Suzanne Robinson (11 page)

“Oui, mon cardinal.”

“The coach, Jean-Paul. There’s nothing for us here.”

They emerged from the town house and into the bitter night. Few lights shone in the city at this late hour, and the coach clattered away into blackness. Inside, huddling in the warmth of mink and miniver, the cardinal seemed lost in thought.

“You questioned the servants,” he said, “and they gave you a list of her friends.”

“Oui, mon cardinal
, and I have traced them all, except for one.”

“And who is this one?”

“That is what worries me. None of the servants seems to know. He only came to her at her chateau, and then only once for a few days, and gave no name. The servants said Claude was triumphant during his visit, and that she gloried in his presence. She called him—incomparable. They say he had dark hair, and grey eyes, and a manservant with long silver hair and the build of a man half his age. But the curious thing is that all of the servants remembered the young man’s voice.”

“His voice. This does not help me, Jean-Paul.”

“Mayhap it will, Your Eminence, for there can’t be many young and handsome noblemen with a voice that would charm an angel from heaven. That was the description I was given.”

We must find this young man. Send men to all the ports, especially Calais and Le Havre. I don’t like this
mysterious visit to Claude. She never mentioned a beautiful young man with a siren voice. I despise not knowing things. I won’t have it.”

“Oui
, Your Eminence.”

The cardinal laced his fingers and made a steeple of them. “Claude was indiscreet. She spied on me and then chattered of her discoveries to others.” He sighed and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “It’s a pity that a man of God can trust no one, and most inconvenient that I have to burden myself with chasing after possible foreign intelligencers. I like it not.”

“Non, mon cardinal.”

The cardinal lapsed into silence. He had found out through one of his agents that Claude was babbling about his privy affairs, and now his plans for his niece were threatened. He’d been careless, a mistake for which he was paying dearly. The handsome young man with the beautiful voice and no name, he was an ill omen. Could it be that the Bourbons were on to his plans, or perchance the Spanish? It might even be that the annoying English had divined his intentions. Elizabeth Tudor was proving a much more formidable opponent than he’d imagined she could be.

No matter. He would catch the spy, and soon. Then this small inconvenience could be turned into an advantage. After all, Claude wasn’t the only one who could fall down a staircase and break her neck.

After Blade Fitzstephen had kissed her, Oriel had fled back to Uncle Thomas’s library, closed the door to the connecting passage, and locked it. Thomas had fallen asleep to the sound of Blade’s singing, but when she slammed the door, he woke with a snort.

She went to her table and began fumbling with the pile of books on it. She dropped one and started when it landed on the floor with a loud smack.

“What’s wrong with you, child?”

“Naught, Uncle.”

“He kissed you.”

Oriel’s head shot up and she gaped at Thomas. “He did not I mean, he did, but—oh, why is he here? He doesn’t need an heiress. He has that great fortress castle of his, and manors scattered from here to London, and in France as well. Why has he come back?”

“Scared you, did he?”

“He’s vain, and arrogant, and, and—”

“And has set you aflame.”

Oriel pointed at her uncle with a book. “Joan told me about him. He’s slept in every noblewoman’s bed at the French court.”

“Not the Queen Mother’s, surely.”

“And he was an outlaw!”

“Now, child, you mustn’t censure him for that. He lost his memory.”

“But remembered how to kill people. Joan told me he’s killed five men in duels. Over women.”

“Rumor, prating gossip.”

“Seneca says that gossip is the most knowing of persons.”

“And Hesiod said that it was easy to raise and grievous to bear. Forget gossip. Only a while ago you told me no one had ever kissed you. Don’t you like it? Be honest.”

Oriel worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “In faith, I don’t know. I hadn’t thought upon it.”

“Then do so.” Thomas rose and came to her. He patted her hand and smiled at her. “Shall I tell you a secret?”

She nodded.

“You were right. The boy has no need of an heiress. Therefore, he has come back for some other reason.”

“What reason is that?”

“Saints and apostles, girl, what reason think you? He’s come back for you. I’ve been watching him, and hark you, that boy’s undone. He writhes and chafes, for
he’s never suffered a mortal wound before. He runs mad with it.”

“What mortal wound? He’s healing well.”

“The one you dealt him by your very existence, my oblivious little scholar. God’s breath, Oriel, sometimes I see why your aunts despair of you.”

“You’re wrong. He must want my jewels and my lands.”

“As you say.”

This ready agreement caused her to cast a suspicious glance at him, but Thomas was leafing through the poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt.

“You will remember what I said about my tomb inscription, won’t you?”

“What? Oh, assuredly, Uncle Thomas. If I’ve troubles or am beset with confusion, I should go to the chapel and read it.”

“It will solve mysteries.” Thomas rubbed the gilt lettering on the book of poems. “Wyatt had a great gift. I enjoy his poetry as much as I enjoy puzzles and the symbolism of flowers. Did I tell you I came upon one of my old books about the language of flowers? I put it on your table. Here it is.” He opened the book in the middle and turned a few pages. “The bluebell symbolizes constancy, the gentian injustice, and the iris, the fleur-de-lis, symbolizes a message. Remember, Iris was the messenger of the Greek gods, and appeared to men in the form of a rainbow.”

Thomas turned the book to show Oriel the illuminated drawing of the flower, then closed it.

“Now, why don’t you go to your chamber and put on a nice gown? It’s almost time to dine.”

“What ails this gown?” Oriel looked down at her comfortable, soft skirt.

“Naught, but you should dress for your suitor.”

“I didn’t dress for the others, not even Hugh Wothorpe.”

“None of the others followed your every move as if he lived by gazing at you.”

“Have you an ague, Uncle?”

“Placate my fancy, then. Do it for me.”

Oriel sighed, then relented. “Only for you.”

“Of course, child. Why else?”

She went to her chamber and requested a gown of Nell. The maid gawked at her, which brought back her ill-temper. There followed an hour of torture. She was tied into a farthingale petticoat that, in her mind, made her look as if she was sticking out of the top of a cone. Nell had laced her into a patterned brocade gown of forest green, open in front in an inverted V to reveal a gold underskirt. A heavy gold girdle encircled her waist and fell in front to end in a pendant pomander.

The least offensive article was her mother’s necklace, one of the few jewels she really valued. It was a gold chain from which was suspended a pendant. The pendant frame had been cast of beaded gold and held a green stone. The stone was polished and oval, and almost the same shade as her eyes. Yet the necklace hardly made up for the rest of her trials.

If the hooped cage of the farthingale weren’t enough, Nell had attached a gold stomacher with whalebone stiffening to add further discomfort. Worst of all, her hair was pinned up and surmounted by a gold filigree chain braided through the coils. Now she didn’t know which was the most uncomfortable—her legs, stomach, or head. If she hadn’t promised Uncle Thomas, she would have cast aside gown and farthingale and pulled every last pin from her hair.

Instead, she turned her ire upon Blade, whose fault it was that Uncle Thomas thought she needed to change her habits of dress. She didn’t want him in her home. He touched her when he shouldn’t and made her feel most odd, and she didn’t trust him. Mayhap he’d gotten himself into debt in France and needed a rich wife. No doubt that was the reason he wanted to court her, but
he’d soon learn she wasn’t the gullible fool he assumed she was. Thus armed with skepticism, she stalked downstairs to the great chamber where the family assembled for the evening meal.

To her relief, Blade wasn’t there. Thus he wasn’t a witness to the consternation of her family. Her cousins and aunts stared at her as if she was a shade come to haunt them. Joan made one of her astute comments.

“Mother, Oriel is wearing a gown.”

“A green gown,” Jane added in case someone had suddenly gone blind.

“Well,” barked Livia. “At last you’ve seen fit to dress as your station demands.”

Leslie came to her and bowed. “Coz, you’re beautiful.”

“You’ve a kind heart,” Oriel said. Leslie had a habit of saying nice things to people, even his Aunt Livia. She glanced at her relatives. “Must they stand amazed? It’s most loathsome to be stared at.”

“I fear you must accustom yourself to being stared at—in envy by women, and with desire by men, coz.”

“You needn’t try to sweeten my temper with false compliments. I heard from Uncle Thomas that you’ve gambled your allowance for the next three months and want money.”

Leslie held up his hands in protest. “Jesu Maria, coz, I wouldn’t ask for money from a woman.” He bent to whisper in her ear. “I’m much too clever to be in want for long. Everyone thinks of me as a charming but addlepated wastrel, but I’ll show you all. I’m a man, for all I’m only twenty-one, and deserving of respect.”

“Not another duel, Leslie.”

“No, coz, but enough of this chatter. Here’s our guest.”

Oriel turned to see Blade come into the great chamber alone. He paused, and Oriel’s ire returned when she beheld his dark beauty made even more alluring by being clad in black and gold. Black damask brought out
the silver in his eyes, and he entered a room as if he was the French king gracing the
Salle des Etats
. He bowed over Aunt Livia’s hand and kissed it in the French manner rather than kissing her cheek in the English fashion. Somehow, this small elegance annoyed Oriel even further.

He rose from kissing Livia’s hand and took Aunt Faith’s. As he bent over it, his gaze strayed to Oriel and stayed there. A taunting glint came to his eyes as he brushed his lips over the age-spotted hand of her aunt, and he straightened, holding her gaze with his own. He smiled at her, lynxlike, and whispered something to Jane, who giggled.

Before her face could turn red under his stare, Oriel sniffed and swept away to join George and Robert by the fireplace. Yet try as she might, she was aware of his least movement, the low, haunting cadence of his voice as he spoke. Indeed, he seemed to ensorcel each person he encountered, for he had Livia and Faith smiling benevolently at him in an instant.

He even charmed Leslie, who had his own full measure of male appeal. She realized, as unseasoned as she was, that a man who could charm men as well as women was one who bore watching. Such an ability gave him enough power to be menacing—yes, dangerous. In faith, the Sieur de Racine would find her much more alert the next time he tried to work his artifices upon her.

Oriel stopped in midsentence of her conversation with George and Robert, for Leslie was bringing Blade to join them.

“George, I was just speaking to Blade about Parliament.”

“Parliament,” George said. “What know you of Parliament, boy?”

Leslie clamped his hand over his dagger. “Beshrew you, brother. I’m not a boy, and I know more than you think.” Leslie appeared to remember his manners, and
his hand dropped to his side. “We were speaking of the succession. Most favor our queen naming Katherine Grey as her successor, for old King Henry named the children of Frances Brandon, his great-niece, as next heirs. Hardly anyone wants the Queen of Scots.”

“Not true,” Robert cried. He pounded his fist against his thigh. “Those of us of the true religion know better. Mary Stewart is the only legitimate heir. By God, she should be on the throne—”

“Robert!” George scowled at his brother. “I’ll hear no good words about that woman. She quartered the arms of England with those of her own when Mary Tudor died. What presumption.”

Oriel had heard these arguments before. Neither George nor Robert would budge in his opinion, and they would fight all evening, thus ruining everyone’s meal.

“Cousins,” she said. “I warrant our guest would rather hear of some less contentious topic.”

Leslie chuckled. “Yes, brothers. Let us ply Blade with questions about French women. I hear he knows most of them.”

George opened his mouth to scold his youngest brother, but the gentleman usher saved Leslie with his call to dinner. To Oriel’s chagrin, she was seated next to Blade, a misfortune she could blame on Livia. Her suffering began immediately.

“I am most gratified, Mistress Oriel, that you deemed my first appearance at table worthy of a change of gown. Yet I fear no gown is needed to enhance your beauty, and your necklace dulls under the green fire of your eyes.”

He thought she’d changed her habit of dress because he’d kissed her. The arrogant villain.

“In truth, Lord—er—my lord, I do change my gown upon occasion.”

“Little wretch, you haven’t forgotten my name.”

“Faith, my lord, I have.”

He stabbed a chunk of roast capon and examined it. “Shall I teach it to you? I’ve a thousand ways to make you say it. Most pleasurable, marvelous ways.”

“A plague take you. I want to learn naught you can teach.”

He dropped his napkin on the floor and bent to pick it up. As he raised his head, his hand slipped to her waist and brushed it lightly.

“You lie,
chère
, for I trow you enjoyed my lessons full well not two hours ago.”

“Keep your hands on your food, my lord.” Snatching up an empty goblet, Oriel slammed it down on the tablecloth and a serving man poured wine into it.

While the man poured, Blade glanced up and down the table. “Your venerable great-uncle hasn’t joined us. Is he ill?”

“No, he often retires early, especially after a day of long work over his books and studies.”