"That's funny." He grimaced. "Or would be if you weren't in my chamber pulling the woman I love from my bed."
"I'm trying to save her life, and yours. You'd realize that if you weren't still thinking with that handsome rod of yours." She waggled her finger. "Put on one of those silly suits and show your face at the morning table. Apologize profusely to St. Martin for your besotted behavior last night and offer a gift. Expensive. If you can't reach your goldsmith, send a message to mine."
Griffin ran his hand over his face, his facial muscles tensing in anger. "Lena, you don't belong here. You don't belong in the middle of this. I'll take her back to her chamber."
Lena snatched Julia's torn sleeping gown off the floor and balled it in her hands. If she noticed the rent, she gave no indication. Julia couldn't help wondering if she thought Griffin had done it.
"You're madder than I thought, Griffin," Lena said. "Caught with St. Martin's wife in the corridor before the morning fast is broken? With a house full of wedding guests? Would you have me call the sheriff now and save St. Martin the trouble?"
He sat up and threw his long legs over the side of the bed. The coverlet fell away to expose him entirely, but he didn't seem to care. "Julia . . ."
Julia felt as if she were sleepwalking. Thank goodness for Lena's gentle mothering. Otherwise, she doubted she'd be able to move. "Later, Griffin," she said tightly. Her emotions were in turmoil. She loved Griffin this morning even more than she had last night, when she'd wantonly thrown herself into his arms. But the love between them was doomed. Doomed.
"Lena's right," Julia said. "I must return to my apartments." The gravity of the situation was beginning to fall fully on her shoulders. If she was caught, Simeon would have the right to have her arrested. She could be sentenced to die, as could Griffin if St. Martin pursued it. And what about Lizzy? What would happen to her then? Who would care for her, even if St. Martin did spare her life?
Griffin rose off the bed. "Julia." He reached for her hand. "We need to—I don't want you to just leave like this."
Julia turned away before he touched her. If she allowed him to touch her, she would crumble. "Later, Griffin."
"Julia!"
"Later," she snapped.
"He'll calm down," Lena whispered as she smoothed Julia's hair and ushered her toward the door. "That a girl. Let's get you to your chambers and do something with this hair. Have you got another one of those silly pink gowns with the yards of lace? It would please his ass-ship if you wore one."
As he bathed and dressed, Griffin muttered every foul oath he could think of beneath his breath. First he started in English, then advanced to French. The French had such a colorful language when it came to the foul. Exhausting his repertoire of French oaths, he moved on to Italian.
How dare Lena saunter into his bedchamber like that? he fumed. Interfering witch.
Thank God she had.
Griffin didn't know if he would have had the strength to push Julia out of his bed and send her back to St. Martin. He might have allowed St. Martin himself to stride right in and catch them because he was too cowardly to do what had to be done. If Griffin had been a stronger man, he knew he'd never have allowed Julia into his bed to begin with. He wouldn't have allowed her into his heart. Men such as himself had no place in their lives for loving a woman as he loved Julia.
But even now, in the full, cold morning light of reality, his fingertips ached to stroke her silky flesh. He yearned to breathe in the heavenly scent of her hair. He longed to hear her innocent, passionate whispers of encouragement.
Griffin thrust his foot into a yellow stocking and wrapped the ribbon garter around his calf. What the hell had he been thinking? To love Julia only made his life more complicated, decisions more difficult. And it endangered them both. How could he have been so damned selfish? Griffin knew full well that if he was in danger, it could ultimately put the king in danger.
He jerked the other stocking off the chair and thrust his foot into it. But Lena was right. Damn her. She was always right. He hadn't been thinking with his head in the wee hours of this morning. He'd been thinking with his cock. No. It wasn't that simple. This morning with Julia hadn't been a quick tumble. It had been an expression of a lifetime love. A tender surge of emotion tightened in his chest.
Julia had been like an apparition that materialized, a dream that came true. She had come to him a virgin, and though he didn't know what the hell that was about, it made it all the more special.
Now she was his. Not St. Martin's. His.
Maybe the bastard was impotent. If he washed the rest of his body as rigorously as he washed his hands, perhaps all that lye soap over the years had rendered him eternally limp. Griffin chuckled at the thought as he tied up the second garter and picked up his petticoat breeches. One of the looped ribbons caught on the arm of the chair and he yanked the breeches, tearing the ribbon off.
He cursed again and slipped into the breeches anyway. If Jabar had been here, he would have sewn the ribbon back in place in a minute's time.
Jabar. Griffin had forgotten his friend. He glanced at the case clock on the mahogany mantel above the fireplace. Jabar should have been home by now. Last night or early this morning, they'd agreed he'd return to Bassett Hall. He hoped there wasn't trouble.
Griffin pulled on a shirt and a neckcloth, and slipped into a blue and yellow short jacket with deep cuffs. He glanced in the mirror as he laced up the jacket and adjusted the cravat. He was dressed rather subdued this morning, perfect for groveling at St. Martin's feet.
He dipped his hands into the washbowl and ran them over his hair, slicking it back. He chose a nut brown French periwig from a flock of them perched on wig horns on a table. The wig in place, he turned outwardly to the room. If he could just find a pair of futtering shoes that matched, he'd be ready to face that bastard St. Martin now.
Griffin didn't know how she managed it, but Julia beat him to the dining room. Her hair had been brushed until it shone and pulled high into seductive ringlets that teased the bare nape of her neck. She was wearing a gown with a low-scooped neckline, the overskirt looped back to the waist with a fashionable frill that fell from her hips to her mid-thighs over the overskirt. The gown was not in a pale pink as Lena had recommended, but in precisely the same shade of blue that Griffin had selected for his own attire. The bow ties that ran the length of her puffed long sleeves were yellow, as was her underskirt.
Griffin wondered why they would choose the same colors to wear this morning. He knew it was silly to even contemplate, but he couldn't help wondering if there was now some inexplicable connection between them. He had never believed in psychic abilities or the nonsense of astrology that was presently so popular, but a coincidence such as this made him wonder if there wasn't some truth to such notions.
If anyone else noticed that St. Martin's new wife and his cousin, the Baron Archer, wore matching costumes, he saw no indication. The entire dining room was filled with wedding guests. They spilled from the plaster-ceilinged chamber into the parlors on each side, strolling from one buffet table to another. Though tones were hushed—perhaps due to the amount of spirits that had been consumed the night before—there was still an air of celebration.
Julia stood beside her new husband, her gaze downcast. Griffin's breath caught in his throat at her beauty as the morning sunshine highlighted her golden red hair. He couldn't believe that this woman had come to him last night. It was still like a dream.
Either Julia didn't notice Griffin enter the room, or she pretended she didn't. She held a plate for Simeon, from which he nibbled pickled quail eggs as he spoke to a baron and his wife.
Griffin took a deep breath and sauntered farther into the room. Guests made way for him and called his name as if he were someone important. Griffin didn't have the stomach for food, but instead accepted a small porcelain cup of richly brewed Caribbean coffee from a footman. Gradually he made his way through the room, though it took a second cup of the thick coffee to fortif
y him enough to greet St. Martin.
He had to concentrate on being the character he'd so mindfully created as anger bubbled inside him at the thought that his Julia was this man's wife. Nay, it was deeper than anger. More primal. He had to push his own emotions deep inside, and search for the shallow sanctuary of the fop's persona.
"Good morning, my lord." Griffin bowed. "My lady."
"Ah, Griffin. You survived the night's festivities."
"Morning, sir," Julia murmured, taking care not to meet Griffin's gaze.
Griffin smirked. "Not only survived, my gracious lord, but prospered. My head and lungs are clear. My bowels free. I vow I'm ready to take on any gaming table, even St. Martin's."
Simeon chuckled. "I thought you might have come to apologize for making such an ass of yourself at my wedding."
Griffin grinned boyishly. "Oh, my lord, I do apologize for my abominable behavior, but I vow your wedding will be the talk of London for years to come, thanks to the addition of my fine performance."
Those who gathered around St. Martin and his cousin to eavesdrop chuckled.
Simeon smiled pleasantly, forever on stage before guests. "Your apology is accepted, Cousin. But truly the apology should be directed toward my lady wife. It's women who are offended by drunkenness more than men. They don't understand man's nature or the influence Satan holds over us each day."
"Ah, 'Sathan, that evere us waiteth to bigile.'"
Out of the corner of his eye, Griffin saw Julia mouth, Chaucer.
"Chaucer," Griffin said.
She kept her gaze averted, her fingers wrapped tightly around the plate as her lips moved in silence. The Wife of Bath's Prologue.
Griffin wished desperately that he could kiss those lips right now. To stand here beside Simeon and know what right he had to Julia was almost more than Griffin could bear. He should never have come to Bassett Hall, not even for the King. He should never have laid eyes upon Julia, never heard her utter that first word. "The Wife of Bath's Prologue," he told St. Martin merrily.
Simeon nodded at Julia impatiently. "An apology, Archer. My wife expects an apology."
"N . . . no." Her gaze darted to Griffin, then back to the pickled eggs. "No apology is necessary. I—"
"An apology to my dear wife, Archer. Now."
Griffin wanted to protest. She had a mouth of her own, a mind of her own. If Julia wanted no apology from him or from the devil himself, she didn't have to take one. His fist ached to crush Simeon's jaw.
But Griffin held his tongue and his fist, and made a vow. There were already suspicions concerning St. Martin and his loyalties, suspicions Griffin had paid little attention to until now. But if there was any truth to the whispers, even a thread, he would see St. Martin in a cage on the Tower wall. He would watch the crows come to rest on his maggot-infested flesh.
Griffin bowed again, this time directly to Julia. "Allow me to offer my profuse apologies, my Lady St. Martin, for my behavior last night. It was base and inexcusable."
She nodded, color diffusing through her cheeks.
"Please, I hope that you will allow me to make up for the incident," Griffin continued when he should have shut up. "By . . . by taking you . . . hunting . . . hunting at his majesty's lodge." He glanced quickly at Simeon, who made no response. "A great lot of us are going and his majesty has promised to pay us a visit. I myself have been invited in a fortnight's time and would greatly be honored by your accompaniment. With your acquiescence, of course, my lord."
"Yes, yes, take her." He flitted a gloved hand, his attention waning. "She could use a few days in the country, I should think."
"You would care to hunt with me, my lady?" Griffin asked her directly. "I ask only you, not out of impropriety, but because I know my cousin detests hunting and the uncleanliness of the lodges."
She kept her gaze fixed on the plate in her hand, perhaps for fear her eyes would betray her. "I'd be honored to go, sir, so long as it pleases my husband that I should go."
Griffin grinned and clapped his hands together. "Good, then it's all settled. Your servant, my lord, my lady."
St. Martin nodded in Griffin's direction, having already moved on to another conversation. Julia never glanced up. Griffin could see that she held her breath.
"Your servant, my lord," Julia whispered. Then she said something to Simeon that he couldn't hear, and walked away.
Griffin watched her retreat. There he went again, thinking with his cod instead of his head. Julia with him at the King's hunting lodge? Perfect. Stuart and his court could witness her infidelity. For surely alone away from Bassett Hall he'd not be able to keep his hands off her. Suddenly Griffin lived for the fortnight to pass.
Dismissed, Griffin excused himself from St. Martin's circle. He wondered if he could catch Julia alone, just for a moment. Attempting to follow her from the room, he met Lena.
She smiled charmingly and caught his arm. Julia slipped away.
"My dear husband, how was your sleep last night? Sound, I trust?" She tugged on his sleeve.
Damn, she'd managed to waylay him long enough for Julia to leave the room. Griffin exhaled in defeat and took her hand. "Your servant, my lady wife."
She smiled for anyone who glanced their way, and lowered her voice. "Did you play make-up with the cloven-hoofed one?"
"Aye. All's forgiven." He took her fan and opened it to study the nude harem scene painted across it. "He has no idea he's been cuckolded." He ground his teeth. "I should just run the bastard through with a sword now and be done with him."
Lena nodded to two ladies who passed them. "And would that serve His Majesty?"
He groaned in emotional agony. How had life gotten so complicated so quickly? "No. Obviously I can't risk drawing attention to myself in that manner. I'm too close to the center of the spider's web."
She snatched back her fan and tapped him on his shoulder none too lightly. "Then I suggest you keep your sword sheathed, husband. Both of them."
Griffin opened his mouth to make a retort and closed it again as he caught sight of Jabar in the doorway on the far side of the room.
His friend beckoned him with his ebony eyes.
Griffin knew that look. Something was wrong. "Excuse me." He bowed and hurried toward Jabar.
His friend held one arm unnaturally at his side, as if he'd been injured. Griffin recognized the pallor of a man trying to conceal pain. "Are you all right?"
"I've already ordered your horse saddled, my master. You must come. Quickly."
Griffin scanned the room. Where was Julia? He couldn't go without speaking to her. He needed . . . he needed to tell her that he loved her. That he would figure this mess out. That he didn't know how the hell he was going to do it, but that he would make that betrothal official and one day make her his wife.
"Master," Jabar whispered. "You must hurry."
The vow Griffin had made so many years ago tugged at him. He laid his hand on Jabar's back and reluctantly gave in. "All right. I'm with you. Let's go."
Chapter Seventeen
Griffin dug his heels into his mount's flanks and lowered his head against the driving wind. "You certain you can still ride?" he shouted above the wail of the storm. He had tried to convince Jabar to remain behind and have his wound tended, but his friend refused. Jabar understood how consequential it was that Griffin get to Jack before their invisible enemies caught wind of his "injury" and sent someone to finish him off. Jabar saw it as his duty to remain at Griffin's side in the face of impending danger.
"We could stop at St. Mary's." Griffin named one of their contacts in the city. "You'd be well cared for until I returned."
Jabar rode up beside him, his left arm held close to his chest. "A flesh wound, Master. You do not think I would give up the chance to draw my sword for a flesh wound?"
Griffin grimaced and focused ahead again, tilting his head so that the wind wouldn't hit him directly in the face. It was beginning to sleet. The muddy ground was icy, and his horse struggled to keep i
ts footing.
"How much farther?"
"Just beyond Goodman's Fields. We carried him to a tavern there and sent for a physician."
"Will he live?"
Jabar thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No. The worst is a sucking wound. The physician will do nothing but dull the pain of dying."
Damn, Griffin thought grimly. Jack had been his vital link in connecting the circle of conspirators plotting to kill the king with the man who masterminded the plan. In Jack's last message he had indicated he may have located the leader behind the elaborate cabal, and that it was vital that he speak with Griffin immediately. Jabar had gone in Griffin's place. It should have been Griffin who took the lead in his arm, not Jabar. Now, if Jack died before he was able to convey what he'd discovered, all those weeks, months, of patience and surveillance, would be lost. Griffin would have to start all over again.
As Griffin rode, he tried to keep his thoughts focused on the king's safety rather than on his own personal life. But he couldn't help thinking of Julia and the warmth of her beside him in his bed. Sweet heaven, it had felt good not to wake up alone in the morning.
"Jabar."
His manservant reined in beside him again. "Master?"
"There was talk when we first arrived and made the decision to stay with my cousin that his vow of allegiance to his majesty was less than sincere."
"Aye. It is true. There was. But it was said of many men."
Griffin tightened his grip on his reins. "When you've time, I want you to look into it."
Jabar's dark eyes widened. "You suspect St. Martin plays a part in the conspirators' plans?"
He shrugged one shoulder. "I know he doesn't have the balls to actually play an active part, but perhaps he's financed someone else, or made promises in the hope of profiting later. I want to know if he has."
"Did you see something, my master? Do the walls of Bassett Hall speak to you?"
In Love with the King's Spy (Hidden Identity) Page 17