The Lady of Secrets (47 page)

Meg wished she could comfort her friend, reassure her, but Seraphine was even better than Armagil at avoiding topics she did not wish to discuss. Meg hoped that once they were able to set sail to Faire Isle, her friend’s spirits would be restored.

They were all going a bit mad, shut up within the walls of this tavern, fearing that any unexpected rap on the door might signal a troop of the king’s soldiers. This particular afternoon was made worse by the icy pelting of sleet against the windowpanes.

Armagil had risked going out again, to see if there was any hope of the ports opening soon and to find a captain who would be willing to sail them downriver with few questions asked.

The chief difficulty was going to be slipping Sir Patrick on board, especially when he would likely resist with all the fury
of a man being impressed into the Royal Navy. Armagil might even have to render him unconscious. During the ensuing days, Sir Patrick’s resentment had not abated one jot. Armagil was still obliged to hold his friend prisoner to keep Sir Patrick from rushing out and stupidly throwing his life away. Meg feared the continued incarceration was wearing far more on Armagil than Sir Patrick.

She was sitting in the taproom, trying to mend a tear in Seraphine’s gown, when the kitchen boy trudged up from the cellar, bearing a laden tray. Meg saw that Sir Patrick had refused to eat again.

Perhaps it was too many days spent shut up in this building, her nerves on edge, but suddenly she lost all patience with Sir Patrick. Ignoring the kitchen boy’s protests, Meg took the tray from him, unlocked the door to the cellar, and stomped down the stairs.

She had not been near Sir Patrick since that first day, but she saw that Armagil had taken great pains to see to his friend’s comfort. A makeshift pallet had been prepared, books and candles provided. Sir Patrick was no longer fettered. Stretched out on the pallet, his head propped against the pillow, he was absorbed in perusing some religious tract. He appeared more pale and gaunt, but presented a calmer appearance than when Meg had last encountered him.

He glanced up at her entrance, and when he realized it was only Meg, she noted that a gleam of calculation came into his eye.

“Don’t even try it,” she warned. “Even if you did get past me, Mr. Armbruster, his son, and the kitchen boy are all just upstairs. You’d not get far.”

Sir Patrick scowled and returned his attention to his
book. “Take that tray back upstairs. I already told that oaf of a boy I was not hungry.”

Meg plunked the tray down on top of a hogshead. “You will oblige me by eating anyway. You are not going to be allowed to starve yourself to death.”

He cast her a contemptuous look over the top of his book. “I had no idea you were so concerned for my welfare.”

“I don’t give a damn about you. But I am very much concerned for Armagil. He has risked a great deal to keep you safe and I won’t have you plaguing him further.”

“You should be more worried about yourself, witch. As I understand from Blackwood, the cellar beneath Westminster was not the only place stormed on the night of the fourth. The king’s officers raided a certain church as well.”

“Amelia and Beatrice Rivers are both dead, if that is what you are referring to.”

“Good.” Sir Patrick moistened his fingertip and turned a page. “The apprehension of one witch usually sets off a hunt for many others. You should have a care to your own neck, Mistress Wolfe.”

“No one is searching for witches, Sir Patrick. They are too busy hunting down Catholics.”

A muscle in Sir Patrick’s cheek twitched, but he replied calmly, “I am sure Richard Catesby and the others are far from London, rallying our supporters in the Midlands. Our cause is far from being defeated.”

Meg stared at him. A great deal had happened during the past week, and obviously Armagil had not told Sir Patrick. Concerned for the state of his friend’s health and mind, Armagil must have sought to spare him further distress. Meg had no such qualms.

“There will be no rallying, no support from the Midlands or anywhere else. Most English Catholics remain loyal to their king. They have too much sense to wish to instigate a civil war against their own countrymen, one that can only result in tragedy, innocent blood spilled on both sides. And as for Robert Catesby—” Meg hesitated.

Graham lowered his book to glare at her. “What of Catesby? What have you heard?”

“He and the rest of your fellow conspirators were cornered in a farmhouse by the king’s troops. They have all been taken.”

“No, you lie!” Sir Patrick flung his book aside, his face flushing with rage. “I do not believe you.”

“You have only to ask the kitchen boy or Mr. Armbruster. The event was so strange, it is being much talked of and wondered about.”

“What is so strange about good honest men being set upon by the king’s dogs?”

“It was the gunpowder. The conspirators got theirs wet riding through the rain to the farmhouse. As they prepared to withstand the siege, they tried to dry out the gunpowder by the fire and it exploded, just as they meant to do to the king. Some were maimed or blinded. They had to flee from the fire and the king’s troops were outside waiting. Robert Catesby was killed outright. But he was likely one of the fortunate ones. Those who survived have been dragged back to London to suffer a traitor’s death and you well know what that means.”

The book dropped from Graham’s hands and he sagged back against the pillow, murmuring, “Hanged, drawn and quartered. A death I should be sharing.”

“Mayhap you should,” Meg agreed, only to immediately repent. “No, I don’t mean that, Sir Patrick. No one should
have to endure such a savage fate. There is nothing your death can accomplish except to deeply grieve Armagil.”

“Nothing to be accomplished? Catesby, Fawkes, and the others will be hailed as martyrs. They will have died for the good of our faith.”

“They are more apt to be cursed and reviled. Do you still not see what you all have done? Even though most of the conspirators have been captured, the search and the arrests continue. They are raiding houses, dragging Jesuit priests from hiding.”

Sir Patrick looked stunned. Clearly this was a consequence of his actions that he had never anticipated.

“Our priests?” he asked in a stricken tone. “But none of those good holy men were involved in our plot.”

“It doesn’t matter. This terrible plot of yours has only given Robert Cecil the excuse he needs to persecute Catholics further, to completely erase your religion from England.”

“My mother died to protect our priests, to ensure our faith continued, while I—I—” A tear streaked down Sir Patrick’s cheek.

Meg had been exasperated with the man, but he was so devastated, she regretted some of her harsh words.

“I am sorry, Sir Patrick. I only wanted to make you understand that your death will not help—”

“Just leave me alone,” he said, flinging his arm across his face. He rolled away from Meg, presenting his back to her, leaving her no choice but to retreat.

She returned upstairs. Locking the cellar door, she leaned against it. When Armagil returned, he was going to be mightily vexed with her. She’d only meant to persuade Sir Patrick to eat, to behave more reasonably, but now she feared she had made everything worse.

But she did not have long to dwell upon her mistake, as she heard the sound she’d been dreading these past few days. Someone was hammering at the tavern door, clamoring for admittance despite the notice warning of contagious illness.

Mr. Armbruster rushed into the taproom, his pistol primed and ready. With a jerk of his head, he indicated that Meg should hurry upstairs to barricade herself with Seraphine in her bedchamber. Heart hammering, she moved to obey, although if it was indeed the king’s officers outside with a warrant, hiding would do no good.

Meg paused halfway up the stairs, listening anxiously. She could hear Armbruster roundly cursing whoever was outside. “We are closed. Can you not read the warning, you damned fool? Do you wish to be exposed to the pox?”

The reply from beyond the door was muffled, but enough to make Meg blink, something in the person’s accent familiar.

Meg rushed back down the stairs just as the tavern keeper was bolting the door closed. “Mr. Armbruster, wait. I believe I know who it is.”

Over Armbruster’s protest, Meg unlocked the door and cracked it open. The figure standing impatiently upon the threshold was the last man in the world she would have expected to see. Meg gaped at him with a mingling of joy and astonishment. Gerard Beaufoy stared solemnly back at her. The Comte de Castelnau had finally come in search of his wife.

MEG STOOD OUTSIDE THE BEDCHAMBER DOOR AND KNOCKED
softly. She had all she could do to persuade Gerard to wait until she apprised Seraphine that her husband had arrived.
Meg might be delighted to see him, but there was no telling how Seraphine was going to react.

Meg inched the door open and peeked inside. “ ’Phine?”

She was dismayed to see that Seraphine was still in her shift. She sat on a stool near the hearth, desultorily running a comb through her hair.

“Seraphine, you are not even dressed.”

Seraphine shrugged. “What is the point? I am hardly expecting any visitors.”

Meg glanced nervously over her shoulder. “Well, in fact, you do have one. A visitor, I mean.”

“Who? Oh, it doesn’t matter.” Seraphine waved her off. “Tell whoever it is that Madame la Comtesse is not receiving any callers this afternoon. Not unless it is someone looking for a terrible fright.”

“You know I have never alarmed that easily, ma chère. You always complained it showed a lack of imagination on my part,” Gerard called out.

Seraphine froze at the sound of her husband’s voice. Unable to wait any longer, the count shouldered his way past Meg into the room.

Seraphine shrieked and leapt up from the stool, clapping her hand to her cheek. “Gerard! What the blazes are you doing here?”

“I had hoped for a slightly warmer reception, my lady. As to what I am doing here, that should be obvious. I have come looking for my wife.”

“Why now, all of a sudden?”

“It is not just now. I have been searching for you for months, first on the Faire Isle and then along the coast of France and now here in this miserable city.”

“Well—you—you picked a very foolish time to come to
London. Have you not heard what has happened? This is not the best time for Catholic foreigners to be wandering about the city.”

“I am here under the aegis of the French ambassador. That is safety enough, I think. The only folly I committed was in not coming after you sooner.”

As Gerard stalked closer, Seraphine backed away from him. Still covering her scar, she glared at him. “Well, what do you want?”

“What do you think I want? You. Please do not shrink from me, Seraphine. You cannot know how I have missed you. Each day without you has been a torment unto madness.”

“You must be running mad to say things like that. You were wont to say I drove you to distraction.”

He smiled. “I would rather be mad with you than without you, ma belle.”

“Ah, that is the problem. I am not your
belle
any longer. You do not know what has happened.”

“Yes, I do. Margaret has told me.”

“Has she?” Seraphine scowled at Meg where she still hovered uncertainly in the doorway. “But you have not yet seen this.”

Seraphine whipped her hand away. Tilting her cheek forward, she exposed her scar. Meg could see the level of dread Seraphine sought to conceal beneath her show of defiance.

“What? That trifle?” Gerard leaned forward to brush his lips across her cheek. “My foolish comtesse. You should know I would always find you beautiful should you have a dozen such scars.”

“Humph! That is because you have always been dreadfully nearsighted,” Seraphine said, but her lip trembled.

“What I need to know is what you did to the woman who gave you this. Do I need to find a solicitor to defend you against murder or am I merely obliged to help you bury the body?”

“N-no, I did nothing to her.”

“Mon Dieu, then you have mellowed a great deal since I saw you last. Have you mellowed enough yet to come home to me?”

“I can’t imagine why you would want me. I have always been a most dreadful wife to you and we no longer have a son. Our little boy is—is—” Seraphine’s breath hitched, her eyes welling.

“I know, ma chère. I know.” Gerard eased his fingers through her hair. A sob escaped Seraphine, the tears and grief she had suppressed for so long spilling forth.

As Meg stole quietly from the room, her last sight was of Seraphine melting against the comte, finally seeking comfort in her husband’s arms.

Meg started back down the stairs only to encounter Armagil bounding up them. His face was flushed with excitement.

“Good news. The ports have been opened again and I have found us a ship. With any luck, we will be able to set sail by next evening’s tide.”

M
EG STOOD AT THE DECK RAIL WATCHING THE COAST OF
France drawing ever closer. And from there she would find passage back to Faire Isle. Her heart quickened at the thought. The island had ever been her refuge, and with the ghost of Cassandra Lascelles finally laid to rest, Meg thought she would truly find peace there.