The Lady of Secrets

by Susan Carroll

  Dragging her thoughts back from the past, Meg strove to absorb Seraphine’s instructions.

  “… and the king loves flattery. So you should address him in such terms as ‘O wisest of kings since the great Solomon’ or ‘most royal all-beloved king of hearts.’ ”

  “I could never say such a thing and keep my countenance and surely the king would laugh or be disgusted.”

  “No, His Majesty will lap it up like honey.”

  “Even if I sounded so false?”

  “He’d never notice. A royal court is no place for sincerity.”

  As Seraphine fixed a golden girdle about Meg’s waist, she went on. “The king fancies himself a scholar, so you might compliment him on his learning. He is fluent in Latin and Greek and very fond of debate.”

  “In that at least, I might accommodate him. My own Latin and Greek are—”

  “Skills you’d best forget. The king has a very poor opinion of the intellect of women and I doubt he’d welcome being challenged by one.”

  “If he thinks so poorly of women, then why would he have taken such pains to have me fetched to him?”

  “That is exactly what worries me. That and why it has taken three days for a king desperate to be cured of a curse to grant you an audience.”

  “That question has troubled me as well,” Meg admitted.

  “No matter how cautious Sir Patrick has been in his arrangements, if he thinks he can keep this all quiet, then the man is a fool. Bess tells me there are already whispers about this strange curse afflicting the king. After this meeting, I fear there will be rumors about you as well, speculation about the cunning woman who journeyed so far to cure the king.”

  “I hope not. All I want is to meet quietly with His Majesty and find out what he can tell me of this supposed witch who cursed him.”

  “If your aim is to wangle information out of the king, then you’d best learn to flatter him and employ your feminine wiles.”

  “You would be far better at that.”

  “I know. But thanks to the way Sir Patrick has arranged all of this, I cannot even be there to watch over you. So I must arm you as best I can.”

  As Seraphine marched over to the bed to undo the last parcel, Meg said, “If you have bought me a dirk, I hardly think it wise for me to attempt to smuggle a weapon into the king’s presence.”

  “It wouldn’t be, especially since I cannot imagine you using it. But to please me, fasten this to your girdle.”

  Meg blinked when she saw what it was, an elegant fan with ivory handles. “What do you expect me to do with that, flirt with the king?”

  “No, I expect you to use it to keep an eye on your back since I will not be there to do it for you.”

  Seraphine unfurled the fan to display a tiny mirror attached to the center. Meg was tempted to laugh, but she checked herself. This seemed a trifle melodramatic, but Seraphine was deadly earnest as she demonstrated how to hold the fan and use the mirror to observe what was happening in the background.

  “Take this and practice until you can use it subtly. Now off with you while I summon Louise and Estelle and get ready myself.”

  “But ’Phine. You know you cannot accompany me.”

  “I am all too aware of that. I intend to find us an ally should this meeting of yours with the king go wrong. Bess has promised to present me to Queen Anne.”

  “Does the queen have that much influence with her husband?”

  “I don’t know. The king is said to be very fond of his wife. He vulgarly refers to her as ‘our Annie’ even before the entire court. Gerard had his pet name for me, but he reserved it for those times we were alone, intimate.” Seraphine’s voice lingered over the last word and her eyes softened with remembrance. Then she hustled Meg out the door.

  MEG PACED THE UPPER HALL, PRACTICING, BUT NOT WITH THE fan as Seraphine had commanded. Meg was far more concerned with her ability to walk in the high-heeled shoes without tripping and making a complete fool of herself. She wobbled along the landing, trying to keep her farthingale from swaying in awkward fashion, and resisting the urge to tug at the stiff ruff that scratched her neck.

  Rigging herself out in this finery was a mistake, just as she had feared it would be. The gown, the shoes, the fan, all of Seraphine’s warnings and instructions did little to bolster Meg’s confidence; quite the opposite.

  She took another turn about the hall only to draw up short when the door to Sir Patrick’s bedchamber opened and his manservant Alexander emerged.

  Meg started to greet him, inquire after his master’s whereabouts, but before she could even get out the words “Good morrow,” Alexander ducked past her, his golden hair falling like a shield over his eyes.

  Meg was not surprised or affronted. The Scotsman avoided speaking to her whenever he could. Meg was fully aware that Alexander regarded her with a mixture of fear and loathing, a natural reaction since the Scot had made it clear from the first he considered her a witch.

  It saddened Meg, since in all other respects Alexander seemed a worthy man and slavishly devoted to Sir Patrick.

  Gripping the rail, she descended the stairs to the lower hall, which she found deserted. Meg hesitated for a moment before directing her course toward the door that led out to the garden, although she did not know what she expected to find. The cloaked woman, if there indeed had been one, would be long gone. Perhaps Meg might find some trace of her, to prove that Meg had not been imagining things.

  As she entered the garden, Meg strove to recollect exactly where she had seen the woman appear to drop something. Over there, beneath the apple tree, she thought. Meg started in that direction when she heard masculine voices. Two men strolled into view from behind the shrubbery. One was the gardener Chalmers, the other Armagil Blackwood.

  Meg froze, her heart doing a curious kick against her ribs. She had a strong inclination to retreat. She felt awkward enough in her unaccustomed finery without displaying herself before Blackwood’s cynical gaze.

  But it was too late. Both men had already seen her, Chalmers dipping into a bow that caused his belly to double over his belt. Blackwood merely stared, taking in her altered appearance with a lift of his brows that could have betokened anything from surprise to amusement.

  Meg held her head high and approached with more grace than she had ever imagined possible. Just as she was congratulating herself, she stumbled, but Blackwood caught her arm to break her fall.

  “Steady,” he said. There was no longer any mistaking his expression. His eyes danced with amusement.

  Her cheeks firing, Meg tugged free of his grasp, striving to regain her dignity. She was aided by Chalmers’s warm greeting and beaming smile.

  “So, milady, you are all ready for your visit to Whitehall. If I may be permitted to say so, you look very handsome.”

  “You may, thank you.”

  “I have just been speaking of you to Dr. Blackwood. He was good enough to bring me a remedy for my stones, but I was informing him it was no longer necessary. Mistress Wolfe fixed me up a potion that has set me quite to rights.”

  “Has she indeed?” Blackwood said, looking none too pleased about it.

  Meg lifted her chin in a challenging manner. “There is a certain herbal medication that I have learned to brew that works quite well in the treatment of stones.”

  “Most certain it does. This morning, I was able to piss without screeching—” Chalmer’s plump face reddened. “Er—begging milady’s pardon for my vulgarity.”

  “Oh, that’s quite all right, Chalmers,” Blackwood drawled. “Any woman who plays at being a doctor can hardly be troubled by feelings of delicacy.”

  Before Meg could think of a retort, Chalmers was hailed by one of the maidservants beckoning him toward the kitchen door. With an uneasy glance at Meg and Blackwood, the gardener excused himself.

  After Chalmers’s retreat, an awkward silence ensued. No doubt that Blackwood felt that by treating Chalmers, she had encroached upon his territory. But she was not a
bout to apologize for it, especially when she caught sight of the vial clutched in Blackwood’s hand. The small clear glass bottle held a white beadlike substance that actually appeared to be moving.

  “What is that, Dr. Blackwood?”

  Blackwood held the bottle up for her closer inspection. “Lice.”

  “No wonder Mr. Chalmers was so grateful for my medicine. You expected the poor man to swallow those?”

  “No, the lice are meant to be inserted in the tip of a man’s cock.”

  When Meg shuddered, Blackwood snapped, “It may seem repulsive, but it has been known to work.”

  “I cannot imagine how. I have never heard of anything so ridiculous.”

  “No more ridiculous than some woman who putters with herbs claiming to know better than a doctor trained at Oxford.”

  “Perhaps we should ask Mr. Chalmers who knows best. Good day to you, sir.” With a nod of icy dignity, Meg turned to stalk away as best as she was able.

  She had not gone far down the garden path, when Blackwood called after her, “Mistress Wolfe. Wait.”

  Meg ignored him and kept on going, but he came after her and seized hold of her arm. Meg stiffened, “Let go of me. You are wreaking havoc with my sleeve and trampling Sir Patrick’s asters.”

  Blackwood spared a glance down at his boots. “Oh, blast Graham and his tidy little garden. Every time I am here, I want to snatch up a trowel and dig up the borders, let the flowers run wild as nature intended, like heather on a hill.”

  Meg started to nod, but checked herself, unwilling to concede that she could possibly agree with Blackwood on anything. She glared until he released her.

  “I did not intend to sound so curt just now,” he said. “I spoke out of concern for you as much anything else. It is not wise for a woman to go about dispensing medicine.”

  “Surely many women in England do so. Is it not considered part of a woman’s duty to know how to tend the ailments of her household?”

  “Yes, her own family and servants, but she would hardly saunter about the country, attending to strangers. Here in London, even midwives must obtain a license from the bishop before aiding women in their confinements.

  “If your potions should ever fail, you could so easily be charged with witchcraft.”

  “Do you not think I know that? It is a risk I have run all my life,” Meg said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. “The same danger any wise woman faces. Let but one patient die, and whether it is our fault or not, we could find ourselves facing the hangman’s noose whereas you doctors could destroy an entire village with impunity.”

  “Not an entire village, just a small household or two. Kill off more than that and one’s practice would likely decline.”

  Meg’s lips twitched, but she refused to allow him to provoke her into smiling.

  “Forgive me,” he coaxed, his eyes softening. “You know I can never remain serious about anything for long. It is a fatal flaw in my character. If I have offended you, I am sorry.”

  His unexpected apology took Meg aback, defusing her anger.

  “I am sorry as well,” she said. “I did not mean to insult you either.”

  “Good. Then pray, allow me to fix your sleeve.”

  Meg noticed that her right sleeve had come partially unhooked. Before she could object, Blackwood stepped closer to refasten it. He worked the hooks every bit as deftly as Seraphine had done. The man appeared far too familiar with the intricacies of feminine dress.

  It was not an opportune moment to recall Seraphine’s opinion of what a good lover Blackwood would make. Meg caught herself staring at his hands, large, strong, with long fingers. It would not be difficult to imagine those hands caressing …

  Meg squirmed, cutting off the thought and averting her gaze. To ease her embarrassment, Meg jested. “You are quite good at that, Dr. Blackwood. If your medical practice fails, you might find employment as a lady’s maid.”

  “I doubt that. I am more adroit at undressing a woman, a skill most ladies’ husbands find objectionable.”

  He did up the last hook and stepped back, his gaze raking over her. “There. You look … beautiful.”

  Meg gave a wry laugh.

  “That is not the sort of reaction a man hopes for when he pays a lady a compliment.”

  “I could not help it. You sounded so surprised and I remember you telling me you did not think me handsome. Although you did allow that I was almost pretty when I smiled.”

  “Ah, but mistress, you are smiling.”

  Meg realized that she was. She schooled her features into a more sober expression. “You are merely dazzled by the gown, which is quite lovely.”

  Blackwood paced around her in a slow circle, studying her from every angle. “No, I don’t think I like the gown. It is an unfortunate color for you. Blue would look better on Madame la Comtesse.”

  “Whereas a woman as plain as myself should wear nothing but brown or gray.”

  “You should wear green, a deep forest shade to match your eyes, or a deep gold brocade that would draw attention to your hair, those hints of auburn that catch the sunlight.”

  “Oh.” Meg was accustomed to Blackwood’s blunt honesty and teasing remarks. She would never have expected a compliment that sounded genuine. He was looking at her the way most men stared at Seraphine. The realization left her feeling flustered.

  “Is that what you would prefer?” she asked.

  “What I would prefer is to see you garbed in a great deal less.”

  When Meg gasped, his eyes widened in an expression of feigned innocence. “I only meant you should get rid of that farthingale. I cannot imagine who invented such an infernal device, some sour-faced virgin or dour puritan no doubt. All that cursed whalebone cage does is keep a man at a distance.”

  Despite Blackwood’s complaint, he still managed to stand quite close, tracing one knuckle along her cheek.

  “I do approve of the way the comtesse has arranged your hair, pulling it back from your face.”

  “You consider that an improvement.”

  “Aye, it makes it so much easier to kiss you.”

  Heat simmered in his eyes, his intention writ clear upon his face as Blackwood leaned closer. Seraphine’s words echoed through Meg’s mind.

  “Choose someone whose lovemaking does not inspire such adjectives as warm, comfortable, and very pleasant. Blackwood should be your man.”

  Meg did not want or need a man. Yet she could not summon the will to move. Her heart beat faster as she awaited his kiss.

  He paused, his mouth a breath from hers. Blackwood sighed and drew back, gathering up her hands.

  An expression of rare seriousness settled over his features. “You will be careful today, Margaret.”

  It was the first time he had ever used her name, and the way he pronounced it was unexpectedly grave and sweet.

  “Y-yes,” she stammered, confused and surprised that he had not kissed her, even more surprised by her disappointment. “I am always prudent.”

  “No, you aren’t or you would have stayed on Faire Isle. King James may strike you as being crude and even a bit of a fool, but he is very shrewd. He is a weak man, but that only makes him dangerous. There is no one more treacherous than a coward. You should also be wary of the king’s little beagle. He has been known to bite.”

  Blackwood squeezed her hands. “And you should be careful with Graham as well.”

  “Sir Patrick?” Meg asked in astonishment. Was Blackwood warning her against his good friend?

  Blackwood hesitated as though struggling with himself before he went on, choosing his words with great care. “Graham is a good man except when he is blinded by his zeal. He suffered a tragedy in his youth that affected him deeply, shaped the man he has become. He—”

  But whatever else Blackwood intended to say was checked by the arrival of Sir Patrick himself. Graham entered the garden, pulling up short at the sight of them.

  Blackwood dropped her hands and stepped away fro
m her, but not, Meg feared, before Sir Patrick had seen, though she hardly knew why that should matter. Blackwood looked self-conscious, although he made a swift recovery.

  “Graham.” He greeted his friend after his usual offhand fashion.

  “Blackwood,” Sir Patrick returned curtly. He bowed to Meg with none of his usual courtesy, his gaze taking in her new gown. Although he made no remark upon her altered appearance, Graham seemed far from pleased. As he turned back to his friend, she detected a spark of anger in Graham’s eyes.

  “What brings you here at such an early hour?” he demanded. “I thought you never bestirred yourself much before noon.”

  “Occasionally I manage. I came to bring Chalmers a remedy for his stones, but since he prefers Mistress Wolfe’s potion to my lice, I have packed my little friends away and was on the verge of returning home.”

  “One moment if you please.” Sir Patrick turned toward Meg, forcing a stiff smile to his lips. “Mistress Wolfe, if you will excuse us, I need to have a private word with Dr. Blackwood.”

  The tension between the two men was so palpable, Meg felt reluctant to leave. But other than defying Sir Patrick’s request, she had little choice. She curtsied to both men, but it was Blackwood’s gaze that she met. His eyes seemed to reach out to her before he looked away.

  As Meg walked toward the house, Blackwood tried to not stare after her and failed. She was learning to manage those higher-heeled shoes, her retreat graceful and dignified.

  A half-smile touched his lips. Strange, but when Meg wore her simple dresses and serviceable boots, she exuded a quiet confidence. Trussed up in that fancy gown, she appeared uncertain, vulnerable, and somehow younger, arousing in him a fierce protectiveness.

  He didn’t want to feel such tenderness any more than he wanted this confrontation with Graham. But there seemed to be no way of avoiding either.

  As soon as Meg was out of sight, Graham rounded on him. “What are you doing here, Blackwood? And don’t give me any nonsense about an urgent need to fetch lice to Chalmers. You could have sent the remedy with that boy you usually engage to run your errands.”