Honor Bound

by C. J. Archer

  Isabel reached across the counter and took one of her friend’s hands. Meg squeezed it and gave her a watery smile. "Perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise," Isabel ventured. She had arrived home exhausted, her neck aching from lying awkwardly on Nick’s bed, her nose red from crying and her head spinning with questions. She had been trying to think of answers to those questions as she methodically went about her work when Meg had walked in, looking like she’d lost everything.

  And, in a way, she had. Her whoremaster had left her. Or, more precisely, had told her to leave. Biggin, the shadowy figure who procured clients for Meg and many other girls Isabel had served over the years, had told her in blunt terms that nobody wanted a skinny, flat-chested whore. It seemed she was costing him more than she was making so he told her to find another whoremaster.

  "A blessin’?" Meg blubbered, bursting into fresh tears. "How can it be a blessin’? I’ve got no money, no protection and no home."

  "No home!"

  Meg shook her head and her wig tipped even further to the side. It was precariously close to sliding right off. "All his girls live in his dirty stinkin’ house by the river," she mumbled through her tears. "He told the others not to let me in this mornin’. Some of them said they wanted to but were too afraid of Biggin to go against him. Oh, Isabel, what will I do?"

  Isabel offered her a handkerchief. "I think when you’ve recovered from the shock, you’ll be glad to be rid of him. He sounds like a brute." Although Meg had never mentioned it, Isabel was sure Biggin beat her and the other women. They often came in for a pot of fomented comfrey leaves for their bruises, muttering the whoremaster’s name to each other in frightened or angry tones. Isabel was certainly glad her friend was rid of him but she had to make sure Meg didn’t return to the Bankside and find herself in an even worse situation. So she did the only thing she could think of to keep Meg out of trouble. "In the mean time, you can stay here," she said.

  Meg looked up, wide-eyed. "What, in the shop?"

  "In my room. You’ll have to share with both myself and the maid but we’ll all fit somehow."

  "I don’t care," Meg said, brightening. "I’ll sleep on the floor. It’s gotta be cleaner than Biggin’s place. He’s got more fleas in his beds than the rats have on their backs. Oh thank you." She leaned over the counter and hugged Isabel fiercely. "But are you sure?"

  "Of course. I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to do it. It’ll be fun. And Lord knows," she sighed, "I need some fun."

  Meg drew back and frowned. "You’ve been crying. Here I am speakin’ about my own silly troubles and here you are takin’ care of me when all the time somethin’s wrong. What is it, Izzy? Tell me."

  "My...friend has been poisoned. I was at his place last night helping him recover."

  Meg’s jaw dropped and she placed the hand that held her handkerchief to her chest. "Him? A man? You were at a man’s place all night?"

  Isabel nodded and waited for Meg to digest that piece of information and move onto the more murderous part of her revelation.

  "And he was poisoned you say?" Meg leaned forward conspiratorially. "How terrible. Will he live?"

  "Yes." Isabel silently blessed her good fortune that she’d arrived in time to administer the emetic.

  Meg blew out a breath. "That’s a relief. Sooo," she said with a girlish shrug of her shoulder, "tell me who he is. No, wait, I know! That merchant I’ve seen in here many times. The one who wears the dark velvet gown and gold chains." When Isabel shook her head, she went on: "The apothecary from the enormous shop down the road? Or maybe the one with the two gold rings on his fingers? No? Then that customer who arrives in a coach—"

  "No. None of them. His name is Nicholas Merritt." Isabel decided not to use his title. Meg might faint from excitement if she knew he was a knight. "You met him the other day in fact."

  Meg took only the briefest pauses before brightening. "Yes, I remember him. Very handsome but plainly dressed." She said it as if it were a major failing.

  Isabel opened her mouth to defend him then closed it, partly because she didn’t want to appear too familiar with him but mostly because Meg was talking again.

  "So, tell me, what’s he like?"

  Isabel lifted one shoulder, not sure she wanted to describe the man she loved. Her heart was raw enough after the previous night, she didn’t need to think about what she had given up forever too. "He’s...polite. Funny and quite mischievous really."

  "No, no, I mean," Meg’s voice dropped to a whisper as she leaned forward, "what’s he like in bed?"

  Isabel froze. How did she know they’d slept together? As if reading her mind, Meg threw her head back and laughed. "The cuff. Remember? He brought it back the other day." She winked. "I can only think of one reason why he’d have one of your best cuffs in his pocket."

  Isabel tried to control her smile but couldn’t. It broke out slowly and spread into a grin. "I remember."

  "He means more to you than a casual lover, don’t he?"

  The smile vanished. Isabel picked up a pestle lying nearby and twisted it between her fingers. She felt Meg’s gaze on her, persistent and patient. "I left him six years ago," she finally said, "not because I stopped loving him but because being with him had become...impossible. That was a terrible time in my life. I thought I would never feel so frightened, so lost as I did then. I was wrong. Last night was much worse. I would have given anything, even my own life, if it could have saved his." The words raked across her nerves. It hurt to voice them, to hear them, but it was the truth. She had been terrified. Watching Nick lying so still in the bed, his breathing thin, his skin as white as Meg’s face paint, she knew what it was like to be on the brink of losing her soul. Because Nick owned her soul and if he had lost his battle...

  It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Isabel put the pestle down on the counter, the clank ringing loudly through the shop. Eventually she looked up at Meg, blinking back at her through tears.

  "Oh, Izzy." Meg held Isabel’s hand and shook her head. "Don’t cry, you’re supposed to be the strong one."

  Is that what everyone thought? If only they knew how vulnerable she sometimes felt, how often she wondered if she was doing the right thing, or how she wanted to hide in her room some days and not face the customers, the members of the Grocer’s Company or Fox and his disobedience.

  Meg shook her head. "If love hurts like that then I want nothin’ to do with it. Give me a man to tumble and a roof over my head and I’m happy."

  "In that order?" Isabel asked with a half-smile.

  The front door opened before Meg could answer. Lawrence strode through it and up to the counter. He didn’t even acknowledge Meg, not even with a scowl which was his usual greeting for the whoring customers. He slapped his gloves down on the counter and stamped his fist on top of them then said: "That Merritt fellow is a damned liar."

  CHAPTER 9

  "A liar?" Isabel tried not to appear too interested in Lawrence’s proclamation for fear he suspected she had more than a passing interest in a man she claimed was merely a customer. "What has he lied about?"

  "He’s a knight," Lawrence said with more than a little irritation. It must be infuriating to find out a man he didn’t like out-ranked him.

  "A knight!" Meg’s jaw dropped. "Izzy, you never said!"

  Isabel squeezed Meg’s hand in the hope it would keep her quiet. All she needed now was for Lawrence to find out she had also lied to him about knowing Nick. She could find herself not only unemployed but homeless as well and then where would that leave her?

  "Actually he did mention it," Isabel said with a dismissive wave. She picked up the pestle and returned it to the mortar then swept the off-cuts of various herbs onto the floor where they would remain until the maid changed the rushes later in the week. "How did you find out?" she asked, dusting her hands.

  "I’ve been making enquiries," Lawrence said.

  Isabel looked up. "About Ni...Merritt?"

  "Sir Nicholas Merritt," M
eg corrected, sounding pleased. It wouldn't be every day she could claim to have met a knight of the realm. Being a Bankside whore, she was probably more used to drunken bear handlers, drunken wherrymen and drunken tavern patrons.

  "Enquiries?" Isabel frowned. "What in God’s name for?"

  His gaze flicked to Meg and back again. "You know," he muttered.

  Yes, she did. So he still thought Nick was working for Sir Francis Walsingham as intelligencer. She had to agree it was a likely scenario. It certainly explained why he had turned up in Bucklersbury Street and started asking a lot of questions about poison. It also accounted for the attempts on his life.

  Dear lord. Her husband was a spy!

  The room began to spin and she gripped the edge of the counter to steady herself.

  "Are you all right?" Meg asked. "You’ve gone awful pale. Hasn’t she Master Shawe?"

  Lawrence was around the side of the counter before she even finished her sentence. "Sit down, Isabel, you look unwell. Can I get you some aqua vitae? A tonic of rosemary?"

  Isabel sat on the stool but shook him off. "I’m fine. Just a headache. What else did you find out from your enquiries?"

  He pouted, no doubt put out that his fussing had been brushed aside as easily as the off-cuts from her herbs. "Very little. He owns a great parcel of land in Kent, he’s extremely wealthy and was knighted a few years ago but no one could really tell me what for."

  "Extremely, you say?" Meg turned her barely controlled smile on Isabel.

  "I’m sure extremely is an exaggeration," Isabel said.

  "Why would you say that?" Lawrence frowned. "Do you know otherwise? I thought he was just a customer."

  "He is. I’m merely surmising. He does dress rather plainly for someone of extreme wealth. And his lodgings are nothing out of the ordinary."

  "His lodgings?" Lawrence burst out, sending spittle onto the counter top. "When did you visit the rogue’s lodgings?"

  He probably would have heard about her visit soon enough since Fox and Lucy the maid both knew that Isabel had been called away and hadn’t returned until the morning. It was best Lawrence heard it from her first. "Last night." She held her hand up to silence him as he began to splutter again. "He was poisoned and sent for me since I’m the only apothecary he knows."

  "He could have called for a doctor."

  "Yes," Isabel said evenly, "he could have. But he called for me. I administered an emetic."

  "What type of poison? How was it consumed?"

  "Monksood, on an arrowhead."

  "Good Lord!" Lawrence rubbed his pointed beard. "Attempted murder," he said to no one in particular. He stared right through her for a few moments then shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it. "You have to keep the patient still for monkshood."

  "I know."

  "But not sleeping, not for some time. And he should have taken some stimulants to counteract the monkshood. Foxglove, aqua vitae..."

  "Yes," Isabel said.

  "She’s an excellent apothecary," Meg said from where she hovered on Isabel’s other side.

  "Yes, of course," Lawrence said quickly. "Father taught her well."

  Sometimes good men could be very stupid. Old Man Shawe had certainly taught her a great deal but Lawrence seemed to have forgotten she had been assisting her own father since she was old enough to lift a jar and most of her knowledge had been gained from him.

  The shouts of a carter urging his horses through the muddy street outside and the crackle of the fire under the cauldron seemed louder in the ensuing silence. Isabel was relieved when Lawrence broke it by clearing his throat.

  "Are you sure you don’t want something for your headache?" he asked. "I can prescribe a new tonic I heard about on a visit to Rheims last month."

  "No, thank you, I think I just need some sleep. It was an exhausting night."

  "Of course." He shouted for Fox and the apprentice came running through the rear door. "Take over from Mistress Camm. I’m ordering her to rest."

  The apprentice nodded and removed the apron he wore when distilling herbs. Lawrence took Isabel by the elbow and helped her off the stool. Once she had two feet on the floor, his hand moved to her back and began rubbing in a gentle, circular motion. She was sure he meant it as an intimate gesture but she was reminded of a mother encouraging the wind from a baby and she smothered a snigger.

  Lawrence’s hand dropped away immediately. "Oh, and one other thing I learned from my source." A smug smile crept across his face. "Merritt is married."

  "Married!" Meg cried, her eyes wide. "But—"

  "He did mention something about a wife," Isabel cut in before Meg revealed too much of their last conversation.

  Her acknowledgement seemed to deflate Lawrence somewhat. "Right. Good."

  "Not that his marital status is of concern to me," she continued. "He is only a customer."

  "I’m not so sure that’s all he is. In fact, I’m convinced he is spying on us and the other apothecaries. He lied about his knighthood and I’m certain he’s not telling us the truth about his visits to Bucklersbury Street. Beware, Isabel. Do not let his joviality fool you into trusting him."

  "Rest assured, I am not easily fooled, Lawrence."

  "I never meant that you were, I merely—"

  "I understand," she said, perhaps a little too dismissively to the man who was her employer’s son. She softened it with a smile. "I’ll also try to find out if he really is working for the Privy Council as a spy."

  Lawrence drew in an audible breath. "But that would mean visiting him again."

  "Of course. I need to follow up on my patient anyway."

  "Oh. Right." That seemed to appeal to his physician’s senses because he nodded gravely. "Of course."

  She yawned. "But not today."

  Lawrence left and Isabel gave instructions to Fox before turning to Meg. She’d been reluctant to tell Lawrence that Meg would be staying in her room. Not that she expected him to demand rent. Her reluctance stemmed from the fact that he would disapprove of a whore, even a reformed one, living in his father’s house. Isabel had no doubt the old man would approve, however. He was a generous, kind-hearted soul. She would speak to him before her nap and apprise him of the situation.

  "Don’t worry about me," Meg said, walking towards the door with a spring in her step that hadn’t been there when she entered. "I’ve got errands to run. I’ll bring my things back with me later."

  After a sound sleep, Isabel awoke in the morning with a clear head and a determination to find out whether Nick worked for the Crown as a spy.

  Work.

  That was the word Lord Ashbourne had used when he asked about Nick’s recovery. She stopped in the midst of washing her face, the water dripping from her hands into the bowl. Was the earl a spy too? It would explain how the two of them had met. It also made sense that someone of his rank was involved with such an important investigation.

  After breaking her fast, Isabel walked to Mistress Plunkett’s house determined to get some answers out of Nick no matter what it took. She wouldn’t allow his joviality, as Lawrence called it, to sidetrack her. If he laughed off her suspicions then she would persist, if he tried to change the subject then she would steer the conversation back on course, and if he tried to woo her with sweet words and his naked body then she would turn her back and block her ears. Well, perhaps nothing so childish as that, but she was prepared to do battle to learn the truth.

  She was tired of his deceit. She knew in her humors that his sudden and inquisitive reappearance in her life was somehow linked to his long absences all those years ago when they were first married. This time she would get her answers. Six years ago she had been easier to distract, but not anymore. She wouldn’t fall for his charms again.

  She frowned as a thought occurred to her. When had he started his career as a spy? Before their marriage? Soon after? Yes, that must be it. It made sense. He’d changed considerably after the first few blissful months. Coupled with the absences...

>   A thought tugged at her consciousness but stayed just out of her reach like a teasing sibling.

  She shook her head to dislodge it but that only served up a different one. How could she demand he be honest with her if she couldn’t be honest with him in return?

  And what if he refused to give her an answer unless she first told him why she had left? It was certainly something he would insist upon. She could only hope he wasn’t thinking clearly yet after his poisoning ordeal.

  Her pace slowed as she drew closer to Bishopsgate Street but she found her feet still propelled her towards Nick like they had a mind of their own. She stopped outside Mistress Plunkett’s house and peered up at his third storey window with a sigh. The light tones of a woman’s voice drifted down to her. The wind whipped up and whisked some of the words away but Isabel heard her say, "Darling...been killed."