Standing, Kit stretched in a leisurely manner, strolled down the dock toward the longboat that would take him to The Raven. His casual movements belied his internal tension. Someone was ruining Cavandish cargo. And it wasn't that foolish captain Rozalinde had dismissed. He would wager money on it.
Suddenly his business with The Raven seemed unimportant. He would have the first mate handle it. Purposefully, he turned away from the docks and went to seek Courte Philips. He had an assignment to make.
"What think you, shall we hawk today?" Courte crossed his legs carefully, unaccustomed to wearing silk netherstocks. He took a Venetian crystal wine flagon from the footman who offered it. It felt splendid to sit in the great parlor at Lulworth Castle, dressed in his best and imagining he belonged here. Perhaps he did, now that Kit was earl.
Sitting across from him in a red velvet X-chair, Kit stared out the window, worlds away. At least, thought Courte, he wore something besides black today. He eyed the earl's somber gray costume, the unadorned doublet, the gray trunk hose and netherstocks. Not even a ruff around his neck, as might be expected of an earl, especially one who visited the queen's court. There was nothing splendid about his dress at all, though he looked distinctive, Courte reflected, wishing he could do the same.
"We might hawk later," Kit answered at last, getting up from his chair and tearing his gaze from the window. It wasn't the view that held him—it was his thoughts, and they were troubled. "First, I have a task for you." He sipped his own wine. "It's nothing hard, so I would be grateful if you would do it yet today."
"'Twill be my pleasure," Courte assured him.
His sincerity brought a smile to Kit's lips. "I wish you to call on Master Henry Cavandish, draper, and do two things. First, he has several crates of lace for sale that I wish to purchase. Fine quality stuff recently arrived from Flanders, but it was partially damaged in transit. It's stored in his warehouse at Poole. Buy it all." He reached for the purse at his waist and pulled out several gold coins of large denomination. "Give him the first payment and agree to three more installments after." Kit named a total he thought the lace was worth.
Courte whistled. "That's a lot of lace. What will you do with it?"
Kit handed him the coins and made an impatient gesture as he tucked his purse away. "The cost is low for goods of their quality, and I believe it's not all ruined. We'll sell it by the piece in London, which will make our money back plus some in the bargain. But that's not my point. I want you to buy it from Master Cavandish and refuse to take no for an answer. Then offer him the services of The Raven," Kit went on. "I hear he requires a ship to take goods to the Netherlands. He wishes to depart about three weeks hence. Do not mention that The Raven belongs to me. In fact be careful not to mention me at all throughout this entire business. Simply offer your services as captain of the ship."
Courte nodded in agreement. "Nothing easier. What do you think the cargo will be?"
"Wool broadcloths," Kit told him. "Coming back, it may be some other finery such as the laces. Stress your ability to reach port safely and the number of cannon on board."
"Cannon?" Courte sat up straighter and raised his eyebrows. "Mayhap I should offer the Swiftsure, do you think? The Raven has only six cannon. He might not be impressed."
Kit brushed aside his protests. "He would find the Swiftsure too expensive if I charged an honest price. And if I didn't, he would be suspicious of why it was offered. I don't want that. The Raven will suit his needs. But there's something else. This is the hard part."
"What is that?"
"You must convince him not to sail to Antwerp. Offer to take him to Haarlem or Edam. Or to any other city that has declared for the Prince of Orange."
"If he is set on trading at Antwerp," said Courte, looking unsettled, "how can I change his mind? What should I say?"
"Tell him about the excellent rates for goods at Edam. Tell him he can buy more at lower prices to bring back. Tell him anything you can think of, but he must not trade at Antwerp. Otherwise, you know I would be obliged to stop him. Now that I have the trust of the Sea Beggars, I could not in good faith let him set off." Courte nodded his head in understanding. He felt sure he could succeed at this task.
Courte presented himself at Cavandish's drapery an hour later, just as he'd been told. He entered the shop and looked around, admiring the neat rows of fabric, the clean smell of the goods. A thriving business, he thought to himself, noticing the floor was swept meticulously clean, the beam ceiling free of cobwebs. He would be most pleased to associate with the owner of this establishment. Straightening his doublet, he prepared to speak to the shopkeeper who left the other customers with the apprentice and came to see what he wanted.
"I wish to speak to Master Cavandish," Courte told him, respectfully doffing his cap. "I understand he requires a ship for transporting goods. I should like to offer mine."
The man took his name politely, sent the other apprentice up to the house. "I have sent to ask if the master is at leisure to attend you. If he is not, the lad will ask when he might."
Courte thanked him and set himself to wait. He amused himself by watching the remaining apprentice sell ribbon to a rustic country maiden. The girl hesitated over her choice while the lad showed to her first blue ribbon, then yellow, then green.
"How may we serve you, Captain Philips?"
The sound of a sweetly modulated, feminine voice caused Courte to whirl. He was confronted by the most beauteous lass he'd ever laid eyes on. Her face, which was a pure, perfect oval, bore a calm, noble expression, and she appraised him with deep brown eyes the color of rain-drenched autumn leaves. Her figure was slim and perfectly formed, shown to advantage in a kirtle skirt and bodice that were plain to the point of austerity. But their simplicity only enhanced her blinding beauty. Courte clutched his cap and began to sweat.
"You must pardon me, sir," she said gently, noticing his discomfort, "for coming in my father's place. He takes his ease each day after dinner. The physician requires that he rest. I am Mistress Cavandish. You may state your business to me."
Courte stammered something in answer. He wasn't sure what. "I understand," he went on, trying valiantly to keep his wits about him, "that you are ... that is your father, has for sale a quantity of lace. Fine stuff from Flanders. I wish to make a purchase."
The girl's face saddened. "I am sorry, sir. We have some lace, but very little and it's French, not Flemish. If you would be so good as to follow me, I will show it to you."
Courte squirmed uncomfortably but did not budge. "Not wishing to contradict you, Mistress Cavandish, but I was told you have some Flemish lace, stored in the warehouse at Poole. I hear I might get it at a good price."
Her brown eyes widened. "You wish to buy that? 'Tis all of it ruined, you know."
"I know," Courte told her, feeling recklessly happy to please this fair beauty. "I've a plan to sell it. Here is the first payment." He produced his purse and showed her the gold.
"Are you quite sure?" She did not touch the coins or make any move toward them. "I would not wish you to make an error."
"Quite sure," Courte insisted. "I intend to cut it up into short lengths and sell it in London to women who cannot afford full lengths of such things. They will cherish the chance to acquire some lace, yet not pay more than they can afford. And I shall make back my gold."
"Very well." She gave him the faintest of smiles. "If this is your first payment, the total would be what we paid for the lace."
That smile, modest as it was, gave Courte immense pleasure. He swelled out his chest. "The other payments will be forthcoming. Now then, my other business is to offer you my services. I understand your father seeks a ship and captain. I have a strong, well-fitted pinnace that will carry your goods to the Netherlands."
"I have sought a new captain," she answered in those same serene tones, emphasizing the fact that she did the seeking. "And you seem a responsible seaman. Tell me about your ship."
"'Tis a fifty tonne
r," Courte said, as proud as if The Raven were his own. "With six guns. The best brass there is, forged in Germany."
"Fifty ton." The girl looked skeptical. "I am sorry. That would be too small for my purposes. But thank you kindly for your interest."
She poised to go. Courte realized he was dismissed. "Madam, I mean mistress," he spluttered, thrown off balance by her rejection, "my ship is well fitted. She can run like the wind." You must not refuse me, he wanted to shout. I have promised Kit.
The girl turned back, regarded him with those fathomless brown eyes. "I'll be heavily ladened," she informed him simply. "I'll not need a ship that can run—no ship can with a heavy cargo. What I need is more cannon. But I give you my thanks."
Courte was desperate. There seemed nothing he could do. He'd thought this would be simple, until he ran up against her impassable will.
"If I ever need a ship such as you describe," she said, seeming to take pity on his distress, "I shall think of you. I promise."
"You sound as if you were going personally," he said bluntly, finding the words out of his mouth before he realized it.
"I am." She nodded briskly.
"'Tis a harsh trip. Not one for a maid."
"So the men like to tell me," she replied evenly. "But I've traveled it before."
"You must not go to Antwerp," he ventured, realizing he might still fulfill part of the earl's bidding. "Why is that?"
"The Spanish hold it. You must not trade with them." She seemed to anger at that, and her reaction surprised him.
"I'll trade where I must to get my price. We do not take sides in this quarrel between Spain and the Netherlands. England is neutral. 'Tis the queen's policy."
"Aye, mistress." Courte gulped, knowing better but unable to say so. He gave his best bow to her in parting, but he felt defeated, realizing he'd botched the job.
He went straight to the door, intending to leave, but the temptation to look back was great. With a hand on the door, he looked over his shoulder.
She had paused at the counter to talk to someone—a young man who had the look of her, the same brown hair and flawless skin. They were, by all appearances, deep in conversation. But she looked up unexpectedly, focused directly on him, sent him a brief, faint smile.
Courte tripped at the door and almost fell. God, she was a beauty! Could Kit possibly know her? In a daze of confusion he stumbled out of the shop and into the sunlight, thinking he would never forget that perfect, angelic face.
Rozalinde forgot him within the moment. She had more immediate things pressuring her. But as she went about her day, directing the laundry, overseeing the meals, energetically conquering the household duties, one thought piqued her and would not go away. It was the earl. The image of him crept insistently into her mind.
By evening she was tired of fighting it. She'd been thinking of him and fighting it all day. Now she stood on her aching feet and counted the family silver, set out before her cleaned and dried in the dining parlor. Her father owned much silver, and to each piece she had assigned a number. As a child she had memorized them, in order. Now they seemed like old friends. Mayhap if she took a moment while she counted, she could banish all other distracting thoughts. She would think of the earl, then be done with the man.
Seventy-three was the number of the big silver soup tureen. Seventy-four was the salver received at her parents' wedding. Then she began on the unusual set of silver forks. Not many people had forks to use at table, but her father did. Seventy-five, seventy-six. He was not so very unusual, this earl. Seventy-seven, seventy-eight. Handsome, yes, but he was just a man. Seventy-nine, eighty. But then why did she always think of him? Seventeen times she'd thought of him today. No, eighteen, counting this time. Eighty, eighty-one, she went on counting the forks. No, that wasn't right. Troth! With irritation she stopped and scolded herself for being distracted.
Leaning against the table she stopped counting entirely, remembered instead how he had looked that night at the cove, his face when he'd trusted her with his secret, then again when he'd kissed her at the creek. Now that secret lay within her, burning its way to her heart.
Though she tried hard to stop it, her mouth would quirk at the corners whenever she thought of him: the way he'd learned she was ticklish and made her laugh; the way he'd looked standing on the deck of the Spanish ship, mysterious and proud. She knew he was involved in serious dealings, and that worried her. But even those practical worries washed away as soft feelings overwhelmed her. The details of the Antwerp trip, the cargo she must buy, and her other duties all vanished, replaced by the image of his face, which rose up in her memory till she could think of nothing else.
Uncharacteristically she stood doing nothing, gazing off into space, imagining the touch of his lips, the feel of his hands, the hard sinews of his arms as he molded her close to his warmth. How she longed for more of him—the strange, new feelings he aroused.
Voices sounded down the passage, the servants in the kitchens, and they brought Rozalinde back to reality, reminding her of her tasks. Enough nonsense. She'd meant to think of him for a moment to satisfy her need, then banish the thought permanently. Instead, here she was daydreaming like Jonathan, or worse yet, one of the maids.
Snapping her attention back to the forks, she counted all twenty-four, arranged them in their felt-lined storage box, and placed it on the top shelf of the court cupboard. Then she counted the silver serving plate. Usually the counting, the handling of the familiar items, soothed her. The numbers moved methodically through her head—the five great platters, the six silver dishes with their ornamented covers, the silver saltcellar with its bowl and festooned lid. But tonight her smile kept rising.
She must not let the way she felt get in the way of business, she told herself as she worked. Making a living was a serious thing. Her father's wealth came from a lifetime of hard work, and without that work, the money, their house, the food they ate, would all disappear. There were so many expenses to drain away the shillings. Dowries must be put aside for her sisters, shares in the business must be built up for the boys.
Turning, she automatically arranged the huge platters in their usual places, forced herself to think ordinary thoughts. But she drifted off again a minute later, unable to stop recalling the pleasant things about the earl—the way his hair waved so thickly, blue-black under the moon, his smile as his lips hovered above hers. The memory of him worked its way deeper into her brain and stuck there, obstinate, like him.
Bending over a platter, she scrubbed furiously with her apron at a mark that marred the surface, though she knew well enough it was a permanent scratch. Straightening, she regarded her face in the silver surface and exhaled despairingly. Brute force would never accomplish her aim. Try as she would, she could not forget.
The front bell rang. Roz heard the footman answer it. Absently she listened while she propped the silver in place, each piece precisely on the shelf where it belonged.
"Mistress Rozalinde, a visitor." The footman hesitated at the doorway. He was overshadowed by a larger figure who stepped in, blocking the candlelight.
Roz turned, wondering who called so late. She beheld Master Trenchard. Surprise flared within her. Her heart began to pound.
"Leave us." Trenchard stepped into the room, snapped his fingers at the footman. "Rozalinde, my dear. I am pleased to find you unoccupied."
"I am occupied." She turned away, wishing he hadn't come. Her father, who was up and around for the first time in days, must have invited him. "I am counting the plate."
He sauntered into the room and gave the lone plate left on the table a pointed stare. Flustered, she snatched it up and set it in the court cupboard, knowing her work was done. It could not be used as an excuse to keep him at bay.
"My poor darling," he soothed, caressing his beaver hat which he had removed when he entered. "Something troubles you. Tell me what it is."
Rozalinde stared at the hat where it lay in his hands. The hat seemed so fragile, so easily
crushed between his strong fingers. "Anyone in business has troubles from time to time." She crossed her arms before her, wanting to hide her sudden shiver.
"Tell me about yours."
His eyes, eager for details, bore into her. She felt them search her person, questing for secrets. "Troth," she said testily, turning away to pull the heavy draperies over the windows. "Things are improved. They get better by the day. In fact ..." She stopped, not sure where to begin.
"Rozalinde." Trenchard clucked his tongue in reproof and abandoned the hat on the table. "You continually use that expression." Straightening his trunk hose, he meandered around the room inspecting things. "It does not become a lady."
Rozalinde felt her back go up. His words, spoken in so civil a manner, grated on her nerves. "I wish to postpone our betrothal," she said abruptly. "At least two more months."
Trenchard stopped where he was before her father's portrait. His low, broad forehead creased into a frown. "We are set to visit the church two days hence."
Roz moved behind a tall dining chair and gripped its lathe-turned spindles with her hands, watching him warily. "I know. But something has happened. My father is taken a turn for the worse. We must wait—"
"Nonsense!" Trenchard's voice cut a sharp swath through the calm of the room. "What possible reason could we give for changing the date? We'll have the betrothal, Rozalinde. I'll not be put off."
Rozalinde clenched her teeth in vexation. She'd been afraid of this. As he took a step toward her, she moved back, pulling the chair with her. "I'm not putting you off. But with my father's illness, it is unseemly to celebrate a betrothal. Don't you see, our house is full of physicians ..." She gripped the chair spindles hard.
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