In Love with the King's Spy (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  Gordy nodded, still writing. "Yes, my lord."

  Julia glanced at Simeon, wondering if she had really heard what she thought she'd heard. First her new husband conducted business on the way back from the chapel, and now men in his private quarters? Did that mean he expected her to entertain in her bedchamber on her wedding night?

  She touched her hand to her forehead, wondering if she should have taken a little of the laudanum her mother had offered her before they left Bassett Hall for the church. Perhaps it would have dulled her senses, and the smell of Simeon's garlic pouch around his neck would not have been quite so strong.

  Simeon must have realized she was staring at him. He smoothed one gloved hand and then the other. He always wore gloves in public to prevent touching others skin to skin. It was one of his personality traits she had come to despise.

  "Business matters that won't wait," Simeon explained. "It shan't take long. You don't mind, do you, dear?"

  He asked, but Julia didn't think he really cared what she thought. She knew she should have sat quietly and nodded her head, but something snapped inside and she couldn't help herself. "Marry come up," she shouted, startling Gordy. "You're inviting men into our bedchamber on our wedding night?" For the first time this day she felt a flash of emotion. It was anger, hot and all-consuming. "Mind? Indeed I do mind, sir. I will not have men in my bedchamber on my wedding night! I will have my husband, alone, without secretaries, without servants, without his mountains of paper, and without his futtering garlic!"

  He reached out to slap her, but Julia raised her arm to stop him.

  Mr. Gordy's eyes were so round and bulging that Julia thought they might pop out of his head.

  "Are you eavesdropping on my conversation?" Simeon shrilled, lowering the hand he would have struck her with. He gave Gordy a hard kick to the shins.

  "No. No, my lord." Gordy dropped his gaze to the desk in his lap. "Of course not, my lord," he mumbled.

  The moment before Simeon turned on Julia gave her time to realize what a mistake she'd made. She should have kept her mouth shut. She should have just let him hit her once and given him that sense of power, that sense of total possession he seemed to crave.

  "How dare you," Simeon hissed, drawing his face close to hers.

  This time he made no attempt to strike her, but she almost wished he had. Then it would have been over and done with. Then she wouldn't be so afraid.

  "How dare you speak to me that way? How dare you suggest that you have any right to say what I will and will not do, whom I will and will not have to my chambers?"

  Julia flinched. If the carriage hadn't been rolling so fast, she thought she might have opened the door and just jumped.

  "Who do you think you are?" he screamed, sending spittle flying in the close air. "And what makes you think that I would have you in my private chambers? You will stay in your own woman's quarters. I'll not have your squalor in my rooms. I'll not have your dusty shoes, your filthy gardening gloves, your woman's blood," he raged.

  Julia sank back into the corner as far from Simeon as she could get within the confines of the carriage. "I'm sorry." She spoke softly, but she didn't cower. "I assumed that as your wife I would join you in your bed."

  "Well, you assumed incorrectly!"

  He shouted the words with such conviction that it suddenly occurred to Julia that he was afraid of her . . . or at least afraid of what he was expected to do to her as her husband. The epiphany so amused her that she had to clamp her pink lace handkerchief over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud.

  Simeon, the heir to the St. Martin fortune and lands, was afraid to have relations with his wife.

  Chapter Twelve

  After that, Julia's mood lightened considerably. Simeon didn't really want to bed her. If she was lucky, he would only come to her once every year or so, just enough to get her with child. She could tolerate those circumstances, knowing she would remain in her own bedchambers with Lizzy, where she could look after her. It was certainly better than having a husband she detested pawing over her nightly. If she played her game pieces correctly, Julia surmised, she might well be able to simply ignore her marriage and her pathetic husband.

  Saved by their arrival at Bassett Hall, Julia alighted from the carriage on her husband's arm. She understood Simeon well enough to know he would not take their argument inside with them. Appearances were too important to his lordship. She might have hell to pay tonight, but for now she was safe.

  They climbed the stone steps that had been covered in fabric in the St. Martin colors of green and white, and entered the front hall. Julia was immediately overwhelmed by the rush of the cheering crowd. Simeon must have invited every nobleman in London.

  More than two hundred guests had arrived some days before to celebrate the marriage of the Earl of St. Martin to Lady Julia, eldest daughter of Byron Thomas, the previous earl of St. Martin. For many, she guessed, it was in honor of her father that they came, rather than for Simeon's sake, for he, unlike his nephew, had been a well-respected, well-liked man. Of course there were probably others who were here simply because they feared Simeon and didn't want to cross him by not making an appearance today.

  Because Simeon was her father's eldest male relative, Simeon had inherited the title and her father's lands upon his death seven years ago. But he had inherited her father's debts as well as his lands and title. The last Lord St. Martin had been a generous man through the war and the years of Cromwell's reign, giving away money and favors.

  From the look of Bassett Hall and some of Simeon's other acquisitions, he had been busy taking while her father had been giving. Although Simeon had sworn allegiance to Charles II upon his return to London, Julia knew from her mother's and father's whispers that Simeon had been a friend and confidante to Old Knoll, and that Cromwell had rewarded those who were loyal to him with the lands of those who were not. It was through Simeon's influence that her father, a barely concealed Royalist, had been able to retain his lands. Now Julia realized that it was not for her well-being or her father's that Simeon had offered that protection, but rather to conserve the wealth that would someday be his.

  "Warm wishes," guests offered Julia as she entered the front hall and passed them on Simeon's arm.

  "May you have many sons," called others.

  Someone tossed dried rose petals at her, and they fluttered through the air.

  Because only a few were actually invited to the church for the wedding ceremony, their guests had found the opportunity to begin drinking hours ago. Many were already rosy-checked and well in their cups. Musicians played in the great hall and every candelabra in the house glimmered with the light of expensive white wax tapers. Everyone was laughing and offering their congratulations. They all seemed so pleased for her good fortune. She wondered if they would all be so happy for her if they knew that St. Martin had blackmailed her into marrying him. What would they think if they knew he had threatened to harm her addlepated sister to make this union? Would they then be grinning like sheep?

  "Oh, Sister!" Lizzy burst through a group of women to plant herself in front of Julia and Simeon. Under Simeon's instructions Lizzy had been forced to remain at Bassett Hall and not accompany her sister to the church. For leverage, Julia guessed.

  "So it's done?" Lizzy bubbled excitedly. "You're a married woman?"

  Simeon gingerly released Julia's arm. "Go, go," he said quietly, waving his gloved hand. "See to her, but if she disturbs my guests, she'll be sent to her chambers."

  Julia lifted the pink ruffled hem of her gown and curtsied deeply to Simeon. The gown showed a great deal of her bosom, but he didn't seem to notice. "I'll see you're brought refreshment, my lord."

  He gazed at her with a look on his face that made her think he hated her at this moment. "See that you do."

  Julia grabbed Lizzy's arm and ushered her through the crowd, thankful to escape Simeon's barely concealed wrath. God only knew how she would face him tonight when he tried to bed her . . . if he t
ried, she thought hopefully.

  "Oh, I wish I could have been at the church, but Mother said his lordship said I couldn't." Lizzy held tightly to Julia's arm as they squeezed between two gentlemen deep in argument. Lizzy thrust out her lower lip. "I wanted to go on my own, but Amos wouldn't let me."

  "At least one of you has some common sense," Julia said tartly as she pulled her sister into an alcove beneath the grand staircase. She lifted the mountains of sickeningly pink lace to adjust one of her ribbon garters. "You must never leave the house without an escort, Lizzy. London is a dangerous place. I've told you that time and time again."

  "I wanted to go to the church." Lizzy crossed her arms over her chest. She wore the white and pink chintz gown Julia had instructed Drusilla to dress her in. It was utterly becoming on her sister, and, though pink, far prettier than the confection Julia had been forced to wear.

  "But I wanted to see you get married." Lizzy pouted.

  Julia lowered her skirt, breathing deeply to calm her pounding heart encased in too-tight stays. She was so relieved to get away from Simeon. How was she going to mingle with his guests and pretend she was happily married, when all she wanted to do was slit the man's throat? "I know you wanted to see me wed. I wanted you to be there, too." Julia squeezed Lizzy's arm, hoping to appease her. "But his lordship wished for you to remain here—to welcome our guests."

  "His lordship wishes this," Lizzy mocked. "His lordship wishes that." She stomped her small foot. "I'm sick to death of what his lordship wishes. If you ask me, his lordship, the Earl of St. Martin, is nothing but a pile of stinking horse doo!"

  "Lizzy!" Julia grabbed her hand and tugged hard, peering out of the shadows, hoping no passerby had heard her sister. "You can't say things like that!" She pulled Lizzy closer to her, into the shadows beneath the stairs. Even the darkest recesses of Bassett Hall smelled of lye soap and damp wood. "He is my husband, and your protector and cousin, and you have to respect him."

  Lizzy yanked her hand away. "I don't have to like him."

  "No, you don't have to like him," Julia hissed, afraid for her sister. What had gotten into her? Why was she behaving so boldly? Lizzy had always been so meek and compliant. "But you have to respect him."

  Lizzy crossed her arms over her chest and hung her head, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. "I don't have to like him," she repeated softly.

  Julia sighed and rubbed her sister's shoulder. "Ah, Lizzy, don't cry. Not today, please."

  "You're angry with me."

  "I'm not." Julia continued to rub Lizzy's shoulder in soothing circular motions. "I just want you to be cared for, to be safe. That's all I've ever wanted."

  "I'm going to find my own husband to take care of me, and then you won't have to be married to him."

  "Lizzy," Julia said as gently as possible. "We've talked about this before. You're not going to get married. You're going to stay here with me because I need you. I need you to take care of my babies, God willing I'm so blessed."

  Lizzy dropped a hand to her hip and opened her mouth to speak again, then clamped it shut.

  Julia ran a hand over the smooth crown of her head to be certain every hair was in place. "Now, Lizzy, I have to tend to his lordship's guests. Why don't you have something to eat? I'm sure there's something wonderful on the buffet table. Pickled quails' eggs maybe," she enticed.

  "Can I just go to the kitchen? To . . . to check on the pies," she finished quickly.

  Julia knew Lizzy belonged here among men and women of her own station, or even upstairs with her nursemaid, not in the kitchen with the servants. But how could she deny her, today of all days? At least one of them should be happy for a few moments.

  "Oh, all right," Julia conceded.

  Lizzy squealed with delight. "Oh, thank you, thank you." She hopped on one foot and then the other. "I won't be long. I vow I won't."

  Julia watched her sister dart out of the shadows and hurry down the back hallway in the direction of the kitchen, her skirts swaying on her shapely hips. At that moment she realized someone was watching her.

  She met Mr. Gordy's gaze.

  How long had he been there? Had he heard any of their conversation? Sweet Mary, she hoped she hadn't said anything derogatory about Simeon. She didn't think she had, but how could she be sure the secretary hadn't taken something she said wrongly?

  He stared at her with those cool gray eyes of his.

  Julia refused to be intimidated. "Good afternoon, Gordy." She stepped out from beneath the staircase as if brides always hid beneath the steps of their new homes.

  He straightened his back, lowering his gaze to the floor as he bowed. "Good afternoon, my Lady St. Martin."

  She breezed past him. "See to his lordship's glass, will you, Gordy? Keep it filled." Perhaps if he drank and played cards until the wee hours, he'd be too tired to consummate the marriage tonight. Julia knew their joining was inevitable, but the longer she could put it off, the better.

  "Yes, my lady." Gordy stepped out of her way.

  Julia smiled graciously and offered her hand to the nearest guest, who just happened to be the lecherous Duke of Buckingham.

  "Your Grace." She curtsied deeply.

  "My Lady St. Martin." The black-haired Stuart stared at her breasts with obvious interest.

  Julia took his arm. "Would you care to walk with me and greet my guests?"

  "Flattered, madame."

  An utterly predictable man like this Julia could manage. But she was fooling herself if she thought she could ignore or manage Simeon. He had surprised her by his acts and deeds on more than one occasion, and that was what made him dangerous. It was that unpredictability that could well get her or someone she loved killed.

  Lizzy led Amos by the hand into the pantry and closed the door behind them. Inside, the noises of the frantic kitchen softened.

  "Lizzy! I'm very busy," he whispered. "I haven't time to play games."

  She giggled in the semidarkness. The small room was lined floor to ceiling with shelves, filled with wax-sealed jars, some of dried fruits and vegetables, others of pickled meats. The only light inside seeped from the brightly lit kitchen, through the louvers of the double doors. It made perfect lines across the skirt of her new pink and white gown.

  "I just wanted to see you for a minute," Lizzy chided. "You've been so busy for days getting ready for this wedding that you haven't had time to talk to me."

  Amos tucked his hands behind him as if he didn't want to touch her, only they were so close in the tiny room that her gown brushed against him. She could feel the heat of his body. She could smell that scent of his she loved. She knew some of it was just flour and apple tarts, but some of it was him.

  Lizzy reached out and grasped his shoulders. He still kept his hands behind his back as if they were tied there, which seemed very silly to her.

  "Lizzy," he whispered as if he was angry with her, only she knew he wasn't.

  "I want a kiss," she said. "Then I'll go. Then I'll let you out of my dungeon."

  He tried to back away from her, but his foot hit something and it fell over and rolled into something else, making a cracking sound. She hoped they hadn't broken the jar of pickled quails' eggs. They were one of her favorite treats.

  Lizzy giggled and leaned closer, puckering her lips for him. "You must kiss me, else you'll die in this dungeon."

  He groaned as if he was hurt, only she knew he wasn't. It was that "inside his heart" pain that he'd tried to tell her about. That pain that said he loved her, only he knew he wasn't allowed to.

  "Lizzy, you're going to get us both in trouble. You told your sister you would stay away from me. That—that," he stuttered, "you wouldn't kiss me anymore."

  Lizzy brushed her lips against his. At first he just stood stiff, but then he threw his arms around her and pulled her tightly against him. He kissed her so hard that Lizzy couldn't breathe. She liked it when Amos kissed her so hard she went dizzy.

  "I lied," she whispered

  Griff
in hadn't intended to get drunk. It just happened. A few miles from Lena's, he stopped at a run-down tavern to quench his thirst. He made a detour to the next tavern four miles down the road for another pint to warm himself on the cold, wet ride. At the next inn, he bought six bottles of sack to comfort himself. He had lost his love, his Julia, to Simeon, and there was nothing he could do about it . . . except to drink to forget. Only the more he drank, the more upset he became. The more upset he became, the more ale he needed to soothe himself.

  By the time Griffin rode into London, he could barely stay astride his horse. The sun had set and rain fell steadily, soaking him miserably to the bone. He knew he was just feeling sorry for himself, but he didn't care. Every man deserved to indulge in a little self-pity on occasion, didn't he?

  Griffin rode up Aldersgate Street, which was deserted save for a few pedestrians and hell carts for hire. As he drew closer to Bassett Hall, carriages appeared, parked on both sides of the street. Footmen and drivers huddled around small fires built to keep themselves warm. Griffin stared at the coats of arms on the coaches as he slowly rode by.

  He hiccuped and took a pull from the wine bottle in his hand. He couldn't recall where it had come from. Was it supposed to be a wedding gift from Lena's cellars? He hiccuped again, only this one turned into a satisfying belch. "Damn, Simeon," he said aloud, deciphering the family names as he rode by. "Anyone in all Christendom you didn't invite?"

  The bottle empty, he let it slip from his fingers. It hit the ground and rolled under his mount's feet. The horse danced to keep from stepping on the rolling bottle.

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa there." Griffin slid in the saddle. He tried to grab the horse's mane to catch himself, but he missed. "Oops."

  Griffin didn't feel himself fall, just felt the hard jolt as he hit the ground, tail bone first. "Ouch. Damnation. Winged saints in hell." He tried to think of a more creative curse, maybe a French one, the French were good at cursing, only his mind was too fuzzy.