“She may well believe that now, Lord Kirkham,” she countered, “but there is more depth to her than you might imagine.”
“I have some notion of Lady Maria’s depth,” he replied tightly. He knew her better than Alisia suspected, and that knowledge did naught but torment him.
“Lord Nicholas,” Alisia said, “I do not know what caused the breach between you…but I believe I might help to heal it.”
Nicholas let out his breath. “How?”
“You must tell her how you feel.”
“Lady Alisia,” he said, “Maria will not allow me within five feet of her. How do you propose—”
“You must wait until all of his grace’s guests have left,” Alisia said. “I will see that the side entrance of the house remains unbolted. His grace has chambers at the far end of the hall from Maria’s bedchamber, and he sleeps soundly—especially after a few mugs of wine. Come to her tonight….”
Nick knew he would have to be a dolt to refuse this chance, yet his suspicious nature could not accept the invitation without question. “Why do you provide me this opportunity, Lady Alisia? This very improper opportunity?”
“You must understand…I have come to love Maria as I would my own sister,” Alisia said. “And it hurts me to see her so very unhappy. She cares for you, yet…she refuses to acknowledge this.”
“And if I should go up to her chamber—”
“Your intentions toward her are honorable, are they not?”
He nodded.
“Then you would see that she comes to no harm.”
He quickly decided. “I give you my word.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Maria’s chamber was illuminated by the light of the full moon. Dressed only in the long chemise she’d had made from Nicholas’s silk, she sat again by her window and sighed. Her hair was loose upon her shoulders, and she toyed with one stray lock.
She would choose a husband from among the young men who’d been present tonight. Lord Singleton was a likely prospect. He had visited her several times in past weeks, and he’d been very solicitous at Lady Eleanor’s river party. He was clever and always entertaining, even if his eyes were so beady they reminded her of a hawk hunting its prey.
She bit her lip. Perhaps Lord Frompton would suit better. He was good-looking and friendly enough. Nay, she thought, he spat his food between a gap in his front teeth when he ate, and she did not believe she could tolerate that fault for a month, much less a lifetime.
She considered all the young men she’d met of late, and each one had some shortcoming that made Maria think she’d be better off bearing her bastard somewhere far from London. At Rockbury? Mayhap she could return there. Surely her father would visit often, and Maria would not find herself bound to a man she could not abide.
Another deep sigh penetrated the silence.
Nicholas had come tonight. She had seen him across the courtyard, yet he had not sought her out. He’d stayed on the perimeter of the gathering, sipping from a mug, speaking to all who approached him.
One tear slipped from her eye as she thought of him standing in the shadows, unwilling to come too close to her. Of course he would not approach, she reminded herself. She had warned him to stay away, and he would not want to create an unpleasant disturbance.
But why had he come?
Surely he had other amusements to occupy his time—such as searching out incriminating evidence against her father, she thought bitterly. Or finding some lusty young female to warm his bed.
With the back of her hand, Maria brushed the tear away and decided she must choose one of the suitors. Lord Rudney was a likely candidate—at any rate, he was the least offensive of the lot. He was fair and not too tall, his brown eyes were kind and his appearance did not in the least remind her of…
Nay, this would never do. She reorganized her thoughts and pictured Viscount Rudney again. He was good-natured and jovial, a lively young—
“Nicholas!” she whispered, flying to her feet.
He’d made scarcely a sound, but when she heard the squeak of the floor, she turned to see the handsome marquis standing just inside her doorway. He closed it quietly. Had her thoughts so preoccupied her that she had not noticed him?
“I could not stay away.”
Her hand went to her throat as she glanced at the door, then back to Nicholas, worried that somehow his presence would rouse the household. He’d been so quiet, though….
Maria could not find her voice.
Yet she could almost feel the babe within her stirring, recognizing his sire. She resisted placing a hand over her womb, unwilling to call attention to her condition, even though she knew there was no outward sign of it.
Nicholas took a few steps closer. Maria stood her ground, although she was trembling. She did not want him to touch her now, mere moments after deciding upon Rudney for her husband. Lord Rudney was a man of honor, a man who would never dream of making the kind of outrageous accusations Nicholas had made against her father.
Nor would he have used her to sidle his way into her father’s good graces.
And now that she’d decided upon her mate, she had every intention of being true to him. She would not allow Nicholas to so much as touch her. For she knew that if he did, her power of will would fade. She never had the strength to deny him.
“Y-you should not be here,” she stammered.
“Seems to be the only place where I might see you alone.”
“But my father…should he a-awaken…”
“He sleeps soundly.”
“I—I told you I did not wish to see you again,” she said, taking one step back. The backs of her knees touched the window seat.
“You know by now that I am not a man who listens.”
He kept coming toward her, giving her little room to slip away. She reminded herself that he had used her badly. He had no right to invade her private chamber, nor had he any other rights in this house. “Please go, Nicholas,” she said. “We have naught to say to one another.”
“Ah, but there is much that I would say to you, my lady fair.”
“Please do not mock me,” she said, lowering her eyes to the floor. She’d always known he’d called her that in jest—that she was anything but a lady fair.
He tipped her chin up with one finger. “’Tis not mockery, Maria,” he said. “You are my fair one.”
Maria swallowed and blinked back tears. Standing so close to him, she knew she loved him. She wished she could believe his words, but knew she could not trust anything he said. He’d lied to her, used her. He believed her father capable of treachery against England, against his oldest friend.
“L-leave here.”
“Nay, Maria. I cannot.” He took her hand and sat her down next to him on the window seat. “I am not the villain you have built up in your mind.”
“Nay?” she said warily. She knew better than to let him this close. All her good sense flew from her when he touched her. And a part of her wished he would do it.
Make her mindless.
He shook his head in reply. “We spoke briefly of my service in France.”
“Yes…” she whispered. He should go. Now, before he could say any more. Before her heart could become any more tightly bound to him.
Yet his hand was clenched around hers, and she did not possess the power of will to pull away.
“I convinced my elder brother, Edmund, to go to France with King Henry. ’Twas years ago…I was young. Foolish. Anxious to earn a glorious name for myself, just as my father had done before me.
“Edmund was killed by my side in a surprise attack.”
“Oh, Nicholas,” she cried, touched—and torn—by the lines of pain etched on his face. She looked into his eyes, even as she wished she had the strength to turn away, to make him leave.
“We were each to cover the other’s back. When the attack came, I failed him.”
The words were stark, and there was naught Maria could say to counter them. “I am so sorr
y, Nicholas,” she said quietly, placing her palm against his cheek.
“I was to blame for his death,” Nicholas said steadily. “Had I not convinced him to go along with me, he would be marquis now. He would be happily wed to Alyce Palton, the maid he loved since he was a lad, and I would have a brood of nieces and nephews in residence at Kirkham.”
He brushed a hand over his face.
“My father was devastated by Edmund’s death. I could not face him, coward that I was, so I went to Italy for a time….”
“Oh, Nicholas…”
“I tell you this not for your pity,” he said quietly, “but for your understanding.”
“Pity is not what I feel,” she said, though she would not say exactly what it was that she did feel. She was far too vulnerable already.
“While I squandered my time nursing my grief in Italy, I eventually realized there was something I could do that might help prevent more English lads from meeting their deaths on the battlefields of France.
“I went to work for Bedford. ’Tis my job to…discover the secrets of powerful men. The information I ferret out often determines the conduct of the war. It usually has little to do with specific battles. But ’tis my hope that my efforts will help Bedford bring about an end to the conflict. It has gone on far too long.”
Maria nodded. He’d told her some of this before, though now she had a better grasp of it. She knew what drove him to act the wastrel, to associate with the worst men of his class.
“The work I do is dangerous. I would not have involved you for any reason,” he said, “but someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to make it seem that your father is guilty of treason.”
“He would not—!”
“I know this, Maria,” he said, touching a finger to her lips. “I do not accuse your father of anything.”
Mayhap not. “Yet you used me, Nicholas,” she said. “Used me to gain access to my father.”
“I will not deny that I did, but—”
She stood abruptly, unmindful of her state of undress. “You have been dishonest and underhanded in your dealings with me.”
“Aye, Maria.” His voice was quiet, resigned. “I admit it.”
“You must go, Nicholas,” she said, shoring up her courage to do what she must. “There is no good purpose to your presence here.”
“Maria, someone is working very hard to convince me that your father is a traitor,” he said, coming to his feet to face her. “I cannot—”
“Go, Nicholas,” she said. She hated the way her voice trembled now, but there was no way around it. She could deal with no more lies. “I have chosen a bridegroom, and I will wed as soon as my father arranges it.”
Nicholas said naught for a moment, but Maria noticed a muscle clench tightly in his jaw.
“Rudney,” he finally said, his voice was flat and humorless.
She nodded. “He is a g-good man,” she said. “Honest and true.”
Nicholas looked as though he would speak, but then changed his mind.
“You must go,” Maria whispered.
He stood abruptly and breathed deeply. He ran a hand over his face again, then reached out to gently brush his thumb over her lower lip, cradling her jaw in his fingers. Then he kissed her lightly, sadly.
“Farewell, my lady fair,” he said, his voice deep and quiet.
Before Maria could even think, he had turned and walked out. She stood unmoving, her hand over the place he’d last touched. His kiss had touched her deeply, but had not made her mindless.
Nay, hot tears finally fell as she tried to shut off the flood of thoughts and questions that overwhelmed her now. She tried to quiet her brain with images of Lord Rudney, but found herself unable to call his face to mind.
’Twas Nicholas’s visage—and words—that dominated her thoughts. He had not disputed her claim that he’d used her and been dishonest with her. He’d gone to great lengths to tell her the reasons for his clandestine activities.
She supposed he had good reason for all of his deceptions. Yet it still hurt to know he’d been so dishonest with her. How could she ever trust a man like him?
Yet another inner voice asked how could she wed Lord Rudney when she loved her scoundrel, Nicholas Hawken, and bore his child?
She dropped to her bed and wept for all she had lost and all she could never have.
’Twas late, but Maria knew she would never sleep, not with her emotions in such a state of upheaval. She took a light shawl and pulled it ’round her shoulders, then stepped out of her room. She passed her father’s chamber as she walked toward the stairs, and heard his loud snores within. She smiled gratefully for the noise. ’Twas no wonder he’d slept through Nicholas’s visit.
With feet bare, she slipped soundlessly down the stairs. She knew her father kept a bottle of strong wine in his study, and one cup would surely help her to relax. Mayhap she would even fall asleep, without dreams of Nicholas to plague her.
The servants had retired hours ago, and all was quiet in the house. But when Maria reached the study, she found the door slightly ajar, and a light emanating from within. Nicholas, she thought as her heart clenched with pain. He was searching her father’s things again!
Yet it was not Nicholas she saw through the crack in the door. ’Twas Henric Tournay. And he was bent over the drawer that her father kept locked.
With hardly a conscious thought, Maria turned and fled. She climbed the stairs silently once again and ran to her chamber. Throwing a deep blue kirtle over her chemise, she quickly pulled the laces and tied them, then slipped on a pair of shoes.
She would follow Nicholas’s minion wherever he led, and confront the Marquis of Kirkham—once and for all—with her damning discovery.
Nicholas felt frustrated enough to bang a few heads together.
He had always considered himself a civilized fellow—else he’d have thrown Maria over his shoulder and carried her off like some Viking barbarian of olden times. Since she was obviously unwilling to listen to reason, he could think of nothing he’d rather do than take her to a stronghold somewhere in the North Sea and spend days making love to her.
As that was out of the question, he decided ’twas a good night to get drunk. Rip-roaring drunk.
He’d found a carriage for hire, then collected his wastrel associates and begun a valiant attempt at numbing his brain. Dissatisfied with the first two wineshops they sampled, Nicholas’s party moved on to the waterfront and found a thoroughly disreputable establishment, run by a brawny wine keeper with a shiny bald pate and only a few teeth in his jaw.
When they entered the dingy wineshop, Nicholas decided he wouldn’t mind a good brawl tonight. And this rundown place was ripe for it.
“Here’sh to Kirkham!” Lord Lofton said in a slurred voice. “Besht drinkin’ companion in all of jolly London!”
“Hear, hear!” muttered the others, already well on their way toward a state of sloppy drunkenness.
A buxom bar wench set a second mug down in front of Nick. He hadn’t managed to get drunk yet, but intended to give it a good effort here. The place suited him and his black mood.
The wineshop smelled strongly of fish, fermented cider and unwashed bodies, mingled with other unsavory aromas. But broken windows, blackened walls and tables with carvings etched onto their surfaces added to the setting.
A lone piper—an Irishman, by the look of him—played a haunting tune in one corner. A group of sailors tossed dice against one wall, and two unbelievably disgusting whores plied their trade where they would.
The rest of the men sat hunched over platters of food and tankards of ale, while a few sailors stood at a makeshift bar. Nick took note of the way each man eyed the others, as if to size them up in case anything untoward should occur.
And Nick had every intention of causing a distinctly untoward incident.
He threw coins on the table and ordered drinks for all.
A melee broke out when every man in the place scrambled for the coin as well a
s the promised ale. The whores squealed in protest at the distraction, then began to clamber over each other, and the men, to get to the money.
’Twas not long before the first punch was thrown.
Nicholas jumped into the fray with relish. His comrades were not so drunk as to be useless, and every one, to a man, enjoyed a good brawl. Nick, too, fought with a vengeance, playing out the night’s frustrations on his opponents, bloodying their noses and bruising their eyes.
As he fought one opponent, two jumped him from behind. He quickly bent at the waist, throwing the two off his back, and causing his first opponent to miss his punch. The man yowled in frustration. Nick made a quick move, putting his back against a wall, then dealt with the three at once.
“Need help, Kirkham?” Lofton shouted over the tumult.
Nicholas’s first man went down. “Hah!” he barked, ducking a fist, “these puny louts have naught that I cannot handle.”
Incensed by the insult, his two attackers went after him with even greater relish, but to no avail. With one booted foot, Nick shoved one of them across the room. The man flew over a table and crashed into another brawling pair.
Nick had no time to appreciate his handiwork, for another attacker took a swing at him. He ducked. The fellow’s luckless companion took the blow, which threw him against the wall, knocking him senseless.
’Twas only then that Nicholas used his own fists. He took immense satisfaction in each blow, both given and received. He grinned with wicked delight when another opponent turned up to give assistance to his comrade, and Nick dealt with him as well.
For a good quarter hour the battle raged on. It was not until all the participants had their fill of cuts and bruises that things finally settled down again. The two harlots had disappeared. The sailor with the dice pocketed them and left with his companions. The Irishman’s lip was too swollen to resume playing his pipe, so he sat quietly in his corner, nursing his bloodied knuckles.
Nicholas and his group tipped a table back onto its legs. They found a few unbroken chairs and sat back down, congratulating themselves on finding such good sport. Nicholas coiled his whip on the table before him.
His Lady Fair Page 20
