The Black Madonna (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 1)

by Stella Riley

  ‘And when I am not?’

  Sir Hugo’s teeth gleamed white against his meticulously trimmed moustache.

  ‘Ah – then I am left desolate in the darkness of limbo. But I see you don’t believe me. That is unkind.’

  Celia frowned on him.

  ‘And how can I believe you? You’re laughing at me.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘But you are. I see it in your eyes.’

  Even as she spoke, the brown gaze became unexpectedly solemn.

  ‘And what would you wish to see there?’

  Suddenly breathless, Celia said lightly, ‘My goodness! What makes you suppose that I have a preference?’

  ‘Nothing at all. I merely took the liberty of hoping that you had.’

  She stared at him uncertainly. She had no way of knowing that careless, light-hearted Hugo Verney, who everyone said was never serious, was alarmed to find himself serious now and already regretting that he had allowed it to show. She did not know of his debts or that he was on the brink of contracting an alliance with a girl whose family would settle his obligations and of whom – until he had come to Far Flamstead – he had thought himself fond. And because she did not know, Celia said coquettishly, ‘Then, sir, you take one liberty too many.’

  ‘So it would seem.’ Irony rippled on the edge of his smile but he banished it and matched his tone to hers. ‘Here’s another. I take it with Will, there – and give it to you.

  The Lark now leaves his watery Nest and climbing, shakes his dewy Wings;

  He takes this Window for the East; and to implore your Light, he Sings

  Awake, awake, the Morn will never rise for her Beauty’s made pale by Celia’s eyes.’

  There was a moment of glorious anticipation and then the voice of the Poet Laureate cut across it with perfectly dramatized agony.

  ‘Why stop there? Why not just cut out my liver and fry it? What,’ demanded Will Davenant, ‘have I ever done to deserve such torture?’

  Over the scattered bubble of laughter, George Goring said, ‘Not a thing, my dear. It’s simply that we deem you great enough to rise above it.’

  ‘And so I am.’ There was laughter, too, in the poet’s eyes. ‘But why must it always be my verse that suffers?’

  ‘It isn’t.’ His lordship limped gracefully into the centre of the turf and struck a pose. ‘Prithee why so wan, fond poet? Prithee, why so pale? Will, if looking sick can’t move ’em --’ And there he stopped, stepping smartly back to avoid the sparkling shower sent flying at him by Sir John Suckling.

  This time even Kate was seen to smile.

  Eden turned back from the genial raillery on the lawn to Lettice Cary, with whom he sat on a stone bench beside a bed of scarlet roses.

  ‘Is it very bad of me to admit complete ignorance of either poem?’

  ‘No – though I wouldn’t admit it before John or Will, if I were you. Don’t you like poetry?’

  ‘Some of it. But I don’t carry it in my head … and am finding it a disadvantage.’

  ‘You mean you’re allowing it to be one. You have other talents. Use them.’

  The hazel eyes registered amused astonishment.

  ‘I might if I knew what they were. Enlighten me.’

  ‘No.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think I will. But when you learn to recognise them, I’ve a feeling that you’ll become a force to be reckoned with.’ For a moment the intense gaze absorbed him. And then, turning, ‘Well, Francis. Has Will taught you the art of verse-drama yet?’

  Resplendent in cornflower silk, Francis swept an accomplished bow and smiled on her.

  ‘Not quite – but we persevere. I’d tell you about it save that our friend here would probably fall asleep.’

  Eden grinned. ‘Whatever makes you think that?’

  ‘Experience,’ retorted Francis. ‘But it isn’t your fault. And if my lady permits, I’ve come to bear you off to the mews. There’s a new falcon I thought you might like to see.’

  Lettice rose and shook out her skirts.

  ‘By all means. It’s time I sought the shade … and I think Mr Maxwell has earned some entertainment more suited to his taste.’

  ‘Mr Maxwell,’ said Eden gravely, ‘has no complaints.’

  * * *

  The bird was a peregrine falcon and beautiful. Gently but with confidence, Eden took her to his gauntleted wrist and stroked the gleaming grey-barred plumage of her breast. Her huge, dark-ringed eyes stared unwinkingly back at him and she sat motionless, the great talons fast in the leather glove. Eden held her gaze and murmured soothingly.

  ‘She is not named,’ said Francis at length. ‘Have you any suggestions?’

  Eden tore his eyes from the falcon and, reaching for her hood, slipped it deftly over her head. ‘No.’

  ‘No? That’s a pity. I was rather relying on you.’

  There was silence while Eden settled the bird back on her perch and fastened the jesses. Then he said, ‘When will you fly her?’

  ‘I shan’t. But I thought that you might. Tomorrow.’

  Something kindled in the hazel eyes and Eden drew a sharp breath, then closed his lips firmly.

  Francis laughed.

  ‘Well, why do you think I bought her? You know I haven’t your gift with birds. And tomorrow, as I recall, is the day when you theoretically catch up with me for a few months.’

  Eden flushed. It would be his twentieth birthday. He said, ‘Francis, I --’

  ‘Don’t you like her?’

  ‘I love her. You knew I would.’

  ‘Then why,’ asked Francis patiently, ‘don’t you give her a name?’

  ‘I already have.’ The reply came on a tiny choke of laughter. ‘It came to me as soon as I saw her. I shall call her Jezebel.’

  * * *

  Straight-backed and silent, Kate watched her brother and Francis leave the garden and wished that she had been asked to go with them. She felt like a cat in a cage, a dry crust in a dish of sweetmeats; and somewhere at home, Toby and Tabitha were riding high in a hay-cart, singing.

  She had not wanted to come and it was no better than she had expected. She was here, corseted and dressed in her best watered silk, to acquire some poise. But if poise meant that one no longer looked as uncomfortable as one felt, she didn’t think she had found much of it as yet. Not that she minded the dress. The colour of thick cream, it seemed to reduce the unfortunate fieriness of her hair and made a pleasant sighing sound when she walked. But the corset was pure penance. It constricted every breath and movement and made her itch; and all for nothing since she was still virtually bereft of those particular assets the nasty thing was designed to emphasise.

  It was all very provoking and she wished she was anywhere but here, having to listen to the silly gossip of the three ladies on her left. They had spent the last hour delicately shredding reputations. It seemed, for example, that the King had recalled Thomas Wentworth from Ireland – a fact that Kate found mildly interesting since the gentleman was her favourite uncle’s employer. What did not interest her, however, was hearing that Viscount Wentworth had apparently managed to get the Irish Chancellor dismissed for abusing his office whilst simultaneously conducting an adulterous liaison with the said Chancellor’s daughter-in-law. So Kate stifled a yawn, wondered if Uncle Ivo would presently appear at Thorne Ash … and debated various means of staying there herself on the morrow.

  It was then, against all expectation, that her attention was first attracted and then caught fast by the arrival, seemingly out of nowhere, of a newcomer to the garden. A stranger dressed in rich, sable satin and with a massive emerald glinting on one long-fingered hand, who stood remote and silent beneath the riot of golden roses that covered the trellised entrance and surveyed the assembled company out of impassive night-dark eyes. A man whose masterly stillness seemed to breathe a sort of mocking challenge, wrapped round in ice and steel. Kate’s gaze sharpened and she sat up. The latecomer had presence … and something more; something that she could o
nly describe as style.

  He was not a big man; taller than Eden but less so than Francis, she judged. And he was quite young. Thick, night-dark hair fell in heavy waves to a Mechlin lace collar and framed a face that was at once both remarkable and yet disturbingly familiar. It was a fine-boned, almost ascetic face that might – but for its complete lack of expression – have been sculpted by some master hand. The cheekbones were high and well-defined, the nose a perfect aquiline and the mouth shapely but hard. It was only the piercing eyes, glinting beneath heavy lids, that denied the illusion and transformed the mask into a severe but living beauty of flesh and blood and bone. He had, decided Kate, critically, the face of a Renaissance angel … and then, with shock, realised that she had found the key to her odd sense of familiarity.

  Shock was followed by dubious amusement – but not for long, for she became suddenly aware that a change was taking place in the atmosphere around her. Somehow, although she could have sworn he neither moved nor spoke, the stranger was slowly but surely commanding every eye; and, as he did so, the light-hearted chatter that had filled the evening air gradually withered and died. For a long, frozen moment there was silence while some faces reflected Kate’s own baffled but expectant interest and others a coldness ranging from disdain to dislike.

  And then, as if putting the upstart puppeteer in his place by showing that he too could pull strings, Lord George Goring turned his shoulder and in his light, carrying drawl, said, ‘Time was when tradesmen and duns used the back door. Do you know, John, I believe I must have stayed abroad too long. The whole damned country’s going to the dogs.’

  There was a ripple of laughter … and then silence. Everyone was absorbed in awaiting the stranger’s reply; and he, knowing it, seemed content to let them.

  Without a flicker of expression, the dark gaze passed over Lord George and conducted a leisurely appraisal of the company before capturing Anne Morton’s soft blue gaze and holding it fast for a long, timeless moment. There was something almost indecent about that look, thought Kate; something that made the air crackle with tension and caused the silver ribbons on Mistress Morton’s bodice to flutter a little. Then, just as a shiver of unrest began to pass through his audience, the stranger’s face relaxed into a slow, heart-stopping smile and he made the lady a faultlessly extravagant bow. A spectral gasp filtered round the garden while, as if unable to help herself, Anne Morton blushed, smiled and inclined her corn-gold head. The gasp became a whisper and Lord George looked as though most of his customary suavity had suddenly drained into his boots.

  Someone laughed.

  It was Kate; and the sound of it – husky, rich and full of unmistakeable amusement – surprised her as much as it did everybody else. The dark gentleman’s tactics were superb but she hadn’t meant to make herself the centre of attention by applauding them.

  She found herself impaled on a fathomless stare; and, since there didn’t seem to be anything else to do, she simply raised her brows and stared back. Fortunately, however, it did not last long. With one last intimate glance at Mistress Morton and a briefer, more mocking one for Lord George, the stranger was gone – plainly taking the lovely Anne’s thoughts with him. And the garden erupted into a buzz of gossip.

  Kate immediately turned to the trio of Court butterflies and unlocked her tongue.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said baldly, ‘but who was that gentleman?’

  The three exchanged amused glances and then one of them said carelessly, ‘That, my child, was no gentleman. It was merely an indication of how low the tide must be in Gervase Langley’s coffers. In short, the man is a money-lender.’

  ‘Oh.’ Kate digested this for a moment. ‘But what’s his name?’

  ‘I haven’t the remotest idea. Something quite unpronounceable, I imagine,’ came the bored reply. ‘In London, they call him the Italian.’

  * * *

  Supper – an opulent meal that deserved a better title – was punctuated with the news that the Assembly of the Scots Kirk had confirmed all the so-called illegal edicts passed in Glasgow, claimed a right to scrutinise the King’s religious policy and abolished bishops all over again in case the first time hadn’t worked. His Majesty’s representative, Lord Traquair, had bowed to the inevitable and accepted all these resolutions on behalf of his master.

  Discussion of this grew heated when it became clear that not all those present considered the King ill-used and badly-served. In their usual insouciant way, Suckling and Davenant supported their host but, against them, Lords Brooke and Falkland, and also Richard Maxwell, maintained a limited sympathy with the Scots cause. And, amidst it all, Richard’s daughter divided her attention between George Goring’s attempts to recover Mistress Morton’s wandering eye and the enigmatic, still silent presence at the other end of the table.

  Further down the board, Eden was also toying absently with his food and contributing suspiciously little to the debate. Opposite him, Celia watched between demure lashes. Her dark hair, drawn up into a high knot, feathered her brow with tiny curls and fell in gleaming ringlets about her ears. A single strand of pearls encircled her throat and, from the low décolletage of her elaborate gown, her shoulders emerged white and enticingly soft. Rose-coloured silk rippled around her and revealed, through slashed sleeves, an exquisitely embroidered chemise. She looked radiantly beautiful; and she wondered if Eden was even faintly aware of her – or, if he was, if she would ever know it.

  Then, entirely without warning, the golden-green eyes looked directly into her own and she felt herself flushing. Her fingers tightened on the bone handle of her knife … and finally, with the slow sweet charm that was always so unexpected, Eden smiled.

  The moment was still with her later when the musicians struck up an air and he asked her to dance with him. It was the first time, Celia realised, that he had danced at all. She said so.

  ‘Yes … well, there’s a reason for that. But if I explain it now, you’ll almost certainly turn me down.’

  ‘But if I dance with you, you’ll tell me later?’

  ‘I doubt,’ said Eden, taking her hand in a light clasp, ‘if I’ll need to.’

  This turned out to be perfectly true for, though he moved with the physical coordination of an athlete and therefore never actually trod on her feet, he proved lamentably unfamiliar with the figures of the dance. Torn between amusement and exasperation, Celia eyed him severely.

  ‘Francis learned to dance at Angers. Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I’m afraid I avoided the classes.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’re sorry for it.’

  ‘I’m beginning to be,’ he said meekly. ‘But don’t judge me too harshly. You see, at Angers there wasn’t any incentive.’

  The blue eyes widened. ‘And now there is?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He sent her a glance brimming with mischief. ‘I never much liked holding hands with Francis.’

  Neither, just at that moment, did Kate. She would much rather have continued watching the ménage-à-trois instead of romping through a boisterous country dance. Not that it could be said that Francis romped – but the word seemed an adequate description of what she herself was doing. Moreover, the myriad of pins holding her hair were beginning to slip and she was getting tired of being asked to reveal the secrets of Ralph Cochrane’s horoscope. She snatched at a hairpin that was threatening to drop down her neck and, when the dance brought her back to Francis, said rapidly, ‘I’m not telling. And it’s no use asking Eden because I wouldn’t tell him either.’

  ‘Spoilsport.’ Francis spun her under his arm, grinning. ‘However, since you’re so discreet, I might let you do mine. Before your enthusiasm wanes.’

  ‘My reputation, Iago – my reputation!’ She curtsied, cast him an oblique smile and prepared to pass on. ‘But the word is ask – not let. And there’s a price.’

  Wisely, Francis waited until the dance was over before asking the obvious question and, when he did, Kate said simply, ‘I want to know about that man who came today.
The one over there in black.’

  Francis glanced across the room and then, satirically, back at Kate.

  ‘My dear! Can it be you’re smitten?’

  ‘That,’ she sighed, ‘is a silly question and you know it.’

  ‘Do I? I’m not entirely convinced of it. But I hope you’re not. He’s not at all suitable, you know … and I’ve always felt that your first infatuation, when it came, ought to be with me.’

  ‘Have you?’ Her brows rose. ‘Well, I suppose anything is possible.’

  He laughed. ‘Clever Kate. Mistress of ambiguity and equipped with sharp claws.’

  ‘Of course. They go with the rest of me.’ She fixed him with a jewel-green stare. ‘Is he really Italian?’

  Francis sighed and gave up.

  ‘He really is. He is also a usurer, a merchant and as rich as Croesus – or so they say. Rich enough, at any rate, to be owed money by half the Court, not excluding the King. And that, of course, is why he’s here. The only reason, I might add … but one powerful enough to take him anywhere he wishes to go.’

  A slight frown creased Kate’s brow but she said merely, ‘And his name?’

  ‘His name, I believe, is del Santi. And that, dear Kate, is really all I know. Will it do?’

  ‘Will what do?’ Eden materialised at Francis’s side.

  ‘Yes.’ Forbidding green eyes met suddenly mischievous blue ones. ‘It will. Thank you.’

  It was a vain attempt and she knew it. Francis had always enjoyed baiting her. Turning to Eden, he said, ‘I’ve been singing for my supper, so to speak. Kate has a new interest. I rather think she’s discovering the more grown-up pursuits.’

  Eden grinned at his sister. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Not the ones Francis means,’ she said shortly. And then, by way of retaliation, ‘Where’s Celia?’

  ‘Presiding over a duel of compliments between Will Davenant and Hugo Verney.’

  ‘And enjoying every minute of it,’ drawled Francis, looking across the room. ‘Aren’t you at all tempted to join in?’

  ‘Hardly.’ An odd smile touched Eden’s mouth. ‘Generally speaking, I prefer not to make a total ass of myself.’