Fire Raven (29 page)

“I am trusting my instincts, Lucien. They have saved me before. Just as I once instinctively trusted you, my friend, I disliked and distrusted Saville on sight.”

“Friend?” Lucien sighed, turning to face Kat so he gazed down into her eyes. “Is this all I will ever be to you, Katherine? A fencing instructor,
mon collègue
?”

Kat hesitated. There was no mistaking the intense look in Lucien’s blue eyes, nor the undercurrent of sadness in his voice. She would do anything to keep from hurting him, but she could not promise a heart already lost to another.

“Time shall tell,” she said at last, so as not to wound him more. Lucien’s expression brightened; he obviously decided that was good enough for now.

“I
VOW
, I
SHALL
throw myself from London Bridge.”

Maggie Tanner’s passionate declaration made Merry sigh. She felt cross and lost all patience with her cousin. She shook a finger in a motherly fashion at the rebellious Maggie.

“I’ll not hear any more of this nonsense, coz. Were Aunt Isobel or Uncle Kit here, they’d quickly shake some sense into your silly head. You agreed to come to Whitehall tonight and enjoy the masque, now y’are ruining it for both of us.”

“’Twas before the letter arrived,” Maggie sullenly responded. She sat in a dejected heap upon Merry’s bed, the skirts of her costume drawn around her. “What manner of country oaf demands a midnight wedding without waiting for the banns to be read? Worse yet, a hasty exchange of vows at the smallest, drabbest church in the city. Y’know I made plans on a grand ceremony at St. Paul’s. I shall be made a laughingstock!”

“Ridiculous. ’Tis little matter where you are married when your intended is a respected man,” Merry said, reasoning that was not a total lie. Rather, what she had heard at Court was that Maggie’s betrothed was feared by his peers, yet she might naturally assume respect followed fear.

Maggie was not to be consoled. “He must be a monster, as I’ve heard; mayhap he’ll change into one when the church bells sound.”

“Nonsense,” Merry said, for what seemed the hundredth time. Realizing Maggie was not listening to her, she wearily changed tactics. In a sweet, wheedling tone, she said:

“Think not of the man you wed, coz, but the great honor bestowed upon the lady wife of a baron, and the adorable babes you shall have one day.”

Maggie sniffled. “’Tis hardly any consolation to imagine my children might favor their sire.”

Throwing up her hands, Merry said, “Y’are not being fair to the man, Maggie. You have never met him nor seen his likeness, and cruel gossip is rarely known to be true.”

“’Twas true enough, his mother took her own life when he was born,” Maggie said with a shudder. “Even Papa did not deny that tale.”

“Would good Christian folk blame an innocent babe? La, cousin, you’ve more common sense. Mayhap the superstitious Welsh delight in such myths; here at Court, we are more practical and never lend an ear to such mischievous yarns.”

“Indeed? Then why is the gossip so rampant here at Whitehall? Why have I heard naught but terrible whispers about the deformity Lord Trelane wears in crown-like fashion? And why, pray tell, if such rumors are untrue, did my betrothed not send a miniature in kind?”

“Men are not so vain as women. ’Tis not in their nature,” Merry reassured her cousin, with faltering conviction. She pictured the prancing fops who often surrounded the queen.

“Well, I’m not going,” Maggie repeated firmly. “Milord can come and drag me screaming to the altar, yet he shall have not one whit of my own assistance in the deed.”

Resigned, Merry asked, “Can I trust you not to hurl yourself from London Bridge if I go to the masque without you?”

Maggie nodded. “I have neither the courage nor the cruel nature to break Papa and Isobel’s hearts. Nay, I realize they did their best. If only my dear Will had not died! By morning’s light, I shall likely be a married woman, but Trelane will have to find me first.”

W
HAT DEVILRY IS
M
ISTRESS
Margaret up to
? Morgan wondered when he received the news from Ambergate. A lengthy apology from Sir Christopher Tanner did little to improve his foul mood, nor did a fervent promise that the errant maid would be properly chastened, when and if she was found.

Morgan reluctantly agreed to attend a masque at Whitehall, with Sir Christopher’s assurance he would be introduced to his future wife there and allowed to escort Margaret directly to the church afterwards. The demand for such a hasty wedding clearly left the Tanner family at a loss, but Morgan knew they dared not question his eccentricities for fear of losing such a great match, altogether.

Arriving at Whitehall, Morgan set his jaw with the effort of getting through the social crush and whirl. He had missed the formal dinner, and the dancing had already begun — He cared not. He detested Court, though he had visited it when he was a young lad. His father sought to engage him as a page, a common practice among the lesser peerage.

To this end Morgan received weeks of etiquette lessons and stern instruction in a page’s courtly duties. Once again, Rhys denied his son’s shortcomings. Spurned by his elders and cruelly mocked by his peers, Morgan endured one miserable week at Court before he ran away.

Rhys was summoned from Wales to help locate him. Morgan was discovered sleeping in the royal stables at Richmond. Horses were far better companions than his fellow pages, and warmer-natured besides. Rhys never forced his shivering son to return to Court. Instead they retreated to Falcon’s Lair in silence.

Now Morgan found himself ensconced in the masque at Whitehall with no option of escape. He didn’t fear being recognized or scorned by any of his peers, due to the fact of his virtual obscurity and present manner of dress. He had, of course, chosen his costume with care. His black velvet doublet and breeches were unprepossessing, as was the black velvet mask concealing most of his face. It was nothing to draw particular attention to him, other than the fact of his considerable height in contrast to other men.

If anyone inquired what character or notion he portrayed, Morgan had already planned the dry and somewhat sardonic reply that he represented Lord Satan.
That would certainly rock a few courtiers back on their heels
, he thought with satisfaction.

Gazing around at the colorful throng, Morgan felt cool contempt for the entire proceeding, especially for the participants. Most of the ladies — he decided the term must be used loosely at best — were outlandishly garbed, powdered, and bejeweled like the tasteless tarts they were. The half-bare bosoms and stockings sporting naughty designs seemed to be the fashion of the day. Many tottered upon ridiculous pantofles, stilt-like cork heels with which it seemed they either intended to impress others, or to break their own necks in the attempt.

The men were scarcely an improvement. With rare exception, they, too, wore huge, cartwheel neck ruffs and layers of costly baubles. Their outfits were pinked, paned, and slashed to the point of garishness.

Morgan had to swallow a laugh at the sight of one elderly fop bouncing up and down in poor imitation of performing a galliard dance, looking more like a barnyard rooster, pecking and hopping about, than the gallant swain he aspired to be. Incredibly, the fellow wore bright yellow satin breeches, a red leather jerkin, and a tuft-taffeta doublet of alternating orange and purple stripes. His stockings were a particularly bilious shade of green. Nay, mused Morgan, he favors not the cock rooster, but a parrot his former fellow pages had kept in a gilded cage.

Lord “Parrot’s” partner was a much younger woman, a would-be mermaid garbed in seawater silk. Unlike her aged companion, her goffered ruff was of modest size. When the dance shifted to a lavolta, she lifted her skirts to execute a graceful leap. Morgan noted her stockings were plain. Either Lord Parrot was fortunate enough to have a practical wife, or he kept a modest mistress.

Morgan’s gaze shifted to the open windows — the sole source of fresh air in a hall reeking of perfume and stale sweat. A thin slice of peach-velvet moon showed the hour was growing late. He had left word at his London residence that when the wayward Mistress Margaret was found, she must be immediately brought to him. They would depart for the church and head back to Wales the next morning. Morgan didn’t intend to waste a moment more than necessary in this odious den of Tudor fops and trollops. By tomorrow, he planned to be a well and married man, hopefully with a son making an appearance in the new year, as well.

Morgan concealed a yawn behind his gloved hand. As he glanced towards the entrance, he saw a redheaded woman enter the crush. Her furtive stance, and the fact that she seemed to be looking for someone, caught his attention. Her vivid mane of hair was threaded with some sort of ridiculous female frippery he gathered was supposed to resemble leaves.

The woman’s costume matched the loud hue of her hair, a frenzied mixture of red and orange. Her décolletage was alarmingly deep. Despite such a tasteless display, she proceeded through the crowd, gaining exclamations from the others present. Morgan assumed the women remarked upon her belated appearance and the daring nature of her costume. He didn’t have to guess what the men said. The randy fellows swarmed about the redhead, ogling her breasts as they bowed over her little white hand. Morgan felt his cheeks burning with outrage beneath his mask.

He didn’t stop to reason further. He recalled the face from the miniature. Though this young woman wore a mask, the red hair was distinctive enough to make her identity obvious; Mistress Margaret Tanner had made her tardy, albeit dramatic appearance, and he intended to set her straight.

W
HEN SOMEONE SEIZED
M
ERRY’S
arm, she didn’t take immediate offense. Tudor swains were known to be bolder than they were wise. She knew none dared maul her in the presence of the queen. She tossed her head in a coquettish fashion and whirled to face her assailant.

“Fie, sir, have a care. Perchance you will crush my wrist,” Merry simpered in her customary manner. The man’s icy dark eyes froze further words in her throat. His gaze scoured her, head to toe, reflecting neither admiration nor base lust.

Merry shivered. There was no emotion at all in those coal-colored eyes behind the mask. No mercy, no passion, nothing save a hardened resolve which set her heart to pounding. S’blood, the rogue was uncommonly tall, too. He gripped her wrist tightly, without regard for her female frailty. Something in his manner frightened Merry to the core.

She squeaked in protest. His laughter was harsh and brief.

“Come, Mistress Tanner. You play the mouse now, yet a moment ago you were only too eager to launch yourself into the arms of any willing knave.”

Outraged, Merry gasped. How dare he assail her morals? Who was this cad? Surely she would not forget a courtier so tall and grimly disposed, one with breeding every bit as boorish as his costume.

Merry straightened and adopted an arrogant attitude. She reminded herself that was not easy for one of a naturally loving disposition like she.