The Least Likely Bride

by Jane Feather

  “Well, I don’t like it. It seems stupidly reckless to me,” Phoebe said roundly.

  “You’re sounding so elder-sisterly and prudish,” Olivia complained. “You used not to be. You used to do reckless things yourself, if you recall. Who was it who rode off after my father and hid on his ship without his knowing?”

  Phoebe brushed a loose lock of hair from her eyes. “I suppose if you put it like that … I don’t mean to be prudish, but I can’t help worrying about you, Olivia. You’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “Well, that is certainly true,” Olivia said with a reluctant grin. “The opportunity never arose.”

  “That’s so flippant…. Oh, sweetheart, did you bump your head?” Without ceremony, Phoebe dumped the baby into Olivia’s lap and rushed to the wailing Nicholas, who had lost his precarious balance and sat down with a thump, knocking his head against the leg of a chair.

  Olivia held little Charles, playing with his toes while she waited for the kissing and wailing to cease. “I might play chess with him again,” she said consideringly, when Phoebe had once more given her her full attention.

  Phoebe shook her head. “I don’t mean to be prim and proper, really I don’t. But it’s crazy, Olivia. What if Cato finds out?”

  “He won’t,” Olivia said with a confidence she didn’t quite feel. “Not if you don’t tell him.”

  “Of course I won’t,” Phoebe said indignantly, taking Charles from Olivia.

  Olivia offered a placatory smile. “Anyway, what was this splendid news?”

  Phoebe looked as if she was unwilling to be distracted, then she sighed. “Guess.”

  Olivia felt she’d had enough of games, but she thought she’d put Phoebe out enough already and it would be unkind to refuse to guess. “You’re going back to London with my father and you’ll see all your poets again.”

  “No … no,” Phoebe said impatiently. “It’s something to please both of us.”

  Olivia thought, then she smiled. “When’s she c-coming?”

  Phoebe’s blue eyes sparkled, her customary sunny temper restored. “I knew you’d guess if you’d think for a minute. Portia’s coming to stay for a few days. Rufus sent a message from London. He’s been dealing with the army troubles—all the mutinies and things—and needs to have talks with Governor Hammond and Cato. So he’s going to stay at the castle, but Portia wants to stay with us.”

  “Is she bringing all the children?”

  “She never goes anywhere without them.” Phoebe kissed the baby in her arms as she spoke. “One couldn’t, really.”

  “No, I suppose not.” It astonished Olivia how her two friends had become so devotedly maternal. Phoebe seemed more the type, but Portia was a mystery. A woman who was once happiest riding into battle at her husband’s side, and who still wore britches most of the time with a sword at her hip, was the most fond mother, drawing no distinction between her own son and daughter, and Rufus De-catur’s two illegitimate sons.

  “So when’s she coming?”

  “Any day, Cato says. He thinks there’s going to be another attempt to get the king away to France, and Rufus has some information from army sources that might throw some light on it all.”

  Olivia nodded, but her mind had begun to race. Was this what Anthony was about? Engineering the king’s escape to France? An action that put him in direct opposition to the marquis of Granville, who was sworn to keep the king secure.

  Dear God, she thought. Of course that was what he was doing. As she’d half suspected last night, the king, or rather his supporters, were the highest bidders for the mercenary’s services. And where did that leave the marquis of Granville’s daughter?

  She glanced at Phoebe … Phoebe, so serene, so sure of where her loyalties lay.

  The baby began to wriggle and Phoebe said, “I think Charles needs changing. But let’s go for a picnic on the downs. There’ll be a breeze up there and Nicholas can run around. He has so much energy.”

  She hurried to the door as the baby began to whimper. “Come, Nicholas.” She held out her hand to the marquis’s son and heir. The little earl was reluctant to abandon his play with a string of pearls, but was eventually persuaded with the promise of a piece of honeycomb to go quietly with his mother.

  Olivia picked up the pearls and replaced them in her jewel box, then she went to the window that looked out over the sea. From St. Catherine’s Hill, just behind the house, one could look out across the Channel and see the ships coming around the point. At the top of the hill was St. Catherine’s oratory, where messages to and from Wind Dancer were left.

  The master would presumably use that means of communication to send Mike to summon his chess partner. But by the same means, the chess partner could send her own message. Olivia Granville was not at anyone’s beck and call. When she was ready to play chess, she would tell the pirate so. And she would also find out exactly what he was playing at in his games at court.

  GODFREY, LORD CHANNING, rode up to the front door of Lord Granville’s house in Chale at four o’clock that afternoon, the fashionable hour for visiting. He dismounted and gave his horse to the servant who had run out at the sound of hooves on the gravel sweep before the front door.

  Godfrey adjusted the set of his peacock blue silk doublet and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his lime green britches. He knew he cut a very fine figure. His wardrobe was a major expense, but he’d kept back from his culling a bolt of particularly elegant painted silk, a length of figured velvet, and a roll of Brussels lace. Worth, he reckoned, at least fifty guineas. They would replenish his wardrobe nicely.

  He marched to the front door, where a stately figure awaited him.

  “Lord Granville is not at home, sir.”

  “Lord Channing is come to call upon Lady Granville. I believe she is expecting me.”

  Bisset thought this unlikely. Lady Granville and Lady Olivia had returned a few minutes earlier from their picnic. They had looked as disheveled as the children.

  “I believe Lady Granville is not yet returned, my lord,” he said diplomatically.

  “Bisset, who is at the door?” Phoebe’s cheerful voice rendered the butler’s discretion as nought.

  “Lord Channing, my lady. I didn’t know if you were receiving.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I am,” Phoebe said, coming up beside him. “Good afternoon, Lord Channing. You find us at sixes and sevens, I fear. We have been having a picnic and are not at all respectable enough for visitors.” On anyone else such frankness would have been heard as discourtesy, yet somehow Phoebe managed to speak such truths without giving offense.

  Godfrey bowed deeply. “Forgive me, madam. I will return at a more opportune moment.” He smiled as he straightened. “I wished only to pay my respects to you and Lady Olivia.”

  Phoebe hesitated. It seemed churlish to send the man all the way back to Carisbrooke without so much as the offer of refreshment. She had promised that she would help Olivia deal with the suitors that Cato had warned would beat a path to her door. Better not to procrastinate with this one. “You must take us as we are, but pray come in, sir. May I offer you a glass of wine?”

  Godfrey stepped with alacrity into the hall. “Thank you, Lady Granville.”

  “Bisset, bring wine to the parlor. This way, Lord Chan-ning.”

  Godfrey followed her, noticing with a shock that the hem of her skirt had come down and she seemed to have grass in her hair.

  “Olivia, look who has come to call,” Phoebe said brightly as she led the way into the parlor. “Lord Chan-ning has come to pay his promised visit.”

  Olivia was sitting on the window seat with Nicholas, weaving a daisy chain from the mound of limp flowers in her lap. The child leaning against her was half asleep, sucking a very grubby thumb. His mouth bore evidence of the red currant bush, and some of the juice had found its way onto Olivia’s gown of pale muslin. Her hair hung loose to her shoulders and she seemed to have daisies entwined in it, Godfrey realized in astonish
ment. And they were dead daisies too.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Olivia.” He bowed from the doorway.

  Olivia’s breath caught in her throat as his cold green eyes fixed upon her. His thin mouth smiled at her. She could detect no warmth in him, only menace. Even as she told herself she was being ridiculous, she could hear Brian’s taunting voice, see his narrowed eyes flickering over her as he looked for some new way to torment her. She had felt like a butterfly about to lose its wings when Brian had looked at her like that, and she felt exactly the same now.

  She stood up, careful not to disturb the sleepy child. A shower of daisies fell from her lap. “You c-catch us unawares, I’m afraid, Lord Channing.”

  That was more than apparent. Godfrey saw that her feet were bare and there were grass stains on her skirts. There was something offensive about the entire scene. These two high-born women looking like peasant girls on May morning, their hair disheveled, their cheeks touched with the sun, their gowns disordered. Like milkmaids, he thought with a twinge of disgust.

  But according to Brian Morse, this particular milkmaid had a dowry of some hundred thousand pounds.

  “I find your dishabille charming, madam.” He smiled and bowed again. “And who is the child?”

  “Mine,” Phoebe said, moving swiftly to take up her son. “Earl Grafton … Bisset, ask Sadie to come and take him to the nursery.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Bisset set the tray with wine decanter and glass on the table and left with stately tread.

  There was a moment’s silence, then Olivia forced herself to speak. “Wine … you would like a glass of wine, sir.”

  “Yes, I thank you.”

  Olivia poured the wine, aware as she did so that he was looking at her bare feet. She felt as vulnerable as if she were naked. Her hand shook slightly as she gave him the glass; his fingers brushed hers and she was suddenly cold.

  “My thanks, Lady Olivia.” He smiled as he took a sip of wine.

  The arrival of the nursemaid and the handing over of the boy gave Godfrey the opportunity to examine his quarry more carefully. Untidy, yes, but there was something undeniably sensual about her. The thick dark hair, the large black eyes, the warm red mouth. A man would certainly not need to keep his eyes shut when he possessed Olivia Granville. He felt a pleasurable warmth in his loins.

  “Do you find life at Carisbrooke interesting, Lord Chan-ning?” Phoebe asked, desperately searching for a topic of conversation.

  “I am equerry to the governor, madam. It is an interesting and rewarding position.”

  “I imagine you spend much time with the king,” Phoebe said.

  “Indeed I am much in His Majesty’s company,” he responded complacently. “But when I can, I enjoy solitude with my books.”

  “Oh, do you have an extensive library, sir?” Phoebe shot Olivia a slightly indignant look, wondering why she was leaving the entire conversational burden to her.

  “I have some interest in the philosophers, madam.”

  “Greek or Roman?” Olivia inquired, correctly interpreting Phoebe’s look. She had retreated to the window seat once again and was sternly telling herself not to be stupidly fanciful. What possible menace could there be in Godfrey Channing?

  “I find the works of Plato most enlightening,” Godfrey responded solemnly, hoping she wouldn’t launch into an exhaustive conversation on the subject. He had done a little reading but not enough to satisfy a true scholar. But he doubted that a woman, whatever Brian might say, could achieve true scholarship. Olivia probably merely dabbled and considered herself very learned.

  “Which works in particular?” Olivia asked. “The Republic, I imagine, but also—”

  Much to Godfrey’s relief, the question remained unspoken as the door burst open to admit a veritable whirlwind. There were children and dogs and a thin young woman with startling red hair and a mass of freckles, clad astound-ingly in britches and doublet. There were cries of delight, much hugging and kissing, and one of the dogs, a large mustard-colored mongrel bitch, pranced and barked and greeted all in sight, including Lord Channing.

  He kicked at the dog as she sniffed eagerly at his ankles, and she retreated with raised hackles.

  “Juno, what is it?” The red-haired woman bent instantly to the bitch, smoothing her neck. The woman raised slanted green eyes to Godfrey and gave him a look of such derision he wanted to strangle her.

  “Juno won’t hurt you. Unless, of course, you’re inclined to hurt her,” she said coldly.

  “Portia, allow me to introduce Lord Channing.” Phoebe stepped forward out of the turmoil of children. “Lord Chan-ning, Lady Decatur, Countess of Rothbury.”

  Portia gave him a cold nod, her hand still on the dog’s head.

  Godfrey’s bow was sketchy. He’d never seen a woman like this one. He knew, of course, of Rufus Decatur, Earl of Rothbury. A man with a checkered past. But he was still an aristocrat. What was he doing with such a travesty of a wife?

  He turned to Phoebe. “I should make my farewells, Lady Granville, and leave you to your guests.”

  “Oh, do you have to go so soon?” Phoebe murmured politely even as she gave him her hand.

  “I have overstayed my welcome,” he responded, kissing her hand before bowing to Olivia. “Lady Olivia, I trust I may call upon you again?”

  Olivia curtsied but made no reply. She could think of nothing to say that would prevent his return. Unless or until he made her a formal offer, she had no choice but to receive him.

  Godfrey waited for her to answer him, and he waited in vain. He realized he was looking foolish, standing with his hand on the doorknob, and with a short nod he left the parlor.

  “WHAT AN UNPLEASANT MAN,” Portia observed.

  “Yes, isn’t he?” Olivia agreed readily. “He gives me the shivers.”

  “He seems harmless enough,” Phoebe said, adding, “for a popinjay.”

  “My father thinks he wants to pay court to me,” Olivia told Portia.

  Portia went into a peal of laughter. “Then I can only commend his enterprise. He doesn’t know, of course, that you’re sworn to celibacy.”

  Celibacy but not chastity! The pirate’s lightly teasing words rang in Olivia’s mind, and idiotically she felt herself blush. She glanced at Phoebe, who wore her air of unwonted gravity again.

  Portia caught the glance and her eyes narrowed. “I detect secrets.”

  “Olivia has been adventuring,” Phoebe said in an undertone, mindful of the children.

  “Oh, sounds interesting.” Portia examined Lady Granville’s rounded, serious countenance with a quizzically raised eyebrow. “You look as if you don’t approve, duckie.”

  She cast an eye over at Olivia and saw her confusion and distress. “I think I’ve arrived just in time,” she observed, and turned to the children. “Luke, Toby, take Alex and Eve into the garden and give Juno a run.”

  The two elder boys obliged cheerfully, and the three women were left in relative peace.

  “Now …” Portia sat on the arm of a chair. “Let’s hear it.”

  RUFUS DECATUR AND CATO were walking the length of the terrace, deep in conversation. The children, Juno, and the two Granville hounds exploded through the glass doors from the parlor. Rufus paused to watch with a paternal eye as they chased across the terrace and into the trees.

  “Luke … Toby … don’t leave the garden,” he called after them. “And don’t let Eve get into any trouble.” He got a wave in response and laughed slightly. “She’s a real tearaway, that one. Always hip deep in trouble. It seems to seek her out.”

  “Takes after her mother,” Cato observed.

  “You may have a point.”

  The two men glanced through the open door into the parlor. The three women were sitting in a circle, heads together, so intent on their conversation they were oblivious of their audience.

  “I wonder what they’re talking about,” Rufus murmured.

  “Oh, domestic matters probably … teething babies, difficulti
es with servants, complicated embroidery stitches,” said Cato with a chuckle.

  Rufus laughed at this absurdity. “The soldier, the poet, and the scholar. What a trio.”

  “An inseparable trio,” Cato commented before resuming their earlier discussion. “So, there’s talk off the island as well as on it about a renewed attempt to get the king away.”

  “Aye, the army’s full of rumor, but this one seems to have some teeth.”

  “But no one has a name for whoever’s behind it.”

  Rufus shook his head. “I hear only that he’s well respected, well connected, and something of a brigand. He’s talked about with the kind of awe people reserve for folk heroes. William Tell or Robin Hood.” He shrugged. There had been a time when he too had had such a reputation.

  “But he’s on the island?”

  “Some say yes, some say no. He’s a mystery.”

  Cato nodded. “A mystery who can defeat even Giles Crampton’s network of informants. Well, we’ll just have to watch and wait. And keep the king under even closer observation. I’ve set a spy in place, Hammond’s equerry … Godfrey Channing. Have you met him?”

  Rufus shook his head. “I know the name.”

  “He seems to have a knack for keeping his eyes and ears open. And he’s good at interpreting the king’s moods. You know how His Majesty’s moods reflect what’s going on. When he’s cheerful and optimistic it tends to mean he’s got some plan a-brewing.”

  “Aye,” Rufus agreed. “It’s not that he’s stupid, just that he considers it beneath his dignity to pretend. Is he still negotiating with the Scots, d’you think?”

  “I’m certain of it. And Channing said that the king knew when the Scots crossed the Border, so information’s getting to him somehow. And there’s money coming from somewhere too. These damned pockets of rebellion across the country are being funded from somewhere … soldiers are being paid.”

  “Paid soldiers fight with a damn sight more enthusiasm, and they don’t much care who the paymaster is or even what they’re fighting for,” Rufus observed. “While Parliament’s armies go unpaid and mutinous, the king’s supporters are fighting with full bellies and heavy pockets.”