The Lady Series (5 page)

At last her hand fell to her lap. She smiled, but there was no amusement in her eyes. “Do this for me, and I’ll assist you in the restoration of your family’s title.”

Here was the offer he wanted. Deep in Kit’s being the door leading out from under his guilt opened. Even as his heart urged him to lunge for freedom, his head resisted. So far, all she offered were words.

“That’s something for which I have use, but before I go blithely off to risk my life on your behalf, you’ll need to explain how you’ll achieve this miracle. By the by, if you suggest wedding yourself to my brother I fear I couldn’t countenance such a match.” He sent her a chiding look. “The whispers about you, madam. Tut, but I dare not repeat them.”

She sent a nasty little smile his way. “Since you’ve been listening to rumors, you should also know that my daughter is newly widowed. If I wed Arabella to your brother, her dowry along with her jointure from her previous union will do all that you desire.”

Kit blinked. It would, indeed. Moreover, Lady Arabella Purfoy was her mother’s opposite, being sweet-natured and plain. All in all, she’d make a perfect mate for Nick.

Even as he reached for freedom it slipped from his grasp. Nick would never agree to this, and not just because of his scarring. Unlike Kit who was now comfortable with the queen’s religion, Nick held tight to his Catholic faith. He’d never accept a Protestant wife.

The possibility of freedom exploded, leaving Kit looking upon the desperate and careless fool he was. How could he believe even for a moment that Lady Elisabetta would squander her only daughter on the destruction of some unknown Puritan miss?

“You’ll do it, then?” she prodded.

“Did I say that?” His voice was choked and hard. “Nay, I but sit here on this cold floor waiting for you to explain why some innocent virgin’s downfall is worth your daughter’s value on the marriage market.”

She shot off the bench, her eyes blazing. “You’ll die in prison before I explain myself to you,” she snapped. “Get you gone from me!”

Kit’s brows rose. Well, well, well! He wasn’t the only desperate soul in this room. Perhaps all was not as hopeless as he thought. All he need do now was test the limit of her need to see the girl destroyed.

Coming to his feet, he brushed the dust from the back of Bertie’s breeches then fished the door key the lady had given him from his dagger’s sheathe, the thing being too bulky to be confined in his purse. Setting it upon the mantel, he swept Bertie’s short-crowned hat from his head and offered the lady his deepest bow. As he straightened, he winked.

“By God my lady, but you’re lovely when you’re angry. My heart fair breaks at the thought that I’m to be no longer in your company.” He crossed the room to fetch his cloak from the chair then started for the door.

“Stay.” Hers was a cold command.

Kit paused a beat, then looked over his shoulder at her. Only the slight rise and fall of her bodice testified that she wasn’t statuary. “To what end?” he asked. “I’ll not do your deed unless you explain why you trade your daughter’s hand in marriage for the ruination of a single girl, and you’ll not tell.”

Pain blossomed in her eyes. Almost as swiftly, her gaze shifted to the room’s far wall. “Call it idle curiosity on my part.” Her voice trembled. She stopped to clear her throat. “I wish to know if Puritan maids can be seduced in the same way as those who are not so holy.”

Astonishment took Kit’s breath. Her dodge said far more than she knew. Someone had hurt her deeply enough that she was willing to marry her daughter to Nick in order to revenge herself.

He turned back into the room. “To marry my brother, Arabella must agree to convert to the Roman faith.”

Lady Montmercy shrugged. “In the last twenty years we’ve all shifted faiths a time or two with this king or that queen. I doubt my daughter will protest.”

Kit nodded, accepting this. Not only had too many folk shifted in their beliefs, but most didn’t really know exactly what they really believed, or so said the more fervent of England’s Protestants. This cadre of religionists claimed that church services were yet too filled with Roman imagery and, as such, made it too easy for the weak-willed to regress into the realm of popish evil.

“You’ll also pay my creditors.”

“God’s eyelid, but you want it all,” she snapped.

“Not so, madam,” he replied with a grin. “It’s only that I can hardly effect a seduction if I’m confined for my debts. Aye, and we’ll have a written contract between us. In it, you’ll list exactly what it is I do in trade for using your Puritan miss. Until my debts are paid, and you’ve scribed your name and set your ring upon such a contract, I’ll not even glance at this lass of yours.”

She freed a short, sharp breath. “Here is the problem with clever men.”

Taking a far smaller key from her purse, she turned to the householder’s desk and opened the locked top. From its interior she retrieved a length of thick paper, which she handed to him. “You’ll find I was prepared for you.”

Kit sat upon the corner of the bench, dropping his cloak over its back, to scan what she’d written. He drew a wry breath. It was all here, the betrothal of her daughter to his brother, the repayment of his debts.

“How?” he demanded, looking up at her.

“I have my sources,” she replied, adding a tiny smile to drive home just how resourceful she’d been.

This time, when he turned his attention to the contract, he took care to read every word of what she’d written. In return for Nick’s marriage and the coins to repay his debts, he was to seduce and publicly reveal the ruination of one Mistress Anne Blanchemain. His eyes caught on the family name.

Last he’d heard all the Blanchemains were dead, except for old Amyas. The old man’s last grandson had passed only the previous month in a hunting accident. Good riddance. Walter Blanchemain and his brother had been officious boors, while their grandsire spouted too much religion for Kit’s taste; Sir Amyas had been converted by the Calvinists whilst in exile during the reign of Mary Tudor. To Kit’s way of thinking, such zealotry combined with the ruthless persistence of a social climber made for an unholy mix.

“Is this maid of yours related to Sir Amyas Blanchemain?” he asked.

Lady Elisabetta nodded. “She’s his sole surviving grandchild.”

A piece of the puzzle the noblewoman presented to him fitted into place. Kit pursed his lips as he looked up at her. “So you’ll use the girl to wound Sir Amyas?” It was a deathblow, not a wound, she meant to deal the old man. Kit doubted Amyas would survive the shame of being made a laughingstock by the impoverished scion of a Catholic family.

All expression left her face. “Best you keep your mind on the deed at hand.” The coldness of the lady’s voice suggested it’d be dangerous to pry for more.

“Just so,” Kit agreed. “The rest of this is none of my affair.”

That was, none of it was his affair if he wanted to force Nick into marriage.

“What happens if I fail?”

She arched a perfect brow. “For your sake pray that you do not. As my debtor I’ll have no choice but to see you imprisoned for what you owe me. I doubt you’d find your stay in the Fleet conducive to your health.”

The threat was clear. The price of failure was the same as the reward for success: death. Kit nearly laughed. What did he care? Whether he succeeded or failed Nick would have to wed. But only in success was he guaranteed that Graceton’s title would be restored to Nick. He handed the paper back to her.

“One clause wants addition. You must write that Arabella cannot refuse my brother because of physical deformity, frailty, or scarring.”

“As you will,” she replied without hesitation.

The quill scratched across the paper. When she was done, she scrawled her name at the page’s bottom and handed him the quill. “We’ll both put our names on this.”

A tiny breath of a laugh left Kit. She wasn’t about to let this contract of theirs out of her sight without being certain they’d both be ruined were he to expose it. But what was there to guarantee she’d not try to retrieve it and renege on her part of the bargain should he die in success?

Slow, cool amusement filled him. She could hardly do that if someone other than he held the contract. Aye, and the man to do it was Lord Andrew Montmercy. Lady Elisabetta’s son hated his mother. The young nobleman would see his dam pay dearly should she try to misuse his friend.

Secure in that thought Kit stood to add his name beneath hers. Once he had and she’d sanded the ink, she folded the sheet then dribbled wax onto the fold. She pressed her signet into the hot mass and moved aside so Kit could do the same.

When it was done, she nodded, pleased. “On the morrow, you’ll arrive early in the Presence Chamber and stay near the queen’s chair. I want you at hand in case an opportunity appears whereby I can tie you to the girl.”

“As you will my lady,” Kit said as he took the packet. The feel of the paper against his palm was startling, almost wondrous. So this is what life without guilt was like.

“You may go.” Lady Elisabetta gave a dismissing wave of her hand. “From this point on you’ll not so much as even glance toward me at court. I want no one to suspect our connection. If we must meet again, it shall be here. Send your servant to the one who dwells here and she’ll arrange it.”

Kit came to his feet. “Shall I send my man to escort you to your destination?”

Surprise flashed across her face as if his offer startled her. Her face softened for the briefest of instants then returned to its previous static perfection. She shook her head. “Nay, I’m staying the night.”

Kit’s brows lifted. Did this mean there’d soon be a better-looking man keeping her company? An odd mingling of relief and regret washed over him. He caught himself wondering if he missed anything by not bedding her.

Temptation dissolved with his next breath. Some things were better left unknown. “Then I bid you a good evening, my lady, and take my leave.”

Grabbing his cloak up from the bench, he made his escape. Sanctuary was the alehouse three streets down where he’d left Bertie seducing both the brewer’s daughters.

Kit yawned as he strode along the long gallery leading to Whitehall’s Presence Chamber. The dream returned last night with more clarity than he usually suffered while in London. He attributed this to how much Mistress Blanchemain’s arrival at court meant to him.

Aye, it meant so much to him that he’d nearly driven Bertie to murder before finally settling on his green doublet atop his better gold and yellow slashed breeches with tall brown boots gartered above his knees. A rust-colored coat hung from one shoulder as was the fashion, while he wore his brown cap upon his head. Ah but the fuss was worth it. Confidence glowed in his heart as brightly as the golden beads that decorated the front of his doublet.

As always there was a crowd before the Presence Chamber door. Although some of those who waited here were the servants of the highly placed, a goodly number were merchants and artisans hoping for the chance to bend their monarch’s ear. No matter their rank all of them gleamed to the full limits of their purses; one did not appear before the queen in less than his best. No matter their wealth or appearance, without the rank of gentleman they waited to be called into their queen’s presence.

Kit stopped before the door. It was guarded by two of the queen’s bodyguard, dressed in their uniforms of scarlet and silver. When the usher didn’t immediately appear behind the guards’ crossed pikes, Kit frowned in impatience.

“Can you let me in, Dickon?” he asked of the guard to the right.

As with the majority of Elizabeth’s guardsmen and gentlemen pensioners, Dickon was tall and fair of face; the queen liked fine-featured men of height. The soldier winked. “If we do, you’ll owe me and Will a bit of something wet, then,” he said as the two men raised their pikes to allow him entry.

“Tonight, it is,” Kit grinned. Such was the value of including the guardsmen among his drinking companions.

He stepped into the room only to have confidence shatter. Caught in the bright sunlight streaming through the chamber’s tall paned windows, the crowd within these walls glowed. There were men in doublets of the deepest of orange, pale green, and cherry red paired with breeches of deep blue or scarlet or clear yellow. Bright ribbons tipped with precious metal held embroidered and slashed sleeves in place, while a king’s ransom in jewels decorated hatbands, ears, fingers and the fronts of doublets.

Against all the satin and silk in the room his attire seemed dull as lead. How would Sir Amyas’s granddaughter ever notice him amongst all this glitter? The best he could do was put himself in the heiress’s line of sight as she entered the door.

With the potential of failure nibbling at him, Kit set himself to finding the right place within the room to take his stance. Three years ago claiming an open spot in this chamber would have been easily accomplished. Not this season. For this court Elizabeth had demanded those peers she least trusted remain in attendance. Since no nobleman went anywhere without a goodly retinue the Presence Chamber was packed from wall to wall.

Kit scanned the room. There, near the entrance to the queen’s Privy Chamber, he could still see a sliver of the golden wall hangings where no one stood. Although this was farther from the public door than he would have liked, it would do. He started toward it, making his way through the crowd with care.

“Kit!” At ten years younger than Kit’s seven and twenty, Lord Andrew Montmercy’s voice still tended to slide between a youth’s tenor and a man’s depths.

The lordling, dressed in blue and red beneath his fur-trimmed coat, stood midway across the room. Although his hair was almost black and his eyes a blue so deep they sometimes appeared brown, Lord Andrew’s features were the masculine reflection of his mother’s beauty. Aye, and well Andrew knew how his face affected the opposite sex; he’d already fathered several bastards.

“You will come to stand with me, Kit,” Lord Andrew shouted his command.

At this display of arrogance, Sir Edward Mallory pressed a hand against his brow in dismay. Ned was the younger brother of Sir Richard Mallory, Lord Montmercy’s warden. Like his elder sibling Ned despaired over Andrew, fearing the little lord would never learn control. Hoping to encourage Andrew into learning a little sense, Sir Richard had asked Ned, Kit, and their friends to wear the Montmercy badge.

Kit’s brow creased in preparation to refuse. The center of the room was crowded. Ned’s brows rose, his hazel eyes filled with a silent plea that he not be left alone with Andrew.

With a sigh, Kit gave way and started toward them, working his way around the earl of Pembroke’s party to stop before them. Doffing his cap, he offered them a brief bow as was due Andrew’s higher rank. “Good morrow, my lord. Ned.”

“Have you heard?” Lord Andrew demanded, the diamond in his earbob glinting as he looked up at Kit. “The Blanchemain heiress is to be presented this day. I wonder if the parvenu’s granddaughter is fair of face. If so I may woo her just to spite him.”

As with many of the other nobles who held ancient titles and exalted names, Andrew scorned those families newly come to the gentility. Like Sir Amyas, who was the lawyer son of a London draper, many of these newcomers had their roots in trade.

“Bite your tongue, my lord,” Ned commanded his charge, his eyes narrowed. He set a hand on his hip, his fingers splaying on the flared hem of his yellow satin doublet. Beneath that garment Ned wore a pair of short, ballooning breeches in the newest shade, called goose-turd green. Of all of Kit’s companions Ned tread closest to being a popinjay. “Need I remind you that Sir Amyas is a friend to your warden, my brother?” the golden-haired young knight chided.

Generations of inbred arrogance put the snarl on Andrew’s face. The youth slapped his side where his sword would have hung, had the queen allowed weapons in her presence. “You dare to so speak to me?!”

Hiding his amusement at the lad’s bluster, Kit laid a restraining hand upon the young nobleman’s shoulder. Even though no lord ruled over Graceton these days the Hollier name retained shades of its ancient nobility. Thus, Andrew tolerated more interference from him.

“My lord, are you so hotheaded that you cannot see our Ned is trying to save you from yourself?” he asked, his voice soothing. “Mistress Blanchemain will be the queen’s maid. Trifle with her, and you’re liable to find yourself either sitting in the Tower or wed to her.”

Lord Andrew’s jaw was yet stiff with damaged pride. “If you say so, Kit,” he replied.

“And so I do,” Kit said, “but that doesn’t mean we cannot all look our fill upon this newcomer. I saw a spot near the Privy Chamber door that offers an unobstructed view of the room. Come stand there with me, my lord.”

“Aye, that I shall,” the lordling replied, his pique already giving way to anticipation over the arrival of a newcomer.

Kit glanced at Ned. “Left?”

Needing no further explanation than this, Ned nodded. He slipped to stand at Montmercy’s left, while Kit stood at his right. “This way, my lord,” Ned said, once the young lord was caught between them.

The two of them made this seem a friendly escort rather than the guard it was as they led Lord Andrew along the windows. Behind the queen’s cushioned chair with its cloth-of-silver canopy they went, choosing the route least likely to bring the lad to blows.

Kit had barely pressed his back into the golden draperies when Lord Andrew lifted a hand. “There’s our John,” the lad cried as he waved.

Tall even by the queen’s standards, Master John Fayrfax’s shoulders were broad beneath his blue doublet. A month ago his garment had been trimmed in silver buttons; now they were brass. John had invested in the same venture as Kit. Although John’s finances weren’t quite as desperate, he’d had to surrender his buttons to pay his gambling debts.

Master Fayrfax smiled as he saw his companions and excused himself from the group of men with whom he’d been chatting. Threading his way through the crowd with all the finesse of a rampaging bull, John made his way, stumbling against this man then the next. As each man he struck whirled and reached for his nonexistent weapon John would pause long enough to bow in apology, his broad face and well-made features displaying naught but a congenial innocence.

“My pardon,” he’d say, his south country accent heavy in every syllable, “but it’s so close in here.”

Ned laughed and leaned close to Kit. “Someday someone will comprehend that this jostling of our Johnnie’s is no accident and he’ll die for his game,” he whispered.

Kit loosed a snort at the very concept of John paying for what he did. “Not as long as our Johnnie owns his face and that accent, he won’t. No man can ever think him anything but a hopeless country bumpkin.”

“This is the perfect spot in the room,” John said in approval as he stopped before them.

“For what?” Ned asked.

“Why, to see the heiress.” Avarice flared in John’s blue eyes. “I hear she’s worth a thousand pounds a year and I mean to make every shilling of it mine.”

Kit’s confidence sagged like a pair of ungartered stockings. It hadn’t occurred to him that he’d have to fight off a friend in order to make use of the girl.

The usher stepped into the room. Master Bowyer banged the foot of his staff against the floor. As the chamber was carpeted with thick matting stained a rich brownish hue, all he achieved was a dull thud. Nonetheless, one by one, groups quieted.

“Sir Amyas Blanchemain and Mistress Anne Blanchemain.” His announcement echoed into a new silence so deep Kit’s ears rang with it.

To a man, the occupants turned to watch the heiress enter. Kit stared sourly about him as confidence took a mortal wound and bled to death on the matting beneath his feet. Why hadn’t he realized that every man in all England would have an interest in Old Amyas’s granddaughter? Even those already married ogled, no doubt thinking on the rich fee they might win if they could arrange her union to some friend or relative. He’d have no chance for a seduction, not unless Lady Montmercy worked a miracle.

It was another moment before Sir Amyas moved into his field of vision. The old zealot wore a fur-trimmed floor-length black robe belted atop his doublet and breeches, with a black cap upon his head. Kit leaned forward, peering around the man in front of him.

At his first glimpse of Amyas’s granddaughter, all hope of restoring Nick’s title via the bedchamber shattered. Mistress Anne was not only wealthy, she was beautiful. Framed in the semicircular flare of her scarlet headdress her face was a smooth oval. Dark brows peaked over eyes so deep a brown a man could lose his soul in them. Falling from her center part, gentle wings of brown hair swooped against her cheekbones before being caught into the confines of her headdress. A cunning little mole sat at the corner of her mouth, drawing attention to the full line of her lips.

“By God, but Sir Amyas spared no coin in dressing her,” John whispered in awe.

Kit blinked. How could he not have noticed her attire? Mistress Blanchemain glittered, her bodice and underskirt made of golden brocade strewn with tiny rubies. Her red velvet kirtle wore thick golden lace as trim. A massive brooch set with more tiny rubies closed her one piece overdress at her waistline.

His gaze slipped back to her face. A tiny frown pleated her brow. She caught her lower lip in her teeth.

At this sign of nervousness, pity unwound from some hidden portion of Kit’s gut. How well he remembered his own dread at his presentation in court. What had been difficult for him must be even more horrifying to one raised in isolation from all society, especially when the men in this room all acted like a pack of hunting dogs after a wounded hart, each vying to be the one to make the kill.

He watched her gaze skip and skim across those around her. Her attention lingered just a bit when it reached John then slipped past Lord Andrew, skipped Ned completely, and came to rest on him. For the brief instant their gazes met, Kit let his lips lift into a reassuring smile. That bit of friendliness was all he had to offer her.

Her gaze stayed on him, her lips parting slightly as new interest shimmered in her dark eyes. Kit’s smile faded. There was something strange in the way she watched him, as if she thought to find some message hidden in his eyes. The sensation was unnerving and oddly intimate.

Still she watched him, until her attention felt like a touch against his skin and stirred the most carnal of Kit’s desires. Lady Montmercy was wrong. Sir Amyas’s granddaughter was no Puritan miss, for no religious woman looked at a man like that. Triumph rose from the ashes of certain defeat. She found him attractive.

A different sort of smile turned Kit’s lips this time. My, but lust was a fine thing to feel, especially when the bedchamber was just where he meant to take this woman. The seducing of Mistress Anne Blanchemain was going to be pleasant, very pleasant indeed.

Anne stared at the gentleman in the gold-spangled doublet. Unlike every man around him no greed shone from his marvelous green eyes. Instead what she saw was a welcoming kindness, as if he commiserated over the ordeal of her introduction. His compassion teased her into further study.

What an interesting face he had, not truly handsome but compelling. His features were long and thin, his nose arching forcefully out from below his brow. Perhaps he knew this about his face for he wore his golden-brown hair slightly longer than was the fashion and kept his chin beard neatly trimmed to emphasize his well-made mouth, an affectation that served to soften an otherwise harsh face. But his eyes, they were fine indeed. Set beneath gently arching brows, their color was a deep and true green.