by Anna Castle
“That’s what Catalina’s for,” her uncle said. “To keep you company.”
“She was sleepy.”
Catalina yawned and stretched like an actress playing to the topmost gallery.
Uncle Nat watched her with his tongue poking into his cheek. “I am familiar with the word, thank you, Mrs. Luna.” To Trumpet, he said, “Then you’ll be proved virgo intacta and your ill-considered marriage will be annulled.”
“No. I’m going to win.” Trumpet told him the story of her fictional deflowering, glad for the chance to rehearse it before a male audience. She kept her eyes on her uncle, ignoring Tom’s blink of surprise. She should have warned him about that too. This is what happened when they weren’t allowed to communicate freely.
“No one’s going to believe that story,” Uncle Nat said. “The viscount was no sprightly youth. Apart from the unlikelihood of his being able to perform the said service in the time allotted, he was undoubtedly a man of fixed habits, like most old men. When nap time came, he would take his nap.”
Trumpet clucked her tongue. “You don’t know everything. And you won’t be in that courtroom.”
“It’s for the best, Alice. You need a real husband; you more than most girls. We’ll find you a better one next time.” He jerked a thumb at Tom. “Not this knave; someone of your own rank, but young and well-framed. Trust me, a good husband is what you want. All girls do.”
Nothing irritated Trumpet more than being treated like “most girls,” especially by someone who ought to know better. She didn’t want a husband; she wanted Tom. And a place where she could do what she wanted without everyone constantly yapping at her. “I want the house. I can’t stand being stuck out in Orford with nothing to do or locked up at court with those wan-witted maids of honor. I want a house of my own, somewhere in London or along the Strand. Or possibly Holborn.”
“You may not live alone,” Uncle Nat said. “It is out of the question.”
“If I’m a widow, I can.” Trumpet crossed her arms across her chest.
“I have to agree with your uncle,” Tom said. “It wouldn’t be right. You’ll have to wait until you’re older, thirty or thereabouts. That’s not so far away, Trumpet.”
“Ten years!” She glared at him. Whose side was he on?
“Your opinion is not required, Clarady.” Uncle Nat shook his finger at her. “And don’t imagine you’ll have me in residence as your guardian. I have plans of my own. I’ll be moving back to Gray’s as soon as I can contrive a decent set of chambers.”
“That won’t be easy,” Tom said. “You left under a dark cloud, as I recall.”
“So I thought at the time,” Uncle Nat said. “But it turned out to be a mere wisp of Francis Bacon’s fevered imagination. According to my friends — of whom I have more than a few — no word of blame has ever been uttered to connect me to the unfortunate events to which I believe you refer.” He shrugged it off. “Besides, that was two years ago.”
“At least I’ll know where you are,” Trumpet said. “I do have other reasons for seeing you, Uncle.”
“I’ve missed you too, my dear. But I don’t like Bacon peering into everything I do with those viperous yellow eyes of his.” He looked down at his desk and flipped over a piece of paper. Then he asked, as if he didn’t much care about the answer, “Did he send you here to find me?”
“Of course not,” Trumpet said, but at the same time Tom said, “He might have.”
Uncle Nat chuckled. “You two really should rehearse your stories in advance.” He flipped over another piece of paper and paused to read the sheet beneath it. He had the air of a man who hadn’t been at his desk for several weeks and needed to catch up with his correspondence. After a minute, he glanced at Trumpet again. “Was there something else?”
They hadn’t even broached the topic of the burglaries, although she wasn’t so sure it was necessary anymore. Trumpet caught Tom’s eye and raised one shoulder half an inch. He tilted his head slightly. It’s up to you. She knew he wasn’t satisfied, but how to approach the matter?
Uncle Nat observed their byplay with a deepening scowl. “Wait a minute, Alice. You’re not thinking of marrying him? It’s out of the question! Absolutely, altogether, irrefutably out. Your sons will be earls. This churl is a nobody.”
“I resent that.” Tom sat forward, putting a hand on his hip near his sheathed knife.
Trumpet raised her eyes to the ceiling. Why did everyone think she needed reminding about the central fact of her existence? “Tom is a gentleman of Gray’s Inn, Uncle. But of course I’m not going to marry him.” Not yet, anyway. “On the subject of marriage though, I want control of my trust. I’m nineteen, a grown woman, even if I’m not yet proved a widow. And I need money, especially with this dispute over my jointure.”
“You can forget about the jointure,” Uncle Nat said. “Your marriage will be annulled without debate.” He glared at Tom, who held up his hands, palms out. The coward.
“All the more reason to have control of my property,” she said.
“You may be legally an adult, Alice, but your judgment is questionable.” Uncle Nat granted her a half smile. “I suppose we might increase your allowance. If you’re going to stay in London with Blanche, you’ll need new clothes — women’s clothes. I’ll write to the other trustees to work out a suitable amount.”
The other trustees were the two sons from her mother’s first husband’s first marriage — honorable, God-fearing men, prosperous merchants like their father. Trumpet barely knew them. She doubted they would understand her thirst for independence. Still, more money would be welcome, and it wouldn’t hurt to remind them she had reached her majority and expected to participate in decisions concerning her property.
She said, “There is another question.” She watched her uncle’s face carefully. “If Aunt Blanche told you about my Lord Surdeval’s murder, she must also have told you that the chapel was robbed that same night.”
“She didn’t. Were you there? My darling girl! Are you sure you’re all right?” He looked shocked, but this time she didn’t believe it. She shot at glance at Catalina, who fluttered her lashes to say she didn’t believe it either. Uncle Nat was a gifted disputant, but no actor. He couldn’t suppress the glitter of amusement in the back of his eyes.
“I was there to protect her,” Tom said, “when others put her in harm’s way.”
“What others?” Uncle Nat grinned unpleasantly. “The only harm she’s suffered is to her reputation and you’re the cause of that.”
Tom’s eyes flashed. “Someone, not me and not Trumpet, murdered that old man in his bed that night. Someone also stripped his family chapel of its valuables that same night.”
Uncle Nat ignored him. “I am sorry if you were frightened, Alice. I’m glad you’re safely back in Blanche’s house, where idle knaves will find it impossible to gain entry.”
The two men glared at each other again. Trumpet had had enough of their manly posturing. “How could I have been frightened? I didn’t know about it at the time, did I? But Surdeval House isn’t the only one that’s been robbed, Uncle, nor is my lord the only one who was murdered. There have been — how many others?” She turned to Tom.
“Five burglaries, three murders,” he answered. Now he leaned forward, setting an elbow on one knee. “Curiously, the only things stolen from these great houses full of treasures were the chapel furnishings. Precious goods, but nearly impossible to sell in England these days.”
Uncle Nat dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “Assuming that’s really all that was stolen and that the things are being stolen for sale. I can think of a dozen alternative explanations, even supposing you’ve presented all the facts. Bacon tends to leap to conclusions. He’s always eager to get the work over and go back to his philosophizing.”
Suddenly, he slapped both hands onto his desk. “Wait a minute: He doesn’t think I had anything to do with these crimes? I’ll sue him. That’s slander!”
“Not if
it’s true,” Tom said. “I merely followed the trail leading from the chapel. I have my sources too, you know.”
“I doubt the whores at the Two Bells would make good witnesses in a court of law.”
Tom gave him a cool smile. “Catholic goods are something of a specialty, Mr. Welbeck. You can’t sell them here, but you might in France. You have experience with that sort of thing, don’t you? Importing banned Catholic pamphlets, for example.”
Uncle Nat sat in silence for a moment, his lip curled. Then he shook his finger at Trumpet. “It won’t work, my dear. Not this time. You’re trying to apply a little Scottish blackmail to make me release your property to you. It only supplies further proof that you’re not ready for the responsibility.”
“That’s not what I —”
“I have never set foot inside Surdeval House. If Bacon is implying otherwise, I’ll sue him for slander and name you, Thomas Clarady, as his co-conspirator. Don’t think I won’t.” He stood and walked to the door. “Now if you don’t mind, children, I have letters to write.”
They rose; the interview was over. Trumpet clasped her uncle in another hug and whispered, “I don’t suspect you of murder, Uncle, and I don’t much care about the burglaries. But I do want an increase in my allowance.”
“That’s my girl.” He kissed the top of her head and let her go. Then he caught Catalina’s sleeve and drew her into an embrace. He murmured, “Now you know where I am, come back sometime, without these two madcaps.”
Catalina flashed him a warm look from under her thick lashes. “If my lady will allow.”
Uncle Nat turned last to Tom. He stood before him with his hands on his hips and blocked the way. He had to look up to meet Tom’s eyes, but Nathaniel Welbeck was a man in his prime, a barrister tested in the Westminster courts. Tom, years away from being called to the bar, had not even reached his majority.
“Lay one hand on my favorite niece — one hand, Clarady — and I’ll recruit a gang of ruffians for the sole purpose of thrashing you so soundly you’ll have to crawl back to your mother in Dorset to recover.”
Tom pretended to cringe in mock terror. Then he grinned and pointed his chin at the bags in the corner of the room. “When you come to dinner at Lady Chadwick’s, bring some of those lemons, won’t you? I’m sure they’ll be welcome. That muskmelon too. Fresh fruit from Spain is hard to come by this summer.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Tom let the women lead the way back through the Savoy to the Strand. He kept his eyes open for men or boys hastening up to the tower they’d just left and his ears open for a summoning whistle, but neither saw nor heard any sign of a reaction from Welbeck. Too soon. But the Savoy Solicitor would want to confer with his confederates now that he’d been discovered. It might be useful to know who was called and where they were sent.
The three stopped at the Temple Bar for a brief consultation and decided to choose a different alehouse to avoid being seen together in the same place twice on the same day. They walked in silence up Fleet Street to Water Lane and found another narrow cave selling bitter ale in clay mugs. This one boasted a small yard in the back which no one else seemed to favor — no doubt because it stank of stale piss, but you soon got used to that.
Tom ordered some bread, feeling peckish. The wench brought him a large dark roll so hard it nearly wrenched his jaw. He worked at it for a while anyway while Trumpet and Catalina traded notes about Welbeck’s appearance. Trumpet seemed happy, glad to be reunited with her favorite relative, not worried about his probable involvement in any crimes. Somehow Tom had to make her understand that her beloved uncle was almost certainly a party to murder.
And he must talk her out of telling that preposterous nap story in court.
“The melon clinches it,” he said when the women’s chatter ran down. “Your uncle has been in France or southward, and recently. I’m betting he rode up from Rye today — not Exeter — after getting off a ship yesterday.”
“What makes you so sure?” Trumpet asked.
“Lemons look a sight worse for wear after a week in a saddlebag and that melon would have been eaten. Nobody carries ripe melons around for a week.”
Catalina nodded. “He is much browner than before, like a man who has been in places of sunshine.” She sounded wistful.
“Melons aren’t proof of anything,” Trumpet said.
“He’s the upright man,” Tom said. “I’m sure of it. He might not go sneaking about with sacks of booty in the dead of night, but he plans the burglaries, engages the team, and handles the sale of the goods.”
Trumpet got that sulky look that told him she knew she’d have to concede the point eventually but wasn’t ready yet. “What we know is so much happenstance, Tom. Don’t forget what an experienced barrister my uncle is. You may have noticed he never answered a single one of our questions directly. If pressed, he might admit that he’s been on a ship, but not that ship. Or, oh, perhaps it was that ship, but only because an old friend in St. Jean de Luz got married and invited him to the feast.”
“I grant you we’re no match for him,” Tom said. “He’ll find it more difficult to argue with Mr. Bacon or the judges on the Queen’s Bench. We’re a long way from that, but I’m satisfied he’s involved, at least in the burglaries. And I think you are too, if you’re honest.”
Trumpet gave him a long look, drew in a long breath, and let it out in a long groan. “I wish I knew what he was going to do next.”
Catalina said, “I can help with that, my lady. I shall go back. Your uncle invited me. I shall go now before the evidence is disappeared.”
“You want some of that melon,” Trumpet said.
“Not only melon, my lady.” Catalina’s dark eyes flashed. “I like your uncle. Also, he likes me. I think he may let me stay while his henching men come and go.”
Trumpet said, “Sounds like a good idea to me. Don’t you think so, Tom? We ought to learn more about his men and how they plan their jobs.”
“I’m in favor,” Tom said. To Catalina, he added, “But only watch, listen, and remember. Don’t ask questions. You’ll put his guard up.”
They agreed that she should go at once. She should spend the night, or even two. She left them with a smile of anticipation curving her wide lips. Tom found himself envying Welbeck and shook the vision from his head. He had no idea what Trumpet would do if she sensed he’d had lusty thoughts about her maidservant, but he could be certain he wouldn’t like it.
Fortunately, her mind had gone in another direction. She said, “I’m stuck with Aunt Blanche all day tomorrow anyway. Her tiring woman might as well dress me too.” She rolled her eyes. “We’re having friends to dinner. Her friends.”
Tom grinned. “Invite me. I’m longing to meet your aunt.”
“I wish I could.”
“Why can’t you?” He gave her his most persuasive grin. “There isn’t an aunt in England I can’t charm.”
Her eyes glowed with appreciation, but she said, “It isn’t that. At my aunt’s table, I’m Lady Alice, not Trumpet, and Lady Alice doesn’t have friends like you.”
Tom’s grin fell. One day, everyone would want him at their dinner table, ladies included, but that day had evidently not yet come.
She watched his reaction with her tongue poking into her cheek. “Men, Tom. Young ladies do not have personal friends of the opposite sex.”
“I knew that’s what you meant.”
He sawed at his roll, severing small pieces and chewing them slowly. A man could starve to death with this bread for his only food. He shot occasional glances at Trumpet, who ringed the top of her clay mug with one finger, deep in thought. He liked her in boy’s garb, especially boys of the lower sort, with simpler costumes. That short black wig topped by the soft green cap emphasized the color of her eyes and the sweet shape of her face, and somehow the smears of dirt made her pale skin more luminous.
A fleeting worry crossed his mind. It might be a bit Baconish to like the way she looked in slops. H
e sent the notion flying. Once that cat had been let out of the bag, he could never again fail to see her as a woman. Especially not after that night in her bedchamber.
He caught her eye and raised his mug. “Here’s to old times.”
“Almost.” She sounded sad, but then she flashed him that brilliant smile. “What do we do next?”
“Whatever you want. We could go watch the bears for a while and then have supper in that ordinary we like near Falcon Stairs.”
“I’m not dressed for an ordinary. They’d think the worst of you, bringing a boy like me in off the street.” She gestured at her patched jerkin. “I meant what’s next in the investigation? What’s Mr. Bacon doing?”
“How would I know?” Tom refilled their mugs from the pitcher. “They don’t tell me anything anymore. I’m not trustworthy. I have shown poor judgment. Or maybe I’m not clever enough at philosophy to pursue the rare and mysterious poison.”
“Oh, don’t take offense at that. Bacons keeps secrets from everyone, even Ben. His policy is to tell the fewest people the least possible. It’s from spending so much time at court.”
“Or it could be from being born with his head up his —” Tom stopped short and popped a morsel of bread in his mouth.
Trumpet gave him a weary look. “I grant you permission to use the word ‘arse’ in my presence, Mr. Clarady.”
He waggled his brows comically. “Arse.”
They grinned at each other. The moment had come. They were friends, and friends did not permit their friends to make buffoons of themselves in public. “Don’t tell that story in the bishop’s court, Trumpet.”
“What, the nap story? You don’t like it?”
“I was there that evening, remember? But even if I hadn’t been, I wouldn’t.”
That deep emerald gleam appeared in her eyes that never boded well for him. “You haven’t left me much choice, Tom.”
