Ondine (35 page)

“Your glass, my dear, is empty, shall I fill it for you?”

“Aye, Uncle.”

“More beef? More fowl?”

“Ah, nay, I think. Thank you.”

“Ah, you appear a little worn! You mustn’t play tonight, or tarry here, but go to your room and rest.”

“I am a bit weary.”

Weary! She was overjoyed. Everything was going her way …

After the briefest kiss upon the forehead from Raoul, she was able to escape to her room. She dressed herself in a simple gown and waited. Then, waiting, grew restless and anxious. She stripped away the gown she had donned and, wrapped herself instead in the silver fox fur cloak. With that cover and nothing beneath it, she hovered near the balcony, waiting again, anxious again.

Midnight came, and with it appeared Warwick.

She greeted him with a glad cry, throwing her arms about him.

“Oh, my love! I’m so glad to see you, but so frightened. It’s dangerous …”

“I had to come, you know that. I tried to be cleaner, but I dared not shave.”

“I care not how you come to me.”

“Love me …”

“I do.”

He wrapped her tightly into his arms, rubbed his chin against her hair, breathing in her scent. His arms were about the soft fur of the cloak, and he thought that he’d never seen her more beautiful, felt a touch softer than the silver fur, unless that touch be the silk of her flesh.

“Love me now …”

“Gladly, oh, Warwick …”

“The cloak—there’s nothing beneath it.”

“Nothing—but all of me. All that loves you, so desperately, milord!” she replied, and his hands cast the cloak from her, and he thought that, aye, here was softness, sleekness, beauty, greater than silver or gold.

Ah, yes, glory came with darkness, with midnight, with words whispered in firelight and shadow! He threatened her again about Raoul, but not until they’d satisfied those first intensive needs, not until they lay together, damp with contentment, arms entwined. Then she teased him with questions about his past—about the lady Anne and the nights he had ridden away from Chatham.

“I had to ride out or else go mad!” he swore to her. “For you see, I did not dare to love you.”

“It wasn’t another woman?”

“Never,” he swore. “Never, from the very first time I laid my eyes upon you.”

“Oh, Warwick!” She kissed him hard and with loving enthusiasm, leaning against him, adoring just that very natural and intimate contact of their bodies, the amber glow in his eyes, the rugged wonder of his face.

“But what of Anne?”

He shrugged. “Anne was just—there. Ondine, I did not deceive Genevieve—ever. And though she was tender and sweet, I did not love her, not as I love you.”

“Oh, Warwick!” she repeated, and she kissed him again.

“As to Raoul … ” He growled low in his throat.

And only then did she remember that they were very near out of the dilemma.

“Warwick!”

“What!”

“I’ve found it, well, not ‘it,’ but something that might well clear me! There’s a blotter, on my uncle’s desk, and it’s quite easy to see that someone practiced my handwriting there!”

He scowled where there should have been pleasure. “You were prowling around his chambers.”

“I had to—”

“Nay! What if he had caught you!”

“But I must—”

“Nay! I will get this blotter. Tomorrow. You will not go near those rooms again. I’m at the end of my patience. I will get that evidence you have discovered, and we will have done with this. I’ll find it tomorrow, and we leave tomorrow night.”

She paused, burying her face in his neck. “Warwick, it will not be enough.”

“What?”

She swallowed back a little sob.

“Please … give me just a few more days! The blotter might prove something, but it will not clear my father’s name!”

He sighed. He didn’t believe she could find proof to clear her father’s name. “Three days, Ondine, no more. I cannot tolerate Raoul even touching you! On the third night, we leave!”

“You’ll come for me here?” she inquired softly.

“Nay—you’ll come to me at the blacksmith’s cottage, as soon as you can escape after dinner.” He hesitated. “I like not the idea of your slipping from the balcony.” Again he paused, turning to take her passionately into his arms.

“I love you, Ondine,” he said, holding her tight, all the rugged planes of his face tense, strong, and endearingly handsome. “But alas, it seems that very balcony beckons me again.”

She clung to him, despising the moment that he left her.

“Will you come tomorrow night?”

“Aye.”

” ‘Tis so dangerous!”

“Madam, I cannot stay away!” he told her. Then he held her once again, loathe to go, knowing he must.

Daylight was returning.

London

Clinton and Justin had taken a small house right on the river. It was not a difficult task for them to question and query, mainly because Justin had always been friends with young Buckingham, and Buckingham was known for his vast social endeavors. They spent their time in a whirlwind of activities, from theatrical entertainment at court to carousing the streets in near drunken stupors. They invited guests for dinner, they played in ribald fashion with any number of young swains and certain ladies known for being far less than discreet.

To most eyes it would appear that they were no more or no less than the noble rich, sewing wild oats with a certain decadence.

But it was from one of the young ladies—an earl’s sixth daughter with little chance of a dowry and an even poorer chance of securing a sound husband—that Clinton received his first decent clue.

One extremely pleasant evening as they lay together in his bed, he learned from her that one of the king’s guards had retired from the court after that long-ago day of the joust, giving the king no valid reason for his request, yet begging that he be released from duty. When Clinton demanded to know what his companion could really know of such things, she admitted that she had been clandestinely involved with the man, and therefore had a good understand- ing of his feelings. Her father had ended the affair, determined that she marry within her station, even if her husband should prove to be an aged ogre.

The lady’s name was Sarah, and Clinton grew quite fond of her, not only for her youth and beauty, but her frankness, honesty, tenderness, and passion. He did not go so far as to make any admissions to her, but he told her that it was most urgent he meet with the man. She agreed to help him. By the following afternoon she returned to the house on the river, telling Clinton that he and Justin might meet with the man at an alehouse near Charing Cross.

Night came. Though Clinton was too enamored of Sarah to trust his judgment regarding her, Justin was not, and he decided to trust her. He looked Sarah up and down when they were due to depart, noting the excitement in her lustrous brown eyes and her obvious adoration when she gazed upon his cousin. He knew of her from Buckingham. Her father offered her nothing and kept her in tight rein. She had in turn offered her own form of obedience, chancing no elopement, but lifting her small chin and living her life as she would, a guest at the king’s court, a companion to his queen, free to enjoy some of her youth before that’ ‘ogre” of a husband, eager for young flesh with dowry or no, might be found.

“She’ll have to come with us,” Justin told Clinton. “How else will we know that we’ve discovered the right man? It would be even more dangerous should we make a mistake in identity.”

Sarah placed a small hand into his. “John Robbins is wary of this meeting, Clinton. I understand none of this, but he is deeply afraid of something. He said that he will see you only where there are a multitude of people. I believe he fears that someone seeks his life.”

Justin gazed at Clinton over Sarah’s burnished brown curls and raised an eye. They had to trust someone, and in time, others might talk and realize that they had been quizzing everyone about a long-ago day when the Duke of Rochester had lifted his sword against the king and had been slain in turn.

“We all go, I say,” Justin stated softly.

Shrugging, Clinton helped Sarah into her cloak, and they went out into the streets to hire a carriage.

The alehouse was crowded when they entered, filled with the riffraff of London, riotous and smoky. Men were puffing on pipes, and with the soot from the cooking and heating fires, the place seemed cast into deep mist and shadow.

“Charming,” Justin commented. People were everywhere; it seemed doubtful that they should find a place on a bench to sit, much less discover a certain man amongst so many.

“We’ll go toward the far corner,” Sarah suggested, “for the greatest shadow is there, and then John Robbins will look for us.”

A bawdy drunk tried to waylay Sarah on their journey through the room. Clinton whacked him once upon the arm, and the man groaned with shock. “Eh, guv’ner! Meanin’ no disrespect! Just tryin’ fer a little fun, sir!”

“Try elsewhere!” Justin snapped. “Can you not tell a lady of breeding, man?”

The husky drunk began to laugh. “Ah, sires, you know not the place, eh?”

“What?” Justin pressed him.

The drunk reddened and stared into the foam of his ale. Then he gave off a wheezing laugh.

“Breeding!” He looked back up to Justin a little apologetically. “Ye’re some noble line yerself, my young lord, so I can see. Yet not so young, methinks, to have ascertained that noble blood can little rule noble flesh!” He fell silent, gripping his mug, then motioned for Justin to come closer. “‘Tis a room in back, sire. Commoner and lord, wench or lady, may go there and find whatever they wish in”—he grimaced—-“deviations in
amore!
Ye kin what I’m sayin’?”

Justin lowered his lashes in a secret smile; aye, he knew what was being said. Buckingham should have known this place well! A lord might come here for a casual and easily paid affair; equally, a lady of the finest pedigree might don a cloak and mask and find entertainment secret from family or friends. The drunk had merely assumed Sarah to be a young lady on the hunt for an adventure that “society” would not allow her.

He dropped a coin on the man’s table, glad to know more of this place they had come to haunt. “Have an ale on me, friend, but warn your companions—this young lady is not for the taking.”

“Thank ye, sire! Thank ye!” the drunk mumbled, and Justin hurried along to join Clinton and Sarah.

They found a bench in the far corner. Justin ordered ale, and they sat, eyeing everyone that came and went within the alehouse. In time a figure approached them, a tall, lean man, heavily cloaked in gray wool, appearing much like a holy father or a pilgrim.

He knew them, or he knew Sarah, for he slid into the bench beside Justin, reaching for his ale, as if it had been ordered for him. He kept his head lowered, and it was difficult to see his features, yet Justin did glean that he was a man of about thirty years, aged and beaten for that time, nervous and sad of eye.

“I have come for Sarah’s sake only,” he told them. “Talk quickly to me, and I will answer what I may.”

Once, just once, he stared quickly up at Sarah. Something wistful touched his eyes and passed, and again he stared into the mug of ale.

“I need to know something of a day when the king’s life was threatened and a man lay dead in the wake,” Justin told him.

John Robbins stiffened.” Tis long past,” he said, “and nothing to be gained of it. The duke is dead; his daughter also, I must think.”

Justin gripped his arm. “Nay, she lives! And so does she need help.”

John Robbins stared quickly about the room; even here he was afraid.

“Man, we do not threaten your life!” Justin assured him.“Does someone do so, then?”

“Aye, and not my own! Were I to be discovered in this speech—” He sighed, swallowed a long draft of ale, then said, “I’ve an old mother, living out her final days. Four sisters, young, lovely, and innocent. Perhaps ‘tis not me that would be struck, yet these I love.”

“By who?” Justin demanded.

At last the cowled man looked him full in the face. “You tell me—that she lives? The daughter? What proof have I? She ran that day, and all that I could do for her was to refrain from catching her! Even then I dared not speak, for
all
were so enraged on behalf of the king. /
did not know what I had seen myself,
and before the time came that I pondered the incident clearly, a man had come to me.”

“What man? Deauveau—William Deauveau?”

He shook his head. “Nay, the son. Raoul. He carried on his hands the old man’s blood. And he told me he knew well the place where my mother lived, and that were he to die himself, the order was already set and paid that my sister should be taken—her throat cut.”

He paused, lifting the ale to his lips once again, as if he could not wet them enough. He stared about the table bleakly. “Even were it not for the threat, there seemed little I could do. You understand, it was like a magician’s trick—done so fast. The sword was not there—then it was. And then the old duke died, and all were outraged, seeking his daughter, ready to slay her upon the spot.”

“There is nothing to fear!” Clinton told him heatedly. “The king himself is eager that the girl be cleared; that she seize Deauveau Place from those who hold it!”

John Robbins stared at them distrustfully. “What is this thing to you, then? How do I know there is reason to risk those I love? What tells you that the daughter lives, and what assurance have I that the king is on your side?”

“Chatham,” Justin said softly. “My brother is the Earl of North Lambda—”

“Charles’s great champion …” Robbins murmured.

“Aye, the same. Even now he lurks as a servant on the Deauveau estate, keeping watch upon the duke’s daughter, because she is his wife. We are Chathams, and I swear to you that we carry great weight—”

“Chathams!”

It was a female voice that interrupted him from behind. In great dismay Justin turned, already wary of the voice. He stiffened, like one preparing for battle.

“Lady Anne,” he muttered.

“Aye, and so wondrously surprised to see you!”

Crooning, she moved around to join them; her appearance was too much for John Robbins. He bolted, knocking everyone from his path.

“Oh, be damned!” Justin roared, jumping to his feet to give chase. He was but vaguely aware that Anne was unconcerned at all the activity, and she sat in the very spot from which he had departed.

Justin stumbled his way through the drunks and tables after John Robbins. He lost no time, yet when he reached the street, there was no sign of Robbins. Though he looked in all directions, he could not find a clue to follow, for the snow was trampled to a black mush that allowed for no prints.

Heaving a great sigh, he at last gave up and returned to the tavern.

Anne! Oh, bloody damn her! If she wasn’t always turning up when she was least wanted! Turning up—and twisting knives, so it seemed. She was leaning over the table, talking, as Justin approached their group. He shook his head briefly to Clinton in silent admission that their quarry had been lost.

Anne! He should have known, he realized ruefully, that she might be part of the clientele of such a place! Having failed in pursuit of Warwick, she was too lusty a wench to spend time seeking out another of his ilk. What drew men to her also caused them to tire of her. Her very mien spoke of forbidden and carnal pleasure, and promised at the same time that she should never be trusted.

Warwick! He swore to himself as he thought of his brother. Little might Warwick have known that simple pleasure would have these consequences. It had been a heated affair, a negligent indulgence upon the part of the Earl of North Lambria, but it would haunt them all, so it seemed, for an eternity. Warwick’s marriage still meant nothing to Anne. Fair or foul, Justin knew, Anne meant to have him back. She could not comprehend that Ondine was no light infatuation for Warwick. Much more than his wife, she was the one woman he could adore, in passion and tenderness, forever.

He sighed wearily. Anne was just a damnable thorn in his side for the moment, accosting them at precisely the wrong moment. Yet she was far more than a mere irritation, for now they would have to hunt and pray and spend long, long hours searching for John Robbins and swearing to him that they could protect him and his family if he came forward with the truth.

“Justin! How very rude for you to depart just as I arrive!” Anne said sweetly, moving so that he could sit.

Justin noticed that Clinton appeared so tense, he might be ready to kill; Sarah was flushed, yet her eyes were bright, like one ready to do battle.

“You disrupted us, Anne,” he said lightly, retrieving his ale then, for he felt he needed it badly.

“Oh, I saw! I do apologize, yet who should suspect that you were involved in a mysterious assignation!” Anne laughed. “Do tell me all about it, Justin! Who was that man?”

“I told her that we’d a horse stolen,” Clinton said quickly, impatiently. “That we found this character to give clue to the thief—but have now lost him.”

Justin shrugged and stared at Anne. “So you have heard.” He smiled pleasantly, determined to become the aggressor before she could plague them further with questions.

“Anne … Lady Anne! Now, what on earth would you be about in a lowly—brothel such as this?”

Anne shrugged, tossing back her dark hair, smiling at Justin, eyes sparkling with vivid energy. “Oh, I do grow bored of some of the endless protocol at court! “fis fun to view the lowlife now and then; ‘tis exciting, don’t you think?”

Justin stared at her a long moment and thought that she was, indeed, a striking woman. Beautiful… and so completely sensual in every word and movement that any man felt his blood stir at the sight of her, at the sound of her husky words. There was that undeniable sultriness about her. Yet he thought that she did not compare with his sister-in-law. Ondine’s golden beauty was an even greater thing. The carriage of her head was so alluring, the sound of her voice so lovely, even beguiling. She had courage in abundance, which Anne did not lack, but she had more. Ondine carried a passion within her that Anne lacked: where she loved, she would love deeply; whom she honored, she would honor forever. Despite that sensual stirring that Anne could cause, Justin felt that all masks had been lifted; he knew Anne for all that she was—and wasn’t—and decided that he was enough the rogue himself to enjoy a game of wits with her.

He smiled in turn at brilliant eyes.

“Tell me, do you come here only to ‘view’ others?”

She laughed softly, untouched by the taunt. “Justin Chatham, you, sir, are a blackguard. Tell me why the question, and perhaps I will give an answer.”

“An idle one, merely.”

“Umm,” Anne murmured, then her eyes flashed across the table. “How strange that Sarah comes here, too!”

“On my cousin’s arm,” Justin commented.