The Lady Series

by Domning, Denise

  “Might I take your cloak, Sir Amyas?” she asked.

  Amyas opened his cloak without removing his gloves then slipped the garment from his shoulders, handing it to her without looking at her. Beneath it he wore a knee-length black coat trimmed in black fur and, beneath that, his usual black doublet studded with pearls. But, his breeches were brown leather, the only suitable riding attire for such a wet day. Scarlet garters, held closed by pins from which pearls dangled, held the tops of his boots to his thighs. The massive gold chain that crossed his breast made certain no one mistook him for anyone other than this shire’s wealthiest man and its justice.

  “See to it my party is served a goodly meal and is accommodated for the night. We’ll be leaving on the morrow at first light.”

  “As you will, Sir Amyas.”

  As she retreated, leaving the door ajar behind her Amyas turned his sharp gaze upon his granddaughter. His mouth was but a thin crack in the granite slabs that were his cheeks. His eyes narrowed beneath their tangled brows. Anne stared back at him. It was their eyes that named them kin, being almond shaped and so dark a brown they seemed black.

  “I see you yet staff this place with cripples and sinners despite my command to the contrary.”

  Anne lifted her chin. “I do my mother will.” It was only a partial lie. Frances had never denied Anne’s penchant for rescuing those on whom society had turned its back. Frances allowed it, believing Anne but reflected the compassion expected of one of God’s elect.

  “Your mother?” her grandsire snapped back in scorn. “What little wit she ever owned was taken from her two and twenty years ago.”

  Outrage burned in Anne’s cheeks. As she opened her mouth to defend her dam Frances’s hand tightened on hers in a warning against impertinence. Where Amyas couldn’t command her, her mother could. However reluctantly, Anne held her tongue.

  The pendant pearls on his garters swinging with each step, Amyas came to a stop before Anne and caught her by the chin, forcing her face up toward his as if to better see her. His gaze cataloged her face the way he had the items in the room.

  “What are you doing?” Anne protested, wrenching free of his grasp. She stepped back from him, releasing her mother’s hand as she did so.

  “I’ll handle my heir as I please,” he shot back.

  “What sort of nonsense is this?” Anne retorted, her brows lowered as she took yet another backward step. “My sister’s death made me my father’s heir, not yours. My cousin takes all you own when you’re gone.”

  Amyas’s expression flattened. He pivoted to the hearth, his back to them. Silence filled the room as he lifted a foot and toed at the logs. One split, showering sparks as it popped, the new pieces revealing a heart glowing bright red.

  “That damn fool went and broke his neck in a fall from his horse a week ago,” he told the dancing flames, no pity or grief in his harsh voice.

  Anne’s heart froze. She glanced at her mother. Terror filled Frances's eyes.

  “No,” Anne retorted, shaking her head in refusal. “This still doesn’t make me your heir. Is not his wife pregnant?” That child would be in line for Amyas’s wealth before Anne.

  Amyas lifted his head toward her. In that instant his face seemed softer than usual. Did he grieve? Then the fire’s uncertain light shifted and Anne saw it had been but a trick of the shadows. His expression was as stony as ever.

  “The stupid cow grew hysterical upon hearing the news and fell into an early labor. Both she and the babe followed my grandson into the grave. She failed me, just as he did, just as did his brother and your useless sisters. They all failed me, not one of them leaving a child behind them to follow me. You, such as you are, are all I have left.

  “And,” he said, stepping forward to again catch her chin, his grip unbreakable this time, “I will look upon my heir.”

  Too shocked to resist, Anne let Amyas take inventory of her features. The movement of his gaze across her face marked the tiny peak of dark brown hair at the center point of her forehead, the gentle arch of her brows, the short length of her slightly too wide nose and the lush curl of her lips. Lifting his thumb, he touched the wee mole at the corner of her mouth, the expensive leather of his gloves cool and soft upon her face.

  When he was done satisfaction glowed like bits of gold in his dark eyes as he released her chin. “I thought I remembered you as a pretty thing. It’ll serve you well in your new position.”

  Anne blinked. Chambermaids and governesses had positions, not gentlewomen. “You mean my wedding,” she corrected.

  “Do I?”

  Her grandsire crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his boot heels. Smug satisfaction glowed in his dark eyes. “As the final Blanchemain and my sole heir I can afford to look high for your husband, even into the nobility. To that end I’ve secured your appointment as maid-of-honor to Her Gracious Majesty, the Queen of England.” He added the slightest sneer to his words, as if he thought Elizabeth Tudor neither gracious nor majestic.

  Gasping, Anne whirled on her mother and found her own panic reflected on half of Frances’s face. All save one of Elizabeth’s maids-of-honor were babes half Anne’s age; to a one they were virgins. If Anne’s age might be forgiven, her lack of purity would not be, not by the queen, not by Sir Amyas and most assuredly not by the auspicious peer he meant to contract her to in marriage.

  In the next instant, Frances’s face took fire with the need to protect her only remaining daughter. Leaning as far as she dared, Frances grabbed Anne’s hand and pulled her close, then pressed Anne’s hand to her chest in a show of possession. Her hazel eyes ablaze with determination, Frances’s lips moved as she fought to speak. Spittle filled the drooping right side of her mouth.

  “Maaan.” The slurred sound that left Frances’s lips was barely recognizable as the word she meant: mine.

  Love and pride filled Anne. She knew how much this effort cost her mother. Frances held tight to what little dignity she had left. That her mother might harbor such love for the child whose birth had left her in this state, the same child who had betrayed her by giving way to lust, was precious, indeed.

  “My mother says I belong to her,” Anne told her grandsire, translating without thinking. “She’s already mourned for three daughters and doesn’t wish to lose another. She’d remind you of your vow that she might keep me for her life’s time.”

  Sir Amyas’s brow creased in scornful disbelief. “All that from a single, slobbering sound? I say you put words in her mouth for the sheer joy of defying me.”

  “It’s only her tongue that doesn’t work,” Anne flared back then wondered why she bothered. She’d told him more than once that her mother communicated as eloquently as he using a board with letters painted upon it. “You gave your word, and we’ll hold you to it.”

  The imperious motion of Amyas’s hand waved away the whole issue. “Whatever I said in the past is now moot. The queen calls you to come. Would you have me return to court alone, saying you will not serve?”

  Anne’s eyes narrowed at his clumsy trap. “Tell the queen what you will, then tell her the truth, that you had no right to promise me to her. If you’re so needful of an heir, wed again and sire up another batch of brats to use, for you won’t use me.” He wouldn’t be the first man of his age to remarry and beget more heirs to replace those who’ve passed before him.

  Amyas’s breath hissed from him. His face whitened to a deathly pallor. “Surly bitch, you’ll say no more,” he snarled, his harsh words echoing against the fine plasterwork upon the ceiling.

  His unexpected vehemence at what was a sensible suggestion sent Anne back a step in surprise. Frances tugged on Anne’s hand, demanding her attention. Anne glanced at her. Half of Frances’s mouth was lifted in a twisted, malicious smile.

  Anne’s eyes widened in shock. Her mother believed Amyas incapable of begetting children.

  Freeing a strangled sound of amusement, Frances released Anne and shifted in her chair to look past her da
ughter to her father-by-marriage. As she caught his attention she made a gesture with her left hand, one Anne had seen the lowest servants use when discussing a man’s lack of virility.

  Anne gasped, stunned that her mother even knew the gesture, then stunned again that Frances had the courage to aim such a suggestion at Amyas.

  Sir Amyas jerked as if struck, his expression flattening until he no longer looked human. He launched himself at Frances, his hand already moving. The sound of flesh meeting flesh exploded in the quiet room.

  Anne screamed as her mother’s head slammed against the chair’s back. She flew at Amyas, shoving him back as her mother crumpled, her good hand cupping her bleeding lips.

  “Shame on you,” she shouted, forcing Amyas back step-by-step toward the window. If only she could drive him through that opening and end him and his threat.

  “If she sickens because of your attack, I’ll name you beast. If she dies, I call you murderer to every man who listens!”

  The power of his backhanded blow sent her staggering. Pain erupted along her jaw. Stars swam before her eyes and her teeth no longer seemed to grip her gums. Unwelcome tears followed. She fought them. God would send her to hell before she cried in front of this man.

  Catching her footing, Anne raised her head, then crossed her arms before her and met his gaze. Sir Amyas lifted his chin. His dark coloring and his rage conspired to make him look more like the Devil than the religious man he swore he was.

  “Have you considered that as both my and your mother’s heir Owls House is again under my control? Continue to defy me and I will release your servants. What a shame that would be in the case of your stable master. He’s quite gifted with horseflesh despite that he wears a cutpurse’s slitted ear.” Amyas shrugged as if it were quite beyond his ability to prevent such a dismissal.

  Anne stared upon her defeat. Without Owls House to keep them, most of her servants would be begging at the crossroads before the week was out. Her arms opened, her head bowed. She glared at the tawny matting beneath her feet in false humility.

  “My pardon Grandfather. I was wrong to speak so to you. I place myself at your command.”

  She didn’t wait to see if this was what he wanted, only fled to her mother’s chair. Frances’s head was now tucked tightly and unnaturally into her chest, a tell-tale sign of another muscle spasm. Tears trickled down her face and her good hand curled into her body along with her useless one, suggesting the depth of pain this caused her.

  Shifting, Anne glanced up at Amyas. “I pray you Grandfather, take pity on my mother,” Anne fair choked on the words. There was no pity in this man. “Let me call her servants to tend to her. Let her keep those she knows and trusts about her. Do this and I vow I’ll be as compliant a maiden as you could desire.”

  Her promise was no truer than the one Amyas had made to her mother all those years ago, since Anne was neither compliant nor a maiden.

  Satisfaction almost oozed from her grandsire. “It’s fortunate for you that I’m a charitable man, quick to forgive. As you will, the servants stay as long as you recall that you are my heir and in my custody,” he said, returning to her what he had no right to take and making certain she knew he’d hold his threat against Owls House’s over her head until the day she was wedded and bedded.

  “Call her servants and your own. In preparing for departure pack not only your belongings but your bed and any chairs you own. We will be in London by week’s end and you will be at court the week after.”

  Terror shot through Anne. She needed more time to think and plan before she spewed blatant falsehoods to her queen. Although she trusted every one of the servants here, there was no knowing who beyond this house had divined her secret or how easily it might spill under the scrutiny of some suitor’s family.

  Amyas strode to the parlor door and threw it open. “Come within Mistress Watkins and meet your charge.”

  A thin woman scooted into the room, her head bowed. She wore modest brown from collar to hem save for her small ruff and the simple white cap atop her mouse-brown hair. Her every movement was tight and uncomfortable. At first glance Anne thought her ugly, but in the next moment she saw it was only the woman’s expression that made her seem so.

  Stopping at the room’s center, Mistress Watkins curtsied then bowed her head over hands that were more clenched than folded. “Sir Amyas,” she said in a little girl’s squeaking voice.

  “Mistress Patience Watkins, here is your charge, my granddaughter, Anne Blanchemain. Make yourself of use and escort her and her mother from this room,” Amyas said, then retreated to the window and put his back to the room. “I prefer to keep mine own company for as long as it takes you to prepare for your journey.”

  No longer under Amyas’s scrutiny, Mistress Watkins lifted her head and looked at Anne through pale blue eyes lined with surprisingly dark lashes. Her chin was tilted to an awkward angle.

  Year of practice with reading Frances’s every twitch and turn made it easy for Anne to decipher the message on this woman’s face: she relished the idea of holding power over one who was her better in rank.

  Amyas hadn’t provided a chaperone or governess, this was a jailer and, no doubt, her grandsire’s sanctimonious spy.

  There was another rush of air as the parlor door again opened. Without invitation, their housekeeper raced into the room, darting past Patience Watkins to join Anne at Frances’s chair. Together, they lifted Frances between them, carrying her to the door.

  Her mother’s head lolled onto Anne’s shoulder. Worry tore through Anne. Emotional upset was always dangerous for her dam, often being followed by weeks of illness. The thought of being trapped at the queen’s court while her mother languished here alone without Anne to tend her ate at her.

  The answer came in a flash. Amyas wanted her married. Once Anne was married she could no longer be a maid-of-honor. Moreover, as a wife she would no longer be under the queen’s or Amyas’s control.

  Anne needed to be married and soon, but her husband couldn’t be just any man. She needed a paragon, for he must not only satisfy Amyas’s arrogance and greed for a title, he’d need to accept her mother’s state without judgment or damnation, not to mention forgive Anne her youthful transgression.

  And there could be no better place to seek this perfect man than at the court of Elizabeth where gentlemen from every corner of this kingdom came to woo their queen and make their fortunes, no matter what it cost them to do it.

  Her grandsire was right. She needed to go to London and Elizabeth.

  The setting sun shot rusty beams of light through the room’s slatted window shutters. Although they were presently closed over precious panes of glass beneath them, it was illumination enough for Kit to see why the homeowner rented his small London house to trysting courtiers. The place with its two rooms—one facing the street, the other behind—was as unremarkable a house as he’d ever seen.

  Here in the foreroom there was no mat upon the floor, and the fireplace was so small its glowing coals barely offered light much less cheer or warmth. Without a kitchen proper the homeowner did all his cooking at this hearth, or so said the few small pots that sat upon the mantle. The small cabinet beside the hearth held two cups and a wooden trencher, along with the various items needed to maintain a fire and add a spot of light to a darkened room. For seating there was a plain wooden bench and a chair made from a used barrel, sides cut into the appropriate armed form with a bit of planking for a seat. A slab of wood leaned against the plastered brick wall, the legs that would turn it into a table resting on the floor beside it. Indeed, the only thing of value in this residence was the writing desk.

  That pretty walnut piece stood atop a stool near the hearth, a lock at the base of its sloping top and a new candle in the wooden holder at its back. A quill lay beside the inkpot, as if Kit’s arrival had driven the owner from his room just before he started tallying his accounts.

  Cloak swirling about him, Kit made his way to the reworked barrel. Taking car
e to drape the edges of his outer garment over its makeshift arms to avoid splinters, he sat, stretching his legs out before him, ankles neatly crossed. A stripe of light from the shutters fell across his lap, making the brown breeches he’d borrowed from Bertie gleam as if they were new.

  Then, he waited.

  The light shifted down his legs as the sun descended. When it reached the garters at his knees, impatience grew beyond all toleration. He lifted his head to stare at the doorway. God’s wounds, but where was the lady?

  Perhaps she’d decided not to come. His relief at this thought put a bitter smile upon his lips. It was for good reason he knew so little of Lady Montmercy, one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Those who fell into her tender care often found their lives a shambles after she was finished with them.

  With a harsh sigh, Kit folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed. Through the house’s cracks and crevices twilight’s breath sighed into the room. London’s air was rich with the smell of rotting garbage, coal smoke, and the filthy Thames. Outside folk were hurrying now, trying to finish their last tasks before night was upon them. Cart wheels squealed. Roosting pigeons purred from just outside the window. Nearby a mother and daughter were shrieking at each other in anger, while from some greater distance children laughed in play.

  Metal scraped on metal: a key being fitted into the front door’s lock. Kit straightened in his chair as the street door groaned open. A becloaked woman stepped into the darkened room. She knew her way well, treading with ease through the darkness to the cabinet beside the hearth. There, she took a taper and held its wick to one of the still-warm coals on the hearth. The twist of cotton sputtered and hissed, then came to life.

  Straightening, Lady Elisabetta Montmercy pushed back her cloak hood, and her face was bathed in the candle’s golden glow. Kit sighed. That evil should own such beauty!

  The lady had a doll-like perfection of feature, as if her face was sculpted of glass. Despite her more than two score years, no lines marked her skin and there were but few strands of gray in the fair curls that lay against her cheeks. Her eyes gleamed as blue as the Montmercy sapphires.