The Huntress (29 page)

Although Martin felt wracked with guilt himself, he said, “What were we speaking of before? Oh, yes, your brother’s diversions. I understand he is a planning an excursion to France.”

“You sound as though you disapprove.” Jane cast him a wry look. “I hope you are not one of those insular Englishmen who despise the French.”

Martin was hard-pressed to keep a straight face. “No, the French have their uses. They are at least tolerable wine-makers. Er—has Ned many acquaintances in France?”

“Ned makes fast friends wherever he travels.” Jane lowered her gaze, her expression downcast. “I think it would be a good thing if he went. He’d be safer there.”

“Safer?”

“France is a far healthier climate for those of our faith. There are many exiled English Catholics living in Paris. These are such perilous and uncertain times. One never knows what might happen.”

From the tense expression on her face, Martin feared that Jane did know. Or at least she suspected that Ned might be involved in something dangerous.

Martin pressed her hand. “I would never wish harm to befall either Ned or you. If there is anything I can do, if you could bring yourself to—”

He almost asked her to trust him, but he had no right to do that. Walsingham had engaged Martin to help expose the conspiracy and in particular find evidence against Ned Lambert. Martin knew the rewards if he succeeded, the risks he ran if he failed, especially if he sought to deceive Walsingham.

But it didn’t matter. He could not secure his future or Meg’s at the expense of this lady’s gentle heart. Carrying Jane’s hand lightly to his lips, Martin formed his resolve.

If any damning proof of treason existed against Ned Lambert, it must be tucked away in Babington’s mysterious canvas sack. Poley was bound to discover it and the other agent would have no qualms about handing it over to Walsingham. Ned Lambert and his sister had only one chance. If Martin got to that evidence first….

T
HE LATE AFTERNOON SUN SPREAD A GOLDEN GLOW OVER THE
dark waters of the Thames as the boatman conveyed Cat, Martin, and Meg across to the city.

Meg was wedged in close to her father, his arm draped protectively around the girl’s shoulders. Meg snuggled against Martin, her forlorn expression a marked contrast to the excitement with which she had begun the day.

The girl had been so hopeful of obtaining a glimpse of the queen. But Cat believed that Meg’s low spirits had less to do with what she hadn’t seen and more to do with what she
had—
her young hero cavorting about in his gown with Lord Oxbridge.

Cat had observed enough of the two men to form suspicions about the relationship between his lordship and the young actor. It was not an unusual practice amongst the nobility to enjoy the favors of a comely lad and Sander Naismith seemed like an ambitious boy with few scruples about what he’d do to advance himself.

Cat was unsure how much of the interplay between the two men Meg had understood. Certainly enough to trouble the girl. Her dark expression was a cloudy mirror of her father’s.

There was something greatly amiss with Martin as well. From the shadows backstage, Cat had observed his brief conversation with the amiable-looking stranger who had wandered into the theater. For all the apparent congeniality of the encounter, Martin had returned to the stage looking like he had swallowed a pistol ball.

As he cradled Meg close to him, Martin’s thoughts were clearly far away. He drummed his fingers against his knee with a restiveness Cat recognized all too well. The man would be stealing off tonight on one of his mysterious errands. Cat was dead certain of it.

As the shore receded in the distance, Cat thought back to the day she’d first come to Southwark, shadowing Martin in her search for Meg. It felt like a lifetime ago, her only loyalty then to the Lady of Faire Isle, Cat’s sole purpose to carry out Ariane’s commands to retrieve the girl.

When had that all begun to shift and change? Perhaps from that very first night when she had watched Martin bend so tenderly over his daughter while Meg slept, tucking her in. Cat only knew that it no longer required any orders from her chieftain.

Cat would willingly sacrifice her life for either Martin or Meg. She loved both of them so much her heart ached with it.

There could never be any permanent place for her in their lives. Cat knew that, but she refused to let herself sink into a melancholy over the fact. There would be time enough to wallow in usquebaugh and misery when she returned to Faire Isle.

Right now she had a new mission. To make certain Martin and Meg would always have each other. Cat had been sent here to protect Meg. That included the child’s heart as well, making sure Meg did not lose her father to any reckless venture. Cat clasped her hands together, forming a steely resolve.

Whenever the wolf left the house tonight, the huntress would be hard on his heels.

Chapter Sixteen

P
ERHAPS THE LUCK WAS WITH HIM FOR ONCE
, M
ARTIN
thought as he crept through the garden toward Robert Poley’s house on the fringe of London. The night sky was overcast, shadows chasing across the face of the moon, making visibility poor for honest citizens, but perfect for anyone bent on more unlawful pursuits.

Martin crouched in the bushes, peering up at the two-story timber-frame house, which appeared dark and silent at this hour. He knew that Babington and Poley had gone out for another rendezvous at the Plough Inn with Father Ballard and John Savage. Savage’s suspicions of Martin would likely be exacerbated by his absence but that was the least of Martin’s worries at the moment.

His chief concern was how to climb up to Babington’s room on the second floor without rousing the household or slipping and breaking his neck.

Stealing a furtive glance about him, Martin stole across the expanse of lawn, heading for a large oak tree. It had been a long time since he had climbed a tree and he found it a difficult prospect in the dark. The rough bark abraded his palms, his boots slipping as he scrabbled for toeholds.

He hoisted himself up to a divide in the trunk where he was able to pause and contemplate the stout branch that angled off to his left. The limb extended conveniently close to Babington’s window ledge. But was it strong enough to hold Martin’s weight or would it snap and send him plummeting to the ground?

The wind whipped a lock of hair into his eyes, an ominous rumble of thunder sounding in the distance. Martin realized he had no time to sit and ponder his options. He was tempted to offer up a silent prayer, but it hardly seemed wise to call the Almighty’s attention to oneself when engaged in such nefarious enterprise.

Steeling his courage, he inched out onto the branch. When it swayed beneath his weight, his breath caught in his throat. But the limb held. Working his way to the end, Martin swung himself up onto the window ledge.

His skills as a thief in Paris had been restricted to picking pockets and cutting purses. He’d had a few friends who were more venturesome than he, breaking into shops and houses.

Of course, most of them were dead, having wound up doing the hempen jig at the end of a hangman’s rope. Not the most comforting recollection to be having at the moment, Martin thought. Instead he sought to recall all he had ever been told about breaking locks and jimmying windows.

Neither skill proved necessary. Not only had Babington been imprudent enough to leave his window unlocked, he had left it cracked open as well to air the room.

“My
bon chance
continues,” Martin murmured as he cautiously forced the casement open farther and eased himself inside.

The room was so dark he could barely make out more than the shadows of the tester bed and wardrobe trunk. Martin swallowed an oath when he almost tripped over a low stool. He could scarce see his hand in front of his face. He was going to have to risk lighting a candle.

Fumbling in the pouch attached to his belt, he drew forth the flint, tinder, and small wax taper he had brought. The seconds that passed felt more like hours to his tautly stretched nerves. But he succeeded in coaxing the wick to light at last.

Shielding the flame from the draft, he subjected the room to a swift inspection. Babington clearly intended his sojourn at Poley’s house to be brief. Sir Anthony had brought few of his belongings with him.

Martin found a brass candle holder and propped his taper on a small writing desk. A quill pen lay across a letter that Babington had begun and not yet finished. Martin snatched it up hoping it might be Babington’s reply to the Queen of Scots, naming his fellow conspirators.

But if it was in code, Martin would never be able to read it and discover whether Ned’s name was on the list. As he scanned the page, Martin was relieved to see the letter was not in cipher. To his disappointment, the missive was not addressed to the Scottish queen but Robert Poley.

Robyn,

I am ready to endure whatever fate shall befall me. I am the same as I always pretended. I pray God you be as true and ever so remain toward me…

Martin frowned at the place where the words trailed off as though the writer had run out of time or simply lost the heart to continue. Poley had been right about Babington having doubts about the enterprise he had embarked upon. Misgivings that came far too late.

The tragic romantic young idiot, Martin thought. Suppressing the compassion he could not afford, he replaced the letter and quill carefully so they looked undisturbed.

What he needed to find was that mysterious canvas bag Poley had mentioned. And find it swiftly unless he wanted to be caught in a storm. It would be a long trudge from here back to Cheapside in the pouring rain.

Martin moved quietly but efficiently about the room, rummaging through an ambry and a wardrobe chest, looking behind furnishings. He was rewarded when he discovered the canvas sack tucked under the bed.

With a grunt of satisfaction, he drew the bag out into the light. Good fortune? His luck tonight was nothing short of miraculous. He was not a gamester but it was a pity he had not had time to hazard a few hands of cards before returning home.

Martin delved inside the sack, hoping to find a thick packet of letters. His fingers struck up against a heavy rolled canvas. Martin drew it out and unfurled it, examining it close to the candlelight.

It was a painting of six gentlemen attired in their finest garb, Babington positioned proudly in the center, the painting etched with some sort of Latin inscription.

What the devil? Martin frowned, incredulous. This is what Babington had been guarding so protectively? A portrait of him and five of his…

Martin sucked in his breath as the realization struck him. So sure of their success, Babington and his band of conspirators had posed for a portrait, recording their images for posterity. The fools, the bloody damned fools!

Martin studied the faces of the other men, most of them unknown to him, but that was of little importance. He would leave it to Walsingham to sort out their identities. Martin cared about only one thing. Ned Lambert was not among them.

With a taut smile of satisfaction, Martin rolled up the portrait. As he thrust it back into the bag a flare of lightning lit up the room. In the mirror opposite he caught the shadowy image of a cloaked figure hovering behind him.

He didn’t know when or how, but he was no longer alone. Someone had followed him through the window. It took all of Martin’s will not to flinch, not to betray his awareness of the other intruder. He proceeded with securing the portrait in the canvas bag, drawing the strings closed. Every muscle tensed, every nerve on the alert.

When he heard the floor creak behind him, Martin dropped the bag and whirled. In one swift lunge, he pounced. Seizing his opponent by the throat, he drove him back against the wall.

The hooded figure gasped, clutching at Martin’s wrists in an effort to break his hold. Martin mercilessly tightened his grip.

“Martin,” the intruder wheezed. In the struggle, his hood fell back. Or rather
hers
did. Martin stared down in disbelief into widened blue eyes, familiar strands of fiery hair tumbling loose from a chignon to straggle about a face that was turning an alarming shade of red.

“Cat!” Horrified, Martin released her, his hands falling back to his sides.

Cat staggered away from the wall, rubbing her neck and inhaling gulps of air.

“Mon Dieu. How badly did I hurt you? Are you all right?” he demanded anxiously.

Any other woman would have swooned at such a rough assault or even trembled. But Cat looked up at him and actually managed to grin.

“That—that was amazing,” she rasped. “I had no idea you could strike so swiftly. Perhaps you are somewhat capable of looking out for yourself.”

“Somewhat?”

“I knew it was you so I wasn’t fighting after my usual fashion. Lucky for you. Otherwise, I’d have rammed your bollocks so hard you’d be wearing them for a cap.”

The image was evocative enough to make Martin’s privates shrivel closer to his body. His concern rapidly dissolved into anger.

“Damnation, woman.” It was all he could do to remember to keep his voice down. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same thing.”

“I asked you first. How did you even get in here?”

“I just waited and followed you, up the tree and in the window.” Cat scowled. “Although I’m a damned sight better at climbing than you are. I thought you were going to break your fool arse.”

“Never mind my arse.” Martin bent closer to her until they were practically nose to nose, hissing in each other’s faces. “Why aren’t you back at the house? Who is guarding my daughter?”

“I left Jem and Samuel sitting up, armed with pistols, the doors and windows all barred. Things have been quiet enough I am confident Meg will be fine. I am more concerned that nothing should happen to her idiot of a da.”

“Her da is just fine. At least he was until you sneaked up behind him and gave him an apoplexy.” Martin stormed away from her to retrieve the canvas bag he had dropped.

Cat followed hard on his heels. “Doing fine, is it now? I knew you were up to something dangerous, but I never expected even you would be reckless enough to resume your old ways as a thief.”

“A thief! What are you talking about? I am not stealing anything.”

When Cat stared pointedly at the bag in his hand, Martin grimaced. “Oh, well, yes, I am stealing this.”

“That painting you were so occupied in studying when I clambered in the window?” Cat sniffed. “That’s daft. I doubt it will fetch enough to make it worth risking your neck.”

Martin glared at her. “I survived on the streets of Paris for years on my wits and nimble fingers. I hardly need you to lecture me on how to be a successful thief—”

He broke off, tensing and listening. Sounds carried from beyond the door, footsteps and muffled voices. Martin could not catch what was being said, but the fearful tone was clear enough.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he growled at Cat. “Awakened the entire household.”

“Me? It was you stomping about and slamming me against the wall—”

Martin clamped his hand over her mouth. “We have to get out of here now. I have no time to explain, but I must secure this painting. Will you trust me, help me?”

Cat stared at him over the mask of his fingers, her blue eyes seeming to pierce deep into his. He feared she’d put up one of her usual arguments, but she nodded almost without hesitation.

Martin blew out the candle and they both headed for the window. Cat swung out onto the branch and scrambled down the tree first. The woman was so cursed nimble she might well have truly been a feline. Martin tossed the canvas sack down to her and followed suit. His progress down the tree was far more awkward and noisy, shaking branches and rustling leaves.

By the time his boots struck the ground, a servant had appeared at the window above him. A gray-haired old man in a nightcap held a candle in his wavering hand. He squinted down at Martin and cried, “Ho! You there! Stop, thief.”

Martin relieved Cat of the canvas sack and the pair of them tore out of the garden and down the street. Martin risked a look back over his shoulder.

The elderly servant had succeeded in rousing the rest of Poley’s household or perhaps Martin himself had done that. He could hear other voices and picked out the gleam of a lantern.

“Come on. This way,” Martin said, although he had not the least notion where he was going himself. He was completely unfamiliar with this part of the city. He seized Cat by the hand, desperately tugging her down a narrow alley. Not the safest maneuver perhaps, given the dangers of London at night.

But even the footpads and cutthroats seemed to have retreated within doors in the face of the oncoming storm. Successive bursts of lightning illuminated the way as Cat and Martin emerged onto a square of closed-up shops.

Martin dragged Cat down behind a conduit, using the massive public fountain for cover while he fought for his second wind and strove to get his bearings.

“Where—where the blazes are we?” she panted.

“No idea. Too damned far from home, that’s certain.”

“Why didn’t you have the wit to hire a horse?” Cat grumbled.

“Horses are of little use in a robbery unless you’re a highwayman.”

“I think one would come in mighty useful right about—” Cat began. But Martin shushed her, listening intently for any sound of pursuit.

He heard nothing beyond Cat’s quickened breathing and the gurgle of the fountain. When the first splash of water struck his hand, he thought it came from the conduit.

But the first fat wet drop was swiftly followed by a second and third. Dismayed, Martin glanced upward as the sky gave another angry rumble. The heavens opened up and began to pour.

“Merde!”
He groaned, tugging frantically at the fastenings of his doublet in an effort to thrust the canvas bag beneath his shirt.

His luck had finally run out.