The Huntress (28 page)

Meg regarded the woman in astonishment. Perhaps her ladyship was not quite as prim and proper as she seemed. The woman’s remark caused Meg to like her better in spite of herself.

“If I were the queen, I would outlaw all bear and bull baiting,” Lady Danvers continued. “But I fear Her Majesty is rather fond of such blood sports herself.”

“Oh.” Meg pursed her lips. This was not information about her heroine that she cared to hear. But the thought that Lady Danvers knew the queen, had actually stood in Elizabeth’s august presence, overcame Meg’s qualms.

“So you have been to court? You know the queen? You have seen her? Spoken to her? How did she seem? What did she—” Meg tried to curb her eager questions. “I am sorry. I should not be badgering you.”

“No, that is quite all right, my dear. Your papa told me you are a great admirer of Elizabeth. So was I.”

Was?
Meg homed in on the word and the shadow that seemed to pass over Lady Danvers’s face.

“I cannot claim to know Her Majesty well. I have not been often in her presence, but when my father died, the queen was very kind to me and my brother. And this despite the fact that my father had greatly angered her.”

Lady Danvers hesitated as though choosing her next words with great care. “No one can be more compassionate than Her Majesty toward widows or orphans or anyone who has suffered a grievous misfortune. But when it comes to doing what she believes necessary to keep her throne secure, Elizabeth can also be very…stern.”

Meg read enough of Lady Danvers’s thoughts to realize what the woman had meant to say.

Elizabeth can also be very hard, unjust, and cruel.

But Meg could hardly wax indignant over such criticism of her beloved queen, not when it hadn’t been voiced aloud. Obliged to hold her tongue, Meg lapsed into a dour silence.

Her ladyship did likewise, appearing lost in her own thoughts. As though seized by a sudden impulse, she delved into a small purse she kept tied to her belt.

Inquisitive as always, Meg could not help trying to steal a peek at the contents of the velvet sack. Lady Danvers yanked out something blue that she offered Meg.

“Here. You may have this.”

Meg accepted a frayed, slightly soiled scrap of silk. Eyeing it dubiously, she said, “Er—thank you.”

“That is a segment from the carpet that was unrolled for the queen on her coronation. After the ceremony, it was torn to bits by the crowd, eager for a remembrance of the great event. My old nurse was present and managed to secure a piece.”

“Oh! Thank you,” Meg repeated in a far different tone, regarding the soiled scrap of fabric in an entirely new light.

“That tiny bit of the queen’s carpet was among my nurse’s most valued possessions,” Lady Danvers said in a constricted voice. “Sarey gave it to me upon her deathbed.”

Meg cradled the fragment as reverently as though it was a holy relic. It took all of her willpower to surrender it back to Lady Danvers.

“Oh, n-no, your ladyship,” she stammered. “You can’t possibly wish to part with this. Such a treasure, a symbol of the day when Elizabeth became our beloved queen. I c-couldn’t accept it.”

“Yes, child. You can.” Lady Danvers enfolded Meg’s fingers around the cloth. “Keep it.”

Her ladyship’s smile was at once strangely bitter and hauntingly sad. “I am sure you will cherish that bit of silk far more than I ever could.”

C
AT TRAILED BEHIND
L
ADY
D
ANVERS’S ENTOURAGE, IMPATIENT
and testy at having to curtail her usual stride. But hanging to the rear gave her the best vantage point for watching over Meg.

It also allowed her to critically observe her ladyship’s awkward efforts to befriend Meg. Lady Danvers had even resorted to offering Meg some sort of gift she removed from her purse. Cat couldn’t see what it was. A coin perhaps.

Meg accepted it eagerly enough, but she still seemed stiff and reserved with her ladyship. Cat was ashamed of the satisfaction that gave her. If Lady Danvers was slated to become Meg’s stepmother, Cat ought to wish for some affection and trust to build between them. For Meg’s sake.

But Cat was finding it cursed hard to be that generous. Her irritable mood did not improve when Martin fell into step beside her and murmured in her ear, “So what do you think?”

Cat scowled as Porter stepped behind her mistress, fussing with a fold of her ladyship’s gown and momentarily cutting off Cat’s view of Meg.

“She’s a bit broad in the beam for my taste.”

“I’m not talking about the maid. You know perfectly well I meant Lady Danvers,” Martin said.

Cat shrugged. “Is my opinion of any consequence?”

“Yes, it is.” He surprised her by insisting, “What do you think of Jane?”

Cat’s brows knit together in a frown. What did she think? That Jane Danvers was but a pale copy of Miri Aristide, the woman whom Martin had adored for so many years. That her ladyship possessed Miri’s fair looks, but none of Miri’s fey wisdom or quiet strength.

Jane was so sweet and gentle, Martin and Meg would run completely roughshod over her. Her ladyship would never be able to manage such a rogue stallion and his headstrong filly, never be able to scold and comfort, love and protect them.

Not the way I could,
Cat reflected and then started, wondering where such a wayward thought had come from. Heat stung her cheeks as she realized Martin was regarding her, waiting for her answer.

She swallowed, for once trying to be tactful. “Lady Danvers seems like a—a most respectable woman. She—she’s blond like Ariane’s younger sister, although not as lovely as Miri.”

“There will only ever be one Miri,” Martin said, his voice so soft with remembered affection, Cat felt as though someone had raked claws across her heart. A strange sensation, uncomfortably akin to jealousy, and Cat did her best to shake clear of it.

Martin hastened to add, “But Jane does have her own quiet kind of beauty. A fair English rose.”

“I am not the best one to judge,” Cat replied tartly, “being but a weed myself.”

“No, you are more like the heather growing free and wild in your Irish hills.” His gaze was warm and admiring, touching Cat in all her most vulnerable places and angering her at the same time.

She was struggling so hard to keep her shield in place and he wasn’t making it easy for her.

Cat forced her lips into a sneer. “How clever of you to compare me to something you have never seen before.”

“But I have. Through your eyes.”

Damn the man. Why did he have to say things like that or smile at her that way, forcing her to acknowledge what she didn’t want to face?

She wasn’t exhausted, her head befuddled with whiskey. She was stone-cold sober and she still thought she was in love with him.

Thought she was? No, she knew it, felt it, to the very marrow of her bones. Cat came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street, using the only weapon she had to hold him at bay, the sharp blade of her tongue.

“How charming, Master Wolfe,” she said, infusing her voice with contempt. “But you’d best save your flattery for a woman who sets some value on it. If you aspire to be a gentleman, they don’t waste such compliments upon their servants.”

Martin blinked at her sudden assault. “Sweet Jesu, Cat. You know I don’t regard you in that light.”

“You’ve no business regarding me in any light at all.”

Cat lengthened her stride, leaving him looking angry and hurt. But far better that than his guessing the truth.

She loved the man. But if she spent one more moment in his company, she was going to break something over his thick, obtuse head.

C
AT PACED ALONG THE OUTER RIM OF THE PIT, STARING GLUMLY
up at all the vacant galleries. The Crown had lost much of the magic of her first visit, when she had been so spellbound by Martin’s performance. Perhaps it was because she didn’t care much for the present role he was playing, escorting Lady Danvers about the theater, introducing her to the members of the acting company.

Cat could tell from Martin’s exaggerated gestures he was doing his best to entertain her ladyship, coax the melancholy woman into smiling. He might as well have been performing on the stage.

Perhaps he would succeed better with Lady Danvers if he devastated her with one of his intent, sincere looks the way he often did Cat.

Cat sighed, doing her best to dispel the resentful thoughts. Wit and charm came as naturally to Martin le Loup as breathing. He could hardly be blamed if Cat had fallen in love with him. It was purely her own folly and she needed to conquer it, remember that she was here to look after Meg.

Cat would never have wished for Meg to be in any danger, but it would have helped greatly if Cat had had something of importance to do. Draw forth her hidden dagger and fight off one of the Silver Rose witches or the Dark Queen’s soldiers.

But according to the last missive Cat had received from Ariane, the dangers threatening Meg had greatly diminished.

Ma chère Catriona,
the Lady of Faire Isle had written.

At my behest, my brother-in-law journeyed to Paris to see if he could discover anything more. After much discreet investigation, Simon found out that many of the coven were killed or arrested that night on the cliffs. The witches brought to Paris were executed.

Whether Catherine learned anything about Megaera, I cannot be certain. The members of the coven were so fanatically devoted to Meg, I doubt they would be induced to talk, even under torture. Perhaps that is wishful thinking on my part.

But if the Dark Queen had discovered she was tricked regarding the identity of the Silver Rose, Simon discerned no sign of it. Surely by now Catherine would have descended upon Faire Isle like an avenging fury, but all remains quiet here…

The rest of the letter contained cheerful assurances of Ariane’s good health and that all was well with both her and the babe, something that Cat wished she could entirely believe.

Ariane had concluded by cautioning Cat to maintain her vigilance over Meg, not that Cat needed to be reminded. But the only danger Meg suffered at the moment was a surfeit of sweets.

The girl strolled about on stage with one of the actors, old Arthur Lehay. The portly man plied Meg with crystallized ginger.

“Your young mistress has torn the hem of her gown,” a cold voice announced. To Cat’s annoyance, she found Mistress Porter at her elbow.

“Has she?” Cat asked. “I daresay there is plenty of frock left, enough to garb two wee lasses.”

When Porter scowled in disapproval of her attitude, Cat shrugged and added, “I’ll be after mending it when we return home.”

“
I
am always prepared to serve milady should any such disaster occur,” Porter informed her smugly. “I never travel anywhere unless I am well armed with needle and thread.”

“I prefer a sharp dagger myself,” Cat drawled. “Your needles wouldn’t be of much use in a good scrap. Although I guess you could jab one in your enemy’s eye if you had to.”

Porter gasped, regarding Cat with huge eyes, and backed warily away from her. But Cat’s satisfaction in the woman’s retreat was marred as she saw Meg disappearing backstage. The girl glanced about her as though searching for someone and Cat had no doubt who it was.

All of the players had taken their bows and paid their respects to Lady Danvers. All save one…Alexander Naismith.

Chapter Fifteen

“S
ANDER
?” M
EG CALLED SOFTLY
.

She crept behind the painted cloth hanging at the back of the tiring-house. There was no one backstage except for one of the hands sorting through some rusted armor that had been donated to the theater. The man respectfully doffed his cap and nodded to Meg in greeting.

Meg gave him a shy smile. She thought of asking him where she might find Sander, but was too embarrassed, fearing her blushes would betray her.

She wandered toward the stairs that led to the balcony above the tiring-house. Sander said he often crept up there to work on his music, the inn where he lodged being far too crowded and noisy.

Little light reached the spiral stairs that wound through the upper reaches of the theater. Gathering up the hem of her skirts, Meg picked her way carefully. As she rounded the curve, she blundered into a couple engaged in a tryst. A blond-haired woman held her fan coyly in front of her lips. A tall gentleman garbed in a fine silk doublet leaned close, appearing on the verge of trying to steal a kiss.

Their flirtation interrupted, both turned to stare at Meg in surprise.

“Oh! I beg your pardon,” Meg stammered, her cheeks firing. Whirling about, she rushed down the stairs. She fled toward the prompter’s door that led back to the stage.

“Mistress Margaret, wait!” A familiar voice called after her.

Sander? Meg turned back hopefully, but the only one approaching her was the woman from the stairs.

“You appear to be lost, young mistress. Might I be of some assistance?” the blonde cooed in falsetto accents, peering down at Meg over the rim of her fan, a teasing glint in the blue eyes.

Sander’s eyes. But this garish creature, corseted in a faded blue gown, her cheeks painted with rouge, bore little resemblance to Meg’s friend and handsome young music master. Numb with shock, Meg gripped her hands tightly together.

“It is me, milady. Your humble servant and tutor,” Sander said in a more normal tone. His usually elegant bow was made clumsy by his skirts. “What! Don’t you recognize me?”

Meg nodded unhappily.

“I was trying on my costume for our new play. What do you think?” Sander twirled about in a circle.

Meg had never seen him garbed for one of his performances. She hated it. It did not fit at all with her heroic image of Sander. And that scene she had interrupted on the stairs…. Had Sander been rehearsing with another actor? It seemed an odd, dark sort of place to practice one’s lines.

“It—it is a very nice gown,” Meg muttered, staring down at the floorboards.

Sander must have sensed her discomfort because he stopped preening and stripped off his wig. Bending down, he whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “How have you been? How are you faring with your scrying ball?”

“Not well. I have stared into it for hours until my eyes are crossed. But I see nothing.”

“You keep at it. I am sure you will master it in time. You are such a clever girl, Meg.”

Meg? It was the first time Sander had ever spoken to her so intimately, called her by name.

“Are there any other mysterious objects you require me to purchase for you?” he asked. “I will do my best even if your father should have my hide for it.”

“No, I need nothing.” Meg risked a glance into his eyes. She did not mean to invade the privacy of his mind, but his thoughts were so close to the surface, shining there for her to read.

“What an angel she is. I’d do anything in the world for her. Anything.”

A tingle of warmth spread through Meg. Despite his woman’s garb and rouged cheeks, he seemed more like her Sander again. Meg smiled at him, but the expression froze on her lips as a shadow fell over them, Sander’s companion from the stairs.

“Ah, Sander. This is where you disappeared.”

“Milord.” Sander straightened away from her.

Meg’s brow puckered in a slight frown. The stranger seemed vaguely familiar to her, but he was not one of the players. Meg did not need Sander’s deferential greeting to tell her that. The stranger’s doublet and trunk hose appeared costly and new, not like the castoff clothing the players bought for their costumes.

His slender fingers glittered with rings. His patrician features were lean and arrogant, his dark blond hair slicked back from his brow.

“You have clearly been holding out on me,” the man complained, draping one arm about Sander’s shoulders in negligent fashion. “Who is this young beauty you have stolen off to meet?”

Meg did not care for his flattery. She knew she was no beauty. Nor did she like the possessive way he touched Sander. It made her skin prickle with uneasiness and made her hot with jealousy all at the same time.

“This is Master Wolfe’s daughter. Mistress Wolfe, may I present to you his lordship, Edward Lambert, the baron of Oxbridge.”

Meg dipped into a stiff curtsy. Lord Oxbridge, her papa’s patron and Lady Danvers’s brother. Now Meg remembered him from that terrible day when her papa had saved Lady Danvers from drowning. Meg had been so afraid of seeing her father swept away by the river’s current that she had taken little note of his lordship.

Lord Oxbridge smiled, his gaze raking over her with such keen interest it rendered Meg uncomfortable.

“So this is Margaret Wolfe, the remarkable girl I have heard so much about.”

“I am Margaret Wolfe,” Meg replied primly, “but I am not all that remarkable.”

“Oh, I believe that you are. Your father has been most remiss about allowing me to further our acquaintance. But happily Master Naismith here has been telling me much of your accomplishments.” His lordship exchanged a warm, intimate look with Sander.

Meg could not imagine why such a powerful nobleman as Lord Oxbridge would be interested in becoming better acquainted with an insignificant eleven-year-old girl. She should have been flattered that Sander spoke of her so highly. Why then did it feel more like a betrayal?

His lordship removed his arm from Sander’s shoulders. He tried to cup Meg’s chin, tilt her face upward to inspect her further as though she were some strange curiosity.

Meg shied away from him. She was tempted to try to read his lordship’s eyes, but they seemed so restive, half-veiled by his light blond lashes. Even if she succeeded in prying her way into his head, she had a queasy feeling she would not like what she found there.

“Meg?”

Much to her relief, Meg heard Cat shouting for her. She saw the woman emerge backstage from the door at the opposite side of the theater. Mumbling some excuse to Sander and his lordship, Meg all but fled toward her protector.

Cat greeted her, hands splayed on her hips, looking far from pleased that Meg had wandered out of her sight.

“Margaret Wolfe. How many times must I tell you—” Cat broke off with a grunt as Meg hurled herself at her, wrapping her arms about Cat’s waist.

Cat’s vexed tone immediately softened to one of concern. “Sweetling, what is it? What’s amiss?”

Meg burrowed her face against Cat. She hardly knew how to answer her, not fully understanding herself the turmoil that roiled through her. Even without reading eyes, Meg sensed something. The air in the theater was oppressive, thick with secrets swirling about her. The feeling emanated not just from Sander and his lordship, but Lady Danvers as well and even Meg’s own beloved papa.

The only one at the moment who felt completely forthright and true was her Cat, and Meg clung to her tightly.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Meg whispered. “I am just tired and I want to go home.”

M
ARTIN FROWNED SLIGHTLY WHEN HE NOTICED HIS DAUGHTER
disappear backstage. Meg was familiar with most of the acting company and the stagehands. She ought to be safe enough within the confines of the theater, but Martin was relieved all the same when he saw Cat heading after Meg.

He tried to keep his attention focused on Jane, but Martin could not keep his gaze from following wistfully after Cat.

Cat had been so sharp with him during the course of this outing. No doubt part of it was because of her disapproval of his interest in Lady Danvers, his plan to secure a proper English mother for Meg instead of surrendering his daughter to Ariane’s teaching on Faire Isle.

But he feared Cat’s prickly attitude owed more to that incident in his study. Never had the remembrance of stolen moments of passion been so sweet to Martin and never had he regretted anything more.

He had paid a heavy price for letting his desire get the better of him, measured in the distance that stretched between him and Cat. Mon Dieu, how he hated it, the tension, the awkward silences that had sprung up between them this past week.

He keenly missed her companionship, their easy banter, even the fierceness of their quarrels. Cat’s friendship had become a refuge for him, and the Lord knew he needed one, with all his worries pressing down upon him, all this intrigue nipping at his heels.

When he saw Robert Poley come strolling into the Crown, Martin bit back an oath, realizing that he could have no peace from all the infernal conspiracy and plotting, not even here in his own theater.

Murmuring his excuses to Lady Danvers, Martin leapt from the stage and hastened forward to intercept Poley.

“I am sorry, sir. But the theater is closed. There is no performance scheduled today,” Martin announced in hearty tones for the benefit of anyone who might be heeding the conversation. Leaning a little closer to Poley, he hissed, “What the devil are you doing here?”

Poley bowed and smiled with his usual amiability. “No performance? That is certainly a great disappointment.”

He added under his breath, “There are developments, Master Wolfe. Our mutual employer waxes impatient.”

Martin tensed at the reference to Walsingham. After learning who Poley was, Martin had abandoned all pretense with the man. Walsingham might like to play his deep games, keeping his agents unaware of one another. Martin felt it might be more to their mutual benefit if Poley knew that he and Martin were working for the same cause.

Not that Martin harbored any illusions about his fellow spy or entirely trusted the man. If this dangerous affair went awry and blew up in their faces, Poley would look to his own skin and Martin would do the same.

While pretending to admire the theater, Poley continued, “Babington has yet to rise to the bait and reply to the Scottish queen’s letter. We still have no idea who all six of the assassins are. Sir Francis feels we cannot risk waiting any longer. He means to issue arrest warrants soon for all of those under suspicion.”

“Including Lord Oxbridge?” Martin asked anxiously.

“I don’t know. But certainly for Father Ballard, John Savage, and Sir Anthony Babington. Have you remarked how edgy Babington has been of late? I think he is losing his nerve, preparing to bolt. He has been avoiding his own lodging and staying with me. I haven’t had a chance to go through his things yet, but I notice there is one canvas bag he guards rather jealously.”

“What do you think is in it? Letters from the Queen of Scots or some of his fellow conspirators? Surely even Babington would not be fool enough to keep such damning evidence.”

Poley shrugged. “I think the young ass is fool enough for anything. Anyway, arrests are imminent. I just thought you should be on the alert.”

“Thank you.”

Poley nodded and announced in a louder tone, “Please do keep me informed, Master Wolfe, of when the new play is to be performed.”

“I will indeed, sir.”

Biding a cheery farewell, Poley took his leave, allowing Martin to return to Lady Danvers. She was still on stage with Arthur Lehay. The old actor and one of the other players were demonstrating to her ladyship how the trapdoor worked.

Martin struggled to mask his inner turmoil as he joined her upon the stage. Jane turned to him with a shy smile and mock shudder.

“Master Lehay has been showing me your secrets, sir. How the devil might be summoned from the depths of hell to terrify the audience.”

Or angels dragged under, Martin thought with a sharp pang as he gazed down at Jane’s innocent face. He forced a smile to his lips.

“I hope you feel that your investment has been well spent. The design of the Crown is far superior to the theater in Shoreditch.”

“I would have no way of judging. I have never attended any performance there. Ned is the one who is so fond of such public diversions.”

“What pastimes do amuse you, my lady?”

“I prefer a quiet afternoon spent alone with a good book or my stitching.” Jane gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I am sure you must find me rather a dull creature.”

“Not at all. I have been craving a little quiet myself,” Martin said, although he did not share Jane’s love of solitude. His gaze shifted involuntarily toward the door where Cat had vanished backstage.

“Is something wrong, Marcus?” Jane asked. “You seem rather…tense.”

Martin wrenched his attention back to her. “No, I am fine,” he lied.

Nothing was wrong. Nothing except that Jane’s worst dread might be about to come true. Her brother could well be lodged in the Tower by this time tomorrow. Would it be a kindness or pure folly to attempt to warn Jane? What if Ned truly was guilty?