To most eyes it would appear that they were no more or no less than the noble rich, sewing wild oats with a certain decadence.
But it was from one of the young ladies—an earl’s sixth daughter with little chance of a dowry and an even poorer chance of securing a sound husband—that Clinton received his first decent clue.
One extremely pleasant evening as they lay together in his bed, he learned from her that one of the king’s guards had retired from the court after that long-ago day of the joust, giving the king no valid reason for his request, yet begging that he be released from duty. When Clinton demanded to know what his companion could really know of such things, she admitted that she had been clandestinely involved with the man, and therefore had a good understand- ing of his feelings. Her father had ended the affair, determined that she marry within her station, even if her husband should prove to be an aged ogre.
The lady’s name was Sarah, and Clinton grew quite fond of her, not only for her youth and beauty, but her frankness, honesty, tenderness, and passion. He did not go so far as to make any admissions to her, but he told her that it was most urgent he meet with the man. She agreed to help him. By the following afternoon she returned to the house on the river, telling Clinton that he and Justin might meet with the man at an alehouse near Charing Cross.
Night came. Though Clinton was too enamored of Sarah to trust his judgment regarding her, Justin was not, and he decided to trust her. He looked Sarah up and down when they were due to depart, noting the excitement in her lustrous brown eyes and her obvious adoration when she gazed upon his cousin. He knew of her from Buckingham. Her father offered her nothing and kept her in tight rein. She had in turn offered her own form of obedience, chancing no elopement, but lifting her small chin and living her life as she would, a guest at the king’s court, a companion to his queen, free to enjoy some of her youth before that’ ‘ogre” of a husband, eager for young flesh with dowry or no, might be found.
“She’ll have to come with us,” Justin told Clinton. “How else will we know that we’ve discovered the right man? It would be even more dangerous should we make a mistake in identity.”
Sarah placed a small hand into his. “John Robbins is wary of this meeting, Clinton. I understand none of this, but he is deeply afraid of something. He said that he will see you only where there are a multitude of people. I believe he fears that someone seeks his life.”
Justin gazed at Clinton over Sarah’s burnished brown curls and raised an eye. They had to trust someone, and in time, others might talk and realize that they had been quizzing everyone about a long-ago day when the Duke of Rochester had lifted his sword against the king and had been slain in turn.
“We all go, I say,” Justin stated softly.
Shrugging, Clinton helped Sarah into her cloak, and they went out into the streets to hire a carriage.
The alehouse was crowded when they entered, filled with the riffraff of London, riotous and smoky. Men were puffing on pipes, and with the soot from the cooking and heating fires, the place seemed cast into deep mist and shadow.
“Charming,” Justin commented. People were everywhere; it seemed doubtful that they should find a place on a bench to sit, much less discover a certain man amongst so many.
“We’ll go toward the far corner,” Sarah suggested, “for the greatest shadow is there, and then John Robbins will look for us.”
A bawdy drunk tried to waylay Sarah on their journey through the room. Clinton whacked him once upon the arm, and the man groaned with shock. “Eh, guv’ner! Meanin’ no disrespect! Just tryin’ fer a little fun, sir!”
“Try elsewhere!” Justin snapped. “Can you not tell a lady of breeding, man?”
The husky drunk began to laugh. “Ah, sires, you know not the place, eh?”
“What?” Justin pressed him.
The drunk reddened and stared into the foam of his ale. Then he gave off a wheezing laugh.
“Breeding!” He looked back up to Justin a little apologetically. “Ye’re some noble line yerself, my young lord, so I can see. Yet not so young, methinks, to have ascertained that noble blood can little rule noble flesh!” He fell silent, gripping his mug, then motioned for Justin to come closer. “‘Tis a room in back, sire. Commoner and lord, wench or lady, may go there and find whatever they wish in”—he grimaced—-“deviations in amore! Ye kin what I’m sayin’?”
Justin lowered his lashes in a secret smile; aye, he knew what was being said. Buckingham should have known this place well! A lord might come here for a casual and easily paid affair; equally, a lady of the finest pedigree might don a cloak and mask and find entertainment secret from family or friends. The drunk had merely assumed Sarah to be a young lady on the hunt for an adventure that “society” would not allow her.
He dropped a coin on the man’s table, glad to know more of this place they had come to haunt. “Have an ale on me, friend, but warn your companions—this young lady is not for the taking.”
“Thank ye, sire! Thank ye!” the drunk mumbled, and Justin hurried along to join Clinton and Sarah.
They found a bench in the far corner. Justin ordered ale, and they sat, eyeing everyone that came and went within the alehouse. In time a figure approached them, a tall, lean man, heavily cloaked in gray wool, appearing much like a holy father or a pilgrim.
He knew them, or he knew Sarah, for he slid into the bench beside Justin, reaching for his ale, as if it had been ordered for him. He kept his head lowered, and it was difficult to see his features, yet Justin did glean that he was a man of about thirty years, aged and beaten for that time, nervous and sad of eye.
“I have come for Sarah’s sake only,” he told them. “Talk quickly to me, and I will answer what I may.”
Once, just once, he stared quickly up at Sarah. Something wistful touched his eyes and passed, and again he stared into the mug of ale.
“I need to know something of a day when the king’s life was threatened and a man lay dead in the wake,” Justin told him.
John Robbins stiffened.” Tis long past,” he said, “and nothing to be gained of it. The duke is dead; his daughter also, I must think.”
Justin gripped his arm. “Nay, she lives! And so does she need help.”
John Robbins stared quickly about the room; even here he was afraid.
“Man, we do not threaten your life!” Justin assured him.“Does someone do so, then?”
“Aye, and not my own! Were I to be discovered in this speech—” He sighed, swallowed a long draft of ale, then said, “I’ve an old mother, living out her final days. Four sisters, young, lovely, and innocent. Perhaps ‘tis not me that would be struck, yet these I love.”
“By who?” Justin demanded.
At last the cowled man looked him full in the face. “You tell me—that she lives? The daughter? What proof have I? She ran that day, and all that I could do for her was to refrain from catching her! Even then I dared not speak, for all were so enraged on behalf of the king. / did not know what I had seen myself, and before the time came that I pondered the incident clearly, a man had come to me.”
“What man? Deauveau—William Deauveau?”
He shook his head. “Nay, the son. Raoul. He carried on his hands the old man’s blood. And he told me he knew well the place where my mother lived, and that were he to die himself, the order was already set and paid that my sister should be taken—her throat cut.”
He paused, lifting the ale to his lips once again, as if he could not wet them enough. He stared about the table bleakly. “Even were it not for the threat, there seemed little I could do. You understand, it was like a magician’s trick—done so fast. The sword was not there—then it was. And then the old duke died, and all were outraged, seeking his daughter, ready to slay her upon the spot.”
“There is nothing to fear!” Clinton told him heatedly. “The king himself is eager that the girl be cleared; that she seize Deauveau Place from those who hold it!”
John Robbins stared at them
distrustfully. “What is this thing to you, then? How do I know there is reason to risk those I love? What tells you that the daughter lives, and what assurance have I that the king is on your side?”
“Chatham,” Justin said softly. “My brother is the Earl of North Lambda—”
“Charles’s great champion …” Robbins murmured.
“Aye, the same. Even now he lurks as a servant on the Deauveau estate, keeping watch upon the duke’s daughter, because she is his wife. We are Chathams, and I swear to you that we carry great weight—”
“Chathams!”
It was a female voice that interrupted him from behind. In great dismay Justin turned, already wary of the voice. He stiffened, like one preparing for battle.
“Lady Anne,” he muttered.
“Aye, and so wondrously surprised to see you!”
Crooning, she moved around to join them; her appearance was too much for John Robbins. He bolted, knocking everyone from his path.
“Oh, be damned!” Justin roared, jumping to his feet to give chase. He was but vaguely aware that Anne was unconcerned at all the activity, and she sat in the very spot from which he had departed.
Justin stumbled his way through the drunks and tables after John Robbins. He lost no time, yet when he reached the street, there was no sign of Robbins. Though he looked in all directions, he could not find a clue to follow, for the snow was trampled to a black mush that allowed for no prints.
Heaving a great sigh, he at last gave up and returned to the tavern.
Anne! Oh, bloody damn her! If she wasn’t always turning up when she was least wanted! Turning up—and twisting knives, so it seemed. She was leaning over the table, talking, as Justin approached their group. He shook his head briefly to Clinton in silent admission that their quarry had been lost.
Anne! He should have known, he realized ruefully, that she might be part of the clientele of such a place! Having failed in pursuit of Warwick, she was too lusty a wench to spend time seeking out another of his ilk. What drew men to her also caused them to tire of her. Her very mien spoke of forbidden and carnal pleasure, and promised at the same time that she should never be trusted.
Warwick! He swore to himself as he thought of his brother. Little might Warwick have known that simple pleasure would have these consequences. It had been a heated affair, a negligent indulgence upon the part of the Earl of North Lambria, but it would haunt them all, so it seemed, for an eternity. Warwick’s marriage still meant nothing to Anne. Fair or foul, Justin knew, Anne meant to have him back. She could not comprehend that Ondine was no light infatuation for Warwick. Much more than his wife, she was the one woman he could adore, in passion and tenderness, forever.
He sighed wearily. Anne was just a damnable thorn in his side for the moment, accosting them at precisely the wrong moment. Yet she was far more than a mere irritation, for now they would have to hunt and pray and spend long, long hours searching for John Robbins and swearing to him that they could protect him and his family if he came forward with the truth.
“Justin! How very rude for you to depart just as I arrive!” Anne said sweetly, moving so that he could sit.
Justin noticed that Clinton appeared so tense, he might be ready to kill; Sarah was flushed, yet her eyes were bright, like one ready to do battle.
“You disrupted us, Anne,” he said lightly, retrieving his ale then, for he felt he needed it badly.
“Oh, I saw! I do apologize, yet who should suspect that you were involved in a mysterious assignation!” Anne laughed. “Do tell me all about it, Justin! Who was that man?”
“I told her that we’d a horse stolen,” Clinton said quickly, impatiently. “That we found this character to give clue to the thief—but have now lost him.”
Justin shrugged and stared at Anne. “So you have heard.” He smiled pleasantly, determined to become the aggressor before she could plague them further with questions.
“Anne … Lady Anne! Now, what on earth would you be about in a lowly—brothel such as this?”
Anne shrugged, tossing back her dark hair, smiling at Justin, eyes sparkling with vivid energy. “Oh, I do grow bored of some of the endless protocol at court! “fis fun to view the lowlife now and then; ‘tis exciting, don’t you think?”
Justin stared at her a long moment and thought that she was, indeed, a striking woman. Beautiful… and so completely sensual in every word and movement that any man felt his blood stir at the sight of her, at the sound of her husky words. There was that undeniable sultriness about her. Yet he thought that she did not compare with his sister-in-law. Ondine’s golden beauty was an even greater thing. The carriage of her head was so alluring, the sound of her voice so lovely, even beguiling. She had courage in abundance, which Anne did not lack, but she had more. Ondine carried a passion within her that Anne lacked: where she loved, she would love deeply; whom she honored, she would honor forever. Despite that sensual stirring that Anne could cause, Justin felt that all masks had been lifted; he knew Anne for all that she was—and wasn’t—and decided that he was enough the rogue himself to enjoy a game of wits with her.
He smiled in turn at brilliant eyes.
“Tell me, do you come here only to ‘view’ others?”
She laughed softly, untouched by the taunt. “Justin Chatham, you, sir, are a blackguard. Tell me why the question, and perhaps I will give an answer.”
“An idle one, merely.”
“Umm,” Anne murmured, then her eyes flashed across the table. “How strange that Sarah comes here, too!”
“On my cousin’s arm,” Justin commented.
Anne’s eyes widened with mischievous humor. “Ah, yes, and what a fine arm! Clinton, at times I do believe you the finest specimen of a well-structured breed! Why, ‘tis your work, I would think. Shoulders broad, arms that bulge. Ah, yes, fair Sarah! What an arm you’ve chosen! Yet don’t deceive yourself, dear. Your father’U not approve Clinton. He’s no real Chatham, you know, but takes his name from the house and grounds! He’s the bastard branch, poor Sarah! No marriage there, alas! But I must agree … for the sake of lust alone, surely you could have chosen no one better, for I do understand that abilities run in families, just as eye color, or height! You choose your lovers well.”
Justin held his breath; he wanted to throttle Anne then and there—Clinton’s temper was notoriously near to Warwick’s. Only Anne would dare to say such things, and perhaps even she had pushed too far this time. He turned to answer Anne in scathing fashion before Clinton could reply, yet it seemed unnecessary, for Sarah was no little mouse herself.
“Ah, Anne, you do speak truly! I’m ever so glad of that strong arm to lean upon! I choose my lovers with the very greatest care, and then, though marriage eludes me, I give my heart to one at a time. Chatham? Aye, I find that the name fits him well, for ‘tis a noble family, and I find him most noble.”
“Bravo!” Anne cried, clapping delightedly. She turned once again to Justin, carelessly dropping the matter. “I’d heard that you and Clinton were drinking and rousting and probably deflowering a score of unwary young virgins. Where is that brother of yours, the great lord of Chatham himself? And his fair and delightful bride, of course?”
Justin sipped his ale and grinned conspiratorially. “Ah, I would think that you could well imagine the scenario, Anne! They’re young, they’re lovers, so passionate, so in love! They’ve told none of their actual whereabouts; they’ve gone off, entirely alone, to enjoy none but one another!”
Anne kept smiling, yet she spoke through her teeth, affording Justin endless satisfaction.
“How—lovely. And how romantic. Yes, I’d say I can well imagine the scenario. He takes a common gallows’ bride. The two of them—off to live as peasants!”
“Needing nothing but love!” Clinton added charmingly.
Whatever wounds she had inflicted upon them were avenged in that one smiling moment. Anne stood, having tiredof the conversation, so tense that her smile was strained indeed.
&nb
sp; “Well, I must be off. I shall leave you to your hunt. But, oh, I have heard you’re arranging the most wonderful dinner parties! You must invite me soon.”
“Wim the greatest pleasure, Anne!” Clinton stated, winding his arms around Sarah and pulling her to him.’ “That is, of course, if you can bear the company of a bastard branch.”
“Don’t be silly, Clinton! I find bastards—like this rubble— most amusing!”
She was gone, but Clinton took no offense. He laughed, then shook his head, staring at Justin. “How could anyone so very beautiful be so evil?”
“I don’t think she’s evil, darling,” Sarah murmured, stroking his cheek. “She’s like a spoiled child; if she does not get what she wants, she thinks until she discovers a way to procure it—no matter who she hurts in the way. And,” Sarah mused, “she wanted Warwick Chatham very badly. I think she actually loves him.”
“I don’t think she knows the meaning of the word,” Justin said impatiently. “And she did some serious damage here tonight.”
Sarah slipped a hand across the table to cover his. “I can find John Robbins again. I know that I can.”
Justin nodded worriedly. Time was playing against them. He didn’t like the fact that Warwick was at Deauveau Place. Warwick was usually as careful in planning as he was powerful in a fray, but this, this was different. Justin could not forget how his brother had looked when they had given chase the day that Ondine had disappeared from the races. Nor could he forget the utter horror on his face when they had discovered Ondine so very near to death in the chapel.
He sighed. “Time … time plays against us. We must hurry. We need John Robbins to come to the king; we need to sweep into Deauveau Place before …”
“Before what?” Sarah queried softly.
“Before my brother sees his wife too close to this vicious cousin of hers and loses his mind, and thus his temper!”
Ondine Page 40