"It isn't the same. Women aren't logical. They think of nothing but their clothes or who they're going to wed."
"Well, I don't," Roz snapped at him. "I don't care about clothes except to stay warm and decent. And as for men ..." She gave him a withering stare, clearly deciding not to utter the insulting thought she'd just had. "I am going to Antwerp."
Kit groaned inwardly and looked away. They weren't getting anywhere, arguing like this. She was far too good at it for him to best her. He even had to admit she was right about one thing—she didn't seem to care about clothes. He'd never seen her in anything other than serviceable smocks and kirtles. As for the topic of men, gossip said she'd refused a dozen offers of marriage. "There are the Spanish traders," he began again, trying to be more tactful, "mayhap they'll leave you alone, though they sail armed.
But the Spanish fleet prowls up and down the Channel all the time, looking for skirmishes with the Dutch. The Dutch traders would leave you alone also, your being English, but there are French pirates, if you're unlucky enough to meet up with them. And I'll tell you this—" He paused and cleared his throat. "The Sea Beggars will sink anyone bound for Antwerp. They're vowed to stop all trade with their enemy."
"Yes?" Roz tossed her braids back over her shoulders and gave him a strange look. "Tell me more about their plans."
Kit examined her thoughtfully, trying to decide what to say. Should he explain why she shouldn't go to Antwerp? That if she did, he would be forced to stop her? Yet it wasn't safe to involve her further—she knew too much already. "I've made my livelihood in trade," he began cautiously, "the same as you." He stopped, realizing what he'd said. He'd addressed her as an equal. "And I serve the queen. It gives me access to privileged information."
"Does it? Exactly what?"
He could see blatant curiosity in her eyes. "I fight the Spanish," he said, then stopped again, realizing she unnerved him, made him say too much with only the slightest coaxing. "Never mind the details. 'Tis my task. I don't know why I trust you, but I believe you'll not tell."
She smiled then. So unexpectedly, he almost missed the stool behind him as he sat down. Gripping the seat and centering himself, he watched her pure oval face all alight. She looked overwhelmingly beautiful, with the little tendrils of hair escaping from her braids to curl around her face, those deep brown eyes fringed thickly with glossy lashes. No wonder every man in West Lulworth and nearby had courted her. Courted her and been turned away.
"I shouldn't have told you. 'Tis not safe you should know," he admitted grudgingly.
"My world is a safe place."
"It isn't," he contradicted her forcefully. "Let me help with your business. I can set your troubles straight."
"I'll set them straight myself, thank you."
"Not if you sail for Antwerp, you won't. I have a feeling about that," he hinted darkly, "and 'tis not good."
"A pity," she told him, crossing her arms defiantly. "Because you haven't given me any clear reasons to avoid it. I said I'm bound for Antwerp, so you can be quite sure I am."
Down in the kitchens of Lulworth Castle, things were quiet. All the servants had sought their beds save the cook. When the steward wandered in, the cook poured two flagons of ale, then seated himself. "Sit ye down, Browne." He motioned to the man lounging before the fire. "His lordship'll not need us more. He's up in his cabinet and will stay there, a scratching with his quill. A'times he sleeps there all night."
Heaving a tired sigh, Geoffrey Browne scraped out a stool and sat on it. "'Tis well," he muttered, swilling a good quaff of the brew. "I'm nigh fit to drop, what with all the riding we did today. We were to every part of the estate, talked to every tenant. His lordship makes a man earn his wage." "Aye, he does," the cook confirmed. He reached for a bowl warming by the fire. "Here," he said, digging with his fingers into juicy tidbits of meat. "These was left from noon dinner."
Silence reigned in the warm kitchen while the men ate and drank. Firelight shone on the polished copper kettles and savory herbs hanging from the ceiling beams gave off their crisp scent.
"Odd one, his lordship." The cook broke the silence. "But a good 'un to serve. Goes off at the strangest hours and stays away for days. Comes back without a word like he was never gone." He gulped more of his ale. "Not like the old master, but then he's a lying in the churchyard yonder and you never knowed him."
Browne nodded. "I knew the earl long before he was a lord. He gives honest pay for an honest day's toil. I'd just as soon serve him."
"Aye," the cook admitted. "Though he don't give me the same rights in me kitchen as the old master. This one is forever coming down to see what I'm up to and telling me to do it different. The old master wouldn't set foot in the place. But then I'll not be complainin'," he added hastily. "'Tis easier work now, and that's worth a heap." Lowering his voice, he said confidentially, "The old master was too quick with his rod. And after him, Lord Harry and his wife," he made a face, "she was a devil in petticoats, always with a chiding word. 'Tis a sight better now that she don't rule the roost. I'm glad Lord Kit put his foot down with her."
Browne nodded sympathetically. "I confess I avoid the dowager countess. There's just no pleasing her." He quaffed some more of his ale. "She'll probably wed again soon and move somewhere else."
There was a bump at the kitchen door, then a knock. The cook went to open it, knowing all the servants were in. When he opened the door a crack, it was thrust open forcibly. A huge gentleman shoved his way in.
"What do you want?" cried the cook, jumping back in alarm from the gentleman. He had to be a gentleman—he was dressed like one, in silk long gown and silk knit hose and a good quality hat on his head. "We want no trouble here," he stammered. "Sure an' we do not." He stopped, assessed the man, and suddenly knew him. 'Twas the town's chief alderman. "Your honor," he added, just to be safe.
"No trouble," agreed the man, striding in past the cook and pausing before the hearth to eye Browne. His broad face wore a fierce, determined look, and his shifting eyes were a blazing green. "That you shall not have, if you take me to his lordship and take me fast. I want to see him, so show the way."
"His lordship's abed," insisted the cook, sensing this was trouble if ever he'd seen it. "He's not seein' visitors. Not this time o' night."
"I'm not a visitor." Trenchard pushed his way impatiently past Browne and headed for the passage leading to the front of the house. "If you'll not show me, I'll find my own way."
"Here then, stop. You can't go in there." Browne ran after him, followed directly by the cook. "Can't just go bargin' in on his lordship."
"I'll see him now." Trenchard turned and looked at the servant steadily.
The cook eyed his determined face, the richness of his clothes, and gave in. "This way," he said resignedly, sliding past to lead the way. "He's in his cabinet."
The cook lit candles at the hearth, then led the way up
a stair and down a long passage. The alderman followed closely at his heels, with Browne bringing up the rear. They halted before a door where a light showed. Looking nervously at the man beside him, the cook wondered what the alderman wanted this time of night. Whatever it was, the earl was home and engaged in nothing more exciting than going over his accounts. There was nothing to be learned about the earl's absences at night. Furthermore, none of them at the castle knew a thing about them—only that he went. Lifting his fist, he knocked.
Inside, Kit heard the knock and reacted instantly. He sprang to the hearth.
"Who is it?" Rozalinde felt the blood drain from her face. She'd had no intention of being seen when she made the decision to come here. If someone did, she'd be in terrible trouble. She would lose her reputation—not that she cared about that. But things could go hard on her sisters, and perhaps on the family as a whole. Scandals impeded business, and she couldn't have that. Whirling so swiftly her skirts wrapped around her legs, she headed for the window.
"Not that way." Kit motioned vigorously for her to return.
"In here." To the left of the chimney piece he leaned on a carved rosette, one of many that adorned the oak-paneled wall.
Rozalinde stared as a panel slid noiselessly back to reveal a hidden chamber. "A priest's hole," she whispered, "to hide Catholic priests."
"To hide anyone who needs hiding," Kit told her, motioning her in impatiently. "The Howards haven't been Catholic for years. In with you. Why do you wait?"
"You shouldn't share your secrets with me," she said not moving. "I thought you said it was best if I didn't know—"
"You argue more than any woman I've ever met." Kit grasped her by the arm and hustled her toward the chamber. "In with you. And don't give yourself away. I'll tell you when it's safe to come out." Pushing her across the threshold, he reached for the rosette. "I don't know how it happens," his face wore a perplexed look as he gazed down at her, "but it seems you are destined to know all manner of things about me." His hand tightened on her arm a moment, then he released her and pressed the rosette. The panel glided silently back into place and closed with a faint click.
It was abysmally black in the chamber, almost as bad as the cave at Lulworth Creek. Dismayed by her reaction, Rozalinde lowered herself carefully to the floor, flattening herself against it for security. She was all alone in the darkness, with nothing to do but listen helplessly and wait.
It was then, crouching in the void where she couldn't see her hand before her face, that she realized something. Suddenly her innate fear of the dark, combined with a growing anxiety, ignited like a bonfire. Reaching down, she groped desperately, hoping it wasn't true. But it was. Her stock hung down around her ankle. She'd left her garter outside.
Alone in the musty darkness of the priest's hole, Rozalinde listened. The minute the knock had sounded, she'd frozen with fear. Her pulse took off on a mad race as she tried to imagine how anyone could know she was here.
But then she heard his voice and knew. It was George Trenchard. Somehow he had seen her leave the house-seen her and meant to catch her. Oh, he had been angry when she postponed their betrothal. Why hadn't she recognized his firmly suppressed reaction. He was so controlled, so rational, so much like Rozalinde herself she hadn't realized. And now, with this added insult, she might not be able to appease him. Worse yet, what would he do with this knowledge?
Her first thought was that he would refuse to marry her. That might suit her purposes if no one knew why. But he could also use it to insist on their marriage. Either way he could ruin their business if he so desired. Roz squeezed her eyes shut and prayed fervently that he would go away.
As she prayed, a small hope flitted through her mind. If he did not find her, he could prove nothing. He might even leave believing he was mistaken—if Kit handled things right. Then again, even if he didn't find her, he might be convinced she'd been here and start to gossip.
Never had Rozalinde felt so vulnerable. Here she was, with little more between her and ruin than a single oak panel. It was so thin, that wall, that any second she expected him to detect her, to see through it and shatter her life into a million pieces. Fear coursed through her like a virulent fever, swirling in her brain as she heard him interrogate Kit.
"God-den to you, your lordship. All alone?" Roz could hear the door to the chamber close and
George's voice, heavy with suggestion. She could imagine his sharp eyes, scrutinizing Kit's cabinet.
Kit answered in frozen tones. "Do you see anyone here?" There was a chilling pause. "Master Alderman, the hour is late for callers. I was about to retire, having completed my work for the night." She could all but see him nod toward his ink and paper, laid out on the table. "Be so good as to state your business so that I may go to my rest." He stifled a yawn.
Trenchard took his time in answering. "You are perhaps unaware of my new appointment. By tomorrow, the entire town will know. I thought you would like to have advance warning."
Roz clasped one hand to her bodice, wishing to still her racing heart. Every muscle in her body quivered with tension. Somehow, Kit must get them through this. If Trenchard did not find her, all could still be well.
"I have been appointed deputy lieutenant by Her Majesty," Trenchard announced. His voice sounded ridiculously pompous to Rozalinde. "You know the duties that will be connected to it." Trenchard's heavy tread sounded on the floorboards, so different from Kit's light one. Roz heard him move around the room, searching for signs of her. The wall trembled as his step shook the floor. If she made even the smallest move, he might hear ...
Staring intently into the darkness, Roz tried to concentrate on something else, to imagine Kit's face. But an immense well of misery had opened up inside her. Until this week her world had been safe, impenetrable. Now she felt her security threatened. One well-placed slander could greatly damage her father's business. Honest housewives would not buy from a draper if they thought the daughter selling the goods was a whore. Though Roz had never cared much about her reputation, she realized its value. And somehow, Trenchard had discovered she came here.
Something heavy, a book, fell with a slam to the floor. Roz jumped, let out an unconscious gasp. Any second now, she expected George to come over to her wall and bang on it, demanding she come out. In her cramped position on the floor, her every muscle screaming, Roz felt herself break into a cold sweat. She strained to hear. From Kit
here was silence. She could imagine him, watching Trenchard with that glacial stare of his. The door at the far end of the room opened. There was pregnant pause before it slammed shut. Roz jumped a second time but was able to arrest the gasp before it reached her lips. Her heart had entered her throat, it seemed, and lodged there, blocking her breath. Reaching down to untwist her kirtle skirts, she tried to edge herself backward, away from the sliding panel. Again she felt for her sagging stocking, experienced a streak of fright as she imagined him finding her garter. It was out there some-here, lying in the room. "
"Are you looking for something?" The contempt in Kit's voice was barely veiled. "Sure and you didn't come to tell me the news of your appointment at this time of night."
"Tsk, tsk, don't overset yourself." Trenchard's reply was congenial. "I'm not looking for anything that requires a warrant to search, at least not yet." Roz could hear his voice clearly. He apparently stood before the chimney piece, just beside her panel.
"Then kindly leave me to my rest," Kit said brusquely. "You may call another time."
"Another time, hmm, yes." Roz could hear Trenchard rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "What would I find then, I wonder?" Roz's pulse thundered in her throat. They were only a few feet away from her. Carefully she backed deeper into the hole, wishing she could go out like the light of a candle. Kit gave a bored sigh. "In truth, Master Trenchard, you hint at this and that, but I have not the least idea of what you refer to. I weary of this discourse. I would bid you good-den."
"Not before I warn you, Wynford." For the first time, Trenchard's voice had an ominous note to it. "You see," he went on, "you have been gone from Lulworth for many years. Things are not what they used to be here—the officials lax and turning a blind eye to the indiscretions of the citizens. I make it my business to know exactly what people are doing. If you understand my meaning."
"I am glad to know you apply yourself conscientiously to your duties."
"I intend to be effective in my position," snapped Trenchard. "And to examine indiscretions at every level of the social strata. The nobility may be privileged, but they have been known to take a tumble or two."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, I am observant. I already know things about certain individuals in West Lulworth that would interest the Queen's Star Chamber."
"In truth?" drawled Kit. "And what would that be?"
"The Sea Beggars," Trenchard answered. "They've been to West Lulworth in the last sen'night. I intend to see that their visits cease. I intend to see them hang."
"You would need an entire troop to accomplish that."
"I need
only ask the Lord Lieutenant of Dorset if I wish one. He's already sent me three men."
"So many? How generous."
Kit was being purposely antagonizing, and Rozalinde's hand itched to slap him. For no good reason he was goading Trenchard, and it frightened her exceedingly. He was guilty of everything Trenchard hinted at. Did Trenchard really know?
"That's not all," snapped Trenchard, clearly enraged by Kit's mockery. "I'll tell you something else. Do not dare to take what is mine. You understand?"
"I do not," Kit told him blandly. "I have nothing of yours. Pray explain."
"Your place has changed in West Lulworth." Trenchard was losing his calm. "You'd best have a care."
"Indeed?"
Rozalinde could hear Trenchard pacing as he circled around Kit. "I have my people everywhere, your lordship." He put an insulting accent on the title. "They see things you might not expect. For instance ..." He paused tauntingly. "I know you sail away at night and don't return for days. And when you do, there's said to be blood on your shirt."
Rozalinde winced. Blood on his shirt, just as the countess had said. The words sang ominously in her ears.
"You hear correctly, but anyone who makes something unusual of my practice spins an absurd tale," Kit responded crisply. "I sail out because I am engaged in trade. My ships put out from London, or Portsmouth. Ofttimes, I meet them. 'Tis nothing more complex than that. As for the blood, there are injuries among the seamen. Such things cannot be avoided. I do my best to aid them myself."
"I see." Sarcasm ladened Trenchard's voice. "The great captain Howard, legendary for his skill in trade, not to mention the fortune he has amassed, stooping to aid one of his own seamen. A touching picture, and one I do not believe for an instant. I have a far better explanation for our strange movements at night and your bloodied clothes."
Pirate's Rose Page 15
