Margaret Moore (21 page)

“You cannot think I would be glad to hear a recitation of old tittle-tattle, and I am quite sure my husband had an excellent reason for not telling me these incredible tales, which are surely unfounded speculation, if not outright lies,” she replied sternly as a surge of protective determination came over her. “Everyone knows how servants talk.”

She paid no heed to the shocked expression on Mr. Sedgemore’s thin face. “Naturally you will not repeat these things.”

“I have heard Sir John himself condemn both your husband’s parents for licentious behavior.”

“I should also remind you that my husband is known to have dueled over matters much less personal to him than this. I daresay it would be best if you did not repeat such hearsay and innuendo, lest he take offense.”

Mr. Sedgemore tried to look wounded, but he didn’t fool her for an instant. “I only mentioned these things for your sake.”

“And I would not speak of them again if I were you—for
your
sake.”

“Am I to assume, then, that you care about my safety?”

“Of course I do. I would hate to have anybody killed over gossip.” She rose and gave him her most empty, insincere smile. “Good day, Mr. Sedgemore.”

With every appearance of friendly concern on his weasel-like face, Alfred Sedgemore approached Richard in the Nag’s Head Tavern in Owston that night. “Why, my lord, what brings you here this evening?”

Richard had already imbibed one whole bottle of cheap plonk trying to restore some measure of emotional equanimity after his confrontation with Elissa that day, and was well on his way to completing a second.

His drinking was in no way intended to lessen his shame or subdue his unhappy memories, because he already knew that was ineffectual.

“I’m getting drunk,” he replied, blearily regarding his interrogator, and not aware of just how greatly slurred his speech was.

Instead, he attributed Sedgemore’s confused expression to the dolt’s lack of intelligence.

Sedgemore took a seat opposite him.

“When I decide to get drunk,” Richard grumbled, “I prefer to do so without company.”

Sedgemore’s response was a ferrety little
grin as he leaned forward and softly inquired, “Unlike your dear mother?”

Richard lunged across the table and grabbed the lout by the throat, not caring that the tavern was filled with farm laborers finished with the work of the day. His only concern was shutting the man’s mouth.

“I’d keep quiet, if I were you,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

“You are making quite a scene, but I daresay that’s second nature to a playwright,” Sedgemore gasped, glancing around the room.

Richard tried to focus on the other customers in the taproom, but they all blended into a staring, openmouthed mass. Even in his current condition, he realized Sedgemore was unfortunately right, and hurting the fellow would surely give rise to more rumors and speculation. He loosed his hold and sank back onto his bench. “Shut your mouth and go away.”

“You cannot order me about like a lackey.”

“I can warn you … as a neighbor.”

“Perhaps I should be warning
you,
neighbor, that you had better treat me with more deference, or I might tell your lovely wife what I know.”

Dread washed over Richard, sobering him slightly.

He must dominate himself and his emotions. He must show nothing. He must reveal nothing. He must hide his shame and fear and
anger as he always had when his family was mentioned. “What do you know about my parents?”

“I would rather not repeat it, and certainly not in a public place.”

“Indulge me,” Richard growled.

“It is getting late in the day.”

Richard splayed his hands on the table and leaned close, so that he was nose to nose with Sedgemore, all the force of his intense personality brought to bear on the man before him. “Tell me!”

Sedgemore gulped, then looked about. Perhaps seeing safety in numbers, he answered, albeit in a whisper. “There have been tales of scandalous behavior.”

“What kind of scandalous behavior?”

“Surely you cannot wish me to go into details?”

“My mother died when I was nine years old and my father when I was sixteen. They were never saints to me before their deaths, so I think there is very little you could say that would shock me.”

As for what Elissa would think, he could not bear to consider it.

“I have heard of … things … happening in the Banqueting House.”

“Come, man, have I not made myself clear? Do not dissemble. What
things?”

“I’m sure you know very well.”

He did.

Sedgemore’s lips twisted into a scornful smile. “Your lovely and somewhat innocent wife might like to hear how your mother died.”

“My mother died of a fever.”

“Oh no, my lord and good friend of the king. She died of a disease commonly associated with whores, coupled with the effects of drink.”

Richard crossed his arms. “A very interesting fairy tale based on no evidence.”

Sedgemore seemed unmoved and unafraid, a confirmation Richard hated to see. “I have evidence. I had it from her physician, a very good friend of your dear departed mama, as so many men were.”

Richard felt as if stone filled his stomach, for he did remember the doctor. He was a small, scrawny runt of a man who came whenever his mother summoned him, and then stayed an inordinate amount of time. “I fail to see how this information would please my wife.”

“I do not think of pleasing her with tales of your family. I think of warning her.”

He was only thinking of it; obviously, he had not yet spoken of these things to Elissa. His secrets were still safe.

“You are a most solicitous fellow,” Richard remarked. Then his eyes narrowed. “If you are scheming to drive a wedge between us, I would council you to take care.”

Sedgemore rose and looked down at Richard
with another smug, triumphant smile. “Somehow, I begin to think I may not have to do anything. I perceive you might do it yourself without assistance, wallowing in a tavern while a beautiful woman waits for you at home. If all is well between you, what are you doing here?”

Richard slowly rose and put his hand on his fine sword. Then he grinned a grin that his enemies in London would have recognized—and feared.

“If you are a wise man, Mr. Sedgemore, which is something I very much doubt, you will say not one word about my mother or my father to another living soul.”

Sedgemore’s eyes widened with very real fear before he stumbled backward, turned, and hurried from the tavern.

Richard went back to his wine, certain the cowardly Sedgemore’s silence was now safely assured.

W
hen the lights shining through the windows of Blythe Hall appeared in the darkness, Richard halted the mare. It was extremely tempting to find a convenient haystack and slumber till dawn. That way, he wouldn’t have to face Elissa and explain where he had been, or why he had been there.

Nor would he have to decide whether or not to tell Elissa about his childhood.

It would be easier, he supposed, if he had learned to put the demons of his past behind him, and he had dared to hope that he had—until he had come home and seen the Banqueting House.

He gazed at it now, standing nearly hidden by the trees.

Clenching his jaw with sudden determination, he dismounted, leading the horse toward a low branch. He looped the rein over it. The scent of the dew-damp trees and grass
filled his nostrils. As always, that smell took him back to that other night, when he had awakened from a dream and gone searching for his mother.

Despite the memories, he walked toward the small building, then stopped before the wooden door, trembling like a dog scenting danger.

I could go there now, he told himself. His parents were long dead and buried. Food for worms. Dust. Their souls roasting in hell, without a doubt.

He pushed at the door. It easily gave way, scraping open over the dirty wooden floor. Taking a deep breath, he did something he had never before dared to do.

He stepped inside.

The moonlight streaming in through the tall windows clearly illuminated the interior.

He instantly realized that almost nothing had changed. The heavy table that had held fruit and carafes of wine still stood in the center. Around the walls were the same low couches, their upholstery now rotting from damp and mildew. Plaster was tearing away from the walls, exposing the brick beneath. Under his feet, the floor creaked and groaned. He would have to watch where he stepped, otherwise he might go right through.

He took another step further inside and noted the sagging, water-stained draperies.

“Could you not have closed them?” he muttered as he started to make a slow progress around the room.

He spotted something behind one of the couches and pulled it out.

It was a large framed portrait, of all things, with not so much as a sheet to protect it. He carried it to the table and set it down, then stared at the face looking back at him.

Who was it? Richard wracked his brain trying to remember, for there was something vaguely familiar about the middle-aged man’s full lips, slightly drooping eyes, and arrogant expression.

Unmindful of mildew or the possible presence of mice, Richard sat on a couch, then closed his eyes and leaned back so that his head rested against the wall as he tried to remember.

The answer finally came to him. This man had visited Blythe Hall before his mother died. To be sure, he had been young then, and this portrait was of a man later in life, but Richard was quite sure it was the same person whose name he could not recall.

Of course, that was not so surprising. Many men had visited Blythe Hall and sported with his mother. He should be impressed he could remember one face out of the multitude.

That did not explain the presence of this picture. Surely his father would not be likely to keep a portrait of one of his wife’s lovers.

Richard sighed wearily.

Maybe he would.

When next Richard opened his eyes, sunlight, not moonlight, shone through the windows. He sat up stiffly and slowly, every muscle aching in protest at sleeping on the tattered couch.

The next sight to meet his eyes was the portrait, the man’s scornful face seeming to laugh at Richard’s sorry state.

Richard tore his gaze from the face and surveyed the interior of the Banqueting House in the light of day.

It looked even more decrepit.

“Richard!”

He started and turned toward the door to see Will standing on the threshold, surveying the Banqueting House with wide, curious eyes.

“Get out!” Richard cried, jumping to his feet.

Will didn’t move, apparently too stunned or scared to flee.

Richard reminded himself that Will didn’t know what had gone on in this place.

“I’m sorry to scare you,” he said in as calm a voice as he could manage, “but the floor is rotting. It is not safe.”

Will relaxed a little. “But you are inside,” he noted gravely.

“That is how I know the floor is rotting,”
Richard explained as he straightened his disheveled clothes. “What hour of the day is it?”

“Just after breakfast.” Will’s brow furrowed. “Did you sleep here?”

“I fell asleep in here,” Richard admitted.

“Really?” Will said eagerly. “I’ve always wanted to sleep here just for one night, but Mama won’t let me. I’m not even supposed to—”

He fell silent and flushed as he stared at the floor.

“She doesn’t let you come in here at all, I daresay, and now you know why. It is dangerous.”

“Yes,” Will mumbled.

Richard raked his hands through his unkempt hair. “You have eaten, then?”

“Yes.”

“Has your mother?”

“I don’t know.”

“I hope my absence didn’t worry her.” Richard was not pleased that he was resorting to seeking information from Will, but he was anxious to know what Elissa might be thinking.

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps you will join me anyway?” Richard asked. “I am famished. And I could tell you about the pirates I saw in London once.”

“Oh, would you?”

“They were a very bloodthirsty-looking band of men, I assure you.”

“I wouldn’t be scared!”

Richard went to the table and picked up the portrait. “I found this last night. I daresay your mother has a good reason for keeping it here.”

He glanced at the picture again—then almost dropped it as he recalled the disgusted expression that had been on Will’s face that day in London when he learned Richard was a writer and not a soldier.

The man in the portrait was William Longbourne.

Richard’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the portrait of Will’s late father. “Do you know who this is?”

“No.”

Odd that of all places she might have stored it, she had chosen this one. Could it be that she knew of her husband’s past decadent activities there? Had he told her? Had he told her everything he had done there, and with whom?

Had he been guarding his secrets unnecessarily?

He realized Will was staring at him curiously. “It has occurred to me, Will, that your mother must have her reasons for wanting this portrait where it was,” he said as he put it back where he had found it. “It may be presumptuous of me to move it without discussing the matter first. Come, let us get something to eat.”

Together they left the Banqueting House.

“Oh, here comes Mama now,” Will announced, pointing across the lawn. His voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “I think she must be looking for us.”

Never in his entire life had Richard Blythe felt more like fleeing than he did on this fine morning as Elissa walked toward them over the lawns of his family estate.

And then, a miracle happened.

She smiled at him. A wary, tentative smile to be sure, but a smile nonetheless, and in that instant, he felt so relieved, his legs grew weak and he almost sank to the ground.

But he could not be truly relieved until he ascertained if that portrait was indeed William Longbourne, why it was in the Banqueting House, and most important of all, how much she knew about his parents.