The Lady Series

by Domning, Denise

“You have a brother? I don’t.” The child's hand opened, her wee fingers stretching out to touch Nick's cheek. She traced across his brow then descended one cheek. “Does it hurt?”

  “Nay,” Nick replied, letting out a shaky breath. “The burns healed long ago.”

  Lucy touched a fingertip to her own nose. “My mama healed my burn. It hurt yesterday, but not this morn.”

  A smile filled Nick’s eyes. “You are fortunate to have so clever a mama.”

  The child wrinkled her nose at her stepfather. “It's odd, the way you talk.”

  Cecily jiggled her a little, resettling the girl on her hip. “When the burns healed they left the skin stiff about his mouth.”

  “Oh.” Lucy's brow creased anew as she considered this.

  “So, now that my face no longer frightens you, shall we see to the introductions? I am Squire Nicholas Hollier.” Nick gave her an abbreviated bow. “And you are?”

  Lucy looked at Cecily. “Please, I need to be down to do this rightly.”

  “Well then, down you shall go,” Cecily said.

  With her nightshirt held out from her sides, Lucy dropped into a curtsy so deep and unsteady it took a finger braced upon the floor to hold her upright. As she rose she stood with her chin high. Jamie fought a smile. In this very formal stance she was the picture of her infamous grandam.

  “I am Mistress Lucretia Purfoy. It is my pleasure to meet you, Your Worship, and to be your stepdaughter.” Courtly illusion crumbled in the next second as she loosed an elated giggle. “I didn’t miss a word!”

  Nick coughed out a laugh. “Well met, Mistress Lucretia,” he replied, now clearly pleased with his new kinswoman.

  “Nay, you must say Lucy,” the child instructed, even daring to point her index finger at her new stepfather. “My papa said you’d call me Lucy, just as he did.”

  “Lucy it is,” Nick agreed.

  “Pardon, Your Worship,” Jamie said, his words owning a sharp edge, “but may I remind you that this is my bedchamber and I haven’t yet had enough sleep to be civil.”

  Another laugh rasped from Nick as he shot a glance at his steward. “You'll have to forgive our Jamie, Lucy. He’s a bear in the morning.”

  Then Graceton's master looked at Tom, who yet stood agape in the doorway. “Will you fetch this lass and me something to break our fasts? Also, let her governess know I'll be keeping her charge for an hour or so until we've had time to become acquainted.”

  “As you will, Lord Nicholas,” Tom said. The formal bend of his head belied the fact that his legs were bare.

  Nick stretched out one of his ruined hands in invitation to Lucy. “Come then,” he said.

  Lucy closed her fingers around his with no more hesitation than she’d shown in taking Jamie's hand the previous day. “There are scars on your hands, too,” she told Nick as he drew her into his chamber through the door in Jamie's wall.

  “I knew that,” Nick replied with another laugh then the panel clicked back into place, cutting off whatever else he might have said.

  Jamie looked at Cecily. Tears glistened in her eyes. “She thinks Nick will climb trees with her then teach her to ride his horse,” she said, wiping at her cheeks.

  “So I've been told,” he said with the harsh cock of a brow “Since we both know Nick won’t be doing those things with her, who do you think he'll try to recruit to do it for him?” He slumped against his headboard once again. “He’s been a happy recluse all these years. Why must he decide to change that now when I not only have harvests to get in, but a wedding to plan?”

  Amusement sparked golden in Cecily’s strange eyes. “What, has Graceton no grooms capable of teaching a child to ride? Why, Master Wyatt,” she drawled out his name, “if I didn’t know you better I'd think you almost eager to claim the child as your sole responsibility.”

  “What nonsense,” he snapped back even as her words pierced him. Cecily was right. He had been assuming he alone would be burdened with Lucy. Why?

  She laughed. “Nick's right. You are a bear in the morning.” With that, she swept from the room, laughter in every twitch of her skirts.

  Confused and wondering why, Jamie forced himself to lie back upon the mattress. But all hope of regaining sleep’s blissful numbness was gone. He closed his eyes. It promised to be another hellacious day at Graceton Castle.

  Not ten minutes later there was a rap at his open bedchamber door. Jamie’s teeth clenched. Sleep or no sleep, he wasn’t ready to face anyone.

  “Go away, Tom,” he snarled, not needing to look to know who it was.

  “My pardon, Master James,” his man replied, “but you've a letter. It came by messenger with the dawn.”

  That brought Jamie upright in a hurry. Still wearing naught but his shirt and breeches, Tom crossed the room to hand his master a fold of paper. Jamie flipped it over to read Percy’s seal imprinted in the wax. Both the timing of the letter and its lack of bulk said this wasn’t his uncle’s usual reports on court doings. If Percy was sending a separate letter, something of great moment had happened.

  “Sir Edward got his own missive by the same delivery,” Tom said. “The note caused quite a stir in the gatehouse. The porter told me Sir Edward started shouting then his manservant came running in naught but his nightshirt to demand ink and quill.”

  “Fetch my bed robe for me, will you?” Jamie asked as he rose.

  With a nod, Tom padded across the room to retrieve the garment from its wall peg. He helped Jamie shrug into it then took a backward step. “If there’s nothing else, Master James, I'll go dress now.”

  Jamie nodded. Tom echoed the movement then turned for the door. Something twinged deep in Jamie.

  “I hear you intend to wed,” he called after his man.

  Tom whirled, his brows lifted in surprise. A slow grin, as if Jamie’s interest somehow pleased him, split his face. “Aye, so I do, Master James. It's been many the year in planning, with another year or so before I’ve finally enough saved to see my way to it.”

  Jamie cleared his throat. “Who is the fortunate woman?” His attempt at conversation sounded stilted, false.

  Tom’s smile grew. “Moll Wright, the harness maker’s youngest. Her da's getting older and could use another hand in his shop now that it seems her brother won't recover all his strength after an illness last year. Since my own sire was a tanner, I'm not without the skills needed to take his place,” he said with a shrug. “But I won’t join them until I’ve coin enough to buy my portion of the shop, free and clear.”

  Pride dimmed into chagrin. “Not that I'm happy to leave you, Master James. You’ve been as good a master as any man could want. It's just that Moll won’t have me if I remain in service.”

  Jamie's heart sank into a bed of irony. He’d been so self-absorbed he had no idea Tom even considered leaving him. He forced a smile.

  “If that's the case then I feel fortunate to have kept you as long as I have. Tell your darling I said she’s a lucky woman.”

  Across the room Tom frowned. His eyes darkened in concern as he studied his master. “Thank you, Master James. Are you feeling well this morn?” he asked.

  The question startled Jamie. “Well enough,” he replied. “Why?”

  “It's nothing,” Tom replied.

  Once his servant had exited the bedchamber, Jamie turned to the hidden panel. As was his wont he entered without knocking. Nick and his stepdaughter were at the far side of the room. Lucy was peering from bedchamber to sitting room.

  “It's a terrible mess in there,” she was saying. “I think it needs a good cleaning.”

  Jamie’s mouth quirked. “She’s a perceptive child, she is,” he called in announcement.

  Nick shot his steward a narrow look from over his shoulder. “I don't hear her offering to clean it,” he said.

  In the doorway Lucy turned with an excited jump. “May I?” she pleaded. “Brigit says I'll be a good wife. I'm already wondrous careful at tending my own things.”

  Sharp discom
fort shot through Nick's gaze at the thought of a child sorting through his precious mess. Jamie smiled and crossed his arms, waiting to see how Nick would slither his way out of this. “Would you like to see the family of swans that nests beneath my window?” the soon-to-be lord of Graceton asked his stepdaughter.

  The distraction worked. Lucy dashed across the room. “Where?” she cried, clambering into the casement.

  Rather than answer her, Nick sent his steward a questioning look.

  Jamie held up the fold of paper. “We've a note from Percy. It arrived only moments ago by royal messenger along with a message for Sir Edward.”

  The significance of this wasn’t lost on Graceton’s master. “What does he write?” he demanded. Although Nick read well enough, he preferred Jamie to scan all correspondence first and sift the vital from the mundane.

  Jamie broke the letter's seal. His gaze slipped over the words. “Percy says the queen is in high dudgeon. With tears and much begging for her mercy, the earl of Leicester has admitted to aiding Norfolk in his plot to marry the Scots queen.

  “Huh,” Jamie said, scanning the passage once again, seeking what Percy hadn’t said in its lines. “Why should the duke of Norfolk form an alliance with Leicester, when none of the nobles have any liking for the queen's lover?”

  Nick loosed a quiet laugh at that. “If I were to hazard a guess, it would be because the duke believed Leicester could use his influence with Elizabeth to make her accept the marriage. Read on,” he commanded. “I'm waiting to hear if there's anything in what he writes that can somehow free me of”-he caught himself and glanced at the child in the window-”this ceremony.”

  Jamie did as he was bid, paraphrasing Percy’s flowery style. “It seems the queen was waiting for the duke of Norfolk to confess that he courted Mary Stuart in defiance of her command, something Norfolk refuses to do even though few courtiers now dare even to be seen with him for fear of royal rage.”

  “Good,” Nick said. “This means Elizabeth's anger is firmly fixed in another direction, leaving Sir Edward beyond the scope of her vengeance.”

  “Hardly so,” Jamie replied swiftly. “What Percy writes means matters are even worse for Sir Edward, and by extension, for us. If the courtiers are shunning Norfolk, the most powerful man in our country, how do you wager they'll treat a simple knight like Sir Edward for his involvement in that same plot?”

  Understanding flickered through Nick's gaze and all hope of escaping his marriage died. “Fearing he'll lose all connection and favor at court, Sir Edward will redouble his efforts to save himself,” he breathed, “much to my detriment. What has Percy written there?” He pointed to the back of the message.

  Startled, Jamie flipped the letter over. There were a few scrawled lines, no doubt added after the first message had been completed. He skimmed the words then grimaced.

  “The northern barons have left court, despite that Elizabeth bade them stay. Their excuse is that they cannot tolerate the crowding of her summer progress.”

  Despair darkened Nick’s green eyes. He turned his head, staring past Lucy to the countryside that spread out beneath his window as if he could see all the way to England's north country. “They mean to do it,” he murmured. “With all hope of Norfolk's marriage to Mary Stuart dead, they go home to raise their shires in rebellion. There will be war, Jamie, civil war.”

  When Nick again looked at his steward, his gaze was haunted. It was the possibility that Northumberland would send another letter to Graceton, begging his fellow Catholic for aid that worried him now. “What can I do to be rid of this knight?” he almost pleaded. “Can we stage this wedding any sooner?”

  Jamie shook his head. “Not unless some news arrives that makes Sir Edward more frantic to return to court than to save his skin. As long as he believes his redemption lies here, he’s not likely to rush his departure.”

  Panic gleamed in Nick's gaze. “Less than thirty days,” he said. “Surely we can keep him at bay for that long. Send him hunting in my chase. Let him bring his hawks. Do whatever it takes to keep the knight away from here for as much of each day as is possible.”

  Jamie raised his hands in resignation. “I'll do my best.”

  A sharp rap on the apartment's door thundered in the silence. Startled, Nick turned. “Who can that be?”

  “Only the lady or one of her servants,” Jamie replied in newborn irritation. No one else would have bothered knocking on Nick's door. After ten years Graceton’s servants knew to channel all communication for their squire through Jamie, or Tom, should the steward be unavailable.

  “I'll not have strangers in my quarters,” Nick warned as he set a hand upon Lucy's shoulder.

  Jamie almost smiled. Apparently Nick no longer considered the child a stranger.

  Jamie threaded his way through Nick’s sitting room. Whoever it was dared to tap again, this time with more strength. Irritation flared higher. Not even Lady Purfoy had the right to intrude upon her husband so.

  He opened the door. Day's light tumbled in, the newborn sun's heat enough to stir dust on the unswept floor. It was Mistress Atwater. Dark rings, no doubt the result of last night's late meal, clung beneath the governess's eyes. She wore a black doublet, no doubt because its front buttons let her dress herself, and but a single green skirt. No farthingale disturbed its line.

  As Jamie stepped into the gallery the woman leaned to the side, trying to peer past him into Nick's quarters. Here was bold behavior indeed! Jamie closed the panel firmly behind him.

  “Good morrow Mistress Atwater,” he said, letting his cold tone serve as a chide for her untoward curiosity.

  “Good morrow Master Steward,” she replied with a quick bob. The flicker of her gaze took in his bed robe, bristling beard and the hair that must be standing up on his head. “My pardon if I roused you.”

  “You didn’t,” he said, only now noticing the nervous wringing of her hands. It softened the steel in his voice. “Have no fear. Mistress Purfoy is safe within, visiting with her stepfather.”

  “Aye, so I’m told,” she said.

  If she knew, then she’d stepped far over the bounds in daring to knock upon the squire's door.

  She drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Master Wyatt, I mean no disrespect, but Mistress Lucy cannot stay with Squire Hollier this morn. 'Tis Sunday, the day we spend in prayer and quiet contemplation of our Lord. Perhaps she can visit with the squire another time?”

  “Mistress Lucy will return to the nursery once she’s broken her fast with the squire,” Jamie said firmly. “From now on, please arrange the child’s day so that she spends at least an hour in the squire's company. Early morning or evening would be best. If your lady finds fault with this she may send her complaints to me.”

  Turning, Jamie reentered Nick's apartment, shutting the door firmly behind him as a chide to the young woman’s boldness.

  In the bedchamber the window was now open. Nick sat in the casement with Lucy on his lap as they leaned out to peer down at the river. Jamie smiled, remembering a portrait of Nick, done before the accident. It revealed that Graceton’s squire had once been as handsome a lad as Lucy was pretty. They could have been father and daughter.

  “Well now, the swans are usually right there,” Nick said as he straightened, carefully drawing the child back inside the opening. “I wonder where they've gotten to?”

  Lucy smiled up into her stepfather’s scarred face. “Maybe they're yet asleep?” she suggested. Her tone was reassuring, as if she didn't want him to worry because he hadn’t provided the promised entertainment. “It's still very early.”

  Something tugged in Jamie's heart. Nick really could use someone new with whom to pass his time. What if Cecily was right and affection for a child could make a man stronger in his health? The hope that Lucy’s presence would buy Nick a little more time grew then waged war on what the child's presence would surely cost him.

  At last, he sighed. Just as he'd always known he would, he gave way. Lucy ha
d herself a stepfather's proxy.

  Standing at the center of the gatehouse's residence, Ned waited for his manservant to finish tying the last of the ribbons decorating his doublet. A full week had passed since they’d learned of Leicester’s betrayal. All was lost and not just because the earl hadn’t the courage to actually do as he claimed he could and convince Elizabeth to accept Norfolk’s marriage plans.

  “There,” his man said, patting at the last perfect bow.

  Dick Backler paused to admire his work. Although twice Ned's age the man looked no more than a score and ten. The servant's attire was as carefully put together as the knight's; not a dark hair was out of place.

  “Once again Sir Edward, you put these yokels to shame. By God, this is a backward place. I'll not regret putting it in our dust.”

  Hopelessness closed around Ned like a cloak. “You speak as if we’ve somewhere to go after we leave here. We don’t. At this very instant my name is being tossed about court like some tennis ball by those intent on ruining my repute while I’m trapped here unable to share a word in my own defense. I'll be fortunate if my own brother looks me in the eye by the time they're finished, much less that Elizabeth ever smiles on me again.”

  A frown touched the man's forehead then disappeared. Dick didn’t tolerate creases of any sort. “None of that Sir Edward. You know court. Things change from day to day, tides sweeping one faction out to bring in a new one. Stay steady in your course. It’s not much you need to restore what you may or may not have lost. Remind yourself that however royal she might be, Her Majesty is still a woman.”

  Dick filled the word with scorn. The servant despised all females.

  “Easily said,” Ned cried, panic again nibbling at his soul, “but it's hard to hold tight to hope. Who could have known that so fervent a Catholic as Squire Hollier would suggest a Protestant ceremony? Or that so strict a Protestant as Lady Purfoy would be so flexible?”

  “One wrong word,” Dick insisted, his tone reassuring. “That's all you need to race back to court and voice your complaints, embellishing them as you may. It'll be up to the squire to explain himself.”