Dozens of candles burned in silver sconces that night, making the great chamber of the Cavandish house blaze with light. In the adjoining dining parlor Rozalinde sat with her mother, watching the guests lining both sides of the long table, their laughter rippling in bright cacophony around her. The many delicacies she had labored to create had made a brilliant entrance earlier, borne by the hired yeomen of the table—a swan done up in its green and blue plumage, a roast pig browned and succulent with the apple in its mouth, a cherry pasty as big as a cart wheel, the space of a few minutes the table groaned with an abundance of food. In equally short order the edibles dwindled, consumed by their ravenous guests. Gazing into the high-ceilinged hall next door, Rozalinde toyed with her dish of custard. The heat had grown in both rooms when the dancing started. Those who were done eating and didn't care to dance ranged along the wall, clapping, and singing to the tune of the three-stringed rebec, pipes, and crumhorns. Couples perspired on the dance floor, laughing and capering their way through a galliard. The evening was a success. Everyone, it appeared, was having a wonderful time.
"My thanks, but I cannot possibly eat more." Rozalinde shook her head as politely as possible at her mother, who urged her to take more of the fruit pasty offered by the yeoman.
"You've hardly touched your food tonight." Her mother helped herself to a large piece, licked her fingers as she placed it on her trencher. The sight of the thick red syrup dripping from the knife made Rozalinde's stomach shift uneasily.
Unable to sit still any longer, Rozalinde jumped up, bumped the table leg in her hurry. Her Venetian flagon of malmsey trembled, sloshing its contents over the rim so it wet the cloth. "I believe I will ... dance."
Two young men leaped to their feet.
"I will partner you, gracious mistress ..."
"I would be proud ..."
Embarrassed to have spoken in tandem, the two stopped and eyed each other. Rozalinde paid them no heed. Someone else had risen deliberately and the chatter in the parlor dropped to a murmur as the most influential man in West Lulworth, George Trenchard, planted his substantial figure before his host's daughter.
"Permit me, Mistress Rozalinde."
His bow was correct, his expression neutral. She blinked at him, surprised as always by the easy way he carried himself, completely at odds with the size of his lumbering frame. Her gaze rose to scan his face, taking in the way his thick, dark hair lay straight across his forehead like a schoolboy's. But there was nothing boyish about the face below. The broad, flat cheekbones sloped to a massive, square jaw, held in such a way as to denote stubbornness at worst, a firm will at best. Meeting his gray-green eyes, she assessed them. They were quick and alert, also at odds with his size.
But his looks didn't matter. He was solid and capable, and that was what was required. Stretching out her hand, she placed it on the arm he offered. The heat of his skin rose to her fingertips, startlingly real through the rich brocade of his sleeve.
"I have waited patiently for this moment," he said softly, so that only she could hear.
Rozalinde's gaze slid away, ranged around the room. A hush had fallen over the guests and every eye seemed to bore into her. She continued her search until she found her father gracing the head of the long dining table. Her gaze locked with his. With an almost imperceptible movement of his head, he nodded.
Roz's heart contracted sharply. She turned away. It was decided, then—what she must do to save her family's livelihood. Without a word, she tightened her grip on Trenchard's arm. They moved in the direction of the dance floor.
They joined the others in the pavane. As the stately music began, Roz looked down at her hand where it disappeared into Trenchard's huge fist and felt a twinge of rising panic. She fought it down firmly. It made her angry, that she found her duty distasteful when she had always loved the tasks given by her father. "We're supposed to be conversing," she said to Trenchard. "You begin."
"That's an odd way of putting it." Trenchard's features, florid from the heat of the dance floor, were set in an inscrutable expression as he led her down the length of the room. "I should hope you want to converse with me."
"Yes, yes," Roz said impatiently. "But you choose the topic. I can't just now."
He glanced at her swiftly, a shrewd, appraising look in his eyes. "A topic of discourse for the lady. Very well, we'll speak of business."
Roz let out her breath in a long sigh. The Lord was merciful. Trenchard had chosen the one topic that could divert her. She nodded her assent.
"What would you hear?" He loosed her hand so they could execute a turn. They completed their circuits and he captured her hand. "Prices in Antwerp, or the latest news about Italian silks."
"Oh, prices in Antwerp," she urged.
He smiled, showing a row of fine teeth in a generously cut mouth. "I am pleased I can amuse you."
"Oh, it's more than amusement," Roz assured him, wondering why those teeth bothered her, along with other things about his person. "I must decide what to buy for the next shipment."
Trenchard's face grew solemn. "Are you in some kind of trouble, Rozalinde? I have asked you before. You can confide in me."
She shook her head staunchly. "Just tell me what is selling well."
Trenchard was silent for a few minutes, concentrating on the dance. "Sugar is doing well," he said finally as he passed directly behind her in one of the movements. "You cannot go wrong with sugar. Prices are solid in Antwerp, not fluctuating as in other cities."
"Then Antwerp is still the best place to trade?"
"Unquestionably."
"Sugar, then." Rozalinde relaxed slightly at his assurance, then began the tally in her head. How many chests could they carry? If she dismissed the present captain, she could hire a larger ship and transport a huge cargo. Gratefully she plunged into the refuge of numbers.
"I know something sweeter to me than such cargo," Trenchard whispered, his voice gone husky as he completed a step that brought them face to face. "Allow me to tell you of it."
"Not just now." Rozalinde concentrated as hard as she could on the numbers. Her wandering gaze fell upon a thin line of dirt under the nails of his left hand. Quickly she averted her face. She must not look at him, or she would fail to do what she must. "Sugar seems promising. What else sells well? Meat? I hear butchers do well."
"I do exceedingly well," Trenchard corrected her, abandoning his intimate tone. "Other butchers don't have the knack I do. Rozalinde." A trace of exasperation edged his voice. "I am trying to speak to you of a serious subject."
Rozalinde leaned over to catch up her kirtle skirts for the next movement. "So am I. Please tell me of this other product. You said there was one more."
She heard Trenchard exhale harshly. "Wool," he barked at the back of her head as he circled her. "Its price has risen to an unprecedented level this summer in anticipation of a harsh winter." He returned to face her, executed the bow required, then recaptured her hand. "You can purchase and have it woven cheaply in Wiltshire, then ship it out by way of London. Stock heavily and ship as soon as possible. You will make a pretty profit."
"Stock heavily and ship soon," Roz repeated, half to herself, absorbing the information. "Yes, I'll do that. I hope 'twill be in time."
"You are foolish not to confide in me," he stated as they again moved forward to the music. "You don't seem to realize I can help."
"You already have. Wool will be just the thing." Roz narrowed her eyes speculatively as she ran another mental column of figures. The final tally formed in her mind, vast and comforting. Yes, wool was the right choice.
"You've had another shipment ruined."
Roz stopped short on the dance floor, startled by his bald statement. Her head whipped around. "Your pardon?" Her voice was cold as she raised her chin haughtily.
"Admit it, Rozalinde. You and your father have tried to hide it. And I have kept silent out of respect for your family's reputation. We must not have business failures ruining your every
day custom. But I know about your losses, all eight of them. And this one makes nine. How much was it this time?"
His words vibrated in Roz's ears as she assessed him. Who had told him? she wondered bitterly. The captain? Mayhap the apprentices? Defiantly she returned his stare, noting how his sharp little eyes watched her—those eyes that saw everything. "I did not say—"
Trenchard snorted impatiently. "Enough dissembling." He grasped her hand, drew her back into the procession. "I know everything that happens in West Lulworth."
Displeasure surged through Rozalinde. This was private family business—hers and her father's. But if she wed with George, she would be forced to share it. She wanted to pull her hand away and leave him on the dance floor. With great effort she managed to suppress the impulse. "There's nothing to confess," she said coolly. "We will earn back our investment on this trip. I found a buyer for one of the crates of lace and a promise to help sell the rest."
"A buyer?" A flicker of surprise lighted Trenchard's gray-green eyes. "For ruined goods? Who in West Lulworth can afford such a thing?"
"I don't know." Roz slowed in the dance. She didn't want to tell George about the man in the shop. Besides, she thought defiantly, in a way she spoke the truth. She knew nothing about him other than his name. "He said he would send someone for the crate."
"He won't." Trenchard dismissed the idea with a bored shrug. "Probably a knave and a swindler, telling you a tale because of your pretty face."
Doubt chilled Rozalinde's blood.
"You must guard against such men, my sweet. He didn't attempt to take liberties, did he? In exchange for his offer?"
"Of course not!" Roz felt suddenly, irrationally furious with him—more furious than she'd been at having to dance with him. Heat rushed to her face.
"I am glad to hear it," Trenchard went on dryly, leading her on through the dance, not letting her tarry. "I would be distressed to hear of some rogue disturbing your peace of mind. I should have to challenge him."
Roz inadvertently scanned his huge bulk, unable to stop herself.
He noticed. A scowl darkened his face as he led her in a circle with the rest of the couples. "I am excellent with a rapier. Don't encourage this man so I have to prove it."
The dance separated them. The men went to one side of the floor; women, to the other. The men executed their steps, dancing to impress their partners, like the peacock for which the pavane was named.
George had been studying with a fencing master, Roz decided, able to examine him now that he was somewhat removed. He didn't have the rank to wear a rapier on the street, but he could still learn to use one. It also explained why he moved so lightly, his big-boned form seemingly all muscle—firm, impenetrable.
The woman next to her jostled Rozalinde, murmured an apology. With irritation Roz glanced at the other females in her row, noted how they all watched George, particularly the unmarried girls. The married ones stole covert glances at him. He was far from the most handsome man in the group, but he was unquestionably their leader.
She was thoroughly aggravated by the time the dance rejoined them. This must end soon, for she was running short on tolerance. "There will be no duels," she said firmly to George.
"Then that rogue better not come near you."
"He has to come near me, to pay for the lace."
"As I have said before, no one buys ruined lace."
Outrage erupted inside Rozalinde. "Are you saying I'm a poor judge of character? I think I am experienced enough to know when a customer tells the truth."
Trenchard gave her a reproving stare. "You seem on edge tonight, Rozalinde. Are you unwell?"
Roz jerked her hand away. "This will never work." Abruptly she whirled around and left the dance floor.
She retreated behind the screens at the end of the hall. Here the light was dim, the air less stifling. Stopping just inside the screens' passage, Roz leaned against the wall, feeling the cool plaster against her right temple. Her anger fell away. Despondently, she noted that George had followed, was standing at her elbow. "My father said I should consider you as a suitor," she said to the wall. "He thinks you the best choice. But I'm not sure I can marry anyone."
Trenchard put his hand on her shoulder. She could feel the heat of his short, thick fingers, splayed wide. He sighed deeply. "You are lacking in subtlety, Rozalinde. I've debated whether this was a good thing or bad." He sighed again when she didn't answer. "But you are also determined when you want something." He paused. "In that we are alike. We could go far together. I am situated to rise in life, Rozalinde. I can offer you much."
"You wanted to speak of love."
"I don't recall mentioning the word."
It was true, he hadn't. He also hadn't touched her the whole time, except for his hand on her shoulder, and it seemed impersonal, now, despite its heat. Roz breathed steadily, trying to keep her composure. "I don't expect love."
He was silent for a minute. "Then let us make a bargain," he said at last. "I can solve your problems with your business. If you will agree to wed with me, I will do it forthwith. I will care for you and your family and see you lack for nothing."
She turned around slowly, feeling a small measure of relief. "Papa said you would."
"He is a sensible man, your father." Trenchard nodded gravely. "He and I see eye to eye—I believe in the importance of caring for family. And we are much alike, Rozalinde, you and I. I admire you for your reason, your sensible approach to things. We will rub along well together, in my rise to prominence in this town and beyond. Come now, say you agree."
He towered over her, large and imposing, and she looked desperately at the wall again. It seemed reasonable. He offered the solution she needed. Why did she hesitate? "I-I agree."
"Then I shall announce our wedding date tonight, here at the revel." He smile broadly.
Roz felt a tightness in her chest, cutting off her breath. This was what the family needed. But her heart pained her so, beating so hard she thought it would rupture her chest.
"No," she burst out, unable to stop herself. "Do not announce it yet. I agree," she went on hastily. "We will ... do just as you say. We will wed. But let us have a private betrothal. Then we can decide the marriage date. And no public announcement. Please, not tonight." A terrible sinking feeling roiled in her stomach.
"Agreed. The betrothal immediately, the wedding date to be set later. It will be an excellent arrangement, I promise. Come, let us seal our agreement with a kiss."
"I-I ..." She didn't want to kiss him. She'd never kissed a man before, never wanted to except perhaps in the shop this morning. Troth, she thought angrily at herself, if she could want to kiss a perfect stranger, she could kiss this man. She at least knew him. Turning to Trenchard, she put up her face determinedly.
He placed one hand on each of her shoulders, leaned close. The heat of his touch burned into her bones. Suddenly the intense odor of his hair pomade swept over her, making bile rise in her throat.
Trenchard came closer and closer, until his face went out of focus. She closed her eyes and clenched her fists. His lips brushed hers, then drew away.
And she felt ... nothing.
Relief washed over her. It was done and he would go away now. That was how it would be between them—emotionless, businesslike. She felt like collapsing as he stepped back. Her mind and body were drained.
"Would you care for refreshment? Perhaps some wine?"
"No, no," she assured him. "I'll wait here while the musicians take their rest." She leaned her back against the cool plaster wall. "I will speak to you anon."
He bowed correctly and left her. As he disappeared beyond the screens, she finally let out her breath.
"Any progress?" Trenchard's dark-complected steward, Paul Sutton, greeted him at the door to the dining parlor, his wide mouth drawn back into a grimace that was supposed to be a grin. He seemed nervous, for he shifted his weight constantly back and forth, from one foot to the other. Much smaller than Tren
chard, he had the same light way of moving, suggesting a wiry agility and strength compared to Trenchard's brawn.
Trenchard scowled fiercely at the flagon he'd just drunk from, thrust it back at his steward. "This ale you gave me is terrible. Take it away."
Sutton took the wooden flagon, handed Trenchard another flagon of crystal. "Your pardon, sir. 'Twas a new preparation. The brewer insisted I ask you to try it."
"And you complied, for a small sum." Trenchard gave Sutton a scornful look as he took the new glass of wine and quaffed it. "Everyone has their price," he muttered. He allowed his gaze to rest on Rozalinde where she stood alone by the back screen.
Sutton's gaze followed his. "And what is the price for Mistress Cavandish?"
Trenchard narrowed his eyes. "I think I have discovered it."
"Hah, which means you have gotten nowhere." The servant lowered his voice as a lady squeezed past him on the arm of a gentleman. "I tell you, you are being fainthearted about this. You have succeeded in business for nigh on eleven years since your father died, and for the first time you hold back from something you want." He wrinkled his face, which was scarred by small pox, into a sneer. "You hesitate over a girl who is as hard and stubborn as ... as this flagon." He snapped the wooden vessel he held with one finger.
Trenchard eyed him coolly over the rim of his flagon. He took another swallow of wine. "About your choice of words, Sutton—" He raised his eyebrows warningly. "Temper them. You tend to forget your birth."
The reprimand had the desired effect. Sutton's face turned a dangerous shade of red. "I do not take kindly to your bringing my mother into this. She was an honest woman, hardworking. Just because my father failed to wed her before I was—"
"Enough." Trenchard's tone switched from cool to glacial. He turned a bored shoulder on his servant and regarded the crowd. "You forget your place from time to time and it offends me. If you will concentrate on your task of aiding me in my goals, you will be rewarded."
Sutton muttered something under his breath.
"What was that?" Trenchard asked sharply, twisting his head to look around.
Pirate's Rose Page 4
