The Wicked Viscount

by Heather McCollum

  “He saw his brother before the end and my priests who made his conversion to Catholicism, so he could receive the last rites. None of them mentioned any indication of poison, but I know you would have been able to tell.”

  Cat squeezed her hand again. “Ye have suspicions?”

  She nodded. “Charles’s man, John, came to me. I do not know if John shared his suspicions with his son, Iain, who Charles asked to attend me.” She glanced at the young man still sitting with Jane and the richly garbed woman near the doors. “Master Iain gave me the message from the king asking forgiveness. But Master John, the man who knew my husband well, thought that Charles’s illness came upon him too suddenly to be natural. No warning signs.”

  “Has he been buried?”

  Catherine sniffed, touching a delicate handkerchief to her nose. “Yes. On Saint Valentine’s Day,” she said.

  Damn. Cat exhaled, leaning back in her chair. There was nothing she could do now. They would not exhume a buried king. The fire crackled in the hearth. “Will ye stay on here at Whitehall?”

  Catherine shook her head. “I am waiting to be transported to Somerset House here in London.”

  “I know Ladies Scarlet and Evelyn would say that ye are always welcome back at the Highland Roses School.”

  The duchess smiled gently. “Thank you, but I will endeavor one day to return to my home in Portugal. Scotland is too difficult for people of the Catholic faith.” She gave a weak smile. “England, too.”

  She spoke the truth, and the hunt for Catholics seemed more vicious in Scotland. Even though the ban on celebrating Christmas, put in place by the puritan leader, Oliver Cromwell, had been lifted, it was still considered a popish holiday in Scotland and not celebrated.

  “Nathaniel and I will see ye safely to Somerset then before we depart.”

  “Nathaniel?” Catherine said, her delicate brows rising. “Lord Worthington did escort you then?”

  “Aye. Yes.”

  “Are you two…close?” She tipped her head to one side, studying her in the firelight.

  A light flush spread along Cat’s neck, but she shook her head. “I…we…there is no understanding between us.” This seemed to be the way nobility talked about courting and betrothal. It left questions about their physical relationship open, but Catherine was too polite to dig for answers.

  She stood, and Cat followed her example, as well as Iain Padley, Jane, and the woman near the door. “Please extend my thanks to Lord Worthington,” Catherine said. “For bringing you here and for his protection and efforts in helping me move to my own residence away from court. Your presence here is a comfort to me.”

  Cat nodded, though she really wanted to hug the woman. Despite years of sadness at the loss of baby after baby, and the insulting parade of mistresses Charles had brought before her, the queen had held onto her honor, living her faith with dignity. She’d kept moving forward with hope instead of wallowing in misery. Cat would never have survived. By now she would have stabbed the king herself and ended up on the executioner’s block.

  “I will lead Lady Campbell to her rooms to refresh,” Iain Padley said, opening the tall door.

  “Thank you, Master Iain,” Catherine said and sat back in her chair to stare into the fire. She looked over her shoulder. “While in London, Lady Campbell, do partake of the Frost Fair along the Thames. The river is frozen over this winter, and the festival is said to be grand. A diversion to make the long journey down here worth the effort.”

  Cat nodded. “Thank ye, your Grace.”

  The duchess glanced at the woman in blue. “Princess Ekua, come sing to me.”

  “Yes, your Grace,” the woman said in a thick accent that Cat had never heard before. The elegant woman picked up a square, flat instrument fitted with taut strings across it, and moved to fill the seat Cat had vacated.

  Jane touched Cat’s arm, and she felt a small prick on the skin through the sleeve. Frowning at the woman, she realized that she curtsied, so Cat sank into one as well. They turned and followed Iain out the door, Jane coming to walk next to her.

  “Did ye just stab me?” Cat asked in a whisper.

  “A pin works better than pinching,” Jane answered.

  As the door closed behind them, a haunting melody began from the plucked instrument, and the lady in blue’s lilting voice lifted in song.

  …

  A bath and food had been brought to Cat’s spacious room, and she’d partaken of both. Jane was housed on a floor for staff and maids. Cat would likely feel more comfortable in one of the small, spartan staff rooms but asking to be moved would cause a stir.

  Clean and dressed in a lovely embroidered day dress, into which Jane had locked her, Cat paced before the fire. She wasn’t even going to see anyone for dinner, yet here she stood tied into tight stays and a petticoat of blue silk.

  Where was Nathaniel? Did he know where she’d been housed? He’d said that they must keep a proper distance at court, but what if he needed her and didn’t know where she was?

  She turned, pacing back the other way. She stopped to flex her healing foot slowly. Was he kissing Esther Stanton because he should while playing the Viscount? Had Esther been part of his warning to her about his role as a courtly nobleman? The woman was bloody beautiful and completely refined, chiseled from childhood into the perfect gentleman’s wife. She’d probably worn stays and silk in the cradle while Cat had been wrapped in rough wool. She’d basically raised herself while her father was off warring and her mother taken to crying in bed. Suffering pinches and pricks from Jane Pitney, it was obvious that there had been very little refining and shaping in Cat’s upbringing.

  “God’s teeth,” Cat cursed and frowned. The curse sounded foolish, and “bloody hell” reflected her mood succinctly. She glanced at herself in the mirror that stood in the corner. It would take some twisting to release herself from the prison of her gown and stays. She plucked the pins from her twisted curls, letting her hair fall loose again. They were still damp from washing earlier. She sighed, glancing toward the door. “Where are ye,” she whispered. “Well, I am dressed,” she said, arguing with her reflection. “I will go for a little exercise in the corridor.”

  She slipped from her room and stood to examine which painting hung opposite her door. An English landscape with a unicorn galloping across it. “Likely there is only one of these about,” she whispered and looked right, then left. The corridor was long and dark, with only a few sconces lit to shed light on the floorboards, which were covered at intervals with long, narrow woven rugs in dark hues. She remembered coming from the right earlier so decided to go left. With luck she’d stumble upon Nathaniel. Without luck, she’d wander around and then find her way back to her room to toss and turn until dawn as she tortured herself with images of him kissing Esther Stanton.

  The palace was sprawling and seemingly random. Jane had said it was built in sections with different kings and queens adding and renovating to match their preferences. Together it looked like a jumble of treasure hung along corridor after corridor. When she reached the end of the silent hall, she again turned left and marked the picture that stood at the corner to help her find her way back. A movement at the end of the corridor made her flatten back against the wall, seeking the cover of the thickest shadows.

  “What was that?” A man’s voice came just loud enough for her to hear. She squatted down beside a pedestal holding a marble bust, her knees resting up under the stiff edge of her stays. The damn apparatus wouldn’t allow her to bend forward into a smaller shape.

  “Nothing,” a woman answered. Cat strained to see down the long corridor, but she couldn’t make out anything about the couple hidden in the shadows at the far end. “Tell me, what did they discuss?” the woman asked.

  “I could not hear it all, but the duchess wiped away tears, and the lady held her hand.” It was Iain Padley, Catherine’s man. “The duchess did advise her to go to the Frost Fair on the Thames.”

  “Damnation,” the woman
whispered. Apparently, Jane was wrong about the curses ladies could use at court, at least ladies hiding in the shadows at night. “We should keep her away and send her back to her dirty stone school up in the middle of nowhere.” The venom in her voice added just enough volume that Cat could tell she was Esther Stanton. A prickle went up her back, and she strained to make out the viper draped in silk. Why would she care if Cat went to the Frost Fair or not?

  “I want you to find out everything about the Scottish chit,” she said, the hiss in her words coming easily to Cat in the whispers. “Her family, if she has any wealth, to whom she answers, those she loves. Everything.”

  “Yes, milady,” Iain said and seemed to bow.

  “Go,” Esther said, and Iain strode toward Cat.

  Cat gathered her skirts close where they pooled around her in the darkness behind the pedestal, and Iain stepped briskly past. At the other end of the hall came the small click of a door. Cat stood slowly, expecting to be alone, the woman having exited. She jumped as she heard a familiar voice instead.

  “Lady Stanton? You are roaming the halls at night?” Nathaniel must have come through the door at the end instead of Esther walking out. Cat slid against the wall behind the head of marble, grabbing hold of it so it wouldn’t wobble. Whomever the carved bust was, she was thankful for his impressively large cranium.

  “I had hopes of finding you,” she said, her voice soft but definitely louder than her whispers with Iain. “My father has spoken to me about your father’s wishes.”

  “Lady Stanton, I wish that you had not yet been informed of the marriage proposal, as I was not consulted.”

  Cat couldn’t contain the smile that came with the relief unknotting her chest. She leaned her forehead against the back of the bust and inhaled. The dust tickled her nose, and she pinched the tip, pressing it back and forth to stop the impending sneeze.

  “I was not consulted either,” Esther Stanton said, though there was a pinch to the voice that had dripped with sweetness before. “I fear that our fathers have plotted to bring us together for the sakes of both of our estates. Stanton House being much larger and grander than Hollings of course. And your father wanted you to take his place in the new parliament, which my father basically controls. But they really should have brought our desires into the conversation.” She drew out the word desires. “Although a year ago, at the Saint Valentine’s Ball, I daresay, that I would think our desires were both heated enough to make marriage agreeable.”

  Cat jerked her head upright, her hands slipping off the marble bust as it wobbled. The heaviness pitched forward. A loud crack mixed with a thump as the head fell from the pedestal to roll across the wooden floor. Without waiting for the forthcoming “who goes there” question, Cat lifted her skirts above her knees and dodged along the wall back the way she had come. Keeping to the shadows, she hurried along the edge of the rug, leaping across the hall to turn right at the portrait of an old king. She ignored the slight pinch in her ankle and raced along the corridor, her eyes focused across the hall at the paintings. “Bloody unicorn, where the hell are ye?” she whispered.

  Ahead of her, a door opened, and a man stepped out wearing a loose shirt with breeches. Running at a heart-pounding pace, Cat tried to stop. Her injured ankle shot pain up her leg, causing her to stumble directly into the man.

  “Well now,” he said in a thick English accent. He smelled of wine and held a large rolled parchment under one arm.

  “Excuse me,” she whispered and tried to step away, but he held her arms. “Let go…please.” Panic began to grip her inside, which sped her heart, making her muscles ready for an attack.

  “Not until I know who you are, running about in the darkness.” The man peered at her closely, but with the shadows around them, she was certain he couldn’t fully see her just as she couldn’t make out his features. “Come now.” He grasped her wrist and began to drag her down the hall. “To the bottom of this pleasant mystery,” he said.

  “Nay,” she said, her voice rising as she heard footsteps from the direction from which she’d fled. With a twist and snap of her wrist she freed herself.

  “Come here, woman,” he said, his voice turning hard.

  Cat reached to her curls for her hair stick but remembered her tresses were down. Bloody hell. Her first night at Whitehall and she was already being attacked. The man, tall and weighty, dropped his rolled parchment and grabbed for her, capturing her around her cinched waist. “Nay,” she called again, louder, and jabbed the palm of her hand upward into the man’s smoothly shaved chin.

  He yelled, dropping his hands from her waist to grab his mouth. Doubling over, he howled.

  Behind them, her pursuer caught up. “What goes on?” It was Nathaniel. “Your majesty? Have you been attacked?” he asked, and Cat heard the sound of Nathaniel unsheathing his sword.

  “Yes,” the king yelled, the sound garbled. “I have been attacked by that woman.”

  “Frig,” Cat cursed low, her stomach sinking.

  The door opened, and two men hurried into the hall. “Your majesty? What is amiss?”

  Nathaniel re-sheathed his sword and bent to help the king stand. “A terrible mistake, your majesty,” he said. “Step down Lord Wren, Lord Kellington.” He stared into James’s face. “Are you injured?”

  “My tongue,” he said and spit to the side. “I about bit it off when she struck me. A man cannot even walk about his own palace, strategizing improvements with his architects without being set upon.”

  “Your majesty,” Cat said. “I did not know it was you.” She fought against her Scottish accent. “This is my first night at your grand palace, and I was warned not to be caught by men in dark corridors.”

  “Who the bloody, foking hell are you?” he asked, peering at her in the darkness. Apparently, there were a number of colorful curses that Jane didn’t know were used at court. He beckoned to the men at the door, and one brought forth a candle burning in a glass globe, which illuminated the corridor.

  Cat curtsied low, wishing the floorboards would open under her, swallowing her away from an angry king and, most likely, a highly irritated Nathaniel. Surely Esther Stanton wouldn’t punch the king in the jaw. “I am Catriona Campbell, your majesty. A student of the Highland Roses School at Finlarig Castle. The Duchess of Braganza had sent for me when King Charles first became ill. We have arrived to learn of the sad news.”

  The king grunted. “Ahh, one of the Roses that Charles raved about, saving his queen from the clutches of assassins. After this blow, I believe his stories. Perhaps instead of sending you to the Tower, I should send you to join my army.”

  She curtsied again without another gesture available. “I am most aggrieved, your majesty.”

  “What were you doing out in the corridors at night?” James asked. “After you had been warned that villains lurk in the shadows.”

  Lord help her. What could she say? I was trying to find my lover but found him reacquainting himself with his arrogant past lover and possible betrothed. Or, I was spying on a clandestine meeting between the arrogant lover and the duchess’s man. Or, I was trying to find the privy when I dislodged a marble bust that is worth more than the whole town from where I hail.

  A heavy silence sat like a row of judges. “Speak up, girl,” the king said.

  Nathaniel cleared his throat. “She was meeting me, your majesty. A tryst at my request. We were much thrown together during the journey when bandits required her maid and coach to return to Scotland. I persuaded her to step outside her room tonight to meet me.”

  The king chuckled. “See Lady Campbell, there are scoundrels in the dark corridors of Whitehall.” He turned to Nathaniel. “Best that Stanton does not hear of you chasing another set of petticoats, else find yourself hard pressed to win a seat in parliament. His daughter is a banshee when snubbed.”

  “I had heard that you would reconvene parliament,” Nathaniel said. “How long must I behave before securing a seat?”

  The king’s sho
ulders shook as he chuckled. “I am afraid you must keep your trysts a secret until spring. My coronation is set for April, and I will convene parliament in May.”

  Nathaniel nodded, and Cat felt him take her arm in the dark. “Again, your majesty, I am very aggrieved that I allowed Lady Campbell to return to her rooms alone.” His grasp on her arm was firm. “Had I been with her, I would surely have identified you in the dark and saved your tongue.”

  The king waved his hand. “It is recovered.” He looked to the two men in the hall with them. “Find your beds, gentlemen. We will discuss the queen’s chapel more at our next meeting.”

  “Goodnight your majesty,” Cat said. “If your tongue is sore on the morrow, I could brew you a wash for it.”

  The man turned without comment, picked up his fallen scroll, and traipsed down the hall.

  “Where is your room?” Nathaniel whispered in her ear, his words terse.

  “Across from the unicorn,” she said.

  “Unicorn?”

  She pulled his hand to follow her past several more doors. Were the rooms empty except for the one that housed James’s architects? Lord, she hoped so, otherwise rumors would fly by morning and Esther would likely put a venomous snake in her bed.

  Cat turned the knob and walked in. Nathaniel held a hand up for her to stay while he circled the interior, checking behind the drapes and under the bed. Coming back around, he turned the key that sat in the lock, holding it up for her to see. “Lock your door when you are not here and keep it locked when you are here.”

  “So…keep it locked all the time,” she said slowly, her brows raised.

  He turned on his heels, both hands raking through his hair. She was glad to see that he hadn’t yet donned the ridiculous wigs that every man she’d seen wore. “Damn it all, Cat. What were you doing in the dark halls of Whitehall, alone? Besides listening in on conversations, breaking priceless sculpture, and attacking the king of England?”