The Lady of Secrets

by Susan Carroll

  Graham drew closer in an effort to peer sharply at his face. “Why are you suddenly showing such concern for the Lady of Faire Isle? Do you mean to appoint yourself her protector?”

  “Lord, no. Knight errantry is your forte, not mine.”

  “But you do fancy her.”

  When Blackwood shook his head in denial, Graham insisted, “I saw you kiss her.”

  “I kiss every pretty woman I meet. It is a careless habit of mine.” Blackwood hoped the darkness was enough to conceal the rush of blood to his face. Kissing Margaret Wolfe had been a mistake. He had only done it to tease her, bring a halt to her questions that probed too deep. He had never expected to find her mouth warm, sweet, and yielding enough to stir his lust.

  The line of Graham’s jaw softened, but his voice was grave as he said, “Armagil, I beg you, nay I must insist, you have nothing to do with Margaret Wolfe. My affairs are complicated enough without you seducing the Lady of Faire Isle.”

  “I have no intention of doing so. I like my wenches coarse and earthy, with big bosoms and plump arses. I have no taste for ethereal females like Mistress Wolfe. She is the sort of woman calculated to make a man think and feel too much and those are two activities I strenuously avoid.”

  His words coaxed a laugh from Graham. “Good. Then you will avoid Margaret Wolfe as well.”

  He glanced up toward the sky, which had gone silent, surrendering its darkness to the usual scattering of stars and the solemn light of a three-quarter moon.

  “It appears the festivities are at an end and the crowd dispersing. I should go fetch the ladies, but I am glad we have reached this understanding.” Graham smiled at Blackwood and headed toward the barge tethered near the landing stairs.

  “I am right glad that you are so glad,” Blackwood muttered as his friend moved off into the darkness. “But I still don’t understand a blasted thing.”

  He realized now that Graham had deftly avoided answering any of Blackwood’s questions regarding Margaret and how she figured in Graham’s plans, whatever they were.

  At the top of the landing stairs, Graham was accosted by the red-haired doxy. She sashayed closer, reaching out to touch him, but he sprang back. Although his revulsion was evident, he engaged the woman in a few moments of conversation before bowing and moving on. No doubt Graham had abjured the woman to forsake her sinful way of life. Advice that had fallen on deaf ears. The woman merely shrugged and pranced off to accost someone else.

  Blackwood smiled. At times, Graham could be so naively earnest and at others … Blackwood’s smile faded. At other times, Graham worried the devil out of him.

  Although they had much in common, he and Graham were very different men. Neither of them had experienced a halcyon youth, both plagued by memories that were the stuff of nightmares. But Blackwood chose to bury his past deep beneath the rubble of chaos that was his present life. Graham nurtured his grievances like live coals on a hearth, fanning them to a white-hot pitch. Blackwood had always feared that one day those embers would flame out of control, consuming Graham and anyone unfortunate enough to be close to him.

  That day might be approaching at a perilous rate, but how could he help Graham when he couldn’t even conquer his own demons? The harsh truth was that he’d never been any good at saving anyone. He was a complete failure as a doctor and a miserable excuse of a friend. The best he could do was honor Graham’s request and keep his distance, especially from Margaret Wolfe. That should prove no hardship.

  But he was beset by a vivid image of moonlight spilling through the loft of his lodgings, bathing the Lady of Faire Isle as she sprawled on his bed, her body lithe, warm, and naked. Modesty and primness forgotten, her face would be flushed with passion, her lips cherry ripe. Her green eyes all come-hither, she would welcome him to bury himself deep in the tight delta of—

  “Christ’s blood,” Blackwood swore, pinching the bridge of his nose to dispel the vision before it had its inevitable effect on his body. Too late, he could already feel himself get hard.

  Was it possible to feel this degree of arousal from one stolen kiss? Maybe there was something of the witch about Margaret Wolfe or maybe it was his own perversity. Tell him something was forbidden and he immediately yearned after it.

  He tipped up his flask for a drink. Empty. He gave a hollow sigh. What he really needed was a night of oblivion, dicing at some low tavern, getting drunk on sack, and going upstairs with some willing doxy.

  As though he had conjured her up with the thought, the red-haired wench he had observed with Graham accosted him.

  “All alone, sir? Perhaps in need of a little companionship?” She ran her hands over the curve of her bosom with a giggle. Despite her efforts to play the coy girl, the days of her youth were far behind her. The rouge smeared on her cheeks only accented the lines that creased her eyes and the cloying scent of her perfume repulsed him.

  “Off with you, woman. I have no interest in your wares.”

  “That is because you have no idea what I am selling. I have many skills.”

  “Such as?”

  “I am a fortune-teller, especially adept at the art of hydromancy. I could read the waters of the river and tell you your future.”

  “I would be far better able to predict yours. Death by the French pox or the hangman’s noose if you don’t find yourself a different line of trade.” He tried to brush past her, but she seized hold of his hand.

  “Your future doesn’t interest you, Dr. Blackwood?”

  He started at her use of his name, squinting at her in the semidarkness. Something about her stirred his memory, that red fall of hair, the feline smile. “Have we met before? Do I know you?”

  “I know you very well, Doctor.” She upended his hand and lifted it close to her face. “Your palm tells me everything. If you won’t let me predict your future, perhaps you would like me to recite your past.”

  She grinned. Her tongue darting out catlike, she licked his palm. Blackwood swore and jerked his hand away.

  “My past is none of your concern. You’d do well to remember that.”

  If she perceived the menace in his tone, she was unimpressed by it. She gave a throaty laugh and pranced on her way. Grimacing with disgust, Blackwood wiped his palm on his doublet.

  “Stupid wench,” he muttered, trying to dismiss the encounter. She had greeted him by name. That in itself was not remarkable. Many of his patients came from the alehouses and gaming pits. He was well known in the less respectable quarters of London.

  Far more disturbing was her hint that she knew something of his history. Blackwood rubbed his temple, wishing his head was clearer. Then he might recollect where he had met the girl before. Had he been with Graham at the time? That seemed highly unlikely, unless it had been upon one of those occasions when Graham had made another bootless attempt to save Blackwood from himself, venturing to the alehouse to drag Blackwood home.

  Blackwood turned around for another look at the girl, but she had already melted into the night.

  AMELIA SKIPPED ALONG THE ALLEY, HUMMING A SOFT TUNE, even though she knew she was being reckless. Despite the keenness of her vision, it would be all too easy to trip over a stray paving stone or step into a rut and turn her ankle.

  Even greater was the danger of calling too much attention to herself in an area of London infamous for the predators that lurked in the shadows. But Amy was in far too good a humor for her usual caution, and besides, she accounted herself as one of those denizens of the night, the dirk she kept concealed beneath her cloak always ready to hand. Many a man who had mistaken her for a plump partridge realized too late he had seized hold of a falcon when her talons struck deep, drawing blood.

  But the crowds at the celebration tonight must have offered better sport for the footpads and pickpockets. Amy passed down the alley unmolested. It was not until she reached the wooden stair that led to her lodging above the alehouse that something stirred in the darkness. Amy came to a halt, but too late.

  The cloak
ed figure sprang, shoving Amy against the alehouse wall. Amy’s heart leapt with fright, but she reacted quickly, unsheathing her knife.

  She was poised to strike when her attacker screamed, “Boo!” and broke into familiar laughter.

  Amy lowered her knife, releasing a shuddering breath. Fear was swiftly replaced by anger, and she cursed, calling her older sister Beatrice every vile name she could think of.

  Bea only laughed harder. She shoved back the hood of her cloak, a sliver of moonlight playing over her grinning face. Amy might well have been gazing at her mirror image, the same auburn hair, high forehead, and long nose. Except that her sister’s eyes were a shade cooler, her face much leaner than Amy’s rosy-cheeked softness. Amy was the spring to Bea’s winter, or so their grandmother had always said.

  Amy sheathed her knife. “Damn you, Bea. You scared the devil out of me.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” Bea mocked. “Anyway, it serves you right for tripping along like some careless little fool and for being out so late. What took you so long? Did you find out anything?”

  Miffed by her sister’s trick, Amy ignored her questions. She stomped up the stairs, close followed by Bea, who was still snickering. Her sister’s mirth only added to Amy’s sense of injury.

  Inside their lodging, she refused to look at Bea or speak to her. Amy whipped off her cloak and tossed it upon the bed, knowing that would annoy her sister. Bea liked things tidy.

  She was gratified to hear Bea’s vexed oath as Amy moved closer to the hearth. She and Bea shared a small, mean room, not worth the five shillings a week the rapacious alehouse owner, Mistress Keating, charged them. The furnishings consisted of little more than a straw pallet, a small pine table, a pair of stools, and a storage chest.

  But Bea had kindled a crackling fire and Amy held her hands to the blaze. Until that moment she had not realized how chilled she was. The autumn nights were getting raw and Amy did so hate to be cold.

  The warmth of the fire did much to restore her good humor, that and the sound of Bea huffing about the chamber. Without glancing around, Amy knew that Bea was hanging up Amy’s cloak and grumbling as she did so. Amy’s lips twitched into a smug smile.

  Bea no longer appeared quite so jovial when she joined Amy by the hearth. “All right, I am sorry for frightening you,” she said, although Amy did not think her sister sounded quite sorry enough.

  Amy started to tell her so when she was distracted by a strange plaintive sound. “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  The noise came again. Meow.

  “That sounds like a cat,” Amy accused. Bea’s eyes sparkled with malicious mischief, darting toward the far corner of the room.

  Amy shoved past her, tracking the mews to their source. A wooden cage was tucked behind the wardrobe chest. A small ginger-haired cat cowered behind the bars.

  Amy drew back in disgust. She loathed cats; nasty, sly, slinking things. They made her skin crawl and her nose itch. Whipping around with her hands on her hips, she confronted Bea. “What is that doing here?”

  Bea sauntered over to join her. “ ’Tis my new friend.”

  “That looks more like Mistress Keating’s friend, Grimalkin, to me.”

  Bea hunkered down by the cage, poking her fingers through the bars. The creature’s fur stood on end, its frightened meows louder. Bea grinned. She liked being feared. It gave her a sense of power. She was very like their late grandmother in that regard.

  When Bea unlatched the cage door, Amy skittered back. “Oh, pray, don’t take that thing out of there.”

  Bea ignored her. The creature hissed when Bea reached for it, but she only laughed, even when the beast scratched her. She hauled it out of the cage by the scruff of its neck. The cat yowled and struggled, but Bea locked it in a tight grip beneath her arm, holding it fast so it could neither bite nor scratch.

  Amy peered at the creature from a safe distance, noting the blaze of white fur on its brow above its wide frightened eyes.

  “That is Grimalkin. What are you doing with him?”

  “I borrowed him, without Mistress Keating’s consent of course. You should have seen her searching for him all afternoon, calling here, kitty, kitty, setting out saucers of milk. It was heart-wrenching.” Bea gloated. “Mistress Keating dotes on this miserable puss as much as evil King James does on his hunting dogs.”

  Amy’s nose itched and she suppressed the urge to sneeze. Backing off further, she scolded her sister. “Mistress Keating is a right old bitch, but you are not wise to plague her, Bea. We have not the time or the funds to seek out other lodgings.”

  “She has no idea that I am the one who stole her precious Grimalkin and the bitch deserves to be plagued. She called me a slut and a whore.”

  Bea often laughingly described herself in those terms, but she did not stomach such insults from anyone else. Nor was she one to ever forgive and forget any injury, so Amy realized there was little point in trying to reason with her sister.

  “Just keep that thing away from me,” she said.

  Bea made a playful motion as though she would hurl the cat at Amy. She laughed when Amy leaped back and then settled herself upon a stool, the cat locked in a death grip upon her lap. Oblivious to its pitiful cries, Bea stroked it behind the ears.

  “Enough about the cat. Tell me where you have been tonight and what you have seen.”

  Amy sneezed and her eyes watered, neither of which made her feel much inclined to answer her sister. But she replied sulkily, “I was down to the docks and I saw Dr. Blackwood alight from a barge from Gravesend.”

  “Damn Blackwood! Who cares a fig for him? The drunken fool is of no use to—” Bea began irritably, only to stop as the realization struck her. “Wait! If the doctor has returned to London, then that must mean Sir Patrick Graham has returned as well.”

  Bea was being so annoying this evening, between the mean trick she had played earlier and fetching home that horrid cat. Amy would have liked to punish her by clamming up, and telling her not another word. But the good tidings Amy had acquired bubbled up inside of her and could not be suppressed.

  “Oh, Bea! Sir Patrick has kept his pledge. He has fetched the Lady to England.”

  Amy waited for Bea to squeal with delight and share Amy’s excitement. She should have known better. Bea seldom got excited nor did she ever squeal. Leaning back against the wall, she continued to pet that accursed cat.

  “How can you be so sure it was the Lady?” she asked

  “Because I hid myself near the landing stairs and watched as Sir Patrick helped the Lady of Faire Isle from the barge. I caught a glimpse of her.”

  “You caught a glimpse?”

  Her sister’s sneering tone nettled Amy. “I saw enough of her to tell that Margaret Wolfe is exactly as the old woman described her, small, delicate, but possessed of a mystical aura. Or dare I call her by her true name, Megaera, our revered Silver Rose?”

  “I would not just yet, if I were you.”

  “But I tell you it has to be Megaera. Sir Patrick found her just as he promised.”

  “It was not a promise he gave willingly, only because we obliged him to.”

  “No matter. He has kept his side of the bargain.”

  “Or is ready to trick us into believing he did. He could have fetched any woman here and called her the Lady of Faire Isle.”

  “Sir Patrick would not do such a thing. He is a man of honor, a holy man.”

  Bea pursed her lips together and made a rude noise. “Those are the worst kind of men, capable of any sort of treachery or lies to further their cause, then scurrying off to wipe the slate clean by confessing and doing penance. You are such a fool, Amy. I think you are half in love with your pretty Sir Patrick.”

  “Am not,” she retorted. But she took an agitated turn about the room to conceal the rush of heat to her cheeks. When she was drifting off at night on her rough pallet, she had indulged in some agreeable fantasies about being wed to the beautiful Sir Patrick, living in
his fine house, sleeping in his feather bed, dining upon rich cream and strawberries whenever she desired. My Lady Graham.

  Such a foolish daydream and so wrong. Being a devotee of the Silver Rose meant vowing never to marry, never to love. Men should be nothing more than diversions and idle playthings on the road to power, the quest to become a sorceress, well-versed in all the dark knowledge. Amy’s late grandmother would be so ashamed of her granddaughter for indulging in such ridiculous dreams of Sir Patrick. Granddam would likely turn over in her grave. That is if a woman who had been reduced to a pile of charred bone and ash could even be said to have a proper grave.

  Regaining command of herself, Amy spun back to face her sister. “I am not besotted with Sir Patrick, although he is so handsome. He would make a far more agreeable pet than that mangy cat. I would like to lock him up in a cage.”

  “Perhaps one day you shall, but in the meantime, Amy, show a little caution and good sense. This woman Sir Patrick brought to London may well turn out to be the Silver Rose, but we must make test of her.”

  “Oh, yes. If she is Megeara, she will know much of the dark arts. I so want her to teach me everything she learned from the Book of Shadows and how to fashion witch blades.”

  “Even if this woman is Megaera, she might be loath to share her knowledge. Remember, she turned her back on the coven, abandoned her title of Silver Rose.”

  “Only because she was a silly little girl and her father spirited her away. She is a grown woman now.”

  “A woman who has shown no inclination to revive the coven.”

  “She must be forced to do so. We will never be able to perform the ritual without her. She must be obliged to remember who she truly is, to recall her great destiny.”

  “And if she refuses to be reminded?”

  “Then she will pay the price for her treachery, just as evil King James will be forced to pay for what he did to our grandmother.” Amy stamped her foot in sheer frustration, her previous elation quashed beneath Bea’s doubts and irritating questions. But it was ever thus with Bea, on the sunniest day, conjuring up dark clouds to darken Amy’s horizon.