Kissed by Shadows (25 page)

His knock there was also received in silence but he could hear someone moving around and without hesitation he opened the door.

Stuart whirled from the fireplace, a letter in his hand. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, white-faced.

“I was in search of your wife,” Lionel said calmly. “Her door is locked and there is no answer to my knock.”

“Perhaps she's asleep,” Stuart said. His hand trembled and he let it drop to his side, concealing the parchment in the folds of the cloak he still wore. He had found Pippa's letter as soon as he'd entered his chamber.

Lionel frowned. He went to the connecting door and tried it. It was locked. “You have a key presumably.”

“Yes . . . uh . . . no,” Stuart stammered. He had had no time to absorb the shock of Pippa's letter, of the realization that she now knew every horror that was to be known, before Ashton had burst in upon him. And even in the best of circumstances the other man somehow managed to reduce him to a cowardly stumbling idiot.

“Yes? Or no?” Lionel inquired in the same detached tone that Stuart hated. The man was a cipher, his remote air masking his thoughts and feelings.

“No.” He shook his head vigorously.

“Come now, man. I find it impossible to believe that you have no key to your wife's chamber.” Lionel held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

How had Pippa imagined he could keep her disappearance a secret for two days from the man who was charged with watching over her? Stuart thought desperately. A stronger man than he was could not withstand Ashton's hard-eyed stare, the imperatively extended hand.

His gaze darted involuntarily towards the chest by the window. Lionel followed his eyes and quietly crossed the chamber and picked up the brass key that lay openly on the chest.

He inserted it in the lock and opened the door to Pippa's empty chamber.

“Do you know where she is?” he asked, his voice unchanging.

“No.” That much was true.

Lionel turned back to Stuart. “I think you had better let me see that letter.” He gestured to the hand that Stuart still held at his side.

Helplessly and in silence Stuart handed it to him.

Lionel read the letter, crumpled it in his hand, and threw it into the fire. “Do you have any idea how much danger she's in?” he demanded, and the anger now was clear in his voice.

It stung Stuart. “Of course I do! And do you think I don't know why Gabriel was attacked last night? I am many things, Ashton, but I'm not a blind fool.”

For this moment Lionel could find none of his usual disdain for Stuart Nielson, he himself was tarred too thickly with the same brush. “I would imagine Pippa's with her brother. There's no one else she would turn to, is there?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“Very well. As it happens, we can keep her disappearance a secret for a while. I have the king's permission to remove her to my roof, where she will have the companionship of my ward and her duenna. They will assume that that's where she is.”

“And you will go in search of her?”

“Of course.” The affirmative was sharp. “If she's not with her brother then I'm certain he will know how to find her. I'll find
him
through the French ambassador.”

“How did she discover this?” Stuart's question was both bewildered and resentful. “How could she have found out?”

Lionel hesitated, then said, “She discovered your secret by accident. She's known about it for some weeks. For the rest . . .” He shook his head. “It seems that she retained some confused memory of what happened to her on those nights with Philip. She insisted on knowing the truth.”

“And you simply
told
her?” Stuart was aghast.

“She deserved the truth,” Lionel said curtly. “It was the least she deserved after what had been done to her.”

“Then why not let her go with her brother . . . now that she knows everything?” Stuart spoke with surprising power and determination.

“And you really imagine Philip and his cohorts will shrug their shoulders and wish her well?” Lionel demanded impatiently. “If I don't find her before they do, her life will not be worth a sou. You know that as well as I do. And you know damn well that only I can protect her.”

Stuart's complexion grew even paler. He turned aside from the other man's hard and angry stare. “I have had enough, Ashton. I will not play this part any longer. I will not be blackmailed any longer.”

“And how do you intend to stop it?” Sarcasm edged his voice. He no longer felt pity for Stuart. His own actions were despicable, but he had not known Pippa, he had owed her no loyalty, he had betrayed no trust.

Stuart simply shrugged. He would not tell the enemy what he intended to do.

“For your wife's sake, do nothing foolish,” Lionel demanded harshly. “Let no one know of her disappearance.” He turned on his heel and left Stuart, the door banging shut behind him.

Stuart slowly unclenched his fists. Pippa was out of his hands. She was Ashton's responsibility. His own responsibility lay in undoing as much as possible of the damage he'd done her.

The Bishop of Winchester would hear a full confession of Lord Nielson's relationship with Gabriel. The bishop would have to keep the secrets of the confessional but he would have to agree to annul the Nielsons' marriage. With that achieved, Stuart would send notice of the annulment and the reason for it to Lord and Lady Kendal. At least Pippa would be free of him. And she would never have to lay eyes upon him again.

Once he'd made what reparations he could he would take Gabriel and they would flee the country. He would have to work quickly to ensure the advantage of surprise. They were watching him closely but they thought he was still afraid of them, and they need never know otherwise until he and Gabriel were on the high seas.

Lionel was admitted immediately into the presence of the French ambassador.

Antoine de Noailles concealed his surprise and his intense curiosity with a diplomat's expertise. “Mr. Ashton, an unexpected pleasure. May I offer you wine?”

“Let us not beat about the bush, de Noailles. I need to know where Robin of Beaucaire has gone. I had some conversation with him last evening . . . perhaps he mentioned it.”

The ambassador poured wine and handed his guest a goblet. “Pray take a seat, sir.”

“No, I thank you. I prefer to remain on my feet.” He regarded de Noailles over the lip of his goblet and spoke crisply. “Come, let us not play games, man. There is no time. I have reason to believe that Lord Robin is escorting his sister. She is in very grave danger and, although Lord Robin may be an accomplished courier and an experienced spy, he cannot protect the lady unaided.”

“He is not in your league, I grant you,” the ambassador said with a tiny shrug. “I would wonder why you would wish to protect her when you were so intimately involved in putting her in this danger.”

A muscle twitched in Lionel's cheek but other than that his face remained without expression. He reached into the inside pocket of his doublet and drew out a small box. “This may speed up our conversation.” He laid it on the table beside the ambassador.

De Noailles picked it up. He shot his visitor a quick comprehending glance before lifting the lid. A seal in the shape of a scarab lay on a piece of velvet. “Your credentials?” he inquired, taking the seal gently in his hand.

“If you would have them,” Lionel returned with a dry smile. “I would have you understand that only the direst circumstances would force me to reveal them.”

“Yes, I'm sure that's true.” He returned the scarab to its box and handed it back to Lionel. “Even I do not have the seal. How many are there?”

Lionel shook his head. “You know as well as I that there are three. Only three.”

“And do you know who holds the other two?” Antoine's eyes were greedy with curiosity.

“No,” Lionel said. He laughed slightly. “We are a select group, my dear sir. And I have just compromised myself. Now, tell me where I may find Lord Robin.”

“I think first you must tell me how you intend to prevent the Spaniards getting their hands on the child Lady Pippa is carrying without breaking your cover.”

“I have no choice but to break my cover,” Lionel said. “It was always going to be a necessity in the end. I had hoped to preserve it until close to the end but . . .” He shrugged. “Needs must when the devil drives,
mon ami.
”

He tossed the scarab box from hand to hand. “If I can succeed in preventing Spain taking over English sovereignty then a lost cover is worth it.” He tucked the box back into the inner pocket of his doublet.

“Tell me . . .” De Noailles eyed him shrewdly. “What do you hear about Mary's pregnancy?”

“Probably what you hear. That it is false . . . that it exists only in her mind . . . a product of wishful thinking.” He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

The ambassador nodded. “I hear that 'tis said among her women that she has had a similar condition before, some kind of strangulation of the womb.”

“But her physicians give her hope.”

“They wish to remain in her favor.”

“And who can blame them,” Lionel said with a sardonic shake of his head. “Are you going to tell me what I wish to know, sir?”

“I suppose I must, although you have not given me any guarantees of the lady's safety.”

Lionel's mouth took a grim turn. “I swear to you on my sister's grave that I will keep her and her unborn child safe.”

The ambassador sat in silence for a minute. The soft menace in his visitor's voice chilled him. Only a fool would run afoul of Lionel Ashton.

He said finally, “Robin has gone to Woodstock, stopping to visit Sir William of Thame on the way. You put the cat among our pigeons last even, sir, with your talk of scarabs. I have changed the identifier and Robin has gone to inform Parry and thus Elizabeth that there may be a spy in their midst.”

“There certainly is one, if not half a dozen,” Lionel said with a dismissive shrug. “But as it happens, sir, 'tis not I. You have no need to change the identifier.”

“No,” the ambassador agreed. “If you will wait but a minute I will give you a letter for Lord Robin that will explain that . . . and in addition I hope will enable him to see you in a new light.” The latter statement was accompanied by an ironically raised eyebrow.

Lionel merely inclined his head in acknowledgment and set down his glass with a chink on the table. The ambassador wrote rapidly, waxed and sealed the paper, and handed it to Lionel.

“My thanks,” Lionel said shortly, thrusting it inside his doublet. “I will take the road to Thame then. For the moment, the Spanish council believes that Pippa is under my roof, keeping company with my ward and her duenna. We have a head start.”

“I will ensure that everyone knows that and nothing else,” the ambassador said. “God go with you, Mr. Ashton.”

“I'll settle for luck,” Lionel replied. “I have little truck with any god. Too much evil is done in that name.”

Malcolm was a patient man. He held the horses' reins in the sunshine outside the silversmith's shop, watching the passersby and giving no particular thought to the time. He understood that women enjoyed shopping, and Dona Luisa had little enough opportunity for it. If it took her half an hour to choose a thimble he would not object.

Finally, however, it struck him that she was taking a very long time. He tethered the reins to the iron ring set into the wall of the shop and entered the gloomy interior.

The silversmith came in from the back with a swift and eager step at the sound of footsteps in his shop. “Ah, y'are back, m'lady, I've—” His welcoming voice died as he saw that the newcomer was not the young lady for the thimbles.

“Oh, begging your pardon. I thought you were another customer.”

“Where's the young lady who came in here a short while ago?” Malcolm looked around the empty shop, a sinking feeling in his belly as premonition loomed.

“She asked me to get out some thimbles for her to look at. Said she'd be back in five minutes.” He glanced at the watch on his belt. “That was close on half an hour ago.”

“Hell and the devil!” Malcolm muttered. Dona Luisa for some reason had given him the slip. How had he let himself be fooled by that sweetly innocent smile?

He strode to the rear door and stepped out into the alley. Two half-naked grubby toddlers were playing in a mud puddle. “You seen a lady go past here?” he asked them.

They gazed up at him in wide-eyed incomprehension. He muttered another oath and ducked back into the shop.

“She coming back then, sir?” The silversmith was rather disconsolately examining his tray of thimbles.

“I doubt it,” Malcolm said on his way out of the front door. He retrieved the horses, mounted his own, and then leading Crema he went around the side of the shop to the alley behind.

She had been interested in Aldgate, and clearly she'd found the back way there. A woman hanging washing on a line told him that she had seen a veiled woman run by her cottage.

“In summat of an 'urry, she was,” she observed placidly, shaking out a shirt. “Thought it were strange. We don't get such folks around 'ere.”

Malcolm thanked her and pressed on towards Aldgate. With something akin to despair he examined the throng, the shrieking barrow boys and street vendors. It was a lively enough scene and would satisfy anyone's thirst for variety, but there was no sign of Dona Luisa. He tried the three taverns, although he could not imagine that such a sheltered creature would venture into their sour-smelling taprooms.

He asked a straw-sucking watchman if a young lady with a black veil had passed through the gate. The man shook his head and spat on the ground at his feet. “Nah, seen no lady 'ere. Leastwise, not on foot.”

“On horseback?”

“Nah. In a carriage.”

“How long ago?”

The watchman took another straw from behind his ear and sucked on it as he considered the question. “'Alf an hour, mebbe. Mebbe more. There was a gennelman ridin' alongside the carriage.”

“Describe him.”

The man shrugged. “Didn't take much notice. Regular kind of gennelman. Wearin' a green cloak. And he were on a black 'orse.”