As with every other attempt she had made to sidetrack Leonard Bailey this one had quite failed. Her burglar, who had lost a fortune thereby, was almost more upset than she was.
He had looked everywhere, he said. He had looked in places you would never think of. It was amazing where these old gentlemen sometimes kept their private papers. He had searched the rooms of the servants. He had even gone through the clothes and the chests of the men at arms who slept in the house and that, he said, was something the lady forgot to warn him about.
He had tapped the panelling and tried all the usual places in skirtings and floorboards. He had tested the staircase and the pictures and the fireplaces. He had looked in every pot in the kitchen.
There was nowhere, said Philippa’s burglar, where a man could have hidden a paper, and he not know it.
She believed him. He had come to her with the highest reputation. She paid him well, as he deserved, and only thought as he was leaving to ask one final question. ‘The lady housekeeper who lives in the house—Madame Roset. Did you try her chamber?’
‘Took it apart thread by thread,’ said the small man complacently. ‘It wasn’t hard, mind, being empty. I don’t suppose she could have what you’re looking for, could she?’
‘Empty?’ Philippa said. ‘Are you sure it was the housekeeper’s room?’
He was offended. ‘I always ask, before I get into a house. I knew every room in that place before I went near it. The biggest room, apart from the old man’s, it was. And she was away. Had been away a fair time, from the look of it.’
So, she thought all through the handfasting. Leonard Bailey had won. Before she thought to have the house watched, he must have sent Madame Roset away. Perhaps he had told her Lady Culter desired it. But she had gone, where he could find her, no doubt, if the day came when he required her to support his accusation against Sybilla in public.
So, too, with the papers. Someone had them. Someone was no doubt holding them, as he had promised, with instructions to publish what they contained if he came to harm. She had no means now of finding out where they were. She had no means now of stopping him, except by paying. And if he chose to favour the Lennoxes, no means of stopping him at all.
The music ceased, and the rattle of French voices started again, and a voice in her ear said, ‘What a fine piece, Mistress Philippa! Emeralds, are they not?’
It was Elder, Lady Lennox’s secretary, in rallying mood. ‘And are you not proposing to spend any of the last hours of your marriage at your brave husband’s side? Tell me, is that your husband’s brother?’
Across the room, square, quiet and brown in his rich clothing, stood Richard Crawford.
‘Yes, it is the Earl of Culter,’ Philippa said. She had no desire to introduce him.
‘And I believe his lady mother is in Paris, although I have not had the pleasure of meeting her. So regal, I am told. So well thought of at court. I regret,’ said Lady Lennox’s secretary, ‘that I have taken so long to make the acquaintance of this eminent family. I can only claim to know your husband’s great-uncle, a gentleman called Mr Bailey.’
‘I met him once,’ Philippa said. And said it steadily, for the seraglio teaches how to conceal all feeling when you are being tormented. Even when you are being tormented for a private satisfaction that does not know that it has been seen and identified.
‘A remarkable gentleman,’ said John Elder jovially. ‘How he would enjoy meeting your husband’s mother once more! Now tell me: who will have your favours when this little marriage of yours comes to an end …?’
He had said all he intended to say, and he moved away a little afterwards. It was only a short time after that, as she was bringing sugared plums to present to the Dauphin, that Adam Blacklock put his hand on her arm. ‘Philippa? Do you know where Archie is?’
‘Why?’ she said sharply. The noise was overwhelming.
‘For Francis. He had to go out. I can’t leave the room. I don’t know whether he knows what room Archie is waiting in.’
‘There he is,’ Philippa said.
Beyond the tapestries and the bright painted frescoes a slight, dour figure appeared in a doorway, loomed over by uneasy ushers; made a signal of appeasement, and left.
‘He’s got him,’ Adam said. And looking down at her, frowning, ‘You haven’t spoken to Lymond tonight?’
‘No. I wished the music would stop,’ Philippa said. She had found him as soon as she entered the room: one of the smiling, conversing group round the King, and she knew he had been conscious of her. But after that first, headlong glance they had not looked at or approached one another again.
Adam said, ‘Then you don’t know that Catherine d’Albon has withdrawn from the marriage?’
Her gaze sprang open on his. ‘How could she? Her parents?’
‘She seems to have defied them. Or at least to have persuaded them that it is in their own interests not to squabble in public. She has agreed not to announce it until after Monday, in case they stop your annulment. Philippa, it’s very bad news.’
‘I know,’ Philippa said. No ties; no duty; no relief. Three filaments gone in the life-thread, fragile as the thread of the silk-moth, which has no organs by which it can nourish itself, but instead is born, and loves once, and then dies.
Adam said gently, ‘Then, will you leave him to us? Leave court on Monday, as soon as you sign the annulment. I have had so many letters from Kate. She wants you back badly.’
‘You’ve been writing?’ Philippa said.
‘When you stopped. She didn’t deserve the silence,’ Adam said. ‘And Kuzúm is forgetting you. Don’t leave him.’
She did not realize that she was weeping until she saw the tears on the sugar plums, grey on the white powder, and that Adam had moved, so that his shoulders shielded her from her companions. The new ciphers shimmered, dazzling over them: M for Mary and a Greek Phi for her bridegroom François.
‘This marriage frightens me,’ she said. ‘I saw Mary Tudor’s. Kings, more than other people, have such a hunger for love.’
‘Would you wish for them,’ Adam said, ‘that they lived without knowing such hunger?’
Afterwards, she could not recall having answered him.
*
Much later, Philippa Somerville crossed to where Richard Crawford was still standing and asked him, without much preliminary, if she might call on his mother next morning. Then, before he had quite finished expressing his pleasure, she asked him if he would be so kind as to enable her to meet Austin Grey at the same time under his roof.
He agreed, as she knew he would: it was a concession easily arranged with the master of Lymond’s household. Then she left, and in the peace of her room took the decision to which she now saw there was no alternative. Late that night, without waiting longer, she wrote a message of open supplication to Leonard Bailey
With the letter, in earnest of her good intentions, she sent the emerald pendant so admired by John Elder.
*
The following morning, in the sunlit parlour of Sybilla’s rooms in the Hôtel de l’Ange, Austin Grey arrived for his meeting with Philippa.
Since receiving Richard’s summons he had not slept at all, or wanted to sleep. He had come quickly through the spring morning, outpacing his guards to be with her, for it seemed that now she wanted him. Now, with her annulment nearly upon them, she was going to keep to her promise: to ask him for his proposal, if he still wished to offer it. And to consent, if he did.
Happiness walked with him into Sybilla’s parlour and illuminated all his quiet face. The door closed and his heart beat, seeing that Philippa was alone, her back to the lit, lozenged windows with their achievements. He smiled at the picture she made, her outline childishly austere in her high-necked gown, with all the long, glossy brown hair swept inside an absurd little cylinder.
Then she moved forward. And while he was still assimilating, shocked, the sharp-angled pallor of her face she said, ‘Is your arm better? I asked you to come becaus
e I have to say something facing you. I can’t marry you. I can never marry you. I have wasted three months of your life and I can offer you nothing instead, except possibly the knowledge that I was not worth your trouble in any case.’
The sun turned dark, and there were no lights. Outside, someone was singing.
‘Why?’ he said. And then, almost at once, ‘No.’ He made, without thinking of it, a sightless turn round the small room and said, his eyes still trained upon nothing, ‘I knew you were in some anxiety. I asked if you would bring it to me as a friend. But perhaps that is too much.’
‘No,’ Philippa said. ‘No. The reasons are very simple. You may not have heard, because it hasn’t been made known as yet. But Catherine d’Albon has withdrawn from her marriage to … to Mr Crawford.’
A door closing on a black-haired girl through the night in the Hôtel d’Hercule. And a charming voice heard pronouncing, through the raging pain in his arm, ‘Even if I were told that Philippa was inflamed with an unlikely love for me, I should still marry Catherine d’Albon.’
Austin Grey drew a long, uneven breath. ‘Now you have frightened me beyond telling. Philippa, think what you are doing. I can see nothing but hurt in this for you.’
‘There is nothing but hurt in this for anyone,’ said Philippa abruptly. ‘I am trying, although you might not think it, to ameliorate it for you.’
He could hear, because he studied everything about her, the effort she was making to keep her voice steady. Austin said, ‘He told me he wanted this St André marriage. You said yourself he was interested only in his annulment.’
‘I thought it was true,’ Philippa said. ‘But it isn’t. It appears that what I feel for him … he also feels for me. As you see, it changes everything.’
This, the second blow, was worse than the first. For a moment he was without words. Then, controlling, brutally, all his dazed senses he said quietly, ‘I can see you think it does. When did you tell him, Philippa, that you were in love with him?’
Her pale lips twitched for a moment, wryly. ‘I didn’t have to,’ she said. ‘I am not as good at deception as I ought to be.’
‘And when did he tell you that he felt the same?’ Austin asked. And then, seeing her face, said jerkily, ‘Or … Was it …?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was the night in the Hôtel d’Hercule when I ran out of his room. I challenged him with being in love with someone else, and he told me. It made no difference, then. He still meant to go through with his marriage to Catherine.’
‘If she would still have him, after that evening,’ Austin said. ‘If not, he had you prepared for the next sacrifice. He is so clever, Philippa.’
She closed her eyes, and opened them again. Under the dark lashes, free of all paint, were blue stains of utter weariness. Then she gave a small sigh. ‘He is so clever,’ she said. ‘It is a pity he cannot manage things better for himself. He acted with honour that night. He made me leave without touching me. Will you believe that?’
‘Yes,’ Austin said. ‘He still wanted the St André marriage. And now? He will cancel your annulment on Monday?’
‘He won’t,’ Philippa said. ‘Austin, I think we should stop talking about it. The situation exists. There is no room for a third person in it. Leave me. Hate me, if you like. But best of all, forget me.’
He paid no attention at all. ‘I don’t understand. He wants your marriage dissolved?’
‘Yes,’ Philippa said wearily. She moved to a buffet table between the two windows and sat on the corner among the silver, her skirts half-bated, sinking about her. ‘I shall try to keep him to it, but I may not succeed.’
‘Dear God,’ Austin said. ‘If he doesn’t wish to stay married, how can he love you? Or does he want to be free to find another rich heiress and marry her? What happens if he does annul your union on Monday and marry somebody else? Does he invite you to his rooms again, and this time make you his mistress?’
‘He didn’t invite me,’ Philippa said. Her hands were gripped hard together. ‘I have told you. He wants me to leave him. I am the one who is begging him to stay married to me. I am the one who is trying to force him to take me as his mistress.’
‘Then you shall be prevented,’ Austin said. And walking to the door, flung it open. ‘What you mean to do, if you carry it out, could hardly be kept private. Let Lymond’s mother and brother be the first to hear of it.’
She said, ‘It will only make it worse,’ and when he took her arm, he could feel her whole body was shaking. But he pulled her none the less to Sybilla’s bedchamber and throwing open the door, placed her before him, in front of the Earl of Culter and his mother, slowly rising.
‘Your son,’ Austin Grey said, ‘is striving to make of this lady his whore. Do you approve, or are you prepared to try and prevent it?’
Chapter 6
Lettres trouvées de la royne les coffres
Point de subscrit sans aucun nom d’autheur,
Par la police seront cachez les offres
Qu’on ne sçaura qui sera l’amateur.
His elder brother Richard and Austin his prisoner were the first people Francis Crawford saw when he returned that afternoon to the Hôtel d’Hercule, and entered his long, exquisite gallery.
Also awaiting him in the quality of temporary hosts were his two colleagues, Adam and Jerott. The conversation, it was plain, was not sparkling.
Lymond paused. Though dressed for court he was not, Adam saw, in one of his more extravagant moods. But he came forward readily enough, glanced at Jerott and himself, and then gave all his attention to his brother and his captive, grimly standing together. ‘Defective,’ he said, ‘in affableness, like the natives of Angus. I apologize in advance. What have I done now?’
‘I want to talk to you about Philippa,’ Richard said. ‘I think it had better be done in private.’
Adam rose. So did Jerott, but not to leave. ‘What about Philippa?’ he said.
Lymond emitted a brief sigh. ‘As you see,’ he said to his brother, ‘the lady is not lacking in champions. Whatever you say to me, I shall simply have to repeat to Jerott afterwards. What is it? You aren’t convinced by her story of what happened here last month in my bedchamber?’
‘We know what happened,’ Richard said harshly.
‘I … see,’ said Lymond. After a moment, he said, ‘In that case, Jerott and Adam had better contain their anxiety somewhere else.’
Jerott, unfortunately, was stone cold sober. ‘I don’t propose to leave,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Francis. But I warned you.’
‘I can’t say I remember it,’ Lymond said. ‘But stay if you wish. I am like the Swiss. I prefer not to fight on a Wednesday.’ He indicated, with a lifted hand, the available seats and sat down himself in the master chair, which had once belonged to the Dame de Doubtance.
Adam sat, and then Jerott. Pointedly, Austin and Lord Culter remained standing. To them, Lymond said gently, ‘It would be better if you seated yourselves. We are not going to shout at one another over this subject. You have heard, I take it, that my betrothal to Catherine d’Albon has ended. I expect you are concerned to know whether or not I am now going to proceed with dissolving my marriage to Philippa. The answer is, yes.’
‘And Philippa?’ Richard said. He remained standing. ‘What do you plan to do with Philippa?’
The quick, perceptive gaze moved from one stony face to the other. ‘If you know what happened here that evening, then Philippa herself must have told you.’
‘What happened?’ Jerott said sharply.
No one answered him.
Austin Grey said, ‘Philippa came to see me this morning, to break off all arrangements for our marriage.’
Adam Blacklock, watching the seated man, elegantly disposed under the old chair’s refurbished canopy, wondered if the others, like himself, could see that from his throat to his hair he had coloured. Then Lymond said, ‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’
Austin said, ‘She says she begged you to allow her to
remain your wife, and you refused her. She says——’
‘No, by no means, Lord Allendale,’ Lymond said, his voice like a sawblade. And as the other man stopped, his eyes burning, Lymond said, his voice level once again, ‘You are both here, I assume, to protect a lady’s reputation. Kindly try to remember it. Since I doubt, at the moment, whether I can stomach any hysterical verbiage, suppose we simply say what we mean. Lord Grey wishes to marry my wife. I agree it would be an excellent thing for both parties. My wife, at the moment, may wish to remain married to me, but on Monday our union will be dissolved, and she will return directly to England and, I hope, eventual nuptials with the Grey family. I do not intend after Monday to see her again.’
Jerott said in a surprised voice, ‘Well, that’s all right?’ and looked round at Adam.
‘Is it?’ said Austin Grey.
Jerott reddened. ‘It’s hard luck on Philippa, naturally; and you may have to wait for your wedding, but it’s better, surely, than having her tied to Francis.’ He bent a fleeting stare of his magnificent dark eyes on the fair, cold face in the chair. ‘I’m sorry, Francis, but——’
‘… you warned me,’ Lymond agreed. He was looking at Austin and his brother. ‘But like the narration of those who preach to those who do not wish to hear, my story has failed to excite anyone. They don’t believe me.’
‘Well, they ought to,’ said Jerott. ‘Of course she’s in love with you, but that’s not surprising. You’ve been a figure like Jove to her ever since she was small. She’ll get over it. And who could possibly imagine you would want anything to do with her? Your brother knows that.’
He swung round on Richard. ‘She’s got sense, that girl; and too much backbone to push herself where she’s not wanted. Tell her it’s no good, and she’ll soon see the point.’
There was a disastrous silence.
Lymond stirred. ‘Virgil’s flude of eloquens,’ he said, examining his hands, ‘extinguishing the fyr, that in the bedstraw bredeth. Well done, Jerott.’
Checkmate Page 57
