Kit stood dramatically. “It will require some showmanship. Girard, do you think you have it in you?”
“Direct me, Master Hatton.” Girard stood up, looking healthier already, and gave a deep reverance. “I am putty in your hands.”
“None of that now.” Kit waved him away.
Charles sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. He closed his eyes and felt the heat from the hearth on his eyelids. It was going to be a long night.
• • •
Mary felt like she had stood in that dark room for hours. By the time she wended her way back toward Mistress Parry’s apartments, she was sure the festivities would be almost over.
She was wrong.
“Where have you been?” Mistress Parry swept into the room, a cluster of ladies in her wake. After casting a critical eye up and down her person, she declared, “At least you are none the worse for wear. Come, we have been summoned to the Queen’s Presence Chamber to see a troupe of Italianate dancers.”
Mary made a face as if to decline.
“I will not tolerate whining. Nor will the Queen. If you are to continue on at the palace, you will need to maintain your charming character. She likes you for your gumption. She will not like to see you melancholy.”
Mary closed her eyes and steadied her nerves. Holme LeSieur looked more and more appealing by the moment. Staying on at court might mean overwhelming success socially, but she would simply be accepting and playing along with the shallow veneer of sophistication. None of this was real.
The only thing that had been real at court had been Charles.
Mary nodded her acceptance and joined Mistress Parry’s train of ladies.
“Frankly, I will be surprised if you choose to stay. Rumor has it that a certain guardsman has been granted his knight’s portion and given leave to marry.”
Mary did not meet her eye. “You should not listen to rumors.”
Mistress Parry waited expectantly, but when Mary did not expound, “Humph,” was her only reply.
She had replayed the conversation over and over in her mind. She had to take comfort in the fact that she had done the right thing. Charles had only proposed out of obligation—any hurt he suffered would soon fade. Her own feelings were another matter. The dream of a life with him could never have become a reality—it was ridiculous to mourn the loss of a dream. Still, the certainty that the magic between her and Charles was gone. It was so painful it left her numb.
Pike-bearing guardsmen stepped aside as Mistress Parry’s party entered the Queen’s Presence Chamber. Mary caught her breath at the sight of the red uniforms. She hoped Charles would leave for his country estate soon—maybe then she would stop constantly looking out for him whenever she saw a red tunic.
Mary followed suit as the courtiers clustered around the edge of the dance floor. Whispers among the courtiers implied that Queen Elizabeth would know the choreography of this dance by heart after the first viewing. Others theorized that She had already been taught the steps in private. Mary didn’t really care one way or another.
Three men and three women, all in the Italianate style of dress, stepped out on the floor. The courtiers around Mary pressed closer, some to get a look at the gowns, others to see the dance. Not one of them looked upon her with derision, and none of the whispers she heard had anything to do with her. Word of the Queen’s favor must have traveled fast.
The dance master announced the dance and gave a brief introduction of its meaning. Mary did not follow his thick accent and, again, did not care. What was she doing here? She could never be happy at court, not now that she saw it for what it was.
Trapped between the courtiers and the dancers, Mary edged her way along the perimeter of the dance floor to find an exit. She could not breathe in here. The pomp was suffocating. No one stopped her as she left the room, but she felt eyes on her back. People had noticed.
“Mistress Mary?”
Mary turned to see Kit Hatton, Captain of the Queen’s Guard, standing in an adjacent doorway. “Yes?”
She hoped everything was well with Charles. Having gained her attention, he stepped back into the shadows and whispered, “You have a headache and need some quiet. Casually go back to your chambers and attract no attention.”
She nodded slightly, and lifted her hand to her temple. She did have a headache. It was difficult to stroll at a leisurely pace when what she wanted to do was run. Something must be wrong with Charles. Why else would Kit Hatton seek her out? She hated having to trust him after his treatment of Frances LeSieur mere months ago, but did not have much of an alternative. Not if she wanted to find out what was going on without making a spectacle of herself.
Mary had to wonder if she was physically capable of not attracting attention.
• • •
Charles watched Mary enter the dimly lit chamber and close the door quietly behind her. The glow from the lit hearth reflected in her eyes as she glanced his way and sighed.
“Charles.” For a moment he thought she might run into his arms. Instead she asked, “Are you well?”
“I am.”
Mary crossed the room to sit down—no, she fell down. She must be exhausted. “Thank the Lord,” was all she said before flopping back against the chaise. She looked like a discarded rag doll. Tonight looked like it had taken its toll on Mary as well.
Girard stood up and move toward her. “Mary?” Mary lifted her head at the voice. “Mary?” Girard repeated her name and she jerked upright.
“Girard?” Her voice was thick with disbelief. “What are you doing here? I thought you went to Holme LeSieur.”
“I could not leave you alone at the palace just to save my own skin.”
“Are you in danger? What happened to you? You never told me . . . I thought you had just had an affair that went wrong.”
“You could say that,” Charles chimed in, only to be greeted with a glare from Girard. “I apologize. That was inappropriate.”
Girard rose and crossed the room. “Thank you.” To Mary, Girard said, “Sweeting, I am so sorry to have put you in this position.” Girard sat beside Mary and took her hand in his. She grasped him firmly, her hand shaking slightly. She really did look unwell. Perhaps this was not the time . . .
“What position?” Mary blinked, her forehead crinkled in confusion.
“Mary, I stabbed the earl and fled. It was wrong of me—I should have stayed on and faced the consequences.”
Mary’s face blanched and Charles worried that she may swoon, then checked himself. Mary? Swoon? He almost laughed at the thought. Any lady but Mary. Still, she did not look well. He moved to her side and kneeled by the chaise.
Mary raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing.
Eventually she asked, “Why did you stab Oxford?”
“He attacked me.”
Charles could see that she understood what had happened—she did not need Girard to expound. Simply, she said, “Ah,” and was silent a moment. Then, “You should have left after we spoke. You are not safe here.”
Charles spoke then. “That is the problem, Mary. Neither are you.”
Mary looked startled. “Why not? If you are worried for my reputation, do not. I have already been as publicly slandered as is possible and have weathered it. What more could happen?”
Girard answered. “Oxford could name you as his attacker.”
“Why would he? I am innocent and he knows it.”
“But Oxford is not innocent in any way.” Charles trusted his instincts in this. It was more than a theory; it was how Oxford operated. “Thus far he has refused to speak of it, but he will have to eventually. News of the stabbing is too well known. There will have to be an investigation and satisfactory conclusion. If Ned tried to press charges against Girard, there would be too many awkward questions. Girard would have to testify. Both men could be accused of sodomy and Girard of attempted murder.”
“And both could be executed,” she whispered. “If he were to name me, I would take th
e blame and he could continue with his merry pursuits and everyone would continue to turn a blind eye.”
“The law is the law.”
“The law is ignored every day.”
“Except when it is not.”
Mary sighed and squeezed Girard’s hand tighter. “What do we do?”
Girard lifted up Mary’s hand and placed a sweet kiss on her knuckles. “Between myself, Kit Hatton, and Sir Charles, we have a plan that should work. Do you think you could gain an audience with Anne’s father, Baron Burghley?”
Mary nodded. “First thing upon the morrow. He has asked to see me.”
Charles smiled. “I pray this will work.”
Chapter Twenty-One:
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me Twelve Drummers Drumming . . .
Baron Burghley’s Secretary of State offices were darker than Mary had expected. There was an absence of tapestries or art of any kind, though the exposed woodwork was painfully polished. She sat waiting, in a straight-back chair, more uncomfortable than a pew in chapel.
A sound in the doorway alerted her to Burghley’s arrival. She rose and reveranced as he entered the room. As usual, he was dressed from head to toe in puritanically severe black. The only evidence of his wealth was the sable lining at his color. That, and the heavily jeweled chain of office draped around his shoulders.
“You answered my summons, mistress.” Burghley’s statement sounded like a question even though it clearly wasn’t. He usually did that—it unnerved people and they usually answered him with more than they had intended to share.
Mary answered simply, “Yes, I did,” and let him lead in to the next subject. If she laid all her cards on the table too quickly, he would take charge of this interview. Of course, the fact that she had no idea why he wanted to see her did give him the upper hand.
He tucked his black greatcoat around his legs as he sat behind his desk. “It surprises me that you are awake at such an hour during the Christmastide festivities. I assume you had a late night, what with your newfound good regard at court. How is Sir Charles?”
Wait . . . had he just implied that she spent the night with Sir Charles? He did! Well, that showed his opinion of her. Of course, she would have spent last night with Sir Charles if Charles had not been a fool and proposed, ruining everything.
Focus, Mary.
She replied, pretending not to have noticed the implications, “He was well, last I saw him. He had received his knight’s portion from Queen Elizabeth and will leave the guard shortly.” Mary bit her tongue on the last word. She was telling him more than he needed to know.
“Am I to congratulate you then?’ Burghley’s smile seemed genuine. “Will you be leaving with him?”
“No.” A simple answer. To the point.
He raised a bushy eyebrow. “No?”
“No.”
Burghley paused expectantly, as if she had more to say. She was used to this tactic. The silence usually made her share even more. She had to keep control of the conversation and was not doing well.
“I find it odd that he did not propose. What Ned lacks in character, Charles makes up for in spades. I would have been willing to bet that he would, at the very least, feel morally obligated to offer for you after making use of your . . . charms.”
God’s teeth! “I thank you, my lord, not to make assumptions.”
“To which part? To Charles’s sense of honor? Or your easy morals?” Burghley leaned forward in his chair, stern. “You forget, mistress, that I knew you of old. I recall the reason you left my employ.”
Mary was silent.
“I was disappointed to see you returned to the palace as my daughter’s guest. I thought she had more of a sense of consequence than to take you back.”
“She asked me to stay. She said she needed a friend.”
“I am sure she does need a friend, but she needs a friend who will not drag her lower. She is a countess.”
“Yes, so she constantly reminded me. You must be very proud to have a man such as Ned de Vere as a son-in-law.”
For a second, Burghley looked fazed. Ha! Take that, old man!
Mary took the advantage and pressed forward. “For all your high values and moral fortitude, your household has certainly produced some . . . interesting people. As you so thoughtfully pointed out my fall from grace, you did not mention Oxford’s proclivities . . . and now the public display that your own daughter made of herself. That must have distressed you greatly.”
“Your point is made, mistress.” Burghley held up a staying hand. The gesture was not militant as Mary had expected, but weak. Tired.
“I did not come today for a lecture on morals.”
Burghley sighed, his shoulders slumping under the volumes of black velvet. “I assume you expect compensation over my daughter’s mistreatment of you.”
“I am pleased you see it as such.”
“I cannot pretend otherwise. Her behavior was abhorrent and in full view of Queen Elizabeth and Her court. I cannot fail to see you as the victim in this.”
“Thank you.” Mary was genuinely surprised. She had not expected this attitude. Perhaps the tide had turned.
“I imagine six pounds should suffice. That is more than two years’ wages for a woman of your status. It should be enough to see to establishing yourself respectably in another household.”
“The Queen has asked me to join her ladies. I have not decided yet if I should stay.”
“The court is not a friendly place for someone like you. You have no protection of a family name and a bad habit of making yourself conspicuous. It would be best if you left court permanently.”
“I may leave court. As I said, I have not decided.”
“Ten pounds.”
“Baron Burghley, my lord . . . ”
“Twenty pounds then, and not a penny more,” Burghley interrupted. “Twenty pounds should be ample for your new life. You may even be able to purchase a cottage and live comfortably on your own.”
Mary was amazed. It had not occurred to her that her presence at court might be a constant embarrassment to Baron Burghley.
“My lord, that is indeed a generous offer.” Mary drew a deep breath and straightened her back. “Baron Burghley, I assume this is why I was summoned?”
“Yes.” He inked his quill and scratched his name across a bank draft. “Mistress, will you take the twenty pounds and agree to leave court and never return?”
Mary ignored the question and posed one of her own. “Actually, I wondered if I could talk to you about the Earl of Oxford.”
Burghley sighed and leaned back in his chair. For a moment, he looked like a tired old man. “What has he done now?”
• • •
Kit and Charles walked the perimeter of the great hall and the adjacent buildings. Tonight the festivities would include dignitaries bearing gifts. Expensive gifts. Most guardsmen were to be on duty, a visible and menacing presence to deter both malicious criminals and overly enthusiastic revelers. Over the years, it had been revelers that caused the majority of the problems.
Ducking beneath a garland of holly and tufted silk, Charles kept his thoughts to himself.
Kit, on the other hand, could not stop talking.
“I heard tale that Dorset wanted to present the Queen with a bear, but his wife thought it too ferocious. He had its teeth and claws removed, but the poor thing died in the process and then he was left with no gift.”
Charles lent a hand to some of the liveried servants who were trying to string golden cords bearing cut glass lanterns across the beams of the banquet hall. Kit absentmindedly joined him, but kept speaking.
“The Countess of Spencer, of course, always brings samples from her estates. She has had wagonloads of lemon trees brought in through the storm. It will be a wonder if any survive.”
Charles grunted and continued through his paces.
“Why so glum? You needn’t be nervous about tonight.” Kit offered a hand to a serving gi
rl bearing trays of pastries, helping himself to one for his troubles. “Burghley has agreed to be a witness. All we have to do is get Oxford to incriminate himself, and he does that by breathing.”
“I am sure all will be well in that respect.”
“So what is the reason for your dour expression? Has your lady turned you from her bed? Finally tired of you, has she?”
“Shut up, Kit.” Charles paced forward, outdistancing his friend.
Kit scampered behind him, each stride remarkably soft. Charles was used to his firm stride. He stopped and turned. “Are you wearing slippers?”
“Yes, blast it. I never did find my boot, and it will take another two weeks for my cobbler to make a custom pair, what with Twelfth Night.”
Charles started to chuckle.
“Stop it. You wear slippers often enough.”
“Aye, but I think little of it.” Charles pointed his toe in an elaborate reverance. “It’s naught but a shoe. You, however, strut like a peacock with your boots and wear them all the time. Kit, they’re for horse and training, not for dancing.”
“They do wondrous things for my thighs, so of course, I wear them. My legs are scrawny, yet a padded calf is obvious. I do not care for slippers.”
“Your legs look fine.” Charles turned and walked on, noting all the glazed panes were in good repair and would not be a source of danger from ice this evening.
“You’re just saying that.”
“Kit, I think Girard might be rubbing off on you.”
Kit just glared as Charles walked on.
“So what happened with your lady?” Kit joined him, this time keeping pace and walking strong, in spite of his slippers. “Did you ask her to marry you?”
“Why would you say that? I thought you thought she was just a trifling thing.”
“True, but then you are scowling at the world after being handed your future on a silver platter. She must be more than a passing fancy.”
Charles pointedly did not growl. “She is.”
“Why did she turn you down? Did she say?”
Courtly Scandals Page 23
