The Huntress (13 page)

As Cat headed for the house, Martin fell into step beside her. “I suspect that my household has been giving you a difficult time. I will speak to them all again, making it clear to everyone, including Meg, that when I am absent, your authority is absolute. Anyone questioning your orders will answer to me.”

“That will really endear me to everyone. I’d prefer to handle things my own way, but I promise I’ll do it without breaking heads. And as for Meg, she will be safe while you are gone, so don’t worry.”

“Strangely enough, I am not. For some reason I can’t begin to fathom, you inspire confidence, Catriona O’Hanlon.” He stopped just short of the kitchen door and gazed at her, his eyes warming.

He took her hand. Cat was so surprised by the unexpected gesture she let him.

“I know nothing of your mother, so I can’t presume to speak of her feelings. But as for myself, I am glad that you are here.”

Damned if the man didn’t sound as though he meant it. Perhaps that was why Cat was unable to snatch her fingers away. He carried her hand to his lips, saluting it as though she were some great lady and not a dispossessed Irishwoman in a worn frock.

The brush of his lips was light, but her skin tingled. He flashed her a smile that set her heart to racing.

Cat was disconcerted to realize she was blushing. Ah, the rogue had charm in abundance, she was obliged to concede that much. If he smiled at his Lady Danvers in that way, belike he would win the woman’s heart.

This was nothing in the least to do with her, Cat told herself fiercely. But she was hard-pressed to explain why the thought gave her such a pang.

Chapter Seven

M
ARTIN LEANED BACK IN THE BOAT, WHILE THE WHERRY-MAN
plied his oars, cutting through the murky waters of the Thames. The river was by far the fastest way of moving through the city, the streets too dirty and narrow, jammed with carts, horses, and pedestrians.

But tonight the Thames was heavy with traffic, the river teeming with boats and barges sporting their square sails. Even at this hour, the docks were a forest of masts, cargo still being unloaded—wine, timber, herring, and wool. The evening reverberated with the sound of rough English voices, laughing, swearing, singing, and arguing, and the perpetual cries of the boatmen soliciting customers.

“Westward ho! Eastward ho!”

The bustle, the noise, and the dank smell of river life were all familiar to Martin from the days of his youth. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine himself back on the banks of the Seine. Londoners were a hardheaded, insular lot, contentious and suspicious of any foreigners, which meant anyone who hadn’t been born in the city. Although Martin did not despise the English as much as Cat did, he missed the lyrical voices of his own countrymen, the fine wine to be had in the taverns, the passion and verve for life that was Paris.

He was seized by a rare sense of longing for his native soil and did his best to shake it off. Shielding his eyes from the last glare of sunset, he watched the rays streak the water with a red glow, as fiery as Catriona O’Hanlon’s hair.

An involuntary smile touched his lips at the thought of the fierce Irishwoman. Despite his final stern admonitions to his servants regarding Cat, he had sensed their simmering resentment. But he had no doubt Cat would be able to hold her own, and more important, she would keep Meg safe.

A comforting thought, the only one that gave him any ease of mind about this evening. He tensed as the boat neared that part of the city where palatial houses loomed above the Thames, their lawns and gardens stretching down to the water. The kind of grand homes where Martin would not even have been able to press his nose against the windowpanes during his youth, for fear of having the dogs set upon him.

He had risen far in the world to be attending a banquet at Strand House as an invited guest. But the satisfaction that he should have felt was marred by the sobering realization of his true purpose tonight, not as a guest, but as Walsingham’s spy.

There was to be a fine supper, music, dancing, a play presented by the Crown Theatre’s company, and fireworks, all in honor of the queen. Ned Lambert had gone to no little expense, arranging all of this entertainment, but Martin would be able to enjoy none of it.

He would spend the evening on tenterhooks, feeling like a treacherous bastard himself as he awaited his opportunity to steal away from the festivities and search the house. But search for what? Evidence of treason that he was certain was not there to be found.

He wondered, in frustration, how he could ever convince Walsingham that Lord Oxbridge had no part in any of these plots swirling about Queen Elizabeth. It was so much easier to offer proof of a man’s guilt than his innocence.

Resting his elbow upon his knee, Martin propped his chin glumly on his hand as the boatmen steered the wherry toward the landing below Strand House. It was a massive stone manor with a wealth of diamond-paned windows. Windows that appeared, for the most part, strangely dark for a house hosting a vast gathering. Nor did there appear to be much activity along the path or in the gardens leading up to the manor.

Martin frowned, sitting bolt upright. He feared he might be a trifle late, but there should have been some sign of other guests arriving. As he gazed up at the silent house, his gut clenched with the sense that something was very wrong.

He scarce gave the boatman time to make the dock before climbing out of the wherry. Tossing a coin to the man, Martin headed away from the landing. The shrubs, the towering oak trees, and the tidy borders of the elaborate knot garden were lost in shadow as darkness descended.

But a torch flickered on the path ahead. A small group of men marched down from the house. Martin stepped beneath the shelter of a tree until he ascertained who they were. Their modest attire along with the viols and lutes they toted marked them as the musicians engaged to play for the fete. They were closely followed by a young lady in a silk gown draped over a farthingale.

No, not a lady. Martin recognized the familiar boyish stride of Alexander Naismith, the youthful actor who assumed the role of the female leads at the Crown. As he came down the path, Alexander hiked up his skirts, revealing the breeches he wore beneath.

As the musicians streamed past Martin’s place of concealment, he stepped out of the shadows and caught Alexander by the arm. The boy started a little at Martin’s sudden appearance.

“Master Wolfe.”

“What’s amiss, Sander? What’s happened?”

“Not our performance, that’s for certain,” the boy replied in disgruntled tones. Although nearly sixteen, his face was still smooth from lack of beard and his voice had a high pitch. His heavily rouged cheeks looked even more garish as he stripped off his black curling wig.

Sander’s own chin-length blond hair had been pinned up out of the way, revealing an ugly stump where his left ear should have been. The boy was usually self-conscious about the deformity, taking great pains to conceal it, but at the moment he seemed too vexed to care.

“Everything’s off, the banquet, the entertainment, the fireworks, all because our most gracious sovereign has declined to put in an appearance. At the last moment, the queen sent her regrets. I don’t know why.”

But Martin did. Walsingham. The secretary must have managed to sway the queen and convince her not to attend.

“His lordship must be extremely disappointed,” Martin mused.

“Disappointed?” Sander gave a shrill laugh. “Mad with rage would be a better description. He threw a bloody tantrum, overturning the banquet table, hurling stools, bellowing at all the guests to get out. Poor Lady Danvers was near to tears apologizing to everyone as they were hustled out the door.

“Our company was in the low parlor chamber, readying ourselves to perform after supper. When the fracas broke out, the rest of them took to their heels. I was the only one who dared linger in hopes I might still be recompensed for this evening.”

That hardly surprised Martin. Sander Naismith was a bold lad and something of a protégé to Lord Oxbridge, who had introduced him to the Crown Theatre’s company.

“It looks like I shall be heading home with an empty purse,” Sander groused. “And I am nigh desperate for a few crowns.”

“Ah, you young fool. You have doubtless been hazarding too much at the dice again.”

“No, sir!” But the boy’s sheepish smile belied his words.

“Never mind. I am sure Lady Danvers will see that you all are paid when she is less distressed.” Martin clapped the boy on the shoulder. “If she doesn’t, I will.”

Sander looked heartened by Martin’s promise. But as he continued on down the path, he called back over his shoulder, “I wouldn’t go up there if I were you, Master Wolfe. Ned—I mean his lordship—is roaring drunk and it isn’t doing much to improve his disposition.”

Scooping up his skirts, Sander disappeared into the darkness. Despite the boy’s warning, Martin continued on his way, much troubled by Sander’s tidings.

Martin knew that Ned Lambert had been looking forward to entertaining the queen, had been boasting about it for weeks. Like any other ambitious young nobleman, he frequently haunted the halls of Whitehall in hopes of currying the royal favor.

Hampered by the fact that he was a Catholic and by his family’s unfortunate history, Ned had been frustrated in his efforts, obliged to rub elbows with the common petitioners in the outer court at the palace. But queen Gloriana was very fond of presents. A costly gift of a jeweled pin in the shape of a peacock had finally gained him admittance to the Presence Chamber. His handsome face, much flattery, and a song composed in Gloriana’s honor had won him greater favor still, the queen graciously agreeing to attend the banquet to be held at Strand House.

Martin could well imagine Lord Oxbridge’s chagrin and humiliation at the queen’s absence this evening. But it was the extreme fury of his lordship’s reaction that disturbed Martin.

Ned Lambert tended to confine his recklessness to the hunting fields, a breakneck rider who had brought more than one fine stallion to grief. He was far more temperate in his drinking habits than most of his friends. When he did imbibe too much, he became quiet and morose until he tumbled off to sleep. Martin had never known the young man to fly into a drunken rage. He hoped that the savagery of Ned’s disappointment did not have its roots in some sinister cause. Such as an assassination plot thwarted by the queen’s failure to appear…

No, it would be hazardous to the point of lunacy for Ned to risk bringing harm to the queen beneath his own roof. Martin could not believe his lordship would be that foolish, especially since it would also put his sister at risk. Although Jane was nearly ten years older than Ned, the pair was very close.

He couldn’t believe that Ned could be involved in any plots at all. Couldn’t believe it or didn’t want to, a voice in his head demanded, sounding remarkably like Walsingham’s.

“You find it inconvenient for the man who helped fund your precious theater to be guilty of treason. Your liking for his lordship’s sister has led you to be less than zealous in your investigations.”

The secretary’s accusations nagged at Martin as he entered the inner court. He did his best to thrust them from his mind.

The household was still in enough turmoil that he made it as far as the great hall unannounced. Glancing about him, he was dismayed to see that Sander had not exaggerated.

The dining parlor looked like it had been invaded by a troop of marauding Turks, tables, chairs, and stools overturned. The rushes were littered with the remains of what had promised to be the setting for a fine supper. Damask napkins, salt cellars, silver plates, and trenchers were scattered everywhere, the white linen table covering stained with wine from shattered crystal.

Servants clustered in the doorway leading from the kitchen, whispering in hushed voices, clearly uncertain what to do next, but leery of the man sprawled in the chair before the hearth.

Lord Oxbridge had his back to the entryway. All Martin could see of him were his long, elegantly hosed and shod legs stretched out before him. One arm dangled over the side of the chair, the tapering white fingers of his hand bejeweled with rings. Ned’s rage had finally spent itself or he had passed out. From his vantage point, Martin could not tell which.

His sister hovered nearby, a ghost of a woman in her ecru silk gown draped over a farthingale, her fine blond hair confined by a net caul seeded with pearls. She was the first to notice Martin’s arrival.

When one of the pages would have ventured across the parlor to attend to Martin, Jane Danvers waved him aside. She approached Martin herself with her hand outstretched.

“Marcus. I—I mean Master Wolfe.”

“Lady Danvers.” Martin bowed. He took her hand and brushed a light kiss against her cheek in the customary greeting for one’s hostess.

A hint of color crept into Jane’s pale cheeks. She usually had the serene countenance of a Madonna, but her smooth brow was furrowed, her dove gray eyes full of distress.

“I—I am sorry. I regret to tell you we have been obliged to cancel. That—that is the queen did not—and—and my brother is not quite himself. He—he—.”

“It is all right. I know what happened.” Martin squeezed her hand gently.

The simple action was enough to cause Jane’s eyes to fill with tears, but she blinked them back. She might not possess Cat’s fierce pride, but Lady Danvers had a quiet dignity of her own.

“Is there anything I can do?” Martin asked.

“Find me a nice quiet convent where I can hide?” Jane made a wan effort to smile. “Ned’s behavior has been so scandalous I will scarce dare to show my face in London or at court for weeks.”

Her lashes swept down. “Not that Ned or I were very welcome at Whitehall before.”

“Wolfe, is that you?” A slurry voice called from across the room. Lord Oxbridge roused himself, staggering up from the depths of the chair.

He lurched toward Martin, his gait unsteady, the candlelight winking off the jeweled buttons of his blue silk doublet. Ned Lambert’s hair was slicked back from his brow, the blond strands lighter than his sister’s, but his gray eyes were a shade harder. Unlike most fashionable men, he went clean-shaven.

Handsome in an arrogant sort of way, tonight his lean countenance was stained an ugly shade of red from too much wine. His eyes still glittered dangerously. Even though his temper was banked, Martin sensed it would not require much by way of tinder to flare up again.

Martin sketched a bow. “Good evening. How fares my lord?”

“Ill. Cursed ill.” Oxbridge stumbled a little and braced himself, resting one hand heavily on Martin’s shoulder. “The old bitch didn’t come.”

“Ned, please—” Jane began, starting toward him.

But her brother righted himself, waving her off with a contemptuous gesture.

“Oooh, my older sister scolds me. Mustn’t speak disrespectful of my sovereign queen even though she made a bloody fool of me. Sending a message round sayin’ she was in-indisposed. Phfft!” His lordship made a scornful noise through pursed lips, poking Martin in the chest. “Did you ever hear the like, Wolfe? Old bat’s never sick a day in her life. She’ll live forever even though we’d all be better off if she up and—”

“Edward!” Jane cried, shooting her brother a warning look that he was too far gone to see. Her hands fluttering nervously, she appealed to Martin, “Please. You must pardon his lordship and myself. We are in no fit state to be receiving guests. I must beg you to leave.”

“Certainly. I understand, my lady,” Martin said. He had already heard far more than he wished.

But Ned slung his arm around Martin’s shoulders. “No, stay.” He glowered at his sister. “Mustn’t be rude to Wolfe, Jane. He’s a fine fellow. Saved your life, y’know.”