Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more Amara titles… How to Best a Marquess
The Madness of Miss Grey
How to Train Your Baron
Scandal in Spades
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Pamela Mingle. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
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Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Erin Molta
Cover design by Liz Pelletier
Cover photography by Period Images
FairytaleDesign/Deposit Photos
ISBN 978-1-64063-809-9
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition June 2019
Dear Reader,
Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.
xoxo
Liz Pelletier, Publisher
In memory of my beloved friend
Caroline Stutson
I still miss her
Chapter One
October 1570
In the coolness of an autumn dusk, Gavin Cade picked his way along a street littered with garbage, trash, and broken bits of glass. He was in Berwick, an English garrison town so far north it might as well be in Scotland. Outside the ramparts, the town ran to squalor. Without the protection of the garrison, it had deteriorated until the only prosperous citizens left were criminals.
Gavin was heading toward one of the few reputable alehouses in the area. It was clean, and he’d be able to get a meat pie for his supper and a decent bed for the night. And sleep without a hand on his knife. The evening air smelled like rotting fish, with an overlay of human waste and boiled onion. The huge bastion, Meg’s Mount, completely blocked the sun, and he was grateful for the comforting warmth of his plaid.
The Cade family supplied the garrison and had done so for years. Gavin and his crew had finished unloading too late to depart for home. He refused to risk making camp along the road at night. With so much unrest between the English and Scots, the chance of an attack was too great. He’d told his men to find lodging in town. They would leave at first light.
Entering the tavern, the Queen’s Ramparts, Gavin glanced around for a table. Hungry men hoisted tankards and ate greedily, while others played cards or diced. Gavin was interested only in food and drink. It was noisy, but not raucous. Nell, the proprietress, didn’t put up with drunken troublemakers. He stopped at the bar to greet her. “Nell, lass, ’tis good to see you again. Have ye a bed for me tonight?”
Nell’s kindhearted face crinkled up into a smile, and her eyes danced with mischief. “Mayhap I do, if ye don’t mind sleepin’ with me, love.”
“I wouldn’t be getting much sleep then, would I? And I must be up at dawn.” They stared at each other, until Nell could no longer hold in her laughter. She released it in loud bursts, and Gavin joined her. This was a familiar ritual for them. Their conversation went much the same way each time Gavin brought his custom to Nell.
“Always a room in my establishment for ye, Gavin. Ale and a pie, love?”
“Aye.” He tipped his head toward the window. “I’ll be over there.”
A strange voice, behind and to Gavin’s left, said, “Pray bring Master Cade’s repast to my table, mistress. We have something to discuss.”
Gavin jerked around for a quick look. “Who the bloody hell are ye?”
“Name is Nicholas Ryder. If you’ll join me, I’ll explain.”
Gavin had never seen him before, of that he was certain. He didn’t care for strangers who sneaked up on him wanting to “talk.” Especially English strangers. In truth, they usually wanted something more tangible—money, a job, a favor. He wasn’t interested.
“I prefer to eat alone, and I’ve nothing to discuss with ye.” He made to push past the man, but Ryder, nearly as tall as Gavin, held up a staying hand. He did not touch Gavin, which was a good thing.
“Just hear me out. That’s all I ask.”
Gavin studied the man. He was clean and well dressed, with a neatly trimmed beard. There was nothing menacing about him. With a sigh, he nodded to Nell and followed Ryder to his table, back in the far corner. “What is it then?”
“I’m on the queen’s business. We have need of a man who can be both Scots and English. A man who can use his brain, but one who is also strong enough to hold his own in a fight.”
“And what makes you believe I am that man? You do not know me, sir.” A tavern wench plunked tankards of ale down on the scratched oak table, and Gavin took a long pull on his.
“I know enough. My father has had men watching you.”
At that Gavin got to his feet and thrust back the bench he’d been sitting on. “You’ve no right to spy on me. You can take your business and stuff it up your arse. Get out of here and let me eat in peace.”
“Pray be seated, Master Cade. I am not here to force you into this.”
After a moment, Gavin grudgingly resumed his seat, and Nell soon appeared with their meat pies. Sensing the tension between them, she said, “Everything all right here, gentlemen?”
Gavin nodded. “Thank ye, Nell. All is well.” After she left them, Gavin asked, “Why would I be interested in working for you…for the queen?”
Ryder leaned closer. “You appear ready for a new challenge.”
Gavin cut into the steaming pie with his knife and scooped out a hunk of meat. Ah. Beef tonight rather than the mutton he hated. He’d have to give Nell a little extra for that. The truth was, Ryder had the right of it. He was bored, and restless, too. Since his wife Anna’s death, and his subsequent discovery of her betrayal, he’d simply been going through the motions. Attending to his work in a trancelike state. Taking no pleasure from anything.
Ryder did not speak again, but began eating. He was a patient man.
Gavin was torn. But he couldn’t decide without knowing more. “Tell me what you have in mind.”
Ryder quaffed his ale, looking at Gavin over the rim of his tankard. If he felt victorious, he hid it well. “Until you make a commitment,
I cannot reveal much. Should you agree, you would travel to the middle of England, to…a location where a person of interest to the queen is currently residing. Your mission would be to ferret out information and report to me. Of necessity, you’d need to make yourself popular with a certain group of women.”
Gavin raised a brow. “I’m not known for whoring.”
“I am glad of that. It would interfere with your mission. But you may find that the women involved will want you to bed them. Your job will be to let them think you might, while your true mission will be to uncover the information we seek.”
“Why me? For all you know, I’m a loyal Scot and hate the English. I am wearing a plaid, in case that escaped your notice.”
Ryder set down his tankard. “What I notice is that you talk like a Scot around the people from hereabout, but in speaking with me, you sound like a well-educated Englishman. Your mother is Scottish, and you wear her clan’s tartan. But your father is English. He saw to your education—tutors for all his children, including the females. You keep the books for your family’s business. French comes naturally to you, among other languages. You are Presbyterian—but you have not attended services since the death of your wife.”
Merciful God, the man knows about everything. Even Anna. Exactly how long had they been watching him?
Gavin lifted his hands. “Enough. There are many other men who possess these same qualities.”
“None who fit so well as you into both worlds. Your knowledge, your talents—they’re wasted in the work you are doing.”
Gavin rubbed the back of his neck and tried to sort through his warring thoughts. On the one hand, this could be good for him. A challenge, a way to get his mind off Anna and the newborn son who had died with her. On the other hand, the location was some distance away, and Gavin had a very affectionate family. He’d not have survived these last months without their love and the endless small kindnesses they’d shown him while he’d grieved. His mother would miss him fiercely.
“Think on it tonight. You can give me your decision in the morning.”
Gavin nodded. “I’ll meet you outside the garrison at daybreak. My men expect to be leaving then.”
“And I must return home as well. I live near Carlisle. It is a long journey for me.”
They said their farewells and Gavin signaled Nell for another ale. He swallowed long drafts while he mulled over Ryder’s offer. He had no doubt that this affair concerned Mary Stewart, the Scots queen. It was common knowledge that she was in England as the queen’s guest. Or prisoner—nobody knew for sure. God’s nails, he never thought he’d be in this position. He hated deceit and trickery. But he also had an ingrained distrust of Mary Stewart. She was more French than Scot, having been raised there. In her young life, she’d had three husbands, and rumor was that she and the third one, the Earl of Bothwell, had conspired to murder the second, Lord Darnley. The father of the infant king, James VI.
No, he did not trust her at all. When he finally made his way upstairs, he knew what answer he would give.
…
Isabel Tait’s stepfather breathed his last at ten o’clock on a cold autumn night, and she was glad of it. For the past few months, she had devoted both her morning and evening prayers to beseech the Almighty for that very outcome, and now it appeared her fervent pleas had been answered. Possibly, Isabel should fear eternal damnation, but that could not be worse than what she’d endured at the hands of Nathaniel Hammond.
Her mother, composed and serene as always, said, “I shall send word to your brothers in the morning. Pray, summon the midwife to prepare the body.”
Gladly.
The following week passed in a flurry of activity and preparation. Isabel’s half brothers, Thomas and Andrew, arrived home from university for the funeral. Afterward, they summoned her to the study. “You must marry, Isabel,” Thomas, the older of the brothers, said. “The sooner, the better. You’re approaching the age of spinsterhood.”
Isabel was twenty-five. Being a spinster did not seem such a dreadful state to her, but others saw it differently—the worst fate to befall a woman. She’d known this would come up, but hadn’t anticipated it so hastily. “Why the rush? I had planned to remain here with Mother. She is alone now, after all.”
“She has plans to remarry and does not want to see you hurt once again. Mother believes it would be better for everybody if you were no longer a part of the household. It was difficult for you when she married Father.”
“She already has someone in mind? But how could that be? And who is he?”
“Peter Fleming, Father’s solicitor. They were thrown together a good deal during the years of Father’s illness and became close. They now wish to marry.”
Isabel was too dumbfounded to speak. Thomas was reviewing candidates for her hand, but she was still reeling from the news about her mother. She gave her head a shake and said, “May I not choose my own husband? I can draw up a list of prospects, and you or Andrew could arrange introductions. We could jointly weigh their suitability.”
“’Tis reasonable, brother,” Andrew said. “I will not force Isabel to marry where she does not have an interest.” Tears blurred her vision. Andrew, her favorite brother, had always stood up for her.
“I wonder why Mother has mentioned nothing of this to me,” Isabel said.
Her brothers looked uncomfortable. “She didn’t wish to worry you,” Andrew said.
Isabel nodded, but a weight pressed on her heart. It was as she’d always suspected. Her mother cared nothing for her, and now couldn’t wait to see her gone. It was hard to bear, but she’d withstood worse. “Thank you for informing me. I’ll get started on preparing my catalog of potential husbands.” She winked at Andrew as she left the room, and he ducked his head to hide a smile.
During the sennight following the funeral, Isabel had ample time to think matters over. She had no intention of making a list of prospective husbands, since marriage was the furthest thing from her mind. Although Isabel had no doubt her mother could make life unpleasant for her, she could not have her forcibly removed from her home. Could she?
Biding her time, Isabel kept to her chamber, pretending to work on the list of likely bridegrooms. Instead, she was reading a new edition of Montaigne’s Essays Andrew had brought her. And rereading Homer and the Greek plays she loved. All the while, she was hoping Thomas would not ask to see her list. When a knock sounded at her door one afternoon, she guiltily shoved her books under her pillow.
It was one of the servants, Sarah. “Mistress Hammond asks for you.”
Her mother had kept to her chamber since the funeral, emerging only for meals, which had been quiet, depressing affairs. No doubt Thomas had informed her of the delay in obtaining a husband for Isabel. She was certain to be displeased and would perhaps issue an ultimatum.
As Isabel approached the withdrawing room, she heard voices, both female. A caller. That was unexpected, especially one who required Isabel’s presence. She lingered in the doorway, waiting for her mother to notice her.
“Isabel, come. We have a guest who wishes to meet you.”
Considering the visitor, Isabel ventured forward. In her youth, the lady would have had an arresting face. Her long nose pointed toward her upper lip, which was narrow and bowed. Dark red hair, streaked with gray, framed a narrow face, one Isabel did not recognize. She judged the woman to be in her forties. By her dress, she would be of the upper classes, possibly nobility.
Before Elizabeth Hammond could make the introductions, the woman said, “I am Lady Shrewsbury. I need a moment of your time, mistress.”
Isabel curtsied. Her mother appeared flustered, glancing from her ladyship and back to Isabel. Lady Shrewsbury then said, “In private,” and looked pointedly at Isabel’s parent.
“Of course.” Thus was Isabel left alone with this pompous stranger.
“Be seated,” she said. Isabel obeyed.
“I shall get to the point, so as not to waste my time or yours. I nee
d a young lady with impeccable credentials to become one of Mary Stewart’s ladies-in-waiting. I have good reports of you. My sons are acquainted with your brothers, who say you are highly intelligent, speak French, and love reading. What have you to say?” She looked down her long nose at Isabel, who was reminded of an anteater. She’d once seen that creature pictured in a book.
Isabel found herself fumbling for a response. “I-I—Mary Stewart? Do you refer to the Scots queen?”
Lady Shrewsbury clucked her tongue. “Aye, of course. Who else? One of her oldest friends, who has been with her since childhood, has had to leave. Temporarily. We need a young lady to take her place.”
Isabel knew only that Mary was currently in England and had resided at Carlisle Castle for a time. “Where is she at present?”
“Tutbury Castle, in Staffordshire, not far from us here in Derbyshire.”
“What would be my duties as Queen Mary’s lady-in-waiting?”
Lady Shrewsbury sighed, indicating she’d hoped to get this interview over with more quickly. “Converse with her. Eat with her. Entertain her. She is very sociable and enjoys dances, cards, games, needlework, playing with her dogs. She likes having someone about who will read to her.”
“I see.” Isabel began to appreciate the appeal of this offer. Was this her chance to escape a marriage she did not want? Or life with her mother and new stepfather, who did not want her? Before assenting, she thought it fair that Lady Shrewsbury know the truth about her. “Did my mother inform you of the sheltered life I have led? I’ve been nowhere outside of this part of England. I’ve never been permitted to go out in Society, so I’ve no experience with dancing or games. I possess the scholarly assets you speak of, but lack the social graces one acquires through experience.”
“You speak your mind and are truthful. In my view, that will suffice. The ‘social graces,’ as you call them, will come with practice. Now, what say you?”
“I would be honored,” Isabel said. She hoped that was an appropriate response. Excitement was swelling in her bosom, because this rare piece of luck, which seemed to have dropped from the heavens, provided the opportunity she longed for to leave home on her own terms. My mother will be pleased.
Game of Spies Page 1
