Wicked, Sinful Nights

by Julia Latham

  Was that what his investigation was coming to—his desperation to find someone other than Sarah to blame? But nay, he was, one by one, crossing people off his list of suspects. Logically, Ramsey was next in line.

  From the hearth, Robert watched as the party entered the keep. Ramsey was in the lead, dressed in practical traveling garments that in no way displayed that he was a knight with wealth. He had light brown hair that fell straight, almost to his shoulders. He was younger than Robert had imagined, with perhaps thirty years, tall and lean, with an athletic walk that suggested he knew the tiltyard well.

  His wife, Caroline, Lady Ramsey, gave a cherubic smile when she saw Francis. She was blond and femininely plump, dressed with a simple elegance that hinted at wealth, yet was still practical enough for a journey. Robert had heard from the steward that the Ramseys had no children as of yet, although they’d been married for at least five years.

  Both the Ramseys greeted several servants by name, which was impressive. But then again, Ramsey had been as close to Drayton as a younger brother. Then he approached Francis and went down on one knee to hug him. They were cousins, after all, and Francis was smiling happily. Whatever Ramsey said next caused Francis’s smile to slowly die, and the little boy only nodded. A reference to his dead father, perhaps? Surely the man wouldn’t mention the murder investigation to a five-year-old.

  Sarah stood beside Francis, listening solemnly to Ramsey, then put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Francis looked up at her, biting his lip even as he nodded and went off to play with several children.

  Robert approached Sarah and Ramsey. She glanced at him casually, then with more awareness. Ramsey followed her gaze.

  Robert bowed when he reached them. “Sir Anthony, I am Sir Robert Burcot.” He’d long since gotten used to calling himself by any last name and thinking nothing of it. After all, his real name had been, necessarily, a secret his whole life.

  “Sir Robert, lately of the king,” Ramsey said, his expression solemn. “Sarah wrote to inform us of your investigation.”

  His wife came to stand at his side, her pleasant smile fading.

  “’Tis a sad day to learn that one’s cousin died because of someone’s foul deeds,” Ramsey continued. “May I speak with you about the investigation after supper?”

  “Of course, sir,” Robert said. “I will await you.”

  “How is young Francis?” Ramsey turned to Sarah, his gaze softening as he spoke of his ward.

  “Better, Sir Anthony,” she responded. “The first few weeks were difficult, but he’s begun to return to his old talkativeness.”

  “Such an intelligent boy for one so young!” Lady Ramsey said.

  “And thanks to Sir Robert,” Sarah continued, “he’s become better at riding, so I’ve told him he will be able to choose his own pony.”

  “Sir Robert?” Ramsey asked, glancing at him in surprise. “You spare time from your duties to the king for a young lad?”

  Robert allowed himself a shrug. “I cannot question people all day long, sir.”

  Ramsey watched him a moment longer, a smile lingering on his mouth. “My thanks for your attention to him, since I could not be here.”

  But now I am, seemed to be the unspoken thought.

  Ramsey glanced back at Sarah. “Glad I am to hear about the pony. Might I attend you when he chooses one?”

  “Of course, Sir Anthony,” she said, smiling.

  Robert recognized her hesitation, her curiosity. Was it unusual for Ramsey to pay attention to the boy? The man turned to speak to his own servants, giving orders as to where their baggage was to be taken.

  “Lady Ramsey,” Sarah said, “allow me to send for Emma, the lady’s maid whose services you approved of the last time you visited.”

  Lady Ramsey smiled. “How thoughtful of you, Mistress Sarah. She can accompany us to our chambers.”

  “Sarah,” Ramsey said, “a missive came to us, meant for you. Baker, where did you put it?”

  Robert watched Sarah’s frown as she stared at the sealed parchment the servant handed to her. Without reading it, she tucked it within the girdle belted at her waist. He found himself wondering how often she received correspondence.

  He did not know everything he should about Sarah Audley. Was it professional curiosity on his part, or the beginnings of an obsession?

  Sarah returned to her bedchamber to change her gown, which must surely smell of cows after Francis’s adventure in the dairy shed. She was still shaky at how easily such a little boy could have been hurt. Of course, there were so many simple ways for that to happen, from a fall down the stairs—to a cow trampling him. She could not protect him from everything; she simply wished she could.

  As she began to remove her girdle, the missive fluttered to the floor. Bending to pick it up, she broke the seal and glanced at the signature first. It was from Mistress Maud, the healer who’d taught her art to Sarah as she was growing up.

  Sarah sank down on the edge of her bed, feeling her heart lighten. The old woman’s cheerful missives came infrequently, but they always reminded her of the happy times spent at Maud’s table, grinding dried herbs as the healer spoke of the intricacies of her craft. Maud had helped her recover from her mother’s death, taught her what to do to encourage her father to eat so that he could become part of the living again.

  Even though her father had since died, she smiled as she began to read the missive, but the smile soon faded. Maud wanted Sarah to know that two strangers had come asking about her, as well as Andrew Audley’s death. Maud revealed nothing to these men, and she assured Sarah that no one in the village even knew of the rumors. For this was Sarah’s home, not the seat of her husband’s family, where surely the strangers had already thought to investigate. And they’d probably heard the worst, for the Audleys believed the worst.

  These men had to be part of the king’s investigation. Who else would care enough to look into her past? And Robert, who said Walter answered to him, must know all about it.

  She covered her face, feeling so tired. She was trapped, unable to go to anyone else for help, because she truly was a suspect. Though the people of Drayton had become her friends, they’d only known her for two years. They would rather see her take the blame for a murder than one of their own. It would make sense to them.

  All she had was Robert. She had to keep seducing him to her side, convincing him of her innocence.

  Seducing, she thought, dropping her hands into her lap. It was a word she hadn’t meant to use.

  But had it really come to that?

  Chapter 16

  Robert ate supper at the head table and tried to remain quiet as he listened to the Ramseys. Both of them made much of Francis, asking him questions about his studies and the sort of pony he hoped to choose. They seemed to be kindhearted people, but Robert felt that Ramsey himself was a shrewd, intelligent man who would know exactly how to keep from being perceived as suspicious.

  After the meal, when the trestle tables were being taken down, and minstrels were warming up at the far end of the hall, Ramsey approached Robert.

  “Do you have time to speak, Sir Robert?”

  “Of course I do, sir. I assumed you would have many questions.”

  “I understand you have a partner here? Might we speak with him as well?”

  Robert motioned for Walter, who hadn’t gone far. Robert made the introductions, then called for tankards of ale for the three of them. They went to stand away from the others, near an immense, colorful tapestry depicting a hunt from several hundred years ago.

  Ramsey eyed them both. “So tell me how this all began.”

  Robert told the tale of Drayton’s symptoms being linked to arsenic poisoning, the king’s concern, and the assignment he had granted them both.

  “And I assume you have done such service for the king in the past,” Ramsey said.

  “Aye,” Walter said, while Robert nodded.

  Robert wondered about Walter’s past, and how many years he’d wo
rked for the League. ’Twas a shame he could never hear the man’s stories.

  “And you were successful?” Ramsey pressed.

  Walter nodded. “I am confident that Sir Robert and I will succeed in discovering the truth.”

  Ramsey looked between them with curiosity. “And what have you discovered so far?”

  “We cannot compromise our investigation by speaking of it, sir,” Robert smoothly said.

  “This is my cousin we’re discussing, Sir Robert. I would not reveal your information to anyone.”

  “I am sorry, but I cannot relent,” he said.

  Ramsey looked surprised, frustrated, but not exactly angry. “I accept your terms, although I cannot say I agree with them. Can you explain your methods to me?”

  “I do not mean to make this sound simple, but we ask questions,” Robert said. “People tell us things. We discover what happened in the past, and then we piece the details together. I would like you to participate, sir. Can you spare the time to speak with me tomorrow?”

  Ramsey’s lips quirked in a half smile. “I guess I expected you to question me.”

  “We question everyone,” Walter said in his impassive way.

  “Of course I will make myself available for as long as you need me. Drayton was my cousin, and the crime perpetrated against him touches my entire family.”

  “You have my thanks, Sir Anthony,” Robert said formally.

  “If you will excuse me,” Ramsey said, bowing as he took his leave.

  Robert watched him head toward Sarah, then said to Walter, “He didn’t obtain the information he wanted from us. I imagine he’s going to see what she can tell him.”

  “I do not blame him. He is the young lord’s guardian, and is responsible for Drayton Hall and all of its people.”

  “I can think of another reason for his behavior,” Robert said dryly.

  Walter only arched an eyebrow, as if Robert’s theories weren’t worth discussing.

  Sarah had tried not to watch the three men in deep discussion in a corner of the hall, but she could not help herself. She was playing chess with Francis, and when he was thinking out his move with adorable concentration, she had time to let her thoughts wander to the conversation she wished she could hear. Lady Ramsey had been a minor distraction, asking about the new loom in the weaving chamber and many other domestic things that seemed superfluous compared to the undertone of murder that lingered in the castle. But if Lady Ramsey wanted to lighten the mood, she was all for it.

  At last Sir Anthony left Robert and Walter, heading straight for her. Sarah stiffened and made a foolish move with her queen that had Francis howling in triumph.

  “I win!” he cried.

  Sir Anthony had reached them by this time, and he smiled indulgently at the boy. “Francis, will you try to teach Lady Ramsey the game? She says I confuse her too much.”

  The woman gave her husband a fond nod before saying to Francis, “I am truly terrible at chess. Perhaps you can help me.”

  “Mistress Sarah is not trying very hard anyway,” Francis said. “You can talk to Sir Anthony, mistress.”

  She grinned at his perceptiveness. “Thank you, my lord.” Turning her attention to Sir Anthony, she said, “You have need of me, sir?”

  He lowered his voice. “What is your opinion of the king’s men?”

  “They seem fair, and do not make quick judgments—or if they do, they do not betray their thoughts.”

  “They tell me they question everyone, probably so that I will not mind their questions on the morrow,” he said ruefully.

  “They do question everyone, sir, so please be not offended.”

  “I’m not,” he said with a sigh. “I am simply still in shock, from the moment I received your missive. To think that Drayton was deliberately killed in so cowardly a fashion.”

  She nodded with sympathy.

  “And we all thought it was the black death,” he said, then glanced at her. “Including you.”

  “Aye, Sir Anthony, I can make no excuse for myself. I have never been confronted with arsenic poisoning, and in my limited knowledge, the symptoms were not clear to me.”

  “I do not blame you.”

  But she blamed herself.

  “How is the mood of the household?” he continued.

  “Wary, of course. Suspicious, yet I have not seen people treating each other badly. ’Tis as if all have silently agreed to await an announcement.”

  “As if they don’t believe this investigation could touch them.”

  She glanced up at him in surprise. “True, sir.”

  For a time, Sir Anthony watched Francis trying to teach Lady Ramsey how to play chess. Sarah remained nearby, knowing it would soon be time for the little boy to retire for the night. But for a while, he could have the triumph that the kind Lady Ramsey was offering him.

  Robert had gone to sit with Master Frobisher, and soon the two of them were deep in conversation, as well as deep in their cups. Sarah took Francis to bed and then returned, only to find the two men still together.

  Master Frobisher, never one to hold his ale, became more boisterous, and at last Robert helped the man to stand and took his arm around his shoulders.

  Sarah took several steps toward them to offer assistance, but then Walter moved in front of her. She hadn’t even known he was nearby, stumbling to a halt before she collided with him.

  “Mistress Sarah, Sir Robert has the situation under control.”

  She stared up at him in surprise. Walter had always maintained a quiet, solid presence, but now, for the first time, she thought he seemed a little…threatening.

  Did he think she wanted to interfere for her own dark purpose?

  She felt a little angry and a little frightened, but she backed down. “Of course, Sir Walter. I did not think otherwise.”

  The steward’s bedchamber was already lit with several candles by the time Robert dragged Frobisher across the threshold. The farther they’d walked, the less Frobisher seemed to be able to support himself.

  The steward sank into a chair near the bed with a heavy sigh. “My thanks for your assistance, Sir Robert.”

  “Any time,” he answered, taking a stool opposite him. “I imagine you would not want to appear inebriated in front of Sir Anthony.”

  Frobisher’s shoulders slumped. “That would not do. Must…keep up my dignity.”

  Robert had spent the evening questioning the steward about other members of the household. He was a genial, good-tempered man who enjoyed his position and the authority that went with it. Robert had not heard one reason the last several days why Frobisher could have wanted Drayton dead.

  “Your dignity is intact,” Robert said, smiling.

  “I don’t normally do this,” Frobisher said, his words slightly slurred as he pierced Robert with his gaze.

  “I didn’t think you did.”

  “’Tis just that…everything is different now that his lordship is dead.”

  Robert nodded, hoping his silence encouraged him to keep talking.

  “Not that his young lordship is difficult, but I don’t answer to him yet.”

  “You answer to Sir Anthony. And is that terrible?”

  “Nay, he has not intruded on the management of the estate in any way.” He put his hands between his knees and hiccupped forlornly. “But he has his own steward. What if he decides he doesn’t need me?”

  “But how could his steward even find the time to add all of the Drayton properties to his own duties? ’Twould seem far easier to keep you on, considering you are being paid out of Drayton coffers, not Ramsey’s.”

  Frobisher seemed to perk up. “I had not thought of that.”

  “He has not complained; therefore he must appreciate the work you’re doing.”

  “Oh, Sir Robert, glad I am to have talked to you this night.” Then his smile faded. “But I spoke too much before.”

  Robert felt his every sense heighten.

  “I was childish.”

  �
��In what way?” Robert asked.

  He looked down at his feet, rubbing patterns in the carpet. “It has been difficult for me, the way the household took to Mistress Sarah. She works diligently and cheerfully, and she does not deserve”—he lowered his voice—“my jealousy.”

  “There is no reason to be jealous. I can see how respected you are.”

  “My thanks, but it does not excuse that my jealousy might have made you and Sir Walter think…worse of her. For there is no reason, I assure you!” he added with conviction.

  Robert smiled and rose to his feet. “Thank you for clarifying your feelings, Master Frobisher. I do not think worse of Mistress Sarah.”

  “I can tell.” The steward slowly tilted sideways until he landed part way on his bed. “Need a little…help here.”

  Robert lifted the man’s legs off the floor until he could roll completely onto the bed. The steward made no other sound except a snore, and Robert left his bedchamber, satisfied with what he’d learned.

  When the castle had quieted, Robert moved soundlessly down the corridor outside the viscount’s suite, then slipped into Sarah’s chambers. A candle still burned at her bedside table. She lay propped on cushions, asleep, the newly arrived missive in her lap. But his curiosity over that meant little at the moment. Her wild mane of curls was down around her shoulders, a brush nearby as if she hadn’t finished taking care of it. Her nightdress was long sleeved and high necked as befitted a nursemaid, but it was fine enough that it hugged her curves and let him imagine the duskiness of her nipples through the cloth.

  He stood over her for a long moment, drinking in the sight of her, the freckles across her pert nose, her softly parted lips. And then she opened her eyes.

  He tensed, ready to cover her mouth if she tried to scream, but she only widened her eyes.

  “Robert? Is something wrong?” She sat up, and the missive fell to the floor, but she ignored it.

  “Nay.” He cleared his throat, for his voice sounded raspy in his own ears. “I simply brought something to show you.” He pulled a large roll of parchments from the satchel over his shoulder.