“Why should I?” Kit asked, startled by this odd change of subject.
“I thought perhaps you might be at last ready to ask me for that loan.” Nick’s tone was cautious, his gaze considering as if he had more to spill, but hesitated to share it.
“Nay, I need nothing. I managed to satisfy my debtors, at least for the time being,” Kit said with a shrug, staring at his folding hands. Not that Nick could give him anything to satisfy his debtor. Lady Montmercy wanted his blood in return for what she’d loaned him.
Silence woke between them, growing until it was beyond uncomfortable. Kit looked up. “What is it, Nick?”
An uneasy laugh rumbled from his brother. “I hadn’t meant to tell you but now that I see this change in you, I find I have no choice. Among other things I’ve sent Jamie to the queen to ask that our title be restored. This is to be done on the condition you be recognized as my heir and serve as my proxy.”
The breath whooshed from Kit’s lungs. He leapt from the chair. “You’ve done what?!”
Nick held out his hands as if to stave off attack. “Now, Kit. Even if you rode day and night, you’d be too late to stop him.”
Kit stared at his brother, not certain whether to murder him or hug him. On one hand, this put him on near an equal footing with Deyville, freeing him to attack the nobleman if need be. On the other, he now bore the responsibility for Nick’s lordship. Not that he’d live long enough to be of any use to Nick as a proxy.
As the weight of it settled upon his shoulders, Kit dropped back into the chair. Bracing his elbows upon his knees, he stared at the floorboards between his feet. “Why now?”
“Well, there’s quite a story in that,” Nick replied, the cadence of his words slow and careful. Kit glanced at him. Nick was leaning his head against the chair’s back to stare up at the plastered ceiling.
“Only two weeks ago a gentleman tapped upon our gate. He had the oddest following, one man a clubfoot, another missing a hand, still another with a slit ear.”
This brought Kit upright in shock. “You received these men? In person?”
Nick turned his head to offer his brother a scoffing glance. “I know when it’s to my best value to open my door. After all, it’s not every day so important or irresistible a bit of business drops into my hands. At any rate, the transaction they presented to me had as one of its conditions the restoration of our title. Jamie suggested I shouldn’t do so without speaking to you first.”
With a sigh Nick straightened. “I knew he was right, but truly, the offer was beyond my resisting. I fear I set my name and seal to their paper and sent Jamie riding for Greenwich to present it and my request for the resumption of our title to our queen. If I’ve hurt you in doing this, then I beg your pardon.”
Kit waved away his brother’s apology, more than a little confused at Nick’s odd manner. “What sort of contract would require you to reclaim your title?”
“Ah well,” Nick’s brows rose to the limit of their mobility, “it’s a sort of merging of two properties, one over which I claim control and the other belonging to the second party, at least to some extent.”
Odder and odder. “Who is the second party?” Kit asked.
His brother shook his head. “I’d rather not say until the matter is completed to our satisfaction. There’s reason to believe an outsider who claims some ownership of the one property might work to prevent this merging, unable to see it’s in the best interest of all to allow it.”
“Nick, none of this makes any sense,” Kit protested.
“It did to me,” Nick said, somewhat stiffly. “Only promise me you’ll not go do something rash and idiotic because of this.”
Kit smiled. Nick’s request came too late. “Dear brother, if you deny me rash and idiotic there’s naught left for me to do.”
His jest made Nick cough in laughter. “God knows that’s true enough. So”—his voice took on the tone of casual conversation—“tell me of court and your doings.”
Ah, here was a safe subject. Kit blinked, only now realizing he’d never spoken to his brother about his life at court. It wasn’t for lack of trying. It was just that they never got this far before the arguing started.
“If gossip is what you want, then Elizabeth once again beams at the earl of Leicester, having toyed with Sir Thomas Heneage long enough to punish her earl for fathering a bastard on Lady Sheffield.” Kit gave a derisive snort.
“Old news,” Nick said, waving away his words. “The gossip I get through Jamie’s uncle. I want to know of you. What have you been doing these last months?”
“Dancing,” Kit replied with a laugh.
His brother stared at him. “You? You, who owns all the grace of a duck on ice?”
This piqued Kit’s pride not a little. “To that I say it takes one to know one. I was skillful enough to win my position from Elizabeth when I first came to court. I’m far better now, especially after two full months of daily practice.”
“And why do you dance so excessively?” Nick asked, enough sourness in his gaze to suggest the thought of such exertion interested him naught a whit.
Kit paused, considering how much of the queen’s wager he dared tell, then threw aside his concerns. To whom would Nick reveal this secret? “Because I, dear brother, am now the tutor. Two months ago the queen took into her service a new maid-of-honor, a lass who had never danced a day in her life. By the strangest chain of events it came to be my chore to educate her.”
At the question in Nick’s gaze, Kit held up his hands. “Don’t ask. The events are too complex to explain.” God knew that was true enough, since explaining meant divulging the details of his contract with Lady Montmercy.
“At any rate, what followed was a wager between the queen and Leicester as to how swiftly the girl might become competent in her footwork. Leicester said not before the Yuletide, while the queen counts on the La Volta by July’s end.” Kit shot his brother a quick smile. “The queen intends to make certain she wins this bet of hers. She set us to a daily practice, a bit of information to which Leicester is not privy.”
Nick’s mouth thinned in scorn. “What sort of a backward lass knows nothing of footwork?”
The need to defend Anne roared through Kit. “Nay Nick, she’s not backward, only untutored and for a good cause. Her mother, who once loved to dance, is now crippled, made so by the circumstances of Nan’s birth. To honor her mother, Nan never pressed to learn.”
“Nan?” Nick’s brows tried to rise at so intimate a referral to the maid.
Kit warned himself to have more care with his affection. Even though this was only Nick noting his error, he couldn’t afford to make this a habit. Such a breach of etiquette could lead to questions too difficult to answer.
“Aye, she’s Mistress Anne Blanchemain,” he said in explanation.
“Blanchemain.” Nick lowered his head to stare into his lap. “Now, there’s a name I know from Jamie’s uncle. Isn’t there a Sir Amyas Blanchemain, a Puritan who keeps close company with Throckmorton and his band of zealots?”
“Aye, Sir Amyas is Mistress Anne’s grandsire.” Kit laughed. “I’ll have you know, he’s none too thrilled at having me, who’s related to a Catholic like you, close to his heiress.”
Nick looked up, his eyes glowing with his smile then he shook his head. “God’s love, but it must be tedious for you to be trapped in the presence of so pious a lass.”
Kit laughed. Tedious and pious weren’t words he would ever apply to his Nan. Passionate and sensual, now there was a pair that fit her.
“Mistress Anne would lay scars upon your scars for thinking her the shadow of her grandsire,” he chided. “In all truth, I’ve never known a woman quite like her. She’s charming, clever, and bold far beyond anything I thought I might admire.” And she loved him. His heart sighed, pleased to own the affection of so wonderful a woman.
“But ugly as the day is long,” Nick said with such conviction that Kit frowned at him.
“Why wou
ld you say that?”
His brother looked startled once again. “I beg your pardon. I only thought she must be, since you’ve said not a word as to her appearance. Generally when a man speaks highly of a woman’s character without mentioning appearance it’s because she’s no beauty. Either that or he wishes to convince another man to take her off his hands.”
“How would you know how one man speaks to another?” Kit retorted. “Your experience with the world is confined to these rooms.”
“You’re right, I don’t know,” Nick agreed. “No doubt she’s beauteous beyond bearing.”
There was just enough scorn in his brother’s voice to make Kit’s eyes narrow. “It so happens that Mistress Anne is beautiful. She is dark of hair and eye with this wee mark right here.”
As he touched the corner of his mouth to show Nick where, the memory of pressing his lips to that spot as he kissed her shot through him. The embers of his desire burst back into flame, bringing with it the memory of Nan’s other assets. Kit drew a quick breath. Even remembering their joining, his passion for her was whetted anew.
“Good God,” Nick said quietly.
Kit started, scrambling out of his mind-numbing lust for Anne to return to his conversation with Nick. His brother stared at him, elbows braced upon his chair’s arms, hands folded across his midsection.
“Kit, I vow you’re smitten,” Nick cried in amusement. “And I thought you owned an iron heart too hard to be softened by any woman. So do you intend to ask her to wed with you?”
Kit’s mouth opened to confess that he already had. He caught back the words. If he said that much he’d have to spill the rest, and that would hardly do.
“I cannot. Not only does her grandsire’s hatred for me make such a union impossible, he’s already promised her to another.”
Laughter marred Nick’s clear green gaze. “What a pair we are, Kit. I want a woman who won’t have me and you desire a woman you can’t have.” He rose. “Come then, I’ll show you what weapons and men my books say we can claim, then leave you to count them for your queen.”
“Nan, you’re paying no heed and making it too easy for me to win.” Mary scooped up the playing cards from the center of the cushion that served as their playing table.
Sighing, Anne gave her cards to her kinswoman, who sat opposite her on the floor. Mary watched her, a worried frown marring her smooth brow. “My pardon, Mary,” Anne said, “but watching the hawks circle all morn left me dizzy in my thoughts.”
That was a lie. Nerve-wracking anticipation, not hunting with birds, had addled Anne’s head. Five days ago she’d said farewell to Kit and, still, Sir Amyas hadn’t come to fetch her. It was enough to leave Anne stewing in a terrible mixture of hope and horror. The horror sprang from the thought of Kit dying because he killed Lord Deyville, while the hope was a childish dream that Kit would return, bringing rescue with him.
Anne heaved another sigh. “Play on, Mary. I promise I’ll pay greater heed with the next hand.”
Leaving Mary to shuffle the deck, Anne looked toward their royal mistress. Elizabeth wore a brown bodice so thickly studded with jewels the fabric almost couldn’t be seen. Her skirts were brown and yellow, her dark sleeves trimmed with bright yellow bows. Rather than her usual jeweled pins in her fiery curls, Elizabeth covered her head with a pearl-studded caul, with a pearl droplet to mark the center of her forehead.
The queen was giving audiences this afternoon. Anne watched the last petitioner back out of his queen’s view and hoped he might be the day’s final audience. Instead the usher once again stepped into the chamber.
“Master James Wyatt, steward to Squire Nicholas Hollier,” he called.
Anne’s heart shucked its exhaustion at the mention of Kit’s surname. She caught Mary’s hand, stopping their game, as silence rolled over the chamber. They weren’t the only ones to feast their eyes upon this newcomer, steward to the man who should have been Lord Graceton.
Nor did Master Wyatt disappoint. Deep auburn hair framed a handsome face. His brow was broad and smooth, his nose straight, his chin square and clean shaven. Set beneath sharply peaked brows, his eyes were a clear blue, the color of a winter’s sky. Tall, although not as tall as his squire’s brother, he wore a brocade doublet the color of autumn oaks. His rust-colored breeches were conservatively cut as befitted a man from the country. Embroidered in golden handwork, brown garters held brown stockings to his well-made legs. He carried papers beneath one arm and a wooden box held out before him.
“Oh my,” Mary said in open appreciation of the fine figure he cut as, together, she and Anne came to their feet to better see.
Anne paused to brush the wrinkles from her blue and white attire; she and Mary were again dressed as they’d been at the Maying. When she was satisfied, she put her head close to her cousin’s to whisper, “What do you wager our mistress gives him all he wants just because of his pretty face?”
Mary gave a coy lift of her shoulders as Master Wyatt knelt before England’s queen.
“Majesty,” Master Wyatt said, his voice pleasant and deep. “I bring you greetings from Squire Hollier and present to you this token of his affection for you.” He extended the box.
Little Dorothy hurried forward to take it, the youngest of the maids curtsying deeply as she opened the lid to display the contents to her royal mistress. Elizabeth made an appreciative sound as she lifted the item from the box then held it out for those who were nearest to see. The square carved brooch was larger than the queen’s hand. A great pearl hung from its underside. Elizabeth apparently thought well of this gift, for she smiled.
“The squire hopes this pleases you, Majesty,” Master Wyatt said. “The two holly branches and two roses worked into its face are meant to represent the yearly tribute that tradition says the lord of Graceton owes to his monarch.”
“Does this mean your squire has at last decided to reclaim his title?” Elizabeth asked, her tone noncommittal.
“It does, indeed,” the steward replied.
That brought the queen’s brows high upon her forehead. She set the bejeweled pin back into its box. “How does the squire dare send a servant to do what he knows can only be done if he kneels before Us on his own behalf?” This was more demand than question.
“Madame, Squire Hollier cannot come. A childhood accident has left him too frail to travel and so scarred that he feels himself unfit for social interaction.”
This sent a murmur over the crowd. Beside Anne, Mary gasped, her cheeks coloring in shame. As often as she’d pried at Kit over his vow not to wed, she’d also tried to tease information from him about his reclusive brother.
Anne’s heart warmed. Kit had shared with her what he’d told no other. Her longing to see him again grew. She needed to tell him again just how much she loved him.
In her throne their royal mistress straightened in surprise. “If he is thusly done, how does he intend to fulfill the duties required of his title?”
“Through his brother, Madame,” the squire’s steward explained, his voice loud enough to reach every corner of the now quiet room. “Squire Hollier will accept the title, but also name his brother, Master Christopher Hollier, as his heir. As such, Master Hollier will become his lord brother’s proxy in all matters of business pertaining to the title.”
Elizabeth eyed the handsome man, her face carefully blank. “What does Squire Hollier intend to do once he marries and has children of his own?”
Master Wyatt shook his head. “Madame, my master doesn’t intend to marry.”
The royal brows shot up at this. “Hollier’s scarring leaves him incapable of fathering his own heirs?”
The question made Master Wyatt shift uncomfortably on his knees. “Squire Nicholas feels he would make an unacceptable husband. As such, he refuses to wed.” This answer neither confirmed nor denied the man’s ability to make his own children.
There was a nervous stirring in a number of parties around the room, the men belonging to the earl of Northum
berland converging upon their fellow Catholics in the earl of Arundel’s party. Only then did Anne understand. Squire Nicholas had just publicly accepted his title, only to hand it to Kit. This meant a Catholic landholder of some note was ceding power to his Protestant brother.
Nor had Elizabeth missed this implication. There was a new light in the queen’s gaze. Anne guessed Elizabeth prized this second gift more than that brooch.
“Madame, all is explained in these.” Master Wyatt held out the papers he carried. “I pray you peruse them with care, understanding that those mentioned within them have no knowledge of what goes forward on their behalf. If further explanation must be had, I am authorized to speak for the squire in all matters. In that case, however, I most humbly request that any discussion be done in a venue less public than this.”
Mary leaned close to Anne. “Glad I am I didn’t wager with you over this,” she breathed. “He will have his private interview, and not just because of his face.”
As Elizabeth skimmed the papers, her brow clouded. “You vow you can explain this?” she demanded as if what she read irritated her.
“All of it, Madame,” Master Wyatt promised. “If you find it a trifle complex, be assured it is necessary, given the state of the squire’s health and the reluctance of some of the involved parties to cooperate with his desires.”
Elizabeth nodded once in sharp agreement. “You will stay at Greenwich until I’ve studied these.” She motioned to the usher.
“Master Bowyer, see that this man has a chamber, one that befits the status of his master, the squire.” A quiet moan rose from those dependent on the queen for housing at this. One among the ranks of gentlemen was about to lose his chamber to accommodate the outsider.
“My thanks, Madame,” the handsome steward replied, relief touching his face. He rose and offered as courtly a bow as Leicester might have managed, then stepped politely backward out of his queen’s presence.
Anne watched Master Wyatt retreat from the chamber door, hoping once more that the day’s audiences might be finished. Instead Master Bowyer announced yet another man, a scholar from Oxford. Sighing, Anne readied herself to sit once more, returning to Mary and their card game when she caught a glimpse of movement in the doorway.
The Lady Series, Two Books for the Price of One Page 25
