The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3) (54 page)

‘Because something will have gone wrong?’

‘Yes. It shouldn’t – but one never knows.
 
And one other thing.
 
Francis and I will escort the ladies to the theatre tonight, then disappear for a time.
 
We should be back before the final curtain but, during our absence and just in case we’re delayed, I’d like you to be on hand should the need arise.
 
If the Marquis shows up again, Pauline will point him out to you.’

‘Whereupon I don’t let Athenais out of my sight?’

‘Whereupon, if necessary, you chain her to your wrist.’

Nick grinned wryly.
 
‘Only having one, that might be tricky – but I’ll do my best.’

*
 
*
 
*

Pauline, on learning that Francis would be missing the bulk of that evening’s performance, took the opportunity to appear to jump to conclusions.

‘I see.
 
One of your new lady-friends invited you to supper, has she?’

‘No.’ He folded his arms and grinned.
 
‘Would you mind if she had?’

‘Why should I?
 
It’s no business of mine what you do.’

‘Then why did you ask?’

‘Idle curiosity.’

‘I see.’

She gave him a sharp glance and said, ‘I don’t know why you’re looking so smug.’

‘Yes, you do.
 
It’s because you’re just a little bit jealous.’

‘I most certainly am not!’

The smug expression evaporated and Francis said, ‘Would it really hurt you to give me just a glimmer of encouragement?’

‘As far as I can see, you don’t need it.’

‘Then you can’t have been looking very hard.’
 
He turned to go and the paused to say, ‘Not, of course, that you’re remotely interested … but I’ll be helping Ashley with something for an hour or so.’

‘Wait!’
 
Pauline took a couple of steps towards him.
 
‘I don’t want the details.
 
But …’

‘But what?’

She drew an impatient breath. ‘You’ll be careful?’

The sheer, uninhibited pleasure in Francis’s smile made her knees feel suddenly weak.

‘I’ll be careful,’ he promised.
 
‘And I thank you for asking.’

~
 
*
 
*
 
~
 
*
 
*
 
~

Ashley and Francis remained at the theatre until
M
é
nage
was under way and Mistress Walter, accompanied by three gentlemen and a lady – who was
not
Celia – were ensconced in their box and looked likely to remain there.
 
Then they slipped discreetly out of the stage door and made their way through the dark streets to find out if Jem had managed to fulfil his part of the plan.

He had.
 
The door to the street was unlocked and no one stood guard.
 
Ashley gestured to Francis to lurk in the deep shadows of a doorway opposite and then slid soundlessly into the house.

The picklocks being new, it took longer to open Lucy’s door than Ashley had anticipated but perseverance was finally rewarded and the door swung open. Once inside the room, he waited for a few moments for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark … then he set about taking the necessary precautions.
 
He locked the door behind him, opened one of the street-facing windows a crack so that, if Francis signalled, he would be able to hear him and he checked that all the curtains were tightly closed.
 
Then he took the time to locate another way out in case things went awry.
 
A window from the dressing-closet gave on to a tiled roof some twelve feet below, from which a similar drop would take him to the yard.
 
Sighing, Ashley loosened the window-latch and hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.

He returned to the parlour, lit a single candle and set about picking the lock of the small travelling desk.
 
Five minutes later, he had it open – only to discover that it was stuffed full of bills.
 
Ashley flicked through them, marvelling at the staggering amount Mistress Walter owed her dressmaker.
 
Then, finding nothing resembling the letters he was looking for, he put the bills back as he had found them and had to waste more time re-locking the desk.

He reasoned he’d now been inside the building for some fifteen minutes and he’d hoped to be in and out inside thirty but had now to conduct a thorough search. He glanced around the room.
 
A cupboard beneath the window-seat was empty of everything except cobwebs and the books on the mantelpiece were similarly unproductive. Deciding that the bedchamber was probably the more likely place, he picked up his candle and took a look around.
 
His heart sank.
 
Lucy’s bedroom might smell better than the Green Room at the Marais but it was certainly no tidier.
 
Gloves, scarves, chemises and petticoats all seemed to be trying to escape confinement so that nearly every drawer and chest had something spilling out of it; on the table beneath the mirror, bracelets and jewelled combs lay amidst spilled orris powder; and when Ashley took a step towards the bed, he narrowly avoided tripping over a numerous pairs of shoes.

His first and only thought was a despairing,
This could take all night and I don’t have that long
.
 
Then, forcing himself to get a grip, he drew a deep breath and tried to approach the problem logically.

She was a woman – and not a particularly intelligent one, at that.
 
She’d been careless enough with her marriage-lines to let Celia purloin them.
 
If she’d discovered the loss, she’d have moved any other important papers to … where?
 
Where did women hide things?
 
Underneath her stays or amidst her night-rails? He really didn’t want to touch those overflowing drawers and be faced with the problem of getting everything back the way it was. Stuffed under the pillow, the mattress, the bed?
 
Worth a try, he supposed … and spent a few precious minutes fruitlessly hunting.
 
Under the floorboards?
 
He doubted Lucy was the type to ruin her fingernails – which was just as well since he could hardly go tramping round the room to see if anything seemed loose.
 
Which left what?

He scanned the room again and this time noticed a large round box of the kind used for hats squashed between the top of the armoire and the ceiling.
 
Ashley reached up, his fingers getting just enough purchase to tug it free.
 
Being substantially shorter than himself, he reasoned that Lucy would need to stand on a stool – which meant that whatever was up there wasn’t something she needed very often. Setting the box down on the bed, he lifted the lid.

It contained not one hat but three, all somewhat the worse for wear.
 
And nestling beneath them, neatly tied up with a blue ribbon was a bundle of letters … along with a separately folded document that Ashley hadn’t expected to see.

His brows rose and he murmured, ‘Well now.
 
Just how many of these things
are
there?’

He was just tucking his finds into the breast of his coat when he heard a shrill whistle and Francis’s voice shouting, ‘Stop!
 
My purse, you bastard!’
 
And then, ‘Sirs – he went that way.
 
Help me!’
 
Followed by the sound of running feet.
 

Unfortunately, he also heard feminine voices in the hall below and light, slippered footsteps on the stairs.

Ashley groaned.
 
He rammed the box back into its place, blew out the candle and shot through to the dressing-closet.
 
The window was small and getting his shoulders through it wasn’t easy.
 
Then he lowered his body to hang by his hands from the sill and, bracing himself for the impact, let go.
 
He dropped and rolled more or less silently but pain hissed through his injured thigh.
 
He limped across the roof and, finding an ancient creeper, used it to access the yard without doing further damage to himself.
 
Then he gritted his teeth and ran.

An alleyway led to the street where he could still hear Francis breathing heavily and bemoaning the theft of his purse.
 
Ashley managed a sour grin.
 
It was nice to know he wasn’t the only one running about like an idiot.
 
He gave it a minute and then whistled.
 
Moments later, Francis strolled around the corner.
 
He was actually laughing – albeit silently.

‘I’m glad one of us is enjoying himself,’ muttered Ashley.
 

‘Aren’t you?’

‘Not especially.’

‘Did you get the letters?’

‘Yes.
 
And that’s not all.
 
I also found the famous marriage-lines.’

‘What?’
 
Francis stared at him.
 
‘But they’re in London.’

‘One copy may be.
 
A second one is inside my coat.
 
So the question arises, how many more of them are there?’

*
 
*
 
*

Back at the theatre, the fourth act of
Don Japhet
was well under way.
 
While Francis joined Nicholas back-stage and established that the Marquis hadn’t put in an appearance, Ashley made use of the Green Room to remove any signs of his exertions.
 
He was just about to re-lace his coat when Pauline walked in and, taking one look at him, said, ‘Stop.
 
You’d better give that to me.’

‘What?’

‘Your coat.
 
There’s a split in the seam of the right sleeve.
 
If you give it to me now, I can have it repaired before Athenais sees it and asks how it happened.’

Frowning a little, he shed his coat and handed it over, saying, ‘Thank you.
 
But why should that be undesirable?’

‘Isn’t it?’
 
Pauline sat down at a table with his coat across her lap and briskly threaded a needle.
 
‘Or perhaps you don’t mind lying to her?’

He chose not to answer this, saying instead, ‘How much has Francis told you?’

‘About this evening?
 
Nothing.
 
But your coat was all right when you went out and you were favouring your leg less than you are now – which, at a guess, would suggest something involving climbing or running. Or both.’
 
She bent her head over the sewing.
 
‘You’ll notice I don’t ask you to confirm it.
 
I know you won’t.’

Ashley perched on the corner of a nearby table and eyed her thoughtfully.

‘You’re very observant.’

‘Acting teaches you that.’
 
She glanced up briefly. ‘Is Francis all right?’

‘Yes.’
 
He smiled and decided to regain the upper hand.
 
‘Would you mind if he wasn’t?’

*
 
*
 
*

‘Where did you go tonight?’ asked Athenais later, when she and Ashley were finally alone.

‘I had a small task to perform.’
 
Very slowly and in between tantalising kisses, he started pulling the pins from her hair, watching as each heavy lock tumbled down to her shoulders.
 

‘At
night?
’

‘Yes.’
 
Turning her around, he slid his hands through the silky, copper mass and pushed it over one shoulder.

‘Oh.
 
Something secret?’

‘Yes.’
 
He nuzzled her neck and sought the laces of her gown.

Her breath caught.
 
‘For King Charles?’

‘Mm.’ His tongue found a particularly vulnerable spot beneath her ear and he felt a tremor flow through her.
 
‘Anything else?’

‘What?’

‘That you’d like to know.’
 
He eased the gown from her shoulders and let his hands stray over the curve of her breasts.

Her head fell back against his shoulder.

‘No.’

‘Sure?’
 
His mouth slid along her jaw.
 
‘If I’m wasting my time here …’

‘You’re not.’

‘No?’
 
The gown slithered to the floor and he turned her back to face him in order to kiss her more thoroughly. ‘Only if you’d prefer to talk some more …’

Athenais managed a small, husky laugh and wound her arms about his neck.

‘I wouldn’t.
 
I really, really wouldn’t.’

‘Good.
 
Because you remember that fantasy of mine? The one where I undress you very, very slowly and worship every inch of your skin … starting, perhaps, with your toes?’

‘Oh.’
 
The darkness in his voice sent a ripple of heat along her veins.
 
‘That one.
 
Yes.’

‘I was rather hoping that you might humour me.’

*
 
*
 
*

On the following morning, leaving Athenais curled up and unutterably inviting beneath the covers, Ashley hauled himself out of bed and got ready to visit the Louvre.
 
The water in the pitcher was cold, his only remaining suit of clothes was a disgrace and his boots needed mending.
 
And, as if all that wasn’t depressing enough, a dusting of snow lay outside the window – reminding him that Christmas was less than a week away.
 

 
He made his way to the Louvre as briskly as possible in order to keep his circulation going in the cold.
 
Then, before seeking an audience with the King, he called in on Sir Edward Hyde and said crisply, ‘You’ll recall me telling you that a copy of these thrice-blasted marriage lines had made its way into the possession of Thomas Scot.
 
I’m fairly certain that it got to London through the agency of Sir Hugo Verney – after you didn’t take the bait.’

‘
Verney?
 
How on earth --?’

‘The details aren’t important.
 
I’m telling you so that you’re aware Verney isn’t to be trusted.
 
You may want to have a little chat with him – or not, as the case may be.
 
But I’d ask that you leave my name out of any dealings with him.’

‘Why?’

‘My name will lead to that of Lord Wroxton. And Verney lives with his lordship’s sister – who is the source of my information.
 
I’d prefer not to be responsible for any potential rift in their household.’
 
Without giving Hyde the chance to query this, Ashley said, ‘There’s more.
 
We assumed there would only be one copy of the document I’ve been chasing.
 
But last night, I came across another one.’

‘Oh my God.
 
Where?’

‘Alongside some correspondence His Majesty asked me to retrieve from Mistress Walter,’ came the cool reply.
 
‘I’ll give Charles the letters, of course.
 
But it occurred to me that the marriage-lines might serve more purpose in your hands rather than his.
 
If, like the other, the document is a forgery, you may find some way of proving it.’
 
He handed the paper to the Chancellor. ‘An error, perhaps … anything that would enable you to discredit it.’