The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3) (56 page)

Drawing his head back against her shoulder and choosing her words more carefully than usual, she said, ‘You don’t need to thank me.
 
Or offer me any persuasions.
 
I’m tired of fighting both myself and you. The kiss is yours if you want it.
 
And, in due course, anything else.’

She felt his breath catch and it was a long time before he spoke.
 
Then he pulled her down on to his lap, folded her close in a passive embrace and said, ‘Promise me this is not because of what happened tonight.’

‘It’s not.’

‘You’re sure?
 
Because that would really hurt.’

‘I’m sure.’ She met his eyes and managed a tiny laugh. ‘Why would you think a woman might not want you just for yourself?
 
You’re not hard to swallow, you know.’

 
‘You shouldn’t flatter a fellow so.’
 
Then, the hint of a smile fading into a look of acute intensity, ‘You’re not
any
woman, Pauline.
 
And I’m not stupid enough to take anything about you for granted.
 
I’d ask you to give me the same courtesy.’

‘Do I not?’

‘No.
 
Not yet.
 
But I’m hoping to change that – though not tonight.
 
Tonight, I’ll claim my long-awaited kiss.
 
And then, if you’ll permit it, I’d like to sleep with my arms round you.
 
Just that and nothing more.’
 
He stopped, his mouth curling wryly. ‘Ah.
 
And there it is.
 
That moment of doubt.
 
That second when you can’t help thinking I don’t
really
want you – that you’re somehow unworthy.’

She sighed. ‘I know what I am, Francis.’

‘No. I don’t think you do.
 
And I’m not sure you know what
I
am either.
 
So, until you do … until you stop doubting me … I’ll take that one kiss and nothing more.’
 
And tilting her chin, he lowered his mouth to hers.

Later, she would realise that she should have known what to expect.
 
At that moment, however, the world dissolved into unimagined sweetness as, instead of taking, he offered her a gift.
 
A slow, tender exploration that demanded nothing but promised everything.
 
He slid his fingers into her hair, cradling her skull and very, very slowly let the kiss deepen until it spoke of untold delights.
 
And, already melting, Pauline let him know that what he wanted –
whatever
he wanted – he could have.
 

*
 
*
 
*

Francis awoke the following morning as he’d wanted to do, with his arms around Pauline Fleury.
 
Neither of them was naked.
 
She was swathed in a voluminous night-rail; he was still wearing his breeches.
 
And, when he opened his eyes, it was to find her looking at him.

Her smile reflected both uncertainty and a question.

‘Good morning.’

‘And to you.’
 
He touched her scarred cheek with one light finger.
 
‘You’re awake early.
 
Did I snore?’

The smile widened and lost its shadows.

‘No.
 
Though, since I slept through part of the night, I suppose you may have.’

‘It would have been a kindness to have stopped after that first word,’ observed Francis reproachfully.
 
‘But I suppose I should know better than to expect it of you.’

‘I would certainly think so.’
 
She paused.
 
‘If you want to escape the inevitable questions, you should go.’

‘I don’t care about questions.
 
They don’t have to be answered.’
 
He removed his arm from around her and sat up.
 
‘But you’re right.
 
I should go.
 
I need to wash and shave and change my clothes.
 
I need to write a letter for Nick to take to Eden.
 
And then I need to face Verney again while a funeral is arranged.’
 
He drew a bracing breath and swung his feet to the floor.
 
‘If I can focus on having you to come back to, I may manage the last one with at least a semblance of civility.’

Pauline propped herself on one elbow, her hair tumbling about her shoulders.

‘Do you want the truth?’

‘I don’t know.
 
Do I?’

‘Yes.
 
There are times when you’re too well-mannered for your own good.’
 

‘This being one of them?’

‘Yes.
 
If trying to choke the truth out of this man Verney will make you feel any better, you should damned well do it.’
 

*
 
*
 
*

A little later, having repaired his appearance, Francis faced Ashley and Nicholas across the kitchen table.
 
He said, ‘I’m sorry to ask this, Nick – but Eden needs to be told before he does anything about a divorce and you’re the only person I can ask.
 
Leaving France shouldn’t be too difficult, I imagine.
 
Will Eden’s travel passes be enough to get you back into England?’

‘I hope so.
 
At any rate, I’ll soon find out.’
 
Nicholas glanced at Ashley. ‘What do I tell him about the other matter?’

‘That I’ve alerted Hyde and have plans for dealing with it as soon as we have some indication of a date.
 
You may also express my heartfelt appreciation
 
both for the
 
information he’s provided and for the risk he’s taken in doing it – and assure him that, aside from we three, no one is aware of his involvement.
 
Nor will they be.’

Nicholas nodded.

‘I’ll tell him.
 
I already said that you were to be trusted – but inevitably he had his doubts.’

‘For which he is to be commended rather than blamed.’

‘Yes.’
 
He turned back to Francis.
 
‘How is he likely to take the news of his wife’s death?’

‘I no longer know him well enough to guess,’ came the reply.
 
‘All I can say is that he loved her and she broke his heart, then trampled on it.
 
She left not only him but also their son … and a daughter who I suspect Eden doesn’t believe is his.
 
I don’t know how – even after eight years – any man deals with all of that.
 
As for her death … he might be relieved.
 
But, with Eden, I wouldn’t care to count on it.’

~
 
*
 
*
 
~
 
*
 
*
 
~

A large young man – brown-haired, grey-eyed and dressed in the Italian fashion – strolled along Cheapside, taking in the sights.
 
He’d left his horse at a tavern some streets away so that he could walk the last half-mile and thus have time to absorb what was familiar and what was not.
 
A lot of things weren’t.
 
Most noticeably, although most of the buildings were the same, the businesses inhabiting them were different.
 
Time was when Goldsmiths’ Row had been just that; the preserve of goldsmith’s renting their premises from the worshipful Company.
 
Now, the young man estimated that every other door led to a haberdasher or a bookseller or an apothecary.
 
His expression darkened slightly.
 
After years of war, change was to be expected and he
had
expected it.
 
He just hadn’t expected this – this
diminution
.

His footsteps slowed a little more as he came within sight of his destination.
 
A tall, irregular building on the corner of Friday Street.
 
A place where he’d spent what were probably four of the most formative years of his life but which he hadn’t seen in a very long time.
 
It looked the same and yet not.
 
As was only to be expected, the sign that had once hung above the door had gone – yet, oddly, the bracket from which it had been suspended was still there. He remembered that sign in perfect detail.
 
An ornate, convoluted knot … exquisitely suited to its clever, convoluted owner.
 
His own sign, when he was ready to place it there, was quite different.
 
He’d designed it over a year ago and it had made his brother-in-law laugh.

The windows of the house gleamed and smoke issued from the chimney.
 
He hoped that meant that someone was at home.
 
He’d been travelling a long time and would be glad to unpack his belongings permanently.
 
He was also missing his work.

In former days, the street door which had led to the shop would have been unlocked during business hours.
 
Now, of course, it wasn’t.
 
He knocked and waited.
 
Then, in due course and rather more loudly, he knocked again.

The lock rattled and the door swung open.
 
He suddenly realised, he hadn’t given any thought to who might be on the other side.
 
Certainly he hadn’t expected it to be a woman.
 
A rather nice-looking woman, as well.
 
Pale skin, dark hair and even darker eyes … and, beneath that simple blue gown, interestingly curved in all the right places.
 
He smiled.

Deborah absorbed first the expensive, well-cut clothes and then the easy, open smile with its hint of a dimple in one slightly sun-tanned cheek.

Raising her brows and dropping a small curtsy, she said, ‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘I certainly hope so.
 
I’m looking for Eden Maxwell and assumed I’d find him here.’

‘And you are?’

The smile widened into a boyish grin.

‘I’m his brother.’
 
He swept off his hat and bowed.
 
‘Tobias Maxwell – at your service. I assumed Eden was expecting me.’

Despite her surprise, she found herself smiling back as she held the door wide.

 
‘He is. Your sister wrote when you left Genoa – so he’s been expecting you any time this last month.’

‘Yes.
 
Well, I stopped off in a few places along the way.’
 
Tobias paused, looking around at what had once been the shop.
 
‘Eden’s not here?’

‘Not at this time of day.
 
But come up to the parlour and get warm.
 
I’ll fetch some wine and …’ She paused, eyeing his tall, broad-shouldered frame, ‘I imagine you’re hungry?’

‘Always,’ he laughed. And, as he followed her upstairs, ‘Has Eden warned you about my appetite, Mistress … I’m sorry.
 
I don’t know how to address you.’

‘My name is Deborah Hart and I’m your brother’s housekeeper,’ came the calm reply.
 
‘Please take a seat by the fire.
 
I’ll be back in just a moment.’

The door closed behind her and Tobias was alone with his memories in a room which was the same and yet somehow different.
 
Some of the furniture still remained from former days; the oak settle by the hearth, the large polished table and the heavy, carved desk where Luciano had worked on his designs.
 
But the bright cushions, the array of serviceable pewter and the bowls of scented herbs were new; evidence, he supposed, of a feminine influence. He wondered idly if the luscious Mistress Hart was rather more than his brother’s housekeeper and then dismissed the thought. It was no business of his, after all … and if Eden was bedding her, good luck to him.

Deborah returned with a laden tray and set bread, cold meats and half a beef and oyster pie on the table along with a jug of wine.
 

‘That should keep you going until supper … but, if you need anything else, just call me.’

Engaged in pulling back a chair, Tobias paused and said, ‘Do you have to go? If you’re not too busy, I’d appreciate your company.’

She eyed him in a way he found mildly disconcerting though he wasn’t sure why.

‘You have questions.’

‘Some, yes.’
 
He helped himself to a chunk of bread, a substantial wedge of pie and, with undisguised enthusiasm, to a spoonful of Deborah’s homemade pickle.
 
‘Eden’s not the most informative correspondent.
 
Six lines is usually about it – less, if he can get away with it.’

‘His work keeps him busy.’

‘I daresay.
 
But all he’s told Kate and me is that he’ll be employed in London for the foreseeable future.
 
And though we know there’s been no fighting since last year, we’ve no idea what he’s been up to since then.
 
Where is he now, for example?’

‘He has an office in Whitehall.’

Tobias swallowed a mouthful of pie dipped in pickle and said, ‘God – that’s good.
 
I was famished.’

Deborah laughed.

‘Clearly you have a large amount of strength to keep up.’

‘Dead spit of my father when he was my age, apparently.’
 
He cut up some ham and decorated it with more pickle.
 
‘So – an office in Whitehall?
 
That sounds impressive.
 
And what does he do there?’

‘I suggest you ask him.
 
He’s usually home by seven.’

The light grey eyes flicked briefly to her face and then returned to his plate.

‘Not for you to say?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.
 
I’ll wait, then.’
 
He polished off the ham and made further inroads to the pie. ‘Has he told you why I’m here?’

‘Yes.
 
You’re a goldsmith and you’ll be opening a shop.’

‘Nearly right.’
 
Again that disarming grin. ‘I’m a
master
-goldsmith and I’ll be setting up, not only a shop, but also a workshop. Speaking of which, I’m expecting two deliveries of equipment. One should turn up in the next couple of days.
 
The other probably won’t arrive before the turn of the year.’

‘And these are to go where?’

‘Downstairs.’
 
Tobias stood up.
 
‘Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look.’

‘By all means,’ she said.
 
‘Unless you’d rather go up and unpack your things?’

‘Later.
 
This is a priority.
 
And, if you don’t mind, I’d really quite like to go alone.’

*
 
*
 
*

While Tobias was standing in the middle of Luciano del Santi’s workshop and remembering the first time he’d ever seen it as a curious thirteen-year-old, his brother was sitting in an extremely long-winded Council Meeting and wishing himself elsewhere.
 
There had been numerous such meetings in recent weeks but, in Eden’s view, this was the most tediously depressing one yet.

It began, as they all had, with more complaints and chest-beating over the dismal progress of the Dutch war.
 
Eden estimated that at least half of those present had still not got over the disaster at Dungeness on November 30
^th
, when Admiral Tromp had thrashed Admiral Blake and then raided the English coast for cattle.
 
The defeat was supposedly due to the failure of twenty English ships to engage – thus leaving Blake with only twenty-five vessels against Tromp’s eighty-five. No one, thought Eden irritably, seemed to notice that even if Blake had been fighting with his full complement, he’d still have been heavily out-gunned so the result was unlikely to have been any different.

He listened to the usual catalogue of how many ships had been captured by the Dutch or seriously disabled and how many men, wounded or lost.
 
Having already seen Blake’s reports on all these matters and knowing everyone else had also done so, Eden slumped in his chair and let his chin sink on to his chest while the pointless words flowed on.

Thanks to the exorbitant cost of the war, money was also a major issue.
 
Despite having confiscated the lands of six hundred Royalists, Parliament had yet to find purchasers for most of them and had therefore resorted to increasing the monthly assessment from £90,000 to £120,000.
 
On the previous day, Eden had attended an extremely acrimonious meeting of the Council of Officers where the entire discussion had revolved around the fact that the Army’s share of the assessment was being reduced by £10,000 a month to fund the Navy – thus meaning that yet more soldiers would have to be disbanded.
 
It was, as one and all agreed, a blatant case of robbing Peter to pay Paul.

Today’s meeting, of course, saw all that quite differently and Eden saw no point in stirring the pot and thus encouraging everybody to talk even more than they were already about something that wasn’t going to change.
 
He listened to general satisfaction that France had at long last formally recognised the Commonwealth and then to the not-quite-so-cheerful news that, not content with having merely cancelled Christmas, Parliament was about to issue a firm declaration that the festival was not to be observed in any form whatsoever.
 

Eden’s backside was growing numb, causing his attention to wander.
 
He wondered if anybody was going to mention the rumours that Cromwell was considering making himself King and, if they did, what the approval-rating was likely to be.
 
His own view was that it was the worst idea since the removal of the late King’s head … but that it might account for Thurloe participating in a plot to assassinate the late King’s eldest sons.

When he was at last released from Purgatory and able to make his way back to Cheapside he allowed himself to wonder how things were progressing in Paris.
 
He’d told Nick on no account to write to him and not to allow Francis do to so either and hadn’t therefore expected to receive any news … so all he could do was to hope that the unknown Colonel Peverell was as efficient as Nick said he was.

*
 
*
 
*

He walked into the house to the enticing aroma of baking and wondered vaguely why Deborah was finding it necessary to make pastry two days running.
 
Then he entered the parlour and saw the reason grinning at him from his favourite chair near the fire.

‘Toby!’ he said, striding across the room to grasp his brother’s hand.
 
‘I was beginning to think you’d got lost somewhere in the wilds of Europe.’

Accepting the hand and simultaneously managing to give Eden a hefty buffet on the shoulder, Tobias said, ‘I had a few side-trips to make. But I’ve arrived in time for Yule – which was always the plan.
 
You’re looking well.’

‘As are you.
 
Please tell me you’ve stopped growing.’

‘Just about.
 
An inch over six feet, if you really want to know.’

At four inches less than that and having always wanted to be taller, Eden merely sighed and, reaching for the ale jug, said, ‘And still eating for ten, I gather.’

‘I prefer to say that I have a healthy appetite.’ Tobias grinned and, with a lift of one brow added, ‘I like your Mistress Hart, by the way.’

‘Of course you do.
 
She fed you my pie, didn’t she?’

‘It was a very good pie.
 
And I assumed that, not having clapped eyes on me in four years, you wouldn’t be niggardly about it.’

The last time they’d met had been in September, ’48 on the occasion of their sister’s wedding.
 
Recalling this and handing his brother a cup of ale, Eden said neutrally, ‘Was one of your stops at Thorne Ash?’