The earl examined her documents and, when they appeared legal, realized it would cost him nothing to help her. A simple letter to a Derbyshire man of law, eager to gain the patronage of the Earl of Shrewsbury, would do the trick.
Bess arrived home, flush with her victory. She hadn't the least notion that she had the hated George Talbot to thank for her interview with the lord lieutenant of Derbyshire.
Within a fortnight Bess was summoned to the chambers of Messrs. Fulk and Entwistle, the county's most prominent lawyers. Within a month they petitioned the Court of Wards, and within four months they had a monetary settlement for her.
“Ten pounds?” Bess repeated the amount of money they had for her with amazement.
Messrs. Fulk and Entwistle, thinking she was indignant, hastened to reassure her. “That is only a partial settlement, but we agreed to accept it until the true amount can be tallied, and of course the value of your jointure will go up each and every year.”
Bess was overjoyed. She had never really expected the Court of Wards to concede her anything. Rogue Cavendish had been right; the side with the better lawyer would always win!
“My dear sirs, you are truly amazing, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” Her thoughts were darting about like quicksilver. “Since you have dealt so well with the Court of Wards and achieved such favorable results, I would like you to handle another matter for me. My brother, James, is heir to Hardwick Manor, which has been held in wardship for nearly a dozen years. James is almost twenty, only a year from coming of age. Now that I have money, why can't I buy his wardship for the final year, so that our family can take back ownership of Hardwick's lands and manor?”
Fulk and Entwistle were impressed with the young woman's determination, and since the lord lieutenant of Derbyshire had asked them to aid her, they would do what she asked. “We will look into the matter immediately, Mistress Barlow. It seems a sensible course to pursue, 'though we must warn you that these wardship cases often take months.”
* * *
Eight months later Bess stood in front of the half-timbered house where she had been born. She spoke to it, never doubting that Hardwick Manor could hear and understand every word. “I told you I would be back to claim you. We'll never let you go again; you will belong to the Hardwicks forever. Mother is back with my little sisters, and Aunt Marcy is going to lay out a herb garden. My brother, James, has a new bride, Elizabeth Draycott. From now on all your rooms will be filled with love and, soon, the laughter of children once again. I'm returning to London today, but this isn't good-bye. I'll be back … I promise you!”
TEN
As Bess stepped from the Zouche carriage and looked up at the tall town house, the two and a half years she had been gone from London melted away like magic. Margaret Zouche looked exactly the same, although her daughters had certainly grown.
“Oh, Bess, my dear, you look all grown up. I'm so very sorry you were widowed at such a young age. I feel I had a hand in the unhappiness that befell you.”
“Lady Zouche, you were not responsible in any way,” Bess said kindly, but she had counted on Margaret Zouche's conscience to facilitate her return to London and reinstate her in the household. In the time that Bess had been gone, Lady Zouche had acquired a half dozen new servants and did not really have room for more, but Bess was willing to resume her position of unpaid companion, so how could Margaret refuse?
“So much happened during your long absence from London. The king took another wife—Catherine Parr, a widow in her thirties. Can you credit it? King Henry has had six wives!”
The king had married before Bess left London, but she did not correct Lady Zouche.
“Yes, it was the talk of Derbyshire, and I was able to fill my family in on all the fascinating gossip about her, thanks to Lady Frances Grey.”
“Because the plague was rampant in London, the Greys spent the entire summer at their country house, Bradgate. It's not too great a distance from Ashby-de-la-Zouche, and I finally got to see it.”
“What is Bradgate like?” Bess asked raptly.
“It isn't a country house at all, it's a red-brick palace! It even has a moat and ramparts, though they are only for ornament, not fortification. It is set in acres of orchards and pleasure gardens.” Margaret rattled on, “Speaking of Frances, she tells me that our dear friend, William Cavendish, returned from Ireland last month and the king has knighted him for his services to the Crown during the last two years. Sir William is so much in demand these days, I haven't had a chance to see him yet to congratulate him. The London hostesses are already inundating him with invitations this season.”
Bess felt her heart constrict with pain the moment she heard his name, then her mouth went dry. So, the damned rogue got his title after all! She was surprised that the mere mention of his name could cause her emotional turmoil when she thought herself quite indifferent to him after all this time. She examined her feelings more closely, asking herself exactly what she felt for Cavendish. The answer came back quickly. She felt anger and betrayal; he had hurt her deeply and she longed to hurt him back and take her revenge.
“Cavendish is a married man,” Bess said primly, then wondered why she had stated the obvious.
“Perhaps not for long. 'Tis rumored his wife is ailing. Mark my words, if he ever does become a widower again, he will be the catch of the season.”
Bess lifted her chin defiantly. “I don't even recall what Cavendish looks like.”
“Ah, my dear, you will soon have an opportunity to refresh your memory. Lady Frances has invited us to Suffolk House next week. 'Tis the first big ball of the season. She threw one last October, and it was such a success, Frances has decided to make it an annual event. You must come, of course; Frances will be delighted to see you again. It's a stylish affair; all the ladies are to be in white and all the men in black. I want your unique ideas about what to wear, Bess; there isn't much time.”
Bess was suddenly in her glory. “We'll come up with something spectacular, Lady Zouche.” Bess, of course, was referring to her own attire for the ball. I'll show him! she vowed silently.
With the help of Margaret Zouche's two full-time seamstresses, Bess turned her employer into a swan and her two young daughters into cygnets. Since the young girls were never permitted to wear anything but white dresses, it wasn't difficult to achieve a swanlike effect. The trick was in the details. Close-fitting, white feathered headdresses with matching fans were all that was required to turn the Zouches into graceful, gliding, fairy-tale creatures. Or so Bess convinced them as they preened before the mirrors in the sewing room.
Bess had no difficulty finding a discarded white dress in the Zouche wardrobe, and she worked over it an entire night, enlarging the tight white satin bodice so that it molded her luscious, upthrust breasts. She used the only thing she had—black satin mourning ribbon—but the striped effect she created was startlingly sophisticated. She found an exquisite lace ruff that had yellowed with age and a faded ostrich-feather fan and cleverly dyed them black. At the first ball of the season, not only would she stand out from all the women in white, but they would not be able to fault her choice of black accessories, because they symbolized her widowhood.
“Well, stab me with a bodkin!” Lady Frances said, clasping Bess to her ample bosom, then holding her at arm's length so she could appraise the ravishing redhead in the vivid black and white. “You always were a clever girl. God, how I've missed you. Most of the females I know are dull as bloody ditchwater! You are the only one who dared to disobey my edict of white!”
Bess laughed with delight. “I don't care to follow trends, I prefer to set them. Why did you choose white, Lady Frances?”
“So I'd have something to laugh at, of course. None of the jades at court have worn white since they were brides, and most didn't have the right to wear it even then! And having the men wear black is simple revenge for their flamboyancy. They strut about in scarlet and gold putting us women in the shade.”
&nb
sp; “None could ever put you in the shade, Lady Frances.”
“Nor you, Bess. I'm glad you're back in London, where you belong. Widows are bringing a high price on the auction block these days,” Frances said, referring to Queen Catherine Parr, “but don't wed the first man who asks you; have a little fun first.”
Bess brought up her fan to conceal her smile as Lady Zouche approached. She would have little enough fun in Margaret's household. Frances rolled her eyes at Bess and whispered, “I love her dearly, but she's so damned straitlaced. Margaret, darling, your geese have finally turned into swans!”
Although the Greys' ball boasted a dozen countesses and a duchess or two, it was Bess who drew every eye. When Frances was questioned about her guest with the glorious red hair, she glossed over the fact that she was an unpaid servant and gave out the information that she was a widow of independent means.
Bess's first dancing partner was Lord Suffolk, Frances Grey's young brother. She had always thought of him as a boy, but the way he squeezed her hand and stared hungrily at her breasts made her realize he was growing up quickly. When the dance ended, Bess steered the youth in the direction of his sister's husband.
Henry Grey lifted Bess from her deep curtsy and drew her hand to his lips. “My dear, it is so good to see you back in London. Please accept my heartfelt condolences.”
“Thank you, Lord Dorset.”
“It's Henry,” he said quietly.
“Henry,” she said softly, wondering if Frances knew how lucky she was in her choice of a husband.
“Here is someone who desires an introduction. May I present Sir John Thynne, who is also from Derbyshire? Sir John … Mistress Elizabeth Barlow.”
“Mistress Elizabeth, I am delighted. I understand you are a Hardwick?”
Bess examined the man before her and liked what she saw. He was perhaps thirty, but the tight brown curls falling over his forehead made him boyishly attractive. She summed him up in a trice by observing his speech, manner, hands, and his honest green eyes. She decided he was kind, intelligent, hardworking, and, above all, sincere. In short, he was excellent husband material.
“Sir John, do you know the Hardwicks?”
“I have never had the pleasure until now, but I am very familiar with Hardwick Manor. Houses are a hobby of mine.”
“Oh, I, too, have a great passion for houses, Sir John; the subject absolutely fascinates me.”
“I have just started building a house in Brentford.”
“I've been there! Isn't it on the river before you get to Hampton Court Palace?”
“Yes. Dudley's Syon House is close by my property.”
“Build something beautiful, Sir John. Such a lovely setting deserves a worthy jewel.” She lifted her fan and spoke confidentially. “Though it's very imposing, I thought Syon the ugliest house I'd ever seen.”
Sir John laughed. “Then that is something else we have in common.” Within minutes they were fast friends, as if they had known each other all their lives.
Sir William Cavendish arrived late on purpose. The only reason he was even attending the ball was that he had given Frances his word that he would at least show his face. Since he had been knighted for his service to the Crown, he had high expectations of being appointed treasurer of the Royal Chamber. To achieve his ambition required a place where he could entertain, and the Greys had generously made Suffolk House open to him day or night since he had returned from Ireland.
Sir William avoided the Great Chamber, where the crush of dancers was measuring its steps to corantos and lavoltas, and headed directly to the gambling salon, where a man could indulge his twin vices of gambling and drinking at the same time.
“Oh, no, you don't, you damned rogue!” Frances tapped him sharply with her fan. “Rule number one: No skulking past the ballroom.”
“I make my own rules,” he told her bluntly, then relented and grinned at her. “I suppose it is bloody bad form not to dance with my hostess.”
Frances tucked her arm beneath his and guided him back toward the Great Chamber. “Don't think you're getting off that lightly, you wretched swine. I've a room filled with dowagers, duchesses, and debutantes simply dying for dancing partners.”
He swept her into a coranto, grimacing at the roiling sea of white gowns. “Good God, they all look like un-made beds!”
“Any you'd care to sleep in?”
“Not a dowager, duchess, or debutante,” he assured her flatly.
With great cunning Frances maneuvered their dance steps so that he could not fail to see Bess, who stood out so dramatically from the crowd. “Are you sure I cannot tempt you with a widow?”
Cavendish stopped dancing. He stood as if rooted to the floor, staring at the beauteous redhead who was having an animated conversation with his friend John Thynne. “Excuse me, Frances,” he said absently, and walked directly to the object of his desire.
As the tall figure loomed beside him, John Thynne looked up, recognition lighting his face. “William! Congratulations are in order.”
“Sir John,” Cavendish murmured without looking at him. His entire attention was focused upon the female standing next to his friend. “Bess.” His deep voice made a caress of her name.
Bess looked at him blankly, then allowed a tiny frown of puzzlement to crease her brow. “Do I know you, sir?”
John Thynne, ever affable, rushed in. “Permit me to introduce you. Mistress Elizabeth Barlow, this is my good friend Sir William Cavendish, newly knighted by the king.”
Bess forced herself to remain outwardly cool and calm, though she felt her very blood rush hotly through her veins at the nearness of him. It had been two and a half years since she had laid eyes on him, yet he made her feel exactly the same, damn him! He looked rugged and vital, and now that he had been knighted, she'd warrant he'd be even more cocksure of himself. She was determined to show him her indifference.
Bess plied her fan languidly. “What an honor. How proud your wife must be,” she said politely. “Is she here tonight?”
Cavendish saw how her eyes glittered and knew she was punishing him. “My wife is ailing,” he said shortly. To John he said, “Mistress Elizabeth and I met over two years ago, when we were both last in London.”
Bess pretended to search her mind. “Surely I would have remembered you? Yet you seem a complete stranger to me. Well, 'tis of little consequence. If we did meet, I have completely forgotten you.”
Rogue Cavendish ground his teeth. Just then the musicians struck up the introduction to a galliard. “Do you care to dance, mistress?”
“Indeed, I love to dance. Sir John, would you partner me?”
As Bess swept off in his friend's arms, Cavendish wanted to throw her across his knee and give her a good spanking. He returned to Frances, who had been standing on the sidelines, enjoying the byplay.
Frances shrugged, not even trying to mask her amusement. “What can you do? He has such an advantage over you.”
“You think so?” Cavendish said dangerously.
“Sir John is a bachelor.”
“Sir John can piss off!”
“I love a cockfight!” Frances exclaimed.
Cavendish strode onto the dance floor and unceremoniously tapped Sir John Thynne on the shoulder. “Excuse me, John.”
Surprised, yet suddenly realizing there was more between Bess and Cavendish than met the eye, Sir John stepped aside with grace.
While Bess strove with every bit of her willpower to appear cool and unaffected by Rogue Cavendish's proximity, on the inside her emotions were running amok. The only reason she hadn't fainted dead away at the sight of him was that she had been expecting to meet him at the ball tonight and had steeled herself for the encounter.
Even so, the moment she heard his deep voice caressing her name, she had experienced a deep sensation of pleasure. The tension of forcing herself to appear indifferent to him while they conversed had taken its toll. She suddenly realized her fingernails were cutting deeply into her palms each
time she spoke. Damn him to hellfire; why did he have this compelling effect on her?
Bess braced herself for the moment his hands would touch her body during the dance. But she was not prepared for the devastation he wrought. The heat from his hands felt as if it were scalding her through her clothes. Her blood seemed to turn into liquid flame and run along her veins like wildfire. Her breasts tingled, her nipples peaked painfully, her belly went taut with longing, and she could feel her pulse quicken between her legs.
Half-closing her eyes, Bess swayed toward him as if in a mating dance. Then his powerful hands were on her waist, his thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts, as he lifted her high in the galliard. Time seemed to stand still, and Bess wanted to throw back her head and laugh, perhaps even scream with arousal. She longed to do something wanton, like pull his hair and bite him in a frenzy of passion. Bess did none of these things. It was pure rage that saved her. How dare he abandon her, then come back into her life and within minutes make her feel this way?
As Cavendish swung her back to the floor and she felt the polished parquet beneath her toes, Bess cried out with pain. “Oh, dear, I've twisted my ankle! I am so sorry that I cannot continue, Sir William, please excuse me.” She had every intention of walking away from him without so much as a limp, but Cavendish thwarted her intent. He gently lifted her up into his arms and gallantly carried her to a chair at the side of the dance floor. He knelt before her and tenderly examined her ankle. Was he really concerned, or was the rogue aware of her ploy and using it so he could touch and caress her?
“It's fine now; you may leave me.” She prayed he could not hear how loudly her heart was hammering.
“Bess, it's wonderful to see you again. You are even more beautiful than I remember. It's been so long; can't we find a spot that is more private so we can talk?”
A Woman of Passion Page 11