The Lady Series (48 page)

Not ten minutes later there was a rap at his open bedchamber door. Jamie’s teeth clenched. Sleep or no sleep, he wasn’t ready to face anyone.

“Go away, Tom,” he snarled, not needing to look to know who it was.

“My pardon, Master James,” his man replied, “but you've a letter. It came by messenger with the dawn.”

That brought Jamie upright in a hurry. Still wearing naught but his shirt and breeches, Tom crossed the room to hand his master a fold of paper. Jamie flipped it over to read Percy’s seal imprinted in the wax. Both the timing of the letter and its lack of bulk said this wasn’t his uncle’s usual reports on court doings. If Percy was sending a separate letter, something of great moment had happened.

“Sir Edward got his own missive by the same delivery,” Tom said. “The note caused quite a stir in the gatehouse. The porter told me Sir Edward started shouting then his manservant came running in naught but his nightshirt to demand ink and quill.”

“Fetch my bed robe for me, will you?” Jamie asked as he rose.

With a nod, Tom padded across the room to retrieve the garment from its wall peg. He helped Jamie shrug into it then took a backward step. “If there’s nothing else, Master James, I'll go dress now.”

Jamie nodded. Tom echoed the movement then turned for the door. Something twinged deep in Jamie.

“I hear you intend to wed,” he called after his man.

Tom whirled, his brows lifted in surprise. A slow grin, as if Jamie’s interest somehow pleased him, split his face. “Aye, so I do, Master James. It's been many the year in planning, with another year or so before I’ve finally enough saved to see my way to it.”

Jamie cleared his throat. “Who is the fortunate woman?” His attempt at conversation sounded stilted, false.

Tom’s smile grew. “Moll Wright, the harness maker’s youngest. Her da's getting older and could use another hand in his shop now that it seems her brother won't recover all his strength after an illness last year. Since my own sire was a tanner, I'm not without the skills needed to take his place,” he said with a shrug. “But I won’t join them until I’ve coin enough to buy my portion of the shop, free and clear.”

Pride dimmed into chagrin. “Not that I'm happy to leave you, Master James. You’ve been as good a master as any man could want. It's just that Moll won’t have me if I remain in service.”

Jamie's heart sank into a bed of irony. He’d been so self-absorbed he had no idea Tom even considered leaving him. He forced a smile.

“If that's the case then I feel fortunate to have kept you as long as I have. Tell your darling I said she’s a lucky woman.”

Across the room Tom frowned. His eyes darkened in concern as he studied his master. “Thank you, Master James. Are you feeling well this morn?” he asked.

The question startled Jamie. “Well enough,” he replied. “Why?”

“It's nothing,” Tom replied.

Once his servant had exited the bedchamber, Jamie turned to the hidden panel. As was his wont he entered without knocking. Nick and his stepdaughter were at the far side of the room. Lucy was peering from bedchamber to sitting room.

“It's a terrible mess in there,” she was saying. “I think it needs a good cleaning.”

Jamie’s mouth quirked. “She’s a perceptive child, she is,” he called in announcement.

Nick shot his steward a narrow look from over his shoulder. “I don't hear her offering to clean it,” he said.

In the doorway Lucy turned with an excited jump. “May I?” she pleaded. “Brigit says I'll be a good wife. I'm already wondrous careful at tending my own things.”

Sharp discomfort shot through Nick's gaze at the thought of a child sorting through his precious mess. Jamie smiled and crossed his arms, waiting to see how Nick would slither his way out of this. “Would you like to see the family of swans that nests beneath my window?” the soon-to-be lord of Graceton asked his stepdaughter.

The distraction worked. Lucy dashed across the room. “Where?” she cried, clambering into the casement.

Rather than answer her, Nick sent his steward a questioning look.

Jamie held up the fold of paper. “We've a note from Percy. It arrived only moments ago by royal messenger along with a message for Sir Edward.”

The significance of this wasn’t lost on Graceton’s master. “What does he write?” he demanded. Although Nick read well enough, he preferred Jamie to scan all correspondence first and sift the vital from the mundane.

Jamie broke the letter's seal. His gaze slipped over the words. “Percy says the queen is in high dudgeon. With tears and much begging for her mercy, the earl of Leicester has admitted to aiding Norfolk in his plot to marry the Scots queen.

“Huh,” Jamie said, scanning the passage once again, seeking what Percy hadn’t said in its lines. “Why should the duke of Norfolk form an alliance with Leicester, when none of the nobles have any liking for the queen's lover?”

Nick loosed a quiet laugh at that. “If I were to hazard a guess, it would be because the duke believed Leicester could use his influence with Elizabeth to make her accept the marriage. Read on,” he commanded. “I'm waiting to hear if there's anything in what he writes that can somehow free me of”-he caught himself and glanced at the child in the window-”this ceremony.”

Jamie did as he was bid, paraphrasing Percy’s flowery style. “It seems the queen was waiting for the duke of Norfolk to confess that he courted Mary Stuart in defiance of her command, something Norfolk refuses to do even though few courtiers now dare even to be seen with him for fear of royal rage.”

“Good,” Nick said. “This means Elizabeth's anger is firmly fixed in another direction, leaving Sir Edward beyond the scope of her vengeance.”

“Hardly so,” Jamie replied swiftly. “What Percy writes means matters are even worse for Sir Edward, and by extension, for us. If the courtiers are shunning Norfolk, the most powerful man in our country, how do you wager they'll treat a simple knight like Sir Edward for his involvement in that same plot?”

Understanding flickered through Nick's gaze and all hope of escaping his marriage died. “Fearing he'll lose all connection and favor at court, Sir Edward will redouble his efforts to save himself,” he breathed, “much to my detriment. What has Percy written there?” He pointed to the back of the message.

Startled, Jamie flipped the letter over. There were a few scrawled lines, no doubt added after the first message had been completed. He skimmed the words then grimaced.

“The northern barons have left court, despite that Elizabeth bade them stay. Their excuse is that they cannot tolerate the crowding of her summer progress.”

Despair darkened Nick’s green eyes. He turned his head, staring past Lucy to the countryside that spread out beneath his window as if he could see all the way to England's north country. “They mean to do it,” he murmured. “With all hope of Norfolk's marriage to Mary Stuart dead, they go home to raise their shires in rebellion. There will be war, Jamie, civil war.”

When Nick again looked at his steward, his gaze was haunted. It was the possibility that Northumberland would send another letter to Graceton, begging his fellow Catholic for aid that worried him now. “What can I do to be rid of this knight?” he almost pleaded. “Can we stage this wedding any sooner?”

Jamie shook his head. “Not unless some news arrives that makes Sir Edward more frantic to return to court than to save his skin. As long as he believes his redemption lies here, he’s not likely to rush his departure.”

Panic gleamed in Nick's gaze. “Less than thirty days,” he said. “Surely we can keep him at bay for that long. Send him hunting in my chase. Let him bring his hawks. Do whatever it takes to keep the knight away from here for as much of each day as is possible.”

Jamie raised his hands in resignation. “I'll do my best.”

A sharp rap on the apartment's door thundered in the silence. Startled, Nick turned. “Who can that be?”

“Only the lady or one of her servants,” Jamie replied in newborn irritation. No one else would have bothered knocking on Nick's door. After ten years Graceton’s servants knew to channel all communication for their squire through Jamie, or Tom, should the steward be unavailable.

“I'll not have strangers in my quarters,” Nick warned as he set a hand upon Lucy's shoulder.

Jamie almost smiled. Apparently Nick no longer considered the child a stranger.

Jamie threaded his way through Nick’s sitting room. Whoever it was dared to tap again, this time with more strength. Irritation flared higher. Not even Lady Purfoy had the right to intrude upon her husband so.

He opened the door. Day's light tumbled in, the newborn sun's heat enough to stir dust on the unswept floor. It was Mistress Atwater. Dark rings, no doubt the result of last night's late meal, clung beneath the governess's eyes. She wore a black doublet, no doubt because its front buttons let her dress herself, and but a single green skirt. No farthingale disturbed its line.

As Jamie stepped into the gallery the woman leaned to the side, trying to peer past him into Nick's quarters. Here was bold behavior indeed! Jamie closed the panel firmly behind him.

“Good morrow Mistress Atwater,” he said, letting his cold tone serve as a chide for her untoward curiosity.

“Good morrow Master Steward,” she replied with a quick bob. The flicker of her gaze took in his bed robe, bristling beard and the hair that must be standing up on his head. “My pardon if I roused you.”

“You didn’t,” he said, only now noticing the nervous wringing of her hands. It softened the steel in his voice. “Have no fear. Mistress Purfoy is safe within, visiting with her stepfather.”

“Aye, so I’m told,” she said.

If she knew, then she’d stepped far over the bounds in daring to knock upon the squire's door.

She drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Master Wyatt, I mean no disrespect, but Mistress Lucy cannot stay with Squire Hollier this morn. 'Tis Sunday, the day we spend in prayer and quiet contemplation of our Lord. Perhaps she can visit with the squire another time?”

“Mistress Lucy will return to the nursery once she’s broken her fast with the squire,” Jamie said firmly. “From now on, please arrange the child’s day so that she spends at least an hour in the squire's company. Early morning or evening would be best. If your lady finds fault with this she may send her complaints to me.”

Turning, Jamie reentered Nick's apartment, shutting the door firmly behind him as a chide to the young woman’s boldness.

In the bedchamber the window was now open. Nick sat in the casement with Lucy on his lap as they leaned out to peer down at the river. Jamie smiled, remembering a portrait of Nick, done before the accident. It revealed that Graceton’s squire had once been as handsome a lad as Lucy was pretty. They could have been father and daughter.

“Well now, the swans are usually right there,” Nick said as he straightened, carefully drawing the child back inside the opening. “I wonder where they've gotten to?”

Lucy smiled up into her stepfather’s scarred face. “Maybe they're yet asleep?” she suggested. Her tone was reassuring, as if she didn't want him to worry because he hadn’t provided the promised entertainment. “It's still very early.”

Something tugged in Jamie's heart. Nick really could use someone new with whom to pass his time. What if Cecily was right and affection for a child could make a man stronger in his health? The hope that Lucy’s presence would buy Nick a little more time grew then waged war on what the child's presence would surely cost him.

At last, he sighed. Just as he'd always known he would, he gave way. Lucy had herself a stepfather's proxy.

Standing at the center of the gatehouse's residence, Ned waited for his manservant to finish tying the last of the ribbons decorating his doublet. A full week had passed since they’d learned of Leicester’s betrayal. All was lost and not just because the earl hadn’t the courage to actually do as he claimed he could and convince Elizabeth to accept Norfolk’s marriage plans.

“There,” his man said, patting at the last perfect bow.

Dick Backler paused to admire his work. Although twice Ned's age the man looked no more than a score and ten. The servant's attire was as carefully put together as the knight's; not a dark hair was out of place.

“Once again Sir Edward, you put these yokels to shame. By God, this is a backward place. I'll not regret putting it in our dust.”

Hopelessness closed around Ned like a cloak. “You speak as if we’ve somewhere to go after we leave here. We don’t. At this very instant my name is being tossed about court like some tennis ball by those intent on ruining my repute while I’m trapped here unable to share a word in my own defense. I'll be fortunate if my own brother looks me in the eye by the time they're finished, much less that Elizabeth ever smiles on me again.”

A frown touched the man's forehead then disappeared. Dick didn’t tolerate creases of any sort. “None of that Sir Edward. You know court. Things change from day to day, tides sweeping one faction out to bring in a new one. Stay steady in your course. It’s not much you need to restore what you may or may not have lost. Remind yourself that however royal she might be, Her Majesty is still a woman.”

Dick filled the word with scorn. The servant despised all females.

“Easily said,” Ned cried, panic again nibbling at his soul, “but it's hard to hold tight to hope. Who could have known that so fervent a Catholic as Squire Hollier would suggest a Protestant ceremony? Or that so strict a Protestant as Lady Purfoy would be so flexible?”

“One wrong word,” Dick insisted, his tone reassuring. “That's all you need to race back to court and voice your complaints, embellishing them as you may. It'll be up to the squire to explain himself.”

“There's nothing here to use,” Ned complained. “Hell take me, but the wedding plans grind steadily forward as if this were the happiest of matches not a union forced down the throats of a hostile bride and groom.”

Dick's gaze narrowed, just a little. “It'd be best for our futures if you stopped panicking.”

Ned jerked at the reminder. Unlike that which bound other men to their servants, there was no loyalty in this relationship; Dick’s only connection to him was in their shared desire to rise to the pinnacle of their respective classes. Two years ago it had seemed a fair bargain. Dick’s skill with fashion combined with Ned's native charm had resulted in him catching his queen's eye and reaping royal favor's benefits at a very young age. Now that same ambition meant Dick would be the first man to abandon him if Ned were banished from Elizabeth's presence.

His servant strode to the oriel and threw open the window. The sounds of the castle's servantry gathered in the yard below flowed up into their chambers. “Ah, the lady is already in the yard,” he called over his shoulder. “Just as you thought, she’s brought Mistress Atwater with her.”

Turning, he offered his master a small smile. “I can’t imagine why you fret over failure when success lies within your grasp even as we speak. You want to search the steward's office? Ask Mistress Atwater. That saucy bit would betray anyone and anything if you offered her a kiss.”

Anger roared through Ned. How dare this servant speak so about Brigit! Surprise replaced anger. Lord save him, but when had he become fond of the governess?

With this discovery everything became that much more complex. How was he supposed to use a woman he cared for, knowing that what he asked her to do would destroy her? Then again, what choice had he?

Dressed in her everyday attire, a set of pale blue skirts and a bodice of darker blue with a gray cap upon her head, Belle sat just outside Graceton's garden. A canvas canopy had been raised to shade her, and Peg and Brigit along with her, from the day's uncertain sun. They were supposed to be making love knots, twists of ribbon that would decorate Belle's best attire on her wedding day. Not a length of ribbon had been tied these last minutes. Instead, they all watched Lucy.

Belle’s precious child was wearing her brown traveling attire, renamed her riding habit, and was perched atop the smallest mare in Squire Hollier's stable. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the reins. A frown of fierce concentration creased her brow as she listened to her instructions.

Master James, dressed in the sleeveless brown doublet and black breeches that Belle now recognized as his daily attire, stood alongside Lucy's horse. Despite scudding clouds that made the day blink from dark to light, his hair gleamed a burnished bronze. The fine crinkles around his eyes told her he was pleased by the effort Lucy was making.

A tiny flame woke in a hidden corner of her heart. She should have known it would be Graceton's steward who fulfilled her daughter's dearest dream. That flame grew until it consumed her. May the Lord forgive her, but she couldn’t help it. She loved Master James for it, just as she loved him for not allowing her to take blame for their kiss.

Just as she loved him for all the times he'd rescued her and shielded her from hurt.

Not that Squire Hollier hadn't been caring. Belle looked up at the gallery windows. The squire sat in the oriel nearest the hall, swathed in a thick robe, his face hidden beneath his mask. He'd come to watch her daughter’s lesson. According to Watt and John, it was the first time in their memory that Graceton's master had been out of his chamber during daylight hours.

Although Belle was grateful for the way Squire Hollier had taken Lucy into his heart, no love stirred in her for him. Her gaze returned to Master James. His steward, on the other hand, did want her. She knew because he'd told her so both with words and his body on that night they’d kissed.

“Lead her out to the center of the yard, Old Will,” Master James said.

Gray-haired, his back bent with his years, the groom led the plodding mare across the grass. Whistles and calls of encouragement rose from the kitchen wall. A goodly number of servants were gathered there, no doubt come to see their reclusive squire.

“Now Mistress Lucy,” Master James called, “make her walk.”

Lucy's little heels struck the horse’s sides. With a snort of complaint the mare managed to lift her hooves into a slow walk. The lass squealed in exhilaration.

“Look at me! I’m riding by myself!” she shouted to all and sundry then waved to her stepfather in the window. He raised a gloved hand in response.

Beside Belle, Brigit drew a sharp breath. “Lord, keep her safe in Your heart,” she murmured.

Again, Belle hid her smile. Brigit didn’t care much for horses. Belle, on the other hand, hadn’t forgotten the wondrous rush of freedom that came from pounding through the woods atop a massive beast. Indeed, it was only while riding that she ever felt truly strong and in control.

Lucy completed several circles. “I think you’ve mastered that direction,” Master James told her. “Can you turn her and go the other way?”

Belle's hands closed around imaginary reins. Moving them as if she were guiding the horse, she willed Lucy to do the same. In the yard, the mare snorted and turned, now bearing toward them.

With a laugh, Belle clapped her approval. “You’ve done it, love,” she called.

Lucy beamed then looked beyond her mother. “Watch me, Sir Edward!” she shouted.

Startled, Belle shifted on her stool and looked toward the gatehouse. Both the knight and his manservant stood there, observing the lesson. Today Sir Edward wore a tawny doublet trimmed with ribbons, each tied in a meticulous bow.

The knight grinned then lifted a hand in a friendly wave. “I see you, little one,” he called back. “You’re doing well indeed.”

Belle straightened in surprise. She’d assumed the knight's dislike for her extended to her child. At his show of kindness toward her daughter Belle considered there might be more to the man than a single-minded determination to ruin her life.

“A little faster,” Master James called.

“Oh nay,” Brigit cried softly, her fists clenched in her sewing project. “She shouldn’t go faster, she's too small. What if she falls?” Turning on her stool, she looked at Belle. “Please, my lady, I cannot bear to watch. Might I walk in the garden until this is finished?”

Belle swallowed her laughter. “Aye, go,” she said, then turned her gaze back to Lucy as her daughter kicked the old mare into a trot.

Not but ten revolutions later Richard appeared beside Belle, a worrisome tension in his shoulders.

“What is it, Richard?” Belle asked.

“My lady, I beg your pardon for intruding,” he said, then paused. His mouth opened and closed several times as if in speech, but nothing passed his lips. Sadness shot through his gaze followed by a flash of some darker emotion then he cleared his throat. “I thought I should tell you Sir Edward followed Mistress Atwater into the garden.”

Hot color scorched his cheeks. “What am I doing?” he murmured to himself then began to back away from her. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I’ve misspoken when it's none of my concern.”

“Nay Richard,” Belle commanded gently, even though he was right about it being none of his concern. Had it been any other man speaking to her about any other situation, she’d have roundly scolded him for his boldness. But this was Richard, the man who'd not only seen her safely to this place but bolstered her confidence every step of the way. It was a substantial debt she owed him.

“Thank you for your warning,” she said, coming to her feet and putting a hand on Peg's shoulder. “Trust us. We'll see no harm comes to her.”

“That’s all I intended,” he whispered as if to assure himself of his motives.

Whirling, he strode rapidly away. Belle watched him go. For Richard to overstep the bounds of propriety he so strictly observed, he must truly be aching over watching the woman he adored as she gave her heart to another. For the first time since their arrival Belle gave thanks the footman hadn’t rank enough to dine with them in the parlor. It spared him from witnessing the many coy looks and circumspect smiles Brigit sent the knight.

Content to leave her precious child in Master James's hands, Belle waved Peg to her feet. Her maid shot her a worried look as they strode for the garden's gate.

“There’s no doubting our Brigit's lost her heart to the knight,” Peg said, “but surely she's not so far gone she'd let him have his way with her. Would she?” she finished uncertainly.

“Of course not.” Belle put more assurance in her voice than she felt.

It would be all her fault if Brigit had given way. Belle’s warning to the governess about the knight had been received with sweet assurances that it would be heeded. Rather than press to be certain that Brigit’s intention to obey was well fixed, Belle had let the matter lay. A better mistress would have known how to deliver her lessons so they had at least some impact.

They entered the garden. With tall walls to baffle sound a deep stillness claimed this place, unbroken save for the distant gurgle of a fountain and the chirp of birds. The square keep tower loomed over them, its ancient stones wearing ivy like a leafy cloak. There was no sign of Brigit.

Belle glanced down the path that led strollers, maze-like, spiraling round and up the tower’s mound to the keep’s door. On the way it passed planting beds and cut through hedges taller than any man. Not only did these thick banks of green offer walkers a bit of shade, there was a certain intimacy to be found in their dark recesses.

“Nay, I cannot.” Brigit's voice rose from behind the nearest hedge.

Belle’s heart quirked. She looked at Peg. Her hand pressed to her bodice, the maid met her lady's gaze, the same concern Belle knew reflected in her eyes. Lifting her skirts, Belle started swiftly in the direction of the hedge, Peg following at her heels.

“Then do not,” came Sir Edward's gentle reply, “and know I'll respect you all the more for refusing me.”

Relief tore through Belle. It seemed the knight meant to act the gentleman with a woman he could have forced. Stepping quietly through the arched opening cut into that line of bushes, she stopped.

The pair stood face-to-face. Brigit's hands rested upon the knight's chest, Sir Edward's hands atop hers, as if to keep her fingers against him. All Belle had ever seen in his expression was arrogant zeal or frantic loathing. It was a warm affection that softened his handsome features now.

She opened her mouth to announce herself then caught back the words. They were doing no wrong. Turning, hoping to leave unnoticed, she ran into Peg, who huffed to a halt with a loud scrape of gravel.

Brigit glanced toward the sound then gasped and sprang back from the knight as if singed, bright color staining her face. “My lady, we were only speaking,” she cried out, not realizing her guilty reaction suggested that what she was doing and what she longed to do weren’t quite synonymous.

In the hopes of finally driving home her message Belle cocked a chiding brow. “I saw what you were doing,” she said, offering an accusation of nothing since she'd seen nothing.