The Silver Rose

by Jane Feather

  “For my part, Your Majesty, I would be honored to agree to your proposal.” Simon spoke in his melodious voice, a ripple of amusement running beneath the smooth words. “Since I am compelled to retire from the battlefield, I could do much worse than take a wife and tend to my lands.” He nodded across the table at Ranulf, the ironical smile still in his eyes. “And I am more than prepared to resolve an old quarrel so evenhandedly.”

  Ranulf’s dark eyes were unreadable. He was convinced that only death would end Simon Hawkesmoor’s hatred and need for vengeance, as it would end his own. The land was nothing. The blood and dishonor were everything. So what lay behind this cool acquiescence to the impossible?

  “I would discuss this in greater detail with Lord Hawkesmoor, madam,” he said neutrally.

  “Very well.” Her Majesty sounded displeased. “I trust you will soon put matters in hand for the wedding. I would gift the bride with some trifle.” She drank again. “And now to other matters. Lord Godolphin . . .?” She gestured to her chief minister.

  Half an hour later the men rose, bowing low as the queen tottered painfully from the chamber. The minute she was gone, Ranulf’s chair scraped angrily on the oak boards as he thrust it aside and stalked from the room without so much as a glance in the direction of Simon Hawkesmoor, who calmly sat down again, remaining in his chair until the council chamber was empty.

  “I trust our enterprise went well, my lord.” The tapestry curtain behind the throne chair was pushed aside to admit a tall red-haired woman in a gown of scarlet silk.

  “So far so good, Sarah.” Simon reached for the ivory-topped cane beside his chair and with its help rose to his feet again, offering the duchess of Marlborough a courteous bow. “But I think a little more pressure on the queen may be necessary. Ravenspeare may need a hint of coercion.”

  The duchess came over to him. “My husband was most insistent that I do everything to help you, Simon.” She leaned against the edge of the table, her green eyes curious. “Do you play some deep game?”

  The earl of Hawkesmoor laughed softly. “Deep enough, my dear ma’am.”

  “John says he stands much in your debt.”

  The earl shrugged. “No more than one man on a battlefield stands in the debt of his neighbor.”

  “You saved his life, then?”

  Another shrug. “As he saved mine on many an occasion.”

  “You are modest, sir. But I know when my husband feels an extraordinary debt.” She stood upright. “My influence over the queen remains firm, despite . . .” Her lips tightened. “Despite Mrs. Masham’s attempts to supplant me. Have no fear. The queen will offer such inducements . . . or threats . . . that will persuade the earl of Ravenspeare to agree to the marriage.”

  “I don’t doubt your influence, Sarah.” Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips. “And don’t you ever doubt your husband’s love.” He smiled. “A message I was charged to deliver personally.”

  The duchess’s responding smile lit up her pale face. “I could wish you were returning to his side to deliver my answer personally. For I own I miss him most dreadfully.” She added with a deep sigh, “It’s hard for a woman in her prime to be without the . . . the pleasures and satisfactions of marriage.”

  Most women, when deprived of their husband’s attentions, sought satisfaction in other arms. Not so the duchess of Marlborough. She sublimated physical passion in wielding control over her sovereign, whom she had dominated since she was maid of honor to Princess Anne at the court of Charles II.

  Simon kissed her hand again, a graceful gesture that should have sat oddly with the overwhelming physicality of his presence, accentuated by the plain, uncompromising dress and the lines of an old suffering etched into his face. And yet it didn’t. His eyes, blue and deep as the ocean, were filled with both understanding and humor.

  “Your husband will be home before Christmas, Sarah. And homecomings are all the sweeter for long anticipation.”

  She laughed with him, a flare of passion in her eyes. “If I were inclined to spread my favors, my lord, I swear you would be the first recipient.” She curtsied with another laugh and glided from the room.

  The humor left his eyes the minute he was alone. Leaning heavily on his cane, he limped to the door. Would Ranulf take the bait?

  “Can we turn this to good use, Ranulf?” Lord Roland Ravenspeare held up a hand to halt his elder brother’s explosive description of the events in the council chamber.

  “You can be certain Hawkesmoor is playing his own game.” Ranulf poured wine into two crystal goblets. “If we knew what it was, we could play to his serve.”

  Roland took the glass handed him with a nod of thanks. He had the cooler head of the two brothers, although he was castigated as a dull plodder in a family of lightning-tempered, impulsive, quick thinkers. “If you wish to keep your power and influence at court, we have little choice but to agree to the queen’s proposal,” he said slowly. “As long as Ariel can be induced—”

  “Ariel will do as she’s told.”

  Roland held up a placating hand at this interruption. He had less confidence than his brother in the compliance of their little sister, but nothing would be gained by mentioning that now.

  “Ariel married to Simon Hawkesmoor could be turned to our advantage,” he continued reflectively. “It could be arranged that the Hawkesmoor predeceases his wife, and the land will return to Ravenspeare hands beyond all possible dispute. In addition,” he added with a little smile, “a little amusement could be arranged at the Hawkesmoor’s expense . . . before, of course, he so unfortunately meets his untimely end.”

  He had his brother’s full attention. “Explain.”

  The Lady Ariel Ravenspeare galloped her horse across the flat, marshy fenland, the massive octagonal tower of Ely Cathedral—known throughout the land as the Ship of the Fens—stark against the gray autumn sky behind her, the spires of Cambridge fingering the sky in front of her. The wolf hounds streaked ahead of the horse, enjoying the exercise as much as the work of the hunt Ariel had brought down a snipe with her pistol, and the two hounds raced each other and the horse to reach the bird first.

  Ariel let her horse have its head. Bird hunting was tame sport for wolfhounds, but Romulus and Remus needed a daily full-out sprint with some purpose to it, even if it was only racing against a young stallion in order to mark a fallen snipe. Not that this was any ordinary stallion. Mustapha was bred from the line of a great racehorse, the Darley Arabian, and was the pride of Ariel’s stud.

  She saw the troop of horsemen against the lowering skyline as she reined in her horse. Her brothers were immediately recognizable on the causeway leading across the fens to Ravenspeare Castle. Ariel muttered under her breath. She turned in the saddle to look over her shoulder, then put her fingers to her mouth and blew a piercing whistle. Her groom was a distant figure on his sturdy mount, but at least he was visible, and in response to the urgent whistle he put his horse to a canter.

  Ariel snapped her fingers, bringing the dogs to the flanks of her horse, then she nudged her mount toward the party on the causeway.

  They had drawn rein and were waiting for her, hunched in their caped riding cloaks against the biting wind blowing from the River Ouse across the flat fens.

  “I give you good day, my brothers.” Ariel drew rein on the far side of a dike that ran beside the causeway. “You’re returning early from London. I didn’t expect you before Christmas.”

  “We have business that concerns you.” Ranulf scrutinized his sister, who smiled serenely from beneath her tricorn hat. “Where’s your groom, Ariel?”

  “Within sight,” she responded. “Always within sight, sir.”

  “He’s just coming.” Roland gestured with his whip to where the elderly groom approached.

  Ranulf grunted. He didn’t believe that Edgar had kept his mistress within sight all afternoon. The stallion and the wolfhounds, given their head, would have outstripped the groom’s cob within minutes. And it was inconcei
vable to imagine that Ariel had not given the beasts free rein. But the groom was here and Ariel was still smiling, a picture of innocence, her gray, almond-shaped eyes as clear and cloudless as a fresh-washed dawn sky.

  “Come.” He nudged his horse forward. Ariel jumped Mustapha over the dike and fell in beside him, the dogs trotting placidly on the stallion’s flanks, tongues lolling.

  “Ralph will be pleased to see you,” Ariel remarked. “He’s been spending a deal of time in Harwich. Difficulties with the shipyards.”

  “What kind of difficulties?”

  “He wouldn’t confide in me, brother. Ralph doesn’t believe that women could or should have opinions on business matters,” she said sweetly.

  Ranulf made no comment. Privately he considered his youngest brother a fool. Ariel was as quick and knowledgeable as any of them when it came to estate matters or the family shipyards. But fraternal solidarity wouldn’t permit him to criticize a brother in front of their younger sister.

  The gray mass of Ravenspeare Castle rose from the flatlands, towers and buttresses blending with the low clouds, its parapets hanging over the broad river that wound its way through the fens to the Atlantic Ocean.

  The party of riders clattered over a drawbridge, now more ornamental than defensive, and into the inner court. Once it had been a gloomy spot with high, moss-covered walls and ground perpetually damp from the oozing wetlands, and even now, with a lush green lawn surrounded by a gravel path to provide a garden atmosphere, and the castle windows glassed and sparkling, it retained some of its past menace. The creepers that covered the forbidding walls did little to soften the effect of the numerous arrow slits.

  They dismounted and Ranulf said brusquely to his sister, “I would discuss this business that concerns you immediately.”

  Ariel felt the first flicker of apprehension. Only something of far-reaching importance would have brought her brother back from court before his appointed time. She didn’t trust any of her brothers, Ranulf least of all. He was utterly ruthless when his own interests were at stake, and if she was somehow bound up in those interests, then she could be facing trouble.

  None of this showed in her face, however, as she handed her horse to Edgar and followed her brothers into the castle, the wolfhounds at her heels. They were like small ponies, their heads on a level with her waist, and they went nowhere without her, as their mistress went nowhere without them.

  Two fires burned in massive fireplaces at either end of the Great Hall, but it did little to take the damp chill off the air in the cavernous vaulted space. Ranulf, pulling off his gloves, led the way into a smaller room, where the stone walls were covered with wood paneling, tapestries atop that, and the roaring fire had a chance against the raw damp of the fens.

  “Bring mulled wine,” Ranulf threw at the footman who had followed them into the room and now stood bowing in the doorway. The earl tossed his gloves and whip on a chair and bent to warm his hands at the fire. Roland joined him and they stood side by side in silence.

  Ariel kept her gloves on, since it seemed she was to be excluded from the fire. But she was accustomed to her brothers’ lack of chivalry. “What is this business, Ranulf?”

  “Why, you are to have a bridegroom, my dear little sister.”

  Ranulf spoke without turning from the fire. Ariel felt a cold shudder along her spine. “Oliver, you mean?”

  A sharp crack of scornful laughter greeted this. “Oliver is very well as a lover, my dear, but he’ll not make you a husband.”

  The dogs, who’d been sitting quietly at their mistress’s feet, rose with lifted hackles as they sensed her bewildered apprehension.

  She quietened them with a hand on their heads. “And who is this husband to be?” Her voice was perfectly steady; she had long ago learned to show neither weakness nor dismay with her brothers.

  “Why, our neighbor, the earl of Hawkesmoor, of course.” Both brothers began to laugh, and the harsh, unmirthful sound was as raw as an open sore.

  “You would ally me with a Hawkesmoor?” Ariel said in disbelief. “Our blood enemy?”

  “At the queen’s behest, my dear.” Ranulf turned then and she saw the malicious glitter in his eyes, the sardonic quirk of his mouth. “Her Majesty has hit upon a solution to this little land dispute we have. The land will form part of your dowry.”

  “And all will be sweetness and light between the warring factions and in the queen’s council chamber,” Roland put in with his brother’s sardonic grin.

  Ariel shook her head. “No,” she said. “I will not wed an accursed Hawkesmoor, even at the queen’s behest. You cannot ask it of me.”

  “Oh, I do not ask,” Ranulf said, taking a tankard of mulled wine from the tray that the returning footman presented. “And you will wed an accursed Hawkesmoor, my dear Ariel. For you will be the instrument of Ravenspeare vengeance.”

  He drank deeply and laughed again.

  Chapter Two

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND.” Ariel’s hands shook slightly as she drew off her gloves before taking a tankard of the hot spiced wine. She warmed her hands around the tankard, inhaled the scent of cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg curling in steam from its contents. She knew she must appear untroubled, no more than mildly curious. Her brothers all shared a streak of cruelty that fed on the fear and vulnerability of those in their power. And Lady Ariel Ravenspeare had never been in any doubt that Ravenspeare men controlled her existence. After her father’s death, control had passed to Ranulf, ably abetted by his two younger brothers.

  “It’s simple enough, my dear girl. You will wed Simon Hawkesmoor. But have no fear, you will be wife only in name.”

  Ariel sipped her wine, hoping that it would still the tremors deep in her belly that were making her feel weak and shaky. “How could that be? I still don’t understand.”

  “What don’t you understand, bud?” The voice was heavy with cynicism. She whirled toward the door that had opened so silently. Oliver Becket, Ranulf’s oldest and closest friend, lounged against the door frame, his eyes hooded, his thin, sensual lips curved in a smile that was strangely unsettling.

  “I thought you were in Cambridge,” Ariel said, unable to help her own responding smile despite her dismay.

  “I heard that the Ravenspeare brothers were returned betimes from London, so came posthaste to hear the news.” Oliver chuckled lazily and pushed himself away from the door. He crossed to Ariel, caught her chin on a cupped palm, and kissed her mouth. “Not to mention my need to see you, my bud. I find two days to be an insufferably long time without sight of you.”

  Ariel knew that the words meant nothing. She had no illusions about her lover’s sincerity—he was cut from the same cloth as her brothers—but it made no difference to the way her body responded to his presence. Oliver was a rake, untrustworthy and emotionally shallower than a birdbath, but his touch enflamed her, his lazy voice and sensual smile sent currents of lust jolting through her belly. He was charming and beautiful, and their liaison, so long as she didn’t allow herself to wish for or to expect more than he was capable of giving, was utterly delightful. It was also a relationship that pleased Ranulf.

  “Your arrival is timely, Oliver.” Ranulf flung a comradely arm over his friend’s shoulders. “Ariel is to be wed and we must prepare a proper reception for her bridegroom. Your inventive mind will surely come up with something suitably ingenious.”

  “Wed?” Oliver’s thin, arched eyebrows lifted as he glanced at Ariel. “My bud is to be wed?”

  “Aye,” Roland declared from the fire where he was sprawling in a carved wooden armchair, his booted feet on the andirons. “She’s to become the countess of Hawkesmoor, my dear Oliver.”

  Oliver whistled through his teeth. “Ariel, bring me a glass of that excellent cognac while I absorb this.”

  Ariel set down her tankard and went to the sideboard, where glasses and decanters were arrayed. Without saying anything, she filled a glass and brought it over to him. He took it with a nod, sipped, then
said, “So, explain how it should be that you would give a Ravenspeare woman to a Hawkesmoor.”

  “What’s that you say?” A slurred voice accompanied the entrance of the youngest Ravenspeare brother, Lord Ralph. His wig was slightly askew, his eyes unfocused, his linen spotted, his cuffs grimy.

  Ranulf wrinkled his nose fastidiously. “You reek of the barn, Ralph.”

  Ralph’s chuckle was lascivious. “Found a doxy in the dell,” he said. “Had quite a tumble in the hay.” He crossed to the sideboard and, with unsteady hand, filled a glass, catching the edge of the decanter against the crystal, setting it chiming. “So, what’s that you say about Hawkesmoor?”

  “Ariel is to wed Simon Hawkesmoor,” Roland informed him succinctly.

  Ralph dropped his glass and it rolled sideways on the sideboard. Amber liquid dripped to the Elizabethan tapestry carpet. “Good God! Just because I’m a trifle foxed . . . no reason to make mock of a man.”

  “Oh, we don’t,” Ranulf said. “It’s true. Queen Anne has commanded it.”

  Ralph was not exactly needle witted even when sober, and this piece of information puzzled him mightily. He pushed up his wig and scratched his shaven scalp, frowning fiercely. “The queen, you say?”

  His brothers didn’t bother to reply, and after a minute he swung his bemused, besotted gaze toward his sister, who was standing silent and motionless beside the table. “What’s Ariel got to say to this?”

  “Nothing of import,” Ranulf said brusquely. “She’ll do as she’s told.”

  Ralph nodded wisely at this, but he still peered at his little sister through narrowed eyes, as if he might find some answer in the still figure.

  “What did you mean about being a wife only in name?” Ariel finally spoke and her voice was flat, giving no indication of her inner turmoil.

  “Now, that’s an interesting twist,” declared Oliver, his gaze suddenly sharp. “How d’you expect to convince a Hawkesmoor to leave his bride’s bed inviolate?”