by Anna Castle
Ben and Bacon stared at her, dumbfounded, but Tom grinned. Trust Trumpet to come up with a completely novel solution! He watched her spoon up another mouthful of sauce, losing a trickle down the side of her chin. He felt a sudden urge to lean over and lick it off.
Then Ben chuckled, nodded, and wagged his knife at her. “Very clever, Trumpet. Very clever indeed.” He grinned at Tom and Bacon. “The wives can’t be punished directly; it’s true. But when their husbands die, after having been entered on a list of known recusants, their estates are liable to confiscation. The wives lose their standing, their wealth, and most pertinently, their ability to foster priests.”
“That is a very intriguing idea,” Bacon said. He and Ben started debating the whys and wherefores of punishing recalcitrant wives. Tom stopped listening, entranced by Trumpet and her raspberries, which were almost exactly the color of her lips. She licked the bottom of her spoon, then smiled that bow-shaped minx’s smile when she caught him watching her.
Tom’s heart overflowed with a powerful affection. He loved her, whether in a tradeswoman’s kirtle or a street urchin’s galligaskins. A sigh rose out of his overburdened heart and escaped his lips. He would always love her first and foremost, though she could never be his. One day soon, she’d be married off to some potbellied sot with a title and carted off to some crumbling manor to produce heirs. Tom might see her now and then when she came to court in her husband’s train, but he wouldn’t get to watch cream sauce dribble down her chin.
If she was a widow with a house of her own on the Strand — handy, not two jogs from Gray’s — he could slip up the river path to her garden window. They could drink claret and play primero, or maybe other games. Her case would be decided tomorrow. She should win it. Then she’d get the house and the jointure she’d worked so hard for. That was what she wanted. And why shouldn’t she get what she wanted?
Why shouldn’t everyone? Ben should marry that tasty widow, Mrs. What-d’ye-call-um, the one in the Andromache Society. The widow was rich — very rich. The couple could buy a fine big house in Holborn and have Tom over for dinner every Sunday, along with Mr. Bacon.
Mr. Bacon would never change, of course. Nothing could alter good old Mr. Bacon. He would stay on at Gray’s Inn, and Tom would stay right along with him. They would become great barristers in the public view and wily intelligencers outside of it. Tom leaned toward Bacon, tempted to grasp his hand and shake it out of pure brotherly feeling.
The thought crossed his mind that Trumpet wasn’t the only one getting a little bit drunk.
“Your proposal has merit, Trumpet,” Bacon said. “Although it seems a most indirect way of exacting vengeance. What we have, gentlemen and lady, is an elegant theory, or perhaps two alternate theories. We have our opinion of a man’s character and a few articles in his house related to the crimes in what one might call a thematic association, but nothing in the way of proof. We have no clear evidence against Nathaniel Welbeck either. Your abruptly terminated conversation in that tavern will not impress a judge, nor will the testimony of the clerk in the pawnshop, assuming you could obtain it.”
“If we could lay our hands on that Jack Coddington,” Ben said, “we might find a way to persuade him to bear witness against Welbeck.”
“Never,” Tom said. Trumpet echoed the word twice, shaking her head emphatically. Tom went on, “He admires him greatly. Welbeck takes care of his men, paying them promptly and bailing them out of gaol. We need witnesses outside his circle.”
“We may have to wait for another murder,” Ben said.
“Unacceptable,” Bacon said. “We can’t let another man die while we sit on our hands and do nothing.”
“We should get out ahead of them,” Tom said. “Then we could be the witnesses.”
Ben nodded at him. “We could hide in the house if we knew where and when. Can we figure out who’s next by studying your list, Francis?”
Bacon shook his head. “Sir James Lambert wasn’t on our list. We didn’t know about him — or I didn’t. Sir Richard could have learned something and kept it to himself.”
Ben said, “Negative evidence is evidence of a sort. If a name is not on your list, it can’t have been —”
“Hey ho!” Trumpet cried. “I forgot! What Coddington said, remember, Tom? He said, ‘The master has another —’ and then the other whoreson knave came along, the superior one, and stopped him.”
“You’re right,” Tom said, smiling at her. “That means the list of recusants isn’t Welbeck’s only source of information.”
“What else could he have?” Bacon asked.
Trumpet said, “I’ve been thinking they might have been his clients. You know he knows a lot of Catholics, and he also knows other people like him, who are sometimes sympathetic and sometimes not. Maybe one of them is helping him choose the victims for a share of the profits.”
Bacon said, “Now that is a useful idea, Lady Alice. Our list says nothing about when the houses are most likely to be empty. Someone who knew these families more intimately would be more likely to have that additional knowledge. Unfortunately, I can think of only one way to pursue your useful notion.” He wrinkled his nose as if sampling a sauce over seasoned with verjuice. “We’ll have to pay a call on the Savoy Solicitor.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Trumpet sat up in bed, twisted around, and whacked her fist into her pillows to plump them up. She flopped down on her back again and then immediately rolled onto her left side. Now the lace edgings tickled her nose. She sat up and stacked on another pillow, then pulled up her covers and closed her eyes. Two seconds later, they popped open again.
She groaned and said, “I am wide awake,” to no one. She glowered at the waning moon, which mocked her sleeplessness from outside the window. She could get up and close the curtains and also pour herself a cup of wine, but then her feet would get cold and she had already had quite enough wine for one night.
The men had sent her and Catalina home with a couple of grooms around sunset to make sure they got inside the city walls before the gates closed. She’d been pleasantly tipsy at that point — Tom said ape drunk — but by the time she’d cleaned her teeth and gotten her hair brushed, while telling Catalina the news about Tom’s father and explaining the thorny matter of his impending wardship, the drink had worn off. Now she lay tossing restlessly in her bed with nothing to do but worry about appearing in the bishop’s court tomorrow morning.
No one had said anything about her case during that whole long supper. Not even Ben, not even when he’d helped her onto the horse behind Catalina. “Sleep well, my lady,” was all he’d said. He’d forgotten about it! Tom had leered at her — well beyond ape drunk himself — and mumbled something about setting things right, but then he’d staggered off to the jakes without a kiss or a comment.
Granted, the little problem of her marital status paled in comparison to the loss of a beloved father. She wasn’t a monster; she understood the gravity of Tom’s loss. She grieved for him and with him and would for many months to come. But tomorrow was the most important day of her life so far and not one of her supposedly dearest friends had so much as wished her luck!
She growled into her pillow. Luck wouldn’t help her now anyway. No one had believed her nap story. They’d scoffed at it. In fairness, when she remembered how cranky Surdeval had gotten whenever anyone was ten blinks of an eyelash late, she could hear the implausibility herself. Without that story, she had nothing. She would lose the case, the marriage would be annulled, and she’d be right back where she’d started. No house, no independent widowhood. All lost, after all her careful planning, thanks to some murdering religious lunatic.
She sighed hugely, ending in a little bark of frustration. She should concede the case. She could at least spare herself the indignity of the maidenhead examination.
Her door opened, revealing a thin line of yellow candlelight. Her maidservant whispered, “My lady! Are you awake?”
“Come in, Catalina. I was j
ust wishing for something to drink. Maybe a warm posset. Something to help me sleep.”
“You do not wish to sleep, my lady.” Catalina sounded as if she were choking back a spate of giggles. “You have a visitor.”
“At this hour?”
The next thing she knew, her covers were thrown back and Tom’s strong arms lifted her up, pulling her onto his lap. His moustache tickled her neck as he nuzzled her. Was she dreaming?
But her skin flashed hot wherever his hands touched her through the thin cambric nightshirt and his breath still smelled of red wine and cinnamon. He lifted her again, cupping her arse, and shifted her so she straddled his legs. Then his wide, strong hands spread up her lower back, spanning her waist, tracing her shoulder blades. One stroked across her ribs and cupped a breast. She moaned and threw her arms around his neck, pressing her body against him. Then she tilted back her head and let the dream engulf her.
They broke for air, gasping, stunned. He smoothed the hair from her face and turned them both toward the light from the candle on the bedside table. He must have brought it in, or maybe Catalina had slipped in and put it there. It didn’t matter. Tom was here, in her bed, alone, and gazing at her with his blue eyes darkened by desire.
“You are so beautiful.” His voice was low and husky. “So beautiful. And so brave.” He smiled that dimpled smile and her heart flipped. He feathered kisses up her cheek and whispered, “Let’s make sure you win your case tomorrow. One of us should get what they want, hey?”
That wasn’t quite what she wanted to hear. Had he come to effect a legal maneuver?
She sat back, opening a space between her longing and his body. She placed her flat palms on his chest and studied his face. The candle flickered, casting odd shadows, but even under that, his face had changed. She knew it better than she knew her own. Hollows had formed under his eyes and a new crease marked his brow. Somehow his cheeks seemed hollow too, although it had only been a couple of hours. She could read every tiny sign written on the beloved canvas. Grief moved him more tonight than desire.
Her ardor cooled as if someone had opened a window. “What changed your mind?”
“Hmm?” He tried to pull her toward him, but she resisted, palms braced against his hard chest.
“You refused me on my wedding night for the true and valid reason that if anyone ever found out, my father, my lord’s kinsmen, and my Uncle Nat would have you whipped, or worse. You’ve also said, along with everyone else, that you think my nap time story is quite possibly the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard. That’s not an exact quote, but you remember the main thrust.”
“What’s wrong, sweetling? Isn’t this what you wanted?” Tom stretched his neck toward her, lips puckered, ready to dust more kisses across her cheeks.
She looked at him the way you look at a painting of some fabulous place you long to visit but know you never can because it isn’t real. “What changed your mind?”
Tom slumped, running a hand through his golden curls, sorrow and irritation mingling in his eyes. “Ben, I guess. When we got back to our rooms, we started talking about my future guardian, who it was going be, wondering where Mr. Bacon went before he came to the Antelope. It doesn’t take an hour to deliver a bit of news to Lord Burghley, you see. He’s too busy to give you more than a couple of minutes and it only takes ten to get there and back. So Ben thought Bacon might have stopped by Leicester House to pass the intelligence on to the Earl of Essex.”
“Oh, dear.”
“That’s what Ben said. It’s not all bad though, Ben said. My Lord of Essex has enormous influence. He could do a lot for me. On the other hand, he might throw my whole estate into the sea to finance some mad venture to impress the queen.” Tom hung his head. “My life is over, Trumpet. At least the life I had. I’m thinking I might leave. Dirimara is going to Spain to look for his father; maybe I’ll go with him part of the way. Or I could join the Dutch sea beggars.” He raised his head to meet her eyes and laid his hand along her cheek. “Let me give you what you want before I go. It doesn’t matter what happens to me afterward.”
Her heart broke fair in two. She wanted him more than she wanted health or happiness, but not like this. Not as an act of despair. She leaned in and kissed him for one long, delicious moment, then pulled back before he could make it more amorous. “I love you,” she said and sent him away.
He’d argued a little and made another half-hearted attempt to draw her back into an embrace, but she knew that he knew as well as she did that their time had not yet come. She’d asked Catalina to have one of the stable boys follow him to make sure he found somewhere safe to sleep it off. The tavern around the corner was the most likely spot.
After he’d gone, she let Catalina give her a draught of valerian and settled back into her bed. She curled around the spot where Tom had sat, breathing in the lingering smell of him, cuddling a pillow in her arms.
In the morning, she would allow the bishop to annul her marriage without protest. She would surrender all rights to Surdeval House and her jointure. And then she would insist on being examined that morning by the eight matrons of good repute to prove to all and sundry that she remained virgo intacta. The gossipmongers would have nothing more to whisper about and the scandal about the old man, the young bride, and the handsome retainer would die.
She could do that much for Tom.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Francis paused for a moment outside the gate at the Savoy Palace to adjust his robes. He’d worn them to impress Nathaniel Welbeck — or to bolster his own courage. These legal robes were distinguished by tufts of silk velvet around the shoulders. Only benchers, members of the governing bodies of the Inns of Court, were allowed to wear the tufts. As a bencher, Francis had a vote in all decisions concerning Gray’s Inn: admission, calls to the bar, adjudication of disputes between members, and decisions with respect to the distribution of chambers. Welbeck was merely an outer barrister, but he was a good dozen years older and had spent those years arguing cases in court. Francis hadn’t quite gotten around to that yet.
He did have a full retinue to support him this afternoon. Ben and Tom, of course, wearing the legal garb of inner barristers, the sleeveless robes with flap collars and small flat caps. Trumpet, who had met them at Gray’s gatehouse in her aunt’s carriage, had dressed with her usual sense of occasion in stark black broadcloth with a huge white widow’s coif. The five of them, including Trumpet’s maidservant, had squeezed into a coach to drive the quarter mile from Gray’s Inn to the Strand. An absurd degree of pomp to visit a man Francis regarded as little better than a charlatan, but this charlatan had something they wanted and no reason to give it to them.
The gatekeeper bowed them in without question. They filed through the yards and alleys of the Savoy precinct in silence. Francis had done little to prepare for the meeting beyond reviewing the list of leases coming due at Gray’s.
Welbeck wanted to return to the Inn; in truth, nothing stood in his way. He’d left before any connection could be drawn between him and the murdered man in the field, leaving behind his “nephew” to tender his excuses. They had proved adequate. As far as everyone else was concerned, Nathaniel Welbeck had been recalled to his family estate in Devonshire to care for his elderly parents. He’d said he intended to build a practice in Exeter and had been successful in so doing. His reputation was untarnished. He could return whenever he pleased.
Chambers were another matter, and there Francis might have an advantage. Like every other educational institution in Queen Elizabeth’s burgeoning realm, the Inns of Court were stuffed to bursting. Many incoming students and even some barristers were obliged to take lodgings elsewhere, like the Antelope Inn or the profitable Bentley’s Rents. Chambers within the bounds of Gray’s Inn went for quite a tidy sum, even when the applicant enjoyed the support of a majority of benchers.
The group mounted the stairs and found the door open. They were expected since Trumpet had arranged the meeting in advance. Welbeck rema
ined seated at his desk as they entered, a petty stratagem. He waved them toward various stools and benches. Francis took the armed chair directly in front of the desk, with Ben seated at an angle to one side. Tom and Trumpet sat on stools, not far apart, but not together. Trumpet’s maidservant sat on a bench near the door.
“Francis Bacon.” Welbeck steepled his fingers. “It’s been what — two years? You still look too young for those velvet tufts.”
“Yet I wear them.” Francis had long ago ceased to be affected by jibes about his youth. He gazed around the room with an air of barely restrained distaste. The walls boasted oak wainscoting, but the paint was peeling and a whole section had been bleached to a grayish brown by sun streaming through the poorly glazed window. “I expected you to be wise enough to remain in Devonshire.”
“Too wise to be wasted in a backwater. A man of my capacities belongs at the center of things. You must understand that, Bacon, else you’d retire to your hunting box in Twickenham and spend your days tinkering with your vaunted philosophical investigations.”
Francis had to concede the validity of that observation. The income from his two small properties was adequate for the life of a modest country gentleman, although paltry for a courtier; hence his endless scrambling to cover one debt with another. He loved Twickenham, with its herb garden, orchard, and ponds, but his sense of duty always called him back to court. “Gray’s Inn is my home.”
“Mine too,” Welbeck said. “And soon I’ll be dining among my colleagues in the hall.”
“That remains to be decided.”
They smiled thinly at one another — the grounds for negotiation had been staked. Welbeck turned to Trumpet and his smile warmed. “Well, Niece, I see you’re dressed as a widow. Does that mean you won your case?”