Ondine (37 page)

“And live past it well,” he murmured dryly, pulling his small blade from his hip and idly paring his nails with it. He emitted a sudden impatient oath. “Damn, but this blade needs a honing. Raoul Deauveau! Call that smith of yours here! I’ve a mind that man could make a finer thing of my blade!”

Raoul was instantly up, bowing and out. The king commented on the hall; William said again that they were grateful to him, glad that he had lifted his disfavor, though it was true that the family had been deserving of his anger.

Then Warwick entered the hall on Raoul’s heel, his golden gaze already wary of what was to come.

“There you are! It seems I’ve a dull knife here, yet I’m convinced that you can set it to rights.”

“Your Majesty, I shall do my best.”

Warwick once again knelt at the king’s side, next to Ondine, as he extended his hands to accept the knife. Charles dropped it to the floor.

“Ah, it seems the cold has numbed my fingers!”

“No difficulty there, sire,” Warwick said smoothly, ducking to retrieve the knife. “I do live to serve you.”

“Do you? How charming!” The king applauded. Ondine quickly looked down at her plate, lest she be tempted to laughter once again. Yet she had the feeling that the king meant more here than idle play, though she did not understand quite what he was doing. She longed to talk to Warwick herself, away from all prying ears, and discover whether he had managed to retrieve the blotter from her uncle’s desk.

Perhaps Warwick had been called in so that he and Ondine could have a moment together, because Charles suddenly stood, moving far across the room to point out the window and ask a question about the usage of the land. William and Raoul came quickly to his side, leaving Warwick kneeling down beside Ondine.

She pretended to sip her tea, but whispered instead to him, her long hair a shield that hid their hurried conversation.

“Have you the blotter? We could get it to Charles now—”

“Nay! We cannot!” he responded with a hoarse breath of air. His golden gaze touched hers with firelit sparks. “It was gone; the desk was clean when I went there.”

She stared at him with horror. He uttered some terse warning sound that reminded her they were not alone, and she swallowed back the despair and frustration that had seized her, turning to smile for the king.

“Ah, off your knees, man!” he told Warwick. “Go—see what you can do with my knife!”

Warwick rose, bowed briefly, and hurried from the hall. The king lingered long enough to finish his ale and comment once again that he bore the family Deauveau no grudge. Then he said that he must be gone, but would return.

“We’ll send for your knife—” William offered.

“No need; I’d enjoy a view of the forge!” the king said, and sweeping his cloak about his shoulders, he started out himself with his customary long strides.

Raoul and William gazed at each other, then leapt to their feet to follow him.

Ondine remained where she was, pensive and worried once again. The blotter was gone. Yet how could they have known that she had seen it? Maybe they did not know. Maybe, once again, time had worked against her, and William had merely decided to clear his desk.

Oh, God … but then why her uncle’s sharply sarcastic anger that morning? Something was afoot. But surely, now that the king had been here and seen her here, they would not dare to harm her.

Nay, she decided bleakly, that was a slender thread to cling to indeed! They had managed to murder her father before witnesses and come from it the heroes. Perhaps Warwick was right, and it was exceedingly dangerous to linger here at all. And now her scant hope had disappeared.

She sighed softly, squaring her shoulders. Dangerous or no, she would have to start over again. She had loved her father so dearly, and she loved the life she was carrying with all her heart. How could she not pit all her heart and strength into justice for that generation gone, and that to come?

Charles knew that William and Raoul Deauveau had followed him; he knew, too, that they would not dare to intrude upon him once he had closed a door.

And that was what he did, as soon as he entered the forge.

Warwick gazed up from his stone seat by the fire. He was not about to kneel again—he’d been on his knees enough to last a good ten years, much as he did honor his king.

He smiled ruefully, instead, offering Charles his sharpened blade, then sweeping a bow with the same mockery he’d received. “Your Majesty! I most humbly pray ‘tis sharp as you desire!”

” Tis sharp as your tongue!” Charles retorted quickly, grinning, but he sobered quickly. “Tell me, in all haste, what goes on here.”

Warwick sighed despairingly. “Nothing! Ondine thought she was on to something, but when I scaled the walls to retrieve this evidence she had discovered, it was gone. Charles—there is no hope here! She must understand that. She is blinded by that love she bore her father, too proud to retreat. If she finds these documents—these forgeries—they hold over her head, to what avail is that? It does not prove that her father did not raise his sword against you. I’ve told her I’ll give her three days—including this one—and that is all. I’ll take her from this country if need be; but I will take her from here, as is my right, so help me God! Those two are evil in the extreme, and we have come too far; she has endured enough. How many times may one woman cheat death?”

Charles stared at his passionate servant and sighed. “Ah, Warwick, that is why I determined to come now. I assumed that once they had seen me—and I had seen Ondine here, beneath their care—they would think twice before seeking to harm her.” He hesitated a moment. “I am in accord with you, though. Linger here no longer than three days more. ‘Tis better to forfeit the lands than her life.”

Warwick nodded tensely.

“I must leave; I stay with a smith too long. Tis well I’m known for a liking of the common man!”

“Charles!” Warwick called when the king would leave. Charles turned back curiously. Warwick knelt to him once again, and this time in all sincerity and truth.

“Thank you. For your belief, for your care.”

The king grinned slowly. “You saved my life once upon a time. Remember? And Chathams have remained loyal; I’ll not forget the blood spilled on my father’s behalf. You see, Warwick,” he added, grinning crookedly with pain, “I understand Ondine’s feelings well. My father, too, was killed by treachery, though it was of a different nature. Get off your knees now, for in all honesty, you are not a man to do well upon them!”

Warwick stood, and the king embraced him, then hurriedly took his leave. Following him and standing at the doorway, Warwick was able to hear the king cheerfully comment that he was well pleased with his knife. He watched the royal party depart, then turned back to the fire, glad that there was work to do, work to keep his hands busy while his mind remained in eternal worry and chaos.

Yet he paused when he would have set to melting steel, for with the king’s departure, William and Raoul Deauveau had not returned to the house. They came back toward the forge, engaged in a fierce argument.

Warwick came to the open doorway and hovered just behind it in shadow, straining to make out their words while remaining beyond their vision. It was not difficult to do, for the tenor of their voices kept rising.

“I tell you it’s true!” William rasped in fury.

“And I tell you it is no more than supposition!” Raoul retorted.

“Supposition! So tell me, Son, does that supposition not dismay you?”

“You’re taking the word of a thick-bodied and thick-minded stinking peasant!”

There was a long silence; then came a long, long expulsion of air from William Deauveau.

“Berta is large, yes—I needed a large woman, in case your lovely and devious betrothed decided to be troublesome. But she is bright and knows women well. She would not make a mistake. Your sweet little virgin is definitely with child.”

Warwick was so startled that it seemed his heart ceased to beat; coldness … a blanket of coldness, like a river of snow, seemed to engulf him. His mind raced blankly for a moment, then pitched into a fever of emotion.

By God, he felt like thrashing her with a thousand lashes! How could she have done it! Left him, left Chatham, when she was carrying his heir? How could she play this dangerous game, when even more than their own lives was at stake?

Oh, fool that he was! A chambermaid had noted it, and he had not! He, her husband, who held her and cradled her and loved her through the night …

“I knew that she was no virgin, Father. She came to me with the truth—a truth she dared not tell you. And what matter does it make to you? I am the one taking the bride! One tryst, and virginity is lost; the difference is but a night—”

“You’re not listening! The girl is not only deflowered, but carrying some lout’s child!”

“That, too, Father, is easily handled! We need only keep her hidden once her condition is discovered; the child can be disposed of with little effort.”

“She’ll surely love you and serve you well once you’ve slain her child!” William scoffed.

Raoul began to laugh. “What matter that, sir? We’ve already slain her sire!”

“We need to get rid of her now—”

“What? The king would surely be suspect! Damn you, Father, I will have her!”

“You are a fool! All sense and mind tucked into your pants!”

“Father—”

“Nay, I’ll argue no more! Marry the bitch if you are so keen upon her! Take her—you but take yourself straight to hell!”

Warwick wound his fingers into fists of tension at his sides.

Nay, Raoul Deauveau and sire William, he thought, so enraged that before his eyes the world had turned red. Blood red. It is I who shall take you straight to the gates of hell!

“I wash my hands of it!” William exclaimed, then said on a curious tone that was by far lighter, “Do what you will, Raoul. Ah, see to things here, Raoul. I’ll not be about for our evening meal.”

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere special. I’ve received a message from an old friend; I shall spend some time with her this evening.”

“A woman?” Raoul chuckled. “Ah, Father. The fires of lust still bum brightly, eh?”

“Umm. Perhaps. We shall see. I shall go now, so you may have your precious beauty all to yourself for the evening. Your black widow, that is!”

“Father, I tell you, she has been broken to my will!”

William answered something, but they were walking away, and Warwick could hear them no more.

Perhaps it was good that they walked away. The awful anger, the anger that washed the world in a mist of red, was still within him. Had they lingered longer, he might have emitted a primal, tearing scream and rushed out to slay them both with his bare hands, or die in the attempt.

Ah, foolish action! For if he were to die, he would but leave Ondine at their mercy. Ondine … and their unborn child.

Yet one thing was certain: It was no longer Ondine’s battle alone. In his heart, to the depths of his soul, he knew that the two usurpers must die—in fair fight—by his hand.

Ondine …

He set his mouth grimly, for at the moment he also had a most serious argument with his wife!

At a bench in the rear of the White Feather, Jake sat lazily sipping a tankard of ale, legs pulled up, his back comfortably resting against the wall. He grinned, watching the activity in the room; a dice game in one corner, cards in the next. Men drank and laughed, and the tavern maids, their wondrous bosoms well exposed, laughed in turn and served more ale. A haunch of venison roasted on the open flame, creating a tempting aroma. It was cozy and warm, a fine shelter from the blustery cold that encompassed everything beyond the doors.

All in all, Jake thought, smiling as he saw that Molly was fixing him a plate of the venison, spooning rich gravy over the meat, he’d made out rather well on this particular adventure. The lord of Chatham was busy at an anvil, while Justin and Clinton were on the prowl in London. All he’d had to do was to endure the days with his eyes open and his ears tuned—a most convivial assignment! As it happened, Molly seemed to enjoy the warmth of his heart and minded not his gnome’s face, so leisure had become a handsome sport, and he would most certainly be sorry to leave this place behind.

Molly placed his food before him, blushing like a bride, smoothing her hands over her skirt. “Ah, what a lass ye are, Molly!” he told her, placing the coin for the meal between the lovely plump pillows of her breasts. She flushed again, lightly slapping his hand.

“Now, ye eat that, sir, while it’s still hot and good! And watch yer hands amongst the management!”

Jake broke into easy laughter, for the management was willing to sell most anything. But he cast a wink Milly’s way and dipped a hunk of bread into the gravy, savoring the taste. For whatever else might take place here, none could deny that the White Feather boasted a fine cook and warm filling food.

“A taste to savor, Molly, lass!” he said approvingly, and added, “Only ye, yerself, lass, have the power to please the palate greater!”

“Ah, get away with ye, ye silver-tongued flatterer!” She stooped to give him a quick kiss, but Jake tensed suddenly, his eyes upon the tavern door.

It had swung open suddenly, taken from the hands of the latest customer by the force of the winter wind. Gusts swept into the place, carrying a sprinkling of snow.

Yet it was neither gusts nor the snow that Jake noticed, but the latest patron of the tavern.

It was the lady Anne.

Clad from head to toe in an encompassing cloak, all that one could see were her beautiful dark eyes, but Jake knew those dark eyes, aye, he knew them well!

Some young hearty called out against the cold, yelling that the door be closed. And then Jake saw that Anne was not alone; a great hulk of a man entered behind her, silencing the shouts by his mere appearance. His size and height signified a dangerous fellow, strong, and accustomed to using the sword and pistol in his belt.

“Hardgrave,” Jake muttered in shock against Molly’s lips.

Molly mumbled something, freeing herself from him in a fervor. “Now, Jake, a pinch on the rump be one thing, but—”

“Molly! Molly!” he brought his voice to a urgent whisper, needing to hold her near until he could shift around, placing his back toward the two who had just entered. “Molly, girl, do ye love me?”

“What is this, Jake?” she demanded suspiciously.

“Molly, do ye love me—just one little bit? ‘Cause if ye do, then I need yer help now.”

Molly frowned, but seemed to sense his tension. “All right, then, Jake, me love, what is it?” she asked in return, whispering as he did.

“Those two—the lady and gent what just came in—ye must wait on them, Molly, and ye must listen sharp to what they say.”

Molly looked around to regard Hardgrave and Anne curiously. They were seating themselves at the long bench across the fire from Jake. Hardgrave cast his gloves upon the table, looking around the room with distaste. “Eh, innkeeper! Service here!”

“Why, he’s not even sitting yet!” Molly said indignantly. “Must be some great lord or t’other.”

“Molly, go ta him, please! Like a good lass. Hurry, now! And keep silent ‘bout me, now!”

Molly hesitated just a second, then went scampering over to the table with her head humbly low.

Jake shrank as close as he could to the wall, straining to listen, then realizing that he didn’t really have to. The tavern din, silenced when the door had burst inward, slowly rose again. Lord Lyle Hardgrave seemed to have no thought of being overheard.

“What have you got for wine here, girl?”

“None, this night, sir. We’ve ale—”

“Bring your best, and mind you, it must be your best. Give me no pig swill, or you’ll wear it over your head, mind you!”

“Aye, the best!” Molly said, bobbing a curtsy. He went on to command a plate of venison and warned her that it must be fine, else she would wear gravy. Molly bobbed again. Lady Anne shook her head impatiently at the prospect of food, but would certainly take ale instead of wine. Molly hurried away from them to fulfill the order, and the lady Anne chuckled at Hardgrave’s displeasure.

“Lyle—what would you here? The place is a country sewer, no more! Were you expecting a list of specialties from the vineyards of France?”

She laughed with delight at her own joke, and Jake saw that she seemed exceptionally excited this night, diamond-eyed with pleasure.

“We should have dined in London,” Hardgrave complained with a grunt.

“How can you think of food at such a moment!” Anne snapped impatiently, but her humor seemed quickly restored, for she smiled like an angel when Molly returned with bread and ale; she told Hardgrave she found the service ample.

Molly curtsied and scurried away once again. Jake watched her at the fire, fixing Hardgrave’s plate. He frowned, unable to hear the words at the next table as Hardgrave suddenly lowered his voice.

Anne laughed again, a tinkling, melodious sound that worried Jake gravely—more gravely than the fact that the two of them were here! It could be no accident. This was none of those places of ill-repute that the nobility were known to haunt!

Molly set the plate before Hardgrave, hovering there as long as she could, but then Hardgrave seemed to lose patience with her.

“What are you, girl, a moth? I’ve the food before me—now get your rump gone!”

Molly left him, disappearing into the kitchen, returning with another foaming tankard for Jake, though he had ordered none. She was a bright girl, that Molly, for she had used it only as an excuse to whisper into his ear.

“I cannot linger, Jake, perhaps if I stand by the fire—”

“Nay, Molly, I can hear them fine, mostly, meself! Go about yer work, love!”

She nodded, astutely leaving him so he would miss nothing more.

“Will you hurry with that!” Anne urged Hardgrave. “I don’t want you about when Deauveau arrives!”

“And why not?” Lord Hardgrave asked Anne, smacking his lips over his venison, washing it down with a swig of ale and a sigh. He wagged a greasy finger at Anne. “Why do you wish to meet him alone to begin with—”

“Oh, we have been through this!” Anne said impatiently. “You will grow impatient; you will be—uncouth! This is a business deal we make here. I wrote the message, did I not? And we received an immediate response! Lyle, he is a man—and I best deal with men! Now, shall we have this go smoothly, or no?”

Hardgrave muttered something that Jake could not hear, no matter how he tensed and strained. Yet already it seemed that the blood had gone cold in his body and raced like icy streams throughout him. Deauveau! Some kin of Ondine’s—the uncle or the cousin—was coming here to meet with this most untrustworthy pair, spelling trouble if not complete disaster.

Hardgrave stood suddenly in anger, wiping his mouth against his shoulder sleeve, yelling once again for service. Molly came to him quickly.

“Clean this mess away, and be quick with it. Bring a fresh tankard of this donkey piss you call ale!”

“Aye, milord, right away!” Molly promised.

Lyle Hardgrave stared down at Anne. “I’ll be outside; the fresh air will be welcome.”

“Don’t be—obvious, Lyle! I don’t want him seeing you tonight! Not until we’ve fathomed his thoughts!”

Hardgrave strode out of the place, his grip on the door so severe that it seemed not even the wind dared best him.

Anne remained at the table, her lovely face shadowed by the hood of her cloak, her head lowered, yet her smile still visible. She studied her small, delicate hands with idle pleasure while she waited, sipped more ale, tapping a foot against the floor.

Jake waited more impatiently than she. He felt himself like a wire, drawn too taut, near to breaking.

Men continued to laugh, wenches to flirt, dice to fall. The fire snapped and crackled, smoke and warmth filled the room. The passing minutes did not seem to disturb Anne; she waited serenely.

Jake jumped and cringed inside with each sizzle of the blaze, keenly aware of everything and suddenly too hot.

The lady Anne looked up. He pressed himself more closely against the wall, so closely he might have become a part of it. But she did not see him; she seemed only mildly interested in what went on around her.

Finally, when Jake thought he might well go mad, the door opened again. A man entered. He was no young man, but one of middle age, yet still straight as a poker and handsome of face and form.

The uncle, Jake decided. There was no question that this was the one who was to meet Anne. He was finely dressed, wearing dull soft gray, but his breeches were of velvet and his overcoat was fur lined at collar and cuffs. It did not take him long to discern Anne from the rabble within. He came straight to the table and stood before her, eyeing her carefully. Anne returned his scrutiny with amusement.

“You are the lady who sent the message?” Deauveau asked at last.

“I am.”

“How can I trust you?”

“Sit down, my fine sir, and I shall tell you!”

Deauveau sat. He didn’t indulge in the ale, but pushed the tankard away with disgust.

“Who are you?” Deauveau demanded.

“Oh, I don’t care to have my name known,” Anne said charmingly. “Call me Jake, if you wish.”

“How—”

“I’ll tell you what I know, sir, then perhaps you will understand! You are the adoptive brother of the late Duke of Rochester. The lands by right belong to his daughter, your niece, yet I think you’ve no real mind ever to turn them over to her! You’ve a son—”

“Raoul,” Deauveau breathed.

“Oh, precisely!” Anne chuckled. “And, yes, I can imagine it well! The fool boy has been tricked—”

“What do you know of this?” Deauveau demanded hoarsely.

Anne leaned closer to him over the table, eyes aglitter like a cat’s.

“I know the, uh, duchess is a little slut! ‘Tis no true bride your son would be taking!”

Anne must have been stunned that her beauty failed her, for Deauveau suddenly caught her wrist in a punishing grip. “Is this blackmail?” he rasped out harshly.

Anne appeared stunned, then she chuckled with pure tinkling delight. “Blackmail, nay, sir! I intend to offer you a heavy sum of money!”

“For what?” Deauveau queried suspiciously.

“As I mentioned in my letter, I believe we have common interests. Sir, I think that you would love nothing so much as your niece’s total disappearance—with a death certificate involved— so that you may, by way of being legally next of kin, take all that is hers with none to bar you. And you would no longer have her there—your son’s bride—a nasty thorn slicing into your ribs!”.

Deauveau stared at her long; he inhaled and exhaled slowly.

“Why should this be done? What do you gain? From where would I receive the money?”

“You are interested!” Anne exclaimed coquettishly. “I’m ever so glad …”

“Details!” Deauveau snapped.

“There is a gentleman, a friend, greatly enamored of the girl. He will pay a fair price—”

“Nay! For she could escape him and reappear.”

Anne shook her head. “This friend will not let that happen; he will take her to France until he tires of her, then—umm, shall we say—he may regain his financial loss through another business deal, this with certain sailors who have discovered a pretty face can be their most lucrative cargo.”

“She’ll live—”

“Aye, but justly so—can’t you imagine? No longer duchess or lady, but concubine to some stern sultan!”

Deauveau hesitated, then leaned back, eyeing Anne now with uncertainty. She smiled and placed a small leather purse upon the table. “Gold,” she whispered to him softly. “Go on, touch it! Feel it. Taste it…”

Deauveau’s gleaming eyes grew round. He hesitated only a second longer, then reached for the purse, weighing the contents first, then sliding it across the table to himself to peek within. He looked around, then drew out a coin and bit into it, quickly slipping it back into the purse and secreting the purse within his coat.

“What is your interest in this?” he asked Anne.

“Oh,” she purred, “rest assured, sir, I will gain from it!”

“When? How?”

“Tomorrow evening my friend and I will come with a closed carriage. When you dine”—she paused, indicating the purse he had taken and hidden at his breast—“you must see that the vial of powder you find at the bottom of that bag goes into her drink. Then see that she retires quickly, for in less than half the hour she will sleep like one dead.”

“That is it?” Deauveau queried crossly. “Then how will I explain her death, her disappearance, to the king?”

“Ah, easily! Easily!” Anne claimed. “You have some servant, surely, who could don something of hers that will hide him? You pretend the next morning that you are going for a drive. Thieves, sir, bandits, will attack you. You will have only to become disheveled then, and make a hue and cry. My friend and I will see that a body is found in London, and that it will be identified as that of Lady Deauveau, Duchess of Rochester. Clean and neat, milord!”

“Nay—not so clean or neat! What of my son?”

“Send him away on business; he need never know.”

Deauveau digested that information for a moment. “It could be done,” he said slowly.

“It can, sir, and will.” Anne smiled beguilingly, then added, “Ah, see, too, sir, that something is done with that blacksmith of yours for the eve.”