A Woman of Passion (14 page)

When Baldwin ushered her into the vast library and she realized she was in the presence of the great Earl of Shrewsbury, she sank into a graceful curtsy.

“My lord, this is Mistress Elizabeth Barlow, who has been recently widowed. Her marriage portion is being considered by the Court of Wards, and I've tried to explain there is naught to be done but wait for their decision. There really is no need to trouble yourself with this matter.”

“Thank you, Baldwin. I'd prefer that Mistress Barlow tell me all in her own words.” Francis Talbot, Fifth Earl of Shrewsbury, was captivated by the beautiful young woman before him. No wonder his son had lost his head over her. Shrewsbury listened, mesmerized, as she told her story. She spoke passionately, her flaming hair crackling about her shoulders and her gray taffeta rustling seductively with her every movement. As the curves of her firm young breasts rose from the square neckline of her gown, Shrewsbury sighed, wishing he were twenty years younger. She was that rare creature: a true man's woman.

The earl examined her documents and, when they appeared legal, realized it would cost him nothing to help her. A simple letter to a Derbyshire man of law, eager to gain the patronage of the Earl of Shrewsbury, would do the trick.

Bess arrived home, flush with her victory. She hadn't the least notion that she had the hated George Talbot to thank for her interview with the lord lieutenant of Derbyshire.

Within a fortnight Bess was summoned to the chambers of Messrs. Fulk and Entwistle, the county's most prominent lawyers. Within a month they petitioned the Court of Wards, and within four months they had a monetary settlement for her.

“Ten pounds?” Bess repeated the amount of money they had for her with amazement.

Messrs. Fulk and Entwistle, thinking she was indignant, hastened to reassure her. “That is only a partial settlement, but we agreed to accept it until the true amount can be tallied, and of course the value of your jointure will go up each and every year.”

Bess was overjoyed. She had never really expected the Court of Wards to concede her anything. Rogue Cavendish had been right; the side with the better lawyer would
always
win!

“My dear sirs, you are truly amazing, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” Her thoughts were darting about like quicksilver. “Since you have dealt so well with the Court of Wards and achieved such favorable results, I would like you to handle another matter for me. My brother, James, is heir to Hardwick Manor, which has been held in wardship for nearly a dozen years. James is almost twenty, only a year from coming of age. Now that I have money, why can't I buy his wardship for the final year, so that our family can take back ownership of Hardwick's lands and manor?”

Fulk and Entwistle were impressed with the young woman's determination, and since the lord lieutenant of Derbyshire had asked them to aid her, they would do what she asked. “We will look into the matter immediately, Mistress Barlow. It seems a sensible course to pursue, 'though we must warn you that these wardship cases often take months.”

*   *   *

Eight months later Bess stood in front of the half-timbered house where she had been born. She spoke to it, never doubting that Hardwick Manor could hear and understand every word. “I told you I would be back to claim you. We'll never let you go again; you will belong to the Hardwicks forever. Mother is back with my little sisters, and Aunt Marcy is going to lay out a herb garden. My brother, James, has a new bride, Elizabeth Draycott. From now on all your rooms will be filled with love and, soon, the laughter of children once again. I'm returning to London today, but this isn't good-bye. I'll be back … I promise you!”

A
s Bess stepped from the Zouche carriage and looked up at the tall town house, the two and a half years she had been gone from London melted away like magic. Margaret Zouche looked exactly the same, although her daughters had certainly grown.

“Oh, Bess, my dear, you look all grown up. I'm so very sorry you were widowed at such a young age. I feel I had a hand in the unhappiness that befell you.”

“Lady Zouche, you were not responsible in any way,” Bess said kindly, but she had counted on Margaret Zouche's conscience to facilitate her return to London and reinstate her in the household. In the time that Bess had been gone, Lady Zouche had acquired a half dozen new servants and did not really have room for more, but Bess was willing to resume her position of unpaid companion, so how could Margaret refuse?

“So much happened during your long absence from London. The king took another wife—Catherine Parr, a widow in her thirties. Can you credit it? King Henry has had six wives!”

The king had married before Bess left London, but she did not correct Lady Zouche.

“Yes, it was the talk of Derbyshire, and I was able to fill my family in on all the fascinating gossip about her, thanks to Lady Frances Grey.”

“Because the plague was rampant in London, the Greys spent the entire summer at their country house, Bradgate. It's not too great a distance from Ashby-de-la-Zouche, and I finally got to see it.”

“What is Bradgate like?” Bess asked raptly.

“It isn't a country house at all, it's a red-brick palace! It even has a moat and ramparts, though they are only for ornament, not fortification. It is set in acres of orchards and pleasure gardens.” Margaret rattled on, “Speaking of Frances, she tells me that our dear friend, William Cavendish, returned from Ireland last month and the king has knighted him for his services to the Crown during the last two years.
Sir
William is so much in demand these days, I haven't had a chance to see him yet to congratulate him. The London hostesses are already inundating him with invitations this season.”

Bess felt her heart constrict with pain the moment she heard his name, then her mouth went dry.
So, the damned rogue got his title after all!
She was surprised that the mere mention of his name could cause her emotional turmoil when she thought herself quite indifferent to him after all this time. She examined her feelings more closely, asking herself exactly what she felt for Cavendish. The answer came back quickly. She felt anger and betrayal; he had hurt her deeply and she longed to hurt him back and take her revenge.

“Cavendish is a married man,” Bess said primly, then wondered why she had stated the obvious.

“Perhaps not for long. 'Tis rumored his wife is ailing.
Mark my words, if he ever does become a widower again, he will be the catch of the season.”

Bess lifted her chin defiantly. “I don't even recall what Cavendish looks like.”

“Ah, my dear, you will soon have an opportunity to refresh your memory. Lady Frances has invited us to Suffolk House next week. 'Tis the first big ball of the season. She threw one last October, and it was such a success, Frances has decided to make it an annual event. You must come, of course; Frances will be delighted to see you again. It's a stylish affair; all the ladies are to be in white and all the men in black. I want your unique ideas about what to wear, Bess; there isn't much time.”

Bess was suddenly in her glory. “We'll come up with something spectacular, Lady Zouche.” Bess, of course, was referring to her own attire for the ball. I'll show him! she vowed silently.

With the help of Margaret Zouche's two full-time seamstresses, Bess turned her employer into a swan and her two young daughters into cygnets. Since the young girls were never permitted to wear anything but white dresses, it wasn't difficult to achieve a swanlike effect. The trick was in the details. Close-fitting, white feathered headdresses with matching fans were all that was required to turn the Zouches into graceful, gliding, fairy-tale creatures. Or so Bess convinced them as they preened before the mirrors in the sewing room.

Bess had no difficulty finding a discarded white dress in the Zouche wardrobe, and she worked over it an entire night, enlarging the tight white satin bodice so that it molded her luscious, upthrust breasts. She used the only thing she had—black satin mourning ribbon—but the striped effect she created was startlingly sophisticated. She found an exquisite lace ruff that had yellowed with
age and a faded ostrich-feather fan and cleverly dyed them black. At the first ball of the season, not only would she stand out from all the women in white, but they would not be able to fault her choice of black accessories, because they symbolized her widowhood.

“Well, stab me with a bodkin!” Lady Frances said, clasping Bess to her ample bosom, then holding her at arm's length so she could appraise the ravishing redhead in the vivid black and white. “You always were a clever girl. God, how I've missed you. Most of the females I know are dull as bloody ditchwater! You are the only one who dared to disobey my edict of white!”

Bess laughed with delight. “I don't care to follow trends, I prefer to set them. Why did you choose white, Lady Frances?”

“So I'd have something to laugh at, of course. None of the jades at court have worn white since they were brides, and most didn't have the right to wear it even then! And having the men wear black is simple revenge for their flamboyancy. They strut about in scarlet and gold putting us women in the shade.”

“None could ever put you in the shade, Lady Frances.”

“Nor you, Bess. I'm glad you're back in London, where you belong. Widows are bringing a high price on the auction block these days,” Frances said, referring to Queen Catherine Parr, “but don't wed the first man who asks you; have a little fun first.”

Bess brought up her fan to conceal her smile as Lady Zouche approached. She would have little enough fun in Margaret's household. Frances rolled her eyes at Bess and whispered, “I love her dearly, but she's so damned
straitlaced. Margaret, darling, your geese have finally turned into swans!”

Although the Greys' ball boasted a dozen countesses and a duchess or two, it was Bess who drew every eye. When Frances was questioned about her guest with the glorious red hair, she glossed over the fact that she was an unpaid servant and gave out the information that she was a widow of independent means.

Bess's first dancing partner was Lord Suffolk, Frances Grey's young brother. She had always thought of him as a boy, but the way he squeezed her hand and stared hungrily at her breasts made her realize he was growing up quickly. When the dance ended, Bess steered the youth in the direction of his sister's husband.

Henry Grey lifted Bess from her deep curtsy and drew her hand to his lips. “My dear, it is so good to see you back in London. Please accept my heartfelt condolences.”

“Thank you, Lord Dorset.”

“It's Henry,” he said quietly.

“Henry,” she said softly, wondering if Frances knew how lucky she was in her choice of a husband.

“Here is someone who desires an introduction. May I present Sir John Thynne, who is also from Derbyshire? Sir John … Mistress Elizabeth Barlow.”

“Mistress Elizabeth, I am delighted. I understand you are a Hardwick?”

Bess examined the man before her and liked what she saw. He was perhaps thirty, but the tight brown curls falling over his forehead made him boyishly attractive. She summed him up in a trice by observing his speech, manner, hands, and his honest green eyes. She decided he was kind, intelligent, hardworking, and, above all, sincere. In short, he was excellent husband material.

“Sir John, do you know the Hardwicks?”

“I have never had the pleasure until now, but I am very familiar with Hardwick Manor. Houses are a hobby of mine.”

“Oh, I, too, have a great passion for houses, Sir John; the subject absolutely fascinates me.”

“I have just started building a house in Brentford.”

“I've been there! Isn't it on the river before you get to Hampton Court Palace?”

“Yes. Dudley's Syon House is close by my property.”

“Build something beautiful, Sir John. Such a lovely setting deserves a worthy jewel.” She lifted her fan and spoke confidentially. “Though it's very imposing, I thought Syon the ugliest house I'd ever seen.”

Sir John laughed. “Then that is something else we have in common.” Within minutes they were fast friends, as if they had known each other all their lives.

Sir William Cavendish arrived late on purpose. The only reason he was even attending the ball was that he had given Frances his word that he would at least show his face. Since he had been knighted for his service to the Crown, he had high expectations of being appointed treasurer of the Royal Chamber. To achieve his ambition required a place where he could entertain, and the Greys had generously made Suffolk House open to him day or night since he had returned from Ireland.

Sir William avoided the Great Chamber, where the crush of dancers was measuring its steps to corantos and lavoltas, and headed directly to the gambling salon, where a man could indulge his twin vices of gambling and drinking at the same time.

“Oh, no, you don't, you damned rogue!” Frances
tapped him sharply with her fan. “Rule number one: No skulking past the ballroom.”

“I make my own rules,” he told her bluntly, then relented and grinned at her. “I suppose it is bloody bad form not to dance with my hostess.”