A Lady’s Secret (13 page)

As was he, she assumed, naked in his bath in a nearby room. What did he look like naked? She’d have thought him on the soft side, like the Apollo in the loggia at home. Ludovico was like that—handsome but sleek. Just a little fleshy in the belly, which Robin, she was sure, was not. Not after seeing him in action last night, after seeing a little of his chest this morning. And especially not after seeing him struggle with that wheel, sleeves rolled up to reveal lean, muscular arms.

The statue of Saint Michael, then. Broad of shoulder, narrow of hips, rippling muscles down his long abdomen. In the statue, the saint wore Roman armor that molded every contour, but hid the interesting bits. There were religious debates, anyway, about whether angels had those bits, or those hungers.

Which only proved that Robin Bonchurch was no angel…

“The soap, Sister?”

Petra sat up with a start, grateful the warmth of the water would explain her blush. She hadn’t even heard the maid return. “Was I falling asleep? You’re right, there’s no time for that.”

She took the washcloth and soap and started to scrub every inch, getting rid of Goulart grime. The water was soon dirty and scummed, but she’d be able to rinse off, and at least the dirt was no longer on her. She had the maid scrub her back and then wash her hair in a basin of clean water. As Petra lay back for this wonderful ministration she remembered her maid, Maria Rosa, doing it. It had taken a long time then, when her hair had hung thick down to her hips.

Dear Maria Rosa. She’d been as much friend as servant. How they’d chattered and laughed. She’d acted the friend, or so she’d thought, when she’d helped arrange the meetings with Ludovico.

The delicious, secret courtship, as Petra had seen it. The clever, secret seduction from his point of view. Her mother’s warnings had been true—men are all deceivers, and once they conquer, they abandon. She must remember that. Even her English father, whom her mother trusted to help his misbegotten daughter, had been a seducer and deserter.

Some men were all too constant, though. Only consider Ludo, who refused to accept rejection.

The maid wound a cloth around Petra’s head. “There, madame. If you’ll just stand, I’ll rinse you off.”

Petra obeyed and the maid hefted a large jug and stood on a stool to pour the lukewarm water to rinse away any lingering scum. Then Petra stepped out of the tub and into a large towel. She was drying herself when someone knocked on the door. She couldn’t help a jerk of alarm, as well as a glance toward her shift and the knife it held.

A screen had been set in front of the door and Nanette disappeared behind it. She spoke quickly and quietly, then came back smiling, a bundle in her hands. “Clothing, madame. I was concerned you’d have to eat wrapped in a sheet!”

She laid out a clean shift, a pale petticoat, and a gown of green cloth sprigged with flowers. Petra immediately thought,
Too pretty
. Was it guilt at abandoning nunlike sobriety, or concern about Cock Robin’s reaction? Whichever it was, she had no alternative.

She put on the shift and petticoat.

“Oh, madame. We forgot stays for you!”

“No matter,” Petra said, picking up the gown. There was also a pair of pockets to wear beneath her gown, accessible through slits. That was good, very good. She’d have a place to carry her precious prayer book. She regretted leaving that in the chaise.

She dressed quickly. The gown was snug across her breasts, but that compensated for the lack of stays. It fit well enough and was about the right length.

But when Petra turned to the mirror, she knew her earlier concerns were valid. It was too pretty. The bodice was quite low and its tightness pushed up her breasts. The color suited her too well. It was years since she’d worn anything other than the habit—leaving aside the Goulart clothes. To her surprise, she felt vulnerable.

“Is something the matter, madame?” the maid asked.

“My hair,” Petra said as excuse, touching it.

It did look peculiar. When long, it had waved, but now, short and newly washed, it rioted in curls. On a cherub it could be charming; on a grown woman it was ridiculous. But more than that, her head felt naked.

“It is unusual, ma’am, but pretty. Is that the fashion where you come from?”

Petra said yes. It was easier than finding an explanation.

“There’s a cap came with the dress, ma’am.”

Petra took it eagerly, astonished at how nerve-racking this change of clothing was. The cap was similar to the one that was part of her habit, but looser and much more frivolous. The frill around the front was deep and lacy and there was no widow’s peak. It tied beneath her chin, but with a wide silk ribbon. Petra saw a hat, too, if a disk of straw deserved the name. Ribbons to match the dress formed a knot on top of the hat and there was a good yard, in addition, to hang down the wearer’s back.

“This must have been someone’s favorite outfit,” she said, wondering if tragedy lurked behind.

“Louise’s sister’s, madame. She was proud of it, but she’s carrying her second now and doesn’t expect to get that sort of figure back. Don’t worry, madame. Your brother paid well.”

“All the same, I’m grateful.” Petra smoothed cloth over her hips nervously. No hoops or stiffened underskirts. “I won’t wear the hat yet, but do I have shoes?”

“Oh! I’m sorry. Louise took those strange sandals for size. I’ll go and see what she’s found. Stockings, too. How could she forget them?”

Because any ordinary lady would be wearing her own,
Petra thought.

There was a knock on the parlor door and Robin spoke through it. “Are you ready, Maria? Our meal is here.”

“Coming!” Petra called, waving the maid on her way. She quickly dug her knife from her shift and strapped it back on. Somewhat armored, she went to the door, only realizing as she opened it that she was barefoot.

He stared, but not at her feet. “My apologies. I haven’t seen you dressed in anything like that…. For so long,” he added, clearly remembering their relationship as brother and sister. Then he saw her feet and smiled in a way that probably made her toes blush. She hurried into the parlor where their table was set, curling her toes as if that might conceal them.

“Ah,” he said. “At last I can satisfy some of your desires….”

Warm, crusty bread tantalized her nose. Butter, wine, and a basket of ripe fruit made her mouth water. An inn servant stood ready to ladle soup into bowls, and this soup smelled wonderful. Petra sat and ate.

“Oh, this is very good.” She sighed and smiled at Robin before she remembered what he’d said.

His dimples showed.

“You’re in fine feather,” she said to break the moment. “I assume the chaise has arrived.”

He poured white wine into her glass. “Only a quarter hour behind us.”

Valuable lace flowed over his long-fingered hands. More foamed at his neck. For the first time since she’d encountered him, he was wearing a neckcloth, and a beautiful one.

His suit was not suitable for court, but it was very fine, of deep blue cloth with gilt buttons, worn over a waistcoat of beige brocade. No jewelry, however—but then she noticed a pearl-headed pin fixed in his cravat. White on white. She wouldn’t have expected such subtlety, but it looked perfect.

“I’m glad my plumage pleases you,” he said, his eyes still smiling.

Caught, Petra blushed and attended to her soup again.

Rake or protector?

Beau or common man?

Swordsman, wastrel?

Seducer, courtier…?

She couldn’t make a rhyme of it, but he truly was an ever-changing conundrum.

When she’d finished her soup, she had to look at him again. His hair was tied back, but that didn’t explain its tameness. Ah, it was still damp. He met her eyes, raising his brows.

“Hair,” she said. “Yours is still wet.”

“Yours isn’t?”

“Short hair dries quickly.”

“Even so, should you cover it damp? I’m sure that’s unhealthy.”

He was teasing, and when Petra said, “It’s dry enough,” she added,
“Brother,”
to remind him of their pretense. Inn servants here, so close to the coast, might know some English, but in any case, the language of flirtation was universal.

Petra concentrated on the dishes being laid out between them, all smelling delicious. Robin told the servant that they’d serve themselves and summon him again later.

Suddenly they were alone and his hair was drying, springing free and catching sunlight. The pure white neckcloth somehow heightened his radiant good looks.

He put food on her plate. “Sole, I think, with mushrooms. I don’t see any reason for this inn to poison us.”

“So you thought of that, too,” she said, taking a taste. It was perfectly cooked. “What do you think Mère Goulart has done?”

“Fled, if she has any sense.”

“Her mother died. She might blame us.” At his skeptical, overconfident look, she said, “It’s another reason to race to the coast. We shouldn’t be dallying here.”

“We need to eat, the men need to eat and rest, and you, I point out, don’t even have shoes. But as I said, rushing away from here would only leave us kicking our heels in Boulogne, which is a much less pleasant place.”

“Kicking heels?” she asked. “Dancing?”

He laughed. “Having nothing to do. I’m going to enjoy teaching you idioms. Eat.”

Petra didn’t try to argue. She ate.

“Good. Now, as we eat, tell me who objected to you leaving Milan and why.”

Petra’s appetite fled, but she knew she must tell him something.

“H
is name is il conte di Purieri, and he desires me.”

“A man of good taste. A conte. A rich and powerful man?”

“Very.”

“And your lover?” He put more fish in his mouth as if the question meant nothing.

Petra glared at him. She’d like to hide so many aspects of this story, but she couldn’t lie about this. “Yes.”

“Was this after you became a nun?” he asked, still as if they discussed fish.

“Of course not.”

“Not impossible. But then, you must have been very young for such a liaison.”

“You can put away your inquisitor’s implements, sir. I’m willing to tell you everything. At least, as much as you need to know. What are you smiling at now?”

“Your hands,” he said. “You speak with your hands. You didn’t do that so much before.”

“In the convent, it was disapproved.”

“But now the real Petra d’Averio emerges. Like a butterfly.” He snapped his fingers and his little dog came over to be fed a morsel. “They call this breed the butterfly because of their large ears and the mark down the center of their face.”

“I am no butterfly,” she objected.

“You’re not a stone, either. Eat. If you’re in danger, that’s even more reason to need your strength.”

Petra obeyed, amazed by his ability to irritate her even with food. It was very good, however, and she was very hungry. She ate all her fish without realizing it.

He changed the plates and served her some sort of meat fricassee and vegetables, but then prompted, “Il conte di Purieri?”

She sighed. “I’ve known him most of my life. He’s a friend of my brother’s. I fancied myself in love with him. We met clandestinely. I was foolish. That’s the whole story.”

“Eat,” he said again. When she’d finished one mouthful, he said, “An heir to a title was not an approved match for you?”

Here they came to some parts she’d rather hide. “
I
was not considered a suitable match for
him
. Being young and foolish, I thought that a minor problem, but of course it wasn’t.”

“So you were packed off to a nunnery.”

“I
chose
to go to the nunnery, but yes, one reason was to escape Ludovico’s persistence. He could not marry me, so he wanted me as his mistress.”

He paused in eating. “Your family offered no protection?”

“My father was dead. My brother is a friend of his.”

“And is also—my apologies if I offend—a cur.”

“A dog?” she translated, puzzling over that.

“A dog can be a noble animal. A cur is the lowest, vicious sort, fit only for shooting.”

“Ah.” Petra ate more of the tender meat, savoring the thought of her brother Cesare as a cur.

“But the convent walls did not protect you,” Robin said.

“They did for a while. Or, more precisely, my mother did. Look, this may all be nothing. If I imagined Varzi…”

“Varzi?” he asked, and she realized that she’d not mentioned the name before.

“He is Purieri’s minion. His hunting dog. The one he would send after me.”

“Let’s assume you didn’t imagine him. If we’re in danger, I prefer to know. Go on.”

Petra ate a little more. “I thought I saw Varzi as we entered Abbeville, but you know how it is. We call out to a friend, but when they turn, it isn’t them at all. It must have been so, for if it was him, why didn’t he seize me?”

“Perhaps because you speedily fled with me.”

Petra wanted to believe that she’d imagined Varzi, but that made more sense.

“Expect the best, but prepare for the worst,” he said. “Explain Varzi by explaining Purieri. Tell me about Milan.”

Petra contemplated walking out, but Robin was owed some of the truth. She made herself eat a little more as she thought.

“It’s complicated. There was my folly with Ludovico. Then my father died. As a widow, my mother wished to enter a convent—it is often done so—and I asked to go with her, because I knew that my brother, who had inherited, would be difficult.”

“A rather drastic solution, surely?”

She shrugged. “I saw no choice, and it is not uncommon for unmarried ladies of good family to live in a convent.”

“Why?”

“They are often a liability. They are not allowed to marry beneath their station, but the young men of similar families want larger dowries. The sons are not prevented from marrying low as long as there’s money. Why marry the sister of a friend when one can become rich by marrying the daughter of a Venetian silk merchant?”

“That’s what Ludovico did?” he asked.

“The daughter of a Genoa spice merchant, but…” She caught herself gesturing with knife and fork and stopped it. “It is not that way in England?”

“No, probably because we don’t have convents to take our languishing ladies. How improvident of Henry VIII. A houseful of generations of spinsters would be the very devil.”

“Truth?” she asked, studying him. “You would marry a lady of your own station, even if a rich merchant’s daughter was available?”

“Are you a rich merchant’s daughter?”

“No.”

“Alas.”

“Why?” When she saw his meaning, she said, “I am virtually penniless, sir.”

He shrugged. “I assume I’ll marry a lady of my own station who also has a handsome dowry.”

“So money is not irrelevant.”

“Money is never irrelevant, but there are other dowries. Powerful connections and influence can also be valuable.”

“Does no one in the world marry for love?” she demanded.

“My dear Petra, never say you’re a romantic.”

She looked with distaste at the remains of her food.

“Not any longer.”

“I have nothing against love,” he said, “but with good management it coincides with other benefits.”

“And if not, there is a less holy arrangement.”

“Which your Ludovico wanted. Such permanent liaisons are not always without honor.”

“For a married man?” she objected. “It is wrong in any situation, but for a man to so betray his wife, and for a woman to so betray another woman and the holy vows. I could never do such a thing. And in any case, why trust such a man? He who cannot be faithful to one will be faithful to none.”

She hadn’t intended a personal attack, but his lips tightened.

“You are not married,” she said, making it worse.

He pushed aside his plate. “So you preferred the cold convent to a hot lover, but it did not solve your problems?”

Petra restrained the urge to fight. “I was content in the convent, and Ludovico married. I thought the problem over, but when my mother sickened…” He filled her wineglass and she sipped. “Mama was sure that once she was dead Cesare would find a way to force me out, so she came up with a plan.”

“Your brother could give you to be his friend’s whore, and Milanese society would not object?”

No wonder he was astonished. They’d come to the point she wished to conceal, as much for her mother’s honor as her own. She contemplated the wine, but saw no alternative. “I’m a bastard,” she said.

“Ah. Hold your story there a moment. We’ll refortify ourselves.”

He rang the bell on the table, and the servant returned to clear away dishes and replace them with sweets and a coffee tray. Robin dismissed him with a generous coin and poured the coffee himself. Petra watched, inhaling the aroma, knowing it was of the finest quality and perfectly made.

He passed her a cup. “Is it possible? Do we share an indulgence?”

No point in lying. “I do have a weakness for good coffee.”

She added three sugar lumps and plenty of cream, then sipped, eyes closed, letting perfection fill her senses and slide down to satisfy her body.

“My dear Petra, I pray I can one day bring that look to your face.”

Her eyes flew open and her face went hot. “I’m sorry! It’s just that I haven’t…this is the best I’ve tasted since leaving Italy. Since before the convent, in fact. There we only had it on the most celebrated holidays, and it was never very good.”

He was watching her. “I have someone in all my houses who knows how to make coffee even better than this,” he said softly, clearly meaning to tempt her.

Instead he’d startled her. “
All
your houses?”

A blink. Did it mean that he’d lied? Or that he’d told a revealing truth?

But then he explained, seeming at ease. “My place in Huntingdonshire and one in London. I confessed to being a courtier, did I not? I also have a small property in Vienne that came with my mother.”

“I see. Are all younger sons so well endowed?” She sipped again, then licked cream off her lip.

He stared for a moment, then seemed to shake himself. “We were talking about your family. I assume you are your mother’s love child?”

“Yes.” She fixed him with a look. “She was a good woman. Do not think for a moment she was not. She was very young when it happened. Younger than I am now, even though she was already married, and mother to two sons.”

He put a fruit tart on her plate—golden pastry filled with something red and topped with rich cream. “Married too young, then.”

“At fifteen. It’s not surprising….” She let her hands complete the sentence. “A Venetian masquerade. A brief folly. Consequences she could not disguise. She had borne two sons, and I gather my father had other pleasures. He forgave her, but at a price. If the baby turned out to be a boy, it would be sent away, but if it was a girl, my mother would be allowed to keep me, and he would accept me. But in return, she had to be a docile wife who never objected to anything he did.”

“Presumably that wasn’t her true nature.”

Petra said only, “He was a difficult man.”

“None of this was your fault,” he said gently.

“I was born. It would have been much better not so. My father kept his word, but as he lay dying, he told my brother the truth about me. So you see, that explains his behavior.”

“No. But go on.”

She frowned at him. “You wouldn’t mind one of your sisters being a bastard?”

“I certainly wouldn’t set her up to be the whore of a friend.”

“You forget my folly. Cesare had reason to think I desired Ludo.”

He merely shook his head. “So you enter the protection of the convent, but then your mother becomes ill. She must still have been a young woman.”

“Yes, but something caused her to weaken and fail. She was determined that I be safe, however, and developed her plan.”

“This journey to England? Why?” he asked. “There was no refuge closer to home? No supportive relatives?”

“None who could oppose Cesare. He is also a difficult man. And my mother was always an outsider.”

“What of her family?”

“They are Austrian. My father, il conte, married my mother to gain favor at the Austrian court, but times have changed. Her family has trouble of their own and hardly know me. She was unwilling to entrust my safety to them.”

“So instead she entrusted you to whom?” Then he said, “Your true father? Riddlesome?”

“Yes.”

“’Struth. But then why is he not assisting with your journey?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “He is aware of your existence, is he not?” At yet more silence, he shook his head. “My dearest Petra, you truly will need me.”

“No! I mean, you have to understand. My father—il conte—would never have allowed my mother to contact him, but also she didn’t try. She knew it had been a passing thing for him. He was very young, younger even than she, touring Italy, as young English gentlemen do for their education. She assumed he would take other lovers and forget them all. Even so,” she remembered, “she smiled when she spoke of him. She said he was so beautiful, and glowed with energy and enthusiasm. That he was tender and kind. So strange to hear such words from her.”

“We are all young once,” he said.

“Do we all let beauty tempt us to destruction? I mean Ludovico,” she said quickly, though in truth she’d been thinking of Robin Bonchurch, with his halo of bright hair, his sapphire eyes, and his lean cheeks showing dimples now with the hint of a knowing smile.

“But why not contact him with this plan in mind?”

“There wasn’t a great deal of time, and we feared we were watched. If a letter was intercepted, it would tell Cesare too much.”

“He doesn’t know who your father is?”

“My mother told no one until she told me. She told my father that he was masked and that it happened only once. In fact, the affair lasted for over a week. I still wonder how she could…”

He picked up the tart and held it to her lips. “Eat. It’s too good to waste.”

She took it, but only licked a little cream.

He hummed. “Do that again.”

Petra blushed and took a full bite, then sighed in pleasure. The pastry flaked with butter, and the tangy fruit was the perfect complement for the rich cream. She licked some off her lips without thinking, then saw him watching her again. “It’s very good,” she excused. “I haven’t tasted the like in ages.”

“Not in the convent, I can understand, but were there no sweet indulgences with Lady Sodworth?”

“She’s frantic about her tiny waist and won’t allow any such foods in sight.”

“No wonder she’s peevish.”

Laughter escaped her. He scooped some cream from another tart and held it to her lips. She licked before she could help herself, but then pushed her chair back so she was out of reach.

He licked off the remains of the cream himself. Slowly. “But that, my sweet Petra, is how she could when even younger than you, with less cause to be cautious. I can’t imagine your English father’s reaction. Are you even sure he’s still alive?”

Petra pulled herself together, dropping the remains of her tart on her plate. “We’re not idiots. My mother had always cherished mention of him, and we found ways to hear the latest news.”

“Not a nobody, then. His name?”

When she stayed silent, he said, “Even now you can’t trust me?”

“Exactly. But I will trust no one with his name. I know much about him, and some is worrying. He has the reputation of being a harsh man. My mother was sure he would accept me and be good and gentle, but I must be sure before I put myself in another man’s power.”

“Perhaps wise, but how could telling me be a threat?”

“A secret broken is no longer a secret. The truth might slip out.”