Margaret Moore (24 page)

“There you are!” Lady Lippet cried. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Of what?” Arabella replied flatly.

“Of leaving the Banqueting House with … that man! And just as the king was about to speak to you.”

“I do not think the king intended to speak to me.”

“Well, notice you, then!” Lady Lippet peered at the shrubbery. “Is he still here, hiding in the bushes like the scoundrel he is?”

“Who?”

“Neville, of course!”

“He has gone inside.”

“What did he want with you? Nothing improper, I hope?”

“He came as a representative of the king, who apparently wants me to become his mistress.”

Lady Lippet gasped. “What did you reply?”

“I refused.”

“Then you are a
fool
!” Lady Lippet cried angrily, her silly manner and mincing affectations suddenly gone. “It is a great compliment—and a great opportunity.”

Was no one in London what they seemed? “I believe I must be a fool.”

Lady Lippet frowned. “Your father never should have been allowed to raise you.”

“At one time, I might have agreed with you. But you cannot disagree that the king’s desire is immoral.”

“I could understand if it were Belmaris or Cheddersby. But this is the king!”

“I do not want to share the king’s bed.”

“You stupid, stubborn girl!” Lady Lippet snarled, grabbing her arm so hard that Arabella cried out in pain. “You already have beauty and the admiration of many men. You do not have to settle for whoever will take you. Yet you are so vain you would deny your king?”

“It isn’t vanity that makes me refuse him,” Arabella retorted, twisting away. “What he asks is shameful, and I know it. You should, too.” Her eyes narrowed as she rubbed her sore arm. “I wonder if the earl would share your opinion of the king’s proposal.”

Lady Lippet made a dismissive gesture. “It doesn’t matter what the earl thinks. You are being given a chance for power and riches that
most women only dream of. You will be intimate with the King of England!”

“Will the King of England love me?” Arabella demanded. “Will he care about me outside his bed?”

“He might.”

“And if he doesn’t, what will I have sacrificed for nothing?”

“But he is the king!” Lady Lippet repeated, as if that was all that mattered.

He is not Neville! Arabella wanted to shout.

Then she wanted to cry, because Neville didn’t love her. Her emotions raw, she struggled for control. “Tell me, my lady, were you ever a man’s mistress?”

“We are not speaking of me!”

“Were you Lord Barrsettshire’s mistress?”

“No!”

As Arabella watched Lady Lippet’s face, she had a moment of illumination. “But not for lack of trying.”

Lady Lippet stared at her. “How did you—?” She paused, then straightened her shoulders. “I am going to find the earl. We are leaving!”

“For a man who professes to hate the court and everybody in it, he certainly finds ample excuse to spend time here. But then, I gather every aristocrat is a hypocrite,” Arabella said coldly.

Lady Lippet’s only answer was a disdainful
sniff as she turned on her high heel and marched away.

As Arabella watched her go, she resolved to ask Lord Barrsettshire to take her home to Grantham. He still denounced London frequently, although not with the ferocity of before, but hopefully he would not require much of an explanation.

If he did, she would tell him about the king.

She would not say one word about Neville.

“All alone, are we?”

Arabella raised her eyes to find herself facing the Duke of Buckingham.

Another figure moved in the shadows. Sedley, she thought. Like wolves, Villiers and his friends would travel in a pack.

Her stomach knotted with dread.

“We missed you at the game. So did the king.”

“I did not want to play. Now, if you will excuse me—” she said, trying to move past him.

“She says she does not want to play,” Villiers noted in a singsong voice.

“She says she does not want to play,” Sedley repeated.

“She says she does not want to play,” Buck-hurst mocked.

“You do know
how
to play, do you not?” Villiers inquired. “We cover up your eyes and you must guess who we are.” His expression
grew into a lascivious leer and he lowered his voice. “By touch.”

“Leave me alone!” she cried.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed her roughly from behind, hauling her backward. The duke came closer as she struggled in the man’s arms and opened her mouth to call for help.

“Say a word and I’ll slit your throat,” the man holding her muttered.

It was Lord Buckhurst. She felt the prick of a knife in her neck.

“No need for blindman’s buff, eh, my friends?” Villiers said as he boldly caressed her. “You really do have such a lot to learn, my dear, the first lesson being humility. You should not presume to think yourself too good for any man in this court. Not the king. Not me. Not any of my friends. Not even Belmaris or Cheddersby.”

Other mirthless male laughter joined with the duke’s. “The second lesson is of a more intimate nature.”

Gripping her arms, Buckhurst shoved her forward.

Where were they taking her in this maze of buildings? Away from the Banqueting House, that much was certain.

What were they planning to do to her?

Arabella forced her mind away from that. Instead, she concentrated on thinking of a way
to escape the strong hands of the man who held her.

A scent different from the heavy perfume of the man holding her reached her nostrils. The river. From there they could take her anywhere.

A figure stepped out of the shadows, and they halted.

“Wilmot?” the duke queried.

The man drew his sword. “Sadly for you, Wilmot is drunk as a drowned mouse.”

Arabella nearly fainted with relief at the sound of Neville’s voice.

“You should not let Wilmot listen when you make your sordid little plans. He has not nearly the capacity for keeping confidences as he does for wine, which is to say, none at all.”

“Put up your sword,” Villiers said with a joviality that was blatantly artificial. “There is no need for it.”

“When I come upon a fellow and his knaves dragging off a defenseless woman, I must, perforce, think otherwise.”

“We were not dragging her anywhere,” Sedley protested.

Neville sauntered closer. “Why, good evening, Lady Arabella. I must say I am not at all impressed by the company you are keeping, and apparently in preference to me.”

“I—” She felt the prick of the knife again.

Neville’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly before
he turned to Buckingham. “I must also confess myself surprised that she has fallen into some sort of stupor that renders her incapable of speech, although that might also explain her odd lapse of judgment.”

“Let us pass, Farrington,” Villiers commanded, drawing his sword, while Arabella looked on helplessly. She heard the soft sounds of swords being drawn from their sheaths.

“Go back to the king, since you are the new favorite,” the duke finished.

“What, I?” Neville said, putting his free hand to his breast in a gesture of surprise. “It is Lady Arabella who is to be the favorite.”

“Perhaps I should rephrase. You who are Lady Castlemaine’s new favorite.”

“Jealous?”

“Never of you.”

“Alas, you quite crush me,” Neville replied. “Nevertheless, I feel duty-bound to point out that the king will not be pleased when he hears that you attempted to abduct Lady Arabella for some end that is, I fear, only too easy to guess.”

“I should think you, of all people, would be the last to champion her. Everyone knows about your father’s plans.”

“You really mustn’t try to think, Villiers,” Neville replied sympathetically. “You aren’t good at it, as your conclusion demonstrates.”

The Duke of Buckingham approached Neville
warily, obviously mindful of the still-drawn sword.

“Why not join us in teaching Lady Arabella her place?” he suggested. “You like a choice bit of tail.”

Neville raised his sword so that it nearly touched Villiers’s chest. “Although you may take your pleasure any way you can, Buckingham, I like my women willing.”

“You dare to criticize me?” the duke demanded.

“I do, and if you do not order Buckhurst to let her go, I will do my criticizing with my blade.”

“We are three to your one, Farrington.”

“Three to one. Not bad odds. Of course, one of you must keep hold of Lady Arabella, lest she scamper away, so that means two to one.”

“Then two to one it shall be!” Buckingham cried as he lunged for Neville.

As he did so, Arabella sensed that Buckhurst had let down his guard and she quickly pulled away from him. Free, she lifted her heavy skirts and started to run away.

“Let her go!” she heard Buckingham shout.

She halted confusedly. Neville was in peril because of her. For whatever reasons, he had come to her aid.

She could not abandon him now. Yet what could she do? She had no weapon. She could try to find a guard, but who could say how
long that might take in this place? By the time she returned with help, it could be too late.

Chewing her hp, she scanned the surrounding area, the sound of the sword fight and cursing clearly audible.

She spotted a piece of wood, dropped from a workman’s bundle, perhaps. It was about two feet long, squared and looked like oak, the hardest wood in England.

She grabbed it up and went back the way she had come. Before she reached the fighting men, however, she heard the sound of running feet. She pressed back into a shadowed alcove, her legs weak and trembling as she tried to stay still. Three men ran by—Buckingham and the others.

Where was Neville? If anything had happened to him … !

Then Neville came charging down the narrow way, his expression so fierce that he was almost unrecognizable.

“Neville!” she cried out softly.

He halted. “Thank God!” he whispered.

She ran to him, throwing her arms around him and laying her face against his chest. His rapidly beating heart throbbed in her ear, and his chest rose and fell with his ragged breathing.

“Thank God and you.” She pressed a grateful kiss to the base of his throat, and his breath caught.

He did not put his arm around her. Instead, he gently disengaged himself, and his gaze faltered as he sheathed his sword. “Did they hurt you?”

“No.”

“I am very glad of that.”

“I am very glad you appeared to help me,” she said, her voice quivering slightly.

Neville began to examine his left sleeve.

“Are you wounded?” she asked, chastising herself for not thinking of this sooner. “Did they hurt you?”

“Only a ripped sleeve,” he said, fingering the sides of a long tear.

“But you are not hurt?”

“No.”

“You must be a fine swordsman,” she said.

He left his sleeve alone and looked at her. “The day I cannot defeat those three in a sword fight is the day I retire to the country and take up sheep farming. Come, I’ll take you back to the Banqueting House.”

“I want to go home,” she declared, sounding like a child even to herself. “I have no wish to see Buckingham or anyone else from the court tonight.”

“What about Lady Lippet? Or my delightful father?”

“Your father is probably engrossed in cards. I would rather not have to listen to Lady Lippet for a while.”

“I could escort you home, if you would like, and we can send word to my father that you have gone.”

She nodded her agreement. “Please, Neville, take me home.”

Chapter 17

“W
e should find a boat at the Privy Stair,” Neville said, trying to maintain his composure. “Buckingham had one waiting. Sadly, he will have to find another way home.”

“How do you know all this?” Arabella asked as she followed him toward the river.

“I happened upon young Wilmot at a propitious moment,” he replied, commanding himself not to notice the subtle scent of her perfume wafting over him. Or to remember how she had clung to him. He marveled, too, at her matter-of-fact questions and self-possession. Other women would be weeping and helpless with fright.

Yet despite her outward calm, he heard the slight tremor in her voice, and he wanted to kiss away her distress, yet feared that would be only self-indulgence.

“Apparently Buckingham saw me return without you from the garden and suspected you would be there alone,” he explained. “He told Wilmot his plans, and the sot was too delighted by the fortuitous circumstance to keep quiet or to notice I was standing behind him.”

“I am glad Wilmot wasn’t with them.”

“Do you think an additional sword would have enabled them to triumph over me?” Neville demanded as if mightily offended, and in truth, he was a little insulted by her evident doubt.

“It would have been four to one.”

“The one was skilled and sober, and the four drunken louts.”

“I did not mean to offend you. Indeed, I am very grateful that you are skilled and sober.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “You
are
sober, my lord?”

“Much more so than Wilmot. He was too drunk to stand, which is why he remained behind.”