Authors: Susan Wiggs
Wynter squinted at Speed.
Speed bowed his mouth into a sweet smile.
“Of course,” Wynter continued, “that would only be a start. Once I carry out my plans for Blackrose, I’ll surely earn a more influential post.” He leaned over to whisper in Speed’s ear, then left the table to ask the musicians to play a love song.
Speed nudged Lark in the ribs and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “He wants to meet with me later!”
“Oh, didn’t you know?” she said. “’Tis the lot of women to deal with noxious suitors.”
Wynter returned as the lute player began a new tune. He settled himself next to Speed, but Mr. Belcumber distracted him with a question.
“He’s got his hand on my knee!” Speed hissed at Lark.
“So remove it,” she murmured.
“I did! He put it back!” Horror and panic rasped in Speed’s voice. Wynter did not seem to notice, for he was still speaking to the mayor.
For a moment, for one wicked, delicious moment, Lark let him suffer. Women were constantly embattled by unwanted male attention. They endured gropings and
worse. Yet even virtuous men made light of women’s troubles.
Finally, when it seemed Speed would burst his false bodice, she relented and cleared her throat. “My dear, did you ever discover the cause of those running sores on your—” She leaned over and pretended to whisper in Speed’s ear.
Wynter sat forward to glare at Lark.
With newfound strength, she ignored him.
“Sores?” Speed asked stupidly.
“Aye.” She paused and gritted her teeth. She had hoped Speed would not be so dense. “Did you find Grizzell Forrest, the healer? And did she tell you if it was leprosy, or the French pox?”
Speed squeaked as if someone had pinched him. Wynter shot to his feet, the bench scraping the floor as it pushed back.
“What a pity for you to leave so suddenly,” he cried. “Mortlock! Pyle!” Two maids scurried forward. “Help Mistress Quickly to the parish house. I’m certain she’ll wish to—to recuperate in private.”
A gleam flashed in Speed’s eyes. “But what about our meeting?”
“I—I just remembered,” Wynter said. “I have a previous engagement.”
“I had hoped for my sake you would break it.”
“Impossible. Quite impossible.”
Muffled chuckles came from Oliver. Speed seemed to sense that he was pushing his luck. “A disappointment, my lord.” His parting curtsy was even clumsier than his first, and Lark wondered if Wynter heard Speed mutter, “Kiss my breech, you oily swasher,” under his breath as he left the hall.
“I can see I’ll have much work to do around here,”
Wynter said, fanning the air with his napkin. “Lark, what on earth were you thinking, letting a hideously diseased woman into my house?”
Lark glanced at Oliver. She could see the laughter hiding in the blue depths of his eyes, and for a moment she took pride in his pleasure.
The moment passed quickly, though. It merely acknowledged what she already knew in the pit of her stomach. She should delay no longer.
She resisted the urge to grasp Oliver’s hand under the table. She told herself she did not need his help in taking this step. She gathered her courage on a deep breath of air, braced herself and turned to Wynter.
“I take it you have not read Spencer’s will.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tell me the old worm fodder left you without a penny. Not that it should matter now that you’ve landed yourself the Wimberleigh heir.” He jerked his head resentfully at Oliver.
Ill will thickened the air. Lark tightened every muscle to keep from trembling.
Oliver’s knuckles turned white around the handle of his eating knife. Still, he kept quiet, and with dawning gratitude she realized he would allow her to tell Wynter in her own way.
“Spencer was generous with me,” she said. “We knew he would be, of course. I brought him Montfichet as my dowry, and that will revert to me.” She dragged in a deep, steadying breath. “He was generous with you, as well, Wynter.” She was not sure what prompted her to add, “He loved you, in his way.”
Just for a moment, sentiment softened Wynter’s handsome face. His chin trembled, and a strange, sad hunger flared in his dark eyes. Lark wondered, in that
blink of time, what sort of man he might have been had he been taught to love rather than to hate.
“How fortunate,” he muttered, holding out his goblet for more wine. He was himself again, harsh and suspicious and filled with loathing.
“He left you half interest in the clothworks at Wycherly. Also the house in Fleet Street and the sum of a hundred pounds in silver. As for Blackrose Priory…” She forced herself to be steady of voice and demeanor. “He left it to me.”
Wynter snorted into his cup. “Don’t be stupid, Lark. The property is entailed. Like it or not, it falls to me.”
“The entail has been broken.”
“Quite legally,” Oliver chimed in. “You see, a lawsuit has proven that it never belonged to Spencer in the first place.”
“Of course it belonged to Spencer,” Wynter said. “King Henry granted it to him.”
“Not quite.” In his cheerful, breezy style, Oliver explained the law of the Common Recovery.
Lark barely heard. She found herself spellbound by the look in Wynter’s eyes. It was a fury so distinct and icy that she was transfixed like a mouse by the jeweled eye of a cat.
It would have been easier to bear if he had flown into a rage. But of course, Wynter held his emotions in check. With sinking dread, she realized she was more like him than she thought. She might never be free of him.
Wynter bathed his hands carefully in the finger bowl and dried them with a napkin. He stood, holding his fists clenched. “I do not accept this. I shall contest it.”
Oliver grinned, but by now Lark knew him well enough to see the steel behind his smile. “Kit Youngblood is a most excellent lawyer. You’ll get nowhere, I assure you.”
“So.” Wynter’s manner became brisk. “The battle lines
are drawn.” Almost as an afterthought, he turned to Lark. “You plotted against me. I shall never forget your treachery.”
“I’m afraid,” said Lark.
Puzzled by the quaver in her voice, Oliver drew rein and held up his hand to signal Speed to stop. “Afraid? Wynter can’t hurt you. Whatever hold he had over you is broken.”
Her face was pale and drawn, the shadows under her eyes making them appear larger than ever. A sting of tenderness jabbed at Oliver. He could never look at her without wanting to put his arms around her and hold her close.
“I mean I’m afraid to meet your family,” she confessed.
He swept his arm toward the magnificent panorama rolling out before them. His parents’ Wiltshire estate was matchless in its symmetry and beauty, from the pocked limestone gatehouse to the rambling, gabled manse, to the long gardens and mazes that led to the wild woods to the south and west.
“I thought it only proper to introduce my wife to my family now that they’ve returned from Muscovy. Besides, poor Speed needs to escape England. If anyone can help him, my father can. At last count, I believe his fleet numbered a dozen ships.”
“You’re right.” She sent the gowned and coifed minister a wan smile. “Reverend Speed, you have been most patient with us.”
“Indeed.” He dug his finger beneath his starched headdress and scratched his head. “You’ve both been more than generous, and you’ve taken enormous risks for my sake.” He grinned at Lark. “I’ve even forgiven you for telling Lord Wynter I have the pox.”
“No one will ever accuse my wife of being dull witted,” Oliver said, his chest filling up with pride.
Lark ducked her head, and he wanted to shake her. Why did she persist in thinking herself unworthy? How could he convince her that she truly was as he saw her? Radiant with an inner beauty, fiercely clever, worthy of love.
Aye, love.
He threw back his shoulders. “We are at Lynacre. Do we turn back or will you meet my family? Come, Lark. Be adventuresome.”
Her gloved hands gripped the reins tighter. “Of course I shall meet them. It’s just that I’ve never before had a real family. It will seem strange to me.”
Oliver laughed, thinking of the menagerie within the walls of Lynacre. “Oh, they are strange, I promise you that.”
They did not disappoint. Once the travelers had surrendered their horses to the grooms and waited in the shadowy main hall, the exuberant de Lacey clan descended like an ill-matched flock of exotic birds.
Oliver accepted hugs from his father, his stepmother, the two girls and the twins. Hollering above the babble of greetings, he said, “I’ve gotten married, and I’ve brought my wife to meet you.”
Instantly the babble started up again and crescendoed to a roar. To Oliver’s horror, they surrounded Richard Speed, hugging the poor man, kissing him, welcoming him to the family. Lark stood by silently, doubtless mistaken for a lady’s maid, her hands clasped and her eyes downcast.
Simon and Sebastian, the twins who were identical in all ways but one, began nudging each other and whispering.
Stephen de Lacey, Oliver’s father, bellowed a hearty welcome to Speed. Like Oliver, he was a big man. Aside from his wife and family, the thing he loved most was the joy of invention. Around his neck hung no fewer than three pairs of spectacles, one of which seemed to have a tiny set of backward-facing mirrors attached. Along with the spectacles were two different watches on leather thongs, and one of them suddenly let loose with a tinny gong. Speed yelped in surprise and jumped back, shaking his skirts as if a mouse had run under them.
Stephen chuckled and turned to Oliver. “If I get this mob quieted down, would you introduce her to us properly?”
Oliver’s chest felt as if it might burst from inappropriate mirth. “Of course. Father, Lady Juliana.”
His stepmother, plump as a ripe peach, turned with a sparkling smile. “Please do. Oliver, this is a most rare honor.” The special flavor of her native Novgorod still lilted in her voice.
“There’s been a mistake,” Oliver said when he could finally control his laughter. “That is the right Reverend Richard Speed.”
“Richard Speed!” shouted Natalya, clapping her hands. “I have studied your sermons for years.” Dark, dainty and as graceful as a cat, she was an avid reader of philosophy who had, thus far, frightened off all suitors with her intellect.
“Ha!” Simon burst out, jabbing his twin brother in the ribs. “I
told
you something was amiss!”
Sebastian, who understood such attractions, shoved Simon away and sent a boggle-eyed stare at Oliver. “You wed a
man?
”
“God save me from unnatural brothers!” Simon shouted. “First Sebastian, and now
you,
Oliver?”
Belinda swore, no doubt echoing invective learned during her frequent visits to the gunpowder merchant in Bath. Wearing a man’s riding clothes and armed with a leather whip, she stumbled back in horror.
Sebastian slapped his thighs. “Of course not, merkin-breath,” he said to his twin. He pointed to Lark, who still stood frozen and silent off to one side. “
That’s
his wife.”
“Sweet Jesu, thank you!” Simon bellowed, thumping his fist three times upon his chest. With the swagger of a ship’s captain, he swept across the room, picked Lark up in his arms and whirled her around.
Oliver started forward to rescue her, but his family thwarted him. They smothered poor Lark with love. She, who had known only the stern regard of a strange man many years her senior, was suddenly swallowed by the unabashed adoration of the de Lacey clan.
Juliana lapsed into a string of Russian endearments. Belinda insisted that Lark be entertained with a fireworks display; Natalya wanted to show her the library. Simon and Sebastian began to argue, loudly and passionately, about whom Lark more closely resembled—Artemis or Perpetua.
Stephen de Lacey stepped back and simply wept for joy. It was like seeing a mountain weep; he was so huge and his happiness was so heartfelt.
Oliver didn’t have the heart to tell him they had married to honor a deathbed promise. His family always worried about him, always seemed certain he avoided marriage because of his condition, which was true.
Then his thoughts fled as a faint cry broke from Lark. Her eyes rolled up and she pitched forward, collapsing into Simon’s brawny arms.
“My God!” Natalya shouted accusingly. “We’ve smothered the poor woman!”
“H
ow long have you known?” asked a gentle, accented voice.
Lark blinked at the fuzzy shape looming over her. She swallowed past the dryness in her throat. She felt the billowing softness of a downy mattress beneath her, the comforting weight of a counterpane covering her. Inhaling, she smelled the pungence of dried flowers. She blinked again and the shape resolved itself into a beaming, round-faced woman with vivid green eyes.
Lady Juliana, Oliver’s stepmother.
“Known…what?” Lark asked.
With deft hands, Juliana held Lark’s head and pressed a cup to her lips. As she took a sip of the broth, Juliana said, “About the babe. How long have you known?”
Lark nearly choked on the drink, and Juliana took the cup away. “Babe?” Lark managed to gasp.
“Ah, you poor child. I thought you knew. I suspected it the moment I saw you.”
Lark’s hand slipped down to her midsection. It was as flat as unleavened bread. “How?”
Juliana smiled. “I daresay I have an eye for such things.
There is a pallor, and a sort of dreamy wistfulness in the face. Then when you fainted, I became quite certain. Do you not know the signs?”
Lark shook her head. How would she, raised in a solemn household by a man forty-five years her senior, a man who all but denied that she even possessed a female anatomy?
“Are your monthly courses late?” Juliana inquired.
“Aye. I think so.” Indeed, when that female event had first happened, Lark had been sure she was dying. Spencer had then subjected her to a lecture on Eve’s sin that left her more confused than ever.
“Waves of nausea? Sickness in the mornings?” Juliana asked.
With growing fright, Lark nodded.
“Tenderness in the breasts?”
A flush scalded Lark’s cheeks and she nodded again, mute and guilty as a felon.
“No one told you of these signs? No one prepared you?”
“No. I had no idea.”
Juliana whispered something in a foreign tongue. Lark did not understand the words, but she comprehended the heartfelt catch in the lady’s voice and the diamond-bright sparkle in her green eyes.
“I am so happy for you and Oliver,” Juliana said in English. “I never thought…That is, I worried that Oliver would not settle with a wife and start a family. He has ever been one to shy from devotions of the heart. I am so glad he has changed.”
Lark lay speechless as the revelation tumbled through her mind. A babe. She had never even seen one up close. The idea that she would give birth to a naked, helpless creature was overwhelming. Awesome. Unimaginable.
“I’m afraid,” she said.
“Of course you are.” Juliana’s tenderness and sympathy
were so natural and so comforting that Lark wanted to weep. She had never known true friendship, never known the simple solace of quiet talk between women. At the same time, Lark felt deceitful, for she knew Juliana did not understand the truth.
Oliver had undergone no epiphany. He had not suddenly changed from reckless rogue to family man. He had married out of a sense of obligation. His vows sprang from duty, not love. From a promise wrung from him by a dying man.
She still saw the hunger in his eyes, the need for adventure. She knew he would always put his own feelings and pleasures before those of anyone else. He would probably hate the idea of a child.
“Do not tell Oliver,” Lark pleaded.
“You will tell Oliver in your own time.” Juliana hesitated; then her smile grew pensive. “I made that mistake myself once, long ago,” she said. “Had I told Stephen, I could have spared us both a great deal of hurt.”
“How so, my lady?”
“I let myself believe the bitter words he flung at me, rather than listening to the silent words of his heart. He loved me. He wanted our child. I just did not trust that love.” She seemed to catch herself and said, “Listen to me, passing out advice like old Zara.”
The name sparked a memory in Lark. “The soothsayer? Oliver and I met her just after leaving London. She said that she knew you.”
A puzzling array of emotions lit Juliana’s face—shock, fear, amazement, and finally, an odd look of satisfaction. “I have known her since I was a girl in Novgorod. She came to England a few years ago.” Juliana smoothed Lark’s hair on the pillow.
“I was prepared to dislike the Gypsies, but I found I couldn’t. I was drawn to them, especially to Zara.”
Juliana smiled. “She has a kind heart. And a very powerful presence.”
Lark held up both hands. “Before I quite knew what was happening, Zara was studying the lines of my palm and speaking in a strange voice.”
Juliana did not move; her expression did not change, yet Lark had the impression Oliver’s stepmother was riveted, her attention completely caught. “What did she say?”
Lark frowned, trying to remember. She still had not quite absorbed the news about the child, and her thoughts were scattered. “She said I was…one of the three.”
Juliana drew a quick breath.
“She claimed that she saw my fate before I was made. There was something about the circle of fate. I confess, I paid her little heed. She…disturbed me. Not by intent,” she added quickly.
“She is very wise.” Juliana patted Lark’s hand. “I, too, feared her sometimes. Other times, I felt that her words guided me. I feel them guiding me now.” She hesitated for a moment, then unfastened a large jeweled brooch from her shoulder. “This ornament is very special to me, and I want you to have it. Let it be a symbol of your welcome to this family. There is much sadness attached to this, but much triumph, as well.”
The setting was gold, a cruciform shape thrust through a circle of gold encrusted with pearls. At the apex of the cross gleamed a large, glorious, bloodred ruby.
The jewel glowed as if the light were shining from behind it. Lark had never seen the piece before, but it looked hauntingly familiar to her. “It is too dear,” she said. “I can’t accept—”
“Then you will insult me,” Juliana said briskly, as if she had made up her mind. “This brooch is a relic of my family.” Solemn remembrances hovered in the faraway look in her
eyes. “They are all gone now, my parents and brothers. They perished in an uprising many years ago. I escaped with this.”
Hot tears filled Lark’s eyes. “Oh, my lady, you should keep it.”
Juliana shook her head, her gray-misted curls framing her face. “I have a new family and a new life. As will you. Someday, you will give it to my grandchild, and so the circle will be complete. This was meant to be. I feel certain.”
The circle was begun before you were born, and will endure long after you are gone.
Lark heard the Gypsy woman’s words as if someone had whispered them in her ear. She shivered, drawing the covers up over her shoulders. Thinking of the babe as someone’s grandchild made the pregnancy painfully, frighteningly real.
“I can but thank you, then,” she said after a long silence.
Juliana showed her the etchings on the back of the brooch. “This is the Romanov family motto in Russian—Blood, vows and honor.”
There was something both fierce and touching about the motto. A steely certainty that made Lark feel stronger simply repeating the words.
Juliana touched a tiny catch. The brooch separated, and a pointed dagger of polished steel emerged. “There was a time when this was quite useful to me.” She put the weapon back and placed the brooch in Lark’s hand, closing her fingers around it. “You’ll not need a weapon,” Juliana said with a broad, bright smile. “After all, you have Oliver to look after you now.”
“I have no idea what to do with a wife,” Oliver admitted glumly to his father. A week had passed since their arrival. Lark had recovered from her unfortunate spell in the great hall. Never had Oliver felt such a helpless fear. Seeing her carried off, pale and limp, had chilled him to his bones.
When Juliana had emerged from the bedchamber to announce that Lark was fine, Oliver had nearly staggered with relief.
It was a sad notion that family love proved toxic to Lark.
Cantering along beside him on a tall Neapolitan mare, Stephen de Lacey chuckled. “I never thought you’d be at a loss in regard to a woman.”
They were riding the high chalk hills of Wiltshire, where the sheep were gray-white clumps against the deep, eye-smarting green of the high pastures. The air smelled richly of earth and dung and new spring growth.
Oliver reined his horse toward a treeless, grassy down that led toward the royal hunting park. Years earlier, Stephen had been named perpetual warden of the holding, a high royal honor.
“I did not mean in
that
regard,” Oliver corrected him, “but the other—the worrying, the
caring.”
Stephen’s face hardened. “It hurts sometimes, doesn’t it? To care for another more than for you own life.”
Oliver heard layers of meaning beneath his father’s words. Then he scowled, his riding boot brushing a scrubby hawthorn bush beside the path. “I never asked for this. Never asked for someone to love. I tell you, Father, it makes a man daft, even just the day-to-day living. Waking up to the same woman every day is a new notion for me.”
“Ah. I wonder that you did not consider that before marrying Lark.”
“I considered very little before marrying her.” Restless with frustration, Oliver spurred his horse. The mare took off at a gallop, her long, fluid strides sailing over furzy heath and rubbled, ancient rises.
With a shout, Stephen followed, and they raced without aim across hills and ridges, finally plunging along the rich verge of the royal forest. Blue succory and dawn-
hued lady’s-glove whizzed past in streamers of vivid color. The breeze was keen and piercingly fragrant, and for these few moments Oliver was supremely happy.
He glanced over his shoulder at his father. Stephen had the better mare—he
always
had the better mare—but it was only slightly better, and he held back so that Oliver could take the lead. Age had silvered Stephen’s tawny mane and etched lines of contentment about his eyes and mouth. In his early boyhood, Oliver had seen helpless torment in that regal face. Juliana had changed Stephen’s grief to hope and joy, and ever since, he and his father had been as boon companions.
Oliver slowed his horse to a walk along the fringe of the forest. No matter how fast or how far he rode, he could not outrun the events of the past weeks.
“The marriage took place against my will,” he confessed. “And Lark’s.” He watched Stephen’s eyebrows lift and then told him of Spencer, with whom Stephen had been acquainted during the reign of King Henry.
“He was a curious old man,” Oliver said. “A keener mind I’ve yet to encounter. But for some reason, he took it into his head that Lark and I should marry.” He spoke only briefly of Wynter and Blackrose Priory. He did not want to worry his father.
“So you married her because of a deathbed promise?”
“Aye.”
Stephen laughed, his massive shoulders shaking with mirth. “The reason was no worse than my own basis for marrying your stepmother. And I have no regrets. So shall it be with you.”
“How can that be? Lark’s so…so
proper.
And virtuous. And self-righteous. She hates the things I like. Sometimes—outside the bedchamber, of course—I think there’s no pleasing her.”
“But she loves you,” Stephen said. “When I saw her watching you at breakfast today, the look in her eyes was filled with that bewildered wonder of a woman newly smitten.” With a lopsided grin, he added, “De Lacey men are simply irresistible to a certain type of female.”
“The difficult type,” Oliver said.
“You would not want an easy one. You have ever thrived on a challenge.”
“Quite so. Which brings me to my other problem—Richard Speed.”
Stephen’s brow blackened with a scowl. “Your sister Natalya is unhinged over him.”
“I noticed.” Oliver shuddered. “All those sighs and bovine gazes. Disgusting.”
“So he’s a scoundrel?” Stephen asked. “A jackanapes? Should he be sleeping in the stables?”
“Certainly not. He’s a good man. I’ve met none better. But who, I ask you, is good enough for
my
sister?”
Stephen grinned. “Precisely. I’ve given the matter some thought, and I have a plan for Speed.”
“If it involves donning skirts again, he’ll revolt,” Oliver said.
“Are you sure you’re strong enough?” Oliver asked, holding open a garden gate on rusty hinges.
The look of tenderness and concern on his face flustered Lark. She clutched at the jeweled brooch that fastened her cloak at the shoulder and wondered if…No, he could not know about the baby. Lady Juliana had sworn she would say nothing.
“Lark?” With his shoulder propped against the ivy-covered wall, he looked boyish and appealing. As usual, his uncommon allure scattered her thoughts. Some men had beautiful eyes, others a strong and pleasing form, still
others a wonderful, sculpted face and a smile that dimmed the sunlight. Oliver had it all.
“Of course.” She cleared her throat and spoke loudly. “I am completely recovered.” And so she was, since Juliana had taken her into her care. Before she was allowed out of bed in the morning, she drank a draft of mare’s milk. Tisanes of mint kept the nausea down through the rest of the day, and Juliana insisted on a nap every afternoon.