by Anna Castle
“It’s nothing to do with me. I’m just the one that gets tossed in gaol after his friends treat him to a surprise he never asked for.”
She crossed her arms and regarded him with an expression so absolutely, indisputably not boyish that Tom’s eyes snapped to the door. This would be a bad moment for someone to come out to replenish their pitcher.
She noticed, wrinkled her nose, and relaxed her pose. “I want that house.”
“There’ll be other houses.”
“When?”
Tom couldn’t answer that. They drank their ale in silence for a moment of respite.
Then Trumpet leaned forward and spoke in a husky whisper. “Come to Chadwick House, late at night. Tomorrow night — no, the night after. We’ll need Catalina. She’ll let you in through the kitchen and keep watch in the corridor.”
The fire in her eyes and that throaty thrum sent a jolt through Tom’s loins. He could well imagine her bedchamber at Chadwick House. Not as large or as elegant as Surdeval House, maybe, but still lushly furnished with an oversized bed. A bed where Lady Alice waited for him, clad only in her damask skin and her silken waterfall of ebony hair.
He licked his lips. She whispered, “I need you, Tom.”
He started shaking his head and waving his hands, erasing the vision. The fire in her eyes went out. “I can’t do it,” he said. “I can’t altogether believe I’m saying this, but I can’t do it. Especially not before your examination. If you’re not proved a virgin by those eight matrons of good repute, everyone will assume I did the honors and another stretch in Newgate won’t be the worst thing they’ll do to me. You must be a virgin when you marry, Trumpet, and you can’t marry me.”
She chewed on her rosy lip for a moment, then asked, “Do you wish you could?”
“I’m not going to answer that.” Tom stabbed his knife into the roll, pinning it to the table. “It would only give you another weapon.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” Trumpet snatched a piece of his bread and tossed it in her mouth, chewing it as if she’d won something. He supposed she had. Did she truly believe he’d let her take another man into her bed — even one as old as Lord Surdeval — if he had any power to prevent it?
They drank the sour ale and chewed the stony bread for a few minutes in a sort of companionable disgruntlement. Then Tom thought of a consolation, something they could do together without anyone unlacing anything. “My cellmate — Jack Coddington — said his upright man would bail him out as soon as he got back from France. That’d be another bit of evidence. Weak, I grant you, but —”
“Where can we find him?”
“At the Dolphin, near the Old Swan Stairs. We could go down there now, scout around a little.”
“Yes.” Trumpet sat up straight, a boy ready for a treat. “But not today; he won’t be there. I can’t imagine Uncle Nat rushing straight to Newgate after a long journey, especially not with Catalina sitting on his lap feeding him strips of fresh melon.”
“True.”
“We’ll give them a few days, all of them. Catalina needs time to regain Uncle Nat’s confidence and learn what she can learn. Uncle Nat needs time to decide what he’s going to do now that he knows we suspect him. And it wouldn’t look right to pounce on Coddington the day he gets out of gaol.”
“I don’t think he’d mind, but yes. Let’s wait. I’ll set a boy to watch for him at the Dolphin. Red hair, big mouth — shouldn’t be hard to spot. We want to catch him before he gets himself arrested again.”
“True,” Trumpet said. “And that will give us time to come up with some suitable garb. Something more like a senior apprentice or a recently dismissed retainer . . .” She drummed her fingers on the rough tabletop.
Clean hands with well-shaped nails. A small flaw in her disguise. Her hands were one of his favorite parts though. Light, quick, and tender but surprisingly strong.
“What will we tell him?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Coddington. Are you going to sally up and say, ‘What ho, me boyo! Look who’s out and about?’”
Tom shrugged. “Why not? I’ll pretend I want a place in the gang. Maybe I could suggest a likely target for the next burglary.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. That’s the big question, isn’t it? How the victims are being selected. That’s the one Bacon didn’t want us to talk about the other night.”
“I’ve been thinking about that too,” Trumpet said. “At least in terms of my uncle. I wonder if they might have been clients of his at some time.”
“Legal clients?”
“No, renters from his stable of whores.” Trumpet rolled her eyes. “He’s a well-respected barrister, Tom. And though he’s not a Catholic, nor has ever been, he has some sympathy for them. My grandparents in Devonshire, especially my grandmother, hated to put aside the old religion. Their chapel at Winkleigh Manor must be stuffed full of reliquaries and the like, come to think of it.”
“I suppose he has the grace not to steal from his own relations.”
She clucked her tongue at him. He loved that sound. “My point,” she said, “is that these old families know each other. My grandfather and Baron Hewick’s father might have been pages together in old King Henry’s court, for all we know. If my uncle did good work for one of them, they would recommend him to the next.”
Tom‘s grandfather had been a Northumberland fisherman whose boat had capsized off the Dorset coast, where he’d been rescued by a smuggler’s daughter. “Sounds plausible. How can you find out?”
“I’ll ask my aunt. She might know about long-term or prominent clients.”
Tom nodded. “What will you tell Aunt Blanche about today? Your uncle will probably say something to her.”
She shrugged slowly, the corners of her bow-shaped lips rising as well. “I’ll tell her the truth. She was a co-conspirator when I went to Gray’s, but once I turned eighteen, she wanted me to stop playing, marry well, and settle down. She doesn’t approve, but she won’t hinder me. And she knows about you, a little, that we were friends when I was Allen. You might come to visit with Ben sometime. It would be a start.”
Tom grinned. One goal achieved. “It would be a feather in our caps to figure out how the victims are chosen before Bacon and Ben get there, wouldn’t it?”
“I’d love to see the look on their faces. It would teach them to keep their scoldings to themselves. Ben has been the most insufferable —” She broke off with a sharp rap on the tabletop. “I vow I would dismiss him if he weren’t one of the only three lawyers in the world who can be trusted with the complexities of my circumstances. Mr. Bacon would charge too much for too little work and my uncle has a way of disappearing when things get hot.”
“In a few years, you’ll have me.”
She pointed a slender finger at him. “Don’t think I don’t know it.”
They smiled at each other. Still friends — best friends — but on different terms that had not been fully negotiated. Doubtless some terms remained to be revealed to him. Tom looked forward to them, whatever they were.
One more question remained to be asked. Then they could go down to Billingsgate and watch the ships go in and out. “Did your uncle collude in any way with the murders of those men?”
“No.” She glared at him. “He couldn’t have. First, he seemed sincerely grieved by Surdeval’s death. You noticed it too — I saw you.”
Tom nodded. But didn’t some murderers repent their crimes?
Trumpet’s eyes narrowed at the scant affirmation. “Second, and more compelling, your father said it would take at least five days to sail to St. Jean de Luz. That means another five to sail home again. If he only got back today, he must have been at sea on my wedding night. He could not have been in Surdeval House kneeling over my poor lord’s body.”
Tom nodded, pretending to be impressed. He had worked that out for himself days ago. She’d evaded his full question, not addressing the possibility of collusion.
He understood how much she loved her uncle. Welbeck was the closest thing she had to a father, though she hadn’t seen much of him during her lonely youth in that dismal castle. Still, he was the one who brought her presents, encouraged her to go after what she wanted, and introduced her to the law.
But Tom saw a different side. He saw the man who held grudges — witness his constant harping on Francis Bacon. Tom always sensed the blade beneath the cloak of Welbeck’s affable manner. Then again, the man was a barrister to his fingertips, more likely to fight his battles with words than knives.
Another silence grew, not so companionable this time. A shadow washed across the tiny yard. It’d be suppertime soon. Tom wanted more of Trumpet’s company. He wanted to go out and look at things and eat coarse food in rough establishments for the daring fun of it, the way they used to when she’d been Allen and lived at Gray’s. He wanted to debate philosophy and fashion and gossip about the barristers and the cases they watched in court.
“It’s because I’m short, isn’t it?” Trumpet asked.
“What?”
“You like tall women, like Clara and that preacher’s daughter in Cambridge. You’ve written poems about their nymph-like figures. I’m short, so I’m not appealing.”
Tom blinked at her. Now what? A man sat at a quiet table, innocently drinking his ale and eating his bread, when along comes a madwoman and drops an anchor on his head. “You’re not short.”
“I’m a full head shorter than you. More.”
“Well, all right. Strictly speaking, you are short, in the sense of not tall. But trust me, Trumpet. It does not make you unappealing.” He gave her his warmest grin, the one with the deepest dimple.
She did a kind of arching thing with her back that froze the grin on his face. “Then you’ll meet me at the Two Bells tomorrow night. Remember that room you showed me, with the bed so big it nearly filled the room? I sent Catalina to ask about the price for a whole night. I’ll pay with some candlesticks I took from Surdeval House. It’s only fair since the cost of the room will be incurred in defense of my possession . . .”
Tom’s mind glazed over with an image of Trumpet in that filmy gown, sprawled across the eight-foot bed at his favorite brothel. It had a slippery silk coverlet, gauzy pink curtains, heaps of pillows, and a never-ending —
“Meet me at midnight,” she whispered. “I’ll get there first.”
“Oh, aye,” Tom murmured, still lost in his imagination. She squealed, making him blink. “No,” he said, returning to the world. “No, no, no. And again I say, no. Never, Trumpet. Stop doing that.”
“You just said you would.”
“No, I didn’t. You tricked me, putting that vision in my head.”
“What vision?”
He knew better than to answer.
She snatched up his knife and pointed it at him. “I only have one week, Tom, until I must submit to an examination of my intimate person by eight matrons. Eight, Tom. In one week.”
Tom pushed the blade aside with his index finger. “I can hold out that long.”
Another silence fell. The wench came out to offer them more ale, but they growled at her in unison and she skittered off. Gradually, the frustration leached out of Trumpet’s posture. Tom held out his hand and she placed his knife in it, hilt first.
“I give up.” She picked up her cup and peered into the dregs. She muttered, “Maybe the horses will do the trick.”
“Not if you tell that stupid story,” Tom said, knowing exactly what she meant. “And I beg you, my lady, please do not invite me to your next wedding supper. I intend to go out that night and get stinking drunk.”
She blew out a lip-rattling sigh. He felt for her, he truly did, but everyone had a burden to bear. Hers was having to marry a man she didn’t like and let him take her maidenhead. She might be in for a bad night, but only the first one and she’d survive it. Most women did.
“Don’t tell Mr. Bacon,” she said.
“About the Two Bells?”
“About my uncle.”
That much he could do for her. “I won’t, not yet. But I’ll have to tell him eventually.”
“I know.”
He grinned at her. “Let’s wait till we have something better than a bag of fresh lemons.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
After chapel on Sunday morning, Francis went to his desk to jot a few notes about the sermon in his commonplace book. That reminded him of something else, so he got up to get his copy of Tacitus’s Histories. He drew a line across the page and began to copy some useful quotations for his lord uncle to use in his next counterstroke against the vindictive lies being published by the Catholic college in Rheims. They fought this war with ink as well as gunpowder.
His servant, Pinnock flung open the door and dashed across the room waving a letter, disrupting Francis’s train of thought. He scolded the boy absently while he turned the packet over, breaking off with a gasp when he saw the seal of the Earl of Essex pressed into the circle of red wax. He mirrored the boy’s excited grin. “But mind you, keep this to yourself! Don’t spread it about to the other servants.”
“No, Mr. Bacon. I never!”
Francis opened the letter and read the note, savoring each word. His Lord of Essex graciously requested him to visit Leicester House that afternoon to satisfy his curiosity about the Surdeval affair. Thrilling!
He set Pinnock to brushing his summer barrister’s gown — the lightweight worsted — and sponging his best — no, his second best — doublet, the black Milanese fustian. It wouldn’t do to dress as if he was going to court. A step or two down was more appropriate for an informal visit on a Sunday afternoon. He could wear his velvet hat with the gold and garnet brooch.
He took a fresh sheet of paper and dashed out a summary of what he’d learned so far. Letters forming under his quill always helped to clarify his thoughts. He hadn’t learned much, although he had made some progress on the matter of the poison. His Lordship would find that interesting. Perhaps Francis could engage him in a discussion of the means of acquiring rare plants from the New World. This educated earl would enjoy an intellectual pursuit more than the passive receipt of a dry report.
Francis reread his notes, dipped his quill in preparation to add one more thought, then cried, “Ben!” This was just the treat his friend needed to jog him out of his recent ill humor. Besides, it always looked better to have a retainer at one’s side.
He told Pinnock to lay out fresh linens and warm some clean towels to rub his hair and then hop quick as a bunny across the yard to invite Ben to join him.
* * *
Combed and polished within an inch of their lives, Francis and Ben presented themselves at the gate of Leicester House on the Strand as the bells of St. Mary’s tolled two o’clock. Leicester’s only legitimate son had died in childhood, so his stepson, the Earl of Essex, was his heir. The steward ushered them into the great hall, an impressive region that had been refurbished by the late earl only a dozen years ago. The beams of the lofty ceiling were studded with enameled bosses in the Dudley colors of orange and white. An exceptional display of crests and weaponry hung upon the gleaming plaster walls.
Francis struggled to compose himself as they crossed the black-and-white-chequered floor. Excitement wreaked havoc with his digestion; he would pay for this tonight. It was worth it, though, to gain a private audience with a favorite of the queen. Especially one who seemed so favorably disposed toward Francis.
Now that Leicester had died, Essex would likely rise even faster. He was only twenty-three — Ben’s age, as it happened — but had already been made Master of the Horse. His influence could only increase. Francis depended upon the goodwill of his uncle, the Lord Treasurer, but had thus far reaped a spare harvest from that stony field. His uncle held him at arm’s length to make room for his own son. Francis was kept well supplied with work but granted neither honors nor offices. He needed a new patron, someone else to be his friend with the queen. Perha
ps his Lord of Essex would be that man.
Ben dug an elbow into his side and murmured, “Look at those arrows.”
“Arrows?” Francis followed his pointing finger and saw a whole section of wall devoted to the military arts. Bows of unusual material and design — large and small, some painted and decorated with feathers — had been hung with pairs of matching arrows. Crossed spears of equally varied design punctuated these assemblages.
The steward noticed their interest and led them over for a closer inspection. He gave them a concise lecture on the provenance of the collection. “My late lord received gifts from all over the world, not only from English explorers. Suleiman the Magnificent sent him those scimitars for his birthday many years ago. The Spanish ambassador brought him those hunting spears from Peru.”
Didn’t the Grand River described in Orellana’s accounts run through Peru? Bless Ben and his sharp eyes! Francis would have walked right past that display, even after Captain Clarady had advised them to consider such collections as a source of the poison. He stepped in close to inspect the stone points of the Peruvian spears, but they had been polished clean. No oil or ointment clung to them now.
The steward cleared his throat and begged their patience while he went to see if his master was ready to receive visitors. As he clacked away across the polished floor, Ben hissed in Francis’s ear, “Is it possible that Essex is the murderer we seek?”
“Shhh!” Francis glared at him. “What a preposterous idea!” Never mind that he’d just inspected the weapons for traces of poison himself.
“Look at all these things,” Ben insisted. “Half of them are from the New World. What other dangerous trinkets might be squirreled away in this great house?”
“Impossible!” Francis’s mind rejected the very thought. “Impossible,” he repeated as his heart stopped racing. “These crimes are too small for a man of His Lordship’s temperament, too ugly. And besides, I can’t believe he would work in secret. He would want the queen to know he’d performed such an extraordinary service on her behalf.”
