Let Slip the Dogs

by Anna Castle

  “I’m sure her mother loves her.”

  “I’m serious, Tom. We should keep trying until we obtain proper proofs. It’s better to know for certain who it was. That way we can defend ourselves. And get justice for Mr. Grenville.” She should have put that argument first.

  “Defend ourselves from what?” He licked his lower lip, blue eyes blazing. “This?” He lunged for her, but she twisted away with a little squeal that made both dogs raise their heads.

  “From the murderer, goose. We think Grenville was killed for asking questions; well, we’ve been asking lots of them.”

  “Nobody has so much as looked at me sideways.” Tom gave her a look so taunting and so tempting, it sent a shiver running up her spine. She took one step toward him, swinging her hips, then squealed away again as he grabbed at her.

  He shook his head in mock disapproval. “You’re frightening the hounds, my lady. Why don’t you just stand still?”

  She blew kisses toward the dogs, who wagged their tails. “They like me.”

  “Only because I like you and they adore me.”

  “Thomas Clarady, beloved of the hounds.” She stuck her tongue out at him and he drew in a hissing breath. “Have you spoken to Mr. Bacon?”

  Tom sighed, surrendering for now. “He’s avoiding me. I’ve been to his room twice. Pinnock tells me he’s out, but his hat is right there on the hook. The second time I think I even saw his foot twitch back behind the bed curtain.”

  “I spent most of the day in the Presence Chamber, not ten feet away from him, but he scarcely looked in my direction. He spent most of the morning talking to Sir Charles.”

  “Do we suspect him of anything?”

  “I can’t imagine any reason. He never offers anyone the least offense. He’s the soul of courtesy and a patriot through and through. I can’t imagine him having a secret or cracking a man on the head with a brick. Why not just stab him with your knife? I cannot understand that part.” She tapped her foot silently on the thick mulch.

  “You’re adorable when you’re frustrated,” Tom said. She smiled at him, letting her tongue tease the corner of her mouth, wanting him to lunge for her again. But he snapped his fingers. “Say, I have a question for you. What do you know about Lady Penelope Rich?”

  Trumpet let the flash of lust subside. Another would come along in a minute. “Her husband merits his name. He’s obscenely rich. His grandfather won vast estates from King Henry and the next baron added more. I suppose the baron manages his own estates because he rarely comes to court. She doesn’t like him. Her nostrils flare whenever he’s mentioned. She’s the sister of the Earl of Essex. She’s a renowned beauty, as you well know, and a self-willed woman, as you may not. There must be a lover lurking around somewhere. She does what she pleases, as far as I can tell, especially now that her brother is the queen’s other favorite.”

  “How can you have two favorites?”

  “That’s the great question, isn’t it? The answer is that if you’re the queen, you can have as many as you like. Essex slipped the leash this summer to play soldier in the Low Countries. I suppose that’s why Penelope’s here: to keep his name in Her Majesty’s ears.”

  “The Earl of Essex doesn’t play soldier. What a thing to say! He’s a genuine hero.” Tom sounded defensive. No, he sounded assertive. Had he and Stephen been talking about going off to fight for France? Stephen, yes, fine, if that’s what he wanted. He’d actually be quite good at organizing food and clothing in the background, if lords were allowed to do such things. But Tom? Never.

  Trumpet leveled a steely glare at him. “You are not going to France.”

  He laughed in her face. Somehow he’d eased a few inches closer. “I have no desire to go, my lady.” He held up a dissenting finger. “Other than as part of a diplomatic mission to the king. Or to learn the civil law for a few months.”

  “If you go abroad for more than two weeks, I’m going with you.”

  “As you wish.” He shrugged. “In the meantime, I’m staying at Gray’s. Stephen keeps angling for me to come back to him, but I won’t do it.”

  “It’s not the worst idea. We’d see each other every day without my having to make excuses to live in London without him.”

  “Not even for that, Trumpet.” His expression sobered. “We’d get caught. We’d get careless, and we’d get caught, and then we’d have nothing but trial and tribulation. He could divorce you for adultery, you know. You’d lose everything you’ve fought for.”

  “Except you.” Trumpet growled, making Gwen’s eyebrows twitch worriedly. “But you’re right.” She blew out a breath and changed tacks. “Why did you ask about Penelope?”

  “She came over to us in the Presence Chamber yesterday and was extremely gracious. Extremely so. Worlds apart from the imperious lady we met five years ago.”

  “People change.”

  Tom shook his head, grinning. “She was flirting with Stephen.”

  “With Stephen?” Trumpet shook her head, frowning. “Not you?”

  “A touch with me — just a touch, to let me know she saw me. But she agreed with everything he said. I mean the stupidest things. You know how he babbles when he’s nervous. But she repeated things, rephrasing them so it sounded like he’d said something interesting and wise. He was deeply flattered.”

  “That’s good for us,” Trumpet said. “The more people pulling his attention away from me, the better. But what was she up to? Stephen doesn’t have anything anyone wants. Does he?”

  “You tell me. He’s an earl now; maybe that’s enough.”

  “Hmm.” Trumpet didn’t know what to make of that odd bit of news. “It’s something to bear in mind anyway. We could tell Mr. Bacon, if he would listen to us.”

  “Which he won’t. Still, she wants something from Stephen or me. Stephen and me, I think.”

  “She can have Stephen,” Trumpet said. “But she cannot have you.” She reached for his doublet and used it to draw herself forward, closing the distance between them. She stood right up against him, leaning in, and walked her fingers under the doublet to the thin shirt beneath it. She could feel his warm skin and the slight flinch as touched his belly. “I’m keeping you on a short leash, Mr. Clarady.”

  She tugged a lace free as she tilted her chin up, lips parted, and looked him straight in the face, daring him to steal a kiss. He stared down at her for a long moment, something unreadable moving in the depths of his eyes. Then he took her by the shoulders and pulled her hard against his chest, covering her mouth with his and kissing her with such intensity fireworks exploded inside her head.

  He broke it off abruptly, letting go of her and taking two steps back, leaving her wobbling with her body singing hallelujahs and her mind awhirl. Finally, her balance settled over her feet and her vision cleared enough to see the satisfied smirk on his face.

  “That’ll teach you to play with me, Alice.”

  Trumpet sniffed and tossed her head. Too soon. She lost her shaky balance and tripped over the dogs, falling onto her arse in the mulch. The hounds leapt to her rescue, treating her to lavish slurps up both sides of her face. Her howls of outrage only made them slurp harder and Tom laugh all the louder.

  THIRTEEN

  TOM STUCK CLOSE TO the kennel office Thursday morning, hoping to stay out of everybody’s way. He intended to make some progress on the pedigree records, but his mind kept wandering back to that kiss. That kiss! Just the edges of that thought, the merest shadow of it, set his body on fire and blanked his mind.

  He’d kissed Trumpet many times before over the past couple of years, but he’d always held back. More love-play than lovemaking, affection rather than passion. Yesterday he’d clapped on all sails and surged ahead, meaning to teach her a lesson about teasing him. He knew how to control himself, but he could only take so much. If their plan were going to succeed, she’d have to learn to control herself too.

  But that kiss. She’d thrown herself into it, body and soul, the way she threw herself into
everything once she made her mind up. That would happen again on Friday night, only more completely. Both of them whole-hearted, no stops, no stays. Just the two of them, alone — naked — at last. It was a sobering thought. Thrilling beyond measure, but sobering nevertheless. There’d be no turning back.

  He wished they could get away for a week or two. Mr. Bacon had a lodge right across the river. It must have a bed and a fireplace for toasting sausages — the only dish Tom knew how to prepare. They could sneak into Twickenham for food every other day. But what excuse could they offer for a prolonged absence? Stephen, for one, would notice if they both disappeared at the same time.

  Besides, that lodge was probably packed full of lawyers taking advantage of the easy access to the court. And innkeepers everywhere could be bribed to give information. They’d have to go far, far away, which was flatly impossible unless they abandoned their present lives altogether, which neither of them wanted.

  No, they’d have to muddle along with the current plan, though Trumpet had no idea how hard it was going be to act as if the whole world hadn’t transformed around them in the space of a single night. She’d be glowing — God’s bones, he’d be glowing! Maybe Catalina had some sort of paint to dull their faces. But that wouldn’t help with the sudden giggles and the heartfelt sighs and the overpowering reveries that caught you off guard in the middle of anything.

  The door swung open without a warning knock. Tom grabbed his quill and ducked his head toward the pedigrees, then glanced up, pretending to be surprised by the interruption. Then he sat back, eyes popping in genuine surprise. The figure looming before the now-closed door was Sir Walter Ralegh, all six foot two inches of him, with his sumptuous clothing and his radiant self-assurance.

  Tom leapt to his feet. “Sir Walter!” He swept off his hat, bowing awkwardly behind the desk.

  “Sit, sit,” Ralegh said. “I just want a brief word.” He glanced around the cozy office, chose a stool, and pulled it closer to Tom. He sat, placing an elbow on the desk and stretching a long leg out to one side.

  Tom regained his seat, acutely aware of the small distance between them. He felt like there wasn’t quite enough air in the room. “How may I serve you, Sir Walter?”

  Ralegh smiled and leaned forward to peer at the paper Tom hadn’t touched that morning. Anyone could see the ink was bone-dry. But he didn’t mention that. “Are those the pedigrees of the Richmond dogs?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Lacey was wishing for better copies, and since I do a lot of fair-copying at Gray’s, and my duties here aren’t demanding, I thought I’d help out.”

  “Nice of you. You have admirable handwriting. Very clear.” Ralegh smiled again.

  The smile was almost as alarming as the cool gaze that seemed to be his normal way of assessing people. Ralegh had the reputation of being the proudest man in England, but he’d come by that pride honestly, if the legends about him could be believed.

  One of Tom’s favorite stories showed off Ralegh’s heroism and sheer courage. It happened in Ireland, sometime after the battle of Smerwick. Ralegh had been given a commission to evict a usurping landowner from a castle near Cork. As he and his men were crossing an estuary, they were ambushed by six horsemen with enough foot soldiers to outnumber Ralegh’s small party by twenty to one. The Irish attacked as Ralegh, who was riding ahead with the guide, entered the ford. The guide fled. Ralegh managed to get across, but one of his men was thrown when his horse foundered in the incoming tide. Ralegh raced back to him and protected him with only his staff and one loaded pistol until the rest of his party arrived and drove off the attackers.

  Tom met the legend’s intelligent brown eyes and knew there could be only one reason for this visit. “I haven’t breathed a word to anyone, Sir Walter, just as we all agreed. Not one single word.”

  “I believe you. And I thank you.” Ralegh regarded him with that cool gaze, nodding. “You’re the spitting image of your father. It’s almost uncanny.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Tom relaxed. Any mention of his father gave him the warm sense of his sheltering presence. “I suppose you knew him.”

  “I knew Captain Valentine well. He was a brave, generous, life-loving, honorable man. His death was England’s loss, as well as his family’s.”

  “Thank you.” Tom didn’t try to hide the moisture that welled into his eyes.

  “What do you want, Mr. Clarady?”

  Tom blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt shift of topic. It took him a moment to understand the question. “Nothing, Sir Walter. I don’t need payment to keep my word. Your private life is no one’s business but your own.”

  Ralegh laughed shortly, as if that idea were the silliest thing he’d ever heard. “I didn’t ask what you needed. If you’re Valentine Clarady’s son, you’re a man of honor. But there must be something you want. A different post, perhaps. It must get dreary, clerking for Francis Bacon.”

  That sounded like an invitation to enter Ralegh’s service. He only accepted the best, they said. His retainers had to be intelligent, strong, educated, and above all, loyal. If Tom were minded that way, he’d leap at the chance. Unlike Stephen, Ralegh was a man worth serving.

  Tom pretended to consider the oblique offer out of courtesy, but he knew the answer. “This may sound stupid to you, Sir Walter, but I’m right where I want to be. My guardian keeps me on short rations, it’s true, but I don’t need much money at present. I study most of the time, and she supports my life at Gray’s well enough. I learn a lot from Mr. Bacon, and he’s not a difficult master. I intend to stay the course my father set for me and become a barrister. After that, we’ll see. A career in the law, most likely. It’s what my father wanted.”

  “Yes, he spoke of you often. He’d be proud of you; I can tell you that.”

  Tears sprang into Tom’s eyes again. He blinked them away.

  Ralegh tapped a long finger on the desk. “What about Mr. Bacon? You must have told him about our encounter. You are his man, after all.”

  Tom shook his head. “No, sir, not precisely. I’m his clerk. He’s also my tutor and my master in that sense. I’m loyal to him, but I don’t tell him things he doesn’t need to know. More importantly, I don’t tell him things he doesn’t want to know.”

  Ralegh laughed, tilting his face toward the ceiling. “You’re wiser than you appear, Mr. Clarady. I’ll remember that about you.” He stood up, leaving one hand resting on the desktop. “My secret will come out sooner or later. I’m counting on it, in a way.”

  “Not because of me. Or Lady Alice.”

  “I leave her to Bess.” He lifted one shoulder. “We’ll weather it somehow. She’ll forgive me, eventually — I think. She forgave Leicester. She knows in her heart that there comes a time when a man longs for a son as much as he longs for wealth and glory. What else is it all for?”

  Tom knew “she” was the queen, the only one whose forgiveness meant the difference between success and disgrace. He’d been thinking about sons himself lately, among other looming terrors. “It’s a terrible risk though. I wonder that you take it.”

  Ralegh gave him a wry smile. “I love her. You should understand that.”

  This time the woman in question was Bess. At least Ralegh could marry his lady when they decided the time was ripe. Tom was only beginning to realize that his love for an earl’s daughter had doomed him to eternal bachelorhood.

  Ralegh tapped the desktop again, this time with an air of finality. “I mean to manage that revelation to lessen the blow as much as possible. The time has not yet come. If it leaks too soon, I’ll know if you’re responsible.” His dark eyes turned to stone as he leveled his gaze at Tom.

  He waited for an answering nod, then said, “If you hold your peace, Mr. Clarady, I’ll know that too. What’s more, I’ll owe you a favor.” He grinned to underscore the importance of that future gift, turned around, and walked out.

  Tom blew out a loud, “Whoo!” and sank back in his chair. A favor from Sir Walter Ralegh? Visions of a fully
provisioned ship or a monopoly on tin danced before his eyes. Then he remembered that the only way he’d win this great favor would be for Sir Walter to fall out of favor with the queen. He might or might not find his way back in.

  Ah, well. Working for Francis Bacon got a man used to being paid in promises.

  His mouth felt parched, as if he’d just run a mile. He got up and went out the door to summon one of the boys hanging around waiting for errands to run. “Bring me a jug of ale, will you? Or no — beer, cool, if you can get it. And something to eat. Whatever’s quickest.”

  He handed the boy a two-penny piece. The urchin cocked a wise eye at him. Everything cost double at court. Tom gave him two more pennies and went back to his desk, leaving the door open. The chapel bell had not yet chimed again before the boy reappeared with a green clay bottle, a cup, and something wrapped in greasy linen, all of which he unloaded onto the desk.

  Tom uncorked the bottle and took a sniff — beer with a touch of bilberry. “Good.” He unwrapped the cloth and found half a loaf of cheat bread, still warm, with a big hunk of hard cheese. “Just what I wanted.” He gave the boy another penny. “Close the door, my friend. And thanks.”

  Tom drank off a full cup of beer, smacking his lips. He used his knife to saw off some bread and cheese. He’d just filled his mouth with savory goodness when the door swung open again. “Mmph,” he said, assuming the boy had come back.

  “Oh, I’m disturbing your lunch.” The cultured voice was not that of a local urchin, but of Sir Robert Cecil, Mr. Bacon’s very important cousin. “Do forgive me.”

  The shrimpish administrator could not be more different from the magnificent Ralegh. Sir Robert was scarcely five feet tall, with a crooked shoulder that made him list to one side. His face was too long and his chin too narrow for comeliness. He had light brown hair and hazel eyes like Bacon, but his eyes were sharper, more like a bird of prey.