Tori Phillips (7 page)

Jeremy nodded gravely. “They are indeed.”

She took a step backward. “Are you?” she whispered.

He drew himself up then gave her a little bow. “You have the honor to address Jeremy Arthur Metcalf, eldest son and heir of Sir William Metcalf, the undersecretary to His Grace, our good King Henry VIII.”

A sudden trembling seized Rosie. “Send me straight to hell,” she moaned more to herself than to Jeremy. She turned away from him and grasped the center tent pole for support. She chewed on her thumbnail. What a fool she had been! Why hadn’t Sir Andrew told her? A sob escaped her lips before she could catch it.

“Why are you crying?” the boy asked gently.

“Haint crying,” she sniffed, trying to stop herself. “I never cry!”

Jeremy circled around the pole, then knelt so that he could look up into her face. His former cold expression changed to concern. “Forgive me, I did not mean to frighten you.”

She wiped her face with her sleeve and turned away from his pitying looks. “Haint afeard. Only weaklings are afraid of blustering boys. Ye took me by surprise, tis all. I had thought that we were alike—both servants. Now I find I am truly alone—once again.”

Jeremy’s eyes mirrored her pain. “Where did you come from, Rosie?”

She gave him a sour grin. “From God—or so I have been told, but I do not think so. A most ungentle fortune placed me in that goose yard.” She lowered her lashes to hide the painful memories of her childhood.

“I was a ward of Saint Giles’ Church in Stoke Poges. The priest found me a-wailing on the altar steps and clutching a gold sovereign. He gave me to Mistress Barstow since she had just lost her own babe to a fever. Her husband was glad enough to have the money, but he refused to give me a last name. He said I was spawned in sin. Tis why I am just plain Rosie. I never had a comfortable life like you do. Old man Barstow sold me to Quince for five bloody shillings. How much is
your
life worth, Sir Jeremy?”

The boy scrambled to his feet. His face had lost all its color. “I am not yet a knight, Rosie, so just call me Jeremy.” He offered her his arm. “And I will be your supporter, if you will give me leave.”

She was too startled by his sudden offer to make any objection. Instead, she took his arm. He balanced the heavy book on her head.

“Chin up, Rosie. Look straight ahead and take small steps.”

Together, they crossed the ornate rug in silent concentration. After a successful return trip, she glanced at the boy out of the corner of her eye. “My thanks, Jer…Jeremy. And, I swear…haint a strumpet.”

He returned the barest whisper of a smile. “You should say ‘I am not a harlot.’ And time will tell the truth of that tale.”

She answered him with a desperate firmness. “I
am
not a harlot—not now, not ever. I vow I will die first.”

L
ady Mary Cavendish Washburne laughed merrily. “Hoy day, sweet Andrew! Methinks this is the maddest prank of your career yet! Are you sure you have not overindulged in wine so early in the morning?”

Andrew smiled at her amusement. So far, his visit had gone very well. “Nay, Mary, I am as sober as a cleric in the confessional.”

The lady arched one of her fine eyebrows. “Oh? Our priest often has a tipple or two before shrift. I suspect that is the only thing that keeps him sane while listening to all our sins, offenses and negligences.” Another gale of infectious laughter interrupted her further observations.

Andrew mopped his damp brow with a fresh cambric handkerchief. The air was stifling inside Lord Washburne’s dark blue canvas pavilion. He quaffed some of the cool ale that Lady Mary’s handmaid had served. Thus fortified, he steered the conversation to his purpose.

“I assure you that I am quite serious, Mary. In eleven days, I will escort Rosie to the king’s farewell banquet and all the court will think she is a well-bred lady. My
lass has already proven to be an apt pupil, though I admit she is sadly lacking in a few essentials.”

“Such as a noble birth, an education in the rudiments of etiquette, a knowledge of dancing and so on?” Lady Mary giggled behind her fan.

Andrew cleared his throat. “Rosie sorely needs the proper clothing, and thereby hangs my tale.”

“Aha!” Mary’s blue eyes twinkled with mischief. “Exactly what items does she need? Pray, Andrew, try to be specific.”

He shrugged in mock helplessness. “Tis simple. Rosie requires everything from the skin out.”

She stared at him with rounded eyes. “Dare I ask what the poor thing is wearing at this very moment?”

“One of my nightshirts.”

Mary’s laughter again rippled through the thick, hot air. “How utterly scandalous!”

Andrew flashed a mild leer. “Exactly,” he purred.

He forced himself not to dwell on the ravishing memory of Rosie’s slim body scarcely hidden by the thin material of his shirt. He must concentrate on his goal. Later, he would allow himself the pleasure of watching Rosie at her toilette. Perhaps another bath would be in order. It was such a hot day. He had especially enjoyed bathing her last night. What a fine pair of ripe breasts Rosie had—

Lady Mary swatted his knee with her fan. “Stop woolgathering, Andrew! By my troth, you have not heard one word I just said!”

He chuckled with guilt and crossed his legs. “You have caught me out, Mary. I crave your pardon.”

“I
could
provide what your little lightskirt needs—”

Andrew interrupted. “Rosie might not be as pure as an angel, but she is not made for sporting tricks.”

Mary cocked her head. “Oh, ho! Does the wind blow in that direction? Is that a love light I spy in your eye?”

He shifted on his stool and wished that Mary had not been gifted with a quick intelligence. “Rosie is merely my employee. I have promised to pay her a percentage of my winnings.”

Mary continued to eye him with a knowing look that made him feel very uncomfortable. He swigged more of his ale.

“You are too sure of yourself. God’s teeth, Andrew! Tom will skin Brandon alive when he learns that the boy has wagered a fortune.”

Andrew dismissed the Earl of Thornbury’s wrath with a wave of his hand. “I do not intend to beggar the boasting scamp. I merely desire him to wriggle upon my hook for a little. Ever since he was knighted, our Brandon has taken to swaggering like a rooster in the henhouse. He needs to be taken down a peg or two.”

Mary nodded. “You speak the truth, but upon my soul, tis no game that you play with your wench.” She poured more ale into his mug. “You have become quite dense in your dotage, my dear. Tis this—
you
may be playing a game, but what of your Rosie? Tis her life and fortune that you juggle. For all your conceits, you are too chivalrous to mock even a harlot.”

Her observation made him squirm. “I have no intention of mocking the child,” he replied almost primly. “You may not believe this, but I have treated her with the utmost respect.”
So far.

Mary fanned herself in silence for a long moment. Outside, a persistent bee droned against the canvas wall, perhaps drawn by the sweet smell of the ale. “What happens afterward?”

Andrew wiped a droplet of the brew from his lips with his handkerchief. “After what?”

She rolled her eyes toward heaven. “After the feast, after the tents have been folded and put away, after there is nothing left but the trampled earth. Will your Rosie be one more broken flower tossed away on this Godforsaken plain when you leave?”

Andrew’s gold chain seemed to grow heavier around his neck. “She will go back to England, I expect. She is English after all.”

He had not given much thought to what would happen to Rosie after the wager had been won. Returning her to Quince was out of the question. Beyond that, Andrew didn’t know. His mind had been filled only with the challenge. He felt a little uncomfortable, and he resented Mary for introducing the subject.

She shook her head. “Oh, Andrew, you did not used to be so dull of wit. You expect this poor mite to go back to the stews of Bankside and to bless you for giving her a glimpse above her station?”

He fumed under his velvet cap. Why had cheerful Mary suddenly turned into such a scold? “I will see to her welfare. Trust me, Mary.”

A glint of her natural good humor returned to her eyes. “I cannot wait to meet this wild meadow rose who has entrapped you in her briars.”

He snorted. “I fear you are mistaken this time, Mary.
Nothing
catches me unless I will it.”

Her lips twitched with suppressed mirth. “We shall see. Tell me, how tall is the girl? Will any of my gowns fit her?”

Andrew thought back to when he had held Rosie close against his chest. A wave of pleasure washed away his
ill humor. “She is just as high as my heart,” he murmured.

The lady arched her brow again in the most annoying fashion. “What an interesting observation and choice of words.” She tapped her cheek with her fan. “It appears that she is too small for my things, but methinks she would fit Marianne’s quite well.”

Mary got up and went to the rear of the tent where a row of large chests stood open. She rummaged through one, and tossed clothing on a nearby cot. “That daughter of mine ordered so many things for this trip that she has forgotten half of what she brought.”

Andrew rocked back on his stool and beamed as the pile of pretty gowns, petticoats, chemises, stockings, hanging sleeves, smocks, French hoods and veiled headdresses grew. He had to admire both Marianne’s taste in finery and her mother’s indulgence in the girl’s whims. He hoped that Marianne’s future included a wealthy and generous husband.

Mary topped the glittering array with a hoop farthingale and an exquisite pair of red slippers. “There! Twill do?”

Andrew nodded and resisted the urge to rub his palms together with glee. Mary had a way of asking for return favors at inconvenient times.

“Methinks that your daughter will be most displeased when she notices that her wardrobe has shrunk,” he observed.

Mary folded the assortment into neat bundles. “I doubt it. Marianne has spent these past four days hanging on the railings at the tournaments and mooning over every knight under the age of five-and-twenty. Twill be a month of boring Sundays before she notices that anything is amiss.”

He chuckled. “Then tis well that she is cousin to my three hellions, or you would have a great deal to give you sleepless nights.”

Mary smoothed a cloak of gray wool. “I leave
that
worry to her father. Twas his idea to bring her to France in the first place. Shall I accompany you and help you bear this load?”

Andrew stood. “My thanks, gracious lady, but I am still able to muster enough strength to carry these few fripperies.”

She broadened her smile. “Then I shall be free to help your young mistress into her new clothes.”

He shuddered at that suggestion. “Again, my deepest gratitude overflows its bounds, but alas, I must decline your kind offer. Rosie is shy, skittish like a new colt. I will dress her myself—to give her confidence.”

A gleam of amusement played in Mary’s eyes. “This is news indeed! Methought you were more adept at
undressing
a woman.”

In one swift move, he scooped up Rosie’s new wardrobe. “I am a man of many talents, Mary. And you must admit that my sense of fashion is renowned. Rosie will be as well-laced into her gowns as you are yourself.” With a bow, he started to back out of the tent.

“Oh, Andrew!” She called after him.

He swore to himself. She had that teasing expression on her face that often boded some unforeseen trick. “Aye, you minx?”

She giggled like a girl on May Day. “I
do
so like your bells.”

He could not help swaggering a bit. His silver bells responded with a merry jingling. “I wore them expressly for you.”

“Tush, you prattling peacock!” she bantered, though she blushed. “You wore them for Rosie, didn’t you?”

He continued to smile while inwardly he cursed Mary’s unerring sixth sense. “My goal in this life is but to please the ladies,” he replied with a jaunty air. “All of them!”

He winked at his childhood friend, then fled from her before she wheedled anything else out of him. The heavy, humid air of the midmorning felt cool on his brow after the hell he had just endured inside the Washburne pavilion. Gripping his precious gleanings a little tighter, he whistled a ribald tavern ditty as he wove his way through the camp. He couldn’t wait to dress Rosie in her borrowed finery.

His pleasant thoughts evaporated like mist in sunlight when he drew closer to his own establishment. Sir Gareth Hogsworthy, in company with some of his weaseling minions, clustered outside the pink tent. In the shivering tones of a smooth-spoken serpent, the disappointed lord chilled the hot June morning with his threats. A sizable crowd of curious squires, lackeys, household servants and grooms, together with a few interested members of the nobility, had gathered around in a wide circle. More gawkers ran to join them lest they miss all the excitement. Andrew noted two points in his favor: his tent flaps were closed and tied tight on the inside to the point of puckering, and guarding the entrance on the outside stood the most reckless of all his former pupils, Jack Stafford.

“You trod a slippery path, you cur-bred potboy!” Gareth blustered directly into Jack’s grinning face. “Stand aside! I will claim the jade
now!”

Jack merely chuckled. “Go to and fill another room in hell!”

Gareth turned a darker shade of fury. He bared his teeth at the blond giant. “I’ll make a sop in moonshine of your sluggish brains!”

Jack yawned elaborately, then he turned to the swelling rabble and addressed them. “Mark how sour this gentleman looks! Like a lemon long spoiled. In truth, I cannot bear his presence without suffering from heartburn an hour later.”

The audience guffawed with appreciation. Andrew realized that the crowd’s approval would encourage Jack to taunt Hogsworthy into a dangerous corner, unless the boy was checked by a cooler head. Andrew sighed and wished he weren’t so encumbered with his gaudy burden at the moment.

“In fact,” Jack continued in a breezy tone, “I have seen far better faces in my time than this gentleman before me. Look you, good people, see how red my lord grows. In faith, methinks his garters are too tight!”

Andrew groaned as the crowd applauded Jack’s witticism.

Gareth hooded his black eyes. “Out of my way, dunghill!”

Jack folded his arms across his broad chest. “Did he say dung?” he asked the mob. “Good, I am glad my lord has broached that noisome subject, for I intend to tread him under my heel into a mortar, and daub the walls of my privy with him.”

Gareth knotted his right hand into a heavy fist and reared back to deliver a bone-crunching blow. Andrew shouldered his way through the mob. At the same time he raised his voice.

“Good morrow, Lord Hogsworthy! What tomfoolery is this so early in the day? Pray forgive the folly of this
youth. I fear our Jack is not the flower of courtesy at this early hour.”

Gareth wavered for a moment, torn between his intent to flatten the young knight or to get what he had come for. Andrew seized the man’s hesitation to plant himself between the two.

“Your wit has grown stale, Andrew,” Jack whispered behind him. “Let me prick this hog some more. It entertains our countrymen far better than a mummer’s play.”

Andrew answered out of the side of his mouth. “Chill your anger, Jackanapes. Tis too hot for a fray.”

Gareth dropped his hand, though he still maintained his aggressive stance. “Methought you were cowering inside your pretty pink tent, Ford. I am much amazed that you had the courage to sally forth where the hellish sun could burn that soft skin of yours. Ha! But I see you have been shopping!”

He pawed through Andrew’s pile of colorful silks and satins, then pulled out a green gown and held it up for the crowd to see. “By my troth, do you prance around in this attire for your own amusement? Or do you entice your pretty Cavendishes with a wanton’s feathers?”

Andrew’s common sense clouded with hot anger.

Jack choked. “I will saw him in half with a rusty razor!” he roared, much to the delight of the mob.

Andrew stomped on the boy’s foot to silence him. Then he snatched Marianne’s dress out of Gareth’s sweaty hands. “Speak quickly, tedious fool. Why has an ill wind blown you against my doorstep?”

“The wench,” Gareth growled. “You have toyed with her long enough, Ford. I thank you for preparing the way for me. She should be well opened by now—at
least, I think that is what you have been doing with her. Looking at you, tis hard to tell.”

Andrew curbed his natural impulse to flatten the knave.

“Hold your tongue, Gareth! Why should I allow myself to give way to your rash choler? Do you think I am frightened when a spoiled child whines? Should I tremble because of your slanders? Not so. Methinks your words have gone up in smoke—back home to the devil, your master.”