The Lady Series (4 page)

Amyas’s breath hissed from him. His face whitened to a deathly pallor. “Surly bitch, you’ll say no more,” he snarled, his harsh words echoing against the fine plasterwork upon the ceiling.

His unexpected vehemence at what was a sensible suggestion sent Anne back a step in surprise. Frances tugged on Anne’s hand, demanding her attention. Anne glanced at her. Half of Frances’s mouth was lifted in a twisted, malicious smile.

Anne’s eyes widened in shock. Her mother believed Amyas incapable of begetting children.

Freeing a strangled sound of amusement, Frances released Anne and shifted in her chair to look past her daughter to her father-by-marriage. As she caught his attention she made a gesture with her left hand, one Anne had seen the lowest servants use when discussing a man’s lack of virility.

Anne gasped, stunned that her mother even knew the gesture, then stunned again that Frances had the courage to aim such a suggestion at Amyas.

Sir Amyas jerked as if struck, his expression flattening until he no longer looked human. He launched himself at Frances, his hand already moving. The sound of flesh meeting flesh exploded in the quiet room.

Anne screamed as her mother’s head slammed against the chair’s back. She flew at Amyas, shoving him back as her mother crumpled, her good hand cupping her bleeding lips.

“Shame on you,” she shouted, forcing Amyas back step-by-step toward the window. If only she could drive him through that opening and end him and his threat.

“If she sickens because of your attack, I’ll name you beast. If she dies, I call you murderer to every man who listens!”

The power of his backhanded blow sent her staggering. Pain erupted along her jaw. Stars swam before her eyes and her teeth no longer seemed to grip her gums. Unwelcome tears followed. She fought them. God would send her to hell before she cried in front of this man.

Catching her footing, Anne raised her head, then crossed her arms before her and met his gaze. Sir Amyas lifted his chin. His dark coloring and his rage conspired to make him look more like the Devil than the religious man he swore he was.

“Have you considered that as both my and your mother’s heir Owls House is again under my control? Continue to defy me and I will release your servants. What a shame that would be in the case of your stable master. He’s quite gifted with horseflesh despite that he wears a cutpurse’s slitted ear.” Amyas shrugged as if it were quite beyond his ability to prevent such a dismissal.

Anne stared upon her defeat. Without Owls House to keep them, most of her servants would be begging at the crossroads before the week was out. Her arms opened, her head bowed. She glared at the tawny matting beneath her feet in false humility.

“My pardon Grandfather. I was wrong to speak so to you. I place myself at your command.”

She didn’t wait to see if this was what he wanted, only fled to her mother’s chair. Frances’s head was now tucked tightly and unnaturally into her chest, a tell-tale sign of another muscle spasm. Tears trickled down her face and her good hand curled into her body along with her useless one, suggesting the depth of pain this caused her.

Shifting, Anne glanced up at Amyas. “I pray you Grandfather, take pity on my mother,” Anne fair choked on the words. There was no pity in this man. “Let me call her servants to tend to her. Let her keep those she knows and trusts about her. Do this and I vow I’ll be as compliant a maiden as you could desire.”

Her promise was no truer than the one Amyas had made to her mother all those years ago, since Anne was neither compliant nor a maiden.

Satisfaction almost oozed from her grandsire. “It’s fortunate for you that I’m a charitable man, quick to forgive. As you will, the servants stay as long as you recall that you are my heir and in my custody,” he said, returning to her what he had no right to take and making certain she knew he’d hold his threat against Owls House’s over her head until the day she was wedded and bedded.

“Call her servants and your own. In preparing for departure pack not only your belongings but your bed and any chairs you own. We will be in London by week’s end and you will be at court the week after.”

Terror shot through Anne. She needed more time to think and plan before she spewed blatant falsehoods to her queen. Although she trusted every one of the servants here, there was no knowing who beyond this house had divined her secret or how easily it might spill under the scrutiny of some suitor’s family.

Amyas strode to the parlor door and threw it open. “Come within Mistress Watkins and meet your charge.”

A thin woman scooted into the room, her head bowed. She wore modest brown from collar to hem save for her small ruff and the simple white cap atop her mouse-brown hair. Her every movement was tight and uncomfortable. At first glance Anne thought her ugly, but in the next moment she saw it was only the woman’s expression that made her seem so.

Stopping at the room’s center, Mistress Watkins curtsied then bowed her head over hands that were more clenched than folded. “Sir Amyas,” she said in a little girl’s squeaking voice.

“Mistress Patience Watkins, here is your charge, my granddaughter, Anne Blanchemain. Make yourself of use and escort her and her mother from this room,” Amyas said, then retreated to the window and put his back to the room. “I prefer to keep mine own company for as long as it takes you to prepare for your journey.”

No longer under Amyas’s scrutiny, Mistress Watkins lifted her head and looked at Anne through pale blue eyes lined with surprisingly dark lashes. Her chin was tilted to an awkward angle.

Year of practice with reading Frances’s every twitch and turn made it easy for Anne to decipher the message on this woman’s face: she relished the idea of holding power over one who was her better in rank.

Amyas hadn’t provided a chaperone or governess, this was a jailer and, no doubt, her grandsire’s sanctimonious spy.

There was another rush of air as the parlor door again opened. Without invitation, their housekeeper raced into the room, darting past Patience Watkins to join Anne at Frances’s chair. Together, they lifted Frances between them, carrying her to the door.

Her mother’s head lolled onto Anne’s shoulder. Worry tore through Anne. Emotional upset was always dangerous for her dam, often being followed by weeks of illness. The thought of being trapped at the queen’s court while her mother languished here alone without Anne to tend her ate at her.

The answer came in a flash. Amyas wanted her married. Once Anne was married she could no longer be a maid-of-honor. Moreover, as a wife she would no longer be under the queen’s or Amyas’s control.

Anne needed to be married and soon, but her husband couldn’t be just any man. She needed a paragon, for he must not only satisfy Amyas’s arrogance and greed for a title, he’d need to accept her mother’s state without judgment or damnation, not to mention forgive Anne her youthful transgression.

And there could be no better place to seek this perfect man than at the court of Elizabeth where gentlemen from every corner of this kingdom came to woo their queen and make their fortunes, no matter what it cost them to do it.

Her grandsire was right. She needed to go to London and Elizabeth.

The setting sun shot rusty beams of light through the room’s slatted window shutters. Although they were presently closed over precious panes of glass beneath them, it was illumination enough for Kit to see why the homeowner rented his small London house to trysting courtiers. The place with its two rooms—one facing the street, the other behind—was as unremarkable a house as he’d ever seen.

Here in the foreroom there was no mat upon the floor, and the fireplace was so small its glowing coals barely offered light much less cheer or warmth. Without a kitchen proper the homeowner did all his cooking at this hearth, or so said the few small pots that sat upon the mantle. The small cabinet beside the hearth held two cups and a wooden trencher, along with the various items needed to maintain a fire and add a spot of light to a darkened room. For seating there was a plain wooden bench and a chair made from a used barrel, sides cut into the appropriate armed form with a bit of planking for a seat. A slab of wood leaned against the plastered brick wall, the legs that would turn it into a table resting on the floor beside it. Indeed, the only thing of value in this residence was the writing desk.

That pretty walnut piece stood atop a stool near the hearth, a lock at the base of its sloping top and a new candle in the wooden holder at its back. A quill lay beside the inkpot, as if Kit’s arrival had driven the owner from his room just before he started tallying his accounts.

Cloak swirling about him, Kit made his way to the reworked barrel. Taking care to drape the edges of his outer garment over its makeshift arms to avoid splinters, he sat, stretching his legs out before him, ankles neatly crossed. A stripe of light from the shutters fell across his lap, making the brown breeches he’d borrowed from Bertie gleam as if they were new.

Then, he waited.

The light shifted down his legs as the sun descended. When it reached the garters at his knees, impatience grew beyond all toleration. He lifted his head to stare at the doorway. God’s wounds, but where was the lady?

Perhaps she’d decided not to come. His relief at this thought put a bitter smile upon his lips. It was for good reason he knew so little of Lady Montmercy, one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Those who fell into her tender care often found their lives a shambles after she was finished with them.

With a harsh sigh, Kit folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed. Through the house’s cracks and crevices twilight’s breath sighed into the room. London’s air was rich with the smell of rotting garbage, coal smoke, and the filthy Thames. Outside folk were hurrying now, trying to finish their last tasks before night was upon them. Cart wheels squealed. Roosting pigeons purred from just outside the window. Nearby a mother and daughter were shrieking at each other in anger, while from some greater distance children laughed in play.

Metal scraped on metal: a key being fitted into the front door’s lock. Kit straightened in his chair as the street door groaned open. A becloaked woman stepped into the darkened room. She knew her way well, treading with ease through the darkness to the cabinet beside the hearth. There, she took a taper and held its wick to one of the still-warm coals on the hearth. The twist of cotton sputtered and hissed, then came to life.

Straightening, Lady Elisabetta Montmercy pushed back her cloak hood, and her face was bathed in the candle’s golden glow. Kit sighed. That evil should own such beauty!

The lady had a doll-like perfection of feature, as if her face was sculpted of glass. Despite her more than two score years, no lines marked her skin and there were but few strands of gray in the fair curls that lay against her cheeks. Her eyes gleamed as blue as the Montmercy sapphires.

As their gazes met the noblewoman’s lush mouth lifted into a smile. “Master Hollier. You came.” Her voice was sultry and deep despite her child-like appearance.

Kit forced himself to return her smile. “When a woman offers to pay a man’s debts it behooves him to come when she sends for him.”

“So it does,” she agreed.

Crossing to the desk, she lit the second candle with the first. When she’d set the one beside the other she loosened her cloak, letting the garment slip from her shoulders to puddle upon the floor around her belling skirts. Kit frowned. She yet wore her court attire, a green doublet in the mannish style the queen was presently affecting, atop pink and green skirts. Christ, she hadn’t even removed the wee gem-studded cap upon her head.

If she was going to be so open in conducting their affair, then he’d have none of it. Elizabeth Tudor blinded herself, expediently so, to the immorality in her court, but this she did only so long as the sinners were circumspect. Those exposed in their misdeeds could find themselves disgraced, banished from court, or occupying a chamber in either the Fleet or the Tower, depending on their monarch’s mood.

Stiff fabric crinkled as Lady Elisabetta sat upon the corner of the bench. She tilted her head to the side, her eyes narrowing as she peered at him through the gloom. “What, do I receive no thanks for saving you from incarceration?”

He leaned forward in the chair to brace his elbows on his knees. “My lady, I’m at loose ends as to how you even knew of my need. Dare I ask?”

She offered him a tiny smile. “At court for four years and you must yet pose me such a question? People are talking about you, Master Hollier.”

This but confirmed what Kit expected. Gossip was the source of her information. “Ah then I expect I should remind you we’re but talking about a promise to pay my creditors, not actual payment. I came this night to discover what you want from me that might cause the transfer of coins from your hands to theirs.”

The very sound of her laugh was an invitation to intimacy. “How impatient you are. I’m not yet ready to discuss business. First, I’ll chide you for using that goldsmith of yours. Heavens but he’s worse than a highwayman, charging so much for his work. From now on you must use my man.”

When Kit said nothing, she continued. “Tell me of yourself. I know so little save that you are close to my son. Of all the gentlemen pensioners our royal mistress keeps, you seem the only one disinterested in making an advantageous marriage. Why did you come to court if not to promote yourself?”

Kit saw no reason to offer a truthful answer. “I need more than a position as the queen’s pensioner if I’m to attract a wife,” he said with a shrug, then paused. It was the cultivation of power, not loyalty, that made Lady Montmercy her queen’s servant. Against that, it could hardly hurt him to seem as if he’d no liking for their royal mistress.

“Fool that I am I came to court believing I’d make my fortune on the Hollier name, even though that name no longer owns its nobility. Little did I know I’d be but one among so many other young and impoverished men, all of us dancing to gain our queen’s attention so we might suckle at the tit of her generosity.”

He gave a studied, scornful snort. “Now, isn’t that a useless exercise? Our fair princess’s tits are as dry as her womb is barren.”

Of all the foul things said by the gentry and peers who disliked their queen, this one was true. When it came to coin, Elizabeth Tudor was as miserly as her grandsire, a trait of which Kit was all too aware. It was rare when even her faithful secretary, Sir William Cecil or her pet, the earl of Leicester, received more than a word of praise in payment for their efforts on her behalf. Such a thing dismayed her nobles who were accustomed to royal favor coming in coins, not fine words.

This time Lady Montmercy’s laugh was pleased. “If you ask me I think our gracious Oriana enjoys watching her courtiers tear each other apart over the mere promise of her favor. She finds it a more entertaining sport than bear baiting.”

Her amusement faded into a small and secret smile. “By the by, I’m not diverted. I cannot tell you how I ache to peel back that crust of yours and discover what you conceal beneath it.”

Kit snapped his teeth shut on a foul word. She’d not pry into his life with impunity. “What could I possibly have to hide?”

A wicked gleam took life in her eyes. “Surely not shame because your family has lost its nobility?”

His jaw stiffened. This was no meeting, it was a battle. Armed with her verbal daggers, Lady Montmercy was thrusting at him, seeking out vulnerabilities to exploit.

“What shame?” he retorted in mock surprise. “The Holliers have lost and restored Graceton’s title as often as the Montmercys have seen theirs slip from their fingers. All the court knows my lord grandsire squandered my brother’s inheritance as he sought to rescue displaced monks and save other papists from losing their lands to confiscation. If my brother was willing to sell off the better part of his estate, he’d be a lord once more. But without the lands, there’s no point to the title, is there?”

Her smile took a triumphant twist. “Ah yes, the reclusive Squire Nicholas Hollier. Odd, but when I think of the two of you, I find myself reminded of Cain and Abel.”

Kit caught his breath as guilt shifted in his gut. How could she know? He reined in his reaction. She didn’t.

Most of England believed Nick only crippled. If some knew about the scarring, they didn’t know how Nick came to own his ruined face. No one outside of Graceton knew the truth; the secret was carefully guarded by both family and loyal servants.

When he made no reply, she motioned him forward. “Come and kneel before me so I might better see you.”

Rising, he left his cloak in the chair and crossed the room to drop onto one knee before her. Lady Elisabetta studied him, brushing her fingers through his hair as she straightened the golden-brown strands to her own satisfaction. After a moment she nodded.

“You’re attractive enough I suppose, although there’s too much power in your features for my tastes. I like a prettier man.”

Kit cocked a brow at this. Did this mean he didn’t have to couple with her to win the repayment of his debts? “You knew my appearance before you made your offer.”

Amusement touched her face, and she made a sound of mock concern. “Poor man, have I piqued your vanity by telling you I don’t swoon over you?”

With the tip of her finger she outlined his lips, her touch a sultry caress, then traced his carefully trimmed beard that barely skimmed his chin. She let her fingers trail down the curve of his neck to rest her hand upon his shoulder.

As she fingered the collar of Bertie’s blue doublet, the corner of her mouth lifted in scorn. “Good heavens, whatever are you wearing?” she asked, when she knew full well he meant to disguise himself.

So concerned had he been at the thought of discovery that he’d untied the ribbons on his shirt’s high neck and spread his collar wide, the way a workman might. She toyed with his dangling shirt strings then used her fingertip to draw a circle on the skin exposed in his open collar.

“Now then,” she said, her voice soft and seductive, “on the morrow our dear monarch will officially accept a new maid-of-honor to serve in her Presence Chamber. A strange appointment, this, for the lass has lived her life in isolation from society. Not only is she a regular Puritan, but she’s past a score of years in age, which makes her more spinster than maid.”

“What has this to do with me?” he asked in some confusion. As a rule, he kept his distance from the virgins Elizabeth used to emphasize her own supposedly pure state. All save one of those maids were interested in gaining husbands while he did not wish to wed.

Once again the lady trailed her fingertips across his exposed skin. Her lips quirked in pleasure when she drew a shiver from him. “I’m wondering if she’ll find you attractive, this young woman.”

He eyed her warily. This was the strangest meeting. She said she didn’t wish to bed him then seemed to be trying to seduce him. “And, if she does?”

A delighted smile bent the noblewoman’s fine lips. “Why, you’ll take her maidenhead for me then tell all the court what you’ve accomplished.”

Her words hit him like a punch. Kit sat flat on the floor. “Are you mad?” he cried out. “Those maids have the queen’s protection. Elizabeth will throw me in prison for using her. That is, if the girl’s male relatives don’t kill me first.”

“Did I say there’d be no risk?” the lady asked, a glint of vicious laughter in her eyes. “This is what you must do if I’m to pay your debts.”

Kit stared at her. If there was one thing in life of which he was absolutely certain, it was Lady Montmercy’s capability to hate. She was notorious for seeing those who injured her paid in double the coin. He wracked his brain for something he might have done that required his destruction. There was nothing he could put his finger to. Then again, it wasn’t beyond her to ruin a man just for the sheer joy of it.

“Why me?” It was a blunt question.

“Because you’ve no direct connection to me,” she replied. “No one must know I engineered the girl’s downfall.”

So it was the girl she wished to ruin, not him. The noblewoman simply didn’t care that he might also be destroyed in the process. A touch of pity woke in Kit. What in God’s name had this poor country lass done to Lady Elisabetta to warrant so harsh a revenge?

Who cared what the girl had done? All that mattered was how much Lady Montmercy was willing to pay for the wreaking of her vengeance. She’d been right to name this business, for now the haggling began.

He shook his head. “Nay, I’ll not do it. Take back your promises. If I’m going to die or rot in prison I’ll do it for my own sins, taking no innocent along with me.”

“May God damn all honorable men and you doubly so,” she snapped, anger bringing a new pink to her alabaster skin.

This teased a single bark of laughter from Kit. Here was a woman long accustomed to a lackey’s panting agreement. “Honorable? Nay, it’s only that I can see no profit in dying after my debts are finally paid. What you name rescue, my lady, is no rescue at all.”

She frowned and plucked at the great golden brooch pinned to her doublet’s breast. As the quiet stretched between them, night crept into the room, curling around the circle of candlelight like a contented cat. Most of the street sounds had stilled. A dog barked as two men sang their way home, pausing to laugh at each other’s false notes.