Tori Phillips (3 page)

“Take good heed, my friend,” Stafford counseled Brandon. “Though your father might be swayed to forget this marriage, you know the king will not. Nothing annoys our sovereign lord more than the idea of not getting his own way. Be wise. The anger of our most noble prince means death.” The speaker caught sight of Fenton. “Here comes a flattering rascal.”

Stifling his contempt at that description, Fenton executed a flourishing bow. “Good day, my Lord Stafford, my Lord Cavendish—or should I call you my uncle Brandon, since we are soon to be related?”

A thunderous expression crossed Cavendish’s face as both men returned Fenton’s bow.

Good. My unwilling uncle-to-be is as unhappy over this match as I am—perhaps even more so.

“What ill wind blew you here, Scantling?” Cavendish rumbled.

Fenton took a small, prudent step backward.

“Judging from the odor that hangs about him, I would say he came directly from the haunts of the London stews.” Stafford’s clear blue eyes sparkled with merriment at Fenton’s displeasure.

Fenton forced a wide smile across his trembling lips. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, I do protest your unwarranted remarks. Especially as I have made it my urgent business to forewarn you, my Lord Cavendish, before you seek my aunt’s favor.”

“What are you prattling about, Scantling?” Brandon growled. His chiseled features furrowed with barely concealed impatience.

Drawing closer to the men, Fenton lowered his voice. “’Tis Lady Katherine, Sir Brandon. I feel it best you know about her before—”

Gripping Fenton’s shoulder, Cavendish shook him like a wet rag. His fingers bit painfully through the thickness of Fenton’s padded brocade. The young man chewed his lower lip to keep from swearing a loud oath in Cavendish’s face. Best not to annoy a wounded bear.

“Out with it, man! Is she poxed?” Brandon shook him again.

“Nay!” Fenton winced. “As far as I know, she is pure as snow. ’Tis her age I speak of.”

Brandon released his grip on Fenton’s shoulder. “You babble riddles to me, and I am not in the mood for games.” He lowered his face to Fenton’s. “I am more in mind to stab something—soft. Be plain and quick. My dagger itches to be free of its sheath.”

Fenton swallowed. Cavendish’s forthcoming marriage had certainly soured his usual good humor. “’Tis this, my lord. My Aunt Katherine is...er...quite old. Indeed, I am much surprised that the king chose her for you. She is past the time of childbearing. And she has always been barren—at least, with her first two husbands.”

“How old?” Brandon exploded the words out of his mouth.

Fenton allowed himself a small laugh. “Ah, you of all people should know the ladies, Sir Brandon. They are forever changing the dates of their births to suit their purposes. I cannot say my aunt’s exact age. But I think she is closer to your lady mother than to you.” He coughed behind his hand to hide his grin.

Cavendish said nothing, but stared out across the courtyard at the chapel windows gleaming in the midafternoon sunlight.

“Two
husbands, you say?” Lord Stafford whistled through his teeth. “Pray, what happened to them?”

Fenton controlled his glee. Like massive trout, these mighty lords were rising to his colorful bait. “I am surprised ! Did no one tell you that my aunt had been married before?”

Brandon threaded his fingers through Fenton’s chain. He tightened his hold on it, pulling the younger man closer. Fenton prayed the golden links would not break. The chain had cost him several months’ allowance.

Icy danger lurked within the depths of Cavendish’s startling blue eyes. “Tell me now,” Brandon murmured in a warning tone.

Fenton inhaled a deep breath. “Aunt Kat was first married to my Lord Thomas Lewknor. They say he took sick on their wedding night, and then spent eighteen painful months in bed. Nursed, of course, by my good aunt. He died finally—foaming at the mouth,” Fenton added for good measure.

A look of horror crossed Cavendish’s face.

“And her second husband?” prompted Stafford.

“’Twas Sir Edward Fitzhugh.”

“I knew of him.” Brandon narrowed his eyes. “He was a brawler of the first order, as I recall, and had a temper like wildfire. I knew he often beat his servants. I felt sorry for the lady who was married to him.”

The softened tone in Brandon’s voice did not suit Fenton’s purpose at all. “Aye, you speak the truth. My step. uncle was the devil’s own spawn. ’Tis no wonder that my aunt grew weary of him. Even an angel would have lost patience with Fitzhugh the Furious.” Fenton lowered his voice. “They say he died of a sudden stroke in his brain.”

He allowed the implied accusation to hang unspoken in the air before he continued. “I had just come up to court at the time, so I cannot speak from personal knowledge as to the exact manner of his death. Fitzhugh was buried under the chapel stones by the time I had returned to Bodiam Castle.” He did not mention that it was six months after Fitzhugh’s death before he had found time to visit his widowed aunt. No need to muddle the tale with petty details.

“I see.” Cavendish’s blue eyes took on a cloudy aspect.

Fenton had no idea if this change boded good or bad for his intent. Licking his lips again, he plunged on. “I thought to warn you, my lord. After all, two husbands have met with dubious endings while in Aunt Katherine’s care.”

Brandon turned his full attention back to Fenton. “You have done well to speak to me. I am in your debt, my lord.”

“Once the king understands your concerns of marriage with my aunt, I am sure he will change his mind, and match you with another, more agreeable lady,” Fenton suggested smoothly.

“Who knows what the king will do, save God and the Lady Anne Boleyn? But I shall pursue the matter.” Brandon bowed. “Your servant, sir.”

Fenton returned the courtesy. “God give you a pleasant day, my lords.” He left the two golden giants with the thoughts he had planted. Now to pen a loving note to dear Aunt Kat, and warn her of the lecherous fortune hunter coming her way. If Sir Brandon failed to move the king against this marriage, Lady Katherine Fitzhugh would surely do the task.

Brandon watched Scantling’s thin figure retreat down the colonnade. He curled his lips with distaste.

Stafford whistled again. “An old crone who is a husband killer? Zounds, Brandon! You have landed in a fine pickle barrel this time.”

Brandon rubbed his chin. “Perchance, but consider the source of this news.” He hated to admit that Scantling’s wasp tongue had stung him.

Jack met Brandon’s gaze. “I heard that Scantling’s creditors grow daily in number, especially since your forthcoming marriage has been broadcast.”

“Aye.” Brandon nodded. “Scantling’s resources are very slender, and his waste is great. Methinks the devoted nephew speaks with his own interest in mind.”

“The boy has a peacock’s air about him,” Jack agreed. “’Twould be no surprise to find the print of his lips upon his own looking glass.”

Brandon merely grunted in reply. If only there was a way he could meet this elderly widow without her knowing who he was. A good soldier always scouted the lay of the land before engaging in battle.

Jack grinned. “As to his aunt, if I were you, I’d hie down to Sussex and see this lady for myself. If she is withered, or a witch stirring a poisonous brew, then I’d—”

Brandon’s laughter cut off Jack’s further speech. Good old Jack! Brandon clapped him around the shoulders.

“You have struck the bull’s-eye, my friend! Aye, let us be off for Bodiam Castle at first light tomorrow. ’Tis time you went a-courting.”

Jack’s eyes widened, and his skin took on a paler hue. “I, a-courting? What do you mean?”

Brandon laughed again as the intriguing idea continued to take shape in his mind. “’Tis called a midsummer’s madness. Jackanapes. And we have much work to do twixt now and then.”

“Meihinks you have already been touched by the moon,” Jack muttered, shaking his head.

Chapter Two

M
iranda looked up from her embroidery hoop as Kat entered their chambers on the second floor of the central square tower. Sunlight streamed pleasantly through the open casement window, and a light breeze carried the scent of fresh-mown hay and hot mint into the room. Kat waved another letter in her hand.

“More news, coz?” Miranda tried to keep the note of disappointment from her voice. She had been looking forward to enacting Kat’s bold masque, especially since she had the starring role. She prayed the letter’s contents wouldn’t scotch the plan. “Has...has the king changed his mind?”

“Nay, no such luck as that!” Kat settled herself amid the plump woolen cushions on the window seat. She slit the wax seal with her fingernail. “’Tis from Fenton,”

“Ah, I should have guessed.” Probably another plea for more money, Miranda thought as Kat unfolded the thick paper. “What does he say now?” She paused, then changed her voice to mimic Fenton’s whine. “‘Dearest Aunt Katherine, how I miss you, and I pray daily for your continued good health!”’

Kat smiled over the top of the paper. “His opening words are something like that. Go on, soothsayer. Tell me what else does my loving nephew write?”

Miranda threaded her needle with buttercup yellow silk. “Let me think. Ah! ‘The court is ever busy here, and all turn upon the king’s fancy. We are to enact a new masque, and the costumes are quite elaborate. I am to take the part of...”’ Miranda considered a moment as she knotted one end of the floss, then she continued, “‘Of Apollo, a high honor indeed. But, dearest Aunt, the costume requires a great deal of golden thread and cloth-of-gold material. Alas, I fear my allowance, generous as it .is from you, cannot cover this unforeseen expenditure...’ And so on, and so on. How much does the little beggar want now?”

Kat shook her head. “Not this time!”

Miranda rolled her eyes. “May the clouds rain cats and dogs!”

Kat frowned as she perused the letter. “He writes of my marriage, and wishes me joy in it.”

“Ha! There is something else between the lines. I can feel it.”

Kat arched one eyebrow at her cousin. “Only too true, I fear. He then goes on to say that he knows Sir Brandon Cavendish well.”

“I do not like the sound of that!” Miranda jabbed her needle into the collar of the night shift she worked upon.

“Sweet Saint Anne!” Kat erupted. “Oh, Miranda, I must be the most unfortunate of women on this green earth!”

Miranda put down her sewing and regarded Kat more intently. “How now?”

Kat rattled the offending paper. “Fenton warns me that this Cavendish toad is far too young for me. ‘Barely dry behind his ears,’ he says. This...boy has only just won his spurs, and he is much given to...God shield me!”

“What?”

Kat read, “‘Cavendish is a ruffian who will swear, drink, dance and revel the night away. He commits the oldest sins in the newest fashion. In short, dear Aunt, Sir Brandon is as lecherous as a monkey. He will top anything in skirts between the ages of seven and seventy.”’ Balling up the paper, she hurled it toward the fireplace. “Alack! I am undone by the king’s whimsy. First, I nursed an old man on death’s door, and then tried to tame a devil, and now I am offered to a half-grown rooster to school! ’Tis enough to make me consider taking the veil!”

Miranda watched Kat pace the newly waxed floorboards for a few minutes, then she quietly asked, “Do you believe Fenton?”

Kat stopped in midstride. “Not as far as I can throw him. We both know from experience that Fenton says and does nothing that is not to his own advantage. ’Tis not my happiness he is concerned for, but my purse strings. With me married to a husband, no matter how young, Fenton will experience more of a money problem than he already has. And if, perchance, this...whoring, lusting fledgling manages to get me with child, Fenton will stand to lose a great deal more—in fact, my whole estate.” Kat stroked her chin with her forefinger.

Miranda sighed. “A babe would be sweet to have in the house. Do you think it is possible?”

“How do I know?” Kat snapped. “My first husband was too ill to breach me, and my second...” She shuddered at the thought. “Let us not dwell upon the second at all. A babe.” She considered the idea. “Hmm. I fear I am past my ripe years. A babe would be a gift from God that I would bear willingly even if I had to raise its father alongside of it.”

“Do we still go forward with our plan?” Miranda asked. She sent a silent prayer to heaven. ’Twould be such fun to be wooed, even if the bridegroom was just a few years out of leading strings. A lusty youth! Perhaps he still had all his teeth, unlike Kat’s first two husbands.

Kat smiled grimly. “Of course we will.”

“Do you truly think it will work?”

Taking Miranda by the hand, Kat led her to the gold-framed glass near the bed. “Look you, dearest coz. We are as much alike as sisters, which is not surprising considering that our dear mothers were exactly that. Even though you are a few years younger than I, we are of like stature, of like figure—though, I do confess with envy that your waist is an inch or two narrower. Our hair is the same shade of auburn, our eyes the same green.” Kat turned Miranda toward her and cradled her face between her hands. “Best of all, no one at court, other than Fenton, has ever seen Lady Katherine Fitzhugh. No one will know that we have exchanged places.”

“I will know,” announced a dirgelike masculine voice from the doorway. “And I like it not.”

Kat laughed, this time with a happier note. “Ah, Montjoy! You never like anything at all, but only delight in pointing out the dark side.”

Montjoy sniffed as if his nose ran with a cold. “What you propose is a lie, my lady.” Wagging his forefinger like a schoolmaster, the castle steward shuffled into the room. He regarded both women with a doleful mien. “Mark my words, Lady Katherine, a relationship begun with deceit will end in misery.” He dragged out the last word in three long syllables.

Laughing all the more, Kat draped herself around the old man’s shoulders. “Montjoy, my good conscience, what would we ever do without your joyful presence to gladden our days?”

Montjoy took out a large stained handkerchief, and blew his nose loudly before answering. “You’d be gone to the devil, my lady, and there is the beginning and end of it.” He sighed deeply.