Tori Phillips (16 page)

Wormsley snuffled. “Your aunt is a most loving lady, and has always shown you kindness, my lord. Pray, sir, hold still, so that I can apply this ointment upon the proper spots.”

The cooling medicine did very little to soothe Fenton’s festering anger. “Loving and kind? Your head has been ass-kicked. She is a shrew, and a cunning woman—two traits I abhor in a female.”

“Perchance ’twas some of the maids who put the nettles in our beds, and pepper everywhere else.” Wormsley’s fingers swirled more ointment on the angry red welts down Fenton’s back.

Fenton snorted. “If I believed that, I would beat every one of them within an inch of their miserable lives, then throw the little sluts out onto the road. Aye, methinks I will do just that, once I have Bodiam in my control.”

“How can that be, my lord? Lady Katherine will be married in ten days. My advice is that you make peace with my Lord Cavendish, since he will hold the purse strings then.”

“That great blond ape?” Fenton glared over his shoulder at Wormsley. What a puking moon-face the boy had!
When I can afford it, I will heave this bit of vermin back into the pigsty from whence he came, and find myself another servant, one whose thoughts will be the brothers of mine.

“Sir Brandon would sooner see me locked in the clink for indebtedness than lift one finger on my behalf. He wants Kat’s fortune all for himself. But I swear to you, he will not have that pleasure. Furthermore, I’ll thank you to keep your advice to yourself.”

Fenton smiled grimly to himself. He needed no one’s help. Last night, a brilliant plan had sprung full-blown from his brain. As soon as he could sit upon his horse in comfort, they would return to Bodiam.

The problem had now come to a head. No more time to sweet-talk Aunt Kat into assigning over to him his proper rights. Besides, after the treatment he had suffered at her hands, Fenton was not inclined to be sweet to her about anything. Uncle Edward Fitzhugh had had the right idea—keep a woman in her place by a good swat or two. Never let them get the upper hand. Yes, ’twould be a pleasure to turn the tables on her—to make Kat beg and grovel for her sustenance. And the husband the king had sent her? This time next week, he’ll be dead and in the ground.

“Dead,” Fenton muttered aloud, savoring the very sound of the word.

Wormsley stopped his ministrations. “My...my lord?”

Fenton smiled at him. It pleased him to see the boy take a step backward. “Dead, Worm. Do you hear? Colder than a gravestone!”

The whey-faced servant licked his lips. “Who, my lord?”

“You will see anon. Aye, before Midsummer’s Day. My double-dealing aunt will go to the church, not for a wedding, but for a funeral.” Fenton removed his dagger from its sheath. He pointed it at the boy. “And I trust that you will say nothing, or ’twill be the worse for you. Mark me, you scurvy knave?”

Wormsley’s eyelids blinked rapidly. “Aye, my Lord Scantling. I mark you well.”

Fenton fingered the blade. Perchance, when he tossed Wormsley back into his father’s sty, ’twould be in the manner of a corpse. Fenton needed no tale-teller in his shadow. In less than ten days, Lord Scantling would become a very rich man.

Chapter Eleven

“D
o not twitch so, my lady,” Sondra muttered through a mouthful of pins. “If you want the skirt’s hem even, you must stand still.”

Kat released a deep breath. “Aye.”

For the past hour, Sondra had fussed over the fitting of Kat’s wedding gown. First she worried about the hang of the outer sleeves, trying to make sure they were even. Now she knelt on the floor of Kat’s chamber working on the hem of the chapel train.

Kat looked down at the dress she wore. The white brocade gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the window. Sondra had done an excellent job fitting the bodice; it accented the rise of Kat’s breasts without revealing too much. Gold lace and pearls edged the square neckline. The underskirt, revealed by a split that ran from waist to hem, was made of sumptuous gold satin. The same material lined the gown’s outer sleeves, while gold lace, sprinkled with pearls, made up the puffed inner sleeves. Truly, the wedding gown was a masterpiece fit for Queen Catherine herself.

A cold lump settled itself in the pit of Kat’s stomach. Stars! This wedding was really going to happen! The past several weeks had been a pleasant diversion—almost like a dream, and one Kat had thoroughly enjoyed. Now the reckoning was due. In eight days—unless the world came to an abrupt end—Kat would wed for a third time. The game would be over. Reality would return to stay. Her fingers plucked at the lacy cuffs; a pearl bounced across the floor.

“My lady!” Sondra chided, a note of exasperation in her voice.

“Your pardon, Sondra.”

The housekeeper retrieved the jewel, then she returned to her hemming. Meanwhile Kat’s thoughts continued to race.

Sir Brandon seemed honorable enough, even though he still persisted in calling himself Lord Stafford. From the first moment of their meeting, his arresting good looks had totally captured her attention despite her resolve to the contrary. She found that she approved of his attitude of self-command, and, at the same time, his teasing, relaxed manner with everyone at Bodiam, whatever their station.

Kat thought of his firm mouth, curled as if always on the edge of laughter. She tried to ignore the memory of the kiss they had shared, but her body refused to forget it. Treacherously it yearned for more. Kat tossed her head. No doubt all the women of the court found Brandon deliciously appealing.

“Pray you, Lady Kat, hold still.” Sondra sat back on her haunches to regard her work. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure. “Your new husband will take one look at you in that fine gown and he’ll think he’s died and taken flight with an angel. But, methinks that angels do not have such pensive looks, my lady.”

“This wedding day comes too soon, Sondra.”

Sondra cocked her head. “Aye?”

“I had not the mind to marry again.” The dress felt suddenly confining. “And if I considered marriage at all, I wanted to be free to make my vows as my heart dictated.”

“From what I’ve seen, you like the man well enough,” Sondra observed. Shaking out the hem, she allowed it to swirl into graceful lines at Kat’s feet. “’Tis not as if you haven’t been bedded before.”

Aye, there’s the rub.
Kat swallowed. “’Tis that part that worries me.” What if Brandon wanted children?

Sondra grinned. “I could brew you up a potion, my lady.”

Kat shook her head. “Nay, good Sondra. I need to be in full command of my wits when I encounter my Lord Cavendish in the marriage bed.”

There was a knock at the door, then Violet popped her head around it. The girl seemed out of breath.

“My lady, a word with you, I pray!” she gasped.

Pray God Montjoy has not had heart palpitations
The old steward had looked a little pale and drawn in the days since Fenton’s visit. Aloud, Kat asked, “What’s amiss, Violet?”

After closing the door softly behind her, the girl tiptoed over to them. “I have a most marvelous secret, my lady!” she whispered, her large brown eyes growing even more enormous.

Kat gave her a reproving look. “No tittle-tattle, I pray?” Her maids tended to make mountains out of pimples.

The girl shook her head. “Nay, my lady. ’Tis gospel true.”

Rising from her position on the floor, Sondra put her hands on her hips. “Aye? So, do not take until Saint Michael’s Day to tell us this great secret. Out with it. We are alone, as you can see. Miranda is off listening to Lord Cavendish sing more songs to her.”

Violet wrinkled her nose. “Not so, neither!”

Kat placed her hand over her heart; her fingers clutched the rose brooch. What had happened to Miranda? If that smiling rascal had taken any improprieties with her, he’d have the devil to pay with Kat! “What is it, Violet?”

“My Lord Cavendish, Lady Kat. He is not Sir Brandon at all.”

Kat’s shoulders relaxed. “Aye, this is old news to me.”

Violet lowered her voice. “But there is more. I overheard their conversation with Jess in the stable this very morn.”

Sondra’s brow went up. “Oh, aye? And what was a chambermaid like you a-doing in the stable at the crack of dawn?”

Violet blushed a strawberry hue. “I was... talking with Patrick, one of Lord Stafford’s grooms. He’s Irish, methinks, but quite civilized. And ever so fine to look at.” She giggled.

Kat rolled her eyes. While she had been occupied with entertaining her guests, her guests’ handsome servants had been busy entertaining her susceptible maids. “We will discuss your stable activities later, Violet, but for the present, is there anything else you overheard?”

“Aye, what did Jess say?” Sondra wanted to know.

“That is the nut and core of it, mistress. Jess said that you, Mistress Sondra, had wheedled out the truth of his master’s identity.”

“Sweet Saint Anne!”

“Bestrew me! Jess is a stronger man than methought!”

Kat ran her hand through her hair. “What did Sir Brandon say when Jess told him of this? Was he very angry?”

“Nay, my lady. My Lord Cavendish—the real one—laughed so hard he could barely stand.” Violet licked her lips. “Then he said something about trying to seduce the mistress of the house, and cuckolding himself. At least, methinks he said that.”

Sondra put her hand over her mouth to hide her grin. “What a roguish knave!”

Kat played with an auburn curl between her fingers as she considered the implications of this new twist. “That means that Sir Brandon, who is pretending to be Sir John, knows that I am really Katherine, even though I call myself Miranda.”

“Aye, my lady. ’Tis why I thought it was important to tell you straightway.”

A slow smile grew on Kat’s lips. “But he doesn’t know that I know that he knows!”

Violet’s dark brows met in the middle of her forehead. “Your pardon, my lady? I don’t understand.”

“But I do!” Sondra clapped her hands. “Oh, Lady Kat! How the game turns, and turns again in a widening circle! Like the ripples in a pond when you toss in a stone.”

“Aye, so long as I do not get caught in the snares of my own making.” Kat tapped her cheek with her forefinger. “And now this smiling knave means to test my virtue—and my honor, as well.”

“I know just the thing!” Sondra suggested. “This afternoon I will fix you a basket for your picnic with the noble gentlemen that will please every appetite.”

A little warning bell sounded in Kat’s mind. “No love potions, Sondra! Mark what I say. My Lord Cavendish does not need any additional urging. He has too much vigor already.”

Sondra ignored her. “’Twill be a feast for lovers.”

Kat tried to move but found herself hampered by her unpinned hem. “Sondra!”

Sondra unlaced Kat’s gown. “Never fear, Lady Kat. You will enjoy what I fix for you. And what may happen after that?” She lifted one shoulder with a dismissive air. “Who can say?”

By the book! Her whole household had turned into Cupid’s minions! At least, they had better be silent ones. “Sondra, Violet, say nothing—absolutely nothing—to anyone about this. Especially not to Miranda. Violet, I mean that particularly to you. If I hear one whispered remark out of little Pansy’s mouth, I shall know where to lay my grievance.”

Violet drew herself up with an important air. “My lips are sealed, my lady.”

“And I give you my pledge, Lady Kat,” Sondra added. She scooped up the half-finished gown in her arms. “Now, Violet, you can clean out all the fireplaces, which might take your mind off a certain wicked-eyed Irishman for the day. I am going to the kitchens. You, Lady Kat, deck yourself in your buttercup cambric. And prepare for battle.” She pulled open the door. “They say, ‘All’s fair in love and war.’ You decide which it will be this afternoon.”

Taking Violet with her, the housekeeper skipped out, silvery laughter following in her wake. Kat stared after her, while her brain spun like a child’s top.

Very well, my clever Lord Cavendish. Prepare yourself, for this afternoon you will meet your match. Seduce me, indeedl What does he think I am? An empty-headed maid whom he can toss on the ground for his pleasure? Nay, Sir Brandon! After this day, you will think twice before you change your stripes again.

Brandon released a contented sigh, stretched out his long legs, cradled his wine cup in his hand and leaned back against the trunk of a wide willow tree, under which the two couples had passed the afternoon pleasantly filled with wine, music and food. After many nudges and winks from Brandon, Jack had finally taken his fair lady on a walk. Within ten minutes, they had disappeared around the bend of the riverbank.

Now to begin his assault of this delectable fortress.

“By my troth, Mistress Miranda, methinks your cook must be in league with the goddess Venus,” Brandon remarked, his gaze skimming over the remains of the picnic dinner.

Kat glanced up from the pile of daisies, cornflowers, poppies and buttercups that she wove into colorful chains. “How so, Sir John? Philippe is French, and not classically inclined.”

Brandon chuckled. “Worse and worse. The French are the very votaries of love and all its ploys. Observe.” He pointed to the numerous dishes and bowls. “To begin, we had plover’s eggs stuffed with cinnamon, as well as mushrooms marinated in oil and vinegar.”

“Aye?” Kat split the stem of a daisy, then tied a buttercup through it. “Did they not sit well in your stomach, my lord? Methought the eggs were particularly tasty. They are a rare treat.”

As you are a rare treat for me, Lady Kat. You look like a tender yellow chick in your summer’s day gown.
The gold of his rose brooch gleamed in the late afternoon’s sunlight. It pleased him inordinately that Kat had worn his poor gift every day. Moving his gaze upward, he approved of the warm creamy color of her slender throat above the provocative cut of her tight bodice. Her long, sensitive fingers worked skillfully at her self-appointed task. What those fingers could do, if she would entwine them around him!

Crossing one leg over the other, Brandon fought to ignore the warmth in his loins. “Why, Miranda, did you know that eggs are reputed to enhance fertility in women and vigor in men?”