He shook his head. “He once dallied with the heart of a lady I knew.”
Freya frowned. “I’ve never heard anything against him. Why isn’t this common knowledge if what you say is true?”
“You needn’t take my word for it, madam.” He glanced at her, his eyes no longer friendly. “I’m losing patience. Give me back my ring by midnight tonight or I’ll tell Lady Holland how I first met you.”
And with that he lengthened his stride, drawing ahead of her.
Freya stared after him, angry, frightened, and a bit disappointed that he so obviously didn’t care to walk with her anymore.
Silly.
The last thing she wanted was to become further involved with His Grace the Duke of Harlowe. He was her enemy. And now she must find a way to put him off without giving him Ran’s ring.
Messalina happened to look over her shoulder at that moment and caught Freya’s eye. She smiled tentatively.
Freya glanced away and felt a shard of pain through her breast.
It was so tiring. So useless and fraught, and it would never end, would it?
What had happened at Greycourt fifteen years ago would reverberate forever in their lives.
The thought was a weight on her shoulders. If only she could put it down. Forget.
But there was no forgetting, was there?
Aurelia was murdered.
Ranulf maimed.
And Papa dead from a broken heart.
The world could not go back from that one point in their history.
Freya inhaled and straightened, looking up. Messalina was no longer glancing back, and she saw that they were at the outskirts of the town.
There were wagons on the road, laden with goods to be sold at the market, and a boy driving a half dozen geese in the same direction.
Their little group moved off the road and onto a walking path, and in the shuffle Freya found herself beside Lady Holland.
Freya leaned close. “I’ve heard that Mr. Plimpton is not a suitable gentleman.”
Lady Holland’s dark eyebrows shot up at the news. “Good gracious. I can’t believe Lady Lovejoy would invite the man if she knew of such a thing.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t, my lady.”
Lady Holland frowned at Mr. Plimpton’s back. He was whispering something to Lucretia now. “She dashed well should. Drat. That reduces the eligible gentlemen to only four.”
Freya murmured, “I’m not sure Lord Stanhope is…”
Lady Holland waved a hand. “I know. I know. The man’s a toad. I shouldn’t count him and that makes only three now and with the Misses Greycourt in attendance hardly a level playing field for my Arabella.”
“Arabella has much to recommend her,” Freya said.
“Not least her dowry,” the older woman murmured. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Miss Stewart. I love my daughter, but I’m also a practical mother. Arabella doesn’t shine in company—particularly vivacious company.” She shot another look at the trio ahead of them. Mr. Plimpton was laughing at something Lucretia had said while Arabella looked on with a faint smile. “I want her happy and with a gentleman who will care for her.”
Freya cleared her throat delicately. “Have you thought what you will do if we cannot find a gentleman good enough for her?”
“I can’t let myself do that, Miss Stewart,” Lady Holland said. “A lady of Arabella’s rank without a husband lives but a half life—at least I’m sure that’s what Lord Holland would say.”
“She’d have to live with Regina eventually, wouldn’t she?”
“Quite. And that, I’m afraid, is a recipe for discord.”
Freya frowned. There was another option for Arabella, of course. Freya could offer her sanctuary with the Wise Women in Dornoch. Arabella could learn their ways, perhaps find a calling in silversmithing, weaving, beekeeping, or any of the many other traditional Wise Women occupations. She could even find something entirely unique to do—all were welcome as long as they contributed to the community. But in exchange Arabella would have to give up her present life. Live in faraway Scotland and never, ever tell her family or friends about the Wise Women.
Lady Holland looked up as they entered the crowded town square. “Oh, here we are at last.”
Ahead of them, Arabella and Lucretia had stopped by a woman selling hot buns while Mr. Plimpton had moved on to charming Messalina and Lady Lovejoy. The man was a menace, and Freya felt grudgingly thankful to Harlowe for warning her. She knew that Lady Holland would have a quiet word not only with her own daughters, but also with Messalina and Lucretia tonight.
“Would you like one?” Arabella smiled, indicating the currant buns, as Freya came abreast of them.
“Thank you,” Freya replied. She met Lucretia’s curious gaze and looked away. Lucretia had been only eight when the Greycourt tragedy happened—a mischievous girl who had often tagged along with Freya and Messalina, determined not to miss any excitement. They’d sometimes hid from little Lucretia in that cruel way older children had, but there had been other days when Freya had spent whole afternoons teaching Lucretia to look for birds’ nests in the heather.
The stab of melancholy? longing? regret? was sudden and overwhelming.
Freya turned to survey the market.
On one side of the square was an inn with a painted sign proclaiming it the Swan. In the center of the square was an ancient fountain. And on the other side was the Norman church. Stalls and carts were crowded all the way around the fountain, the owners bawling their wares. Here was a woman selling onions and leeks, there a man with a string of fresh sausages, and farther on a man sharpening knives, his foot furiously working his grindstone. People crowded the little town square, no doubt come from several miles around.
Someone must have information about Lady Randolph here.
Freya trailed behind Arabella and Lucretia, eyeing the various stalls. She decided on an elderly woman hawking vegetables, berries, and small bunches of flowers.
“Fine strawberries I have,” the woman cried as Freya stopped before her.
Freya smiled as she looked at the berries, temptingly displayed. “You must be the strawberry woman my friend Lady Randolph told me about. She spoke highly of you.”
The old woman’s toothless smile faltered before she rallied. “Aye, I have the sweetest strawberries of any in a day’s ride.”
Freya glanced up, meeting her eyes. “That’s exactly what Lady Randolph said. But I’m thinking of buying one of your posies today.”
The woman had been eyeing her nervously but perked up at the prospect of a sale. “Pick the one you like, mistress, only a halfpenny a bunch.”
“Well, then I’ll have three,” Freya replied, opening her purse. She held out a shilling. “Someone told me that my friend died of a strange disease. Do you know aught of it, mother?”
The old woman eyed her hand for a second. Then with a quick look right and left she snatched the shilling. “Weren’t disease what killed her, my lady.”
“Witchcraft, then?” Freya murmured to test her.
The old woman surprised her with a derisive snort. “No, nor witchcraft, either. ’Twas the sins of a man that laid her low. And now you must move away, mistress.” She tilted her head in the direction of the stall next to hers. A young man was openly staring at them. “This talk is dangerous.”
Freya nodded and took her posies, sticking one in the top of her fichu where the ends crossed over her chest. Then she wandered away from the old woman’s stall, handing the other two posies to a couple of small girls who giggled at the gift.
Sins of a man. Had Lady Randolph taken a lover before she died? If so, it would give Lord Randolph one of the oldest reasons for murder.
She glanced at the crowd, looking for the best person to approach next, and glimpsed Arabella’s bright gold hair. She was standing next to Lord Rookewoode, her face tilted up, her expression painfully open. The earl was handing her some sort of pastry from the stall in front of them, his smile framed
by devilish dimples.
The man was dangerous.
Freya bit her lip. No doubt Lady Holland would be pleased if that resulted in a match.
Freya was less certain.
She turned away and saw Harlowe, standing at the edge of the market crowd, his hand on Tess’s head. He was looking around the marketplace as well, and even from across the square Freya thought he looked tense.
How strange.
She started in his direction and then heard a particular cry.
“Ribbons and trim! Pretty ribbons and trim I have!”
She glanced at the crier.
It was a woman dressed in a ragged black cloak with a gray hood. She stood beside a cart drawn by an enormous dog, a shaggy gray-and-white lurcher. The cart was filled with her wares. The woman looked up, and Freya recognized the Crow.
What was she doing here? Freya had had no notice of a meeting.
She strolled over.
“Will ye have a pretty blue ribbon, mistress?” the Crow called loudly, her black eyes glinting. “I have sky blue and sea blue and robin’s-egg blue.”
Freya peered in the cart. She fingered one of the ribbons tied loosely to a pole. “Have you green? A nice grass green?”
The woman met Freya’s eyes. “O’ course.”
She bent over her cart to rummage in a box and Freya leaned closer, taking care that her expression remain the same when the Crow whispered, “I’ve news that someone at the house party is a Dunkelder.”
“Who?” Freya murmured as she held up a ribbon, squinting at it.
“I don’t know,” the Crow said, and then louder, “Only two a penny, mistress. An’ if you buy four I’ll give you the fifth free.”
“Does the Dunkelder know who I am?” Freya asked, ducking her head as her breath came faster.
The Crow murmured, “I don’t think so. But should he find that you’re a de Moray he’ll know all.” Her black eyes flicked up. “And this is Dunkelder territory. There’ll be others. Walk softly.”
Freya stared blindly at the colorful ribbons in her hand.
“Lady Macha,” the Crow whispered. “I cannot stay here. I’ve other business to see to. You’re on your own.”
Freya met the other woman’s worried gaze. “I’ll be fine.”
She fumbled for a coin from her purse and took the ribbons.
“Be careful,” the other woman warned as Freya turned to go. “If the Dunkelder finds out who you are, he’ll kill you.”
* * *
Christopher watched as the members of the house party scattered about the town market. He followed, winding through the crowd, keeping an eye on Plimpton and trying to ignore the press of all the bodies around him. Plimpton was ushering Lady Lovejoy about as if he had not a care in the world, damn him.
Someone jostled his elbow.
Christopher turned, his upper lip lifted in a snarl, and the youth who had run into him stepped back. “Beg your pardon, m’lord.”
The boy hurried off.
Christopher closed his eyes and took a deep breath, smelling the stink of too many bodies, feeling the pounding of a headache start.
When he opened them again, he saw Miss Stewart across the square staring at him. Damn her.
He turned away, shame making his neck hot. Why must it be she to see his weakness?
Tess whimpered and pressed against his leg.
He dropped his hand to her head, letting her soft fur calm him. This was England. The crowd wasn’t pressed together here. There was no danger of suffocation. And he shouldn’t care one whit what the bloody little thief thought of him.
Still. Coming along on this outing hadn’t been a good plan.
He blew out his breath and searched for Plimpton. Lady Lovejoy was walking ahead, arm in arm with Messalina now, while Plimpton had fallen behind as he peered at a stall selling penknives.
Christopher pushed his way through the crowd to get to Plimpton.
“Do you have them?” he asked when he reached the other man’s side.
Plimpton started as if a gun had gone off beside him.
He turned, wincing delicately as if Christopher had made a particularly egregious faux pas. “I think we need privacy for this discussion, don’t you, Your Grace?”
“I think I want this done with as soon as possible,” Christopher retorted. “When we return to the house, for example.”
He saw Plimpton swallow. Evidently the man hadn’t expected Christopher to demand the letters immediately.
“Erm…b-but that won’t do.”
“Why not? Do you have the letters or don’t you?” Christopher’s upper lip curled.
Plimpton’s gaze slid away. “A-as a matter of fact, I shan’t have them until another few days, when the post delivers them to me.”
“What game are you playing?” Christopher snarled quietly.
“No game!” Plimpton licked his lips nervously. “Truly! I thought it safest to travel separately from the letters, that’s all. I’ll have them very soon and then I’ll send you a note to meet.”
It sounded like a load of balderdash, but then Plimpton had never struck Christopher as very bright. Perhaps he had chosen such a convoluted way to bring the letters to Lovejoy House.
“Take care you don’t forget,” Christopher said through gritted teeth. “Else I’ll take matters into my own hands.”
“Is that a threat?” Plimpton’s face had gone white. “Are you threatening me?”
He leaned forward and flicked a nonexistent speck off Plimpton’s coat front, murmuring, “If I’ve left you in any doubt, I do apologize.”
Christopher pivoted to make his way through the mass of people and saw, not half a dozen feet away, Miss Stewart hastily turning away.
Had she overheard their conversation?
It was the last straw in a trying morning. He wasn’t about to let Miss Stewart’s curiosity mar Sophy’s name.
He strode to Miss Stewart and pointedly offered his arm. “Will you walk with me?”
She opened her mouth, looking mulish.
He stretched his lips in a parody of a smile, all his teeth bared. “I won’t ask again.”
She snapped her mouth shut and placed her hand on his arm. “How boorish.”
“Am I?” He guided her to the edge of the crowd, Tess close by his side. “Were you spying on me?”
“No!” She looked so indignant he considered believing her. Then her expression turned to one of speculation. “Were you and Mr. Plimpton discussing something you didn’t want heard?”
“That’s my own business.” He felt his temples begin to throb. He needed a reprieve from this crowd. “As it happens I don’t particularly enjoy self-righteous spinsters listening in on my private conversations.”
A quick glance around showed that no one was paying attention to them. He steered her in the direction of the church, away from the marketplace stalls and the gathered people.
Miss Stewart huffed, saying rather breathlessly, “I don’t particularly enjoy being accused of nefarious doings by a man so stupid he’d conduct private business in a crowd.”
“What a little witch you are,” he said absently—and felt her stiffen. He glanced down at her and saw that her green-gold eyes had widened in something that looked almost like fear. “What is it?”
“You threatened poor Mr. Plimpton,” she said.
Christopher snorted and pulled open the door to the Norman church. Tess darted in with them. “He’s only poor in pocket, I assure you.”
Inside, the church was cool and dim, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunshine outside. It was a pretty little church. The inverted U-shaped arch of the door was repeated in the arch between the nave and chancel, and both were decorated with a chevron pattern.
He glanced down at Miss Stewart and saw that her face was upturned as she studied the windows. Less than an inch of her hairline peeked beneath her cap. Her hair might be dark blond or dusty brown—impossible to tell—and he had the wil
d urge to rip the cap from her head.
“Do you think they were smashed during the Reformation?” she mused.
The windows were all clear glass. If there had once been stained glass in the church it was all gone. “Probably. Or by Cromwell’s Roundheads.”
“Men do seem to enjoy smashing things—even beautiful things.”
“Not all men, surely.” He watched her with her prim little mouth, her sad eyes, and said gently, “Besides. Women can be just as destructive, I find.”
He felt her stiffen and was glad. Here was a proper opponent to take his ire out on. She might be a virago, but she was also strong and strongly opinionated. He needn’t fear that she would collapse into a weeping heap at the slightest comment.
She made a scoffing sound. “Do you really think so? When the destruction that men wield results in wars? Death and maiming?”
“You don’t count women such as Helen of Troy?” he murmured, watching her. She couldn’t speak this way with every man she met—otherwise she’d be without a job. What made her so confrontational with him?
“Helen of Troy is a myth,” she said with scorn. “Butcher Cumberland isn’t.”
He raised his eyebrows. The Duke of Cumberland had been the English commander at the bloody slaughter of the Scots at Culloden only fourteen years before. “You’re a Jacobite.”
“No, of course not. They were idealistic fools fighting a war they had no hope of winning.” She blew out an impatient breath. “I just don’t approve of wholesale butchery.”
“And you hate men,” he said slowly.
“Don’t be silly.” She walked away from him, up the little nave, her heels echoing on the flagstones. “I don’t hate every man.”
Him. She hated him.
He intended to find out why. He felt heat rising in his chest as the pain in his head returned full blast. “What have I ever done to you, madam?”
She threw a mocking glance over her shoulder. “You still don’t know?”
Suddenly his patience was at an end.
He took two strides and grasped her arm, halting her. Swinging her around to face him. “No. I can only imagine that your brain is inflamed and you’ve dreamed up some injury. You’ve been waspish to me since the moment I laid eyes on you—despite the fact that I helped you.”
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