The Least Likely Bride

by Jane Feather

  “I had thought to do so. There are preparations to be made.” He sounded surprised at his daughter’s suggestion.

  He wasn’t the only one. Olivia was aware of her friends’ sudden scrutiny. It was most unlike Olivia to suggest voluntarily subjecting herself to a castle soiree. She met their gaze steadily, her eyes shooting her appeal for their support.

  “In that case, we’ll come with you,” Portia said.

  “Yes, maybe Mr. Johnson will be there,” Phoebe put in.

  “I had intended you should accompany me to the castle tonight, anyway, Portia,” Rufus said casually.

  “Oh, are you borrowing me for the whole night?” his wife inquired with an air of innocence completely at odds with the gleam in her eyes.

  “That was my intention.” He raised a pointed eyebrow. Portia grinned.

  “In that case we had better change our dress,” Phoebe said, pushing back her chair.

  “Yes, riding britches probably won’t do,” Portia agreed cheerfully. “Come, Olivia.”

  Olivia followed them from the room. By mutual consent nothing was said until they’d reached Olivia’s bedchamber.

  Portia closed the door quietly and came to the point. “What’s going on, duckie?”

  Olivia looked between them. Blue eyes and green held only concern.

  “You might as well know,” she said. “It can’t do any harm now. Edward Caxton is my pirate.”

  “What?” They stared at her.

  “I should have guessed,” Phoebe said after a minute. “That first night, when you were talking to him, I felt something was strange. But your pirate’s called Anthony … oh, of course. He’d hardly use his own name.” She pulled at a loose piece of skin around her thumb, cross with herself for such a stupid question.

  “And your pirate is intending to rescue the king,” Portia stated, a deep frown drawing her sandy eyebrows together. “What a pretty pickle. No wonder you’ve been so glum.”

  “And you want to warn him tonight, if he’s at the castle,” Phoebe said slowly.

  “If he’s there,” Olivia stated. “But I needed you to come with me, otherwise it would look very strange.”

  “But if you warn him, then you’ll foil Cato’s plan. By helping you to warn him, then I’m deceiving my husband,” Phoebe said in distress.

  “But my father is only interested in preventing the king’s escape,” Olivia said swiftly. “If Anthony calls off the attempt, everyone will be happy. It’s not necessary to capture him and hang him, is it?”

  Phoebe shook her head. “No, I suppose not. Can you persuade him to call off his plan?”

  “I’m going to try,” Olivia said. She looked at her friends. “I know you won’t betray me … him?” It was part statement, part question.

  There was a short silence, then Portia answered the question in her own way. “Do you ever think about when we first met?”

  “In the boathouse at Diana’s wedding.” Olivia shook her head. “It was only seven years ago and the world’s changed out of all recognition. Everything’s upside down. So many lives lost … so much blood. When will it be over?”

  “Rufus thinks they will put the king on trial,” Portia said. “It all began with the execution of the earl of Straf-ford. It will end with the king’s.”

  “They would kill the king?” Olivia stared at her.

  “There are those who would,” Phoebe said gravely. “But not Cato.”

  “Nor Rufus,” Portia said. They were all so used to a world at war, it was hard to imagine their lives in a land at peace. But the killing of a king would not bring peace. Only the deluded or the fanatical believed that.

  “It’s hard to think of you as you were,” Olivia said. She knew this reminiscence was answer to her question. It was a reminder of the depths of their friendship. “Straight up and down like a ruler. Determined never to marry. And children … heaven forbid!”

  “Well, I wanted to be a soldier and I am,” Portia said.

  “And I wanted to be a poet and I am,” Phoebe said.

  “And I wanted to be a scholar,” Olivia said.

  “As you are.”

  “Yes,” she said flatly.

  “So we had better get changed and try to sort out this muddle,” Portia said briskly. She was a doer, a fixer, always ready to apply herself to solutions. She looked at Phoebe.

  “Yes,” Phoebe agreed. “Of course.” But her eyes were troubled.

  “Thank you,” Olivia said simply. “I won’t make it difficult for you again.”

  Phoebe nodded.

  They left Olivia to change her own gown. She knew that humanity and friendship had allowed Phoebe to make this one small gesture. But from there on, her loyalty to her husband and his cause was absolute. Portia, much less emotional, much more pragmatic, would spend little energy on debating competing loyalties.

  For herself, nothing was clear. Nothing was simple. Except that she couldn’t bear Anthony’s death. She had chosen never to love him again, but she could not endure to think of the world without him.

  Sixteen

  “PRUE, THEM SOLDIERS IS BACK.” Goodman Yarrow called to his wife as he entered the tiny cottage on Holy-rood Street. “They was just passin’ St. Thomas’s.”

  “Well, what’s that to us?” Prue asked, taking another iron from the fire. She spat on it and nodded at the satisfactory sizzle before applying the flatiron to the shirt spread out on the table.

  “They’re comin’ ’ere next,” her husband said. “They be goin’ ’ouse to ’ouse from the church. Askin’ questions.”

  “They can ask away,” Prue said, folding the shirt deftly. “We got nothin’ to ’ide.”

  “They’ll be askin’ about the master.” The goodman sat heavily at the other end of the table that took up most of the square kitchen.

  “An’ we show ’em ’is chamber jest like afore.” Prue picked up another shirt and exchanged the cold iron for the one heating on the range. “Don’t get all agitated, man. Jest stick to the story, that’s all we ’ave to do.”

  “But ’e ’asn’t been around ’ere fer a month.” The goodman was clearly unable to take his wife’s advice.

  “That’s none of our business,” she said placidly. “We jest rents ’im the chamber. It’s nothin’ to us when ’e comes or when ’e goes. That’s all we ’ave to say. You jest leave the talkin’ to me.”

  The goodman heaved himself to his feet and fetched down a jug of ale from a shelf above the range. He drank directly from the jug as tramping feet sounded from the narrow street beyond the open door.

  Giles Crampton loomed in the doorway. “Good even, goodwife.”

  Prue set down her iron. The man wore a sergeant’s insignia. Their previous visitor had been a mere private. “Come ye in, sir. Ye’ll take a drink of ale?”

  “No, I thankee. Not today.” Giles entered the kitchen. Behind him in the street ranged a phalanx of soldiers, armed with pikes and muskets. Doors closed up and down the street, a series of hasty little bangs, and curious faces appeared at upper windows.

  Prue’s hand trembled infinitesimally as she smoothed the garment she’d been ironing. “What can we do fer ye, Sergeant?”

  “Well, it’s like this, see.” Giles came closer, his voice confidential, friendly. “We’ve ’eard some things about this lodger of your’n. He still lodge ’ere?”

  “No,” the goodman said. “He’s left ’ere.”

  Prue laughed. “That’s what my man likes t’ think,” she said. “Doesn’t ’ave much time fer ’im, but ’e pays well, I say. That’s all that matters. Us ’asn’t seen him in a few days, but ’is things is still ’ere.” She gestured with her head to the narrow staircase at the rear of the kitchen. “Go on up if ye like, Sergeant.”

  Giles clumped up the stairs. The small chamber under the eaves was neat, the quilt and pillow on the cot smooth and clean. He poked around. There was an ironbound chest at the foot of the bed. It was unlocked and he raised the lid. It showed him nothing
of interest. Just small clothes, neckerchiefs, a spare pair of boots, a handsome leather belt, a saddle, and spurs. All perfectly innocent. All perfectly appropriate for a country squire trying to make a place for himself at court.

  But something was amiss. He stood and sniffed like a bloodhound. It was not that there was a smell in the chamber so much as the total absence of such. This place was not used by Edward Caxton or anyone else, Giles decided. He supposed he couldn’t blame the man he’d sent before for failing to notice this indefinable clue. He’d had no reason to suspect Caxton. It had been merely a routine check.

  So why would a man pay rent, keep clothes and these few possessions, in a place where he didn’t live?

  He went downstairs again. He caught the flicker of a glance between the goodman and his wife. An anxious glance. The goodman lifted the ale jug to his lips again and drank noisily. When he set it down again, there was a tremor to his fingers.

  “Well, now,” said Giles comfortably. “Let’s talk about Mr. Caxton, shall we?”

  “We know nothin’ about ’im,” the goodman blustered. “We jest takes ’is money an’ he comes an’ goes as ’e pleases.”

  “Which is not very often,” Giles observed, leaning his shoulders against the wall, hands driven deep into the pockets of his britches. “So, when he’s not ’ere, where is he?”

  “How should us know?” Prue wiped her hands on her apron. “As my man says, we’re glad o’ the money. We don’t pry.”

  “Well, mebbe you could think a little,” Giles suggested, raising a beckoning finger towards his men at the door. They moved forward, the shadow of their presence falling across the door, blocking out the last vestiges of evening light.

  “I’m sure there’s summat you know that I’d find ’elpful,”

  Giles continued, his voice cajoling. “His friends? Visitors when he’s ’ere? Where ’e goes when he’s not ’ere?”

  Prue shook her head. “We told ye, Sergeant. We don’t know nothin’.”

  Giles sighed heavily. He said regretfully, “Well, you see, I don’t believe you, goodwife. I think you know a lot about this ’ere Mr. Caxton. An’ it’s my business to find out what. So we’ll go somewhere a bit quiet, like, an’ ’ave another little chat.”

  He pointed to his men and they surged into the little cottage. “Ye can’t take us away!” Goodman Yarrow protested, panic in his voice. “We’re good law-abidin’ folk.” His face twisted in fear as the men laid hold of him.

  “My man ’as the right of it,” Prue declared, her voice much steadier than her husband’s. “Ye’ve a warrant or some such?”

  “The governor’s writ, goodwife,” Giles said. “If ye’ve done nothin’, ye’ve nothin’ to fear.”

  Prue snorted with disbelief, but unlike her husband, she made no further protest as she was bundled out of the cottage.

  “You want us to lock up, goodman?” Giles inquired solicitously. “Or shall we leave it open in case yer lodger comes ’ome?”

  “Turn the key,” Prue said with something of a snarl. “It’s on the hook be’ind the door.”

  Giles obliged and then followed the procession down Holyrood Street to the quay. They would take the goodman and his wife by boat to Yarmouth Castle, where they could be questioned in privacy.

  He was aware of the eyes following them, of the hastily closed doors as they passed, and he was satisfied that his little raid had had the right effect. The removal of citizens from their homes was a sound intimidation tactic. A few more such raids would weaken the loyalty these folk had to Mr. Edward Caxton, if he was indeed the man they were looking for.

  The Yarrows would provide him with the answer to that. The goodman would break first, Giles reckoned. It was strange how women, the so-called weaker sex, should be so much harder to intimidate. But it was a fact he’d noticed before.

  Maybe the pains of childbirth hardened them, he thought, watching as his prisoners were hustled into the boat at the quay. He watched the boat heading up the Medina River, then turned for his horse. He would return to Carisbrooke with the news of his success and then meet his prisoners when they were disembarked at Yarmouth.

  MIKE WAS WAITING on the beach of the small cove as Anthony turned the dinghy into the shore. “Looks like it’s goin’ to turn foul later,” Mike observed as he bent to pull the small boat onto the sand.

  Anthony stepped onto the wet sand, carrying his stockings and his elegant tooled-leather boots. He sniffed the wind. “I came to that conclusion myself. A good night for a wreck, I would have said.”

  Mike heard the musing tone and waited for more. When the master spoke in that voice, it meant he was about to divulge a carefully considered plan.

  “I’ve been thinking it’s time we had a hand in things, Mike. We’ll stage a little surprise for anyone who might be considering some dirty work later on.”

  “Off the point?”

  “Aye. A group from Wind Dancer are already set to reach the beach by midnight. Can you round up a few good men to set up on the clifftop?”

  Mike grinned. “Easy,” he said. “Pa’ll be one o’ the first, and three of me brothers. We’ll watch for ’em lighting the beacon. We’ll give ’em a right thumpin’.”

  “Exactly so.” Anthony sat down on a rock away from the water’s edge, brushed the sand off the soles of his feet, and pulled on his stockings and boots. “I’ll not stay long at the castle tonight. Just long enough to pass the message to the king that we move tomorrow. I just hope to God he doesn’t give anything away. He’s not the best conspirator.”

  Anthony grimaced. The king found it difficult to dissemble. Mainly because he considered it beneath his dignity. If he knew his departure from prison was imminent, there was a chance that something in his manner would alert the ever watchful governor. It had happened that way before. But it was an inherent risk. If Anthony was to keep his promise to Ellen, he had to take it.

  “I’ll join you on the beach when I’m finished at the castle.”

  Mike touched his forelock and loped off up the steep path. Anthony followed at a steady pace. He could smell the coming storm. It would be the first since the night of the last wreck. Would it bring out Channing and his men? It would be the perfect opportunity to snatch Godfrey Channing and kill two birds with one stone. Stop the wrecking, or at least until some other evil brain took over, and get the lordling well away from Olivia before he could do any further damage. That would leave Anthony with only one small problem to take care of before he took the king. This mysterious and vile Brian Morse.

  Anthony was most interested in meeting the man who had abused the child Olivia. Channing could help him there too.

  He entered the great hall at Carisbrooke, his step casual, his smile of greeting easy and friendly. The king was playing cards at the fireside, but there was no sign of Granville, Rothbury, or Hammond. With his usual pleasantly vacuous expression, Anthony greeted Mistress Hammond and bestowed his devastating smile on the ladies around her. They fluttered their fans and smiled upon him, and Mistress Hammond chided him with her gap-toothed smile for being a shocking flirt to throw her ladies into such disarray.

  He was saved from a response by an equerry bidding him join His Majesty at cards. Anthony smiled, bowed to the ladies, kissed a few hands, and strolled indolently across the hall to obey the king’s summons.

  “I’m an indifferent whist player, Sire,” Anthony demurred with his annoying little titter as he bowed to his sovereign. “I’m sure my fellow players will grow impatient.”

  “Oh, never mind that. I daresay Lord Daubney will be happy to partner you. You couldn’t be worse than his present partner.”

  “I had not the cards, Sire,” the gentleman in question murmured unhappily as he rose from his seat at the table and gave his place to Edward Caxton.

  Anthony sat down. His eyes were alert beneath lazily drooping lids. He held his cards in one hand, but as always his other rested on the jeweled hilt of his sword. He was in the midst of the enemy. If
anything went wrong, he would have no chance to fight his way out of the hall, let alone out of the castle, but he would have a damned good try.

  “Has Your Majesty walked the battlements this evening?” he inquired casually, laying down his cards for his partner’s play.

  “No, I find the night humors irritate my lungs,” the king responded, casting a heavy-lidded look across the table.

  Anthony didn’t meet the look. The king, alerted by the mention of the battlements, knew now that Caxton had a message for him. He would find a way to receive it.

  Five minutes later the king stretched to pick up the hand he had just won, and the edge of his wide velvet sleeve caught his wine goblet. It fell to the table, the ruby contents splattering over the cards.

  Anthony had his handkerchief in his hand and bent to catch the spill before it ran over into the king’s lap.

  “My thanks, Caxton. You move quickly,” the king said, letting his hand fall into his lap as he thrust his chair back from the table. “I fear I’m more than usually clumsy this evening.”

  “Oh, indeed not … my fault I’m certain … how could Your Majesty ever be clumsy? It was my fault, most certainly my fault!” Anthony exclaimed. The men around the table exchanged contemptuous smiles. Servants busied themselves cleaning the table, fetching new cards, refilling the king’s goblet.

  The king thrust his hand negligently into his pocket and leaned back while the cleanup was completed. Then he leaned forward for the new pack, breaking it deftly.

  “Shall we resume, gentlemen?” He cut to his opponents.

  Anthony felt Olivia’s arrival before he saw her. It was as if there had been a change in the air.

  No other woman had had this effect on him … and no other woman had accused him of dishonor. No other woman was so damned fickle, he thought savagely. Loving with such warmth and passion one minute, and the next prating about moral failings and pushing him away as if he were some loathsome beetle.

  “Your bid, Mr. Caxton,” the king prompted.