by C. J. Archer
She knew that to be true at least.
"I shall endeavor to find you the dullest, most witless husband court has to offer. It shall be a challenge, since there are so many, but at least you'll have a choice."
He continued on like that all the way to the house. She couldn't shut the door on his face fast enough. She even forgot to thank him again for saving her.
Cat undressed herself since she'd not brought a maid with her—too expensive to feed an extra mouth in the city according to Slade. She slipped under the bedcovers. Her body still hummed all over, not from the attack but from the kiss. Not even Oxley's strange change of behavior could eradicate the memory of his lips, soft and warm against hers, and the way his strong hands held her waist firmly as if he would never let her go. She'd discovered that his doublet was not bombasted, and his impressive shoulders and chest were entirely due to muscle, not padding. Oh yes. Quite impressive.
She stretched out her legs and refused to think of the Lord Oxley who'd said goodbye to her at the door and only remember the one who'd rescued and kissed her. That man was a gentleman. A woman could too easily forget her plan to wed and agree to be his mistress instead, if he offered. Forget the moral high ground. She wanted to live a little and be with a man who set her on fire with just one kiss.
Unfortunately she was positive the position of mistress wasn't vacant, otherwise he'd have kissed her again. And more.
***
Hughe followed Slade and his man for most of the morning as the baron ran some minor errands. He wasn't seen, disguised as he was as a dirty laborer in a city teeming with apprentices and laborers working on construction sites. The ragged clothing and cap was an outfit he kept for times he needed to blend in and travel light. There was no need to hide anyone in a cart this time, or inside a barrel. He didn't even carry a sword, sporting only a club strapped to his hip like most London laborers, ready to jump into a brawl at the merest incitement.
Slade and Hislop avoided the shops along Cheapside. There would be no souvenir purchases from their city visit. To Hughe's surprise, they didn't venture toward the docks either, where he expected Slade to connect with a merchant or two. It's what he would do if he found himself in need of cargo to buy low and sell high. There was always something coming in from the Orient or the Continent, or even just a relationship to forge for the future.
No, Slade drank in an alehouse then headed back to The Strand, where the grand estates occupied by the nation's wealthiest men swept from the wide thoroughfare down to the bank of the Thames. Hughe had a house there. It was ironic that he would travel so far on foot only to wind up where he'd begun that morning.
Or not quite. Slade stopped a few houses up from Hughe's London residence, at Lord Marchment's gate. Perhaps Slade wasn't as badly off as Hughe thought. Lord Marchment sat on the Privy Council. He was one of Her Majesty's intimate advisers. If anyone could drag Slade out of poverty, it was Marchment. The man had one finger in the treasury and several others in various lucrative pies.
Hughe leaned against a horse's trough positioned at the side of the road and pretended to rest. In truth, he was watching through near-closed eyes, and thinking. He did not like Slade. He was a poor brother-in-law and a sly fellow. But was it possible that he had been Hughe's anonymous client? Had he wanted his brother dead so he could take over his estate? Even an impoverished estate was better than none.
Surely the man wasn't that cold-hearted?
Hughe expelled a breath. Even if it had been the new Slade who hired him to eradicate the old one, the old Slade was a killer and probably a rapist too, although the latter had been difficult to prove. There was no doubt about the former charger of murder. Hughe had thoroughly investigated him, and he knew with absolute certainty that Cat's husband had murdered the villager, Crabb, when Crabb had accused Slade of forcing himself upon his wife.
Slade had never been challenged over the death, but a little prodding of the right people and connecting some very clear dots had proved to Hughe that Slade did it. He wasn't a good man, by all accounts, although it would seem he'd thoroughly duped Cat into thinking he was. Then again, she admitted to hardly ever seeing her husband during their life together. It may be the ideal type of marriage in Hughe's book, but he couldn't image it making her very happy. She needed companionship and conversation, someone to keep her warm at night and nurture her. Keep her safe.
Slade and Hislop emerged through the gate. They didn't head back into the city, but toward Whitehall and Charing Cross. Most likely they were returning to their rented rooms to dine. Since he was so close to home, Hughe returned there to change.
Some time later he made his way out, once more dressed as Lord Oxley the fop. His peacock blue doublet and crimson breeches earned him a number of sniggers and pointing fingers that he didn't acknowledge. His two servants trailed some distance behind on horseback, most likely embarrassed by the attention. They were young and not used to their master's ways yet.
Their journey was short, only to the narrow three-story house at Charing Cross where he had delivered Cat the night before. Cat. The name suited her. She was as lean as a feline, her skin as soft, her eyes as quick. He would like to murmur that name in her ear while he had her in his arms, in bed, and—
Enough, Oxley!
The neat, prim landlady led him up to the room acting as Lord Slade's study. She kept glancing warily over her shoulder at Hughe's hat. He had to admit it was an absurd piece, with peacock feathers springing from the back like tails. He couldn't wait to remove it, which he did upon seeing Slade.
The man glanced up from his desk, a look of shock on his oily features. "My lord!" He rose from his chair and gave an awkward bow over the desk. "What a pleasant surprise."
The landlady retreated as silently as she presented him.
Hughe sat, sweeping his cape around his body like a bird wing. "It is, isn't it?"
Slade sat slowly, looking past Hughe to the door. Hughe did not turn to see who stood there, although he assumed the thickly muscled Hislop was hovering nearby. He looked to be handier with a blade than the soft Slade. On the other hand, it could be Cat listening. Hughe steeled himself.
"What can I do for you, my lord?" Slade asked. He tried out a smile on Hughe, but it didn't suit him. It quickly slid away without a trace.
"I came to warn you."
"Warn me?" Slade cocked his head to the side. "What about?"
"About allowing your sister-in-law to walk home alone at night in a strange city." He leaned forward, and in the only moment of seriousness that he would allow himself, he pinned Slade with a fierce glare. "Do not do it again or I will see to it that whatever befalls her will befall you. Doubly." He leaned back. "Do you understand, or do you just like leaving your mouth open to see what you can catch?"
"I…uh…"
"It's a simple question, Slade. Do you understand?" He pushed back the edge of his cape to reveal his sword hilt for good measure.
Finally Slade's jaw clamped shut with an audible snap of back teeth. "Aye, my lord. I understand." He pressed his palms flat to the table and watched Hughe through dark, narrowed eyes. "Is there anything else, my lord?"
"There is."
"Can I get you refreshments? Wine?"
"No. I'm here on a matter of business. I wish to know how your brother died."
After a moment in which Slade stared at him, his mouth once more flopping open, Slade told Hughe how his brother had met his end. The official version. He did not bat an eyelid, yet Hughe didn't quite believe his story. Like Cat, he guessed that Slade didn't accept that his brother met with a hunting accident. Was that because he knew otherwise?
"Do you know the woods near Slade Hall, my lord?" Slade asked.
Hughe saw no reason to lie. "I've been there, yes."
Slade's brows rose. "And yet you never visited us? My brother would have been hurt if he'd known."
"Your father might have been the baron then. I don't recall."
"How long ago was y
our visit?"
"Two years." Indeed, it had only been two months, but Slade wasn't to know that. If Slade did indeed hire Hughe to kill his brother, he couldn't know it. None of Hughe's clients ever discovered his identity. He was very careful about protecting not only his own, but that of his men.
"Then it was certainly my brother," Slade said. He had a strange look on his face, and an oddly sharp twist to his mouth as if he found something amusing. He glanced past Hughe again to the doorway. "Were you there before or after the floods that nearly drowned us that year?"
Bloody hell. Hughe knew nothing about a flood. "Before."
"I see. Then you must have visited before March of ninety-seven." Slade's smile grew thoughtful and once more his gaze flicked behind Hughe.
Hughe gave in and glanced around. There was no one there. He frowned. Had Cat appeared only to just as quickly disappear? "I suppose." He turned his attention back to Slade and caught the tail end of his sneer. He frowned harder. What the hell had just happened? Was Slade testing him? Hughe had been so distracted with the thought of seeing Cat again he'd lost the thread of the conversation. He only hoped he hadn't said anything to implicate himself.
"About your sister-in-law," he said. "Something must be done about her."
"I agree." Slade steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips. "Do you have something in mind?"
"I do." Hughe lowered his voice. If someone were at the door, he wouldn't be overheard. "I'm going to give her a house and an income so that she doesn't need to remarry."
CHAPTER 4
Slade blinked. "Pardon?"
"You heard me." Hughe took great pains to remove his gloves, pinching each finger carefully and studying the act intensely. "I've taken a liking to her."
"You wish to make her your mistress?"
Hughe laughed loudly, ending in a snort. "No, dim wit. I'm simply going to fund her until she finds a suitable husband."
"Ah, well, that may not be too long."
Hughe paused, one glove half off. "You've found her a husband?"
"Not yet. But if she doesn't find one while in London, I'm afraid she'll have to wed the blacksmith from our village. I'll have her married off within—"
"The blacksmith! Have you gone mad?" Hughe completely forgot his gloves and thumped his fist down on the desk. "You cannot allow that. I cannot allow it."
"It's not my choice, my lord, but hers!" Slade protested. "The blacksmith is a strong fellow who runs a strict house. Cat accepts the need for a firm, husbandly hand. Indeed, I've discussed it with her and she is amenable. The smith will know better than me how to keep a woman like Cat in her place."
Hughe was so shocked he didn't know where to start. He simply stared at Slade, expecting him to burst out laughing and admit that it was a joke. He did not laugh.
"She won't be marrying the blacksmith," Hughe said, managing to sound light when all he wanted to do was thump some sense into the fool. "I'll give her a cottage and an income until such time as she finds a suitable husband. I'll ride to Slade Hall as soon as it's settled in a week or two. In the meantime, you are not to mention it to Lady Slade. Understand me? Not even a whisper should reach her ears."
Slade held up his hands. "Of course. But, my lord, are you quite sure? What if she gets too comfortable living off your income and in your cottage? What if she decides it's better than marriage?"
Hughe shrugged. "Then so be it."
"My lord, you cannot be in earnest!"
"I am. What is it to you? You don't care for her. You said yourself you cannot afford her. I can."
"What do you expect in return?"
An easing of his conscience. "Nothing. Oh, a little gratitude and a prayer for me when she remembers. My soul might yet be saved."
"I'm not sure this is a good idea." Slade leaned forward again, and seemed to be preparing a speech of utmost importance. Hughe silently groaned and wondered how long he had to listen to him. "Women need to be married, my lord. It's the only way to keep them in check. Particularly ones like Cat. She's too headstrong." He lowered his voice. "She has opinions."
Hughe pulled a face. "Good lord, no." He gasped. "Not opinions." He needed to employ every ounce of his acting skills not to laugh.
Slade seemed satisfied that Hughe understood him. He sat back and gave an emphatic nod. Behind Hughe, a swish of skirts announced the arrival of a woman. Cat? Even so, it didn't divert Slade from his topic. "Let them do as they please and they become lazy, spiteful creatures," he went on. "Women of strong mind need a strong husband with a heavy hand. They ought to know their place or all mankind suffer the consequences."
Spoken like a prick who knew women not at all. Hughe curled his fingers around the chair arm to stop himself slapping some sense into Slade. "They ought to know their place," he said, summoning every foppish thought he could muster. If he were to deflect Lady Slade's desires, he needed her to think him a fool. He gave a tinkling laugh for good measure. "I agree with you there. But I think their place ought to be in their husband's bed."
He had the satisfaction of seeing Slade's face turn bright red. Behind him, the skirts shushed gently. He wondered if Cat was blushing too.
"A woman's sole purpose ought to be to please her husband in every way." He winked at Slade.
"What about obedience?"
"Of course. Surely wives are not that very different to dogs. I may not have a wife, but my kennels are full. That makes me an expert."
The shushing drew closer and stopped right behind him. He turned around and smiled up into the flushed face of Cat, standing with hands on hips. Her eyes flashed, their shade a remarkable violet-blue. His smile broadened.
"Good afternoon, Lady Slade. What a pleasure to see you again. Are you well?"
"I am well," she spat. "For a dog."
"Ah. You heard that." He turned back to Slade. "I don't know why they always get so upset when I mention dogs. I'm very fond of them."
Cat couldn't believe what she was hearing. She'd been merely passing by when she overheard Slade lamenting women having opinions. She'd known he was referring to her and had wanted to hear Oxley's protest on the subject. But he had agreed with her brother-in-law. This was not the same Lord Oxley who'd rescued her and kissed her. This was some boorish buffoon who'd taken over his body and said the most idiotic things. She wasn't sure whether to ignore him or retaliate on behalf of all womankind. Actually, she was sure. Comments like that couldn't be left unchallenged.
"My lord, it's so good of you to visit us," she said, sickly sweet. If she was going to fight with him, she needed to do it on his terms.
"I know," he drawled.
"Tell me, does your future wife know that she'll be kept in a kennel?"
He studied her from beneath lazy, half-lowered lids. "You're mistaken, dear lady. I have no plans to wed yet."
"No? But an earl must breed! If a wife's duty is to her husband, then surely a man's duty is to beget heirs upon his wife. Dozens of them. After all, what else is he put on this Earth for? He has little other purpose except prancing about in elaborate costume, turning a fine leg. Of course every gentleman should present himself in the best light for the sake of his good name, but there must be more to it, don't you think? We've all been put on this Earth for a reason, my lord, you included. I do wonder, however, what is your purpose if not to strengthen the Oxley line? Hmmm?"
"I do plan on marrying, dear lady. All in good time."
"You are how old, my lord?" She swept her gaze over him, taking in the bright blue cape, the velvet shoes with silver buckles, so inappropriate for outdoors, and the rings on his fingers. But his face held a different story. The fine lines crinkled around his pale, intelligent eyes and she could swear his lips were curved at the edges ever so slightly. Was he laughing at her? At himself? She did not understand him one bit. He was a mystery that she dearly wanted to solve. "Nearing five and thirty, I'd wager," she went on.
"Cat!" Slade snapped. "Enough of this."
Oxley pouted.
"I am not yet thirty."
"Really?" Cat said. "Dear me. You ought to spend less time in the sun. It's not good for the skin."
"Indeed, my skin does not feel as silken as your own, dear lady."
Her next insult turned to ash in her mouth. How could a man be so rude and yet so flattering at the same time? "You have not touched my skin."
"I assisted you last night."
"We both wore gloves."
"Assisted her with what?" Slade asked.
"It is a guess," Oxley said, ignoring him. "I can tell your skin would be a delight to touch."
"Ha!" She crossed her arms and refused to look at the too-handsome face with the dancing eyes and teasing mouth. It was no wonder he had women falling over themselves to become his next mistress. For a moment she'd wondered how such a fop had gotten so many beautiful women into his bed, but she had to concede that he could be utterly charming, foppishness notwithstanding.
The landlady had assured her that Oxley was a well-known breaker of hearts, the most recent being a woman by the name of Lady Fitzwilliam who was apparently both furious and distraught in equal measure at being cast aside on this very visit to London. Cat tended to believe the landlady's account since she housed so many lesser nobles when the court was at Whitehall and gossip was, after all, the currency of many.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," Cat said, backing toward the door. It was time to retreat. She was losing the exchange rather badly and she did not like the insulting tone in her own voice. It was not how she wanted to fight her battles.
Oxley stood and bowed to her. "Good afternoon, Lady Slade. I hope we meet again."
"I doubt we will," she said. "We're leaving in the morning and I have no plans to attend court tonight."
He bowed again. When he straightened, he had an odd smile on his face. A knowing, secret smile. What was he up to?
***
Lord Slade couldn't believe his luck. Not only was he finally home again after suffering through an interminable visit to filthy London, but he'd almost secured an agreement with Lord Marchment. A very lucrative agreement. All that ass-licking—quite literally—had gotten results. Having Cat taken off his hands was an advantage he'd not anticipated, although he'd only believe it when he saw Oxley riding through the gatehouse, money in hand. He had a suspicion that the earl would change his mind, or simply forget having made the offer three weeks ago. He seemed the fickle sort.
