She lowered her head. ‘I am repaying a debt.’ She looked up at him. ‘But you were always a King’s man. What has Thurloe got over you?’
A muscle in Kit’s cheek twitched as his mouth tightened. After a long moment, he said, ‘I owe you the truth. I’ve already told you I was wounded and taken prisoner after Worcester. The choice Thurloe offered me was simple – take his coin or I died in a stinking hellhole.’ He looked away and she sensed that she had not heard the whole story, but before she could question him further, he brought his hands down on the table. ‘Enough idle chatter, Mistress Granville. It is of no matter to me whether you hate me or not. The fact remains we must work together on this. Thurloe has placed you inside Bordeaux’s house for a reason.’
‘He wants to know about the man de Baas.’
Kit nodded. ‘And what can you tell me about him?’
‘Nothing!’ She looked up at him, hoping he could see the hurt in her eyes. ‘I have met him once and all I can tell you is that he has just returned from France, a fact your Master Thurloe is probably well aware of.’
There was a moment of profound silence, while Kit took a sip from the cup. He set it down and looked at her, a humourless smile on his lips. ‘That wasn’t so very hard, was it, Mistress Granville?’
She looked down at her cup. ‘He talked of steps being taken to restore Charles Stuart.’
‘Names? Dates? Plans?’
She shook her head.
‘Never mind. Next time you will have something tangible for me.’
‘I like your confidence,’ she scoffed.
He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. ‘You will have something for me.’
Her eyes widened at the order. ‘I can only do my best. I have limited access.’
‘It is de Baas I am interested in. I am sure you can find a way to … ingratiate yourself with him.’
She stared at him. His meaning was plain and she loathed him for it with every fibre of her being. She rose to her feet and looked at him contemptuously. ‘I hate you.’
‘Fine.’ Kit stood up and tied his cloak. ‘You can hate me. Now, do you wish to be escorted back to the Ship?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I can find my own way, Captain Lovell.’
A flicker of a smile twitched at Kit’s lips. ‘Very well, Mistress Granville. I will bid you good day until we meet again, which will be soon.’
Thamsine gathered herself together and walked away from him with every shred of dignity and outrage that she could muster, but as her steps took her further from him, her show of bravado began to ebb away from her.
She stopped and leaned against a mounting block outside an inn, her breath coming in short gasps as the extent of his duplicity sank in. The man she had considered her friend, had maybe considered to be slightly more than her friend, had betrayed her. He had taken her off the street for one reason only, and that was to use her as a card in his own private game with John Thurloe.
Thurloe had outplayed him. He had turned the game on Kit Lovell, making him her contact. If he had not done so, would she ever have known? Would Kit have gone on using her, lulling her with false blandishments?
She drew a heavy, uneven breath and walked on. She despised him for his deceit. The hurt he had caused her would probably never heal. She wanted to hate him, but as she turned her face to the leaden sky glimpsed between the crooked buildings and felt the rain on her face, she knew that what she felt for Kit Lovell was not hate. She had hated a man enough to kill him, and somewhere in these dark, narrow streets Ambrose Morton still stalked her.
~ * ~
Kit stood at the door of the coffee house watching until Thamsine’s tall, slim figure had been swallowed up by the crowd. He turned and stormed up the Strand in a filthy temper. He didn’t know quite what put him in a rage – John Thurloe, Thamsine’s hurt and the truth of her allegations, or the thought that she would be teaching music to Lucy.
It hurt too much to consider the first two options, so he turned his mind to Lucy. If Lucy wanted music lessons it was hardly his concern. Thamsine would be a good teacher and she needed the money. Where was the problem?
The problem was that Thamsine Granville spent far more time in his thoughts then he felt she deserved, and furthermore he did not like the thought of her closeted with his mistress for any length of time. Women gossiped.
He had arranged to meet Fitzjames at the Saracen’s Head. He was coming to hate the secret assignations in corners of stinking alehouses. The smell of smoke, ale, and unwashed bodies seemed to cling to him, tainting him in much the same way as his growing distaste for what he was doing. He pulled off his hat and stepped around the crowded tables. It was not a good time to be developing a conscience.
It did not improve his temper to find his friend in the company of Ambrose Morton. The sight of the arrogant, handsome face turned his stomach. He flung himself down on the stool opposite Fitz and acknowledged Morton with a grunt.
Fitz regarded him calmly. ‘Lucy do something to annoy you?’
Kit summoned the potboy and took out his cards, shuffling them to calm his nerves.
‘Lucy … women,’ he grumbled. ‘Damned if I’ll ever understand them. What about you, Morton? Is there a woman to plague your life?’
Morton’s lip curled into a vicious sneer. ‘Don’t talk to me of the perfidy of women,’ he said. ‘That is what brings me to London.’
‘Really?’ Kit dealt the cards.
‘My betrothed has run off.’
Fitz gave a snort of laughter. ‘With another man?’
Morton shrugged. ‘I can only presume so. Bloody woman was worth a fortune too, a fortune I need.’
‘I see.’ Kit picked up his hand and noted that the cards were not with him either. ‘Not a love match, then?’
‘Hardly. Her father promised her to me some ten years ago. Returned from the Continent to find the old fool had allowed her too much freedom and she had become headstrong and obdurate. Not what I look for in a woman, but she could be curbed. Women are like horses, Lovell. They can be broken to the saddle. When I find the bitch I will soon teach her compliance and duty.’
Kit looked up at the handsome face and felt his flesh creep. He had no doubt that Morton’s means of ensuring compliance and duty would not be pleasant. He had some sympathy with the runaway bride.
‘And if I find the man who stole her away, I will kill him,’ Morton said in a calm voice. ‘I need her money to make good my estate again.’
‘We all need that sort of money, Morton,’ Kit scoffed.
‘Well, you won’t earn it playing cards, Lovell.’ Morton set down his hand.
Kit groaned and tossed his hand in.
‘It’s not my day today. As for our lost fortunes, the King himself is living on the charity of his cousin.’
‘At least you still have your estate, Lovell,’ Fitz said.
‘Half of it’s been sold off to pay the fines. The other half barely supports my family,’ Kit said.
‘Where is your estate, Lovell?’ Morton did not look at him as he dealt the cards.
‘Cheshire.’
‘Whereabouts?’ Morton persisted.
‘It’s at Midhurst,’ Fitz said before Kit had a chance to answer.
Kit glared at his friend. He’d had no intention of being that specific. Fitz’s tongue had been loosened by drink.
‘Who did you serve with during the war?’ Morton enquired, picking up his hand of cards, his face betraying nothing.
‘My father raised a regiment of foot.’
Morton’s eyes met Kit’s over the cards. ‘I would have thought you a cavalry man.’
Kit met the cold eyes. ‘I was loyal to my father.’
‘Did he survive the war?’
‘No,’ Kit said shortly. He could have added he died in my arms on the front steps of our family home with a musket ball in the chest. Even after all these years, the memory of his father’s death brought a knot of pain to his heart.
‘Well, I enjoyed the war,’ Morton said. ‘I miss those heady days.’
Fitz and Kit stared at him.
‘Enjoyed it?’ Kit said.
Morton did not raise his eyes from his cards. ‘We had some high times.’
‘You were with Goring,’ Kit replied, the distaste evident in his voice. ‘Looting, raping and destruction were your orders for the day.’
Morton looked up sharply. ‘And you were a saint?’
‘I’m not saying I was a saint,’ Kit replied. ‘And I’m not saying there weren’t times that I will remember with a degree of affection, but at no time will I ever forget that we fought a civil war and that the enemy were my own countrymen.’
Morton shrugged. ‘Own countrymen or not, if they were trying to kill me, far better I kill them first. Anyway, that is in the past. My concern now is to rebuild my future.’
‘And find your heiress?’
Morton shrugged. ‘I will find her. I know she’s in London. I’ve seen the little bitch. She can’t hide forever.’
God help her when you do find her, Kit thought. His sympathies were entirely with the girl. Marriage to Ambrose Morton did not seem an agreeable prospect for any woman, let alone a woman of substance.
Something in that thought recalled his conversation with Thamsine: “I am running from a marriage that is far from my choice or desire, and which would be contracted for no other reason than the benefit of the man involved.”
He looked up at Morton and felt his blood run cold.
They finished the game in silence. Morton cleared the table of the coins and stood up.
‘If you will excuse me, gentleman, I have an assignation.’
‘Pretty?’ Fitz enquired.
‘Charming as a picture,’ Morton said. ‘She is waiting for me. Good day to you.’ He inclined his head and left, pushing past Gerard who had just entered.
Gerard removed his hat and took Morton’s seat. ‘Who was that?’
‘Ambrose Morton,’ Kit said with disgust. ‘A disgrace to the King’s colours if ever there was one.’
‘I’ve heard of Morton,’ Gerard said. ‘One of Goring’s crew, and from the way my uncle tells it, not one of the better ones.’
Fitz straightened. He seemed to have sobered up a little. Maybe the loss of his purse to Morton had helped slow the intake of wine. ‘Forget him. What’s the news?’ he asked.
‘Not good,’ said Gerard. ‘Charles has refused to see Henshaw.’
‘I told you he would,’ Kit said. ‘His reputation preceded him.’ He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Who would be Charles? Who can he really trust?’
‘Well, you and I to begin with,’ Fitz replied, throwing an arm around his friend’s shoulders in drunken bonhomie.
‘But the news is not all bad,’ Gerard said. ‘The King has summoned us. He wants to talk directly with us.’
‘Who’s “us”?’ Kit enquired.
‘Fitzjames and I and you, of course. We’ll sail on Friday.’
‘Sail?’ Kit’s nose pinched at the thought of tossing around on the English Channel for twenty-four hours. ‘Why me? What can I accomplish?’
‘You speak French a damned sight better than we do and the King knows you. He trusts you. Between us we can persuade him.’
Kit leaned forward. ‘What about Willys and his committee?’
Fitz narrowed his eyes. ‘What about Willys?’
‘I only know that whatever committee he is involved with already holds the King’s Commission. Are we not better advised to pool our resources? Lend our support to their venture?’
Fitz gave a deprecatory snort. ‘From what I know of them, Willys’ committee is a pack of old fools. There is not one person of worth willing to lend his name to it. All they do is talk. With the King’s blessing, I believe we can actually achieve something.’
‘My uncle has the King’s ear,’ Gerard put in. ‘All it needs is for us to convince him that our plan is feasible.’
‘And is it?’ Kit bit down on his irritation. More foolish plots.
‘If we can take Cromwell the rest will fall into place,’ Gerard continued.
‘But there is the fundamental error,’ Kit said. ‘It’s not just Cromwell. There is Ireton, Thurloe – do you want me to go on listing names?’
He was wasting his breath. The two obdurate faces looking at him told him that their minds were settled.
‘Anyway, we have help,’ Fitz said. ‘Mazarin will supply us with whatever we need to accomplish the task.’
Cardinal Mazarin, the real power behind the French throne! Kit’s heart skipped a beat. Was this the connection with the French court that Thurloe was looking for?
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘The French want Charles out of Paris and they want him back on the throne of England, all without being seen to provide assistance.’
‘Such as the necessary military force?’ Kit asked.
‘Exactly. We have a contact here in London, sent here by Mazarin,’ Gerard said.
De Baas? Kit held his breath.
Fitzjames continued. ‘Gerard and I have met with him and it is clear that they have means to assist us in an assassination attempt.’
Kit ran his hand through his hair. ‘Assassination is not the answer. This is madness, Fitz!’
‘It will work, Kit.’ Fitz’s eyes blazed with a new passion. ‘Don’t you see? With Cromwell and Ireton dead, the army and government will be in disarray and begging for the King to return.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’ Kit asked.
‘They have a French assassin who knows nothing.’
Kit rolled his eyes. ‘Who is Mazarin’s contact here?’
Fitz and Gerard looked at each other. ‘The Baron de Baas,’ Fitz said in a low voice. ‘Do you know him?’ Fitz asked.
‘No,’ Kit said.
‘He is a confidante of Cardinal Mazarin,’ Fitz said.
The pieces had begun to fall into place. Mazarin had sent De Baas to London to assist with the assassination of Cromwell, although for what purpose Kit still didn’t know. Was it just to put Charles back on the throne, or did it carry deeper into France’s war with Spain?
Gerard drained his glass. ‘Until we have spoken to the King, there is nothing we can do at present except wait.’ He stood up. ‘We will meet in Paris, gentlemen.’
Kit watched the young man’s confident swagger as he pushed his way out of the crowded inn, and wished he still felt that sense of immortality. Every day, he felt Death’s hot breath on his neck. He played a dangerous game and he had begun to wonder if he was losing his nerve.
‘Deep in thought?’ Fitz raised an eyebrow at Kit and lifted his cup. Kit nodded and Fitz summoned the potboy for a jug of wine.
‘Am I getting old, Fitz?’
‘I don’t know. You turned thirty yet?’
Kit nodded. ‘Just before Christmas. Do you think that’s why I am losing my taste for excitement and starting to think of hearth and home?’
‘God forbid!’ Fitz filled their cups again. ‘Lovell, I despair of you. Your Lucy will have you before a priest before you can say “praise the Lord”.’
‘Lucy? No, Lucy’s not the sort I see myself settling with.’
‘What became of that girl in the Ship?’ Fitz asked. ‘Now, she had something about her. Where’d you meet her?’
‘I knew her brother. He died at Worcester,’ Kit said, grateful for Thamsine’s confidence that lessened the lie. He could have known her brother. ‘Anyway, what about you, Fitz, still pining for the lovely Althea?’
‘I wrote another poem. Want to hear it?’
‘No,’ said Kit shortly. He had heard too many of Fitz’s sentimental poems dedicated to that particular lovely, but unattainable, young woman.
‘Oh, very well,’ Kit conceded as his friend affected a downcast look. ‘Let us hear of nymphs, shepherds, and the lovely Althea. It makes a pleasant change from talk of assassination.’
Chapter 8<
br />
‘Mademoiselle Granville!’
Thamsine heard the Baron’s affected voice and stopped in her tracks. She turned to face him, a smile fixed on her face.
‘Baron De Baas.’ She curtsied.
‘Mademoiselle, might I say how radiant you are looking this morning?’
De Baas grasped her fingers and held them to his lips in a lingering kiss, his beard and moustache rasping her skin. Thamsine extricated her hand and surreptitiously wiped it on her skirts.
‘You are too kind, Baron,’ she responded.
‘Mistress Skippon’s music lessons are progressing?’
‘Very well.’
‘Good, good.’ De Baas looked distracted.
‘You wanted something, Baron?’
The Baron took a step towards her and clasped her hand again.
‘My dear Mademoiselle, I should be most obliged if you could attend my apartment for a little supper tonight. I require assistance with some music I wish to perform at the next soiree.’
Thamsine felt a shudder run down her spine. Everything in her screamed out to refuse, but then she remembered who she was and why she was there. Use your charms, Kit had told her.
She gave a nervous laugh. ‘My dear Baron, I’m not sure … ’
He raised a hand, a look of pain crossing his face. ‘Please do not be alarmed, mademoiselle, it will be quite … innocente. I wish merely to share some music with you and perhaps some talk. I have been rather … ’ He frowned as if searching for the word. ‘Rather lonely since I have been in England.’
Thamsine bit her tongue and replied sweetly. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that, Baron. Very well, what time?’
An eager light sprang into his eyes. ‘Shall we say seven in the evening?’
Thamsine nodded. ‘Until tonight, Baron.’
A door was flung open with a crash and Bordeaux stood brandishing a piece of paper.
‘De Baas, you fool!’ he exclaimed in French. ‘What game are you playing?’
‘My dear Bordeaux, what do you mean?’ De Baas replied, also in French.
‘You have been sending correspondence directly to Mazarin without my consent.’
The King's Man Page 11