Silver Deceptions

by Sabrina Jeffries

  He scanned it quickly, then paled. “You’d best tell me everything.”

  She related an abbreviated version of how her mother and father had met and how her mother had come by the coded poem. Then she told him why her mother had married the squire. She told him her mother and stepfather were dead but didn’t say how, ending with the fact that she’d come to London penniless to seek out her father, though she made no mention of her plans for vengeance.

  When she finished, the king looked astonished. “This is most disturbing.” He read the poem again. “Buckingham!” he shouted, making Annabelle jump.

  The door into the other room opened and the duke entered, along with Lord Rochester. Annabelle’s stomach sank. Had the king not believed her?

  “You were well acquainted with what happened at Norwood after the Battle of Naseby, weren’t you?” the king asked Buckingham. “Wasn’t the Earl of Walcester questioned in connection with the incident?”

  “Aye, Your Majesty. I was one of the men who questioned him.”

  “Didn’t he claim to know nothing of the three Royalists who carried the papers until after they were arrested?”

  Buckingham’s eyes narrowed. “As I recall, that is true, sire.” His shrewd gaze flitted to Annabelle, then back to the king.

  “You know Mrs. Maynard, I suppose,” the king said, waving his hand toward her.

  The duke nodded with a knowing smile.

  But Lord Rochester said slyly, “Aye, Your Majesty. We all know Mrs. Maynard.”

  “If you must listen in,” the king snapped at Rochester, “keep your tongue in check. This business happened while you were still a pup, so I doubt you have anything to add.”

  Annabelle relaxed. After what had occurred earlier in the evening, Lord Rochester no doubt itched to strike back at her.

  His Majesty returned his attention to Buckingham. “Mrs. Maynard claims to be Walcester’s illegitimate daughter. I have reason to believe she tells the truth.

  Lord Rochester’s eyes widened and she could feel his gaze on her, probing, resentful.

  The king handed Buckingham the poem. “Madame Maynard claims this was sent by Walcester to someone in Norwood shortly before the men were arrested. Do you remember the names the men were using?”

  “Anthony Gibbs, Benedict Cooper, and Paxton Hart.” Buckingham read the poem several times over as Annabelle waited, resisting the urge to twist the overskirt of her gown. She mustn’t appear anxious, or they’d never believe her.

  When he reached the bottom, he murmured, “Ah yes, the Silver Swan. I’d forgotten that was his code name.” His gaze shot to her.

  “So you think he probably did write it,” the king said.

  “It does look like his hand.”

  The king turned to Annabelle. “To whom was your mother supposed to give this?”

  “All she told me was that my father, Captain Maynard, sent her into town with a description of the man.” She related the rest of it for the duke’s benefit.

  A calculating expression crossed Buckingham’s face, giving her pause, though the king didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’m curious, Mrs. Maynard,” Buckingham said. “Why have you chosen to bring this to our attention?”

  “I wish to see justice done. All I have seen of my father tells me that he is dangerous. I felt it my duty to expose his treachery to those who could end it, before he has the chance to do any more damage.” She added truthfully, “And before he can hurt me for what I know.”

  “I see.” Buckingham read the poem again. “It seems to me, Your Majesty, that this is a message in code, governed by the reference to the bard. It contains the three names of the men who were taken.”

  He showed the king the paper, gesturing to a line. “Here ‘Portia’ is meant to be read as Anthony, since they were both characters in The Merchant of Venice, and ‘Beatrice’ as Benedict, from Much Ado About Nothing. Down here, ‘heart’ is meant to be Paxton Hart. The ‘martyr’s plain’ no doubt refers to St. Stephen’s Street, where the men were staying. ’Tis clear that Walcester wanted to identify them for the benefit of the soldiers, who promptly went to arrest the men there.”

  This was the first time Annabelle had heard where the men were captured. That line leapt into her mind—Far away from the martyr’s plain. If her father had wanted to betray his companions, why would he have sent a message bidding the soldiers to tread far from that street?

  “What a nasty business,” the king said. “Yet it does seem as if you are right. What of the rest of the message?”

  Buckingham folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. “Mere words to throw the reader off the scent. You know how these communications work—a lot of frivolous material to cover up the meat.”

  Annabelle was no longer paying attention to Buckingham. She raced through the poem, trying to remember the key phrases. Your heart you must keep close and mute. If that referred to the man Hart, then why would her father admonish the soldiers to keep him silent, but not the others?

  And what about Lest ye be forced by crown-less hands / To sing the hangman’s lullaby? Were the crown-less hands Cromwell’s men?

  A cold chill swept over her. What if she’d been wrong about the poem? Might it be a warning?

  That made no sense. Her father had no reason to hide the fact that he’d tried to warn the Royalists. Only if he’d betrayed them would he want to keep her silent.

  Still . . .

  “Your Majesty?” she said. “It seems to me that the last line of the poem might have meaning.”

  As Buckingham shot her a wary glance, the king said, “Oh?”

  “The line about the crown-less hands—”

  “Means nothing,” Buckingham said smoothly. “Unless it refers to the Roundheads’ desire to take the crown from the king.”

  “No, I meant—”

  “I think you’d best leave this sort of thing to the men.” Buckingham fixed her with a cold gaze. “You’re quite talented on the stage, Mrs. Maynard, but sorting out coded messages is not within your purview.”

  For the first time, it dawned on her that there might be more to Buckingham’s determination to keep her silent. She’d best tread carefully.

  “Perhaps you’re right, Your Grace,” she said in a conciliatory tone, “but I do know more about the situation than any of you, since my mother was there.”

  “We should speak to the mother, you know,” His Majesty interjected.

  Annabelle stifled a sigh. “I told you, sire. My mother is dead.”

  “Ah yes, you did.”

  The door to the room opened, and Barbara Palmer thrust her head inside. Sparing a contemptuous glance for Annabelle, she forced a pout to her lips for the king. “I swear, why are you three taking so long? I thought we were going to play whist. Peg and I are near to tears with boredom waiting for you.”

  His Majesty flashed his mistress an ingratiating smile. “Just a moment more, darling. State business does sometimes intrude, you know.”

  “State business.” Barbara’s tone was snide. “Of course.” She glared at Annabelle, but at Buckingham’s dismissive nod, she shut the door.

  “In any case,” His Majesty told Annabelle, “Buckingham is correct. You must leave it to us to address the problem now, my dear. Buckingham is well versed in the ways of spies. I have complete faith in his ability to sort out the truth.” Clearly, the king no longer wanted to be bothered.

  Buckingham looked pleased with himself, which worried her. What if she were wrong? Now that she thought on it, the poem could be interpreted more than one way. “Your Majesty, I think perhaps I’ve been hasty—”

  “So like a woman to be fickle,” Lord Rochester drawled. “Have you suddenly figured out that Hampden won’t take kindly to your exposing his friend as a traitor?”

  Annabelle paled. “Lord Hampden has nothing to do with this,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I can’t imagine why you’d think he would.”

  “Can’t you? He is your lover,
is he not? Or have the two of you had a falling-out?”

  Buckingham seemed perturbed. “I don’t see what Hampden has to do with this.”

  “Come, Buckingham,” Lord Rochester said, his lip curling with disdain. “The girl prances about the stage under her father’s own code name, and suddenly Hampden, Walcester’s only ally in London, displays profound interest in her. A bit too pat, don’t you think? It smacks to me of a conspiracy.”

  “Nay!” she cried. “What conspiracy?”

  Lord Rochester shrugged. “Walcester’s been deliberately misleading his peers all these years about what happened at Norwood. And to what purpose? Does he have secret ties to the king’s enemies? Are he and Hampden up to some treachery?”

  “That’s an outright lie, and you know it!” she cried. “You’re merely angry because Lord Hampden shamed you at the Blue Bell tonight.”

  Lord Rochester glared at her.

  “What’s this?” the king asked.

  “Lord Hampden put his sword through his lordship’s breeches for his scandalous behavior toward me,” Annabelle said with scorn. “Lord Rochester was behaving like a drunken lecher . . . as usual.”

  The king hid his laugh behind a discreet cough.

  That only seemed to infuriate Lord Rochester. “The fact remains that Hampden and Walcester have been intriguing together. Hampden obviously knew about the whole thing and sought you out for that reason. For all we know, the two of them made you part of it until you came to your senses and decided to do your duty by your country.”

  “Your Majesty,” Annabelle pleaded, “all of this about Lord Hampden is sheer nonsense! Lord Rochester is just being spiteful because—”

  “Enough!” the king said wearily. “Listen to me, Mrs. Maynard. You have presented us with important evidence, and for that we are grateful. Now you shall have to trust me and my advisers to sort out the truth.” He gave her a condescending smile. “These are weighty matters. I promise that we are more qualified to deal with them than you. You have done your part. Now you must let us do ours.”

  “But—”

  “Are you questioning the integrity of His Majesty or his advisers?” Buckingham asked sternly. His eyes sparkled with something that looked suspiciously like triumph.

  Why did he seem so pleased with all of this? “Nay.” She fought the trembling in her belly. Dear heaven, she could say no more without giving the king insult. But how could she let Lord Rochester sway them with his insane lies?

  “Then that is settled,” the king said and turned for the door, obviously ready to return to his mistress. “Buckingham, we must discuss this at length in the morning. Something must be done about Walcester.” He cast Lord Rochester a considering glance. “Hampden, too, if indeed he is involved.”

  Annabelle stood there, helpless to stop the madness. They’d taken it out of her hands. But, sweet Mary, what had she done?

  “Rochester, will you accompany Mrs. Maynard downstairs?” His Majesty said as an afterthought.

  Rochester practically licked his lips over the prospect. “Of course, sire.”

  “I can see myself out, Your Majesty,” she said.

  “I’ll see you out,” the Duke of Buckingham inexplicably put in.

  “Very good,” said His Majesty, opening the door to the other room. “Come along, Rochester. We have friends to entertain.”

  Buckingham led her out the door leading to the Privy Stairs, but as soon as they were alone, he murmured, “I have a suggestion for you, Mrs. Maynard.”

  “Aye, Your Grace?” She was still reeling from the rapidity with which they’d gone from scarcely believing her story to condemning both her father and Colin.

  “I wouldn’t speak to anyone of what happened here tonight, if I were you.”

  She stopped short to fix him with a suspicious gaze. “Why?”

  His lazy smile didn’t mask the cruelty about his eyes. “I have more influence with the king than you could ever dream of. One word, and I can make it seem as if you, too, were part of this absurd conspiracy of Rochester’s.”

  Only with great effort did she keep from letting him cow her. “Surely His Majesty isn’t so lacking in discernment as to think that a frivolous actress like me would be interested in such boring affairs.”

  Buckingham’s eyes rested on her bosom. “Perhaps. But then, as you saw just now, His Majesty would rather dally with his mistresses than concern himself with matters of state. He will listen to me when I suggest that he keep your name out of the entire affair—for propriety’s sake, of course.”

  She sucked in a breath. “And what do you wish of me in return?”

  “That you do not mention that poem to anyone, especially Lord Hampden.”

  Her control slipped a fraction. “His lordship had nothing to do with it!”

  He smiled. “Yes, well, we shall see. But in truth, I have no doubt he’s innocent, and I’m sure the king realizes it as well. Rochester can spout absurdities when he’s angry, but that doesn’t mean anyone will credit them.”

  The tension in her chest eased a little.

  “Nonetheless, your lover is Walcester’s friend. If justice is to be done and your father to be punished, we mustn’t have Hampden stepping in to confuse the interpretation of the poem, if you know what I mean. Better that he not know about the poem at all.”

  Her pulse quickened as the truth hit her. Buckingham didn’t care what the poem really said. He hated her father and was taking this chance to rid himself of an enemy.

  Instead of delighting in that, she only felt guilt. It was one thing to betray her father if he was a traitor, and quite another to see him pay for a crime he hadn’t committed.

  She didn’t know why he’d hidden the truth about Norwood all these years, but what if he’d had just cause? What if she’d just set into motion the condemnation of an innocent man? He deserved to suffer for abandoning Mother, but if she were honest, she had to admit that he hadn’t been the one to torment her, and Mother hadn’t been hanged for any crime that he had done.

  So what kind of woman was she to send her own father to the gallows? Nay, she couldn’t do it, for it would make her as low as he.

  She certainly couldn’t let them take Colin. And no matter what the duke said, if Lord Rochester had his way, Colin would be implicated.

  “You do want to see your father arrested, don’t you?” Buckingham said with an oily smirk. “To see justice done?”

  Aye, justice. Not murder.

  She had to find a way out of this. She had to save Colin and learn the truth about her father. But Buckingham would be no help to her, that was certain.

  She forced a smile. “Justice. Of course.”

  Buckingham nodded his approval, then took her arm once more and continued down the stairs.

  Yes, she would do whatever she must to see justice done for both Colin and her father. Because in the end, it was her soul that lay in the balance. And she had finally decided that she wanted to keep it.

  Chapter Twenty

  “He that would govern others, first should be

  The master of himself.”

  —Philip Massinger, The Bondman, Act 1, Sc. 3

  Hell and furies, where is Annabelle?

  Colin pulled his horse up before his town house in the early-morning hours. He’d spent all night in search of her—at the Blue Bell, at her lodgings, at Aphra’s lodgings, even at Sir John’s house—but she seemed to have vanished. By the time Sir John and Charity admitted that they’d seen her at the theater, she’d left there, too, to go nobody knew where.

  And he still had to deal with the damned earl. Assuming the man was still at his house, which was by no means certain.

  But of course Colin couldn’t be so lucky. The earl was waiting for him as soon as he entered, apparently having sat there in the foyer the whole time Colin was gone. And he looked it, too, although Colin felt little sympathy for him.

  “Did you find her?” the man demanded as he clasped his cane and shoved to a st
and.

  “Why do you care?” Colin snapped.

  The earl scowled. “I don’t. But since you refuse to do as you promised and keep flitting off about the countryside—”

  “I’ve been in Norwood for the past two weeks,” Colin said baldly. He paused to let that sink in and was rewarded to see Walcester pale.

  “Why?” the earl asked hoarsely.

  “To find out what Annabelle and you were hiding.”

  Walcester glanced over at the servants, who were listening with great curiosity. “Perhaps we should have this discussion more privately.”

  “Indeed,” Colin said, though at the moment he didn’t care much about preserving the man’s reputation. Especially if the earl was as guilty of treachery as he feared.

  Colin led the man to his study. As soon as they entered, Walcester rounded on him. “What did you discover in Norwood?” he demanded, his gaze fearful.

  “That everything Annabelle said last night is true and then some. Annabelle’s bastardy often made her the target of her stepfather’s punishments, so her mother went mad one day while her husband was beating Annabelle yet again over some minor infraction, and she plunged a butcher knife through his heart.”

  A strange mix of emotions crossed Walcester’s face, but Colin could summon no pity for the man. “That’s why, after Annabelle witnessed her own mother’s hanging, she came penniless to London, hoping to find you and have her vengeance.”

  At last Walcester showed some hint of feeling, fixing Colin with the kind of astonished grief people wear when they first realize a loved one has been taken from them. “Phoebe was hanged?” Walcester asked in a still voice.

  “Aye. Apparently, her death was slow and painful.”

  Walcester muttered a ragged oath. “Poor Phoebe. I never loved her as deeply as she loved me, but she was a sweet slip of a thing, given to tender words and very timid.”

  “Except, I take it, when you bedded her.” Colin’s voice hardened. “Unless you raped her.”

  “Good God, no!” Walcester protested. “ ’Twas not a rape. We cared for one another. I wouldn’t have left her behind if I hadn’t been forced to.”