruff of the neck, and shook him. Warren came running up and joined them.

The man handed Warren the packet, and Warren stared up into the mild eyes of a tall young man whose face seemed familiar. “Here you are, sir.” His rescuer spoke with a thick Warwickshire accent.

Warren took in the high forehead, the thick hair combed neatly back beneath a fiat wool cap, the smooth, clean-shaven face, and judged the man to be about twenty. He narrowed his eyes. There was something familiar about this young man, something that rang a bell. He’d seen this face before, he knew he had. “Thank you,” he said, pocketing the packet securely. “And you—”

He raised his arm to cuff the boy, who still struggled to get away, but the young man raised his other arm and blocked Warren’s blow. “Now, now, no need for that. He got nothing for his trouble, did you, lad?” He gave the boy a little shake and set him free. “Off with you,” he said as the boy took off with the speed of a greased cat.

Warren stared at the younger man. “Why’d you do that?”

“He didn’t get away with anything,” answered the young man, who returned Warren’s most formidable glare with such a good-natured smile Warren wondered if the young man were simple.

Warren was about to reply when two more young men rounded the corner. “Will!” the taller one called. “Will Shakespeare! We’ve been looking all over for you—Marlowe’s announced a new play.”

The young man glanced over his shoulder and turned back to Warren. “A pleasant evening to you, sir.” He tugged at his cap and loped away, leaving Warren fuming under his breath and wishing all players consigned to the bottom of the sea.

THE DAY OF departure dawned fair and promising, after a late-night storm that finally brought relief from the oppressive humidity of the past few days. Olivia woke up next to Alison and lay quietly, listening to Alison’s gentle breathing, and wondering what the day would bring. Her traveling costume was laid out on the table and chairs; at the foot of the bed, a small black trunk held the rest of her clothes. She’d been amazed that old Janet, with the aid of three seamstresses commandeered from the closest village, had been able to produce the amount of clothing that they had, in such a short period of time. Of course, the clothes had all been those that had originally belonged to Nicholas’s mother, so the major part of the work—the laying out of the patterns and the cutting of the fabrics, as well as most of the sewing—had already been accomplished. But there had been a great deal of fitting and refurbishing, and Olivia had watched in wonder as the four women had turned old Lady Talcott’s clothing into three serviceable dresses that fit her perfectly.

Beside her, Alison sighed softly and turned over, snuggling deeper into her pillow. She’d spent the greater part of the last three days closeted in Geoffrey’s study, going over his calculations and the layout of the maze. She hadn’t seemed any happier to be here, but at least she had something to occupy her time. And the two of them seemed well suited in some odd way, thought Olivia, despite their disparate backgrounds. Geoffrey was intensely interested in everything Alison could tell him about life in the twentieth century, from politics to clothing styles. From what Olivia could tell, the two of them never stopped talking.