Lisbon (65 page)

“Ines knows that even here she may be watched,” said Leeds, whose sudden frown had sent Ines scurrying away. “And I would add that even here
we
may be overheard. We must guard our tongues.”

“And what of those men who meet here?” demanded Cassandra impatiently. “I am upstairs but I hear their boots clomping in at night. They arrive only in the dark, and I have peered out and seen them disappear into the back of the house. Sometimes I have thought I heard the prince’s voice among them. What is going on?”

For a wild moment Leeds yearned to tell her, but he bit back the words. “They are helping to arrange the prince’s escape with Ines,” he told her imperturbably. “And the less you know about that the better.”

Cassandra bit her lip. “I . . . This charade can’t go on forever, Leeds.”

“Of course not. ” His sunny smile flashed. “But it can go on until All Hallows’ Day—and that is only a week away. You can last till then, can’t you?

“And what will happen on All Hallows’ Day?” wondered Cassandra. “For I am told the prince is to be married to Constanca the week after. ”

“On All Hallows’ Day the prince will flee the country with his Ines. He would have done it before now, but the arrangements are difficult to make. He must leave no trail that Pombal’s agents can follow. And he will leave you weeping, saying you have quarreled and you do not know where he has gone. And you will sink back into obscurity 
living here for a while but later going your own way with the fine clothes and jewels he has lavished on you. ”

“Oh, I don’t intend to keep—”

“Nonsense,” he interrupted her roughly. “Whatever he gives you is little enough for the service you do him. You will keep
everything.’’

His manner was so compelling that Cassandra felt as if a strong wind had blown over her and swept her resolution away.

But despite Leeds’ assurances, after he had gone Cassandra still found herself plagued with a sense of foreboding.

Wend noted it and asked her what was wrong.

“Nothing,” she assured Wend. “It is just that we will be leaving soon.”

“Good!” said Wend with energy. She had never really believed Cassandra’s story that she had been offered the house for a song and had found the offer irresistible. Cassandra was mixed up in something. Wend didn’t know what, but she wished they were both back home at Aldershot Grange.

Cassandra at that moment was wishing the same thing. For a while she had succumbed to the spell of romantic Lisbon and the glamorous role of aiding a young prince, but of late—and perhaps it was the sound of those booted feet moving about downstairs by night—the shadows in this pink palace had seemed to deepen, and now at last it had come to her what a dangerous game she was playing.

In Estoril, Clive, Lord Houghton, was enjoying his own charade. But unlike Cassandra, he shrank from the idea that it would end. He wished desperately that he were free of Phoebe, free to marry Lady Farrington’s mousy daughter, free to enjoy the rich life such a marriage offered. In a weak moment he had already proposed to Della—and been joyously accepted. He had promised her a betrothal ring when they got back to England.

What he would give her instead would be the rude shock of learning that he could not marry her, that he had been lying to her all along. For he hadn’t a doubt that the 
moment the wedding banns were published, Phoebe would hear about it—and be on him like a harpy. And Lady Farrington had absolutely refused to let Della wed him in Portugal. She wanted a big public wedding to show off Della s “catch.”

Caught in a trap of his own making, Clive stood staring down into the Boca do Inferno, the Mouth of Hell, as if seeking guidance from somewhere within that awesome chasm.

All that stood between him and this dazzling marriage was Phoebe. His wife. And if that barrier were removed . . .

He thought long and hard about it as he stared down into the frothing milky whirlpool sucked down by the inrushing sea, and he came to what seemed to him an inevitable decision. Phoebe must not be allowed to stand in his way. He must dispose of her. The thought made him wrestle briefly with his conscience—for him that was not too difficult. Although sometimes his misdeeds came back to haunt him, Clive was always able to bend his conscience to his will.

He began to think about how to do it.

It must not be done on English soil. No, that would be too dangerous. Some foreign place perhaps, someplace where Phoebe did not speak the language and where he could set up his story ahead of time. A fall over a cliff, perhaps, into the sea? But not someplace where the body would not be found and so leave a question in people s minds that she might somehow have escaped. No, a place of certain destruction.

Here
, for instance.

He looked down at that foaming cauldron and knew that he had found the perfect spot to rid himself of Phoebe. He would lure her to Lisbon. He would set a man to watch for her arrival. And when she arrived, he would slip something into Lady Farrington's food, and Della s. Not something deadly, but something that would make them so sick they would keep to their rooms for two or three days.

And while they were confined to their rooms, he would welcome Phoebe—at another inn, of course. He would appear publicly to be on excellent terms with her. He 
would bring her here to Estoril. And at the Mouth of Hell, when no one was looking, he would lure her to the edge of the chasm. One little push and he would be rid of her forever! And ready to embark on the new and wonderful life he deserved.

He was suddenly no longer afraid of Cassandra. Indeed he found himself eager to return to Lisbon—they would go back tomorrow! They would stay at another inn far from the Green Island; there was nothing to fear. His waterfront watcher would tell him when Phoebe landed. He would spirit her quickly away to some outlying inn, telling her it was the best he could afford . . . and in Estoril do away with her. No need for the authorities to connect Phoebe with Cassandra—her name was no longer Keynes. Lord, he should have realized that sooner. Phoebe would be gone and Cassandra would be none the wiser.

So buoyed up by the thought of ridding himself of Phoebe was he that he sat down at once to pen a letter to Phoebe back in Liverpool.

“Join me in Lisbon 
he wrote.
“I will be staying at the Pico de Ferro—the Iron Crest. I cannot wait to see you.”

He would have been shocked to know that Phoebe already knew he was in Portugal. She had run across a goldsmith with whom she had frequently pawned her jewels—when she had any to pawn. And the goldsmith had been among the crowd at dockside, seeing his daughter off, and had seen Clive board the vessel bound for Lisbon.

Unknown to Clive, Phoebe was already on her way. And although sailing arrivals were always unpredictable, the captain of the
Storm Castle
was at that very moment standing on the swaying deck in bright sunshine telling a group of passengers, including Phoebe, that they should make port in Lisbon in about a week, weather permitting.

Nor was Phoebe the only person of interest to be upon the high seas at that moment.

Back at Aldershot Grange, Drew Marsden had come riding up, and Livesay, who had discussed it all at length with Wend, had told him bluntly the real reason Cassandra had embarked for Portugal.

“She’s afraid of
me?”
Drew had been puzzled.

“No, the lass is afraid
for
you,” Livesay had corrected him. “Mistress Cassandra believes she’s a Death Bringer. And she doesn’t want to add you to her list.”

“But that’s ridiculous!” Drew exploded.

“Nonetheless, tis what she believes.” Livesay shook his head as if he would never understand women. “She believes she’s brought four men to their deaths—and all because of love for her. And she told Wend she loves you too much to watch you die. So that’s the
real
reason she ran away to Portugal.”

Drew did not look as upset as Livesay had expected. The words “she loves you too much” were the ones that had caught his heart on fire. Lord, he had feared Cassandra did not love him at all, once he found she had run away.

He mounted his horse and favored Livesay with a confident smile.

“Well, I’ll just off to Lisbon and bring my lady back!” he told Livesay blithely, and went looking for a ship to carry him there.

As it happened, although Drew had started long before Phoebe, he had been unable to find a ship—they all seemed to be going everywhere else, but not to Portugal. And when he did at last find one, storms blew his wallowing tub off course.

Although Phoebe had embarked much later, her ship was faster and missed the storms that delayed Drew. So actually Drew and Phoebe would arrive in Lisbon only two days apart—and Drew would arrive first.

So matters stood with All Hallows’ Day fast approaching. Then . . .

Into Lisbon rolled a black-and-gold coach.

The black-and-gold coach, handsome though it was, and bearing the arms of one of Spain’s proud families, was dusty and bore scars, for it had traveled overland all the way from Castile. Its two occupants, a man and a woman, were elegant in the extreme.

The man wore black velvet—and a melancholy expression on his pale features. His long fingers, one of them sporting a signet ring bearing the family crest, were curled about a cane of ebony and gold. Whenever the woman spoke, which was seldom, for she spent more time silently staring out the coach windows, he gave her his full attention, and there was a flaring joy in his dark eyes when he looked at her.

The woman—in contrast to the man who lounged at ease beside her—sat stiffly erect. Her magnificent figure was encased in rich black silks which rustled softly when she moved. She wore no jewelry—although the small Moroccan leather case at her feet was filled with necklaces, earrings, and rings of gold and diamonds and several ropes of pearls—unless you could count the delicate gold chain that disappeared into a gold locket somewhere beneath her bodice, or the simple black onyx mourning ring that never left her finger. That ring was a mystery to her maidservant, who traveled behind in the cart which car
ried this elegant couple's luggage, for to the maid's knowledge, no one had died.

The woman said something in soft slurred Spanish to the man and he laughed. For a moment she gave him a look of deep affection. Then she went back to her gazing. She was, thought a passerby viewing her from the cobbles, the very epitome of Spanish beauty. Her complexion, pale and creamy and tinted ever so slightly with olive, was flawless. Dark winglike brows swept over lightly kohl-accented eyes that looked remarkably light to the passerby— but he assigned that to a trick of the Lisbon sunlight shining down into the coach. A black lace mantilla flowed over her high-backed tortoiseshell comb and down over her dark gleaming curls, as became a Spanish lady.

They alighted at Lisbon's finest inn, the Royal Cockerel. They were expected, and the inn's best rooms had been reserved for Don Carlos and his party. Painfully, with the aid of his cane, Don Carlos made his way up the stairs to his bedchamber, which adjoined that of the lady. He staggered slightly as he reached a chair, and the lady sprang forward to help him, but he waved her away.

‘Don't fuss, Carlotta," he said wearily. "Just send Jose to tell the doctor that I have arrived in Lisbon and will see him now. '' He bent over in a sudden spasm of pain.

Doña Carlotta bit her lip to see him suffer so, but she went quickly to the door and instructed the footman who waited there silently to find the doctor—who was, after all, the reason for their long difficult journey—at once and bring him here.

The doctor came and there was a low-voiced conversation which Doña Carlotta, waiting tensely in her bedchamber next door, could not hear. She had never been permitted to attend, although Don Carlos had had many sessions with his doctors back in Spain—nor had he allowed her to be present at this one. Don Carlos believed a man must take life's blows alone. His lady, already flying to the door as she heard the doctor's heavy step going down the hall, paused as her maid—a beautiful Englishwoman she had found stranded in Barcelona when Carlos had sought med
ical help there last year—asked her in English where her jewel case should be put.

“Oh, put it anywhere, Peggy,” Doña Carlotta answered her in flawless English—she spoke three languages, did Doña Carlotta.

Peggy’s throat tightened with sympathy as she watched her mistress leave. She had a fierce loyalty to the Spanish lady, who had most likely saved her from debtors’ prison and who had promised that after this trip to Portugal she would help Peggy return to England. After a moment’s hesitation Peggy pushed back her tarnished red-gold hair and put the jewel box in the bottom of a curved-top trunk.

In the next room the doctor was already being shown out. They could hear the door close behind him.

Doña Carlotta, entering, found Don Carlos staring rather fixedly at a golden crucifix that his manservant, Esteban, had hung upon the wall. “What did the doctor say?” she asked.

Don Carlos swung about and smiled at her. “He says there is hope,” he told her cheerfully. “He will come every day for treatments.”

“They will be painful?” she asked quietly.

Don Carlos shrugged indifferently. “There will be some pain, yes, but he has every hope of improvement. ”