The Silver Rose

by Jane Feather

  “Sadly so,” Roland said. “I must say I miss the festivities. But Ranulf has put together a little entertainment for us all tonight. You will attend, won’t you?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, it’s a very fine entertainment,” Ralph babbled. “You’ll enjoy it, Hawkesmoor, I promise you.”

  Simon drank his wine thoughtfully. If they were up to one of their lethal little tricks again, he’d best be on his guard. And the most effective way to do that was to appear not to be. Lulled into a false sense of security, they would overreach themselves or spring their trap prematurely.

  Of course, he could always refuse to play their nasty little games, but he was in a mood to meet his brothers-in-law head-on. He was growing bored with turning the other cheek.

  He nodded pleasantly. “I’m sure it will be a most amusing evening, gentlemen.”

  Ralph giggled into his wine. “Oh, yes, most amusing.”

  “How long are you planning on staying, Hawkesmoor?” Roland inquired. “Not that I mean to say you’re overstaying your welcome or anything . . . but Ranulf and I have a mind to return to London soon. Winter in the country palls damnably, don’t you agree?”

  “I’ll be out of your hair in a day or two,” Simon said easily. “I expect Ariel to return from Lady Kelburn’s quite soon.”

  “Ah.” Roland nodded and sipped his wine. “Quite so.” He glanced toward the door as the clump of booted feet, the jangle of spurs, heralded the return of the cadre from a hawking expedition. “Gentlemen, my brothers and I have planned a treat for you this evening. A little entertainment in true Ravenspeare style.”

  Jack cast his whip and gloves on the table. “Sounds interesting.” He raised an interrogative brow at Simon, who shrugged and pushed the wine bottle across to him.

  “Try this. It’s a fine rioja. Our host’s cellars are beyond compare.”

  Simon had the air of one settled comfortably in the company of friends, Jack thought, startled to see the earl so much at ease with his brothers-in-law. Imperceptibly he had developed the same nonchalant, almost slovenly air as he sprawled at the table, cradling his wine goblet in one hand, his eyes heavy lidded as if he’d already been drinking deep.

  But what might fool the Ravenspeares wouldn’t fool the cadre. They took their cue from Simon, without as yet knowing why, and slouched at their ease at the table.

  The girls arrived half an hour later. Fourteen of them, the cream of Mistress Hibbert’s establishment. Ranulf had picked them carefully. He wanted them young, fresh, as yet unmarked by their profession, and among their number were two accredited virgins. Pale, frightened little girls, whose tawdry finery made them look like children dressing up in their mothers’ clothes.

  “Come, come, my pretties.” Ranulf rose from the table, clapping his hands. “Come and drink . . . eat . . . See what we have for you. Delicacies I daresay you’ve never even dreamed of.”

  The servants had piled platters of oysters, smoked eel and trout, and golden-crusted venison patties on the table, but the younger girls’ eyes all went as one to the basket of sweet pastries, the rhenish cream, the marchpane cakes, the bowls of syllabub.

  “Come sit with me.” Simon reached out and grabbed the hand of the littlest and frailest girl. He moved up on the bench to accommodate her and selected an oyster in its gray craggy shell. He held it to her lips and the child opened her mouth obediently, swallowing the slithery thing with a small shudder. She shuddered again when the big, fearsomely ugly man put an arm around her, drawing her against him on the bench.

  Jack took charge of the second child, following Simon’s lead, drawing her onto his lap as he tempted her with delicacies. The rest of the cadre picked as carefully, and the boldest and bravest were left for the lords of Ravenspeare.

  The wine flowed, music played from the gallery, the servants disappeared to the kitchen. They knew from long experience that when the lords of Ravenspeare amused themselves as they intended to do this night, a wise servant made himself scarce.

  “I’d never ’ave thought it of ’is lordship of ’Awkesmoor,” Timson declared, sitting at the kitchen table, helping himself to the knuckle of veal Maisie put before him.

  “I wish I knew what’s goin’ on wi’ Lady Ariel.” Gertrude plumped down on the bench opposite him. “Try a little o’ this lamprey stew, Mr. Timson.” She spooned a generous helping onto his plate.

  “Lady Ariel’s stayin’ wi’ Mistress Sarah and Miss Jenny,” Timson declared, clearing his throat, waving aside the refilled spoon hovering over his platter. “Thankee, Mistress Gertrude, that’ll do me.”

  “Aye, but why? That’s what I asks meself.” Gertrude took an unladylike draught from an ale tankard at her elbow. “She popped in this mornin’ to keep an eye on things, jest as she always does. So what’s goin’ on?”

  “Lady Ariel ’as ’er reasons,” Timson opined. “Always ’as ’ad, ever since she was nobbut a nipper.”

  “So what’s ’is lordship doin’ wi’ those poor young things in the ’all?” Gertrude demanded darkly.

  Timson shrugged. “That I don’t know, Mistress Gertrude. But I’ll not be venturin’ to find out.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “ARE YOU GOING up to the castle now, Ariel?” Jenny looked up from the stocking she was darning, turning her wide blue eyes toward Ariel, who was standing somewhat irresolutely beside the table, her boots in her hand.

  Arid, who hadn’t fully made up her mind whether to put on her boots or put them away again, said, “How did you know I was even thinking of going out, Jenny?”

  “You mentioned it earlier, and you haven’t been able to settle to anything all evening.”

  Ariel sat down and began to lace up her boots. “Yes, I’m going up to the castle.”

  “To see your husband.” It was a rhetorical question.

  Sarah continued stripping the casings off a sheaf of honesty, revealing the silver sheen of the dried leaves beneath. Jenny said for her, “I expect it’s for the best.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it is,” Ariel commented somewhat dryly. She reached for her cloak. “Would you keep the dogs here? I have a feeling they might be in the way.”

  Sarah rose immediately and laid a hand on each neck. The hounds sat staring mournfully as Ariel went to the door, saying, “Don’t wait up for me.”

  “Should we worry if you don’t come back at all?” Jenny asked with an unusually mischievous glint in her eye.

  Ariel blushed scarlet, although she couldn’t imagine why. She shot a hot look at Sarah, who was considerately busying herself with the dogs. “Just don’t wait up for me,” she repeated, and left.

  It was a crisp, star-filled night The river was high and its smell of mud and reeds and rank, decaying waterweed permeated the air. She had no idea what she was going to say to Simon, and within her mind angry, defiant bravado warred with supplicant anxiety. Neither of which were useful.

  She broke a laurel switch from the hedge and cut viciously at the tangle of hedgerow as she passed. In essence, she was bowing her head beneath the yoke of her marriage because she didn’t have any choice. Not without her horses. She couldn’t skulk around accepting Sarah’s charity forever. She was a married woman with no financial resources of her own, her husband’s chattel; and any court in the land would defend a husband’s right to take his wife and sequester her in the marital home.

  How her brothers would laugh. And the last laugh was always the loudest. She’d taunted them as she’d foiled their own plans for the Hawkesmoor, and now she was neatly hoist on her own petard.

  The three miles to the castle disappeared beneath her feet like three inches under this bitter musing. She avoided the kitchen, slipped swiftly across the deserted stableyard, noting the watchmen’s lamps burning in the Arabians’ block, and entered the inner courtyard to the Great Hall, whose great iron-barred doors stood ajar to the freezing night.

  She heard high-pitched squeals, roars of laughter, the sounds of furniture being overturned. Nothin
g out of the ordinary.

  Ariel ran up the steps, then she stood transfixed in the open doorway at the scene being played out before her. Her eyes took in the row of girls facing the line of men with their pistols cocked, trigger fingers poised. She knew this game of her brothers; it had been played many times in various forms over the years. Sickened, she stared at Simon, unable to believe that she was really seeing him—a part of this—that he wasn’t some figment of her disordered and overwrought imagination.

  Then realization dawned in maddeningly slow degrees as she saw Ranulf’s pistol move sideways just a fraction of an inch, so that instead of pointing directly at the terrified girl against the wall it was now at an oblique angle toward the man standing beside him.

  Half an hour earlier, Ranulf had sprung his surprise on the Hawkesmoor cadre.

  “A contest, gentlemen. Since you all seem to have chosen a filly, now you must win her.”

  Simon felt the girl creep closer against his body. Her fear of the massive, ugly man who had claimed her had died within the first half hour, when he had made no attempt to touch her in the lewd ways she had been taught to expect. From the shelter of his large frame, she had kept a wary watch upon the other men and had seen to her astonishment that most of the girls were being treated with as much respect as herself. All except for the three unlucky enough to fall to the hands of the lords of Ravenspeare.

  “Yes, yes, a contest!” Ralph flung out a hand, sending a crystal goblet flying to the floor. He leaped to his feet, sending the girl who had been sitting on his lap to join the goblet on the floor with an unceremonious shove.

  “We shall play William Tell, Hawkesmoor. Split the apple, and the girl’s yours. Fail, and you go lonely to bed. Where are the apples, Roland?”

  “In the fruit bowl, where you’d expect them,” Roland drawled, regarding his young brother with his habitual air of contempt. He had bared the breast of the girl he held on his knee and now rolled her nipple between his fingers. Her sharp indrawn breath was the only indication that his attentions were less than gentle.

  “I trust you’ll see your way to competing, gentlemen,” Roland continued in the same drawl. “Any girl rejected must go back unfeed to Mistress Hibbert. Not a pleasant fate.”

  “I’ll fee them all myself,” Peter Stanton said angrily.

  Ranulf gave a short barking laugh. “I assure you, Stanton, that Mistress Hibbert knows which side her bread is buttered, and if I make bad report of any one of these girls, the whore will find herself begging her bread on the wharf at Harwich after a particularly unpleasant session with the Hibberts’ overseer.

  “And they know it, don’t you, my dears?” He leered at the girls, who, even while shrinking in obvious terror, moved away from the protectors whose protection was suddenly becoming dangerous.

  “Come, whores, over here.” Ralph raced around the room, grabbing the girls, manhandling them over to the wall. His eyes glittered madly in his drink-bloated face. “Here, now stand absolutely still if you value your skins.” He grinned and snatched up the fruit bowl from the table. Cradling it in the crook of an arm, he marched down the line of girls, carefully balancing a bright green apple on each disheveled head.

  “What the hell’s he doing?” Jack murmured to Simon, unable to believe his eyes.

  “We’re all to play William Tell, it would seem,” Simon responded sardonically, indicating the pistols that Ralph was laying upon the table. “Our hosts’ idea of gracious entertainment.”

  “I’ll not take my part in such a piece of filthy debauchery,” Peter declared.

  There was a chorus of agreement. “Consider for a minute.” Simon spoke swiftly in an undertone, his eyes never leaving the brothers and their victims. “Win the girl, send her home. Lose her, and she’ll fall foul of her whoremaster and victim to our hosts. And if matters degenerate to an open brawl, the girls will suffer regardless.” He reached for one of the pistols on the table and hefted it thoughtfully, then glanced across at the row of girls. The child he’d been protecting gazed at him in wide-eyed terror and appeal.

  He smiled reassuringly and sighted along the barrel of the gun, murmuring, “Do you doubt your skill, gentlemen?”

  “Ah, so the Hawkesmoor’s not such a puny sportsman after all,” Ranulf declared, stepping up beside Simon, caressing the long barrel of his pistol. “Come, gentlemen, take your places.”

  “And if you’re too fastidious to enjoy the game as it stands, pretend you’re shying for coconuts at the fair!” Ralph giggled, taking up his own pistol.

  “For God’s sake, man, your hand’s shaking like a leaf!” Jack exclaimed in disgust. “Ravenspeare! You let that drunken sot take aim and I’ll shoot the pistol out of his hand.”

  “Aye, Ralph, back away. This is no game for drunken fools!” It was Roland who moved suddenly, knocking his brother’s pistol aside. His eyes were cold and hard and deadly as they held Ralph’s besotted gaze. “You ruin this at your peril, brother,” he hissed, his face so close to the younger man’s that his spittle showered Ralph’s cheeks.

  Ralph swore a vile oath, wiping his face with the back of his hand. But through his drunkenness a spark of light showed. More than one accidental shooting in the halls of Ravenspeare Castle could cause raised eyebrows. He turned aside, his face sullen, grabbed a wine bottle from the table, and put it to his lips.

  There was a small general exhalation of breath, then the men took up their places. The Hawkesmoor cadre were as still as sharpshooters, every man’s eye fixed immovable on the shiny green apple that was his target. And the girls, terrified, some of them well gone in drink themselves, struggled to control chattering teeth and quivering necks.

  Simon felt the fine hairs on his nape lift; a sensation of acute awareness prickled his ear. Just the tension of this moment, with the girl’s huge eyes swimming in front of his gaze? Or something else . . . something not quite right . . . but what could possibly be right about anything . . .

  A rush of air, a cry as piercing as a hunting horn’s, ripped the tense silence into shreds. Ranulf staggered sideways under an almighty buffet to his shoulder as Ariel’s full weight cannoned into him. As Ranulf went reeling, his pistol flying from his fingers, Simon found himself on the receiving end of a barrage of invective that singed his ears.

  “You . . . you would dare to play these vile games! You with your sober Puritan suits and your Hawkesmoor airs and graces, looking down on Ravenspeares, telling me to hold my tongue, not to play the games that only demean the players . . . and look at you!” Her face was pink with outrage, her gray eyes so hot they scorched, and the words fell from her tongue in a higgledy-piggledy outpouring of outraged justice.

  “Look at what you’re doing! You . . . all of you . . .” An expansive hand swallowed up the astounded cadre in one gesture. “You’re no better than my brothers. In fact you’re worse, because you’re hypocrites, every damn one of you No, don’t you deny it!” she cried as Simon, slowly beginning to recover his senses, took breath to interrupt. “You want to play for a woman in your bed, husband. Then you can damn well play for your wife!”

  In one bound she had snatched the apple from the head of Simon’s whore, shoving the girl out of the way. She stood facing him, the apple in her hand.

  “All right, Hawkesmoor. I challenge you.”

  Ranulf had picked up his fallen pistol. He stood staring down at it in bemusement. Roland lowered his own weapon and looked at his sister. His eyes held the knowledge of what had really happened . . . what Ariel had seen and prevented. And behind the frustration lurked a spark of amusement and something akin to admiration.

  “Well, well,” he said almost to himself. “Baby sister’s foiled us again.” He continued to regard her with the same gleam in his eye, recognizing that Ariel was now rather entangled in her motives. Having achieved the practical issue of her intervention, something else was going on now, and Simon, earl of Hawkesmoor, was definitely her target.

  “Lady Hawkesmoor . . . Ariel . .
. there’s no need to get upset,” Stanton began.

  “No, indeed, ma’am. Your husband was only—”

  “I’ve no need for my friends to make my excuses to my wife,” Simon interrupted, his voice unusually sharp. He cradled the barrel of the pistol in his left palm.

  “So, you’ve come back, my wife.”

  “Just in time to save my brother’s pistol from throwing a little to the left,” she retorted.

  “Ah.” Simon nodded, casting a sideways glance at Ranulf. “That was why I felt that pricking in my thumbs.” He returned his attention to Ariel, standing with the apple between her hands. “It seems your return was timely.”

  “Hardly,” she snapped. “When I find you in the midst of an orgy.”

  “It’s not always wise to believe the evidence of one’s eyes,” he advised. “But we can discuss that later. For now, we have more serious business to attend to, I believe.”

  He took a step back, squinted at her, then said evenly, “Stand still, Ariel. You’re shaking . . . with anger, not fear, no doubt . . . but if you move so much as an eyelash, you make my task impossible.”

  His eyes were steady, once again clear and blue as glacial ice. Ariel took a deep steadying breath as she balanced the apple on her head. She dropped her hands to her sides and faced him, her eyes still fierce yet exultant with challenge.

  The Great Hall fell completely silent. It was as if not a rustle of air breathed through the group of men and women. Even Ralph was transfixed. Something primitive, elemental, surged between the man with his pistol and the silent and immobile girl. It was contained in their eyes. An overpowering, almost sexual tension that thrummed in the air.

  Simon took his time. On some detached plane, he was aware of the absurdity of indulging in such a primitive reaction, such an irrational response to challenge. But on another plane, he knew what this was about. It wasn’t about rational thought and civilized reaction. It was about trust. The wild, untamed side of Ariel had chosen this crazy challenge as a leap of faith. Not intentionally and she was probably not even aware of it in the curious exultation of this moment. But that was what was happening. She was challenging him to deserve her trust.