As their gazes met the noblewoman’s lush mouth lifted into a smile. “Master Hollier. You came.” Her voice was sultry and deep despite her child-like appearance.
Kit forced himself to return her smile. “When a woman offers to pay a man’s debts it behooves him to come when she sends for him.”
“So it does,” she agreed.
Crossing to the desk, she lit the second candle with the first. When she’d set the one beside the other she loosened her cloak, letting the garment slip from her shoulders to puddle upon the floor around her belling skirts. Kit frowned. She yet wore her court attire, a green doublet in the mannish style the queen was presently affecting, atop pink and green skirts. Christ, she hadn’t even removed the wee gem-studded cap upon her head.
If she was going to be so open in conducting their affair, then he’d have none of it. Elizabeth Tudor blinded herself, expediently so, to the immorality in her court, but this she did only so long as the sinners were circumspect. Those exposed in their misdeeds could find themselves disgraced, banished from court, or occupying a chamber in either the Fleet or the Tower, depending on their monarch’s mood.
Stiff fabric crinkled as Lady Elisabetta sat upon the corner of the bench. She tilted her head to the side, her eyes narrowing as she peered at him through the gloom. “What, do I receive no thanks for saving you from incarceration?”
He leaned forward in the chair to brace his elbows on his knees. “My lady, I’m at loose ends as to how you even knew of my need. Dare I ask?”
She offered him a tiny smile. “At court for four years and you must yet pose me such a question? People are talking about you, Master Hollier.”
This but confirmed what Kit expected. Gossip was the source of her information. “Ah then I expect I should remind you we’re but talking about a promise to pay my creditors, not actual payment. I came this night to discover what you want from me that might cause the transfer of coins from your hands to theirs.”
The very sound of her laugh was an invitation to intimacy. “How impatient you are. I’m not yet ready to discuss business. First, I’ll chide you for using that goldsmith of yours. Heavens but he’s worse than a highwayman, charging so much for his work. From now on you must use my man.”
When Kit said nothing, she continued. “Tell me of yourself. I know so little save that you are close to my son. Of all the gentlemen pensioners our royal mistress keeps, you seem the only one disinterested in making an advantageous marriage. Why did you come to court if not to promote yourself?”
Kit saw no reason to offer a truthful answer. “I need more than a position as the queen’s pensioner if I’m to attract a wife,” he said with a shrug, then paused. It was the cultivation of power, not loyalty, that made Lady Montmercy her queen’s servant. Against that, it could hardly hurt him to seem as if he’d no liking for their royal mistress.
“Fool that I am I came to court believing I’d make my fortune on the Hollier name, even though that name no longer owns its nobility. Little did I know I’d be but one among so many other young and impoverished men, all of us dancing to gain our queen’s attention so we might suckle at the tit of her generosity.”
He gave a studied, scornful snort. “Now, isn’t that a useless exercise? Our fair princess’s tits are as dry as her womb is barren.”
Of all the foul things said by the gentry and peers who disliked their queen, this one was true. When it came to coin, Elizabeth Tudor was as miserly as her grandsire, a trait of which Kit was all too aware. It was rare when even her faithful secretary, Sir William Cecil or her pet, the earl of Leicester, received more than a word of praise in payment for their efforts on her behalf. Such a thing dismayed her nobles who were accustomed to royal favor coming in coins, not fine words.
This time Lady Montmercy’s laugh was pleased. “If you ask me I think our gracious Oriana enjoys watching her courtiers tear each other apart over the mere promise of her favor. She finds it a more entertaining sport than bear baiting.”
Her amusement faded into a small and secret smile. “By the by, I’m not diverted. I cannot tell you how I ache to peel back that crust of yours and discover what you conceal beneath it.”
Kit snapped his teeth shut on a foul word. She’d not pry into his life with impunity. “What could I possibly have to hide?”
A wicked gleam took life in her eyes. “Surely not shame because your family has lost its nobility?”
His jaw stiffened. This was no meeting, it was a battle. Armed with her verbal daggers, Lady Montmercy was thrusting at him, seeking out vulnerabilities to exploit.
“What shame?” he retorted in mock surprise. “The Holliers have lost and restored Graceton’s title as often as the Montmercys have seen theirs slip from their fingers. All the court knows my lord grandsire squandered my brother’s inheritance as he sought to rescue displaced monks and save other papists from losing their lands to confiscation. If my brother was willing to sell off the better part of his estate, he’d be a lord once more. But without the lands, there’s no point to the title, is there?”
Her smile took a triumphant twist. “Ah yes, the reclusive Squire Nicholas Hollier. Odd, but when I think of the two of you, I find myself reminded of Cain and Abel.”
Kit caught his breath as guilt shifted in his gut. How could she know? He reined in his reaction. She didn’t.
Most of England believed Nick only crippled. If some knew about the scarring, they didn’t know how Nick came to own his ruined face. No one outside of Graceton knew the truth; the secret was carefully guarded by both family and loyal servants.
When he made no reply, she motioned him forward. “Come and kneel before me so I might better see you.”
Rising, he left his cloak in the chair and crossed the room to drop onto one knee before her. Lady Elisabetta studied him, brushing her fingers through his hair as she straightened the golden-brown strands to her own satisfaction. After a moment she nodded.
“You’re attractive enough I suppose, although there’s too much power in your features for my tastes. I like a prettier man.”
Kit cocked a brow at this. Did this mean he didn’t have to couple with her to win the repayment of his debts? “You knew my appearance before you made your offer.”
Amusement touched her face, and she made a sound of mock concern. “Poor man, have I piqued your vanity by telling you I don’t swoon over you?”
With the tip of her finger she outlined his lips, her touch a sultry caress, then traced his carefully trimmed beard that barely skimmed his chin. She let her fingers trail down the curve of his neck to rest her hand upon his shoulder.
As she fingered the collar of Bertie’s blue doublet, the corner of her mouth lifted in scorn. “Good heavens, whatever are you wearing?” she asked, when she knew full well he meant to disguise himself.
So concerned had he been at the thought of discovery that he’d untied the ribbons on his shirt’s high neck and spread his collar wide, the way a workman might. She toyed with his dangling shirt strings then used her fingertip to draw a circle on the skin exposed in his open collar.
“Now then,” she said, her voice soft and seductive, “on the morrow our dear monarch will officially accept a new maid-of-honor to serve in her Presence Chamber. A strange appointment, this, for the lass has lived her life in isolation from society. Not only is she a regular Puritan, but she’s past a score of years in age, which makes her more spinster than maid.”
“What has this to do with me?” he asked in some confusion. As a rule, he kept his distance from the virgins Elizabeth used to emphasize her own supposedly pure state. All save one of those maids were interested in gaining husbands while he did not wish to wed.
Once again the lady trailed her fingertips across his exposed skin. Her lips quirked in pleasure when she drew a shiver from him. “I’m wondering if she’ll find you attractive, this young woman.”
He eyed her warily. This was the strangest meeting. She said she didn’t wish to bed him then s
eemed to be trying to seduce him. “And, if she does?”
A delighted smile bent the noblewoman’s fine lips. “Why, you’ll take her maidenhead for me then tell all the court what you’ve accomplished.”
Her words hit him like a punch. Kit sat flat on the floor. “Are you mad?” he cried out. “Those maids have the queen’s protection. Elizabeth will throw me in prison for using her. That is, if the girl’s male relatives don’t kill me first.”
“Did I say there’d be no risk?” the lady asked, a glint of vicious laughter in her eyes. “This is what you must do if I’m to pay your debts.”
Kit stared at her. If there was one thing in life of which he was absolutely certain, it was Lady Montmercy’s capability to hate. She was notorious for seeing those who injured her paid in double the coin. He wracked his brain for something he might have done that required his destruction. There was nothing he could put his finger to. Then again, it wasn’t beyond her to ruin a man just for the sheer joy of it.
“Why me?” It was a blunt question.
“Because you’ve no direct connection to me,” she replied. “No one must know I engineered the girl’s downfall.”
So it was the girl she wished to ruin, not him. The noblewoman simply didn’t care that he might also be destroyed in the process. A touch of pity woke in Kit. What in God’s name had this poor country lass done to Lady Elisabetta to warrant so harsh a revenge?
Who cared what the girl had done? All that mattered was how much Lady Montmercy was willing to pay for the wreaking of her vengeance. She’d been right to name this business, for now the haggling began.
He shook his head. “Nay, I’ll not do it. Take back your promises. If I’m going to die or rot in prison I’ll do it for my own sins, taking no innocent along with me.”
“May God damn all honorable men and you doubly so,” she snapped, anger bringing a new pink to her alabaster skin.
This teased a single bark of laughter from Kit. Here was a woman long accustomed to a lackey’s panting agreement. “Honorable? Nay, it’s only that I can see no profit in dying after my debts are finally paid. What you name rescue, my lady, is no rescue at all.”
She frowned and plucked at the great golden brooch pinned to her doublet’s breast. As the quiet stretched between them, night crept into the room, curling around the circle of candlelight like a contented cat. Most of the street sounds had stilled. A dog barked as two men sang their way home, pausing to laugh at each other’s false notes.
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 e
very 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.
The Lady Series Page 4
