Piers St. Denis was astounded by the rebuke, and but angered further, and yet the queen had played into his hands if she had known it. “If not me, madame,” he said, “then perhaps it is the earl of Bartram who shall have the lad. I have, myself, heard him importune the king over the boy’s custody.” He looked again at Jasmine. “Lord Stokes believes you unchaste, madame. He says a woman of mixed blood should not be allowed to raise a Christian prince’s son, no matter which side of the blanket he was born on. He even questions your heritage, for were you not born to your father when your mother was yet wed to the earl of BrocCairn, Lady Lindley? That would make you a bastard, too, wouldn’t it?”
She hit him; and the exquisite, large, oval-shaped Golconda diamond that she wore on the middle finger of her right hand cut the marquis of Hartsfield’s face from the corner of his right eye to the right hand corner of his mouth. “I am a trueborn princess of India, my lord,” she told the bleeding man in icy, even tones that never rose beyond a conversational pitch. “ ’Tis you, I fear, who are the bastard! And I say again to you, and anyone else who is interested, that I will kill any man who attempts to steal my children, any of my children, away from me. I am their mother. I am their guardian, and there is none fitter than I to raise them!” Now it was she who smiled at the marquis of Hartsfield. “I fear, my lord, that you will never again be as handsome as you were before you accosted and slandered me this day. What a pity.” Then Jasmine turned, curtsied to the queen, and began to make her way from the hall. Her heart was pounding with her anger. How dare James Stuart once again attempt to interfere in her life! She did not hear the queen calling after her, but instead her eye lit upon the earl of Bartram, who was just entering the hall, his normally reclusive wife upon his arm.
Jasmine blocked their entry. “How dare you attempt to steal my son from me, my lord!” she almost shouted at him. “Well, neither you, or your mealy-mouthed Puritan wife shall have him!” Then she pushed past the couple, departing the hall.
Behind her the countess of Bartram fainted, so frightened was she by the turquoise-eyed virago who had just confronted her. She would later swear hellfire had leapt from Jasmine’s eyes. Her husband struggled to keep his spouse from collapsing upon the floor, but Mary Stokes was not quite the slip of a girl she had once been.
Queen Anne wanted to laugh, and she could see that Steenie did, too, but they somehow managed to control themselves. She handed the bleeding marquis of Hartsfield her own handkerchief. His doublet was already ruined. “You will live, my lord,” she said dryly.
“I want her arrested!” he cried, petulently.
“No,” the queen said in implacable tones. “You deliberately told her something that was not true, my lord. You did it to cause trouble and for no other reason. You are angry that she has refused you in favor of James Leslie, but how could you not have known her feelings even when my dearest husband was foolish enough to offer ye a chance with her. Steenie knew, and was wise enough to avoid the confrontation, but not you. Your greed, not just for Lady Lindley’s wealth, but for the power you thought controlling her children would bring you, has instead brought you the disaster you so richly deserve. You no longer have my friendship, my lord. And, I will be certain to tell the king of your penchant for wickedness. I will advise my husband not to entrust you with any young girl of good family, my lord. God only knows what would happen to her in your care! Now, be gone from my sight!”
George Villiers manfully struggled to maintain his composure as he watched the marquis of Hartsfield slink from the hall. I have won! he thought gleefully, and I hardly had to do a thing. What a fool St. Denis is to have destroyed himself. Granted, he would never have won the hand of Jasmine Lindley, but he might have come out of this with a rich wife, the simpleminded gudgeon. Now he will have nothing for all his trouble—and I didn’t have to do a thing to accomplish this end! A small chuckle escaped him.
“Restrain yourself, Steenie,” the queen said quietly. “Smugness does not become you, sir.”
“Yes, Majesty,” George Villiers replied meekly, but his heart was soaring with his victory.
Chapter 12
“Did I not warn you to silence, little brother?” Kipp St. Denis scolded the marquis of Hartsfield. “You have lost Queen Anne’s favor, and now will probably lose the king’s as well. You have gained nothing from this sojourn at court, which has cost us so dearly. The world was within your grasp, Piers, and you flung it away for the mere chance to torment Lady Lindley because she preferred another husband to you. Father always said you were a childish fool.”
“It was our father who squandered almost all our resources, leaving our mother to die in virtual penury,” Piers St. Denis snarled. “Besides, not all is lost. I can still beg the king’s forgiveness. I have become quite the expert at begging, Kipp. And remember, we have not yet put the rest of our plan into action.”
“You have lost the game,” Kipp replied. “The duke of Lundy will remain with the earl and countess of Glenkirk.”
“Not if it is believed they have murdered Lord Stokes,” the marquis said softly. “And Jasmine has played right into our hands, Kipp, by publicly declaring she would kill anyone who tried to take her children from her care. If Stokes is found dead, she will be the first one who is considered the murderer, and Lord Leslie, too, will be named her accomplice. The child will be removed from their care, and they will certainly end up with Somerset and his shrewish wife in the Tower.”
“Even if you can attain this goal, there is no guarantee that you will be given the duke of Lundy, particularly now that the queen has made clear her dislike of you, Piers. Attempt to mend your fences with the king so you may gain something out of this before we must leave court. Snatch a small victory from this defeat.”
“I will have the child! You should have seen the smug look on that upstart Villiers’s face, Kipp. I could have easily killed him had the queen not been there! I must have the child, Kipp. His income will save us. You know how little money there is left. I don’t want to leave court and return to Hartsfield Hall. I hate the damned country! I want to be here, in the center of the universe, where there is so much excitement happening. To be at court is to be alive, Kipp!”
“We haven’t the money to remain indefinitely, Piers,” his brother reminded him. “If you don’t get an heiress bride out of this, we are ruined! This was why we originally came to court. That you caught the king’s eye was a gift from God. You need a rich wife to restore Hartsfield Hall and to remain at court. Without one we are lost; and the king is your only hope to obtain that wealthy wife. You are angry, and you want revenge upon the earl of Glenkirk and Jasmine Lindley. I understand, and perhaps one day you will gain your revenge, but now is not the time.”
“You have been watching the earl of Bartram, Kipp,” the marquis said as if his elder brother had not spoken at all. “Is he out at night? That would, of course, be the best time to waylay him. We shall do it ourselves, so there be no witnesses.”
“There is no time to plan such a crime, Piers,” Kipp said in a final attempt to dissuade his sibling. “Certainly now that the earl of Glenkirk has returned from Scotland, he will be taking Lady Lindley to her grandmother’s home in Worcestershire for their wedding.”
“We will kill the earl of Bartram tonight,” the Marquis of Hartsfield said calmly. “Glenkirk and his bitch will still be here tonight.”
There would be no convincing his brother otherwise, Kipp St. Denis knew. The plan was surely flawed, but Piers would follow the course set, and Kipp could not refuse to help him. It would be up to him to make certain that the marquis of Hartsfield was never tied to the crime about to be committed, so that the king would award his previous favorite a rich maiden to marry, and they could be saved. Kipp did not believe for a moment that they would obtain custody of the little duke of Lundy. The queen had more influence with her husband than the young men surrounding James Stuart thought. That had been his brother’s error. He had refused to see it, and had made
an enemy of Queen Anne in the process. George Villiers, however, had seen how the land lay and used his knowledge wisely. Kipp well knew how arrogant and thoughtless Piers could be. Eventually the marquis would see there was no future for him at court. Then they could go home, taking the wealthy bride with them.
The king had just arisen the following morning and, having peed in the silver vessel held out by one of his gentlemen of the bedchamber for that purpose, was greeted with the news that the earl of Bartram had been found murdered outside his own gates that morning. James Stuart was deeply shocked and demanded an immediate explanation. He was told that no one knew.
“How was he killed?” the king asked.
“A knife, my liege, expertly placed between his ribs to pierce his heart,” was the answer. “The gatekeeper swears he heard no cry.”
“Who is responsible?” was the next royal query.
“It is not known, sire.”
“What was he doing outside of his own gates, then?” the king wondered. “It was night, I assume.”
“Lady Mary says he received a message, handwritten, just before they were to retire. The earl said he had some quick business to attend and should be back shortly. He told his wife to go to bed, which, being a dutiful woman, she did. When she awoke this morning she saw that her husband had not returned and sent to the gatekeeper to ask if he had seen his lordship. The gatekeeper remembered letting Lord Stokes out and watching him walk down the roadway around a bend. He saw nothing and heard nothing. He had fallen asleep awaiting his master’s return. After being questioned by his mistress, the gatekeeper went back outside and, passing through the gate, walked down the road. He found Lord Stokes dead just around the bend in the pathway,” was the explanation.
“And where is the note that drew the earl of Bartram from the safety of his house?” the king said. “Where is it?”
“It cannot be found, Your Majesty. Lady Mary does recall that he did not toss the missive in the fire. She thinks he tucked it in his pocket, but she is not certain. It was not, however, in his pocket.”
“It would appear,” the king said, “that Dickie hae an enemy, eh, gentlemen? Now, who should want the puir man dead?”
“Lady Lindley said she would kill any man who took her children from her, my lord,” the king’s page piped up. “I heard her say it!”
There was a general murmuring about the king’s bedchamber as his gentlemen helped their lord to dress. “Aye!” “I heard it, too!”
“Everyone at court heard it,” the king said with a chuckle. “She hae a fierce temper, Jasmine Lindley, but I dinna believe she was the person who lured puir Dickie to his death. She hae no reason, laddies.”
“The rumor was you were giving the duke of Lundy to the earl of Bartram to raise, my liege,” a gentleman said.
“The rumor was a false one,” the king told them. “When she left the hall she stormed into my privy chamber and demanded to know if it were so. I reassured her that it was nae so, and she need hae nae fear. Her bairns were hers to raise as long as they respected my royal authority. I hae finished my business wi Glenkirk by then, and so I instructed him to take her home, marry her, and gie her a few sons to keep her busy,” the king concluded with a small chuckle.
“Besides,” George Villiers said, “Lady Lindley is a slender woman, and does not, I suspect, have much strength. How could she divert poor Stokes long enough to murder him with a knife? She might have wounded him, but the report is that the knife was skillfully placed to cause instant death. What woman would know such a trick, gentlemen?”
“She is a foreigner,” one gentleman said. “And what about that turbaned servant of hers? He looks to me to be a dangerous fellow.”
“Lady Lindley is an Englishwoman no matter where she was born,” the king said. “I am England’s king, and yet, sirs, I am Scots-born. As for her servant, Adali, while he is devoted to her, he is nae a murderer. He is a eunuch, gentlemen, and we know a gelded man is nae a savage, but rather sweet, like a lass. Nah, nah, laddies, ’twas nae Adali.”
“Then who was it?”
“Perhaps we should look for whoever had something to gain from Lord Stokes’s death,” Villiers suggested. “Or someone who thought he might gain if the earl of Bartram were no longer here.”
“Steenie,” the king said, “ye must go and speak wi poor Dickie’s widow and see if she can shed any light on this matter.”
But George Villiers could learn nothing from Mary Stokes that would aid them in their investigation of the murder. The poor woman had convinced herself, aided by the clergyman who was with her, that it was Jasmine Lindley who was responsible for Richard Stokes’s death. The king’s favorite carefully explained to the half-hysterical widow that the king was convinced it was not Jasmine, and told her the reasons why.
“Lady Lindley had no reason to harm your husband, madame,” he concluded. “She had no quarrel with him.”
“S-she threatened my Dickon because the king was to give us the duke of Lundy to raise decently,” Lady Mary wept.
“The king told Lady Lindley before she left court yesterday that rumor was not true, madame; and I, myself, was there when he told your husband that the boy was to remain with his mother and his stepfather. I tell you again that Lady Lindley had no reason to murder anyone. The king believes her and all connected with her innocent in this matter.”
“We must accept the king’s word, my good lady,” the clergyman said to Mary Stokes. “James Stuart, though misguided, is a good man.”
“But if that terrible woman did not kill my Dickon, Pastor Goodfellowe, then who did?” the widow wailed.
“I cannot answer you, madame, but God knows the miscreant, and will punish him with eternal hellfire! You must leave these matters to those more capable of handling them than you, yourself, madame. Now, you should concentrate on your own salvation, for death comes when we least expect it, as poor Lord Stokes found. You must be ready to meet your maker, Lady Mary,” the pastor thundered in stern tones.
A Puritan, George Villiers thought, and a dangerous one. I wonder if he might be responsible. I was there when Richard Stokes told His Majesty that he had sent his impressionable wife’s clergyman packing. Lord Stokes was not a liar. Now he is dead, however, and here is this trouble-making Puritan in his house as quick as a wink, and the body not even cold. Stokes had surely put aside a little something for his old age. Some of it will go to his widow, and wouldn’t this Puritan like to get his hands on the widow’s mite to further his own purposes. I think I must inform the king, and the new earl of Bartram must come with all haste up from the country to protect his mother.
Before the day was over Pastor Simon Goodfellowe was arrested and taken to the Tower to be questioned in the matter of the demise of the earl of Bartram. He denied any involvement in Richard Stokes’s death, was lightly racked, but continued to proclaim his innocence. His alibi was checked, and indeed he had spent the evening praying with a family whose only son was gravely ill. The child had died at dawn and the clergyman had departed, having been called to the countess of Bartram’s side by his servant. It was now obvious that he could not have had any part in the earl’s murder.
“Shall we release him?” the captain of the guard asked George Villiers, who was at the Tower at His Majesty’s request.
“Not yet,” the young man replied. “He’s a Puritan for certain. Whip him, keep him on bread and water for a week, whip him again, then let him go. By then the new earl will be in London, and his grieving but susceptible mother will be safe from the likes of Pastor Goodfellowe.”
“Yes, m’lord,” the captain of the guard replied.
With a nod George Villiers turned away, thinking even as he did that he very much liked the sound of m’lord. He must be patient, he knew. The queen said by Christmas, and he knew that she knew. Everything might have been perfect in his life but that Piers St. Denis was trying to weasel his way back into His Majesty’s good graces. Villiers knew that the marquis needed a rich wife,
and only the king could provide one. The queen, however, was adamant that no decent girl be put in Piers St. Denis’s care.
“He is said to have unnatural desires,” she told the king. “I am told he even shares his women with that villainous half brother of his, Jamie. You cannot entrust him with some poor young girl.”
“But I canna get rid of him unless I gie him a bride,” the king complained to his outraged wife.
“Of course you can!” the queen responded. “After all, my lord, you are the king. Is not your word law?”
“I hae favored the laddie, Annie, for months now. If I send him away empty-handed, I will seem mean-spirited, and I will nae be! We must find him a wife.”
“A well dowered widow, perhaps?” George Villiers suggested. “One yet young enough to give him an heir, of course; but old enough not to be intimidated by him, or his brother.”
“Aye!” the king said enthusiastically. He turned to his wife. “I will leave the choice in yer hands, Annie, but the bride must hae gold and be able to gie him bairns.”
“Very well, my lord, I will do as you ask me, but I still think if it were up to me, I should send him away empty-handed,” the queen replied. “I do not trust your marquis at all. He is too eager to place the blame for Richard Stokes’s death on Jasmine and James Leslie.” The queen arose from her chair. “He is too anxious for revenge, and I do believe that he thinks he can still get his hands on our grandson.”
“Nah, nah, Annie,” the king said. “He’s a sensitive lad, is our Piers, but I am certain his heart is good. He is just disappointed over losing Jasmine Lindley.”
“He is and has always been too good-hearted,” the queen told George Villiers later that evening. “I had thought that St. Denis would be dismissed and sent home by now. How was he able to worm his way back into the king’s favor again, Steenie?”
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