Face Down among the Winchester Geese (21 page)

"He held a post at the embassy but a short time,” he said aloud. “As Ruy Vierra."

"What name he used makes little difference. He cannot have moved about Durham House unnoticed. He may have made friends. And I would speak with his immediate supervisor. He may have noticed something.” Susanna crossed the solar as she spoke. Hands on her hips, she stared down at him. He could feel her eyes boring into him, but resisted meeting her gaze.

"And if he did, why should he tell an Englishwoman?” He swallowed the last of the comfits.

"Because you will be with me, Robert, and you will ask."

It was the utter assurance with which she spoke the words that galled him most. Did she think she controlled him? “You waste your time on such a mission. We already know Cordoba is guilty."

"You may think so. I am not convinced.” Shoving his feet aside, she sat where they had been and placed one hand on his forearm. “I only wish to see justice done, Robert.” A small smile played about her lips. “Mayhap there is some reward in it. Prove Cordoba guilty and no suspicion attaches itself to you ... or to Lord Robin."

A visit to Durham House, Robert thought sourly, could also verify he'd been at mass the morning Diane died. ‘Twas a lesser crime than murder, ‘twas true, but one he could not risk having exposed. Not at this juncture.

He thought he could count on the discretion of the ambassador's servants. And if he went with Susanna, he would have some measure of control over both questions and answers. Although his wife had studied Spanish, she could only read the language, not converse in it. She would have to rely upon him to translate.

"This visit to Durham house will persuade you Cordoba is guilty?” he asked. There were risks involved, but if this was the only way to stop Susanna from going there on her own, then he supposed he must yield to her persuasions.

"I will not know the answer to that question until I go, will I?"

Impossible woman! He jerked his arm free, handed her the empty comfit box, and rose from the window seat. “I will see what I can do,” he promised, and left before she could make more demands.

For three days, Robert put her off, while his schemes moved ever closer to fruition. But in the end, he bowed to the inevitable. He had done all he could to ensure that she received the proper answers, but he worried because he did not know precisely what the questions would be.

They traveled on horseback, proceeding at a decorous pace through Ludgate and along the Strand, the main highway between London and Westminster. Great houses lined this thoroughfare—Paget Place, across from the church of St. Clement Danes, then Arundel House, Somerset House and the Savoy, a long, narrow, impressive building that extended all the way back to the water's edge. On the far side of Ivy Bridge Lane they came to a series of gardens, then reached the embassy's imposing gatehouse.

"Durham House has changed little since Northumberland's day,” Susanna murmured as they passed through the first courtyard and into the inner court. It was a high and stately house, the parlor block alone rising to four stories. The main range of buildings was distinguished by marble pillars. The crenelated and buttressed great hall lay straight ahead.

Robert took care not to glance to his left, toward the chapel, but he knew it was there. Running parallel to the hall, it connected by a north-south range to the high end of Durham House.

"'Twas a great occasion when last we were here together,” he said.

A glance at his wife was enough to tell him she was remembering. He recalled above all the richness. The Lady Jane had been gowned in gold and silver brocade sewn with diamonds and pearls. Even her hair had been plaited with pearls. Her sister, the Lady Catherine, had also been married that day. She'd been in cloth of silver. And Lady Katherine Dudley, the third bride, one of the duke of Northumberland's daughters, had been attired in cloth of gold.

"All the state rooms at Durham House were draped with gold and crimson tissue,” Susanna murmured.

"Your thoughts echo mine."

"Do you remember the altar front? ‘Twas sewn with pearls."

To match the Lady Jane's gown, he'd thought at the time. A whimsical notion, but back then he'd been giddy with grandiose plans, believing he'd be serving King Guildford through a long and prosperous reign.

"I do not know which sister I pity more,” Susanna whispered as one of the ambassador's servants escorted them to the ground-floor business rooms. “The Lady Jane and Lord Guildford were executed, but the Lady Catherine's life has scarce been happy."

"There's irony in it,” he answered cryptically, knowing Susanna would understand his meaning.

On that long-ago day here in Durham House, the Lady Catherine had been married to the earl of Pembroke's son. She'd made no objection to the union. The Lady Jane, however, had much protested her marriage to Lord Guildford, claiming a prior betrothal to Lord Hertford. Three years ago, that first marriage long since annulled, the Lady Catherine had disgraced herself by eloping with the same Lord Hertford.

Robert felt no pity for the Lady Catherine, but he was grateful for her folly, which had opened the way for his own current endeavor. While in Spain, he'd learned that the young woman's impulsive actions had ruined the plans King Philip had made for her. Although the widowed queen of Scots claimed to be rightful queen of England, the Grey sisters had a better right, having been born in England. King Philip had intended to abduct the Lady Catherine and marry her to Don Carlos. The scheme had been well advanced when she'd spoiled it by eloping.

No chance of that with the Lady Mary, Robert thought. God knew what monsters they'd breed, the dwarf and the imbecile, but if there was the smallest hope of a healthy male heir to the English throne, his efforts would be worthwhile.

Once he had accomplished the Lady Mary's kidnapping, he'd be richly rewarded. No matter what the future brought, he'd have, at the least, a title and land and a new life in Spain.

But first he must satisfy his wife ‘s curiosity and lull her into a false sense of security.

Susanna a remembered a great deal more about Durham House than the ceremony that had united three young brides with their grooms. There had been the celebrations afterward, and the moment when she had gone into the garden for a breath of air and come upon Robert already there.

He had not been alone.

She'd retreated in haste and made excuses for what she'd seen. In hindsight, she supposed she'd known even before she married him that he was not the sort of man to be faithful to one woman. Back then, she'd still dared hope she was mistaken.

"He says he cannot recall seeing Ruy Vierra on the morning Diane died,” Robert translated.

His words brought her back to the present with a jolt that left her disoriented.

"He is the fourth to tell us the same story,” Robert grumbled. “Are you ready to give up?"

She considered it. In the hour they had been at Durham House they had found no one who knew anything about the missing Spaniard. His possessions had vanished with him, and everyone denied being aware that Vierra was not his real name. He'd been a hard worker but had apparently never spoken to anyone about his personal life.

"Well?” Robert prompted.

"Sir Robert,” interrupted a new voice.

Fascinated, Susanna watched Robert's face blanch. He recovered himself quickly, greeting the ambassador, Alvaro de Quadra, who was also bishop of Aquila, and introducing him to Susanna, but she had to wonder what could have provoked such an extreme reaction.

The bishop presented another puzzle. In spite of a harried look about him, he seemed determined to play the host, insisting in English that they accompany him to a private chamber for refreshment.

When they were settled comfortably in a big, airy room overlooking the gardens to the east, she explained her reasons for inquiring into Ruy Vierra's past. The ambassador became gratifyingly expansive, though from time to time he shot almost furtive glances into the shadows at the corners of the room, as if he thought someone might be lurking there to listen.

"Did you know Vierra was not his real name?” she dared ask.

"So direct. So charming. I did know and was also privy to the fact that Diego Cordoba stayed in this country after King Philip left, although I did not take up my duties as ambassador until some two years later. I fear I cannot share details with you, dear lady. You understand this, I am sure."

And she did, given her own husband's profession.

"Can you tell me anything of Cordoba's background?” she asked.

"Very little."

"Has he family in Spain?"

"He was, I believe, orphaned young."

"Does he have a title?"

"No, Lady Appleton. Cordoba made his own way. He fought for honors.” De Quadra chuckled. “It is said that is how he lost an eye, in a tournament."

"Do you think the story is true?” At the ambassador's confused expression, she clarified her question.

"Could the eye patch be false, part of some disguise?"

"I have no reason to think so."

Impatient, Robert broke in on their dialogue. “Have you any reason to think Diego Cordoba did not slay seven women and flee to avoid being charged with those crimes?"

De Quadra sipped Spanish wine from a goblet of enameled glass set in a silver-gilt foot. He appeared to consider carefully before he answered. “It may well be that guilt made him run.” He glanced at Robert, then back at Susanna. “I have heard ere now Sir Robert's case against Cordoba. Should not a wife be guided by her husband's opinions?"

"Only, I do think, when the husband's argument is irrefutable."

The ambassador shook his head, as if despairing of her reason. Susanna posed more questions, but he deftly deflected them and made it clear that the interview was over. A servant appeared on cue, eager to show them the way out.

"He is not what I expected,” Susanna murmured as she and Robert followed the liveried manservant through a long gallery.

"Rumors abound that he is deeply in debt,” Robert whispered back. “Perhaps you should have offered him a bribe."

Susanna did not think indebtedness explained the Spaniard's odd demeanor, but she said no more, distracted by the luxurious decor of the embassy. Even as they were being hurried out, she could not help but admire the many fine portraits hung along the inside wall.

Highlighted by the sunshine streaming in through the windows on the other side of the gallery, a detail of one portrait, the last before the exit, caught her eye. She skidded to a stop on the tiled floor, grasping Robert's sleeve as she did so.

"Who is that man?” she asked, pointing to the subject of the painting. By its location alone, she thought she knew.

"King Philip,” Robert said, confirming her guess.

"But he is fair-haired."

Robert looked at her as if she had lost her mind.

"I thought he would be dark,” she explained, still staring at the portrait. “Spanish looking."

"He resembles his Flemish ancestors,” Robert said.

Apparently she had jumped to a mistaken conclusion about his appearance, based on the fact that he was king of Spain. King Philip's short, pointed beard and his hair, distinguished by a receding hairline, were yellow. He had large eyes with dark circles beneath and thick, close brows above, an unremarkable nose, a broad forehead, a large mouth, and a protuberant lower lip.

Robert waited until they were out of Durham House and riding along the Strand toward home before he commented on her error. “You thought King Philip might look like Cordoba?” he asked.

"I assumed so, since they are both Spaniards."

Robert was much amused by her misconception.

He made matters worse by choosing to lecture her in an annoyingly superior tone of voice. “Spain is a large country. The darkest Moors lived there, but Vikings invaded Spanish soil, as well. A noble nose. The color of the eyes. A shock of brilliant hair. All may crop up to show a child's distant origins. You would know this if you had traveled as much as I have, Susanna. Seen as much. Done as much."

"One may learn a great deal by observing the inhabitants of a single village,” she said drily.

The undercurrent of nastiness in his answering laugh irritated Susanna. “True enough,” he conceded, “and therein some poor cuckolded peasant might find ample proof of his wife's unfaithfulness, did he but have the wit to see it."

"Are women always to blame, then?"

"Always,” Robert arrogantly declared. “Why, never would Adam have sinned had Eve not tempted him."

If she'd thought he was teasing her, Susanna might have held on to her temper, but she sensed he was serious. He believed the drivel he was spouting. It was too much to bear. Before she could control her hasty words, she blurted out the announcement she'd meant to save for a better time. Once uttered, the words could not be called back.

"What did you say?” Robert demanded.

"That proof of your fatherhood may be found in your daughter's countenance,” she repeated. There was no help for it now. She had to tell him the rest. “A woman named Eleanor gave birth to the girl last December and named her Rosamond. Should you wish to see for yourself, they now reside at Appleton Manor."

Thunder crashed outside the windows of the Crowne Inn. Flashes of lightning streaked across the sky. It was only three in the afternoon, but the day had turned dark as night and the storm raged all around, making the superstitious wonder if the end of the world was nigh.

Robert drank deep and ignored the howl of the wind and the fury of the thunderstorm, though it lasted nearly an hour. The rain continued to pour down after the lightning stopped, but he was scarce aware of it.

He had a daughter.

He'd known of her existence for less than twenty-four hours, and did not believe he would ever meet her, but the mere fact of her had made him doubt himself, doubt everything in his life that had led up to this moment.

He'd wed Susanna because the duke of Northumberland had ordered it, but she'd been comely enough. And her dowry had been extensive. Only after they were wed did he realize she had a razor-sharp mind and a stubbornness that equaled his own.