Eternally Bound (Thistles & Roses) (5 page)

Sebastien poured another full glass of claret, hoping to not only dull the ache in his head, but also the growing dread that consumed him.

There was indeed only one way to get his hands on the relics. Unless he could come up with another plan, Lady Maxwell would have to consent to be his wife.

Chapter Four

LADY Maxwell was mesmerized by the opulence of Queen Elizabeth’s Richmond Palace.

Her Majesty had yet to emerge from her Privy Chamber and the courtiers were not entirely certain that she would. Just two months prior, on the twenty-fifth day of February, she’d had a longtime favorite of hers beheaded. Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex. None had thought she’d go through with it, but time and time again the queen proved her need for power went beyond the love she had in her heart. She also proved her ability to exact vengeance on anyone who tried to undermine her.

If she didn’t admit that she feared the queen, Max would be a fool.

On the few occasions that she’d been allowed at court with her father in the past few years since she’d come of age, she’d caught glimpses of the queen, but not actually spoken to her. Now that her father was hoping for a prosperous marriage, he’d decided it was time that she be presented to the Virgin Queen herself.

The Presence Chamber was crammed with courtiers wishing to be heard by the queen. Normally, Max’s father, Baron Dalston, was relegated to the gallery, begging entrance to the Presence Chamber, but it had been just his luck that he’d acquired a particular antiquity that the queen had long desired and now he’d been admitted entrance.

In fact, his ability to obtain artifacts the queen sought—and not his place in Parliament— was one of the reasons he’d become more established at court.

“Most of the noblemen from last evening will be here today.”

Max nodded, not having seen one of them yet. Glancing around the room, she did recognize a few people she’d met over the years when she’d come to London, but none she was close with.

“Care to share the name of the possible groom you met last eve?” Her father’s voice was conspiratorial as he glanced around the room.

The dark, wooden walls were covered in rich tapestries—and there was one that Max found particularly riveting. It looked to be the depiction of St. George on horseback trampling a dragon.

“Not as yet, Father.” He’d given her a reprieve from having to choose a husband this morning, instead letting her have another week to make her decision after she’d informed him she had her eye on one but wanted a bit more time to make her final decision. She’d been clever enough to play on her father’s ego, informing him that her possible choice also had an interest in antiquities dealing.

She’d have liked to have a month, a year at best, but there was no arguing with her father when he got like this. For in truth, the only man she was even slightly interested in was not the marrying kind. She could not link herself to a thief. Thieves were untrustworthy and the one thing Max sought in a husband was someone she could trust. She also wanted to be valued by her future mate. Judging from one meeting, she could tell the mysterious man put more stock in earthly possessions than he did in human relations.

So, in truth, telling her father she had a man in mind had been a not so slight exaggeration.

Baron Dalston grunted and made a move to rearrange the feathered hat he wore, his gaze fixed on a figure in the corner. Standing in the shadows of the room was a tall man with a pointed gray beard. The way he eyed everyone in the room sent a shiver of dread racing over Max’s spine. One of Queen Elizabeth’s spies. Her castles were crawling with them. Max had even heard a rumor that every pub, inn, tavern and shop were monitored by someone connected with their queen. If that were the case, it would mean the city literally teemed with her spies, like ants on a hill, but Max wasn’t certain she believed that rumor.

The man with the pointed beard looked like Sir William Cecil, but that man had passed away several years before. Was this his son? Robert Cecil? He had to be.

Hands crossed at her waist, Max tugged at the fabric at her wrists beneath her starched ruffs, which suddenly felt very constrictive. She wore what her father thought to be her best gown—and what Max felt was the most pretentious gathering of lace and cream-colored velvet that she’d ever seen. Tiny, purple thistles had been embroidered onto the bodice and in delicate patterns along her overskirt in homage to her Scottish descent. Her gathered kirtle of lavender with silver embroidered in diamond shapes peeked out from the front split of her overgown and matched her sleeves.

Beneath the gobs of material, she wore a French farthingale, providing a domed shape from her cinched waist, exaggerating the curve of her hips and giving her front an even flatter appearance. She could barely breathe in the tight, iron-hinged corset that flattened her waist and pressed her breasts to what felt like nearly her shoulders—which were, of course, accentuated by the low square neckline that seemed to be all the rage with the younger ladies at court.

Her hair was braided and looped in a crown atop her head with a pearled, French hood nested in her locks.

A female courtier bumped into her lightly but hard enough that Max swayed on her feet as they passed. She walked arm in arm with another, their gowns just as elaborate as Max’s but more vivid in color.

“Spring is in the air,” one of them murmured as she glanced over her shoulder at Max, a mocking curve to her rouge-colored lips.

“Indeed, Lady Brigit, all the pretty birds have come to find their mates.”

Thank goodness Max had eaten light that morning, else she would have already lost her meal in a most unladylike fashion.

Max held her head high, refusing to let the women’s words destroy her confidence. They headed toward a door beside the man with the pointy beard and he nodded to them, opening the door slightly to allow them entrance. They must have been the queen’s ladies-in-waiting.

“Is that the door to the Privy Chamber?” Max asked her father in a low tone, imagining how dazzling that chamber must look if the queen spent most of her time in it.

As a girl, Max had oft dreamed of coming to court and serving the queen. Her mother had done so when she was a girl, but though her father had tried, Max had never been chosen.

A tiny thrill of excitement skated over her arms and she scraped her teeth over her lip. Despite what the snobbish courtier women had said, being here at court was about anything but marriage for Max. She wanted to prove her worth to her father. Wanted to see the queen and please her. What would it be like to be approved by the woman with whom so many found it hard to gain favor?

“Yes,” was all he said, his voice strained as he searched the faces in the room.

Max stepped closer to her father as a trio of courtiers pushed past, heading toward the man in the shadows. They, too, were admitted entrance into the queen’s Privy Chamber.

“Do you think we’ll be called to her today?” Max searched the sides of the room where several wooden chairs were placed, each one filled. The tiny, silk slippers she wore were new and pinched her toes. All sensation had long since dulled in her pinkie toes, but the remaining digits screamed their protest.

“We’ve not been called yet and likely will not be called today. Lucky we are to have gained entrance here. Many wait a lot longer in the outer gallery.”

“Then we are to stand here until supper?” The thought of food made her stomach constrict. She was past starving. She’d be lucky to make it another hour.

“Indeed. We must get you introduced to several prominent members of court who can sing your praises to the queen.” Her father finally spared her a glance, annoyance darkening his scowl. She was reminded that she was only here so he could marry her off. “Since I’ve extended the time in which you need to choose a husband another sennight, perhaps there will be someone better here at the queen’s court.”

Max bit her tongue, but even that little bit of pain was not enough to keep her from murmuring under her breath, “So I am to be paraded about the room like prized chattel to be bought by the highest bidder?”

The baron made a hissing noise and narrowed his brow. “You’re to behave as a lady. You need this, daughter. Perhaps one of our guests from last night will have told the queen about you. I’ve requested that she speak with me and allow me to introduce you.”

Max doubted that anyone from dinner would mention her. They’d been a mixture of self-important braggarts varying in age. Though she’d given a good five minutes to trying to engage with them, she had been loath to do so much longer than that. The men had one by one begun to ignore her, which couldn’t have pleased her more. When her father hadn’t been looking, she’d slipped away and told a footman to inform her sire that she’d gone to bed with a headache.

Of course, once she’d been in her room, she could do no more than stare out the window, wondering where the handsome, black-haired man she’d come across in her father’s study had disappeared to. None had caught her interest as much as the mystery thief—and she doubted she’d see him here today.

Which meant she’d stand here, her feet aching, mind painfully bored, for at least another six hours, all while having to converse with more pompous windbags. That thought sent a dull thud to pounding in her skull, threatening to bring a headache.

Max wrung her hands in front of her and drew in a heavy sigh. “I will do my best, Father. But will you allow me one more question?”

“Always a question.” The baron visibly gritted his teeth, though he did nod. “What is it?”

She chewed on her lip, certain that her question would bring out his ire, but her hurting feet and head demanded an answer. “When will we be going home?”

“Maxwell.” He drew out her name as he’d done when she was a child trying his patience. “I am hoping we’ll be given lodging here this evening. Now behave, else I send you back to our manor in the north and deliver your husband, contract signed, without your input.”

The blood drained from her face, settling with much weight in her feet. “What?” she whispered.

“There is to be a banquet here tomorrow night and my hope is that you’ll woo our queen into providing you a place at court. I know you were none too impressed with the men at the house, but this is the world you’ll now be a part of, and the best way for you to gain an advantageous marriage is here at court. If not for me, do this for your mother, Maxwell. She certainly gave you enough that you owe her memory.”

This time when she swayed on her feet, it was not from anyone bumping into her. Of course he had to bring her mother into it. Max knew nothing of her mother, save for that she resembled her physically but not mentally and that she had died of childbed fever not long after Max was born. Max had been named Maxwell after her mother’s clan in Scotland.

There was a painting of the three of them in her father’s study that her father had commissioned when Max had turned twelve. As the years passed, she’d watched herself transition into the woman who was her mother, until they were nearly the spitting image of each other.

Never did she regret more the loss of the woman she’d never met than on days like this when her father talked of nothing but her making an impression and him being able to finally cast her off. She didn’t feel like his daughter anymore, but rather a possession that he’d tried to polish, and in the end she was still lacking the sparkle and shine needed to fetch the highest price.

Deep down, she knew she was worth more than that. Max wanted more than that. She wanted a husband who wanted her for her. And perhaps that was the saddest thing of all. Because her father would never allow that to happen, and anyone who would make a bid for her hand would likely treat her exactly as that—property bought fair and square.

A commotion sounded at the back of the room and the whispers grew like a wind tunnel whipping through the gathered crowd. Her father murmured something under his breath and Max strained to see what everyone was looking at.

But she needn’t have searched long, as the crowd parted and the man she’d fallen asleep thinking about stepped into view.

The thief was even more handsome than she remembered.

Chapter Five

TO say that he’d not expected to see her today would have been an understatement.

Sebastien stopped short in the middle of the Presence Chamber, caught up in the sight of Lady Maxwell standing before him. If possible, she was even more beautiful than when he’d seen her the night before.

Her blue eyes widened when they locked on his and her creamy cheeks flushed red. Lord in Heaven…

He breathed out slowly and made a move to step toward her when she ducked her head and her father stepped in front of her.

“Lord Bedford,” Dalston said. “I was sorry to hear of the loss of your father. He will be missed.”

Sebastien smiled tightly, knowing that this man’s offer of condolences was not at all sincere.

Behind him, his daughter’s head shot up and she peeked around her father to look at him. Sebastien ignored her. Just like a lady to perk up at the mention that he was a lord. He’d rather liked it when she’d shown interest when she thought him a mere thief—like her father. That was likely why she’d been interested in him. Well, no matter, he needed her to get to the relics.

And soon, Dalston would have to hand over his most-prized possession.

Without speaking to Dalston, Sebastien turned and weaved his way through the crowd, nodding to this fellow and that and tipping his cap at a few ladies who tittered his way.

Robert Cecil bowed to him as he approached the entrance to the queen’s Privy Chamber. The man mirrored his father, who’d served the queen until his death several years prior.

“My Lord Bedford,” Cecil said in the gravelly and hushed whisper reminiscent of his father.

“Master Cecil, always a pleasure.”

“To what do we owe the honor of your presence this morning?”

“I’ve come on behalf of my mother, Lady Bedford. She requested I give a message to Her Majesty.”

“I’m certain Her Majesty will be pleased to speak with you. She’s quite fond of your mother.”

“As am I.” Sebastien inclined his head in thanks when Cecil opened the door.

The drone of voices dulled as the thick, wooden door closed behind him.

Inside the queen’s Privy Chamber, several of her ladies’ maids and groomsmen stood or sat, talking. A table filled high with fruit, cheese and cakes sat beneath a window. He could already smell the wine flowing freely. The queen’s closest attendants were taking advantage of her grief.

“My Lord Bedford,” drawled Lady Mary Talbot, a young lady of the Privy Chamber, followed by her sister.

Sebastien had seen her and her sister, Lady Elizabeth Talbot, many times before—and each time they had flirted with him. But now that he’d been named an earl, their interest seemed to have doubled.

“The queen has yet to present herself,” Elizabeth said, stroking along his forearm. “But Lady Catherine is with her and says they shall be coming out soon.”

“How fares Her Majesty this morning?” Sebastien asked, falling into a turn about the room with a Talbot sister on each arm.

“She is melancholy, as one would expect,” Mary offered. “But we’ve put out her favorite cakes this morning, and Lady Catherine was reading her some of her favorite passages earlier.”

As they took their second turn about the room, the doors to the queen’s bedchamber opened, and the two guards standing on either side snapped to attention.

“Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth of England,” they announced.

Even in her grand age, she represented an air of purity that startled Sebastien. Her face was painted white as a winter snow, both to cover the horrid pockmarks left from a severe case of the measles and to create the virginal countenance she so revered. Her cheeks were rouged. Gleaming red curls were piled on her head, a diamond-studded headdress perched atop. Her wide, full gown was black, glittering with rubies and pearls. The starched lace ruff at her throat exaggerated the length of her neck. The red of her lips did nothing for the fierce frown she wore as she gazed about the room.

No one had seen her smile since putting one of her favorites and suspected lover, Robert Devereux, to death. The man was not the first to act treasonously against her, but all the same, he’d broken her heart.

As one, those in attendance ducked into low bows and curtsies. No one rose until the queen walked—no, glided—across the room to take her seat in the ornate, throne chair that had once been her father’s.

“Rise,” she commanded, her voice harsh and filled with sorrow.

Sebastien caught her gaze, and a flicker of recognition passed over her face. He offered her a smile she did not return, though she did beckon to him.

“Come, Lord Bedford,” she demanded.

Sebastien disengaged himself from the Talbot sisters and approached his sovereign. Once standing before her, he doffed his cap and made a second low bow.

“Rise. What brings you here? Where is thy lady mother?”

Sebastien rose, but kept his hat over his chest as he spoke. “My mother is ill and begged me ask Your Majesty for a reprieve for just a little while longer.”

The queen showed no sign of compassion. “What is she ill from?”

A tricky answer, for the queen also suffered the misery of loss. “She still mourns my father’s passing.”

The queen narrowed her eyes, her back ramrod straight in the chair. “We all mourn for the loss of loved ones, but that does not mean we may stay home and lie idle. Tell her she is requested at court immediately.”

This, Sebastien could not allow. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but my mother is quite… not herself.”

The queen narrowed her eyes, lips pinched. “Explain.”

“She is not eating and she refuses to speak. She’s not gotten out of bed for days. A madness consumes her.” He left out the mutterings to herself that he’d witnessed this morning and the fact that their family physician had bled her and given her a large dose of sleeping tincture to calm her. “I fear she will be of little help to you, Majesty.”

“Nonsense. Tell her we order her to appear before us.” Queen Elizabeth’s countenance held no room for argument.

Yet… Sebastien cleared his throat. “If I cannot rouse her, might she have until the end of the week to appear within the Privy Chamber?”

The queen’s eyes hardened and she leaned forward, the crispness of her clothing crinkling in the silence of the Privy Chamber as every person present strained to hear.

“Do not forget that we, too, suffer, Lord Bedford. See that your mother appears here before me on the morrow. We shall be very disappointed indeed if our summons is not obeyed.”

Sebastien clenched his jaw He had no other recourse but to somehow manage to rouse his mother from her madness and bring her to court. Then a thought occurred to him and he spoke before thinking it through.

“A boon, Your Highness, if I cannot bring her, might I bring a replacement?”

The queen sneered. “Both of your sisters are already ladies-in-waiting. Who could you possibly have in mind?”

A flash of golden locks and stark-blue eyes flitted in his mind. “Lady Maxwell Thornton.”

The queen clicked her nails on the arm of her chair. “Her father is Baron Dalston?”

“Indeed, Majesty.”

“He is here to see us today and intends to present his daughter.”

Hope stirred in Sebastien’s gut. This could be the reprieve his mother needed. “I saw them outside this room before I entered.”

“We had hopes of getting Dalston and Raleigh together. They could make a fine pair, the two of them.”

Sir Walter Raleigh was one of the queen’s most famous and talented privateers. If there were ever two who could gain her the most of what she wanted, Sebastien suspected it was the two of them. Though the difference was that Dalston went about his acquiring illegally, and Raleigh was sanctioned by the crown.

But this would get Sebastien out of marrying. If he were able to offer Dalston’s daughter a place in the queen’s household and arrange for the baron to sail with Raleigh on his next excursion, then he could demand his father’s relics as payment for having arranged it.

The plan was pure genius. Relief swept through him. He’d not yet have to succumb to marriage.

“I could speak with Baron Dalston on your behalf, Majesty,” Sebastien offered.

She looked him over skeptically. “We may be old, but we are not a fool, Bedford. What do you stand to gain from this arrangement?”

He grinned, hoping the queen would warm to his charm. “Peace of mind that my mother is safe at home, Highness.”

She raised a brow. “And?” The queen was indeed astute.

“There is something Bedford has of mine that I’d see returned.”

“See to it then. We’ll expect the girl to speak to Mistress Hyde today about procuring a place for her in the maids of honor’s chambers.”

Sebastien could hardly believe what he was hearing. The queen was willing to take on Lady Maxwell in her household?

“I will arrange it.” He bowed again.

“Tell your mother we hope she is well soon.” The queen’s voice had lost any of the minimal luster it had gained in the minutes since they’d begun speaking.

“Majesty, I thank you.”

“We trust you’ll save a dance for us tomorrow at the banquet.”

Sebastien smiled at the woman covered in layers of paint and cloth. He liked to think he knew women well. Though she was mourning, she still wanted to feel feminine, and Sebastien was always willing to make a lady feel good.

“As many as you wish, Majesty.”

“One will suffice.” She flicked her gaze around the room, and for the first time in months, he saw the beginnings of a halfhearted smile. “We have many who wish to dance with us.”

“Many who will be lucky for the chance, Your Highness.”

“You are a flatterer. Now go, for I’m in need of another maid and explorer.”

Sebastien bowed low once more, then turned to see many of the queen’s Privy Chamber attendants staring at him. Some smiling, some whispering and others glaring with irritation. It was not the first time he’d thanked the heavens he was not a member of the queen’s Privy Council, nor her household.

Serving her abroad suited him just fine.

Sebastien bid the attendants farewell and left the hall, stopping briefly to speak with Cecil.

“Has she arisen?” the man asked.

“Yes. And though she seems tired, there is spark trying to alight from within.”

“That is good news.”

“I suspect the banquet tomorrow will see her on the way to mending.”

Robert nodded. “My father always arranged a banquet or party of some sort when she was not quite herself.”

“I shall see you there.” Sebastien scanned the crowd for Dalston and his daughter.

They stood along the sidewall beside several courtiers and appeared to be deep in discussion. Lady Maxwell had plastered a smile upon her face that, though he barely knew her, he was well aware was fake. It lacked the heart and
joie de vivre
he’d taken note of in her father’s study.

He was once again struck by some unidentified emotion that bade him be cautious. If he wasn’t careful, the lady would undo him.