• • •
This was not how Henry had imagined the night ending, but he was grateful that, at least, his wife had been with him when she collapsed. Shaking away the unpleasant thought of how vulnerable she may have been had she found herself in this situation with someone like Oxford, Henry lifted her limp form into his arms and escaped the revelry of the hall.
He had no trouble finding Frances’s room off the gallery. He’d heard talk about how Frances had a penchant for sunlight, fresh air, and regular baths. She’d already taken more baths than the average courtier since her arrival, visible through her open window from the gallery across the courtyard. He shouldn’t blame the gossiping men for trying to peek—hell, if he had spied her during her bath, he wouldn’t have been able to take his eyes off of her. Still, she was his wife. His.
Reaching her chamber, he toed the door open and crossed the room to her bed. Laying her on the thick coverlet, he stood back and gazed down on her, still glowing like an angel despite the fact she had just vomited and passed out. She looked decidedly uncomfortable with her bumroll forcing her back into an unnatural angle, her corset cutting into her bosom, and her hoop skirts springing in all directions.
He should undress her for her own good, nothing to do with his less than noble thoughts. Henry truly believed himself to be acting in Frances’s best interests as he rolled her onto her stomach so he could unlace the center back of her gown and her corset beneath. The hoops were tied to the corset, but he had to work his hands around to her abdomen in order to find the tapes securing the bumroll. Putting both hands under her shoulders, he lifted her free of her gown and underpinnings and noticed that she seemed smaller than he remembered. Of course, the last time he had seen her unclothed was immediately after she’d weaned the first babe that she’d lost. A girl, he couldn’t remember the name. And here she was, having lost another.
She was like a rag doll as he shifted her in his arms, supporting her weight while he kicked the dress off the bed and onto the floor. Henry pulled back the coverlet and laid her down on the linen sheets. Tenderly, he removed her shoes and stockings and moved up to untie the silver mask and pick the small flowers out of the golden waves splayed on her pillow.
He tucked the coverlet around her once more and turned just as something heavy fell at his feet. A book. Picking it up, he stifled a surprised laugh. A pillow book? Where had she gotten it? And why? All the noble thoughts he’d clung to while undressing her dissolved immediately as he flipped through the explicit pages, pausing on the one marked with a ribbon, his erection becoming even more painful. He’d heard of this before. Something very French. He imagined Frances flushing as she pictured herself laid out for her lover to feast upon. He snapped the book shut and cursed. Perhaps the illicit knowledge from the book, the flirtations and regular trysts at court, had changed her mind about how it could be between a man and a woman. That kiss had certainly proved to him that she was capable of passion, even if she didn’t think so. Had she even known the man she was kissing was him? Or did she hope for someone else? His chest tight, he exited her room, clutching a spray of baby’s breath in one hand, the book in the other.
Chapter Ten
Rule Twenty-Two: Suspicion of the beloved generates jealousy and therefore intensifies love.
Sunlight flooded through the leaded pane glass windows of Frances’s room. The lengthening fingers of the early morning sun caressed her closed lids, stirring her out of her deep sleep. She shifted in bed, moving her face out of the brightness in effort to hold on to the dream. She was still in his arms. He was kissing her mouth, her eyelids, her ear, her throat . . . and she reveled in his embrace, a sensual being. Her tongue twined with his, and she shifted against him, feeling his thigh press between her legs. The kiss intensified as pressure built against her pelvis, something deep within her winding tighter . . .
Despite her best efforts, Frances woke realizing she was in her bed, alone. Mulling over the ache in her belly, the sense of incompletion, she stared at the pleating on the canopy of her bed curtains. Last night’s kiss . . . A shy smile played on her face as she stretched her body, enjoying the sensation of the cool sheets against her skin. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she tried to sit up, only to fall back and bury her face in her pillow.
Was she dying? Had she been injured? Frances’s head throbbed with such maddening pain that it was hard to think. Shielding herself with her pillow against the assault of light and sound, Frances tried to remember what happened the night before.
The masque. The wonderful kisses. Then what? How did she get here? She couldn’t remember anything . . . No, wait—someone called her a traitor. Who? And why? Then what?
The memory struck her like a lightning bolt—vomiting all over the alcove. God’s teeth. What must he think of her now? Grimacing in mortification, she realized she could not remember what happened next. And worse, she wasn’t sure who he was.
Braving through the pain, Frances sat up again in bed, this time more slowly. Her rumpled gown lay on the floor and she was clad only in her waist-length fine lawn chemise. Had Mary helped her to her room? No, Frances remembered Mary leaving for bed. With a stab of worry, she realized it must have been the man she kissed.
Good. God. No.
Falling back and covering her face again with her pillow, she wondered exactly what transpired between herself and the man in the alcove. I will assume it was Kit Hatton. Or Pride. Or someone else entirely?
Her stomach grumbled.
Things could not be worse. She closed her eyes again as images from her dream came back. The sweet caresses, the way her body responded . . . to her husband.
• • •
Thick smoke curled along the low blackened beams of the guard house ceiling. Henry LeSieur watched Hatton fill his tankard, waiting out whatever hell was sure to come next.
Hatton placed the foaming mug on the sticky oak table, watching the puddle gather at the base instead of meeting Henry’s eyes. “Mistress Jane Radclyffe, gentlewoman in service to your lady wife, was attacked last night during the masque.”
“What?” Henry stood, jarring the table and ducking in time to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. “How? Why? What of the guards?”
“The guards covered all points of access on the exterior and stood on duty within the hall. I expected some disturbances between the Puritans and Papists at the court, but this sort of violence? Mistress Radclyffe, though she serves in a Roman Catholic household,” he lifted his mug to Henry, “your household, is not an important person at court. You, on the other hand, may be.”
Henry nodded, his jaw tight, and sat down once more. “Tell me about the attack.”
“She was found just before sunrise in the privy gardens.”
Too close to the Queen’s rooms for comfort. “The attacker had access then.”
“Hence the reason for my concern,” Hatton confirmed. “She was beaten, that much is certain. She has bruises to the face and around her neck. The guardsman who found her said she was saying something about the jasmine in her hair.”
Henry pictured merry little Jane Radclyffe, his wife’s borderline wanton companion. She always had a smile for everyone. Why would someone do this to her? “Raped?”
“Not that we know of. She was, however, cut,” Hatton paused and indicated the center of both his palms, “through the hands and positioned in the Christ pose.” Hatton placed his arms out to either side.
“God’s blood,” Henry swore then winced at the words themselves. “This has religious significance then.”
“Aye.” Hatton nodded and took another swig of his ale. “Which brings me back to you.”
Henry had known that a summons from Hatton the morning after the masque couldn’t end well, but he’d figured it had something to do with his wife and the Godforsaken bet. This was worse.
Henry paced across the room and cracked a shutter, balancing out the pressure in the dark room. Smoke crawled along the ceiling and snaked out the wind
ow into the sunny morning. Whoever targeted Jane saw his role in stopping treason as betrayal of the Roman Catholic faith. Was anyone at court actually devout? Remembering the drunken revelry from the night before, he doubted it. “Someone knows of my position with Walsingham. Who?”
“Well, Norfolk is now missing a head. Ludlow is in the Tower. It could be any of their retainers, but I know of none at court. If they have any wits at all, they’ll be hiding in the country now.”
Henry threw a leg over the bench and sat down. “Baroness Ludlow is at court.” A small woman with a constant look as if she’d sniffed a chamber pot, he never liked her, but couldn’t consider her a real threat. Still, her husband was in prison for treason—he couldn’t discount her.
“She was at the masque and in costume,” Hatton replied, fanning his hand in the smoke, “attending the Queen for most of the night.”
“Do you have any suggestions?
“Mayhap Mistress Radclyffe was an easy target? What worries me more is that her gown was very similar to Mistress LeSieur’s. White fabric with a generous display of . . . ” Henry, his eyes burning from the smoke in the room, glared a warning at Hatton. “Beadwork.”
Henry cocked a brow. Interesting thought. “You think my wife may have been the target?”
“It is possible.” Hatton waved his hands in front of his face, ineffective against the thickening smoke. “Blasted chimney.”
Henry coughed, the taste of ash thick on his tongue, and opened two more shutters as Hatton drenched the fire in the grate.
“We pulled rats from the flue two days ago. Before that there was a nest.”
Henry grabbed a tankard and filled it at the barrel, taking a deep swallow before asking, “Nature or vandalism?”
Hatton worked a poker into the flue over the fizzling fire. A wet thud followed by hissing steam answered his question. “Sodden wool. Someone plugged the chimney. More of a nuisance than a hazard, unless it had gone unnoticed into the night.” He ran a hand over his face, not easing the tension at all. “Damn it, this was done on purpose.”
“Do you think it relates to Mistress Radclyffe?” Henry toed the smoldering mess. Plain, inexpensive wool. A blanket, perhaps?
“Either way,” Hatton, also a smoldering mess, pounded his fist on the chimney breast, cracking the plaster, “something is afoot, and I will not stand for it.”
“Someone has sabotaged the guardhouse, possibly three times, and attacked a courtier. These are very different crimes and may not be the same culprit.”
“Wondrous. Multiple villains running amuck at Hampton Court—I look forward to informing Her Majesty, or worse, Baron Burghley.”
“What are we telling to whom?” Blanche Parry eclipsed the light in the open door, filling the space with her skirts and plumage.
“Mistress Parry,” Henry stated, dropping back in a reverance as Hatton did the same.
“Rise you up, gentlemen. And do have someone look into the chimney. A body could choke on the smoke in here.”
“As you say, madam,” Hatton offered, bowing over her outstretched hand. “Pray be at your ease here. I can offer you ale or wine, if you wish . . . ”
“I wish,” she interrupted, her sharp eyes darting between his face and Hatton’s, “to see to Mistress Jane Radclyffe. I have been told we can find her here.” Of course Mistress Parry knew already.
Hatton offered his hand, leading the way. “Aye, madam. She was found before dawn and brought here for succor and safety. I did not know her identity right away or who to inform of her whereabouts.”
“Well I am here now, lad, and insist you show us to her at once.”
Us? Henry looked up as Mistress Parry gusted past him and up the stairs followed by Mistress Montgomery. Frances remained in the doorway, her eyes wide.
He reveranced once more. “Good morrow, my lady wife. I trust you slept well.”
The blood drained from her face, giving him warning he may need to catch her. She merely stepped sharply back and grabbed tight to the door frame as she steadied herself.
“My lord husband, you shaved your beard,” she said weakly, her face almost green tinged. Apparently, not all the wine she’d consumed last night had been left on the floor of the alcove in the great hall.
“It is nice to see you this morn, as well, Frances.”
• • •
Henry. She had kissed Henry last night. Her husband. Her husband was Pride. Henry, holding her now, his bare hand hot on her skin, saying her Christian name. Would he kiss her again? God help me. Frances swallowed against the bile that threatened and closed her eyes. The world around her spun, and she opened them once more.
“Frances,” his voice poured over her again, his breath a soft caress against her cheek. “Is this the first time you have been hungover? I have never known you to over-imbibe.”
She sat up, stiffening her shoulders within the circle of his arms. “You have never known me at all, my lord husband.”
Henry. She wanted to say his name, feel it on her tongue. Would it be foreign, too personal? She couldn’t remember if he had ever spoken her name before today. She was through being “my lady wife” and Mistress LeSieur, but to be Frances, her name on his lips, tempted in a way she couldn’t define.
His jaw tensed, but he did not step away. She wanted him to, didn’t she? Of course she did. How else would he see reason and grant her the separation? After all, that was the reason she had come to town, even though Jane had said she should . . .
“Jane!” The thought brought Frances into the present. She grabbed her husband’s shoulders, using him to launch herself up. Telling her rumbling stomach to cease and desist, she followed Mistress Parry and Mary up the stairs, only remembering her manners by the time she reached the landing.
She turned to see Henry standing at the foot of the stairs, his brows steepled and a funny quirk to his lips. “God give you good den, husband.” She muttered the nicety by rote as she gave a polite reverance. His gaze held hers, and she stumbled as she tried to rise. Had his eyes always been so dark? Had so many secrets hidden in them? Shaking her head, she turned and ran into Jane’s room.
Mary knelt at the bedside, not quite touching Jane’s bandaged hand. Jane lay there, bundled in woolen blankets, her fair hair slicked away from her face and fresh bruising rising along her jaw and cheeks. She looked so small, almost like a child, and Frances’s heart ached for her.
Jane looked up from under blond-tipped lashes. “I look a fright.”
“No, you do not,” Frances spoke at the same time Mary said, “Indeed you do.”
Jane smiled, then winced as the corner of her swollen lip cracked.
“Oh sweeting, what happened?” Mistress Parry asked.
“I do not remember the details. I was waiting for Jean Luc . . . ”
“Who is Jean Luc?” Mary interrupted.
Jane sighed and closed her eyes. “The Frenchman I told you about, the one who gave me the book. You know,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “who did that thing with his tongue . . . ”
Mary stifled a quick laugh, and Frances felt heat flush her face, then jumped as someone coughed directly behind her. She turned to see her husband propping up the door frame. He raised a brow and pulled something from a pocket in his breeches. A book. No, the book. Her face flushed with heat, and she turned back to Jane.
Frances turned back, her full attention on Jane, and prompted, “So, Jean Luc . . . ”
“Never came, that I know of. At least, I am not sure. I remember a pain in my head and then I had a mouth full of grass and someone on my back.” Jane partially sat up in bed, bringing her bandaged hands up to her chest. “I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fight back. They smashed my face into the ground over and over, and then I woke up, freezing, a large man in the red of the Queen’s Guard, lifting me as if I were thistledown.”
Kit Hatton pushed himself into to the room. “One of my guardsmen found her unconscious around three in the morning. I do not know how
long she had been there, but the blood on her hands was already caked.”
“Have you investigated this Jean Luc?” Henry asked.
Hatton nodded. “He is with the French Ambassador’s entourage and remained in the great hall all night waiting on Queen Elizabeth’s ladies.”
A soft snore drew Frances’s attention back to Jane, small and pale, wrapped in quilts on a meager pallet.
“Will she be all right?” Mary asked. “Is it good for her to sleep right now?”
“She gave clear instructions that we were to wake her and check her eyes every half hour,” Hatton answered, his voice lilting with amusement. “She may not remember the attack well, but she came to with her wits intact and no shortage of spirit. She prescribed herself a valerian-root tincture and instructed one of my men how to make an onion poultice for the wounds on her hand.”
Frances nodded her approval. Jane knew her way around the herbs in a still room and always made herself available to those in need at Holme LeSieur. An onion poultice would pull out any infection. Valerian root would relax Jane enough to sleep through the worst of it without causing a bleed. The knot of dread that closed around her heart the moment Mistress Parry told her of the attack loosened, and Frances sagged in relief.
“Frances.”
The spoken word, her name of all things, sent a shiver of pleasure along her skin. She turned to look up at her husband. A soft smile played on his face, and Frances could imagine the little boy he once was. In an instant, his jaw tensed, his lips firming into a harsh line as he glared at someone behind her. Looking back, she saw Hatton’s broad grin. Frances felt helpless, caught between Henry’s scowl and the laughter in Hatton’s eyes.
Courtly Pleasures Page 9
