The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3) (22 page)

‘Having had the dubious pleasure of sorting out your shirts, I
feel
like somebody’s wife.’

Jem laughed. ‘He’s got you there, Captain.’

‘And you can hold your tongue, too,’ retorted Ashley. ‘I also wish – if you
must
use my rank – you could get it right. We’re not on the High Toby now.’

‘Once a bridle-cull, always a bridle-cull,’ averred Jem.
 
And, glancing from Francis to the assembled baggage and back again, ‘So where we going, then?’

‘Sixteen, Rue des Rosiers.’

‘Whew!’
 
Jem rolled his eyes.
 
‘Gawd’s truth, we must be flush!
 
We’ll be strutting about like crows in a gutter afore we knows it.
 
So have you paid the old cross-biter – or are we shooting the moon?’

There were times when Francis found Jem’s vocabulary tiresome.
 
This was one of them.
 
He said, ‘I’d be grateful if, just sometimes, you could speak the King’s own English.
 
However.
 
The answer is yes, the rent has been paid and no, we won’t have to slink away after dark.
 
Therefore, if neither of you have any further questions, I’ll go and hire a cart.’

‘Don’t fret your gizzard, Milord.
 
I’ll see to that,’ offered Jem provocatively. ‘Reckon you done enough.
 
And you’ll be happier when you’ve given the Captain here a good dressing-down.’
 
Upon which note, he disappeared.

Collecting the Major’s irritable gaze, Ashley said crisply, ‘All right, Francis.
 
I apologise for any inconvenience caused by my delayed return. As it happens, I spent some time trying to give His Majesty something to think about other than women – whilst also talking myself into a brief, exploratory visit to England.
 
The first may have worked but won’t last; the second may come off when everyone with a say in the matter has talked themselves to a standstill.’

The blue gaze remained largely inimical.

‘I suppose,’ drawled Francis, ‘that it never occurs to you that it’s a touch unreasonable to expect everyone to leap into action every time you speak?’

‘I don’t expect it.
 
But --’

‘That’s not how it sounds.
 
And as for Charles … he may be a rakehell but he’s also been cap in hand to every damned ruler he can reach, looking for an army.’

‘Very well.
 
Perhaps I expect too much.’
 
Ashley drew a short, explosive breath.
 
‘But if we’re going to sit on our arses for another year doing sod all, I want my life back.’
 
He stopped abruptly and, moderating his tone, said, ‘So tell me.
 
Who paid the rent and why are we removing to the Rue des Rosiers?’

‘I invested the last of our money in a dice game and was lucky,’ shrugged Francis.
 
‘The rent is paid and I still have a few coins in my pocket. As for the new lodgings, Celia arranged them.
 
After her recent failings and still with no reply from Eden, she’s trying to find a way back into my good graces.
 
Of course, as soon as Eden writes to say the only way she’ll ever marry Verney is over his dead body, we’ll have to shift for ourselves.
 
But in the meantime, the rooms in the Marais are clean, lice-free and cheaper than here.’
 
He paused and then added casually, ‘They’re also possessed of additional attractions.’

‘Oh God,’ groaned Ashley. ‘I might have known.
 
We’re moving so you can bed the landlord’s daughter.’

‘Not quite.’
 
His good humour restored, Francis gave a slow, seraphic smile. ‘She’s not the landlord’s daughter – though she has both father and chaperone.
 
And I’ll wager you’ll be casting as many lures as I.
 
Possibly more.
 
In short, she’s our own very favourite red-head.’

For a long time, Ashley just stared at him.
 
Finally, his voice curiously flat, he said, ‘Is that a joke?’

‘Not at all.
 
We are going – with crumhorns and tambours – to live in the Rue des Rosiers with Athenais de Galzain.’

There was another silence.

Then, ‘Bloody hell,’ said Colonel Peverell.

~
 
*
 
*
 
~
 
*
 
*
 
~

At about the time Francis and Ashley were preparing to move to the Marais, Eden Maxwell was staring broodingly down upon Cheapside from the window of Luciano del Santi’s parlour.
 
Despite the fact that his Italian brother-in-law hadn’t set foot in London for seven years, whereas he himself had been living there, on and off, for the last four, Eden still thought of it as Luciano’s house – and probably would even when his younger brother, Toby, arrived to set up his own goldsmith’s sign there.
 

Not that he was thinking of that now.
 
Now
, the only thing on his mind was the much-travelled and aggravatingly tactful letter he held crushed in his hand.
 
In some corner of his mind, Eden recognised that Francis meant well … that if a letter from one’s brother-in-law made one want to smash something, a letter from one’s bitch of a wife would probably have one climbing the walls.
 
But until today, except in one particular which he generally managed to avoid thinking about, Eden had believed himself cured – only to discover that it wasn’t completely true.
 

It had been eight years.
 
Anyone who couldn’t get over a woman in that time must be feeble-minded.
 
All right; so Celia’s betrayal was inextricably linked with the death of his father … and because his daughter probably
wasn’t
his daughter, he’d become a virtual stranger to his son.
 
But his days weren’t empty of purpose, nor his nights of pleasure.
 
He had work he enjoyed and friends he valued.
 
His life might have been changed – but it hadn’t been ruined.
 
Neither, since the day he’d found her in bed with Hugo Verney, had he ever wanted Celia back.
 
So why in Hades did Francis’s letter make him feel as if he’d been kicked in the stomach?

He half-considered reading it again and then changed his mind.
 
He knew what it said.
 
Celia wanted a divorce – and, being Celia, thought that to want was to have.
 
Francis clearly knew better, understanding that Eden might be averse to becoming fodder for the news-sheets.
 
In fact, his only miscalculation lay in the delicately-phrased suggestion that Eden might, by now, be ready to consider marrying again.
 
He wasn’t.

His life was well-ordered and the very last thing he needed was another wife.
 
In the months since Worcester, he’d been required to do very little fighting.
 
Instead, he’d been sitting on this committee and that while Cromwell and the rest laboured to devise a workable government.
 
The most recent scheme, which had involved crowning the young Duke of Gloucester, had foundered like all the others before it.
 
Despite fixing a date for its dissolution, the Rump lingered on like a bad smell, occasionally managing to put a spoke in Oliver’s wheel;
 
an Act of Union, joining Scotland to England, had been mouldering away in committee for four months without reaching resolution;
 
and Henry Ireton had continued knocking the stuffing out of Ireland until it had succeeded in killing him the previous November – after which, despite a formal treaty of surrender at Kilkenny, the Irish continued to fight on in small pockets and recognise defeat, piecemeal.
 

The Dutch War had started back in May when Admiral Blake and the Dutch Admiral Tromp had clashed at the battle of Dover.
 
A month later, Dutch ambassadors had arrived to protest about England interfering with their trading vessels all around the coast and a month after that, a state of war between the two countries had been somewhat belatedly declared in the wake of Admiral Ayscue’s attack on Dutch ships off Calais.
 
Further afield, meanwhile, Prince Rupert was picking off English merchantmen in the West Indies – thus annoying those islands which had seen the wisdom of recognising the Commonwealth.

In London, while all this was going on, Eden compiled dossiers and wrote reports and started to understand why Gabriel Brandon had predicted that one day the Army would be no place for soldiers.
 
Fortunately, before the boredom became too much for him, chance revealed a talent he’d never previously had much use for and caused him to be seconded into the intelligence service.
 
Years ago at Angers, Eden had fallen in love with the intricacy of ciphers.
 
Now he spent a large part of his time breaking Dutch and Royalist codes for Thomas Scot who was still in charge of foreign intelligence and devising others for the use of the Secretary of State’s growing network of domestic network of spies and informers.
 
Eden wasn’t especially fond of John Thurloe.
 
He was, however, forced to admit that – judging by the last four months – the fellow was someone who specialised in getting wheels working within wheels.
 
So much so, thought Eden, tossing the letter down on the table, that it was tempting to wonder if Thurloe wouldn’t be the very person to secure one a quick and totally discreet divorce.

A door slammed below and there was a sound of feet running up the stairs.
 
Then the parlour door opened and Nicholas Austin’s head appeared round it to say, ‘Sam would like to call on you later, if it’s convenient – something about the
Moderate
.’

Sighing, Eden turned round.
 
He didn’t know which piece of folly was worse; inviting a Catholic Royalist to inhabit the spare bedchamber – or letting him get thick as thieves with Sam Radford.
 
The first wouldn’t do much harm provided Eden’s superiors didn’t get wind of it; but the second created a potentially explosive combination of Leveller and Cavalier – poles apart except on the issue of wanting to reduce the power of the Army.

‘If it’s convenient?’ queried Eden. ‘As far as I’m aware, Sam never gave a tinker’s curse for anybody’s convenience save his own.’

Nicholas grinned.
 
‘I put that bit in myself.
 
He’ll be here around six.’

‘I may be out.
 
Are you going to Shoreditch?’

‘Later, perhaps.
 
Bryony gave me a message for Annis, so --’

‘You really needn’t make excuses to me, you know,’ interrupted Eden blandly.
 
And watched the younger man flush.

Not having felt up to taking responsibility for a seventeen-year-old girl, Eden had turned to Gabriel Brandon’s foster-family.
 
He’d persuaded the Morrells to care for Verity – in return for which she helped Annis in the house and looked after five-year-old John.
 
The arrangement seemed to suit everyone and had also finally shaken Nicholas out of the apathy that had lasted a full month after they’d reached London.

At first, Eden had let him wallow – then irritation had set in, causing him to say abrasively, ‘Are you going to mope about forever?
 
Or are you going to pick yourself up and make the best of a bad job?’
 
Then, when Nicholas hadn’t answered, he’d added, ‘You might at least spare a thought for young Verity.
 
She burned her boats to keep you alive and now you’re all she’s got.
 
So what are you going to do about her?’

Nicholas had turned an empty brown gaze on him and, in the tone of someone asking for the salt, said, ‘Do you want me to marry her?’

‘Don’t be a bigger fool than you can help.
 
She’s not quite eighteen and seems to have become infatuated with the first fellow to show her a bit of kindness.’

‘And a cripple’s not a great bargain, is he?’

A dangerous gleam entered Eden’s eyes.

‘You’re not the first man to lose a limb in battle and I doubt you’ll be the last.
 
So pull yourself together and make a courtesy call in Shoreditch.
 
You’ll find the Morrells’ house easily enough – Jack’s an armourer.
 
And don’t tell me you can’t ride with only one arm, because you can.
 
Unless you’re a bloody daisy?’

So Nicholas had gone to Shoreditch in a mood of sullen resentment and returned subtly changed.
 
From Jack and Annis, Eden learned that he had arrived with a face like stone and a manner only a hairsbreadth from rudeness.
 
Then he’d come face to face with Verity – pale and forlorn, her eyes full of doubt – and stopped as if poleaxed.
 
By the time he left, said Annis, Verity had some colour in her face and the Captain had remembered his manners.

After his second visit, Nicholas had immediately sought out Eden to say bluntly, ‘You’ve done more for me than anyone could expect of a stranger and borne with my moods with exceptional patience – and all for no thanks that I remember making.
 
I’d like to rectify that now, if I may.’
 

That had been seven months ago, since which time – in between making himself useful to Eden and forging a friendship with Samuel Radford – Nicholas had taken to visiting Shoreditch every other day.
 
Eden hoped whatever came of it would be for the best.
 
It would be nice to help two people live happily ever after.
 
It was just a pity he couldn’t do it for himself.

He took another cursory look at Francis’s letter before shoving it away at the back of a drawer.
 
He didn’t have to think about it now.
 
He didn’t have to think about it at
all
, if he didn’t want to. And as for Celia … well, Celia could go hang.
 

There was a tap at the door and Eden turned, smiling, as Deborah Hart walked in.
 
Though less buxom than she’d been before her ordeal, her skin had regained its luminosity and her eyes were serene.
 
She said, ‘I came to ask if you’d be taking your meal at home today.’

‘Unfortunately, not.
 
I’m due at Whitehall in an hour – the Officers’ Council is presenting a petition for numerous reforms and the dissolution of Parliament. Oh – and it’s asking for arrears of pay.
 
Again. And if
that
doesn’t take the rest of the afternoon, there’s also to be some discussion about confiscating Royalist lands to fund the Navy.’
 
He paused and added, ‘I’ve told you before.
 
There’s no need to knock when you know I’m alone.’

She shook her head slightly. ‘It’s better so.
 
More … appropriate.’

Eden looked at her, taking in the plain blue gown and crisp white cap over neatly-arranged hair.
 
She looked every inch the perfect housekeeper – and, indeed, she was.
 
He’d offered her the position because doing so killed two birds with one stone.
 
She needed work and he needed someone to run his home.
 
Simple.
 
What he
hadn’t
anticipated was that, from being more conscious of her than was comfortable, he should progress so swiftly to wanting her … or how, despite all his care, she had somehow
known
.

It had been on a night at the turn of the year when she’d been under his roof for almost three months that he’d gone to his room and found her waiting for him, still fully-dressed but with her hair unbound.
 
Shock had frozen him to the threshold for several seconds before he’d had the sense to close the door.
 
Then, walking to a point some three steps from him, she had said calmly, ‘I have waited to see if there was some other woman in your life but it seems that there isn’t.
 
I am here because I want to be and because I think you do too.
 
If that is so – and you were to ask – I could stay.’

Eden had opened his mouth on a sensible, graceful refusal and, instead, heard himself say huskily, ‘Then stay.’

Smiling, she had allowed him to close the space between them.
 
And, when he had done so and she was almost in his arms, she said, ‘I know you are not in love with me.
 
It is of no consequence so long as you never pretend.
 
And I will be discreet.’

Eden had stopped the words with his mouth and felt the naked hunger in her response.
 
Desire flared into a blaze and he pulled her down with him into the softness of the feather quilt, his fingers already busy with the laces of her gown.
 
Later, he dimly remembered murmuring, ‘Forgive me … and forgive my intemperance.
 
But it’s been a long time.’

And, in a voice as unsteady as his, she’d said, ‘For me, also.
 
So be as intemperate as you like, my dear … and I shall meet you half-way.’

She’d met him more than half-way – not just on that night, but on all the others that had succeeded it.
 
She’d also kept her promise about discretion.
 
Sometimes, Eden had difficulty equating the quietly efficient woman in the sober dress and starched cap with the wildly wanton creature who shared his bed at night.
 
And though he was no more in love with her now than he’d been eight months ago, he was wholly addicted to the pleasures her body brought him.
 
Sometimes he also found himself wondering if she really was a witch, after all.