She let out a small laugh on a huff of icy breath at the look on his face as he tried to figure out how to solve the situation. He stopped after a moment and met her eye. “I’ll gift you two new sets of lacings tomorrow.”
Before she understood what he meant, Charles withdrew his boot dagger and sliced through the lacings with very little resistance, unbinding Mary all at once.
The world started to spin. In the seconds it took for her to process what had happened, she was light-headed, sick to her stomach. She slumped forward onto him, trying to regain her bearings.
“What happened? Are you ill?”
Mary shook her head slowly and took a deep breath. “No. The corset. It came off too quickly.” Mary kept her eyes closed and continued to breathe, each breath clearing her head. She blinked away the fuzzy edges of her vision and focused on a single point on the wall across from her and willed herself not to vomit. “Corsets compress the body, and we adapt to wearing them so that they are comfortable. But when you take it off, it should happen in stages. All at once and, well, you could pass out or be sick.”
Mary leaned forward against Charles’s chest. The passion of the moment was gone, replaced by the dull ache in her head. He trailed a soothing hand over her exposed back, tenderly comforting her. “I am sorry to have done this to you. Now I know.” After a moment, Charles reached between them to retrieve her fallen corset and inspected it. The laces were shredded. There was no way she could wear it in its current condition.
He held up the garment, twisting it as far as the stiffening reeds would allow, then back the other way. “These are really awful, aren’t they?” She agreed with a nod. It was heavy and stiff, with channel after channel of boning sewn in. “Why wear it?”
Mary laughed as he tossed her corset away. “They can be comfortable once you get used to them. And of course, it creates the fashionable silhouette.”
“Fashion be damned,” he cursed, and Mary laughed against his chest. He lightly stroked the length of her back, the thin linen of her chemise no barrier to the heat from his hand. “Well, this is not the way I envisioned this evening ending, but now I know more about ladies’ underpinnings.” Mary could see the desire simmering beneath the surface in Charles’s expression, but the laughter had returned to his eyes along with concern. “You do look like you need to lie down—alone. What shall we do about your corset, then? In order to get you back to your room without attracting attention to your quite ravished state?”
“I am not so innocent as to think that what we have done together constitutes ravishment. I like to think I’ll know it when that happens.” Mary smiled and kissed Charles softly. “As to my room, you are right. I do need to lie down. I just won’t wear that.” She gestured to where he had flung her corset. “I am not so voluptuous that a corset is necessary. Lace up my bodice, and I will be fine.”
It was a shame. Ravishment would have to wait. There were still ten days left in Christmastide. Anything could happen in ten days.
• • •
The palace was a quieter place as Mary made her way back toward the Oxford chambers, her corset tucked under her arm. Charles had escorted her as far as was safe for her reputation. They had parted with a series of soft words and kisses. Mary had never felt so cherished. So desirable. So alive. She couldn’t wait for tomorrow and yet she wanted the night to linger so she could savor the memories.
Touching her lips, she could still feel the warmth of his kiss. She trailed her hand down her neck and remembered the way he softly nipped at the skin, sending goose bumps down her spine. Tonight had not gone the way she thought it would, but who was she to question Fate? Besides, she did not feel less excitement—in fact, the anticipation of what tomorrow might bring was almost excruciating.
Mary clicked her chamber door closed behind her. There was enough moonlight that she could see her way to light the taper. With a whoosh, the match burst into flame and she gently lit the candle on her table and began to untie her sleeves. She wished Charles had been bold enough to follow her. Perhaps he would come to her in the night . . .
Any thoughts of trysting flew out of her mind as she screamed. There, on the floor beside her bed, was Ned de Vere, the Earl of Oxford. He was dead.
Chapter Six:
On the Third Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me Three French Hens . . .
The banquet hall was abuzz with gossip. Mary sat alone, quietly playing with her meal, and tried not to hear the cruel speculations about her that the courtiers were not trying to hide.
From the table across the center aisle from hers, Mary noted as the Countess of Essex turned to her companion, covering their faces with her feathered fan to give their words implied secrecy. “I heard that she was his mistress.”
The Countess of Essex had not been speaking to Baroness Sheffield, but that did not stop her from forcing her way into the gossip. “That scrawny nobody?” She looked directly at Mary, not caring that she could hear the conversation. “Hardly. It is more likely she had an unrequited love for him.”
“Lady Rich told me that she had threatened to kill him in front of the whole court.” Another lady replied, making no effort to muffle her words
“Why would she want to kill him in front of the whole court?” Lady Howard of Effingham was not so delicate in her attempt to join the conversation. Then again, she probably did not even know who the ladies were gossiping about.
“’Tis by the grace of God that he survived.”
“He’s alive? I heard he had been chopped to pieces.”
“I had it from a friend that Mistress Mary Montgomery was disowned by her family some years ago.”
“What was Anne Cecil thinking to take in such a strumpet?”
Baroness Sheffield gestured toward Mary with her fan. “Look at her. There she is, taking her meal in the hall as if she has the right to be here. The nerve she has, showing her face . . . ”
“Quiet, she’ll hear you.” Lady Howard of Effingham, at least, had the good grace to look embarrassed.
“Let her hear. She knows what she did. She’ll likely hang after Oxford decides he’s finished with her and names her as his attacker. Stabbing an earl . . . the presumption.”
Mary no longer had any stomach for her food. She’d chosen to take her noon-day meal with the rest of court merely because she felt unwelcome in the Oxfords’ chambers and could not even enter her own room yet without gagging from the cloying smell of blood. Apparently the story had already spread, and she was unwelcome here as well. She had never felt so conspicuous, so hated.
Forcing a stoic expression, Mary rose, head held high, and walked between the long tables of the main hall toward Blanche Parry, seated in a window alcove at the far side of the room. These petty courtiers, their words should not hurt her: they were not worth her consideration. She was innocent of any wrongdoing, so there was no reason for Oxford to name her as the culprit. Then why did she want to run and hide from their accusing stares?
Last night had gone from being one of the most magical nights in her life to being a living hell. The events after finding Oxford, seemingly dead, on her floor were a blur. She remembered rushing over to him. Thank the Lord that he still lived. She had tried to stop the bleeding—God, there had been so much blood. What had happened to him? People had rushed into her room in a panic. She must have screamed for them.
Mary had been numb. Dazed and with Oxford’s blood on her hands, she’d stumbled into Anne’s sitting room. Anne stood there in the cold and dark, clutching her dressing gown, her face pale except for the deep shadows under her eyes.
“How could you?” Anne’s words had been whispered, hardly loud enough to hear over the continuing panic in the other room.
Mary had not even processed that Anne was accusing her of anything. “I came into my chamber, and there he was. So much blood . . . Will he live? Did I come in time?” Mary had spoken more to herself than to Anne, as she lowered herself onto the plush settee.
“Everyone
is saying that you tried to murder my husband.”
Anne’s words had been a slap of reality, leaving Mary shocked. “Me? Murder?” Suddenly conscious of the blood still on her hands, Mary had crossed the room to the ewer in alarm. Pouring the freezing water over her hands, she watched in disgust as the water in the basin clouded red. Oxford’s blood. “No, I tried to save him when I found him. I don’t know what he was doing in my chamber . . . ”
“Do you not?” Anne interrupted her words sharp and dripping with loathing. “I heard that he announced to the court that he would have you tonight. Did he?”
Mary had tried to forget the interlude on the dance floor. It had been horrible, and she hadn’t wanted it to ruin her perfect evening with Charles. Could Anne honestly suspect her? “Good God, no!” Mary had said, shaking her head, physically sick at the realization that Anne did think she might be her husband’s lover. This had been too much. “Anne, this is madness! I have always been completely honest with you. And as to your husband, you know very well how I feel about him. Why, the thought that I would try to murder him makes far more sense than the sick idea that I was ever his bedmate.” Mary had wiped her clean hands on a towel. “Not that I tried to murder him either . . . ”
Mary winced, knowing that it had been an exceptionally stupid thing to say. Anne had been in fear for her husband’s life—she didn’t need a reminder of how much Mary hated him. Anne would not have appreciated Mary’s blunt words.
Anne had looked away, not meeting Mary’s eye. “No, of course I know you are not his lover.” Mary could tell Anne’s words had been hollow, the right thing to say if not entirely the truth. “Sometimes it is hard not to hear the whispers that surround me. I know they all pity me, and it is driving me mad. As if I did not know who Ned was before I married him. As if I did not know that I would share him with half the palace. But I am his wife. He is mine. I am not to be pitied. I am a countess . . . ” Anne’s words trailed off as she had slumped down on the settee.
Closing the gap between them, Mary had sat down beside Anne and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. Anne immediately stiffened and turned out of her embrace. Mary clasped her hands calmly on her lap as if she had not noticed the slight.
“No matter,” Anne continued, her voice stronger. “He will be well, and the gossip will stop.” Her final word had been sharp, and the chambers got very quiet. “Do not worry about your position as my guest. I will continue to stand behind you, and you will continue to behave impeccably.” Anne had fixed Mary with a cold stare and then turned to leave the room.
Mary had left the conversation on tenterhooks. She was not sure if Anne still considered her a friend. She was not sure if Anne trusted her. The only thing she knew for certain was that she had been warned. Mary could not help but feel that, if Oxford had followed up on his threat of rape, Anne would have blamed her . . .
“You have guts, girl.” Mistress Parry’s voice broke through her memory and reminded her of her surroundings. “Of course you did not try to kill Oxford.” She scooted over, patted the cushion beside her, and pushed her plate toward Mary.
“Thank you for your faith in me.” Blinking against the wintery sunlight, Mary sighed as she sat down in the offered seat.
“Not at all. Whoever injured Oxford was a bumbling fool. I know you well enough to know that you would have done the job right.” Blanche Parry nodded resolutely.
Mary’s jaw dropped. Had Mistress Parry just said that?
Mistress Parry barked a laugh. “Do not be so serious, sweeting. The court is ready to eat you alive. You cannot let them get the better of you. Continue as if everything is as it should be and that Oxford did not threaten, in front of the whole court, to rape you and that you did not respond that you’d see him dead first.”
Mary slumped in her seat as much as her corset would allow. “So everyone heard every word.” Mary groaned as Blanche nodded the affirmative. “I know I should not have spoken so freely . . . ”
“No, no my dear. You were quite right. How dare any man make such an overture? He shames the peerage. It was just lucky that Sir Charles was with you.”
“Yes, it was.” Mary smiled at the thought of Charles. He had been wonderful. And then afterward . . .
Mistress Parry slapped her leg with a chuckle. “There’s my girl. The twinkle’s back in your eye.” Mistress Parry’s smile softened, and she laid a hand over Mary’s. “Now, the more serious matter is that you accused him of murder.”
“Yes, but . . . ”
“Hush a moment and listen.” Blanche fixed Mary with a stern gaze. Mary settled back in her seat and waited. “When you accused Oxford of murder, you not only brought to light gossip long dead about him, you opened the door for speculation about your past behavior.” Blanche paused, allowing the implications to sink in. “Oxford accused you of being young Thomas’s lover, and you did not deny it. There was enough information available for some diligent courtiers to discover that you were disowned by your family a year ago . . . ” Blanche, seeing that Mary had fully understood her, let her voice trail off.
Mary did not even have the strength to argue her position. Goodness.
“So the way things stand, you are quite ruined.”
“I do not understand why they would care.” Mary muttered more to herself than Mistress Parry. “I am nobody.”
“Which is precisely why they can treat you this way. If a higher ranking lady had behaved as you had, she would have been married off long ago, her family would have exerted their influence, and the gossip would have disappeared. But you, as you put it, are nobody, and so you are an excellent choice as a victim of their spite, for there is no incentive for them not to be cruel.”
“What do I do now? Do I leave court?” Mary swallowed against the growing panic in her chest. The thought of leaving now, before she had a chance to discover the feelings behind the magic that she shared with Charles. And what would Charles think? Would he believe she was a murderess? He hadn’t questioned her about Oxford’s slur about Thomas, but was her past something that could affect his feelings for her?
Mistress Parry rose, looking at Mary expectantly. Mary stood with a reverance, and then followed in Mistress Parry’s wake. Their small parade crossed the hall, gossiping voices lowered to whispers in Mistress Parry’s presence, but the accusing stares remained. As they left the building into the gallery that connected it to the palace proper, Mistress Parry whispered through her courtly smile, “For now you do nothing but continue as if you were blameless. If you run and hide, they win. See out the twelve nights. Continue to enjoy yourself, but be prepared to be snubbed.”
• • •
Mary’s chamber felt different. The only physical trace of last night’s travesty was that the braided rush mat had been replaced. At least she could no longer smell the blood. Mary sat down on her bed and kicked off her slippers. Today had been a trial in perseverance. With any luck, Mistress Parry and Lady Oxford’s continued support would help convince the other courtiers that Mary was innocent of wrongdoing. Of course, all that Lady Oxford had done was not send Mary packing, but that was a statement in itself.
Standing up, Mary began to unhook the back of her gown. She prayed that she would be able to sleep. She’d had two nights of revelry and the shock of finding Oxford almost dead in her room. She needed the rest. Even more than that, she did not want to think about what tomorrow might bring.
Mary’s musings were interrupted by sharp clacking sounds at the window. Irritated, she crossed the room to open the shutters, ready to give whoever it was a piece of her mind. With a start of surprise, Mary recognized Girard in the courtyard below. Wrapped in what looked like a horse blanket, Girard beckoned her frantically, then disappeared into one of the archways leading toward the tiltyard. How odd.
Without a second thought, Mary refastened her gown, found her cloak and gloves, and ran from the room. She hoped everything was well with Girard—it was not like him to be so secretive. Perhaps this was some
sort of game to distract her from her worries. Ignoring the whispers as she scuttled through the corridors and down the stairs of the palace, she smiled to herself, thankful that she had a friend like Girard to commiserate with.
“Mary!” Girard’s whisper beckoned her. He was crouched behind a frost-shrouded stack of straw.
“Girard, what is going on? Why not simply see me in the Oxford apartments?” He looked terrible and was still wearing the flamboyant suit he had worn to the previous night’s festivities. Girard must have been a bad boy.
“Thank God you are all right, Mary.” He did not look well for a man who had spent the last night doing whatever it was he did. Perhaps he’d had too much wine. “I had to see you, to see that you were all right.” He reached out an elegant hand to sweetly stroke Mary’s cheek. He must be mad to be out in the cold without gloves.
Mary smiled at the gesture. He had been such a dear friend—always willing to listen whenever Mary was frustrated. He understood the bizarre dynamic between Mary and Anne—he understood her loyalty and confusion.
“I couldn’t come to see you. Things are so terrible now with the Oxfords and the court.”
Mary was hurt. “You don’t think I did it, do you?”
“No! Certainly not! I know you better than that. And you wouldn’t be so foolish as to do it in your own chamber and then not finish the job.”
Mary laughed. “You’re the second person who has said that. Do I look like I would be so competent a murderess, then?”
“You look like you would be skilled at anything you attempted.” Girard laughed softly, his eyes serious and something else. Sadness? No, that was not Girard.
Mary laughed through her shivering. “Then I’ll thank you for the compliment.” For a moment, the two were just old friends and Girard seemed himself again. But it was only for a moment; then the icy wind reminded them of their surroundings and Mary remembered that she was a ruined woman. With a sigh, she turned to him, “Why am I here, Girard?”
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