“How did you two allow him to go there!” Sarah exclaimed.
“No one tells Warwick what he will and will not do.” Justin sighed, then he rose, discouraged, yet determined afresh. “Come, let’s get out of this wretched place.”
Clinton and Sarah followed his lead. Justin noted Sarah’s soft hand on his cousin’s arm and felt a little pang. Though she was whispering, Justin could hear Sarah’s words.
“She is right, though, you know. My father would never let us wed. Yet I care not, for I do love you—and I will be with you!”
Damn Anne! Justin thought for the thousandth time—so casually did she wound others!
But then he dismissed her from his thoughts, for he was worried once again about how they should find John Robbins a second time. Robbins would now be forewarned, and if he was the least hesitant, he could surely make a true disappearance into any number of hellholes within London.
Justin had no idea of it at that time, but he should have been much more concerned with Anne.
She had not left the alehouse, but retreated to that room beyond where drink was imbibed with a heartier measure; where deals were made, fantasies brought to light, if only for an evening.
Hardgrave was sitting there, bleary-eyed, laughing as he diced with the owner of the establishment. Two very young girls sat swaddled at a bench beyond the gaming table. Anne absently ascertained that Lyle had planned those two for his night’s amusement, yet he felt the night so young he had ample time to gamble before wenching.
She had no patience with any of it.
Ignoring the game at hand, she rushed up to him, hands on her hips.
“We’ve got to go!”
“Go!” Hardgrave growled with annoyance, casting her an impatient glance. “Why, I’ve just begun—”
Anne leaned down and whispered to him. He looked up at her with a gaze of bleary confusion, then slowly seemed to comprehend her words.
“Where?” he asked her hoarsely, pushing back his chair to rise.
She smiled, very aware that she had his full interest. She placed a hand upon his arm, treating him as she might a small child.
“Now, Lyle!” she cajoled. “We mustn’t race off madly—and chance this thing! We must think and plan carefully, and then set to work. There is a way—”
“So you told me before!” he snapped harshly.
“Lyle! Come, now, we must be alone to talk. Perhaps this will be our very last chance, so we must take care. I do have an idea.”
Hardgrave groaned. “Your last idea came near to setting me in the Tower!”
“But we’ve better forces working with us now; I think we’ll find ready accomplices.”
“How do you know all this?”
She brought her lips to his ear, whispering heatedly.
“I overheard a telling conversation! Justin Chatham was here— I tell you / know what I heard! And they are both very vulnerable. Warwick and his golden girl! Lyle, she is no commoner—yet better, still, for our designs. Oh, Lyle! Think on it! Feel it! Feel how dearly you want revenge on him, and think how dearly you crave her. Lyle, this strange partnership of ours may yet bear fruit. The girl for you, and Warwick, wholly mine, at last!”
Hardgrave tensed and reddened, fighting emotion. He dropped his dice on the table and grinned at the owner of the place. “Ye’ve made money on me tonight, Taddy, and I can’t even sample the goods. Good night to you, lasses.” He swept his hat to the girls on the corner bench. ” ‘Twasn’t for lack of temptation, ladies!”
Anne caught him by the lace lapels on his frothed shirt, determined to get him out then; they needed some secretive and careful planning. Ah, she could almost feel Warwick in her arms again, desperately in search of solitude after the loss of another bride.
Hardgrave stumbled, then caught her arm, and together they left the alehouse. Outside, the clear cold air sobered him quickly, and he gazed down at Anne pensively.
Ah, yes, this strange partnership of theirs! It had nothing of love—yet it went deeper than that emotion. It was based on more than sex, more than an equal delight in sampling all that the world offered with no pretense.
It all centered upon Chatham—upon fostering lust and vengeance.
“Lyle! Think on it! That little witch of his made her appearance into our lives on the very day of your joust with Warwick! The joust you lost! She was there—running! Things do come full circle, do they not? Your greatest vengeance will be to take her from him!”
Lyle gazed into her scheming eyes, aglow with excitement for the future.
“Mmmm,” he murmured. “As we planned it before, I shall have her—while a death certificate is forged. And you, at last, will have Chatham.”
“Aye!” Anne breathed joyfully. “He’ll forget her in time. Oh, I know that I can make him forget her! I shall make him happy, I can please him; I can please any man.”
“I don’t doubt it, my dear,” Lyle Hardgrave muttered. “I don’t doubt it at all.” Dear Anne, he thought in silence, that is just where we part ways … You see, I do not want him happy again. I want him dead. Stone dead, like the walls of Chatham itself …
“I am still at a loss,” he told his most perfect conspirator as he raised a hand for his driver to bring his carriage forward. “Our peasant girl is a lady, returned to her home. How shall we bring her forward—what accomplices?”
Anne moaned impatiently. “Do you remember nothing of that day?”
“Only that I was beaten,” he retorted bitterly.
“The Duke of Rochester was slain that day for treason against the king’s very person! Aye—you probably were too busy sulking to have known most of it! ‘Twas the same day that Genevieve died, so I remember it all very well. Ondine, the silly nit of a girl, ran, and her family estate fell into hands that coveted it well! A relative took it over, an uncle or somesuch person. I believe from what I heard that she’s returned home, and Warwick has gone there—as a servant, no less! There must be some grave dissension—I heard tell of a cousin she was to marry, but refused.
“Now surely, my darling lord, the densest man must see between these trees! The man who has taken over the property will not want it returned to the rightful heiress! And it’s suspect that he would want the son to marry her now, lacking any knowledge of where she has been. I should think that she might easily, easily be purchased!”
“I would think that he would prefer her dead.”
“Nay, not dead! Just gone. We must think of something to promise him, that she will be taken from the country, never to appear again. And when you tire of her, such a thing can easily be managed!”
“As in the last time, Anne?” Hardgrave taunted.
She lifted her chin in the air. “Are you a coward in truth? Still afraid of Warwick Chatham?”
Hardgrave went rigid and a pulse ticked against his throat; she knew she’d hit the right chord.
“Let’s get near this place, then, shall we?” he demanded thickly. “And get a message to this man that we might have, er, mutual interests.”
“Aye, let’s. And let’s do it in a hurry!” Anne purred.
Chapter 28
There was something taking place in the morning; Ondine knew not what, but she awakened to the sounds of argument below.
She was still very tired—dazed as she came slowly to awareness. Such was the toll of her clandestine evenings. She recognized that someone argued, then she recognized the voices as her uncle’s and Raoul’s, but by that point a warning had come to them from somewhere that their shouts could well raise the roof and all and sundry would soon know their private business.
Ondine wondered if Berta hadn’t been the one to warn them that they should be overheard, for soon after the voices lowered, Berta came into the room.
Ondine rolled over, groaning and pressing her face to the pillow. She didn’t feel like dealing with Berta or facing another day! Yet what choice had she?
“Duchess, come, you must awake. Your uncle requests your appeara
nce below with all haste.”
“Does he?” Ondine murmured dryly.
“Duchess—”
“I am awake, Berta. I am awake.”
She sipped her tea quickly and had little patience for assistance while she dressed. She was as anxious to see William as he was, apparently, to see her. It must be a busy and productive day; Warwick did not want her prowling about—she had to prowl about! Time was her enemy.
She sat on the edge of the chair before her dressing table as Berta worked on her hair, muttering nastily about the tangles. Ondine felt a brief humor then, for she longed to tell Berta that it was simply impossible to keep her hair totally unmatted when her husband chose to play with it all night.
Seconds later she descended the stairs. She found neither William nor Raoul seated at the table. Instead, both of them stood stiffly, at odds across the room, ignoring the steaming platters that awaited them on the sideboards. The stranger—the tall muscled sallow-looking man who had taken dear Jem’s place as steward and valet—waited just inside the doorway for the meal to begin, his hands behind his back, a facial expression nonexistent.
“Ah, at last, dear Niece!” William exclaimed, staring upon her with jaundiced eyes. “You’ve decided to join us.”
There wasn’t even a pretense of courtesy to his words; they were barked out in severe warning that more would come.
“Am I late?” she asked sweetly, sliding into her chair.
“Late, aye, Niece.”
In question and reproach, one delicate brow slightly arched, she stared at Raoul, sullen and terse across the room.
Raoul blushed and looked away from her. Ondine shrugged, then turned to the apelike servant in the hallway, a man surely chosen for his blind obedience to her uncle alone.
“The tea, please. Now. I do not know your name.”
The man started and looked to William. William appeared as if he were about to explode, but then he smiled with a casual and evil leer and said, “By all means, do serve the duchess her tea! His name, Ondine, is Berault, should you need anything further.”
“Thank you, Uncle. Thank you—Berault.”
“Berault, you may leave us,” William snapped.
Ondine, quaking somewhat inside, for she knew not where this was leading, or what William might have discovered, added cream to her tea with what she hoped was nonchalance and stared across the room at Raoul again. This time he met her eyes with pleading in his own. He was keyed and angry.
She finished fussing with her tea and gazed toward her uncle, expectantly. “You complain of my tardiness to a meal, yet once I appear, you spend the time staring at me. Have I grown horns, Uncle?”
“Horns, Ondine? Nay, ‘tis not likely. You yet appear as sweet as honey—and pure as driven snow.”
He walked to her at last, standing over her. Then placing his hands upon the table, he stared into her eyes.
“By the saints, girl, you do look weary! Shadows beneath the eyes—pale, drawn. Are you quite sure you’ve come home with no illness?”
“I feel absolutely fine. And yet, sir,” she added, narrowing her eyes in prayer that she might cordially force him to his point, “I am ever so amazed that my health should concern you so! Truly, Uncle, there is little pretense between us! I imagine that you would be sublimely pleased to hear that I was ailing desperately—upon my death bed, at that.”
He touched her chin, lifting it, and his touch did not disturb her, for she felt such hatred then that it was easy to return his stare with loathing in her own.
“You’re very young, my dear, with too much vitality, to so conveniently leave this life!”
“That is correct, Uncle,” she retorted softly. “I’d never do anything—anything at all—to make things easy for you! And since God knows my right, I believe that I shall maintain splendid health!”
Grimly he released her. “Splendid health! We’re back to the matter at hand! You see it is precisely since you are young— betrothed to Raoul—that I needs must look to your every concern. If you will not die, you will become a part of our inner family.”
She sipped her tea, feigning a disinterest, yet growing ever more nervous.
“That has all been decided and arranged, has it not?”
“Oh, yes; it is in the offing. For Raoul’s pleasure—certainly not my own!”
“Then … ?” she inquired pleasantly.
He smiled at her, with such pleasure and malice, that she was certain he had made a damning discovery. Warwick! Had he been caught coming from her room? Was he injured, slain? Oh, God.
Her stomach seemed to catapult within her; the room took on a hazy hue as that terror settled over her.
“Ondine, my dear—” William began.
But he was not able to continue. The door suddenly burst open; Berault had returned, and no longer did his sallow countenance bear no expression. He was highly agitated.
“I did not call for you!” William shrilled.
“But—”
“Must I repeat myself endlessly? I do not wish to be disturbed!”
“But it’s the king!” Berault managed to say hastily.
“The king?” William repeated, amazed.
“Aye, the king! Even now, his carriage comes up the drive! He has an escort of at least a dozen. We’re ill-prepared; we know not what to do!”
Ondine slid uneasily from her chair, so very grateful that Charles was near, still so terrified that it might be too late for Warwick. Oh, dear God! What had happened? Then she remembered that she should be frightened of the king before her uncle and Raoul.
“Oh!” she gasped in distress.
William cast her an absent gaze. “Don’t be a fool! Act naturally! I’ve made no complaints against you—you’ll be fine. Berault, go to the stables, quickly, so that all might be advised that his carriage need be taken, water offered the horses. Then go to the kitchen and advise Jem. He will see that our best ale is tapped, and that there is food prepared to offer His Majesty.”
Berault instantly moved to follow William’s orders.
Ondine watched him leave the room, then gasped, tears filling her eyes with sudden pain as her uncle grasped her hair at the nape, jerking it cruelly. His hold pulled her against him so that he might threaten in a hissing whisper at her ear.
“But, fair Niece, take care with your every word and motion. That you have returned, I can cover; if you should attempt to betray me with the slightest word or deed, I will instantly produce proof that you were in league with your father, plotting the king’s murder. If I fall, girl, I swear you’ll tumble with me! Death can be quick, as well you should know. You watched your father die. Oh, so fine a line exists between daylight and the grave! Force my hand and I will see that there is no choice by law but to sever your lovely neck; think to trap me, and you will die instantly, a knife within your heart.”
He did not release her, but dragged her down the hall with him. “Leave go of me!” she commanded her uncle heatedly. “We’ve made our bargains; you do not need fear me!”
He did not release her, not until they all stood outside, awaiting the king.
It was true that the king had come with a retinue. Five guards rode ahead, five behind. The lead man announced the king’s arrival, yet already all was in motion for his royal reception. Men raced from the stables to take the horses as the king’s guard dismounted from them. The footman moved with a flourish to pull the step down for the king, and then Charles alighted, looking curiously about himself, a mischievous smile upon his handsome lips.
“Your Majesty!”
Ondine came quickly to him, dipping a low and graceful curtsy, kissing his ring. Her uncle was quickly behind her, ever as gracious. Raoul, too, was quite capable of a very elegant courtesy, making the entire greeting a pretty picture of perfect etiquette.
If only her heart were not so heavy with fear for Warwick. What else could have upset her uncle so?
Then she saw him. Even as she lowered her lashes before Charles, her ey
es widened again, for Warwick was there. He had come with the men from the stables and was holding one of the guard’s mounts, watching the display with the others.
“Duchess, ‘tis glad I am to see your fair face!” Charles said pleasantly, greeting her first in turn and kissing both her cheeks. “Ah, child, I was so distressed that day you ran! You’d not have suffered without some proof of complicity, my dear. I heard rumor of such a thing, but no proof came to light, and so glad I am to hear that you’ve returned to your home!”
“Thank you, sire,” she murmured, trying very hard not to burst into laughter, for Charles was a fine performer, and knowing that Warwick was very much alive and free had sent her into delirious relief.
“William, Raoul, ‘tis good to see you, also.”
“Your Grace,” William responded with a bow of the head. “We are most grateful that you visit us here, at this our humble home.”.
“Humble!” Charles burst into laughter, then clapped William on the back. ‘ ‘Why, sir, these are some of the finest lands in the country! Humble! Why, in purse, I’d dare to say that Rochester far exceeds my personal wealth.”
“Will you come into the house, Your Majesty?” Ondine inquired. “We are most eager to serve you.”
“Aye, of course. I’ve come for just a brief spell, but I did yearn to satisfy my own curiosity. Ah, pardon! It seems the snow has dirtied my boots—”
He paused, looking about, and Ondine frowned, not knowing his intention. She hadn’t realized that Charles had noticed Warwick, roughly clad, unshaven, and sooted from the forge.
But he had. Oh, he had, and why not? For he had known Warwick many years, and they were as close as friends could be, given that one was the king. Charles appeared near devilish, and Ondine soon discovered why, for he lifted a hand to Warwick. “You, young man! Aye, you, the tall fellow with the fine shoulders. Come here!”
Warwick started for but a moment, then turned over the mount he held to a young apprentice and approached the king, kneeling before him awkwardly.
“Good man for a smithy, Deauveau! Seems the job would become him, and him the job. How do you like service here, young sir?”
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