Lisbon (63 page)

That the English girl had had such a startling effect upon the shadowy Madame de Marceau, he found strange indeed.

It was all very odd—and most intriguing.

Leeds Birmingham decided that it was time to meet the lady. He bent down and held a whispered conversation with a barefoot street urchin. A coin changed hands. The child nodded, tossed the stick he was carrying up the street, and charged after it, crashing into Cassandra from behind so that one of her legs was knocked out from under her—and she staggered back and half-fell into the arms of the gentleman in apricot silks who had sprinted forward to catch her.

“My goodness, that child crashed right into me!” she gasped, trying to right herself. In the confusion of the moment she never noticed that a young lad nearby had stopped and was staring hard at Leeds—but Leeds did. His face bore an amused grin as he saw the lad turn and melt back quickly toward the milliner’s—no doubt to report this encounter of the lady he was following with Prince Damião’s friend. Leeds turned his attention back to Cassandra, who was smiling up at him. “Thank you for catching me, sir.” Leeds Birmingham had a good grip on the lady. “Below the age of ten,” he laughed, “small boys are a menace on the streets!” He set Cassandra carefully upon her feet, peered down at her with sudden interest. “Why, you are the lady I saw yesterday!” he exclaimed. “At the cemetery beside that exceptionally tall footstone with the interesting inscription!”

“Yes.” Charlotte was delighted that the man who had set her back upon her feet should speak English. “Do you know it?”

“All in Portugal know that inscription.”

She stared at him, fascinated. “How could that be so?” “Because it is the same inscription as that on the tomb of Ines de Castro. A famous inscription and a tragic story— would you like to hear it, Mistress . . . ?”

“Cassandra Dunlawton. And I would like very much to hear it!”

“Leeds Birmingham, at your service.” He bowed. “But since the sun is so hot and the story so long, I would prefer not to tell it in the street. The Royal Cockerel is nearby and they serve an excellent
gazpacho.
Would you join me?” He proffered his arm.

Ordinarily Cassandra would have gone nowhere with someone chance-met on the street. But this was a foreign country and this well-dressed and well-spoken gentleman was obviously English, the sun was shining, and the Royal Cockerel was known to be the finest inn in Lisbon. She took the proffered arm.

In a dim corner of the great dining room, over
gazpacho,
Leeds Birmingham smiled into her eyes and began to talk.

“Ines de Castro was a lady-in-waiting to Crown Prince Pedro’s young wife Constanca—and very beautiful. The prince fell head over heels in love with this lady-in-waiting and she became his mistress. After Constanca died in childbirth he married Ines. But Ines had enemies. They persuaded Pedro’s father, King Afonso IV, that the prince would be better off without Ines—and then they murdered her.’’

Cassandra gasped.

A soft heart,
Birmingham thought happily. “Prince Pe
dro was wild with grief. He swore revenge. Two years later he succeeded to the throne—and he avenged her. He followed the courtiers who had murdered her to Castile and ...” He broke off, smiling. “I do not think you would care to hear what he did to them. Let us just say that among other things he had their hearts cut out— some say he did it himself. ”

Cassandra shuddered.

“And then”—his pleasant masculine voice grew richer —“he had Ines dug up, dressed in court costume, placed upon a throne,
and crowned as his queen.
All the couriters were forced to kiss her dead hand and swear fealty to her, then to bear her in a litter to a great tomb he had built for her in the Abbey of Alcobaca, a tomb placed foot-to-foot with his own tomb, so that—and these are his words— hers would be the first face he would see on the Day of Resurrection. He had carved upon it,
‘Ate o fim do mundo.’
”

“Until the end of the world,’’
breathed Cassandra, and her eyes were bright with tears.

Leeds Birmingham noted those tears with satisfaction.

Ah, he had made the right choice after all. She had to pass but one more test. . . .

They chatted for a long time over their
gazpacho,
and when she came out she felt she knew all about him. He had a mansion outside Southampton, his fortune came from shipping, he had been jilted by his betrothed, and his sisters had suggested a sea voyage as the best way to get over unrequited love. So she was not the only one running away from a love that could never be. Cassandra felt a rush of sympathy for Leeds Birmingham. His offer of dinner was warmly accepted.

The next morning they met again, seemingly by chance— although Cassandra was secretly sure that chance had nothing to do with it—right outside her inn.

“And where are you bound today?’ he wondered. “For Lisbon has many sights and I would be glad to show them all to you—and you to them!” he added gallantly.

“Well, I would love to go sightseeing, but first I must straighten something out.” Cassandra waved a piece of paper that had been delivered to her along with breakfast. “I have a note here from Madame de Marceau’s millinery establishment that tells me I am to pick up a hat. I know nothing about it but I feel I should go and explain that they have notified the wrong person.”

Leeds himself had sent that note—to see whether she would tell him about it or rush secretly to the shop of Pombal’s agent, the milliner Madame de Marceau. He gave her a broad smile. “Well, then let us get this hat business over first,” he suggested, pleased that Cassandra did not seem to know Madame, and curious to learn why the lady had had Cassandra followed.

Together they went into the shop. The little bell clapper over the door announced them. A smiling clerk stepped forward.

“I am Cassandra Dunlawton,” announced Cassandra, “and I have here a note from Madame de Marceau.” She waved it airily.

“A note?” The girl looked doubtful. “Ah, here is Madame now.”

A tall funereal figure garbed in solid black entered the room. From the back Madame de Marceau had heard Cassandra's clear young voice speak her name.

“I am told a hat is being held here for me, Madame. There must be some mistake. I bought no hat here.”

“Let me see the note.” Madame studied it. “I did not write this, Madame Dunlawton.”

“Oh?” Cassandra was taken aback.

“But I am glad you brought it.” The Frenchwoman s gaze was measuring. “Does the name Annette mean anything to you, Madame Dunlawton?”

Bewildered, Cassandra searched her memory. “No, it doesn't—oh, yes, I remember now, I did know an Annette Farraway in school. But I have not seen her since. She married and moved to Dorset.”

So Rowan had not seen fit to tell his daughter about her. . . . Annette felt a stab of regret. She had seen Rowan but once since he last left Lisbon, and that had been briefly in London. He had told her then that his elder daughter, Cassandra, had married a Scot named Dunlawton. Now half-drawn, half-repelled, Annette studied the dazzling blonde before her
—Rowan's daughter with Charlotte s face
.

In truth Annette had run out into the street yesterday in the belief that it was Charlotte who had opened the door to her shop. Instantly she had dispatched a lad to follow her, but had realized even before the lad returned to report the meeting with Leeds Birmingham that Charlotte could not be that young, this must be the daughter.

“No, we are not speaking about the same person, Madame Dunlawton, but I am glad you came. Here Annette gave Leeds a cold look that said,
despite the company you keep
! Leeds grinned genially back at her. He was well aware that Pombal's agents would have no liking for any friend of Prince Damião's! Annette turned back to the bewildered girl. “I knew your father, Rowan Keynes.” “You did? But how ... I am sorry, but I thought my father made only one brief trip to Portugal,” Cassandra confessed.

“I knew him in Paris—and other places.” Those sharp 
dark eyes were still studying her. “You look nothing like your father, Madame Dunlawton,” was Annette’s regretful comment.

“So I am told.” Cassandra laughed. “Yet my younger sister, Phoebe, is the very image of him.”

“Is she indeed? I should like to meet Phoebe.”

“Well, I doubt that you will. She is in England.” Cassandra sobered. “My father died some time ago in London.”

“Yes, I know.” It was for Rowan, Annette wore—and would always wear—this mourning garb. To remind her. “I regret your loss, Madame Dunlawton. He was the best friend I ever had—and the finest man I ever knew. ”

Well, this Frenchwoman was the first person who had ever said
that
about her father. Cassandra was impressed. “Did you know my mother too?”

Something—could it be scorn?—played fitfully behind the dark brooding gaze that was turned upon her. “Yes, I knew her. ”

“Could you tell me something of her life here in Lisbon?” Cassandra wondered. “Of how she died?”

“We are speaking of the woman with the footstone that is taller than her headstone,” put in Leeds conversationally.

Madame favored him with another cold look. “I know nothing about footstones.” But she would certainly go and look! “But I know that she had a handsome funeral procession.”

“Yes, Phoebe and I watched it from our window. ” There was a little catch in Cassandra’s voice as she remembered that sorrowful day when she had looked down through her tears upon the black-tasseled horses and the casket draped with its handsome black-and-gold funeral pall. “My father rode in the procession, I remember. But there were so many mourners, I thought perhaps you might have been one?”

“They were paid mourners.” Some slight roughness in her voice made Leeds look at Madame keenly. There was something here that did not meet the eye.

“I thought perhaps you could tell me how she died.”

So that was it!
The wench had come searching.
“I am 
sorry.” Madame had become politely vague. “I really do not know. ”

“Thank you. ” Cassandra felt disheartened. She had hoped that this old friend of her father’s might know more about her wayward young mother.

Leeds Birmingham was discovering that he too wanted to know how Cassandra’s mother had died. Once they were out on the street, he suggested they try to find records, look up the attending physician.

“Oh, could we?” Cassandra was so grateful it almost made him feel ashamed of himself.

“Indeed we can.” He set off down the crowded street beside her, keeping his own tall form well out on the street side to protect her from passing vehicles or riders.

Of a sudden Leeds’ hat was flicked from his head and there was a sound like the spitting of a cat.

Cassandra had never seen a man move so fast. With a sudden fluid gesture Leeds Birmingham had whirled, sword bared from its scabbard—to face an imperious dark-haired young lady, magnificently dressed, who sat above him on a sleek black horse, her face shaded by a wide silver-studded black sombrero. Cassandra saw that she was holding a small riding crop in one gloved hand.

It was she who had made that spitting sound, she who had flicked the hat from Leeds Birmingham’s head with her whip. And now she sat glaring down at him, surrounded by her entourage, two mounted horsemen—not seated upon silver-studded saddles like herself, but looking competent enough and ready to fight. And behind her from a carriage an older woman dressed in black waved a handkerchief and entreated, “Constanca! Constanca!” And then a flood of wailing Portuguese which Cassandra did not understand.

Leeds Birmingham’s whole demeanor was transformed in an instant. “Doña Constanca!” He swept her a deep bow as he retrieved his hat, and grinned up at her. “How delightful to see you again!”

Doña Constanca jerked her horse’s head around and spurred forward, almost riding down a group of pedestrians, who leapt out of her way. The carriage rolled forward, 
her henchmen rode swiftly after her—they were all gone as if they had never been there.

And Leeds was brushing off his hat. "A dangerous lady is Doña Constanca,” he mused. “The hot blood of the Alentejo runs in her veins.” He turned to Cassandra. “It is a harsh dry land, much like Castile. Desolate country where wild black boars root acorns beneath the cork oaks and fighting bulls are bred.”

And fighting ladies as well
, thought Cassandra wryly. “Why does she hate you so?” she asked curiously.

Those broad apricot silk shoulders shrugged. “Doña Constanca Varváez, who lives in one of the pink palaces we shall shortly be viewing, is betrothed to one of the king s younger sons, Prince Damião. She resents my influence over him.”

Cassandra felt a little thrill go through her—a royal prince! “And do you have this influence over him?” she ventured.

“I hope so. ” He said that very firmly as he sheathed his sword and clapped his hat back on his head. “This is a day for hats,” he declared merrily. “Well, let us be off to view the Tagus River and to sail the Sea of Straw in a
fragata 
with a burnished red sail and the Eye of God painted upon its hull!” He took Cassandra s arm jauntily. “And then we will see what we can discover about your mother s death, Cassandra.”