His Forsaken Bride (Vawdrey Brothers Book 2)

by Alice Coldbreath

  If Oswald had ever considered taking a wife it had been purely in the most theoretical of terms. He had vaguely imagined some help-meet who matched him in ambition and capability. Perhaps, someone in the mold of Lady Anne Sumner with her cool, quiet beauty and secretive, devious mind. She made an excellent spy, that much Oswald knew. And what else would he require of a wife, other than being presentable, even-tempered and willing to be put firmly on the sidelines while he furthered his career? The rub of it was, that Lady Sumner had been married for years to colicky old Lord Sumner, who despite his apoplectic appearance seemed determined to live to a grand old age. So Lady Anne was out of the picture, more’s the pity and could not factor in his solution to this current problem. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip as he considered what impediment he could cite to the King, when he suggested his marriage to the Cecil female. For that was what he was sure the King was about to do. He had no idea which of the Cecil girls had taken the King’s fancy, but clearly she had not fallen on her back when the King snapped his fingers. No, this female was made of sterner stuff. She wanted a ring upon her finger before bestowing her favors. And as the King was already on his second marriage, then Wymer must have promised to find her some nobleman to act the cuckold while he made her his royal paramour. And Oswald was damned if he would be the sacrificial victim. His lip curled. While it was true, he had no ambition to play the husband and father, he also had no intention of bestowing his title on one of the King’s bastards or giving his name to a high-born whore. His fingers played at his black signet ring as he twisted it about his finger. His own father would have been appalled at such a notion and it made him wryly smile to imagine the old baron’s reaction. For once father and son would have been of the same accord, he thought with wintry amusement. Something that had only happened very rarely, while Baron Vawdrey was alive. Returning to the problem at hand, he supposed he would have to go for good old consanguinity, which was a tried and tested impediment. No-one wanted cousins marrying after all, even the King. He would have to get that rogue Carleton to draw him up another forged family tree. It wouldn’t be the first time, though his own family wasn’t usually one of the entangled branches.

  Once he’d made up his mind, he felt better and reached for an apple from the fruit bowl across the table. He would scribble a missive to Carleton and get a few good hours in at his study to work on the treaty. In fact, he thought as he took a bite into the apple, some fresh air might do him good. He was over-tired after working through the night. And quite frankly he was due some extended leave from court. It was high time he put in some groundwork in at Vawdrey Keep. His Father had died a full four months ago and he had done nothing with the estate, despite the full-set of plans in his desk drawer. Yes, he vowed as he rose and exited his apartments, turning toward the south aspect of the palace. He would go down to Vawdrey Keep and scout out the lay of the land before he hired a workforce to raze the place to the ground, and start the rebuild process. That would be all the rest he would need before returning re-invigorated to Court. He gave a brief nod satisfied with his decision. Then all would return to normal and he could forget all about this ridiculous notion of Wymer’s to see him married. Slipping through a concealed door in the wainscoting, Oswald made his way through the labyrinthine dark passages that criss-crossed the castle. Somewhere along the way, he caught up a plain black cloak from a row of hooks and threw it about his shoulders, concealing his black velvet doublet with ornate silver buttons. He drew a plain hood over his curling black hair, concealing his face in shadow. When he emerged some quarter of an hour later it was from an unobtrusive doorway near the bustling palace kitchens. He strode straight across the courtyard and exited the west gate into the crowded street outside. He had always loved the anonymity of a crowd. Oswald let the surging crowd of hawkers and market traders sweep him along, dictating his walking pace until he reached the city’s south quarter. Here, at the market square, he broke from the throng and headed down a narrow side-alley and then another, and then another until he was in a crooked little street with hardly any pedestrians or through trade at all. These were more specialist establishments, only frequented by those who walked on the shady side of life. And Oswald Vawdrey had been known to walk that path, when occasion demanded. He swiftly ducked under the eaves of a cramped establishment with a carved quill feather hanging from a chain on the roof, announcing the trade of its occupant. Inside he paused a moment, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dark cramped interior and the smell of musty old parchment, before he heard a voice grudgingly say: “Oh, it’s you is it, Mr Roberts? Thought I hadn’t seen you in a while.”

  “Good morning, Mr Carleton,” Oswald greeted him smoothly. “Aye, tis indeed.”

  “Humph!” The old man adjusted himself precariously on the tall stool he was perched on. He returned to adding blood red ink to a coat of arms he was drawing on a map.

  Oswald leant across the counter and inspected the document with interest.

  The old man growled at him. “This be for another client,” he pointed out irritably. If it wasn’t for the fact the ink was still wet, Oswald was sure he would have whisked it out of sight.

  “And I commend your devotion to confidentiality,” Oswald answered him smoothly. “However, if you want that to pass for the Chassington Phoenix then you need to remove the second fleuron from its crest.”

  The old man’s jaw snapped shut angrily. “Their arms has a double fleuron,” he objected. “I seen it right here,” his finger jabbed at another document under the counter.

  “I’m sure. However, you have dated this map twenty years old and they were only granted the use of the second fleuron a decade ago.” Oswald smiled his blandest smile and the old man gnashed his teeth angrily and threw down his quill pen. “That fool never mentioned it,” he grumbled.

  “I take it your client is the younger son,” murmured Oswald. “Alas, not the sharpest blade in the knife box. I suspect his plan to bilk more lands from the legal heir will fail. Despite your best efforts.” Oswald tutted his tongue. “Such a pity to squander your talents on so unworthy a cause, my good Carleton.”

  “Hah! And let me guess, you have a much worthier cause for me to work on.”

  Oswald bowed slightly. “As you say.”

  “Well, it will have to wait!” grouched the old man, hunching his shoulder. “I got several pieces of work waiting on me.”

  Oswald retrieved a purse from his doublet breast pocket and placed it unhurriedly on the counter. “I will of course, recompense you for prioritizing my task.”

  The old man grunted and glanced at the purse. “Gold?”

  “Carleton, you wound me,” he said gently. “Would I even dream of paying you with inferior coin?”

  The old man nodded, “You’re good for payment, I’ll give you that.”

  Oswald smiled at him.

  “And what might this urgent task be that I needs must prioritize over my other work?” Carleton asked grudgingly. He eyed Oswald rather curiously. “I sometimes wonder…”

  “About what, my friend?”

  “What line of business you must be in that you so often require the services of a forger.”

  “Getting curious in your old age Carleton? Alas, I think it better that you do not know me outside of this establishment.”

  “S’what I figured,” sniffed the older man.

  “I’m sure I’m not your only reticent client.”

  “Far from it,” agreed Carleton with a dry cough.

  “Then why the curiosity?”

  Carleton frowned. “Dunno, especially.” He hesitated. “Funny thing is, I sometimes think I wouldn’t even recognize you outside of here.”

  “Nothing funny about that,” shrugged Oswald. “I’m a very forgettable person.”

  “No you ain’t, my lord. You’m just wearing a disguise.”

  “What did you call me?”

  A slow smile spread across Carleton’s face. “What? You think I don’t know t
he Quality when I sees it, Mr Roberts?”

  “A word of caution, old friend,” said Oswald leaning across the counter. “Be a little less curious when it comes to me. Do we understand one another?” He hesitated. “I would be very sorry to have to cut my connections when your work has always been so satisfactory.” He let his words sink in before adding, “I’ll be in touch shortly about the commission.” He left the gold where it sat and swiftly left the store.

  **

  “We're here to see Sir Oswald Vawdrey himself,” repeated Fenella loudly to the third servant who had come their way and tried to hurry past them, avoiding eye contact. She was starting to think it was the mud-splattered cloaks and boots that were doing them a disservice.

  He looked them up and down doubtfully. “Earl Vawdrey, you mean?” he asked.

  Fenella drew in a sharp breath. “He's an earl now?”

  The servant blinked at her.

  At her side, her brother Gilbert shuffled his feet. “Fenella…” he mumbled awkwardly.

  Fenella cleared her throat. “Yes, of course. Earl Vawdrey,” she corrected herself. “We’re old neighbors of his. From Sitchmarsh.”

  The servant's glance flickered over her once again. Fenella felt a twinge of anxiety about her mustard-yellow wool dress. It was the best one she had. The servant's nostrils flared and he gave a brief bow before retreating from view.

  “Maybe we should just leave,” grumbled her brother. “I don't believe these fellows are even passing along the message.”

  “Of course they are, Gilbert,” Fenella assured him with a confidence she did not entirely feel. “Doubtless it will take a little time to locate him. This palace is so very large after all.” She looked nervously over her shoulder at the vast stone corridor. Large was not the word. The royal palace was huge. Much grander than she'd ever imagined it would be. She fixed a bright smile on her face as another set of footsteps drew near and then retreated without approaching them. “Oh dear,” she muttered her face falling.

  “Fenella,” her brother began, squaring his shoulders. “I'm beginning to think this a fool's errand. Perhaps we should ask instead for Ambrose’s whereabouts…”

  Fenella’s stomach lurched. Ambrose. Her treacherous husband. When she tried to think of what she would say to his face, her imagination failed her. A quiet cough behind them had Fenella whirling around. A plump young man in what looked like a monk's robe stood surveying them with vague disapproval through his pale blue eyes. Fenella's face fell. Even after twelve years, she knew this was not Oswald Vawdrey. “Yes?” she asked expectantly when he did not speak. “Have you brought some message to us from Lord Vawdrey?”

  The young man looked slightly affronted by her eagerness. He pinched his lips and directed his gaze toward Gilbert. “Earl Vawdrey will see you privately in his study,” he said in a clipped, concise voice.

  Fenella's heart thudded in her chest and she gave a faint gasp. She glanced at Gilbert who had turned rather red and seemed rooted to the spot in horror. She widened her eyes at him and nodded her head.

  “Ah yes, yes of course,” stammered her brother. “Delighted to…er... lead the way.”

  The young cleric seemed to give a faint shudder and then gestured for them to follow him with a sweep of his arm.

  “I hope you’ve thought through what you’re going to say to this man,” said her brother in an urgent undertone. “You certainly haven’t shared it with me! Damned awkward business!”

  Fenella felt her stomach roll again. Her desperate stratagem had seemed worth a try back at Thurrold Manor, but here at the royal palace, her nerves were quaking.

  “I shall appeal for his mercy of course, as an old family acquaintance,” she croaked back as they swept along the cold flagstones. “Our fathers were friends, after all.”

  Gilbert looked unconvinced. “Not for years and years!” he objected. “Why, father had barely a good word to say about the old Baron after your betrothal was broken off.” He pulled on his blonde beard self-consciously. “You don't suppose he'll be-” he hesitated. “Out of sorts about being bothered with this business?”

  Fenella nearly lost her footing. “My abandonment you mean?” she asked a little shrilly.

  Her brother winced. “Ambrose may have come to his senses by now,” he whispered hoarsely. “Just because he bought some doxy back from the north with him, doesn’t mean he meant to marry the wench. How could it, when he’s wed to you?”

  “But Orla said….”

  “Orla’s a foolish old maid!” burst out her brother in frustration. “What the devil does she know about what goes between a man and a woman?”

  Fenella shook her head resolutely. “You didn’t hear the letter Ambrose wrote to her,” she insisted. “Besides, Ambrose is not the kind of man to be interested in … doxies.”

  Her brother made a rude noise.

  Fenella noticed the contemptuous twist of the cleric's lips at their hushed conversation and realized their every word was overheard. She forbore to answer her brother's insensitive words and instead tried desperately to think of a way to ingratiate herself with Lord Vawdrey. Perhaps she would not need to break out the paperwork at all? She would rather she did not have to coerce him to act on her behalf. Perhaps the past association of their families, would be enough to sway him to her cause? She devoutly hoped so! After all, she had merely been the first in a long line of ladies who had been betrothed to Oswald Vawdrey over the years. She had certainly been the most humble and obscure in origin. Her father's estate, now Gil’s, butted up against the borders of Vawdrey Keep. The old Baron had struck up their engagement as a means to execute a land grab and extend his boundaries. She had been a mere twelve years old at the time, and Oswald Vawdrey had been a young man of nineteen. She remembered vividly how tongue-tied and awed she had been in his presence on the handful of occasions they had met. She could scarcely believe that she was to wed such a godlike youth with his dark hair and green eyes. And she had been right not to believe it, for after three years, it had all come to naught. True, he had been patient and kind to the tongue-tied child with puppy-fat and mud-brown hair. Much kinder than her own brother, who had not appreciated her in those days and barely tolerated her presence. She remembered well the Solstice Eve they had been promised. Oswald Vawdrey had spoken to her quietly when the rest of the high table was roaring with boisterous laughter and loud jests she did not understand. He had taken the care to draw out the nervous child and ask what gifts she had been given for the Winter Solstice, what games her family always played on Solstice Eve. He had bowed his head to listen to her and smiled at her hesitant replies. When a toast was raised to their future marriage, he had raised his goblet and covered her hand with his as if being engaged to an awkward, plain girl of twelve was not the supreme embarrassment their brothers seemed collectively to think. When he had handed her up into her family's conveyance at the end of the evening and bade her good night, she did not think he could have failed to see the hero-worship shining out of her own eyes. It had not dimmed for a good three years after that, if not longer. Even after her father had brusquely informed her the betrothal was at an end, her regard had limped on. It had been with each announcement of his subsequent engagements that her admiration had flickered and fizzled away. Each successor had been higher born than the previous noblewoman. Each one had a larger dowry. And yet, still he did not marry. Ambition, over-weaning ambition would lead to his downfall, her father had predicted. But he had been wrong. Oswald Vawdrey's fortunes had flourished. Even the periods of fighting in the north had not slowed his ascent. Injury, imprisonment and being held to ransom had been mere steps in his journey to the top. And here he was, at the very pinnacle of success. An earl, one of the King's most trusted advisors no less and a powerful lord in his own right. He had out-stripped his father's rank and forged his own way at the royal court. Indeed, no one could say he was not an outright triumph. Their home county spoke of him now with a sense of awe.

  Fenella almost bum
ped into the back of the clerk who had stopped abruptly in front of a studded wooden door flanked with suits of armor. The servant cast a censorious look over his shoulder at her and then knocked softly on the door. The voice that commanded “Come in,” did not sound familiar, but after all it had been years, she reminded herself as she was ushered into a room which looked like a vast library with a ceiling painted like a celestial sky and great wooden bookcases that reached up as though scaling the heavens. She did not have chance to dwell on these for long as her eyes were drawn to a large desk placed in the center of the room, before a tall arched window. Seated behind this desk, imposingly dressed all in black was the man she had once thought she would marry. Oswald Vawdrey. He smiled a wintry smile and just like that, Fenella felt as gauche and foolish as she had at fifteen when she’d last seen his handsome face. Her cheeks flooded with color and her feet came to a halt. Why, oh why had she thought this wretched stratagem would be a way out of her current woe? How fervently she wished she’d never thought of it! He was even more beautiful than she remembered and it almost hurt her eyes to look at him. Gilbert had come to stand beside her and stood as dumb as a block of wood, so she was forced to speak. “My Lord Vawdrey,” she said loudly hoping to rouse her brother from his stupor. A sidelong look showed her Gilbert’s eyes were glassy and he looked a little queasy. She tugged at the back of his tunic and sank into a curtsey she hoped was deep enough for an earl. Without ever meeting one before she was not really sure. Gilbert stumbled into a bow beside her and at last Oswald Vawdrey stood up unhurriedly and gave a very slight bow. She had forgotten just how tall the Vawdrey males were.

  “Bryce,” he said addressing the cleric behind them. “You will fetch us some refreshment.”

  The door closed with a discreet click and it dawned on Fenella that Oswald Vawdrey might not even remember her! There was no acknowledgement in his gaze which was impassive and quite calm. He smiled an easy smile. “Please come and sit,” he said gesturing to the wide cushioned seats that lined the room. Fenella started at once to retrieve one for herself. She dragged it across the floorboards and plunked it down heavily next to the one Gilbert had lugged over from the opposite side. They both sat down and she looked up to see an irritated look cross Oswald’s face. She had no sooner noticed it, then he blinked and it was gone. She wondered if she’d fetched the wrong chair, but to her untrained eye they all looked identical with their clawed feet and tasseled cushions. Maybe she had imagined his displeasure? Without looking down he opened his desk drawer and drew out a piece of paper that she did not recognize, held it aloft a moment and then placed it on his desk, all without glancing at it. “Lady Fenella,” he said looking straight at her, “Please accept my apologies for this morning’s proceedings. It was highly irregular and I’m afraid must have been very distressing for you.”