by Anna Castle
“Oh yes.” He took another sip and smacked his lips. “It takes some stirring in a cool drink, but it’s good. You should try it.”
“I don’t need a love potion when you’re all I’ve got to look at. I’ll save mine for — I don’t know who.”
“You’ll find another lady in no time, my lord.”
Stephen shrugged. “Nothing’s served by sitting around brooding, is it?” He broke a meat pie in half to let the savory steam escape. “What do you think about that French ambassador’s clerk? I’ll bet Mr. Bacon told you something about him. He must know all of those sorts of people.”
“He didn’t mention anyone in particular,” Tom lied. “But he did say he thought it might be a Frenchman.” He wished he’d paid more attention to Bacon and his friend at the wedding supper. Or hauled him out of the cubicle to get a good, long look. He vaguely remembered dark hair, but not an especially Southern look. Not swarthy, at any rate. Short? Tall? Fat? Not fat, by the size of the cubicle, and taller than Bacon. Which was no surprise, come to think of it. Bacon liked men with that sort of long-limbed frame.
“It makes sense he’d be a clerk though, doesn’t it?” Stephen said. “The killer, I mean. Hitting Arthur with a brick. Poisoning Anne. A courtier wouldn’t do either one of those things.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the method as much as the result.
“I’ve been thinking that too. Courtiers are trained to use weapons, all sorts. Even if someone caught you by surprise with a brick in your hand, I think you’d drop it and go for your knife, don’t you?”
“I would.” Stephen spoke as if he had a vast experience of combat, but he’d never been in anything worse than an undergraduate scuffle, as far as Tom knew. Then again, who knew what he’d done during his year on the Continent? The Germans were the world’s greatest swordsmen, or so it was said.
Tom rose and spotted a brick-sized box on one of the shelves behind him. He looked over his shoulder and said, “Let’s try it. Come at me.”
Stephen had just stuffed half a pie in his mouth, but he nodded and dusted the crumbs from his hands. He chewed rapidly as he got up and went to the door. He gulped down the pie and said, “Ready. Don’t look.”
Tom focused on the box, trying to think like a spy. Then he was genuinely surprised by Stephen’s touch on his left shoulder, expecting him to come from the right, near the door. He cried, “Hoi!” as he dropped the box and spun around on the ball of his right foot, drawing his knife from the sheath at his back in the same motion.
They stopped and grinned at each other. “I didn’t even think about it,” Tom said. “I just spun around and drew my knife.”
“That’s the purpose of the training,” Stephen said. “Remember? Our fencing master in London used to say that all the time. The Germans were even more zealous. That was the one good thing about Nuremburg — rapier practice every afternoon.”
“You’re probably better than I am by now,” Tom said, meaning it. He only had a lesson once a week.
They went back to their seats and gave the pies and wine their full attention for a few minutes, like men who had accomplished a job of work. Tom was glad for this chance to work through the crimes with Stephen. They were about the same age and had had the same education until Stephen left Gray’s. They had similar instincts about how things worked.
Trumpet was extraordinary, no question, surpassing all but the greats like Sir Walter in terms of courage and leadership. But she was a woman — every luscious inch of her — and on the short side for her sex. She wouldn’t think twice about striking a man with a brick if she had one handy.
And Mr. Bacon was basically a clerk. A genius clerk of superior lineage, but still, a soft-bodied quill-pusher. It was hard to imagine him wielding that brick with enough force to kill a man. More likely, he’d drop it with a scream and run away.
“What will Mr. Bacon think about our demonstration?” Stephen asked. “Will he want us to do it again? It’ll be harder to surprise you a second time.”
“I’m still surprised you surprised me the first time.” Tom chuckled. “It’s not the kind of proof he likes. Judges don’t care for playacting, generally speaking. But for myself, I’m convinced.” He was also truly grateful to be able to cross Sir Walter Ralegh and Sir Charles Blount off his list once and for all.
Their ladies could have done it, but even having read chilling tales about Emperor Caligula’s wicked sister, he didn’t fear them like he did England’s most famous knights.
“What do you think about that love potion, my lord?”
“I wish I could remember who had it first. I’d had a lot to drink by then.”
Not by accident, though everyone in Stephen’s circle drank a lot. “They kept me pretty busy on the dais, serving and pouring wine. I didn’t pay much attention to the rest of the hall.”
Stephen gave him a calculating look. “I didn’t realize how many of my honored guests knew your father.” He sounded envious. Tom doubted any of them had drawn the young earl into fond reminiscences about the late Lord Dorchester. Who would?
“They’re waiting to see what you do, my lord. Who you seek out, what positions you take on matters of great importance to the state.”
“Great matters. Yes.” Stephen frowned. “I suppose I’ll have to form opinions on things, won’t I?”
“You can do whatever you want. You outrank all those men — except maybe Lord Admiral Howard.”
“I do, don’t I?” Stephen sighed, plainly relieved that he wouldn’t be called upon to form opinions anytime soon. He poured himself more wine and pursed his lips at Tom’s pot of honey. “I have a question about that love potion. Had you ever heard of henbane before today?”
“Yesterday, when Mr. Bacon told us — er, me, about it. Before that?” Tom shook his head. “Not a whisper. And you know what? That is a very astute observation, Steenie. Not even Bacon thought of it.”
Stephen tilted his pointed chin up, pleased with himself, and rightly so. “I would’ve thought it was something they used to kill chickens.”
“Me too. I’ve heard of love potions, of course, but I’ve never used one.”
“You’ve got that dimple.”
Tom laughed. “Well, you’re an earl. That seems to work pretty well.”
“Not with countesses, apparently, but otherwise, not so bad. Where would you start if you wanted to make a poisonous love potion?”
“I’d find a corrupt alchemist.”
Stephen snapped his fingers. “Me too. But the ones we met today all seemed like fair-players, don’t you think?”
“Fair as a summer day.” Tom scratched his beard. “Our poisoner must’ve done it himself. Or herself. Ladies know a lot about herbs and medicines. My mother has a copy of Turner’s Herbal in her stillroom. Big fat thing, full of drawings of plants.”
“My mother has one too, I think.” Stephen shook his head. “Not that I suspect her of any such . . .”
“Of course not.” Tom wondered for the first time about the cause of Lord Dorchester’s death. He shook the thought away. Most people died of natural causes. “I’ll bet the queen’s gentlewomen know about that sort of thing too. Their mothers will have taught them.”
“Oh, they know.” Stephen nodded deeply. “They’re the ones who mix Her Majesty’s tonics and lotions and so forth. I’ve heard all about it from Anne and Mary.”
“You know the queen’s ladies better than I do. I barely know which is which. Do you think one of them could have done this?”
“One of them must have, mustn’t she? With or without that French clerk. But they’re a tough lot, Tom.” Stephen gave a low whistle. “Not like tavern wenches or shop maids. They’re educated, for one thing. I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, frankly. My wife reads all the time, for no reason.” He slumped in his chair. “She’s a lot smarter than she seemed when I first met her. I thought she was this meek, agreeable girl. A bit maidenish, but nothing a little tenderness wouldn’t cure. Now she’s brisk and co
mmanding, telling me where to go and what to say.” He kicked at the foot of the desk. “I’m not saying she’s wrong, mind you. She’s just different. Although she’s still very pretty. Actually, she seems prettier now that I think of it. Something in her step or the color of her cheeks . . .”
The glow! What could they do about it? Nothing, probably, short of not jumping on each other whenever they could steal a moment of privacy. Those cubicles in the library didn’t look so bad now that he thought of it.
Tom schooled his face into a show of sympathy, and in truth he did feel some. He considered what it would be like to live with Trumpet, every day, man and wife, pulling that yoke together. She could be a bit overmasterful, truth be told, and some of her ideas were madness, pure and simple. But no — he could hold his own with her. Especially now that he knew all her ticklish spots.
He had to wipe his palm across his face to hide his grin. “An intelligent wife is an advantage, my lord, especially for a man of your station. Look at my guardian, Lady Russell. She may be a widow, but the same principle applies. She’s cleverer than all the stewards in the world rolled together. She knows as much about estate law as most of the men at Gray’s and she’s utterly relentless.”
Stephen grumbled but conceded the point. “If you say so. But what’s the use of building great estates if you don’t have an heir?”
“You’ll have an heir before you know it. It often happens on the wedding night, haven’t you noticed? It’s the luck of the day or the moon or something like that.”
“The moon was very bright,” Stephen said. “I remember it shining into my lady’s bedchamber. I could barely see her, to be honest, beyond the shimmery blur of that enormous white veil.”
“There, you see?” Further proof that Catalina thought of everything. He should buy her a gift when he sold that silver beaker. She’d like a well-balanced throwing knife, he’d wager — speaking of people who would drop the brick and seize their weapon. “Do any of the queen’s ladies speak French, do you know?”
“Any? They all speak French. It’s one of their qualifications. Young, beautiful, well-mannered, good family, good at dancing, and fluent in French. One of their chief duties is entertaining visitors waiting for an audience.” He sat up straight and snapped his fingers at Tom. “They take gratuities from visitors sometimes for bits of news about the queen’s humor or what she’s thinking that day. Remember? Arthur told us that.”
“I forgot all about it.” Tom had only been to the Presence Chamber once. He thought of all the people milling around in that magnificent room hoping to be invited a step or two closer to the throne, whence all good things descended. “They would know the ambassador’s gentlemen too, wouldn’t they? They’d stand around chatting with them while he spoke with the queen.”
“They would, wouldn’t they? And then they’d only use that hole in the wall for the most valuable secrets — the things you wouldn’t want anyone to overhear you saying.”
“And for payment,” Tom said. “Are you sure there wasn’t a bag of coins at the back of that hole?”
“I wish.” Stephen’s eyes turned blank as his mouth softly opened, signaling a thought working its way up from the depths. “I wonder —”
A feminine voice sang out, “Hello, hello! Anyone here?” Lady Mary Buckleigh sailed into the room followed by three maids of honor. “We’ve come to cheer you up, my lord. Also” — she flashed a winsome smile at Tom — “we hear there are puppies somewhere hereabout.”
Tom hopped to his feet, found his hat, and bowed with it before putting it back on. Stephen sat right where he was, though he did smile at the intruders.
“Mastiff puppies,” Tom said. “Six of them. Adorable! I’ll send for them.” He ushered the ladies in and stepped out to summon a boy. Then he shook himself from head to toe while standing on the stoop. The gleam in Lady Mary’s eyes had not been sparked solely by the prospect of puppies.
He went back inside and offered the ladies wine, though he could only find one empty cup. Mary helped herself to his with another winsome smile.
Those smiles were raising the fine hairs on the back of his neck — or maybe that was from the sensation that Trumpet could see him somehow and would know if he accidentally returned a smile with anything that could be construed as encouragement. He didn’t want to encourage, but old habits died hard.
Stephen rose to introduce him to the maids of honor. The eldest, Elizabeth Brydges, looked a bit younger than Mary — seventeen or so. The other two, Mary Fitton and Frances Brydges, were practically infants — well under fifteen, all pink-cheeked and giggly. Tom felt a sweet pang, remembering his sisters at that age. They’d tormented him mercilessly as the only boy, but that was years ago. All three were grown and married now, with pink-cheeked children of their own.
Stephen seated Mary on the bench under a portrait of King Henry the Eighth. He turned around to twitch and grimace at Tom, signaling that he should go sit beside her. Tom stretched his lips and nodded, but all he could think of was how well he and Trumpet had polished that bench yesterday. His mind filled with a vision of her lying back with her bodice unlaced and her skirts flounced up around her hips, exposing her shapely white legs . . .
“You sit there,” he finally managed. “I’ll handle the puppies when they come.” He went and sat behind his desk.
Mary’s eyes narrowed, but she recovered quickly. She hopped up, saying, “I’m too excited to sit down.” She swayed over to the desk and made a small drama of adjusting her skirts to rest a round portion of her arse on the edge. She leaned toward him, wafting the scent of rose water under his nose. “What have you two men been doing all day? We’ve come by twice.”
“Oh, we’ve been out and about,” Tom said, leaning away from her. She truly was pretty, just the type of woman he used to fall in love with on a regular basis — or imagined he had. Now that he’d been stricken with one of Cupid’s genuine arrows, those former passions seemed like boyish fancies.
He met Mary’s eyes, the color of sapphires or cornflowers or some blue thing, and noted the glossiness of the yellow curls surrounding her stylish hat. He smiled at her, even giving her a touch of the famous dimple, and appreciated the lush pink lips that smiled back. His eyes could acknowledge her beauty, but his body felt not the slightest twinge of desire.
Part of that was due to all the recent lusty exercise, but most of it went to Cupid’s credit. When his arrow struck, it took everything — the whole man. Gazing into Mary’s shining blue eyes, he understood beyond the last shadow of doubt that he would never love anyone other than Alice for as long as he lived.
The old Tom was gone, and the new Tom was the better for it.
He was spared further response by the arrival of two lads from the kennels bearing armloads of wriggling gray puppies. The maids began hopping up and down, squealing and clapping their hands. “Me! Me!”
Tom directed them to kneel in a circle and make a pen of their skirts.
“Oh, they look just like fat little judges,” the youngest one cooed. “Look at their funny wrinkled faces!”
“Their fur is like velvet!” another one cried, holding a puppy to her cheek.
“Why are they so sad, Mr. Clarady?” the oldest one asked.
“Because they haven’t met you lovely ladies yet.” He stretched out on his belly between the two younglings and picked up each pup in turn, causing them to introduce themselves in a variety of silly voices. The squeals of girlish rapture reached a brain-skewering pitch, but it was innocent good fun. A welcome change of pace — and it kept him out of Lady Mary’s silken clutches.
She wrinkled her nose, then sat in his chair with the air of a huntress prepared to wait out her prey. She began flipping through the papers on the desk. Tom felt a prickle of alarm. Where had he left that sketch he’d made for Sir Robert?
“What have you been doing all day, my lord?” Mary asked, batting her thick lashes at Stephen.
He sauntered over to lean on the panele
d wall beside her, crossing his arms and his ankles. He smiled down at her with a sly smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I would,” the lady declared. “Tell me!”
“Well,” Stephen drawled, “as a matter of fact, Tom and I were investigating Lady Anne’s death. We spent the better part of the day going up and down the river visiting apothecaries to ask about that love potion.”
“What about it?” Mary asked.
Heaven help them, he’d decided to impress her, dishing out some his scanty store of superior knowledge.
Stephen shot a wink at Tom and said, “Between you and me, my lady, I never believed it was an accident. In fact, I engaged Francis Bacon to examine the scene. He agreed with me straightaway.”
Mary clapped a beringed hand to her bosom. “My lord, you astonish me!”
He nodded. “Oh yes, I’m afraid that much is certain. She was murdered. You might want to tell the other ladies to be careful.”
Tom breathed a silent prayer to the great Lord of them all to shut Stephen’s flabby lips before anything else could escape them. But before he could get up and give God a hand, the maidens showered him with puppies, covering his head and shoulders, giggling wickedly as they caught the stragglers and piled them back on.
Under a landslide of velvet paws and slurping tongues, he heard Stephen droning on, warming to his theme under the influence of the flattering fascination of a very lovely lady. When he started telling her about the henbane and the French ambassador’s clerk, Tom banged his forehead against the floor.
If he could knock himself out, he could wake up later and perhaps discover that none of this had ever happened.
TWENTY-THREE
FRANCIS WOKE WITH A start to the resounding chorus of many horns. He sat up and listened. Fire? An attack on the palace? He’d been dreaming about war or some sort of tangled conflict . . . Bah. It was gone.
The horns sounded again, and this time he recognized the call. Today was the queen’s hunt. She would open the season for deer by chasing and killing a large stag in the company of her court. Those horns were being blown by eager participants wanting to get an early start by waking everyone else before the sun even peeked over the horizon.
