To Kiss A Spy (18 page)

“Is that a compliment?”

He shook his head with the same smile. “I don’t know, Pen. I really don’t know.”

“But is it a good thing for you?” she pressed.

He stepped slowly away from her. “That I don’t know, either. It may be good for the soul, but it’s not good for my peace of mind.”

He went to make up the fire. Pen reached for the discarded night robe, wrapping it around her against the cold morning air as she watched his deft, competent movements, the surging power contained in his lean, hard body. She wondered exactly what he had meant by his peace of mind, but something kept her from asking. She had a niggle of presentiment that perhaps she didn’t want to know.

She looked for something neutral to say in the sudden awkward silence, and her eye fell upon the bundle on the chest.

“What is this you’ve brought?”

He straightened as the fire caught. “Ah, well, I have been thinking. It occurred to me, knowing the . . .” He paused, considering his words, a smile playing over his mouth. “The strength of your resolution, shall we say?—that you would probably not be willing to remain here today while I ask questions in High Wycombe.”

“No, of course I wouldn’t,” Pen said with a touch of asperity.

He came over to her. “Consider for a minute,” he said, holding her shoulders. “If there is an evil tale to tell, no one’s going to tell it in your presence. You must see that, Pen.”

“But I can’t sit here twiddling my thumbs while you’re having all the excitement.”

“Excitement?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Well, all the
doing,
” she explained. “I want to be
doing
something. It is my business, after all.”

“Well, as it happens I anticipated just such a reaction.” He stretched sideways to the chest. “It occurred to me that Cedric is about your size. So I have here his spare suit of clothes, which he has been induced to lend you. Do you think you can play the part of servant?”

Pen’s eyes gleamed as she took the britches, shirt, and doublet from him. “Why, yes, of course. What a splendid idea, Owen! This way I can accompany you and make my own judgments about what you hear, and I can tell you what to ask if I have some other ideas.

“But what about my hair?” she said, frowning.

Owen lifted a heavy swatch of her thick brown hair and twisted it around his wrist, bringing her very close to him. “When it’s braided and coiled it’ll be invisible under Cedric’s cap. And if you pull the cap down low over your eyes and preserve the modest demeanor of a servant no one will give you a second look.”

She gazed up at him bright-eyed with mischievous excitement. “Just the solution I would have expected from a spy.”

His expression was suddenly grave. “Perhaps so, Pen. But understand this. If you compromise the investigation you must accept that I will have fulfilled my side of the bargain. I must be back in London the day after tomorrow, so this is the only chance. Is that understood?”

“Of course,” she responded impatiently. “And of course I won’t compromise anything. What do you think I am?”

“A very stubborn woman,” he replied, taking another turn of her hair around his wrist so that her head was against his chest.

“My mother’s daughter,” Pen said, tilting her face up for the kiss she knew was coming.

It was a long kiss, one that possessed her utterly, and when finally he released her, unwinding her hair from his wrist, she touched her lips with her fingertips, feeling them swollen as if from a bee sting.

“Don’t let anyone see you kissing your page in such fashion, Chevalier. It would certainly cause remark.”

He laughed and strode energetically to the door. “Your own riding boots and hose will pass muster. When you’ve broken your fast I’ll meet you at the stables.”

As soon as he’d left Pen rang for Mary and asked her to bring up bread and meat. “Oh, and a jug of small beer, if you please,” she added, laying her borrowed raiment out upon the bed.

Mary stared at the clothes. “Lord love us, madam, but you’re not goin’ to be a-wearin’ of them clothes.”

“Yes, I am,” Pen responded placidly. “When you return you can tell me how well they suit me.”

“It ain’t right!” Mary declared, scandalized. “It ain’t right for a Christian lady, an ’ighborn lady at that, to go around lookin’ like that.”

Pen merely laughed. “Fetch up my breakfast, Mary, there’s a good girl.”

That very same morning in London was cold and crisp, but Robin was oblivious of the glories of the bright blue sky, the freshness of the air that seemed for once to carry none of the fetid odors of the city. He was feeling somewhat the worse for wear, and reflected grimly that he had only himself to blame. He had spent the previous evening quieting his conscience with tankards of mulled ale, and had slept heavily but not restfully.

He didn’t know whether Pen would hate him for what he was about to do or if in the end she would be grateful. But he had sworn to himself that he would find out everything there was to discover about the Chevalier d’Arcy. If Pen had drawn the chevalier into her obsession about her baby, then she had confided something to him that she would never, ever have told anyone with whom she was not deeply and intimately involved. Whether passion was the spur or the consequence of that involvement, she was in danger. Owen d’Arcy could not be trusted.

If d’Arcy had any unsavory secrets, then Simon Renard, the Spanish ambassador, would know them. He would know that d’Arcy worked for de Noailles, as spy networks were an open secret, and he would have made it his business to know all there was to know about his rival ambassador’s master agent. Of course that didn’t mean he would be willing to share what he had with someone as seemingly unimportant as Robin of Beaucaire.

Robin left his horse with a groom in the stable at the rear of the Spanish ambassador’s tall narrow house in Cheapside and was admitted by a sober-suited individual whose saturnine mien strongly resembled his employer’s.

He showed the visitor into a parlor where the rich hangings and heavy paneling merely added to the somber atmosphere, which was in no way enlivened by the sunlight slanting through the diamond-paned windows. The chamber was cheered by a fire, though, and Robin gratefully moved to stand in front of it, warming his backside at its bright glow.

He was nervous, although Renard had sent a pleasant enough response to his written request for an interview. However, this reflection didn’t do much for Robin’s confidence. His hands felt clammy and he was wiping them on his handkerchief when the door swung open.

He shoved the handkerchief into the pocket of his doublet in such haste that half of it hung out, a limp and scrunched scrap of less than pristine linen. The ambassador’s gaze flicked over his guest and noticed everything, from the heavy eyes to the careless handkerchief. But what he knew about Robin of Beaucaire, and it was a great deal more than Robin suspected, was interesting. The young man was highly regarded both for his agile brain and for his probity, and it was always possible he could prove useful.

Simon Renard nodded at Robin. “You are well come, my friend. Pray be seated. You’ll take some wine?”

Robin murmured his thanks and took the chair indicated. Renard poured wine into goblets of Venetian crystal, handed one to his guest, and then took his own seat, crossing one elegantly shod ankle over the other.

“So, what can Simon Renard do for Robin of Beaucaire?” His voice was soft and faintly accented. Although a smile touched his lips his eyes were sharply calculating as they rested upon the man sitting opposite him.

Robin took a sip of wine and found it heartening. He cleared his throat. “I have some interest in Owen d’Arcy, sir.”

“Ah.” Renard nodded slowly. “You come straight to the point. I appreciate it. But I ask myself why you would come to me.”

Robin thought for a minute. He couldn’t pull the wool over Renard’s eyes and it would make him look foolish to try, not to mention that it would irritate the ambassador, which wouldn’t serve his purpose at all.

“Spain’s ambassador would know about France’s spies,” he responded.

Renard chuckled, although Robin found it a somewhat sinister sound. “Well, well, you are right not to play games, my friend. What interest do you have in this man?”

It seemed best to continue as bluntly as he’d begun. “He is paying considerable attention to my stepsister, Penelope, Lady Bryanston. Her well-being is very much my concern, and I would be certain that he means her no harm.”

Renard nodded again, and sipped thoughtfully from his goblet. “So this is a purely personal matter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think you can safely assume that affairs of state lie behind everything d’Arcy does,” the ambassador said. “He does nothing without purpose, and his purposes are all intricately bound up with French diplomacy. His pursuit of the lady will be at the behest of de Noailles.”

Robin swirled the wine in his goblet. “I had expected as much. But I was wondering if there is anything else, anything personal that you might know about d’Arcy, sir.”

“Anything that might cause the lady to look elsewhere for a love interest?” the ambassador asked with a lift of a thin eyebrow.

“Yes, sir.”

There was a moment’s silence. Renard turned his goblet between his hands so that the shaft of sunlight caught the crystal, revealing a rainbow of color in the glass. He could see a way to give Robin of Beaucaire what he wanted, and in doing so he would be banking a future favor. Always useful. And he could see no way that reviving the old scandal would upset the delicate balance between the French and Spanish embassies at the Court of St. James’s. It would not, after all, be an affair of state, just a personal matter. And it was an old story, redolent of gossip and malicious rumor. But no one could say that in recounting it he had invented it.

He began to speak slowly, continuing to turn his goblet in his hands.

“I will tell you a story. You may make of it what you will. Once upon a time there was a man at the French court, a very clever, highly regarded young man of excellent lineage. His mother was Welsh, highborn if such a concept is possible among that barbarian muddle of clans and tribes.” Renard’s nose twitched in fastidious distaste.

“His father, however, was related to the Duc de Guise and therefore with royal connections. The man had spent most of his life in France, with occasional visits to his mother’s homeland. He was bred to the life of a courtier, but it was clear his talents lay elsewhere. He was bored with court life and made no secret of it. This was a man who needed work, food for his brain.”

He rose and fetched the flagon. He refilled their goblets while Robin sat in barely concealed impatience.

“In due course the young man took a wife. It was clear from the outset that it was an ill match, but it had been promoted by his father with the outspoken support of the king.”

Renard shrugged. “Under such pressure, what’s a man to do? The lady came with a handsome dowry.” He took his seat again, straightening a crease in his silk hose before continuing.

“He made no secret of his impatience with life at court, or indeed of his impatience with his wife’s frivolities. He began to spend time in Burgundy, ostensibly managing his estates. But those to whom it mattered knew that that was a front for his involvement in undercover diplomacy for the king. He was . . . is . . . very good at his work. Probably the best. He has few scruples as to his methods of gaining information.”

Renard flicked the rim of the goblet he held and the sound rang true and pure.

Robin watched, fascinated by the play of the long fingers on the goblet, by the insidious innuendo in the tale Renard was spinning.

“His wife remained at court while the man was away on his frequent so-called visits to his estates. Their estrangement became the talk of the court. The man’s wife was very beautiful, and could have had her pick of lovers. She was much sought after. Adoration is so seductive, particularly at a court where discreet liaisons were indulged.” Renard gestured with an open palm as if to say:
What could one expect of a court as licentious as the French?

The Spanish ambassador seemed to have little time for the customs of others, Robin reflected. He nodded politely, however, well aware that the Spanish court was excessively strict. It was not the first time he’d heard one of its members deride the laxer, friendlier rules and rituals of the French.

“In due course the woman bore two children. A boy and then a girl. At first, the man was a surprisingly doting father, making up, one might say, for the mother’s apparent indifference. She appeared to find the children an embarrassment. It was thought she believed that motherhood made a matron of a woman, and the lady was not willing to be considered in the least matronly.”

Renard paused again, took the scent of his wine before continuing. “There were whispers about the woman’s fidelity, as one might expect. She was without her husband for long periods and certainly enjoyed flirtations. The man seemed as indifferent to the gossip about his wife as he was to the woman herself. He remained a doting father whenever he was at home. And then quite suddenly everything changed. The man announced that he had discovered his wife
in flagrante delicto
.”

A thin smile touched the ambassador’s mouth. “Now, you must understand that while there had been whispers about the woman’s flirtations they were merely for amusement. No one at court actually believed that she had taken a lover. There had been no evidence of adultery, and it was generally held that she was too stupid to have succeeded in managing an affair discreetly. Her lack of wit, after all, was considered to be one of the contributing factors to her husband’s indifference. So the husband’s denunciation came as a great surprise to everyone.”

Robin sat forward intently, his knuckles showing white against the glass he held.

The ambassador sipped his wine. “The denunciation surprised everyone, but not nearly as much as did the violence of his vengeance.”

He stretched sideways and placed his glass on a small table beside him. “The lover was not named, apparently he had fled the scene in some . . . some disarray, and was never seen again. The man denounced him as a coward who had fled to avoid the inevitable duel. This certainly made sense. Our man was . . . is . . . a superb swordsman, not a man to run up against, I should warn you.” He nodded significantly at Robin, who flushed but said nothing.