by Amy Jarecki
They both sipped while the woman went on her way. It did taste better—either that or Evelyn was so upset her tongue was playing tricks.
Setting his dish on the board, Mr. Dubois licked his lips. “Now, tell me. What has your belle visage looking as if ye’ve been plundered by an angry Viking?”
Evelyn sputtered in her haste to cover something between a laugh and a cry. “An angry Viking isn’t far off the mark—except he’s a mad Scot.”
The man scowled and rubbed his fingers over the pommel of the dagger at his hip. “Name this miscreant and I’ll run my blade across his throat before the night’s end.”
“He hasn’t exactly committed plunder.” Yet. “He has proposed and entered into a marriage contract with my father.”
Mr. Dubois released his hilt. “Your father approves of this scoundrel? Then he must be a man of some substance.”
Barely able to bring herself to utter his name, Evelyn bit her lip. Yes, in a moment of inebriation she’d allowed the Scotsman to kiss her, but now she sat in horror of her actions. “’Tis none other than John Erskine, Earl of Mar.”
Whistling, the French emissary rocked his chair back against the wall. “Ah, yes.”
She pressed her palms to her cheeks. “I am simply devastated. And Papa didn’t bother to discuss the alliance with me before the papers were drawn.”
“Devastated? Truly? He’s an attractive man, is he not?”
“How can you speak of beauty when in a fortnight I’ll be taking my vows beside a man with questionable politics. Worse—a man just like my father. Bobbin’ John, of all people!”
“Hmm.” Mr. Dubois looked the picture of an unruffled French courtier while he turned his dish with his fingers. How could he be so calm at a moment like this? “Have you forgotten that Mar is an influential man? Perhaps the most influential man in Scotland.”
“What on earth does that matter?” Evelyn threw out her hands in exasperation. “How can I ever love anyone who kisses the queen’s royal backside?”
“Love?” Dubois laughed from his belly. “Ma chérie, I know you are as sharp as the dagger in my scabbard, but you’re not thinking with your head. What do you believe? You, the firstborn daughter of a duke, would marry for love?”
“Well, at least I hoped I’d have some say in the matter.”
“Let me ask you this, my lady: How deeply are you dedicated to the cause?”
After glancing over her shoulder, Evelyn lowered her voice. “You know I have pledged my life to Jacobitism.”
“Oui, and now you have an opportunity to turn this new alliance to your advantage—our advantage.”
A chill snaked down her spine. “Spy on Mar?”
“How different is that from spying on votre père?”
“I—” It was a great deal different from skimming her father’s correspondence. First of all, having lived all her life under the duke’s roof, she knew when and where to find tidbits of information. Things would be completely different with a husband, a new home, new servants, new routines, children.
“Think on it, my lady. You could be of more use to me as Mar’s wife than Hull’s daughter. Oui, the information you brought about the East Indian was a tasty nugget, and Sir Kennan has set sail for Bettyhill…” The Frenchman licked his lips, his eyes focused and very intent. “Think on what you can uncover from a member of Queen Anne’s cabinet.”
Chapter Seven
I’m pleased to see you looking so fresh and serene this morn,” John said while he helped Lady Evelyn climb into his chaise carriage. He particularly liked this smaller cart made for two. With only one horse to manage, it was easy to drive in the open air while carrying on a conversation. Margaret had enjoyed their rides together very much, and he hoped Evelyn would do the same.
“Did you expect me to appear harrowed and haggard for this outing?” She cast a look toward her father’s town house. “Perhaps I ought to go tell my lady’s maid to pull out a few hairpins.”
For a moment John thought the lass was serious until he caught a glimpse of the sun sparkling in mischievous turquoise eyes. “Why not take off your bonnet and let the breeze remove them at will? Such coiffure might begin a new fashion.”
The corners of her mouth turned up in a coy grin. “Indeed? What shall we call it? The windswept maiden?”
He laughed. “I do enjoy a sense of humor, m’lady.”
He hastened around to the other side, slipped in beside her, and picked up the reins. “I thought you might need a wee respite from your wedding plans.”
She folded her gloved hands. “You weren’t wrong. If my modiste stabs me with one more pin I’ll…well, I’ll tell her where she can put them.”
“That does sound unpleasant.” He slapped the reins and headed for the embankment along the Thames. “How are the wedding plans coming otherwise?”
“Do you truly want to hear all the sordid details?”
“I’ve been sequestered in the queen’s antechamber for three days, listening to her perseverate on how to settle her grievances with France and getting nowhere, mind you. I think listening to a story about how Lady Phoebe’s gown doesn’t have enough bows might be diverting.”
Evelyn gripped the armrest as they traversed a rough patch in the road. “’Tis Lady Frances who isn’t happy with her bows. Lady Phoebe wants more lace, and she thinks she’s ready for stays. And both of them would rather be the center of attention.”
“They’ll have their weddings soon enough.”
“Yes, that’s what I keep telling them.” Evelyn brushed out her skirts. “So, from your tenor, I take it cabinet meetings are rather dull?”
“They’re as painful as submitting to a smithy with a pair of tongs.”
“Ow. You’ve had your teeth pulled?”
“One. A molar. ’Twas something I never again wish to endure.”
“Surprising.”
“The tooth or my aversion to cabinet meetings?”
“Cabinet meetings. Why do you endure them? There are dozens of noblemen who’d relish taking your place.”
John shrugged. “Duty to queen and country, I suppose.” And he needed the income to keep the creditors at bay. But the union with Lady Evelyn would allow him to gracefully distance himself from Her Majesty.
“Hmm.” The lass folded her gloved hands. “How did Lords Thomas and Oliver take the news?”
“Rather well, I’d say.” Aside from their aversion to females—the very thought making him grin. “They’ll appreciate having a mother figure as they mature.”
“I would think they’d be resistant to the idea.”
“Why do you say that?”
“No child who loses a mother wants to see her replaced.”
“I suppose it will be an adjustment for the lads. But they will come to adore you in no time. And then…”
“Hmm?”
“Well, you…and I…will have bairns.”
Evelyn turned scarlet. “Oh.”
John slapped the reins, letting that wee idea hang on the air for a moment. In less than a fortnight this woman would come to his bed for the first time. The better prepared she was, the smoother consummation would be—for the both of them. Though he planned to be as gentle as he had been with Margaret, he didn’t need a weeping bride on his hands.
“Oh, look.” She pointed as if she’d pushed the idea of their wedding night out of her mind. “There’s London Bridge.”
“Aye, ’tis a city in itself.”
Grinning, she grasped her gold locket and moved it to and fro. “I’ve never been.”
“It is no place for a lady. And during peak times it can take an hour to cross.”
“Have you been there before?”
“I have, though if we want to cross the Thames, we’d do well to use the horse ferry.”
“But I would truly love to venture across and have a look at the myriad of vendors. Word is many of them are heathens. The day is fine. The sun is high in the sky. What is an hour or two?” Twirli
ng the locket around her finger, she gave him a sidewise glance. “And I have a robust Highland earl as my escort.”
Robust? John smiled at the compliment. He’d missed flirting, even though doing so made a chasm stretch in his chest—the same ache which had plagued him ever since Margaret had fallen ill. “Very well, mayhap a ride across and back for my bonny bride.”
He nearly choked on the words while Evelyn looked to her tightly folded hands. Clearly she was as apprehensive about their nuptials as he. If only John had an entire season to court the lass, things mightn’t be awkward. Pulling on the right rein, he cued the horse onto Bishopsgate, then pointed to the north tower. “There are towers at each end.”
Holding her bonnet, she leaned forward, looking up. “And the heads of traitors are impaled on spikes on the south side.”
“Aye. Though infrequently since Cromwell met his end.”
Her eyes shifted his way, reflecting a bit of defiance this time. “Did you know that a Scot’s head was the first to grace an iron spike?”
“William Wallace.”
“And King Charles.”
John shuddered as they passed beneath the tower’s archway. How did they manage to fall on the topic of treason and beheadings? It was not exactly the type of conversation he envisioned having with his betrothed. He cued the horse for a slow walk. Unsteady buildings three and four stories high butted against one another with a narrow causeway between them. The air changed—not just the stench or the chilly wind coming off the Thames, but something made the hair on John’s nape prickle. He shifted his gaze from side to side. Now he’d committed there was no turning around.
Lady Evelyn drew a kerchief across her nose. “My, the air is rich.”
“It’ll improve once we move on a bit, thanks to the wind whipping down the river.” Unless the hay wagon in front of them never decided to move. “Walk on!” John hollered.
“Shut your gob,” said a disembodied voice.
“Charming.”
“I see a break coming. I’ll go around.” With another slap of the reins, the horse veered into oncoming traffic and trotted forward just as a team of four came barreling through as if they were on a racetrack. John corrected with the reins, veering back to the left.
The chaise tottered on its springs while Evelyn sat like a queen, facing a near collision as if they were taking a ride on a wide-open country lane.
Gritting his teeth, John used a combination of the brake and steady tension on the reins to bring the chaise under control. “Hold on to your bonnet, m’lady!” he growled between his teeth.
As the carriage jolted and careened to one wheel, Lady Evelyn grabbed his arm. “My! I see why you do not always ride in an enclosed coach. You’re quite a skilled horseman.”
Safely on the left side, the chaise jolted and jerked while John steadied the horse. “Och, I can count on Daisy to pull through.” Though even he’d had his doubts for a moment. “I believe all lads should learn to drive a team. That’s where the true challenge lies.”
The lady released her grip and folded her hands in her lap. “Teams and spirited young horses.”
“You’re not wrong there.”
Now traveling at a snail’s pace, they encountered vendors out in droves. A man shoved a foul-smelling brown bottle under John’s nose. “This tincture will cure a megrim in the blink of an eye, it will.”
He batted the tinker’s hand away. “Remove that stench from my face at once.”
“Oh, look,” Evelyn said, taking a posy of silk flowers from a wench. “Here’s a dog rose.”
The woman’s eyes lit up. “Do you like dog roses, my lady?”
“I do.”
“I can make you a grand posy if you’d like.”
Clapping, Evelyn turned to John. “It would be ever so fitting to carry a bouquet of dog roses during the wedding.”
She couldn’t be serious. His bride deserved the most expensive, elaborate bouquet of flowers in London, not some street vendor’s moth-eaten silk roses. “Would you not prefer Great Maiden’s Blush?”
The wench grinned—one tooth missing in the front. “I can add Maiden’s Blush if you’d like, sir.”
John glanced at the shop. The shingle hung on one chain, the door weathered, windows cracked—no wonder the woman was incapable of discerning a nobleman from a commoner. “I think fresh flowers would suit my bride best.”
“Oh, please, Mar.” Evelyn’s eyes looked hopeful. “If I carry silk flowers, I’ll have them forever.”
Odd comment coming from a horticulturist. Not to mention her ladyship certainly had an unusual fetish for dog roses. “I do not—”
“I’ll tend your rig, sir.” A boy wrapped his fingers around Daisy’s bridle and pointed to a pullover. “I’ll be just up there.”
“Come, miss.” The woman tugged Evelyn’s arm, coaxing her out of the chaise. “My, that’s a rich brocade you’re wearing. You must be of quality.”
John grumbled under his breath—now he had no choice but to follow. “All right then. We won’t be but a moment.” He tossed the lad a coin and hastened after Her Ladyship.
The inside of the shop appeared as shabby as the outside. Bolts of fabric were stacked askew on shelves among pots, pans, and pails all filled with assorted cloth flowers—some encrusted with dust and mold.
The woman pulled Evelyn through a door at the back. “The finest roses are through here.”
John hastened after them…until a burly man blocked his path.
“Hello, sir.”
“Lord Mar, if you will.”
“An earl, are you?”
John craned his neck aside, trying to catch sight of Evelyn. “An irritated earl if you do not step out of my way, sir.”
“Let the ladies look at flowers.” The man grasped John’s shoulder, his fingers digging in. “I’ve some fine snuffboxes to show you right over here.”
Wrenching his arm away, John stepped nose to nose with the lout and thrust his finger in the direction where Her Ladyship had disappeared. “That is the daughter of the Duke of Kingston-upon-Hull and you will move aside this instant.”
“Right-o. Thing is, the queen’s rules do not apply in my shop.”
“Is that so? In light of your lack of hospitality, I will be sure to inform the queen’s dragoons of your treasonous assertions.”
“I think not.” Baring his teeth, the man drew a knife. “Now empty that Scottish purse covering your loins and I might be inclined to let you walk out of here alive.”
John crouched, his fingers splayed, ready for a fight. He reached for his dirk.
The man swiped with his knife. “Nay, you’ll not be drawing against me. Raise your hands above your head.”
A shrill scream came from behind the door.
“You picked the wrong Highlander to cross.” Lunging to the side, John grasped the back of the man’s knife-wielding hand. With a brutal twist, he snapped the cur’s wrist, making the blade drop to the floorboards. Howling in pain, the bastard bent forward. John drove his knee into the man’s face, then slammed his fist on the back of his neck. The cur dropped unconscious to the floor while John grabbed the knife and raced into the next room.
The place was a disheveled mess, as if it had been abandoned. At the rear, a door swung lazily on its hinges. “Lady Evelyn?”
A grunt came from the far corner, behind a torn screen.
John slid the knife into his belt, drawing his dirk as he crept forward. A man stood over Her Ladyship, pulling off her doeskin gloves.
Rage shot through his veins. “You bloody rutting bastard!”
The man turned and lunged, slashing with a dagger. “I’ll gut you!”
“Not this day,” John growled as he kicked the blade from the man’s hand. Using the momentum to drive his dirk across the blackguard’s gullet, he killed the fiend in a heartbeat.
As soon as the attacker clutched his neck and dropped, John fell to his knees and gathered Lady Evelyn in his arms, cradling her head in his
hand. Christ, they’d stolen her bonnet, her gold locket, and Lord knew what else. “Are you hurt, lass?” he asked, pulling the rag from her mouth.
“I—they…” Her eyes rolled back.
Damnation, warm blood seeped through his fingers. With not a moment to lose, he raced for the door and out to the street. He looked south for his rig, then north. “Where’s my bloody horse?”
No one said a damned word. Coaches and wagons rolled past as if he didn’t exist. Well, John wasn’t about to stand idle cradling his injured betrothed in his arms. He balanced Evelyn in his left while thrusting his palm in front of an approaching cart. “Stop in the name of Her Majesty the queen!”
Evelyn’s head throbbed, punishing her while the wagon jounced over the cobblestones.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated over and over again. How could she have been so daft? Her finch-brained effort to rankle Mar and insist on carrying a posy of silk dog roses had misfired and nearly seen them both killed.
“The danger has passed now, lass,” he whispered into her hair. “Close your eyes and rest. Another few minutes and we’ll arrive at your da’s door.”
Could things grow worse? There she was, looking like a complete nincompoop in the arms of her future husband as they rode in the rear of a wagon half filled with rum barrels. Mar’s carriage and horse were lost, and those horrible people had stolen her gloves and gold locket with a miniature of her mother.
And Mr. Dubois had said she had the makings of a good spy? She had the makings of a good dolt. If only she weren’t the firstborn daughter of a duke, things might have been different. She might have stayed in Nottingham and married the vicar’s son. Though Father never would have approved. A vicar’s son wasn’t likely to help Hull gain favor with the queen. Besides, marrying the lad wouldn’t have been a love match, either. And married to a country gentleman, she would be of no use to Mr. Dubois or those she hoped to help. True, Mar would be taking her to the Highlands, but once she was there, who knew what she’d face? Would she be cloistered in some godforsaken tower among a plethora of royalist strangers?
Goodness, her husband-to-be was all but a stranger, a man who had behaved gallantly toward her, yet by his reputation he was anything but a knight in shining armor. How could she cast aside everything she’d heard? Regardless of his chivalry, she was entering the lion’s den and must remain vigilant—stay true to her beliefs.