The Lady Series (37 page)

Aye, lies were all her husband had expended on behalf of his youngest child. He'd not even lifted a pen to clarify his will and protect Lucy from her half-brother. If the queen couldn’t pry a bit of wealth from Philip Purfoy it was Brigit's fate Lucy faced in her future.

“I cannot speak for a man I don’t know poppet,” Belle warned, putting a hand on top of Lucy’s head to still the bouncing. She gave her child a gentle push in the direction of her governess. “Now, go take your rest as a good child should.”

Although Lucy whimpered in a last protest, she went to Brigit. The governess led her toward the rear chamber. As with this tiny house’s lower level, there wasn’t a stick of furniture in evidence, nor would there be for the short duration of Belle’s stay. She wouldn’t see her own furnishings—two beds, a very nice writing desk and her collection of silver plates and cups-until they reached her new husband’s home. Upon leaving William Purfoy’s estate Belle had sent her personal property to the tiny house that was part of her widow’s jointure. She would have to send a letter to redirect them to her new home.

With Brigit and Lucy gone, Belle was alone with Richard. The footman shifted uneasily. “If I may be so bold, my lady?”

Belle's nod gave him leave to speak his mind.

“The man at the door,” he said, with a jerk of his head in that general direction, “this Sir Edward Mallory. You said he wished you to spy upon your new husband. May I assume because you refused him entry you’ve also refused his request?”

Worry tugged at Belle's stomach until it twisted into a knot. “Not only did I refuse, I fear I knocked him breathless and insulted him whilst I did it,” she whispered. “And he is the queen’s proxy in the matter of this marriage.”

Up until this day Belle had managed to live her life without offending anyone. Now, in less than an hour's time, she’d earned the hatred of two men: Master Wyatt, because he thought her a spy, and, no matter what sweet words he’d uttered at her doorway, Sir Edward, for how she’d abused him.

Her footman's eyes widened. His mouth worked a moment, words seeming to form although he made no sound. At last, he managed to gasp out, “You assaulted the queen's proxy?”

A grin followed, flashing across the servant’s face to reveal a glimpse of the cheeky boy this somber man had once been. He laughed. It was the first time Belle had ever heard him do so. The sound was not unlike that of a contented cat’s purr.

“Well done, my lady, well done indeed! After this, I vow I'll believe anything possible. Now, if you don’t mind, I think me I'll make myself useful and find Mistress Lucy a pallet that doesn’t reek.”

With a daring and impertinent wink, he descended the stairs. Belle watched him go, her heart warm with his unexpected praise even if she wasn’t certain how she’d earned it. Still, if Richard thought she'd done right, then all couldn’t be as hopeless as she believed. If only she’d known to attack Sir Edward the moment she'd laid eyes on him, before Master Wyatt had a chance to decide she served the knight instead of her new husband. Well, if she wished to convince Master Wyatt or the squire that she was no spy, all she need do was keep her nose out of what didn’t belong to her. Time itself would prove her honorable.

“For God’s sake and mine, leave off.” Jamie glowered at his manservant as Tom again adjusted the fashionable drape of Jamie’s short brown cloak over his shoulder. “It’s good enough.”

Towheaded, his face touched with the ravages of the pox, Tom ignored his master's complaint. Already dressed in his own finest, Graceton's livery of a maroon doublet atop gray breeches, he stepped back to eye his handiwork.

Their chamber, located in one of Richmond’s exterior towers, was so tiny this meant Tom nearly backed into the wall. It took no more than three long steps to travel from one end to the other. A single beam of light shot through a narrow window and dropped onto the bare wood floor. Save for the straw-stuffed pallets they’d used for bedding, and the saddlebags containing their few belongings, the room was empty. Jamie hadn’t come to court expecting to stay, so he'd brought no furniture with him.

Cocking his head, Tom squinted in study then glanced at Percy. “What do you think, Master Neveu? Does it hang properly?”

It was to honor the ancient Hollier name and Graceton's house that Perry had thrown aside his somber black for a pair of short scarlet ballooning breeches under a bright green doublet. His gray silk cloak clung precariously to a single shoulder, just as Jamie's now did.

A narrow line appeared between Percy's thin brows. “Perhaps a little more to the right?”

Irritation flared in Jamie. “You're both a couple of old women. I say it's good enough.”

Percy tsked. “Testy, isn’t he?” he said to Tom.

“He didn’t sleep well last night, tossing and turning,” the servant replied in quick defense of his master as he reached out to again adjust Jamie's cloak.

Oblivious to his nephew's inner torment, Percy beamed and clapped his hands. “That's it, Tom! Now he looks every bit that knightly ass’s equal. It’s a miracle worker you are.”

Tom grinned, knowing full well it was true. After three weeks of almost constant wear, Jamie's best golden-brown doublet and breeches were now not only clean but their slashes wore new lace, as did Jamie’s ruff. Much to the detriment of Jamie’s purse, golden beads now traced out the fabric’s pattern on his doublet and a good-sized garnet was pinned to his cap.

“If you’ve both looked your fill, we're late,” Jamie snapped, lashing out at them from the stew of exhaustion and emotions that seethed in him. “Or would you rather the guard dragged me to this travesty?”

Tom's face fell. Percy straightened upright to his tallest, his brows high upon his forehead in pained surprise. Jamie grimaced. What sort of cad was he, attacking others because he felt out of control? This was all Elizabeth's fault. Three weeks in her court and he hadn’t an iota of civility left in him.

“I beg your pardon, Percy. Yours as well, Tom,” he said, laying a hand on his man's shoulder. “It's a poor master you’ve got when he doesn’t thank you for your efforts. Percy's right.” He shot a brief smile at his uncle. “You're a miracle worker indeed.”

Tom accepted the apology and the gratitude with a deep bow. As Jamie was a solitary sort, theirs had ever been a formal relationship. “As always it's a pleasure to serve you, Master James.”

“Shall we go?” Percy asked.

“We may as well,” Jamie replied, snatching up his gloves from where they rested on his saddle pack. “With no hope left of rescuing Squire Hollier from this unholy union, all I want now is to close the door on this hidey-hole,” the wave of his hand indicated the tiny chamber, “and return to Graceton, where I belong.”

“Aye, and me with you, Master James,” Tom seconded quietly as he crossed the room to open the door.

Percy glanced between them and shook his head. “Yokels, both of you,” he complained. “Lord help me, but I'm surrounded by men with no taste for the high life. It's not the size of the chamber that counts, but the fact that you live on the queen's bounty that signifies. Not everyone can do that.” His tone was earnest, as if he sought to sway Jamie's opinion.

Jamie laughed as he went to the spiraling stair and started down with Percy following close on his heels. “Then you should be grateful we're leaving since it means more bounty for you.” His words echoed against the stone walls around them.

“I hadn’t considered that,” his uncle laughed in reply.

Together, they exited the tower into the brilliance of this August day. There, leaning in what little bit of shade they could find in Richmond’s enclosing walls, were the four footmen who'd accompanied Jamie on this misbegotten quest. Like Tom, they were dressed in Graceton’s maroon and gray. All four snatched their caps from their heads as the gentlemen passed them then took up their place at Tom's heel.

Satisfaction filled Jamie. Although it wasn’t much of a procession, at least there was some pomp to add to this unfortunate circumstance. No matter how little he might like what was happening to Nick, he meant to see the ceremony did justice to the Hollier name.

As he made his way across the cobbles of the outer court, Jamie glanced around him. It was strange to see the courtyard empty. This morn everyone who was anyone had departed, the queen and her nobles sailing for Oatlands in a small flotilla of gilded, bannered barges, while their belongings left in hundreds of groaning wagons.

The breeze lifted, turning the vanes atop the royal residence's tower. Their moaning music shattered the silence. Jamie started at the eerie sound then smiled at his nervous reaction. He was but the bridegroom's proxy and still he suffered from pre-wedding jitters.

Striding through the shaded archway of the middle court's gatehouse, he entered the second of Richmond's three courts. Caught between outer walls of mundane rusty brick and the royal residence with its fanciful domes, the palace's stone hall and chapel looked as solemn as a pair of twin cathedrals. Between them stood a fantastical fountain, crystal streams of water tumbling out of the mouths of lions and dragons while even stranger beasts crouched amid ironwork roses.

Having seen enough of all things royal to last his lifetime, Jamie passed it with but a sidelong glance to climb the steps to the royal chapel. The door was ajar as if to chide him for being late. Inside, light slanted down through tall windows to pierce the chapel's dimness. Against that hazy illumination the cloth of gold hangings decorating the walls gleamed. Dust motes, stirred to life by his entrance, danced above ranks of empty pews.

He made his way up the central aisle toward the altar. Sir Edward stood at one end of that broad dais. Of a sudden Jamie was grateful for Tom's care. The knight was dressed as befitted a queen's proxy, with pearls and diamonds decorating his green and silver attire. A jewel dangled from his ear while silver garters were tied at his knees.

Like Jamie, Sir Edward had his supporters. At one side stood six guards in the queen's livery and the knight's prissy little manservant. At his other were several gentlemen of Elizabeth's court.

Jamie scanned the chapel as he strode up the aisle. Not a soul sat in any of the pews. Was it possible the lady had reconsidered?

Fabric rustled at the altar dais's opposite end, the scrape of leather on stone echoing in the sanctuary. It was Richmond’s chaplain. His face as round as his body, the minister stepped forward to stand before the altar table. Caught in a shaft of muted light, his ruff glowed stark white against the black of his long robe. The churchman turned toward the queen's pew. A roofed box built out from the wall, it sat perpendicular to the other seats filling the chapel. Draperies hung in the open square at its front to conceal its occupants from the room.

“Lady Purfoy?” the minister called, his words ringing up into the stone fan vaults that held up the ceiling. “You may come take your place. Master Wyatt and his party have arrived.”

She was here and the marriage would go forward. Sighing against his failure to protect Nick, Jamie stepped onto the dais and waited on the bride’s entrance.

The first out of the royal closet was a girl. She wore a pale blue bodice and skirt sprinkled with white embroidery. A pearled cap clung precariously to her mop of golden curls. No more than five, the lass dashed down the steps to stop a yard or so distant from the altar. Eyes narrowed, she studied him, worrying her lower lip with tiny teeth.

Jamie caught his breath in surprise. This was Lady Purfoy’s daughter, of that there was no doubt. The babe owned her grandam's face in every fine line and perfect curve.

“Mistress Lucretia!” The whisper sounded as loud as cannon shot in the chapel's stillness.

Young and pretty, a dark-haired woman now stood at the far end of the forward pew. Although her green attire was fine enough, its lack of decoration named her the lass’s caretaker. Whirling, the child retreated to join the woman. As they settled themselves into the forward-most pew, a single small man and a hefty woman joined them. Their plain dress named them both servants.

At last, her head modestly lowered, Lady Purfoy descended to the chapel's floor. In place of her widow's weeds she wore a feminine doublet and underskirt of pale pink beneath an overskirt and sleeves of gentle gray. A simple gray cap was her only head covering. Her hair was upswept beneath it, with soft golden wings falling forward to frame her face.

She was a dove caught in a room full of peacocks and it suited her well indeed.

Jamie rejected the assessment, reminding himself that Lady Montmercy had seemed no less innocent or fragile and she was now confined in the Tower. Glancing beyond Lady Purfoy, he waited for the remainder of her party to appear. There was no one.

In confusion, he looked back at the lady. What sort of gentlewoman brought no one of her own rank to witness the day's event? Then again, what sort of gentlewoman came into the queen’s presence bare-handed and dressed as she had?

When she stopped beside him on the altar step Jamie was surprised to find her head barely reached past his shoulder. The corner of his mouth lifted. Of course there'd been little time to gauge her height prior to knocking her down.

He breathed and his lungs again filled with her perfume. She raised her head to look up at him. The delicate bend of her brows was marred by worry.

Clearing his throat, the chaplain came to stand before them. “If you will join hands,” he commanded.

Jamie glanced at her hands, remembering the feel of her fingers in his yesterday. Today, she wore gloves: a fine kidskin dyed the same gray as her sleeves. He extended his hands.

The frown on her brow deepening, she laid her fingers into his. Jamie waited. Unlike yesterday, no untoward wave of tenderness followed, no burning need to hold her close. He must have grinned in his relief, for the corners of the lady's mouth trembled upward into what was timid mimicry of a smile.

“Gather near, you who witness,” the chaplain called out to the empty chapel. “Standing before you is Master James Wyatt. Is there any among you who have reason to believe he is not the acknowledged proxy for Squire Nicholas Hollier?”

Only echoes responded to his question.

“Is there any among you who have reason to object to the betrothal between Lady Arabella Purfoy and Squire Nicholas Hollier?”

Again, only echoes answered.

“Aye then,” the chaplain said with a brisk nod. “Now, repeat after me, Master Wyatt: 'I, Squire Nicholas Hollier, vow that I shall take thee, Arabella Purfoy-'“

As Master Wyatt repeated the traditional words Belle stared up into his face. Oh, but he was a handsome man. Her gaze traced the fine line of his nose and the sharp arch of his brows over his blue eyes. But it wasn’t his fine features that had her heart hammering today.

Belle could hardly believe he hadn’t even frowned at her when she joined him at the step. Instead, he’d almost smiled when she’d expected him to glare. After all, he’d been very angry with her yesterday. If only there was some way to tell him how much she appreciated this. He couldn’t know how the fear of being glowered at throughout an already difficult ceremony had plagued her. It had even infested her dreams until she’d awakened feeling bruised and beaten.

As Master Wyatt finished his part of the vows, Belle looked to the minister. The churchman offered her a smile. She returned it, filling her expression with all the gratitude she could manage. Here was another kind man. He hadn't even asked why she wanted to hide from Sir Edward, only offered her sanctuary in the queen's pew-box.

“Repeat after me, Lady Purfoy,” the churchman said.

“I, Arabella Purfoy, shall take thee, Squire Nicholas Hollier, as my wedded husband, to have and to hold,” Belle echoed, looking up at Master Wyatt as she spoke. He was watching her, a slight frown touching his fine brow.

“'At board and at bed’,” the chaplain prompted.

“At board and at bed,” Belle repeated.

With the word
bed
something flared in the depths of Master Wyatt’s cool eyes. Instantly and unexpectedly, the image of him atop her, his mouth touching hers, his hands caressing and stroking, sailed through Belle. She started at so sinful a thought, a blush burning her cheeks. God have mercy on her! This wasn’t her husband, this was his proxy, a mere prop taking the squire's place until she could reach Graceton Castle and wed the man himself.