by Anna Castle
They’d been rowing southwest. Now the river took another sharp bend, turning them eastward. Another minute flowed by under the powerful strokes of the wherryman. Then he pointed his chin at the south bank. “There she is.”
Richmond Palace rose behind a sloping lawn — a compact city of white stone punctuated with slender towers topped with bulb-shaped domes. Each dome was crowned with a weather vane sporting the queen’s arms in gold and azure, glinting bravely in the bright sunshine. It looked like a fairy castle where all Tom’s wishes might be granted.
All except one, and that could never be.
Even so, his heart beat faster. Lady Alice Trumpington, known to a few close friends as Trumpet, was in there somewhere. Service buildings like the stables and kennels stretched out on the west side and orchards spread to the east. There must be some nook or arbor where they could meet in private. He’d see her soon, speak to her, hear her laugh. Maybe today, if he was lucky.
But tomorrow was good enough. Tomorrow was fine. No need to squander a portion of his luck to gain three-quarters of a day.
As the wherry pulled up to the long dock, Tom rose to his feet, not waiting for a full stop, and slung his lute case over his shoulder. One of the other men was getting out at Richmond too; a merchant, by his clothes. He grinned at Tom’s eagerness. “Have you ever stayed with the court on summer progress, Mr. Clarady?”
Tom shook his head, eyes still clapped on the scene before him. “First time.”
The man let Tom help him onto the dock. “Well, good luck to you. But watch your back.”
Kindly advice, well meant, but Tom didn’t need it. He knew how to handle himself. He waited on the dock while the wherryman and his boy handed his large chest to the waiting porters. They loaded it onto a small cart, then paused for directions.
“I’m going to the kennel office,” Tom told them. “Lead the way.”
He strode along the path a few feet behind the cart, trying not to goggle at everything he saw. But it was all so grand, so handsomely built of red brick and white stone — even the kitchens. That buttressed building with the arching windows must be the Great Hall, where Tom would have his supper tonight, along with England’s most important noblemen and women.
They crossed a bustling court redolent with the aromas of cooking meat and laundry soap, where persons of all classes strode to and fro. Tom squared his shoulders and added a touch of strut to his stride. His travel clothes were somber brown with ivory linings, as befit a man of the law, but he’d had his tailor fix the canions so he could fasten them a few inches higher on the thigh. In a place like this, a man had to make the most of his assets.
His efforts were rewarded by admiring glances from a trio of well-dressed ladies. He appreciated the warm looks. It had been a while since he’d spent time in the company of the fairer sex. He used to be something of a gallant, dressing bravely and haunting any place ladies could be found. The theater, London’s finest taverns . . . anything for a wink and a tickle.
But those days were behind him. Apart from his studies, he’d lost his heart for good; no matter that Trumpet would marry another man next week right here. No hope for it. She couldn’t marry him, though he’d suggested it once upon a time. But an earl’s daughter and the son of a privateer? Not even in a French romance.
He’d learn to live with it. He’d even agreed to serve wine to the lords on the dais at the wedding supper, though the thought of her nuptials made him grind his teeth. His snarl startled the trio of ladies until he caught himself and took a deep breath. He touched his hat as they walked by, a semblance of balance restored.
He followed the porters through another court filled with the unmistakable odor of horses. Stables on three sides must house over a hundred beasts, doubtless among the finest of their kind. The fourth side of the court appeared to be for people, not horses, judging by the windows downstairs as well as up. He heard barking from that direction and guessed the kennels ranged on the other side.
“Which building will you be lodging in, sir?” the porter asked.
“I don’t know,” Tom said. “You can leave that in the kennel master’s office for now.”
The man led him through another passage and stopped at a wide oak door flanked by diamond-paned windows, opened to admit the breeze. Tom heard a familiar nasal voice droning within.
He held up a hand to tell the porter to give him a minute while he readied himself for this meeting. He could see Stephen Delabere inside, lounging in an armed chair with his feet propped on something. He wore a tawny doublet with russet details, simply trimmed to fit the setting. Tawny was one of the queen’s favorite colors and happened to look well with Stephen’s dark blond hair and light brown eyes. He’d always had a keen sense of color.
Tom scanned the once-familiar features for signs of maturity or depth, something to show he’d changed enough to be worthy of the most fascinating woman in the world. He saw nothing but the same long nose, thin lips, and narrow chin; heard nothing but the same affected drawl.
Tom’s lips curled back at the sound, baring his teeth, just for a moment. He shot a glance at the porter, whose expression said he never saw anything, anywhere, at any time.
“Just leave it inside, if you will,” Tom said. “We’ll find someone to shift it later.”
At the sound of his voice, Stephen’s face turned toward the window. Time to step onto the stage.
Tom opened the door without knocking. As he made way for the porter, he noticed another man resting one hip on a second desk. He was also dressed as a courtier in dark green gabardine with white silk linings.
Tom flashed him a smile, then turned toward Stephen, setting his lute on the floor and sweeping off his hat. He extended a leg and lowered his forehead to his knee in a full court bow. “Lord Dorchester, I am here to serve you.” Stephen loved formal protocols and was wholly immune to irony.
Stephen had somehow been appointed Master of the Privy Buckhounds this summer and had granted Tom the position of Gentleman of the Privy Buckhounds. Tom had no idea what the post entailed, but he liked dogs and he longed to spend some time out of doors. He’d figure out the rest as they went along.
“Thomas Clarady! Here you are!” Stephen let him hold the pose for a second longer than necessary, then rose to embrace him with both arms.
They clapped each other on the back, genuinely glad in this moment to be reunited. They had spent their adolescence together, after all, inseparable for six whole years. They’d parted on less than friendly terms and now a major grievance lay between them, but the old offense was long past, and Stephen didn’t even know about the new one.
There was something special about a childhood friend. You might not like them, or respect them, or even trust them, but that didn’t seem to hinder the friendship on a practical level. The old familiarity lived on, regardless.
“How long has it been, old friend?” Stephen took a few steps back to look him up and down. “You look good. Older. Are you taller?”
“Thicker, I should think.” Tom chuckled, knowing he was in perfect condition. His guardian insisted he practice the arts of a gentleman on a weekly basis: fencing, dancing, boxing, and archery. He stood just under six feet, lean muscle with not an ounce of fat. Besides, his tailor would scold him if he gained an inch anywhere. “It’s been five years. You look well yourself. Your new position suits you, my lord.”
He did look well. One scant inch shorter than Tom, he was equally trim and he moved like a man who took regular exercise. But he definitely looked older. Twenty-three years weren’t enough to give a man wrinkles, but there was a tension along the clean-shaven jaw that hadn’t been there five years ago.
Stephen accepted the compliment with the same old smug smile, however. He soaked up praise like a hunk of fresh bread in a bowl of gravy. Now he flicked his fingers at a boy cooling his heels in the corner. The boy bowed and scurried out the door. A message going somewhere, presumably. Then Stephen gestured at the fellow in green. “Thi
s is one of my Dorset gentlemen, Arthur Grenville. His family has estates near Charmouth.”
“I know the place.” Tom extended a hand.
“How do you know my lord of Dorchester?” Grenville asked. He had a short beard and reddish-brown hair hanging in ringlets that looked like they’d been curled with a hot iron. A man with nothing to do all morning but let his servant dress him.
Stephen answered, “Tom and I go way back. My father owed his father some money, and he settled the debt by bringing to Tom to live with us as my companion. We’re the same age, almost. We had some adventures, didn’t we?”
“Indeed we did, my lord.”
They traded a few favorite memories, most of which involved wenches or horses or stealing something from an orchard.
Grenville laughed whenever Stephen did. “You’re joining us in mid-progress,” he told Tom, flapping a limp hand. “You missed all the fun at Theobalds and Greenwich.”
“Trinity term just ended,” Tom said. “I’m studying the law at Gray’s Inn.”
“Still grinding away at those boring old books,” Stephen said, wrinkling his pointed nose. “Three months was more than I could take. I never would have guessed you’d stick to it.”
“It’s what my father wanted. I’ll pass the bar in three more years.”
Stephen shuddered. “If you must, you must, I suppose. How is your father anyway? Chasing ships across the Spanish Main?” To Grenville, he added, “Tom’s father is a privateer.”
“Really?” Grenville’s mouth pursed as if he’d taken a bite of something not quite edible but wasn’t sure whether it would be impolite to spit it out. A privateer was not a gentleman, however wealthy he might become.
Tom had long since grown tired of explaining the winding path he’d taken to become a member of Gray’s Inn, that prestigious society of legal gentlemen. “Alas, my father died in an explosion in ’88, after the battle with the Spanish Armada.”
“Oh, I am sorry.” Stephen’s face fell. “I know how much you loved him.”
“He’s a hero, then,” Grenville said, mirroring his master’s somber expression. “Whatever his profession. He died for England and our queen.”
“That he did.” Tom missed his father every day, but the years had transformed the bitterness of the loss into sweet memories. “You lost your father too, my lord, only a few months ago. That must be hard, though I know you didn’t always . . . His Lordship wasn’t the easiest . . .” He faltered. He should have worked out a eulogy in advance. The late Lord Dorchester had been the hard, unbending sort of Puritan who loved his creed more than his family.
Stephen snorted, never one for the subtleties. “No, he wasn’t, was he? But we reached an accord of sorts this past year. Once my marriage was contracted, he was forced to recognize I had become a man, to be treated with a modicum of respect.”
“More than a modicum, my lord,” Grenville murmured, winning a smirk from Stephen.
“I’m glad,” Tom said. “It was high time he let you take the reins into your hands. But doesn’t your mother want you at home to support her in her time of grief?”
“Mother is only the dowager countess now. She doesn’t rule me anymore. She’ll be moving into the gatehouse as soon as I bring Alice home.”
“Who’s Alice?” Tom asked a second before his wits caught up. He thought of Trumpet nearly every minute of every day, but rarely by her proper name.
“Lady Alice Trumpington, my bride to be. I thought your — guardian, is it? — mentioned that you’d met her while she was living in Blackfriars.”
“Oh, Lady Alice! Of course, of course. Short little thing.” Tom held out a measuring hand about three feet off the ground.
“Taller than that,” Stephen said, “and very pretty. You must remember her cousin Allen — one of our chums at Gray’s that year. They look quite a bit alike, actually.”
“Do they? I hadn’t noticed.” In point of fact, they were identical in every detail, Allen being Alice in boy’s clothing. “Then she must be the daughter of that earl —” Tom snapped his fingers. “Which one was it?”
“Orford.” Stephen’s tone cooled and his pointed chin lifted. “How did you end up with a guardian anyway? You must have been about twenty-one if your father died in ’88.”
“That’s a longish story,” Tom said, scratching his close-cut beard. “The short version is that my father’s estate included lands that were once part of a monastery and thus owe customary duties to the queen. Since I was under twenty-one — barely — they didn’t want me for those obsolete duties, so they made me a ward of the crown.”
Grenville waved both hands in dismay, fluttering the rich lace on his cuffs. “Oh, you poor man! You have my heartfelt sympathies. One of my cousins fell into that trap. It’s been ten years and he still hasn’t fought his way free.”
“What sort of trap?” Stephen asked, peeved. He hated it when others knew things he didn’t — a regular occurrence.
“It’s very obscure, my lord,” Tom assured him. “Wards of the court are assigned a guardian to manage their estates. That makes wardships a valuable commodity. Thanks to Mr. Bacon, Lady Russell got her bid in early. She happens to be his aunt. It’s not so bad, taking all in all. She’s a good manager. True, she takes a lion-sized bite out of my profits, but my mother lives as well as she ever did and I’m all right. Lady Russell gives me a pitifully small allowance, but she requires a good appearance, so my wardrobe hasn’t suffered.”
He spread his arms wide to show the truth of that assertion. His costume might be drab in color compared to the other men, but it was their equal in quality. The dark brown gabardine of his doublet and round hose was of the finest cloth, and the ivory linings were pure silk. His ruffs and cuffs were free of lace, but he didn’t like such frilly garnishes for everyday wear anymore.
Stephen pursed his thin lips to survey his costume from head to toe, then issued his ruling. “Duller than your old taste, but more fitting for an Inns of Court man.”
“Thank you, my lord. Lady Russell also tests my learning every Sunday at dinner. She’s a sharp old bird and she’s making me a better lawyer.” Tom shrugged. “Things could be worse.”
“I don’t see how,” Stephen drawled. “You would’ve hated that five years ago.”
“I’ve changed.”
“So have I,” Stephen answered, as if he’d been challenged. “But shouldn’t this sharp old bird return your lands to you, now that you’re twenty-three? I could put in a word for you, if you like.”
“Thank you again, my lord, but I’m not sure that would help.” Tom didn’t want Stephen to do him any favors. They were rivals, even if the enmity was all on his side. “It costs hundreds of pounds to sue for your liberty, whether you’re an earl or the son of a privateer. My main problem is that Lady Russell has the right of my marriage. She gets to propose matches for me. If I refuse one, I owe her another year of wardship.”
Grenville laughed. “Don’t be so finicky, man! Take the richest one and get yourself a pretty mistress on the side.” He swept back a lock of hair that kept falling across his eyes. That would drive Tom mad; he’d hack the thing off with his own knife.
“That’s my plan,” Stephen said. “Once my lady wife falls pregnant, she’ll grow too fat for fun and games. She’s a bit too maidenish anyway, if you gentlemen take my meaning.” He gave them a broad wink.
He and Grenville enjoyed a hearty laugh. A stiff smile froze on Tom’s lips while his brain exploded in a white fury. He had to turn full around and pretend to shift his lute case away from the door while his wits cooled. This kept happening to him. It was as though his skull had been mined with tiny charges of gunpowder, and every time the reality of Trumpet’s pending marriage to this festering idiot came home to him, one of them blew up.
He got his face under control and leaned back against the door frame, crossing one leg carelessly over the other. “Ladies must be treated delicately, I suppose.”
“Not all of them,�
�� Grenville said, mimicking Stephen’s wink. “I haven’t been lucky enough to win a fair maid yet, but I hear things. Oh yes, I hear things.”
Stephen laughed. “Mr. Grenville is the most shameless gossip I have ever met.”
That was saying something. Stephen had held that title himself at Gray’s, where there was so much less to gossip about.
“Speaking of which,” Stephen said, “how’s the Throckmorton campaign coming?”
“Not well, my lord,” Grenville answered. “She’s even colder than your lady. I’m on the brink of shifting my attentions to Mary Buckleigh. She’s prettier and easier to talk to.”
Stephen nodded. “She’s perfect for you, Arthur. She loves gossip, which is your favorite sport. No secret will be safe from the pair of you — except mine, I hope!”
Grenville laid a finger along the side of his nose. “Your secrets are always safe with me, my lord.” They grinned at each other like a pair of seasoned gamesters.
Tom suppressed his growing boredom and played along. “What secret is this?”
“Her name’s Anne Courtenay,” Stephen said. “She’s from a cadet branch of the old Earls of Devon and the absolute opposite of my betrothed.” He leaned forward with what passed for a knowing look in his brown eyes. “Most eager and not, I believe, a maiden. But don’t worry; you’ll have your own belamour to play with soon enough. Just don’t go poaching on my turf.” He wagged a warning finger at Tom and tilted his head toward Grenville. “Watch out for this one, Arthur. He’s quite the round dog and the ladies adore him.”
Tom clenched his teeth in a semblance of a grin while he waited for the flare in his brain to subside. It would be a miracle if he got through this month without breaking Stephen’s long, lordly nose. Trumpet had planned her role to the last detail, but they’d forgotten about Tom’s old reputation as a gallant. If he didn’t play the game, Stephen would begin to think there was something wrong with him.