By Love Unveiled (3 page)

But when she met his gaze, she realized she’d erred in keeping silent. Fed by the sight of her unusual garb,
he looked suspicious. The late summer air wasn’t yet chill enough for a cloak, and ladies didn’t generally wear masks indoors, except to the theater.

She stole a glance at her aunt. At least Aunt Tamara’s appearance shouldn’t raise his suspicions too much, for despite her olive skin, she dressed like a poor gentlewoman.

Mr. Tibbett finally found his voice. “May I help you, my lord?” he asked, to draw the earl’s attention from Marianne.

Lord Falkham’s grim mouth smoothed surprisingly into a pleasant smile. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Mr. Bones?”

The teasing nickname took Marianne off guard.

Apparently, it did the same for Mr. Tibbett, who hesitated before returning his lordship’s smile. “It has indeed, my lord. The days when you called me Mr. Bones are so long gone I wouldn’t have thought you’d remember them. In truth, I thought never to witness your return to your rightful place.”

“I’m thankful
someone
in England is pleased to see me.” Lord Falkham’s gaze turned mocking as it flicked briefly over Marianne. “Not everyone has been so. My uncle’s Roundhead friends, some of whom are still in high places, would have seen me completely disinherited if they’d thought it would profit them.”

“Then God preserve us all,” Mr. Tibbett said. At Lord Falkham’s raised eyebrow, he added, “I assure you that we here in Lydgate would have done more to stop Sir Pitney if we’d known of his treachery. Imagine our
outrage when the blackguard went so far as to sell Falkham House—”

Mr. Tibbett broke off as he apparently remembered who else was present.

The earl didn’t seem to notice. “It might have cost ‘the blackguard’ dearly if I’d returned to find my property beyond my reach. Fortunately, matters worked out to my satisfaction.”

It took every ounce of Marianne’s control not to utter a harsh retort.
To his satisfaction,
indeed. Only through the death and disgrace of her father had it been so.

Mr. Tibbett hastened to smooth over the awkward moment. “In any case, I know I speak for everyone when I say how pleased we are that you own the estate once more. You’ll be a good lord for Falkham House.”

The earl smiled grimly, then turned unexpectedly to Marianne. “And do you agree, madam? Shall I be a ‘good lord’?” When she remained silent, only too aware of the danger in engaging her enemy in conversation, his eyes darkened. “Of course not. No doubt you preferred to have Sir Henry in residence, or even Sir Pitney, instead of the rightful owner.”

She kept silent, though her temper raged within her.

“We’re sad to lose Sir Henry, of course,” Mr. Tibbett said hastily, “but we’re glad to see you’ve returned. I know you would have felt the loss of Falkham House keenly if Sir Henry had lived and kept ownership of the estate.”

“That wouldn’t have happened,” the earl said with assurance.

“Why not?” Marianne asked without thinking.

Lord Falkham studied her masked visage. “I would have offered him so much money for the estate he would gladly have sold it to me.”

Didn’t the man know that his uncle had also attempted such a thing? Two years ago, after Lord—no,
Sir
Pitney—had become powerful among Cromwell’s supporters, he’d tried to buy back the estate. When Father had refused to sell, the man had spread rumors that Marianne and her mother were witches because of their healing abilities and gypsy blood. Fortunately, Lydgate’s townspeople had ignored his nonsense. But it had made Marianne wary of the duplicitous fellow.

And now she was just as wary of his nephew, especially when the man cast her a chilling smile. “Fortunately, that situation never arose. His Majesty was more than happy to restore my lands to me.”

“That won’t please your uncle, I daresay,” Mr. Tibbett said. “He was always a grasping tyrant with grand plans for himself and a tendency to use . . . ah . . . forceful means to achieve his goals.”

“I don’t fear Sir Pitney,” Lord Falkham bit out. “By now he must have realized he made the greatest mistake of his life when he stole my inheritance. And if my regaining Falkham House didn’t prove that, I won’t hesitate to give him other proofs. He’ll learn his lesson, if I must teach it to him over and over.”

The threat in his words sent a shudder through Marianne. She understood his dislike for Sir Pitney, but this went beyond dislike. After all, the man couldn’t have
known he was alive—it wasn’t Sir Pitney’s fault that he’d assumed the worst. Clearly, the earl was another of those arrogant nobles newly returned from exile who expected everyone to give him his due, just or not.

Still, she had to admit he seemed different from the exiles she’d known at court—more somber, somehow. His thick, ash-brown hair fell uncurled to his shoulders, in defiance of fashion, and not a trace of lace adorned his shirt or doublet. Yet no air of the Puritan clung to him, either. He had a bearing more inherently self-assured than any newly empowered Puritan.

It was that confidence and aristocratic bearing that alarmed her most of all. They could lead a man to commit all manner of crimes.

As if Aunt Tamara could hear her niece’s morbid thoughts, she prodded Marianne toward the door. “We’ll be leaving now, if you’ll excuse us, sirs.”

The earl’s voice stopped them before they could escape. “Please don’t leave your business unfinished on my account,” he said with a cloying civility she knew was directed at her. “I’d like to hear more about my pleasurable days abroad.”

Marianne stifled a groan. He clearly itched to punish her for her insults. How she’d like to spar with him, but she dared not. The last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself.

“Thank you for your consideration, milord, but we’ve finished our business,” Aunt Tamara said, using the ingratiating manner of a practiced gypsy.

But apparently her words weren’t enough for his
curst lordship. He moved forward to block their exit, placing his hand on the door handle.

“I see your companion has lost her tongue,” he told Aunt Tamara, although his gaze was fixed on Marianne’s masked face. “Such a pity, for I really wish to hear more of her spirited opinions.”

Heat rose in Marianne’s cheeks. Thank heavens for her mask.

“But if I may be so bold, I’d at least like to know your names,” he continued. “I should like to begin reacquainting myself with the people of Lydgate who once served my father.”

More likely, he wanted to know who’d insulted him so he could take his revenge.

“I am Tamara,” her aunt said, “and this is my niece Mina. You must excuse her mask. ’Tis the smallpox, you see. She was struck by it when young, and her face is quite disfigured, milord.” She shot Marianne a warning glance. “It has made her bitter and more inclined to say things she shouldn’t.”

Marianne glared at her aunt from beneath the mask. Trust Aunt Tamara to make her sound like a crotchety troll. And an ugly one, too.

Lord Falkham looked skeptical. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to pry.”

She doubted that. He struck her as the sort of man who trusted nothing and no one.

Aunt Tamara tightened her grip on Marianne’s arm. “We really must go.”

For a moment Marianne feared he wouldn’t let them
leave. Then he opened the door with a mocking flourish. “Then don’t let me hinder you. I’m certain we’ll meet again.”

When they were out of earshot, Aunt Tamara muttered, “And I’m certain we won’t, not if I can help it.” As soon as they’d gone a good distance, she exploded. “You should have listened to me! We were nearly discovered back there. We should leave Lydgate immediately.”

“I’m not leaving! It’s quite possible he’s the one who arranged to have Father arrested. He might even have had something to do with Father’s death.”

“That would mean he planted the poison so your father would be blamed. But that would have risked the king’s life as well. He wouldn’t have done that.”

“We can’t be sure of the exact circumstances. He mightn’t have risked His Majesty’s life but merely made it look as if Father had done so. A man with his power could do all sorts of things to ensure someone’s arrest.”

Aunt Tamara shuddered. “That’s what frightens me. If he discovers who you are—”

Marianne laughed. “How can he? You conveniently gave me a reason to wear my mask all the time. That was brilliant of you.”

“It might not keep your neck out of the hangman’s noose. Especially if the earl—”

“I know. I’ll have to avoid him.”

“That might not be easy. He isn’t the sort to let an insult pass. Be careful, poppet, that you don’t find
yourself caught in his trap, for he would easily devour you.”

“Nonsense. He’s probably already forgotten about me.”

But Marianne’s heart continued to pound like the heart of a bird hunted by a falcon, long after she and her aunt had passed out of sight of Lydgate.

Take heed lest passion sway

Thy judgement to do aught, which else free will

Would not admit.

—John Milton,
Paradise Lost

W
eary to the bone, Marianne slipped out of the cramped cottage where she’d just served as midwife to a villager. She pulled up her hood and tied on her mask, all because of that cursed earl. Thanks to him, she didn’t know when she could discard them for good.

As she headed off for the wagon, a thin stranger a bit older than her aunt emerged from the darkness at the other end of the street. When he saw her, he called out, “You, in the mask! Be you the gypsy healer they call Mina?”

She nodded. “And who are you, sir?”

“My name is William Crashaw,” he said as he approached, “and I’m valet to the Earl of Falkham. You must come at once. It’s a matter of great urgency. His lordship lies wounded and needs your help.”

A cold chill gripped her. She didn’t dare risk going
to that man’s aid, even if he
wasn’t
the villain who’d brought about Father’s ruin. “I’m sorry, I just spent several hours birthing twins. Why don’t you ask Mr. Tibbett to help you?”

“He’s not at his shop,” the man clipped out. “And we’ve no time to waste. Two men attacked my master on the road, and one stabbed him clear through the thigh. His very life is in peril.”

Oh, dear. She couldn’t let a man die, no matter what the risk. Besides, if he was that gravely hurt, he wouldn’t be paying her much mind. “Very well. Take me to him.”

But as they reached the top of the hill and she caught sight of her old home, she had second thoughts. Her mind swam with memories of coming home late at night with her mother after staying by a child’s sickbed, of returning with her father from an evening’s merriment at a friend’s estate. This earl had possibly plotted Father’s arrest, perhaps even his death. Why should she help him?

Besides, she’d never dressed a serious wound, though she’d watched Father do it hundreds of times. And this of all wounds! If she wasn’t successful, she would be doubly in danger—from the king’s soldiers
and
his lordship’s friends.

She hesitated at the point where the road forked off toward Falkham House.

William faced her with a fierce scowl. “See here, miss, I’d send someone for Bodger if he didn’t live so far away. The men at the tavern said you would be a greater help to my master. But if you can’t do it, I’ll take
my chances with the surgeon. I can’t have you make a mistake that might cost the earl his leg.”

Bodger! That horrible surgeon had caused the loss of more lives than he’d saved. In any case, she still wasn’t certain that the earl
had
been responsible for Father’s arrest. If Lord Falkham died because of her reticence and proved to be blameless, she could never live with herself.

She steadied her nerve. “If you let Bodger cut on him, he’ll be more fit for the grave than anything else. With me, he at least has a chance of survival.”

Her calm voice seemed to settle William’s mind. “Come on, then.” He strode on. “We’re wasting precious time.”

In moments, they were entering Falkham House. She walked through the familiar rooms, her throat tight and raw with the pain of memory. The long hall on the second floor had been refurbished, but that was all she could observe before several booming curses rent the silence.

She raced into the master bedroom from which the sound came, only to be greeted by a sight that filled her with horror. The earl sat against the headboard of his bed with his legs stretched out in front of him and his face contorted in pain as a servant poured something onto his leg. Nearby, a kettle hung in the fireplace, and she could smell boiling oil.

She forgot the crimes she attributed to Lord Falkham, forgot the danger she risked by helping him. All she could see was a bumbling idiot using an outmoded and needlessly painful method of cleansing the wound.

“If another drop of that hits his skin,” she threatened as she snatched the cup away from the old man, “I’ll boil
you
in that kettle!”

“But we got to burn the poison away,” the servant protested, visibly recoiling from the masked figure in black who dashed the cup to the floor.

“Out, out, before you murder him!” She pushed futilely at the stubborn old fool, sickened by the smell of scorched flesh.

“Listen to the woman,” Lord Falkham ground out. “For God’s sake, Will, get him out of here!”

William murmured something to the old man, and the servant left, grumbling as he went.

“I hope you haven’t come to torture me more,” the earl growled. “The sword wound hurts less than the old man’s ministrations.”

“I can well believe it.” One look at his red and swollen skin made her sick. She couldn’t wish such pain on even her worst enemy.

Instantly she drew an ointment from her pouch and smoothed it over the burn. He grimaced.

“Forgive me, my lord, but this should make it feel better shortly.”

She turned her attention to his wound. Someone had removed his breeches, and a sheet had been draped over his groin and left leg, leaving only his right thigh exposed. An ugly laceration gaped open close to where his leg joined his hip.