To Be Seduced (16 page)

The scene ended with Fothery hurrying toward his horse, tied at the bottom of the garden. Meanwhile, Bethany nearly dragged Glory by force back to the house.

“Stop that caterwauling!” She pulled on the loudly resisting girl. She prayed Richard would agree to the match, less for Glory’s reputation than her own peace of mind. “You could try the patience of a stone saint.”

The following morning a message arrived from Fothery announcing his departure for London. Glory waved it under Bethany’s nose gleefully. When she pointed out that Richard had not agreed to the match, the girl retorted quickly.

“He will! We’ve known the Lamberts this age, and Fothery won’t need a great dowry if we live in the country.” Bethany gaped at the girl who had spent her time with the Rothleys pining for London.

“Heavens, you do love him.”

“Yes,” Glory said simply.

They did not expect to hear from Fothery before a fortnight. When a servant announced him during dinner scarcely a week later, the Harcourt ladies looked at one another in surprise. Glory immediately rushed to the Great Hall to greet him, while Bethany followed at a more dignified pace.

She stopped short at his appearance. Although clearly delighted to see Glory, dried mud spattered his clothes under a layer of dust. Red rimmed his eyes, as if he had not slept.

“He agreed to let us marry, my love.” His worried expression did not change although he kissed her soundly. She cocked her head in an unspoken question. Keeping an arm around her, he approached Bethany, concern radiating from him.

“I found Lord Harcourt in the Tower.” Glory clutched his arm while Bethany grasped the newel post for support. “A Captain Loring accused him of aiding some Fifth Monarchists after the uprising in January. It seems his lordship was gone from town then, so none of his acquaintances can prove his whereabouts or verify his actions. He’s to be tried before the King’s Bench.”

Bethany tried to grasp Fothery’s words. “But who would believe Richard disloyal to the King?”

He shook his head. “None of his friends, it seems. But they cannot prevent the trial.” Ignoring the watching servants, he turned to comfort his fiancée. His whispers mingled with the girl’s sobs.

Meanwhile, Bethany stood, unable to summon action or coherent thought. Weeping and babble rose around her as thoughts raced through her mind. During her exile to Graymoor, the knowledge that her husband would have to break down and visit the estate had sustained her. It might take another tremendous argument, but she had convinced herself she could win his affection back.

She could not grasp the idea that she might never see him again. At the image of Richard hung, then taken down alive to have his bowels cut out, she shuddered. No matter how unjust his accusations of infidelity, he did not deserve a traitor’s death.

“I must go to London. I can vouch for his whereabouts.”

Glory turned from her fiancé’s shoulder with brimming eyes. “Even if you could arrive before his trial, the journey would leave you too ill to help him.”

Bethany opened her mouth to argue, but from her side Faith spoke first. “She’s right, my lady. I’m not saying you shouldn’t try, but ’tis unlikely you’d arrive in time, much less fit to do anything.” Her round face puckered thoughtfully. “Unless…” She bit her lip.

Bethany waited, but the maid still hesitated. “Unless what? Tell me!”

“Unless you was to ride, not go by coach.” Faith twisted her hands in her apron.

“On horseback?” Bethany paced a few steps, considering. “’Twould be an invitation for every highwayman in England to accost me.”

An uncharacteristic note of exasperation crept into the older woman’s voice. “You wouldn’t be alone, madam! Take some manservants, armed.”

“I’ve heard too many tales of cutthroats attacking traveling females even when they do have outriders.” Only one solution came to mind. “I shall have to travel in men’s clothes.”

For once even Gloriana looked shocked. Bethany disregarded the girl’s expression.

“Horses for three, saddled and waiting as soon as possible. We need men’s clothes for the ride, but I can’t wear those in London. Faith, can you pack an entire outfit for me if I can find a big enough receptacle?”

The maid nodded. Around her, Bethany’s words seemed to have cut a string holding everyone in place. A boy ran to the stables after Glory volunteered her riding horse for Faith. Two chambermaids scurried upstairs to start packing, while Mistress Platt offered a pair of wicker baskets used to carry goods by horseback.

Bethany’s back ached. So did her thighs and posterior after two days on horseback. As a girl, she had first learned to ride horses astride, but that had been years ago. And she had never spent hours on end in a saddle. Their party had stopped to rest the animals for a few minutes. Absently stroking her mount’s neck, she looked at the surrounding countryside.

Just now they traveled through an area of rolling hills and hedgerow-lined roads. The sun shone bright, though rain the previous night had left their route a morass in some places. Mud covered her boots and breeches.

“The ostler at the last place said as how we’re in Bedfordshire now.” The first groom, a weather-beaten retainer who had grown up with Richard’s father, wiped his face with his neck cloth.

“Two days more, then.” As she replied, Bethany heard a deep sigh behind her. A corner of her mouth lifted briefly. Faith had insisted on coming along, but the long days daunted even her stout heart. Bethany glanced over her shoulder. The second groom, a lad chosen for his accuracy with a pistol, rolled his eyes as the maid muttered to herself.

Sir Fothery had offered his escort, of course. Fearing she would not arrive in time to testify on Richard’s behalf, she had begged him to stay in Yorkshire for Glory’s sake.

Ahead of them, a brook had overflowed its bed onto a low place in the road. The first groom splashed through it. The muscles in her back screamed in agony, but Bethany gritted her teeth, gathered her horse, and followed.

As the miles passed, memories ran through her mind. The honeyed gravel of Richard’s voice that sweetened so when he made love to her. The feel of his hands and lips on her bare skin. The feel of his body under her hands.

The look in his eyes the first time he had seen her hair.

God’s teeth, she even missed arguing with him. Other than their last dreadful encounter, he at least admitted she had a right to her own opinion.

She urged her horse to go a little faster.

Bethany paced the parlour of the Rothleys’ house as she awaited Lord Thomas. They had arrived the night before. She had slept while Faith had pressed her gown of sage green and her petticoat into a presentable state. Now the redoubtable maid snored loudly on a pallet in her room with Bethany’s strict orders not to awaken her.

To the detriment of her already stretched nerves, the footman had taken some time to return with a message from Lord Thomas. Placing a note from his lordship in her hand, the servant had accepted her generous tip with a deep bow and disappeared, jingling his newfound fortune in his hand.

The nobleman had written little new information, save that he would escort Bethany to the Court of the King’s Bench before dinnertime. The prosecution did depend largely on Arthur Loring’s statements, he added, and he feared the trial had not gone in Richard’s favor the day previous. It seemed that the captain had prepared his case well.

As soon as she heard the knocking on the hall door, she rushed into the hallway. No sooner had the porter admitted Lord Thomas than she begged him to take her to the trial at once. He barely allowed her to tie her hood over her lace cap before escorting her out the door. She was inclined to refuse the services of the chair he had hired, but he insisted.

“If you’re going to testify on Richard’s behalf, you cannot afford to appear travel-stained and dowdy.” He scanned her appearance in satisfaction as he handed her in. “Thank goodness you didn’t dress too plainly.”

“As he’s on trial for aiding fanatic Nonconformists, I thought it best not to.” Bethany had taken pains to appear fashionably turned out. Her hair curled becomingly under her cap, and a matching set of enameled gold earrings and necklet adorned her. She dressed modestly, but no one would mistake her for a Nonconformist.

The fetid smell of the river filled her nostrils well before Lord Thomas opened the door. They stood at the top of the Temple stairs. Below them, wherries and barges waited for multiple passengers, along with several skiffs, small slender boats intended for only one or two passengers at a time.

He escorted her down to one of the latter and greeted the waterman standing beside it.

“Good morning, Jack. My thanks for awaiting my return.” Unimpressed with the affable greeting, the wiry little man loosened the mooring rope.

“Cost me a shilling in fares. Let’s be off.” Inured to the legendary rudeness of London’s watermen, they ignored his remark and prepared to board.

As a loaded wherry with its two oarsmen shot past them, Bethany wondered to herself if they should not have taken one of those. Assisting her to the low seat in the stern, Lord Thomas reassured her.

“Jack Taylor is the fastest man on the river. He’ll get us to Westminster quicker and dryer than anyone else. Particularly for two shillings.” The laconic waterman brightened and plucked the proffered coins out of his lordship’s palm.

“Never ’ad a haccident in me life.” Once his passengers were settled, he released the ropes completely and they shot out into the current.

Although the waterman, inspired by the additional silver, pulled enthusiastically on the oars, the brief trip lasted too long for Bethany’s peace of mind. No one spoke as he expertly guided his small craft around and past slower vessels of all sizes. At last Westminster Palace came into view over the surrounding rooftops. Rowing the skiff toward a wooden jetty thrusting out from the shore, its owner angled it alongside.

Lord Thomas led Bethany out of the boat. Gripping his arm with one hand, she negotiated her way along the craft as it bobbed up and down. With the other, she lifted her skirts away from the water and mud. No sooner did she set foot on the creaking jetty than the skiff shot away in search of other passengers.

Ascending the moss-covered stone steps, they hurried through the crowded courtyard leading to Westminster Hall. She continued to clutch Lord Thomas’s arm as they passed through the arched stone doorway, fearing she would lose her way in the horde.

To Bethany’s amazement, the hall bustled not only with government officials and clerks, but with stalls of merchandise and their customers. Some, like those selling pens or books, made sense next to a court of law. Many sold luxury goods, however. Pairs of fine embroidered gloves sat on one counter, while next to it an old woman watched over a supply of silk stockings. People wandered from one stall to another comparing goods and prices.

She shuddered. That anyone could buy and sell only feet from where a court decided whether men lived or died appalled her.

In the crowd, she did not mind Lord Thomas’s grip on her elbow. She struggled to hear the soft stream of information he poured into her ear as they walked toward the far end of the immense hall.

“The Lord Chief Justice is Sir Robert Foster. He’s been a Royalist since the days of the first King Charles and favors the Crown’s witnesses to the point of blindness.” They walked on. “You’ll have to step carefully with him. Rickon’s greatest hope is to discredit Loring’s testimony.” Dismayed, Bethany shook her head as she trotted beside him.

“But without knowing exactly what the man said about Richard, how can I hope to dispute it?” He stopped beside a gray stone pillar stretching into the vastness of the ceiling above. She faced him anxiously.

“Because you were with him and can vouch for his actions.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry to tell you, but there is talk of your departure from town. The world views you as a wronged wife, and your return to speak in his favor shall give your words greater weight.” His sky blue eyes clouded. “Indeed, half of them will expect your testimony to hang him.” She blanched at the idea, his next words not registering at first.

“My lady, I love Rickon like a brother, but I know his faults. He can admit when he’s in the wrong easily enough, but getting him to ask your pardon is harder than pulling teeth.” His gaze bored into hers. “Especially when he must ask one he—he cares for deeply. Please give him time, I beg you.”

Bethany’s fingers folded and unfolded the pleats of her gown. She tried to think of her present dilemma.

“Will I even be allowed to testify?”

“Luckily—I hope—His Majesty takes an interest in the case, as you shall see.” He smiled cynically and answered her unspoken question. “’Tis most fortunate you chose a flattering gown this day.”

“If he’s so interested, why does he not intervene?”

“He’ll do naught to endanger his crown.” Lord Thomas lowered his voice to the lightest thread of sound. “His father tried to interfere with judicial proceedings and suffered the consequences.”

Indeed, when he escorted her into the enclosure set aside for the King’s Bench, the tall form of the King drew her eye. He lounged comfortably in a cushioned chair set on a wooden dais, surrounded by several courtiers. Not quite a throne, it sat beneath an awning, high up at the back of the room. She curtsied to him, receiving a small nod of recognition in turn.

Bethany swallowed. A sea of masculine faces surrounded her. Some expressed surprise, others looked bored. None appeared to approve of her presence.

As Lord Thomas presented her, she strove to present an image of calm. She glanced at Richard, who stared at her in shock from his place. The men sitting on either side of him acted as the jury, Lord Thomas quickly explained under his breath when he stepped back. She nodded. An unexpected sense of oppression settled on her.

As expected, Captain Loring objected to her presence.

“My Lord, you cannot expect a wife to tell the truth of any matter pertaining to her husband’s life or death.” He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.