By Love Unveiled (2 page)

“With good reason.”

“Aye, especially given recent circumstances. But my point is that Winchilsea probably didn’t know you lived.”

“Unless my uncle told him.”

Charles conceded the point with a nod.

“So what happens to his claim upon my property?” Garett bit out. That was the crucial question. “Your agreement with Parliament was that those lands sold during Your Majesty’s exile remain with the buyers.”

“Ah, but Winchilsea performed a treasonous act. I have confiscated the property, of course, and gladly return it to you. Consider it your reward for arranging my marriage to the Infanta—your lands as well as funds to improve them as you see fit.”

Garett let out a breath. After all these years, he could finally go home.

But that wasn’t the only thing he wanted. “What about my uncle? Will you punish him for his treachery?”

Charles strode to the window overlooking his gardens and stared out at the Cavaliers and their ladies who wandered the grounds. “I cannot. No one can prove any of your claims concerning him.”

Garett bristled. “But you know bloody well—”

“Yes. Tearle paints himself a moderate, but I know more about his Roundhead companions than he realizes. He’s a villain and not to be trusted.”

“Then do something about him!”

The king let out an oath. “Unfortunately, there were villains on both sides in our most recent conflict, and I cannot choose to punish him without punishing them all. I have agreed to amnesty for everyone but the regicides, and that includes Tearle.”

“Unless I can prove his treachery.”

“Or he proves to be behind the attempt on my life.” Charles sighed. “There is no proof of that, either, and until I have some, I must tread cautiously. He’s powerful among Cromwell’s old supporters. To cross him could mean risking the disapproval of the very subjects I wish
to placate. I cannot afford to be seen as seeking vengeance upon the Roundheads.”

The king leveled a hard glance on Garett. “Neither can you. You have your reward. Do not do anything foolhardy against your uncle that might jeopardize us both.”

“He deserves my retribution,” Garett growled. “And I won’t hesitate to mete out his fair portion, given the chance.”

“I speak now as your friend, not your king—I fear he will suffer less from your vengeance than you will.”

Garett uttered a harsh laugh. “Has Your Majesty now become like the Puritans, crying that vengeance is the Lord’s? Will my soul be condemned if I make Pitney Tearle suffer for stealing away a defenseless boy’s title and inheritance?” And more, though he couldn’t yet prove it.

“I believe the Almighty will understand.” Charles looked upon Garett with an odd pity. “Yet now that the seed of bitterness has sprung to life within you, I wonder if you will be able to stop its vines from choking your heart.”

Garett’s heart had been choked long ago by betrayal and pain. And no matter what His Majesty wanted, the man responsible for that deserved to be punished. “Thank you for your advice, my liege, but after years of nurturing that seed, I can’t root it out. Come what may, I mean to see the seedling fully sprung and the vines grown firm to imprison Pitney Tearle.”

*  *  *

Weeks after her father’s arrest, Miss Marianne Winchilsea, daughter to a baronet, stared sadly at the once immaculate gardens of her cherished home. How well she remembered her first sight of it, eight years ago. For a child of twelve accustomed to their cramped London town house, Falkham House had seemed a magnificent palace, with its costly glass windows and graceful gables. Yet despite its grandeur, its cheery red brick had always felt welcoming.

It had helped that the people of the nearby town of Lydgate had willingly accepted her gypsy mother. Of course, they’d been told—as had all of Father’s friends—that her mother was a Spanish noble’s daughter. Later, when the truth about Mother’s race had slipped out, the townspeople had jealously guarded her secret, won over by her sweet disposition and her healing skills.

A lump rose in Marianne’s throat as she surveyed the neglected patches of sage and lady’s mantle, oregano and dragon’s blood. Her parents had so loved their herb gardens. Father had even found some solace in them after Mother died.

But now he was dead, too.

She fought her ready tears, knowing they brought no comfort. How could he be dead? It made no sense. He’d been killed in a prison, where he should have been safe. Why had someone wanted him dead? For that matter, why had someone felt the need to paint him the villain and cause his arrest?

“Come, Mina, we should go,” Aunt Tamara murmured at her ear, using Mother’s nickname for her.

With a sigh, Marianne faced Mother’s only sister.

“You agreed not to tempt fate by approaching your old home,” her aunt reminded her. “Your father wasn’t the only one suspected of treason, you know—there were rumors of
your
involvement.”

And it still infuriated Marianne that anyone could think such a thing. Neither she nor Father had ever been anything but loyal to the Crown. “Fortunately, everyone outside of Lydgate believed your tale that I drowned myself when I heard of Father’s arrest.”

Thank heaven Aunt Tamara had learned of it before the soldiers had come looking for Marianne; otherwise, she’d even now be awaiting execution. No one would have listened to her protests, not with England in such chaos.

“Let’s not give anyone reason to believe otherwise,” her aunt said. “Return to the wagon and leave this place before you are recognized.”

“No one will do so as long as I wear this.” Marianne tugged at the black silk mask gentlewomen often wore while riding to protect their faces from the weather. It had been a useful tool for disguising her without drawing attention. Unfortunately, it also partially obscured her vision and was occasionally uncomfortable, but that was a small price to pay for freedom.

“Besides,” she went on, “how can I discover who killed Father if I stay away from Falkham House? You heard the rumors—someone has already bought the place from the Crown, mere weeks after Father’s death. I have to know if the new owner had anything to do with arranging Father’s arrest and death.”

That was her sole purpose these days—to figure out who’d caused Father’s downfall. After Aunt Tamara had engineered her escape from London by hiding her in the gypsy camp when the soldiers had come for her, Marianne had insisted on fleeing to Lydgate, where she knew she could find refuge. The townspeople would never betray her.

Of course, Aunt Tamara hadn’t approved of Marianne’s plan but had gone along, knowing perfectly well that arguing with her niece was fruitless. Once in Lydgate, they’d found a spot to settle. Marianne had quickly adjusted to spending her nights in the cramped confines of the wooden wagon and her days roaming the forest in search of firewood or going to town for provisions. It hadn’t taken her long to realize how hard her aunt’s life with her people must have been, selling her needlecraft to gain food, using her wits to keep the wagon safe and warm, and keeping out of sight of soldiers who hated gypsies.

Aware of how little money Aunt Tamara had to spare, Marianne had begun using her skills as a healer to help them earn their keep. She’d been right about the townspeople’s refusal to turn her in. If anything, they’d been pleased to have her tend their sick and act as midwife to their women.

“ ’Tis not too late to flee to the Continent and join my people there,” Aunt Tamara said.

“I cannot. The cards are dealt, and I must play out the hand.” The dark expression that crossed Aunt Tamara’s face made Marianne add, with a twinkle in her eye, “But you don’t have to stay.”

“As if I’d hurl my niece to the wolves! Don’t think to be rid of me now, poppet. Someone must keep you from darting into danger.”

“True.” Marianne hugged her aunt. “I’d be lost without you here.”

“And don’t you forget it.” Aunt Tamara tugged on Marianne’s arm. “So listen to me and come away before the new owner spies us.”

Marianne hesitated, but her aunt was right. She would learn nothing just standing here watching the house, so she let her aunt draw her off down the road. “Does anyone know who bought the estate?”

“I have asked, but they seem reluctant to tell me
.
” Aunt Tamara frowned. “Perhaps they still don’t trust me entirely.”

“They’ll tell
me
.” Shifting direction, Marianne headed for town.

Her aunt let out an oath. “You’re supposed to stay out of Lydgate as much as possible.”

“This is important,” Marianne said. “I have to find out who he is. And I know just the person to tell us.”

She headed straight for the apothecary shop. As they entered, Marianne threw back the hood of her cloak and began to remove her mask.

“I advise you not to do that,” the owner said in a stern voice.

“But we’re the only ones here, Mr. Tibbett,” Marianne protested.

He softened his expression. “If the people of Lydgate are to protect you, Miss Winchilsea, you must do your
part and keep your face covered when strangers are about.”

She sighed. “Then you must remember to call me Mina. I’m a poor half-gypsy gentlewoman, or had you forgotten?” When his face fell, Marianne hastened to add, “Forgive me, dear friend. I do appreciate all that you and your fellows have done to keep me safe. I should never have placed you in such danger.”

“Nonsense.” A smile cracked his usual reserve. “It is wonderful to have such a skilled healer in our midst again.”

“Don’t flatter the girl,” Aunt Tamara grumbled, then poked Marianne. “The mask, Mina.”

With a sigh, Marianne restored her disguise.

“Now then,” Mr. Tibbett said. “What might I do for you today?”

The apothecary might be a rather ponderous old Puritan given to platitudes and maxims, but he’d taught her much about medicines and herbs.

Just now, however, Marianne was most interested in his shameful tendency to gossip. “We wish to know who’s the new owner of Falkham House,” Marianne said baldly.

Mr. Tibbett blinked, then sighed. “So you heard about that, did you?”

“Of course. But no one will say who bought it.”

“It wasn’t bought . . . exactly. It was, you might say,
acquired.
The Earl of Falkham himself reclaimed his estate.”

“Oh, poppet, a great noble, no less!” Aunt Tamara
said. “We should leave here before you find yourself in more trouble.”

“I don’t understand,” Marianne said. “Pitney Tearle had no claim on it—”

“No, not Sir Pitney. The real earl, Garett Lockwood.”

Lockwood? She knew that name. “You mean the man who died in the war, with his wife?”

“Not him but his son,” Mr. Tibbett said. “Everyone—apparently even his uncle, Sir Pitney Tearle—thought he’d been killed with his parents. Sir Pitney was only a knight before then, but as a distant cousin, he inherited the earldom. Indeed, that’s why he married the former earl’s sister, because
she
was actually heir to the property through her mother if the earl died. Once all heirs to the title were believed dead and Lady Tearle was the only heir to the Falkham estate, Sir Pitney gained both the property and the title.”

“But Sir Pitney sold Falkham House to my brother-in-law,” Aunt Tamara said. “So by the terms under which the king was restored to the throne, this other man—the Royalist—could not reclaim his property unless . . .”

“Father died,” Marianne said in a hard voice. “Or was proved a traitor. Or both.”

Mr. Tibbett blinked. “Now see here, I know what you’re thinking, but his lordship would never do such a thing.”

“You mean arrange the arrest of my father so he could
regain Falkham House? How can you be sure? He was only a boy when he left. Who knows what his character became?”

“Ah, but he’s a man of some renown now. Every day some new story surfaces of his bravery in battle, how he fought with the Duke of York under the humble name Garett Lockwood, and how he performed many heroic acts. Apparently he even stayed abroad to arrange His Majesty’s marriage after the king’s return. That’s how he regained his lands—as a reward for his actions.”

“A reward he could never have received if Father hadn’t been arrested and killed,” she said hotly.

Mr. Tibbett cast her a pained look. “Yes, but you must understand. Sir Pitney had no right to sell the estate, not while the heir was alive.”

“Then the heir shouldn’t have hidden himself off abroad,” Marianne snapped.

The door opened and closed behind her, but she was too caught up in her anger to heed either that or Mr. Tibbett’s warning glance.

“No one would have bought Falkham House in the first place,” she continued, “if this heir had simply bothered to inform people he hadn’t died in the war. It makes me wonder—”

“Ah, here’s that rosemary you came for,” Mr. Tibbett jumped in as he thrust a jar at her.

“Rosemary?” She slid it back at him. “What would I want with rosemary?”

“I believe,” rumbled a deep masculine voice behind
her, “Mr. Tibbett is trying to keep you from wounding my feelings.”

Startled, Marianne swung around, knocking off the jar of rosemary, which hit the stone floor and shattered, filling the air with the herb’s pungent scent.

“Good day, my lord,” Mr. Tibbett said hastily. “It’s good to see you again.”

“And you,” the stranger said tersely.

Lord help her. This had to be the earl himself. Worse yet, she’d just insulted him, thus drawing attention to herself. A pox on her quick tongue!

What now? Apologize or stay silent? Which one would help her escape his further notice?

Thank heavens Mr. Tibbett had insisted on her continuing to wear the mask. This Royalist earl wouldn’t hesitate to hand her over to the Crown, given who she was and what she and Father had been accused of.

Which he might have engineered himself.

She shivered. This man could very well be her enemy. He certainly looked daunting—tall, fiercely handsome, and nobly dressed.

Trying to gather her wits about her, she bent to pick up the shards of crockery, and her gaze went right to his jackboots of supple gray leather. As she straightened, she took in his hose of the best silk and his breeches of kerseymere. His gray woolen cape was pushed back over his shoulders, exposing his doublet and, underneath that, his shirt of fine holland.