"No. But I don't want to be foolish. Hell, these days no one is exempt from suspicion. The Duke of Buckingham himself could be a conspirator for all I know!"
Jabar glanced at Griffin, his black eyes penetrating. "But you want only truth, not guilt placed upon an innocent man?"
Griffin knew exactly what he meant. Jabar was asking if Griffin wanted him to set the crime of treason upon St. Martin's shoulders, even if he was innocent, which meant that somehow, Jabar knew of Griffin's relationship with Julia. The idea was tempting. He could think of no easier way to rid himself of St. Martin than to have him tried and sentenced to hang. That would leave the widow free to marry whomever she pleased. So tempting.
"It could be easily done, Master," Jabar intoned. "You have but to say the word and I—"
"You know me better than that," Griffin snapped. He felt his gut grind. So tempting. "I want the truth."
Jabar fell in behind him again. "Yes, my master."
Half an hour later the two men arrived at the ramshackle tavern where Jack had been brought. A lad in an oilcloth cloak met them at the rear of the tavern to take their mounts.
Griffin pushed through the back door, removing his leather gloves as he strode down the narrow hallway. He had not been in this particular tavern before, but in many like it since he came into the service of Charles II fifteen years before. After more than a decade, they all looked the same. "Where is he?"
A bearded man stood in a doorway. "Here, my lord." He lowered his gaze to the rotting floorboards. "But I'm afraid it's too late."
"Too late?" Griffin exploded. He pushed open the door behind the bearded man whom he recognized, but whose name he didn't know. The elaborate web of men who supported him were often anonymous. "What do you mean, it's too late? You couldn't keep the poor bastard alive for another—" Griffin halted and lifted his closed fist to his mouth as his stomach gave an involuntary lurch. "Ah, hell," he murmured.
Jabar appeared beside him.
Griffin found his voice after a moment. "You didn't tell me he'd been tortured."
Jabar stared at the dead man's body that only faintly resembled a man. "I told you, Master."
Griffin kept his hand at his mouth, partially muffling his words. He couldn't take his eyes off the bloated, bloody heap that had been his major contact for the last six months. Only weeks ago Griffin had played cards with him. Jack had sworn he would soon have information that would see the plot to dethrone the Stuarts destroyed, and the conspirators beheaded. He had sworn he was so close he could taste it.
Now Jack was dead.
Griffin turned away from the bloody bed as he lowered his hand and forced down the bitter bile in his throat. He had been a soldier, for God's sake. He had seen blood in battle. Dead men. He'd even seen tortured bodies. But he had never seen a body like this before. He couldn't comprehend how Jack had lived long enough even to be carried here.
"We've got to cover our tracks," Griffin said quietly, as he forced his mind to move from the pain Jack must have suffered to the realities of their current situation. Griffin's duty now was to protect the living men, and ultimately his sovereign.
Jabar nodded his turbaned head. "Already begun, Master."
The sleet that covered Griffin's cloak melted and puddled at his boots. "Good. I want to talk to Jack's closest man. I want to talk to him myself."
"Already sent for him, my lord," the bearded man said. "The meet's been set for later today, in a public market where you'll be safer."
"Jabar."
"Master."
"You know all who must be contacted. They have to be warned of this . . . development, immediately." He made a fist at his side. "Everyone needs to know they're going to have to take extra precautions. I won't have anyone else die by these traitors' hands."
"Yes, Master."
Griffin lifted his gaze, thankful for Jabar's capability and strength in time of crisis. He never would have survived all the years without Jabar's gentle companionship. "But first I want that wound looked after."
"It is not—"
"You." Griffin addressed the man who covered Jack's body with a linen sheet. His white shirt was drenched in blood, his face honest. "You are the physician?"
"Aye."
"I'll get someone in to take Jack's body. I want you to see to the living." He gestured in Jabar's direction. "He's been shot. I want the wound cleaned and dressed."
"Yes, my lord."
Griffin removed his hat and struck his knee with it. Water drops leaped from the hat to shower the floor and add to the growing puddle. "You stay here, Jabar. Have your arm cleaned up, and your trail as well. Christ's blood!" he exploded. "This could have been you!"
"It was dark still. I was not seen."
Only shot, Griffin thought. For me. For my cause. "Just the same, I don't want you in any unnecessary danger. We'll meet later at the Three Bells."
"Where do you go, Master?"
"I'm bound for Whitehall." Griffin stared unseeing across the empty room that smelled of congealing blood, wet leather, and frightened men. Griffin didn't know what he could have done to prevent this, but he felt guilty just the same. Jack shouldn't have had to die. He shouldn't have been tortured. "His Majesty must be informed at once. Without Jack, the entire structure will have to be rebuilt, men retraced. It may be months before the son of a bitch behind it all is traced." He crushed his cavalier's hat onto his head and strode out of the room. "I just hope to hell I'm not too late."
"Not there. His lordship wishes the tables to be placed there, along the wall," Julia indicated to the footman with a sweep of her hand, and then irritably brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek.
Simeon wanted the withdrawing rooms prepared for another evening of dining and dancing in celebration of their wedding yesterday, and it was already late afternoon. With so many guests in the house it was impossible for the housekeeper to accomplish all her duties. To insure the house was prepared for the evening's festivities, Julia had stepped in to assist, though she wanted nothing but to crawl into her bed and pull the coverlet over her head.
Griffin had ridden out this morning in a hurry, bound for where, she didn't know.
Julia stepped out of the way of the two footmen who moved another table to the wall.
Of course she knew she couldn't expect Griffin to tell her where he went. Nothing that happened last night had changed the cruel truth of the morning. Not his mysterious gold ring that she wore on a ribbon around her neck beneath her underclothing, nor his promise of eternal love. Julia was St. Martin's wife and would be forever.
But rightful or not, Julia still wondered where Griffin had gone in such haste. She couldn't help fearing he was in danger and wished desperately that she knew exactly what he was involved in. Was he in the service of some duke wielding political power? Was he aiding in the buying and selling of illegal trade goods? Neither made sense. His masquerade—the fop impersonation and the fostering of the belief that he lived apart from his wife on a small annual stipend and that he was otherwise penniless—was too elaborate a plot for any of the circumstances Julia could think of.
Julia had cornered Lena privately at noonday and questioned her as to Griffin's whereabouts, but Lena said she knew nothing, and that the less anyone knew, the safer he would be. She refused to tell Julia what he was doing, or why, or for whom, not out of unkindness, but again for reasons of his safety as well as Julia's own. Lena had also warned Julia that she must not see Griffin alone again. She said she feared for their lives.
A chill trickled down Julia's spine as she recalled the tone in Lena's voice. She had spoken not out of wifely jealousy, but out of a genuine concern for both Julia's and Griffin's well-being. Lena probably didn't know how accurate her assessment was. If the earl was capable of sending another man to bed his wife, Julia knew he was capable of locking her in a dungeon until she starved to death.
Julia glanced up, realizing someone had spoken to her. One of the footmen pointed to a small buffet servi
ce table that had just been placed in a corner. "Will this do, m'lady?" he asked, obviously repeating himself.
"Fine. Perfect. And then—"
"There you are, my dearest darling!"
Julia instinctively cringed as she heard her mother's high-pitched voice behind her. When Susanne had disappeared yesterday afternoon and never reappeared, Julia had half thought her mother might have been gone for good. She wouldn't put it past her to run off with some elderly, titled lord to a cozy country home to live as his paramour, or something equally ludicrous.
"I've looked for you everywhere!"
I needed you last night when I had to prepare for St. Martin's bed, Julia thought, her back still to Susanne. Where were you then, Mother?
"I feared I would have to search his lordship's bedchamber next for my newly wed daughter." She laughed lewdly and a man joined her.
Julia hadn't realized someone else was with her mother. She plastered on a smile befitting an earl's wife and turned to greet her mother. "Good afternoon."
"Oh, good afternoon, Julia." Susanne was firmly attached to a man's arm, and to Julia's surprise, he was not elderly. He couldn't have been more than twenty years and five. "But I suppose I shall have to call you countess now," her mother tittered.
Out of politeness, Julia nodded to the gentleman on Susanne's arm before responding dryly. "I believe you can still call me Julia, Mother."
"Oh, I'd almost forgotten," Susanne burst. "This is Pierre Du'Mois. Visiting from Paris. His father is a marquis." She fluttered her fan over her breasts, that threatened to leap from the yellow embroidered bosom of her too-tight gown. "Pierre, my daughter, the Countess St. Martin."
"Comment allez-vous, Madame?" He disengaged himself from Susanne's grasp and bowed handsomely. As he rose he took Julia's hand and kissed it. "Your servant, my Lady St. Martin."
Susanne grabbed his arm again. "Isn't Pierre the most comely man you have ever laid eyes upon!" She launched into another fit of giggles, as did the Frenchman. "And to think he's wasting his affection on an old bird some ten years older than he." Susanne fluttered eyelashes that were most certainly false.
And Susanne wasn't ten years older? In a pig's eye, Julia thought. That would have meant Susanne would have had to have given birth to Julia when she was ten or twelve!
Julia studied the young man, wondering if he was so addlepated as to believe such nonsense. The way he gazed into Susanne's kohl-painted eyes made her think he was. Either that or he was a very clever fortune hunter. If Susanne told him she was thirty-some years old, she could have told him she was an heiress as well.
"I'm pleased that you could join my husband and me on this joyful occasion, Monsieur Du'Mois. Do stay for music and refreshment this evening."
"Oh, we can't. Pierre is taking me to the playhouse and then to join friends, aren't you, darling?" Susanne massaged his arm.
"You're going now?" Julia needed to talk to her mother about Lizzy and Amos. After the episode in the smokehouse, she feared action had to be taken to protect Lizzy not just from Amos, but from herself.
"I'm afraid I must go, darling. I've a girl coming to do my hair in that new French style, and then it's off we are. Into the wee hours, I'd venture."
Julia knew that it would be rude for her to ask Monsieur Du'Mois to allow them privacy for a moment, but she was quickly losing her patience for politeness, especially when it came to her mother. If she didn't catch her now, it could be days before she found her again. "Mother, I need to speak with you."
"Well, speak, child." Susanne fluttered her fan. "You know you can tell Mother anything." She giggled and leaned closer. "Just so long as it's not intimate details of you and the earl."
Pierre's laughter grated on Julia's already raw nerves. Each time her mother laughed, he laughed like a trained monkey.
"Sir, will you excuse us just for a moment?" Julia asked, tight-lipped.
"By all means." He bowed to each of them. "Your servant, Madame, Countess."
Susanne waved her fan at him and then blew him a kiss as he walked out of the parlor.
Julia rolled her eyes.
"Now what is it?" Susanne snapped the moment Pierre disappeared from view. "It will take me two hours to get out of this bloody gown and into another!" All the sickening sweetness was gone from her voice.
"I wanted to talk to you about Lizzy." She led her mother to the window, out of earshot of the footmen who continued to set tables and add linen cloths.
"I don't have time to talk about your sister." She examined her manicured nails. "I didn't tell Pierre I had another daughter, so keep your mouth sealed."
Julia raised her brows. "Didn't tell him about Lizzy! You disowned her?"
"I didn't disown her. But you know how men are uncomfortable around people like Lizzy. I don't want Pierre to feel uncomfortable." She lowered her voice to a frenzied whisper. "His father is a marquis, a very rich, ill marquis!"
So her mother was fortune hunting. Any other time Julia might have broached that despicable subject, but considering Susanne's obviously wandering thoughts, she simply ignored the remark. "Mother, I'm concerned about Lizzy and her interest in that cook. I fear it's becoming serious. Last night I caught them in the smokehouse—"
Susanne threw up both hands as if fending off an evil spirit. "God's teeth, I'll hear no more."
"Mother, I'm afraid—"
"Must you ruin any chance of happiness I might have?" Susanne lowered her hands angrily. "I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear the sordid details." She spun away and waggled her fan over her shoulder. "Just manage the situation. Obviously the sister of a countess cannot be associated with a servant, even a dim-witted sister of a countess. Bribe her, get her another puppy. She's easily distracted."
Julia followed her mother. She truly felt as if she needed guidance, but she had a sinking feeling she was wasting her breath. "But, Mama, Lizzy—"
"Not another word," Susanne called over her shoulder as she breezed out of the room. "You're the lady of your own household now, a countess. I've gotten you this far. Done my duty. Don't harry me again." She wrung her hands. "I wash my hands of Elizabeth."
Julia started to say something else, then reconsidered, and remained silent. She had been a fool to think she could gain any support from her mother. Julia was alone in the world but for Lizzy, and the sooner she accepted that fact, the sooner she could move on to a solution.
Chapter Eighteen
Julia directed the set up of the buffet tables in the withdrawing rooms, and ordered the footmen to begin lighting the hundreds of candles that would illuminate the evening. By the time the food had been sent for and a mix-up with the musicians settled, it was later than she realized.
She needed to retire to her chambers and change into evening clothes. If she was late, Simeon would be furious. But thoughts of Lizzy nagged at her. Considering Simeon's current displeasure with her, she feared Lizzy was at risk of his wrath as well. This matter between her sister and the servant had to be settled before it went a step farther.
Not surprisingly, Julia found Lizzy in the kitchen, seated on a stool watching Amos cut out pastry dough in the shape of the St. Martin coat of arms. She sat on the wooden stool, her petticoats dusty with flour, her cheeks rosy from laughter. As always, the kitchen bustled with activity.
"Amos, Lizzy, I'd like to speak with you both in the hallway." Julia held open the kitchen door, its hinges allowing it to swing both ways. "Now," she said sharply. Tonight she had neither the time nor the patience for civilities.
Lizzy climbed off the stool with the aid of Amos's beefy forearm. "What's the matter, Julia?"
"What's the matter?"
Her increase in volume caught the attention of several kitchen servants. As Julia's gaze met theirs, they returned to their tasks.
"What's the matter?" Julia repeated, attempting to remain calm. "Please, outside. Amos."
He followed Lizzy in silence into the hallway.
Julia let the door swing sh
ut before she spoke. "This has to cease."
"What?"
Lizzy stared so wide-eyed with innocence that Julia didn't know if she could go on. How could she take away this happiness from her sister, when she herself was bathed in such misery?
She could do it to save her life.
"This has to stop." Julia pointed to the kitchen. "This." She indicated Amos. "It can be no more. It's past the point of innocent friendship."
"M'lady—"
"Amos, I'm not blaming you for this." She studied his ruddy, pockmarked face. "What man wouldn't be infatuated with my sister? She's beautiful, she's lively, she'll listen to your troubles and pass no judgment. She'll also apparently go with you to the smokehouse."
Amos jerked his head up as if he'd been slapped. He opened his mouth to speak, then clamped it shut.
Lizzy just stood there staring, stunned or confused, Julia didn't know which.
"I blame neither of you. I blame myself. I was so intent upon myself and my own troubles that I allowed this friendship to progress too far. Lizzy never belonged in a kitchen. She's the daughter of an earl."
"I don't care if I'm the daughter of the bloody king!" Lizzy emerged suddenly from her stupor and grabbed Amos's arm. "I want to be in the kitchen! I want to be with Amos." She thrust out her jaw with a conviction that surprised Julia. "I will be with him."
Julia grasped Lizzy's arm firmly and pulled it away from the cook's. "Lizzy, you're not able to make that decision."
"Lady St. Martin." Amos lifted his brown-eyed gaze slowly. "Now I can't disagree with ye on the matter of her bein' a earl's daughter, and me bein' nothin' but a cook." He took a shuddering breath, as if stringing that many words together had taxed him. "But I got to disagree with you sayin' she can't make a decision like that on her own. She's a lot smarter than you think."
Julia rested her hands on her hips. The minutes were ticking by. She had to get dressed for the evening, or risk St. Martin's wrath. She didn't have time to argue over her sister's capabilities with a cook. "Amos, I never said Lizzy wasn't smart about some things." Julia groaned, trying to find the right words. "But you and I both know she's unable to care for herself, unable to make decisions that would affect the rest of her life."
In Love with the King's Spy (Hidden Identity) Page 18