‘I guessed. It – it doesn’t matter. And you are looking for the man who did it?’
‘No. That man is dead. I’m looking for the man who paid him.’
‘I see.’ She looked into his face. ‘It’s much more than Danny, isn’t it? It’s this thing you’re doing for His Highness.’ She paused, thinking. ‘And this man you want … does he know that you’re looking for him?’
A grim smile touched Mr Deveril’s mouth. ‘No. Not yet.’
Chloë’s eyes widened suddenly. ‘You know who he is.’
‘Yes.’ He sat down again on the side of the desk. ‘I know who he is but that’s not enough. I need proof; cast-iron, incorruptible proof. Or, because he is who he is, no one is going to believe me. Not even Giles.’
And because she was beginning to know him now and knew how to listen, she heard the almost imperceptible bitterness in the apparently level tone. She said, ‘Matt believes you. And so would I.’
He smiled again but differently and stood up to go.
‘Would you? I can’t think why you should.’ He laid his hand on the door-latch and then looked back. ‘And will you also accept my word on the subject of mourning and wear the cream silk tonight?’
‘Yes,’ said Chloë. And to herself, ‘And give you my heart on a plate. You need only ask.’
*
Whitehall was more than usually crowded and, having been delivered there by Julia on her way to visit friends, Chloë and Alex found themselves jostled in the press of people moving slowly inside.
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Mr Deveril mildly. ‘It’s jam-making night and we’re going to be crushed, boiled and reduced to pulp. Hell!’ This as he was hailed loudly from the steps by the Earl of Chesterfield and then, rather closer at hand by Lauderdale, the Scottish Secretary.
‘Well, Deveril. They’re saying we’ve taken a dozen ships of hemp and flax,’ said Lauderdale with the soft lilt that masked a uniquely unscrupulous mind. ‘Is that so?’
‘A slight exaggeration,’ replied Alex, bored but courteous. And then wheeled suddenly, aware that a hand was sliding into his pocket.
Mr Deveril was quick but the hand and whoever it belonged to was quicker. Even as he moved to grasp it, it slid supple as an eel through his clutching fingers and, as he turned after it, it’s owner – a child of no more than ten – darted swiftly through the crowd and was gone.
‘Well?’ demanded his lordship tetchily. ‘I asked ye how slight an exaggeration?’
Alex looked absently back at him, the light eyes frowning slightly.
‘We took only one,’ he replied. And, ignoring Lauderdale’s tut of disapproval, looked back across the courtyard in the direction the child had taken.
For an instant, he debated forcing his way back through the crush but then dismissed the notion. It would take too long – and for what? To catch a child who’d tried to pick a pocket and gone away empty-handed? Lunacy. Pushing the incident to the back of his mind, he tucked Chloë’s hand through his arm and said, ‘Take a deep breath, Marigold. We’re going in.’
Except in its large attendance, the reception that night was the same as any other; the wide, elegant chamber and the faces of the glittering throng all belonged to other evenings, other seasons. Only for Chloë, her hand on her husband’s arm, was the music sweeter, the lights brighter, the colours sharper. And then he left her to report to the King and the occasion lost its charm.
She spoke to Lady Chesterfield, then to a number of other acquaintances and managed to avoid Lady Sarah Marsden, ravishing as usual in blue; but quite how she came to end up tête-á-tête with Lord George Gresham she had no idea. It wasn’t the first time he had attempted to single her out but previously she had managed to defeat him by summoning some innocent third party to her side. Tonight, crowded as the room was, she could see no one to fulfil this function and realised that, for courtesy’s sake, she would have to bear patiently with his lisping lordship’s particular brand of double-entendre until he either tired of the game or some method of escape offered itself.
What she did not realise was that Gresham, taunted by Sarah Marsden and piqued by the knowledge that he had been weighed in the balance and found wanting, had resolved to change his tactics. He bowed over her hand and smiled at her.
‘Mistwess Devewil – I had begun to fear I should not find you. Whitehall is so cwowded tonight.’
Chloë agreed that it was.
‘His Majesty,’ he continued smoothly, ‘asks that you join him – and, of course, your husband – in the yellow saloon and has sent me to escort you there.’ He offered his arm. ‘Shall we?’
Chloë hesitated, her mind racing. The room he spoke of was not one she knew but, when you considered the size of Whitehall, that wasn’t particularly surprising; and it was true that Alex was with the King. What troubled her was an innate distrust of George Gresham coupled with the notion that the only reason she could think of why her presence had been requested was the trifling matter of her annulment. Slowly, painfully, her breath leaked away behind her cream shot-silk bodice and the hand she laid on his lordship’s velvet-clad arm was not quite steady.
He led her out into the corridor, along it a little way then across a gallery and into another, all the time chatting pleasantly. Intensely preoccupied, Chloë heeded their direction not at all and his lordship’s conversation scarcely more so, though she occasionally responded to it with brief monosyllabic answers. And all the time a voice in her head was saying foolishly, ‘Please, God, let it not happen … please, God – let it not be now.’
Gresham opened a door and waited for her to pass through it. She entered without thinking, heard the latch click gently shut behind her and only then realised that they had arrived.
One of the palace’s smaller chambers, the yellow saloon was panelled in yew and hung with curtains of gold-coloured silk. It was furnished with small inlaid cabinets, a high-backed couch and three carved chairs. And, except for themselves, it was quite empty.
Her brain functioning normally again, Chloë swept round to confront his lordship and said, ‘Unless His Majesty is hiding under the sofa, we seem to have made a mistake.’
The worldly eyes examined the room with faint surprise.
‘Perhaps he has been delayed.’
‘Or perhaps,’ returned Chloë astringently, ‘he got lost on the way. I should be obliged if you would conduct me back to the Great Hall.’
He smiled then, raising his brows a little.
‘Why certainly – all in good time. But there is no huwy for I doubt we’ll be missed.’
Though aware that she had been tricked, Chloë felt too relieved to be either angry or afraid. ‘Possibly not. Nevertheless, I want to go back.’ And she moved to walk past him to the door. His arm shot out, barring her way.
‘Why so cold?’ he asked, amused. ‘I won’t eat you.’
Her brows soared derisively. ‘I know. You won’t get the chance. Now let me pass.’
‘Pwesently, my dear. You see, you are such a cold little fish that I weally must discover if you have any warmth in you at all.’ His arms closed round her. ‘Or is it,’ he murmured provocatively, ‘all weserved for Alex?’
‘Well at least he doesn’t need to resort to trickery,’ snapped Chloë. ‘And if he did, I feel sure he’d think of something more original. Now – stop being ridiculous and let me go.’
His answer was to swoop on her mouth in a long, fierce kiss and Chloë, who had been expecting it, neither struggled nor responded but remained passively inert, waiting for an opportunity to hit him where it hurt. Lifting his head, Lord Gresham said nastily, ‘If that’s how you tweat your husband, I’m not surpwised he went to sea.’
‘Aren’t you, my dear?’ said a pleasantly mocking voice from behind him.
With an oath, Gresham released Chloë and wheeled to confront Mr Deveril, his face flushing with annoyance.
‘What the hell - - ‘ he began hastily and then stopped.
‘Am I doing here?’ f
inished Alex, his mouth curling unpleasantly. ‘Saving my honour, it seems.’ He walked up to Chloë who closed her mouth and tried not to blush, ‘And yours. I thought I warned you about lonely antechambers?’
‘You did,’ she replied weakly. ‘But I expected to find the King in this one. And you.’
He tutted reprovingly. ‘Some people will believe anything. And some other people,’ he said, looking at his lordship, ‘can only be glad of it.’
Gresham, who already felt both foolish and alarmed, made an effort to recover his dignity. Blustering a little, he said, ‘It was less than nothing. A little flirtation, nothing more. But if you want to make an issue of it, there are accepted civilised standards.’
Allowing regret to seep into every syllable, Alex said, ‘But I, being a nasty common soldier, am not civilised at all. My inclinations are really quite crude … and the one I feel at the moment is to knock your teeth down your throat.’ He drew Chloë gently to the door and then looked back. ‘I’ll restrain myself because I don’t want my wife edified by the sight of me pasting you to the wall. But if you ever lay a hand on her again … if I hear you’ve been discussing her in any terms but those of purest courtesy, I’ll do it. In fact, I shall enjoy doing it.’ And before Gresham could think of a reply, they had gone.
Retracing their steps along the endless corridors and galleries, it was a long time before either of them spoke and Chloë, her soul awash with unholy glee, was not sure that she could. Finally, after they had collected their cloaks, she looked up at him rather shyly and said, ‘Did you mean it? About pasting him to the wall, I mean?’
His glance was mildly surprised. ‘In essence – though perhaps not literally. Of course. Why not?’
She drew a long breath. ‘Oh. Thank you.’
He was amused. ‘For what? Not offering to fight a duel on your behalf – or preserving the sanctity of our annulment?’
Chloë’s joy evaporated with unpleasant rapidity.
Unaware of it, Alex went on blithely, ‘Not that it would have come to that. Gresham may be a fool and a libertine but I never heard him accused of rape. Or alternatively,’ he grinned, ‘you could have consented and then summoned him as principal witness for the defence. He’d have loved that.’
It was more than Chloë could tolerate and, pulling her hand free of his arm, she stalked quickly away from him and out into the still, starry darkness. Without even pausing to think, she moved with a swift flurry of skirts across the court and through the chequered arch into King Street. Then a hand closed firmly round her wrist and Mr Deveril swung her round to face him.
‘Chloë, I’m sorry. That was in poor taste. Forget, if you can, that I said it.’
She looked at him, her eyes wide and bleak.
‘Just tell me one thing. Did you mean that as well?’
His hand fell away from her as if burned. He said quietly, ‘No. But if you need to ask, then I doubt my saying so will convince you.’
Revulsion became repentance and, feeling a lump hardening in her throat, Chloë hunted fruitlessly for her handkerchief and gave a wail of prosaic anguish.
The tension vanished. Alex dug deep into his pocket and pulled out, not a handkerchief, but a folded piece of paper. For a second, flicking it open, he stared at it faintly puzzled; then Chloë sniffed despairingly and he pushed it away, fished in the other pocket and produced a piece of soft cambric which he placed in her hand.
‘I seem,’ he said dryly, ‘to be making a habit of this.’
Chloë mopped her face, blew her nose and then shook her head.
‘I’m sorry. It’s been a difficult day - but I don’t suppose yours has been any better so it was unfair of me to enact you a tragedy. Of course I know you didn’t mean it.’
‘Chloë, no.’ He swung round to face her and, taking the damp handkerchief from her to shove it back in his pocket, grasped her hands. ‘The fault was wholly mine and you should have slapped me. In fact, I wish you had. I wouldn’t feel such a bastard.’ A glint of humour re-appeared in his eyes and he raised her right hand towards his cheek, ‘Shall I show you how? It might come in useful.’
She shook her head and managed a watery chuckle. ‘Next time, perhaps.’
‘There had better not be a next time.’ He examined her face. ‘Am I forgiven?’
‘Yes.’ She couldn’t quite resist laying her palm briefly against his face. ‘Of course.’ And then, trying to hide the tell-tale impulse by withdrawing her hands from his in order to pull her cloak about her, said thoughtlessly, ‘It’s only that you spoiled the moment.’
‘Moment?’ He looked bewildered. ‘What moment?’
‘You coming to find me and arriving just when I needed you – then threatening Lord Gresham the way you did – and not saying a single word about how stupid I’d been.’ She stole a glance up at him and was surprised by the sudden grimness of his expression. ‘I know I shouldn’t have believed – ‘
‘Stop. I know I’m a bastard – I already admitted it. I open my mouth and say things I shouldn’t. I’m always doing it. And I know I deserve to be made to grovel but there’s nothing you can say that can make me feel worse than I do already.’
Chloë stared at him blankly. ‘That wasn’t what I was doing.’
‘I know it wasn’t. That’s the trouble.’ Alex drew a long breath and then, loosing it, said, ‘Enough. Let’s walk … before I decide to fall on my sword and have done with it.’
Unsure how to take this, Chloë merely nodded and took his arm.
It was late and the wide, cobbled thoroughfare of the Strand was deserted as they walked silently past the New Exchange and the Savoy Palace. After a time, they held a desultory conversation about Alex’s time at sea and Chloë’s cargo lodged in the Vintry. At Temple Bar they joined Fleet Street and moved on past St Dunstan-in-the-West and up Ludgate Hill into the City. It was as they entered St Paul’s Court that a very faint sound reached Mr Deveril’s ears; the sound of metal scraping stone. He grasped Chloë’s wrist warningly and stopped for a second to listen. One slight, muffled clink and then nothing.
Moving on again, Alex released Chloë and loosened his sword in its sheath. Then he looked down at her, laid a finger against his lips and gave a brief, reassuring smile.
‘Footpads?’ thought Chloë, her ears straining to hear sounds beyond the gentle rustling of her skirts. Then she caught something; a low whistle from in front of them. And glancing quickly at Mr Deveril, saw that he had heard it too.
They had reached the end of the south transept and Chloë was wondering, with a sort of academic interest, why she wasn’t more frightened, when Alex stopped again. She had just time to be aware that there were shapes emerging from the shadows of the houses to their right when his hand closed on her arm like the jaws of a trap and propelled her behind him with a force that spun her hard against the wall of the cathedral. Then, in two fluid moves, he tore off his cloak and drew his sword.
Eyes alert, Alex held the cloak to one side while his blade swept a gleaming arc in front of him, causing the would-be assailants who emerged from the shadows to falter. Then they were on him – one holding a sword and the other two armed with cudgels and knives. Alex twisted to engage the first man while deflecting a cudgel blow to his head with his cloak-swathed forearm. He lunged and there was a grunt as the first man crumpled and then, wrenching his blade free, Alex stepped back to make another steely sweep at the pair in front of him. A billet took him hard on the shoulder making him stagger but then the sword drove home again and the second attacker dropped back clutching his arm and turned to run. Alex caught the third man’s blade in the folds of his cloak, ducked to avoid a swinging blow to his ear while at the same time making a hard, upwards thrust of his sword arm. There was an unpleasant choking sound and the man dropped like a stone, his throat pierced below the jaw.
For an instant Mr Deveril remained poised, gazing in the direction taken by the second man, then, shaking his arm free of the cloak, came slowly back to Chloë.
‘Are you all right?’ His breathing was a little fast but he sounded perfectly calm.
‘Of course. Are you?’ She was pleased to find that her voice was as steady as his.
Alex nodded briefly. ‘Stay here for a moment. I won’t be long.’ Then he turned and went back to the two corpses.
Watching him wipe his blade clean of their blood, Chloë shivered a little. She had always known that Mr Deveril was a swordsman of some ability; what she’d never fully appreciated was that he was a professional.
He came back to her holding a dagger taken from one of the bodies and closed her fingers round the hilt. ‘Only a precaution. I doubt we’ll be attacked again but, just in case, I’d like you to carry this for me. Don’t worry – you won’t have to use it. Now, keep close to me but don’t talk. Ready?’
She smiled and nodded.
‘Good girl. Everything’s going to be all right.’
They moved on between the massive, crumbling wall of the cathedral and the shadowy houses. At the end of St Paul’s Court, they crossed the lower end of Old Change into Watling Street and were just approaching the junction with Canning Street when they heard the sound of running feet from somewhere not far behind them.
‘Damn,’ said Alex. And, grabbing Chloë’s hand, dived headlong down Dowgate Hill.
Cloak billowing behind her, Chloë somehow managed to keep pace with him. He swerved off to the right, then left towards the Skinners Hall and she realised that they were heading for the river somewhere around Queenhithe. Then he turned right again, plunging into a labyrinth of alleyways and finally came to an abrupt halt, pulling her hard against his side in a doorway. His teeth gleamed in a smile.
‘We haven’t lost them for long. They know we have to cross the river.’
‘They’re not footpads,’ gasped Chloë, ‘or they wouldn’t be following us. Do you think it’s to do with -- ?’
‘Unlikely.’ It was a lie but he didn’t want to frighten her unduly. ‘Get rid of the petticoats. You can’t run weighed down by twenty ells of taffeta. I won’t look.’
‘Why not?’ she asked, fumbling with her skirts. A sinuous wriggle got rid of the discarded garments and, kicking them aside, she looped her now over-long silk skirt over her arm.
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