Ondine

by Heather Graham

  Molly frowned, but seemed to sense his tension. “All right, then, Jake, me love, what is it?” she asked in return, whispering as he did.

  “Those two—the lady and gent what just came in—ye must wait on them, Molly, and ye must listen sharp to what they say.”

  Molly looked around to regard Hardgrave and Anne curiously. They were seating themselves at the long bench across the fire from Jake. Hardgrave cast his gloves upon the table, looking around the room with distaste. “Eh, innkeeper! Service here!”

  “Why, he’s not even sitting yet!” Molly said indignantly. “Must be some great lord or t’other.”

  “Molly, go ta him, please! Like a good lass. Hurry, now! And keep silent ‘bout me, now!”

  Molly hesitated just a second, then went scampering over to the table with her head humbly low.

  Jake shrank as close as he could to the wall, straining to listen, then realizing that he didn’t really have to. The tavern din, silenced when the door had burst inward, slowly rose again. Lord Lyle Hardgrave seemed to have no thought of being overheard.

  “What have you got for wine here, girl?”

  “None, this night, sir. We’ve ale—”

  “Bring your best, and mind you, it must be your best. Give me no pig swill, or you’ll wear it over your head, mind you!”

  “Aye, the best!” Molly said, bobbing a curtsy. He went on to command a plate of venison and warned her that it must be fine, else she would wear gravy. Molly bobbed again. Lady Anne shook her head impatiently at the prospect of food, but would certainly take ale instead of wine. Molly hurried away from them to fulfill the order, and the lady Anne chuckled at Hardgrave’s displeasure.

  “Lyle—what would you here? The place is a country sewer, no more! Were you expecting a list of specialties from the vineyards of France?”

  She laughed with delight at her own joke, and Jake saw that she seemed exceptionally excited this night, diamond-eyed with pleasure.

  “We should have dined in London,” Hardgrave complained with a grunt.

  “How can you think of food at such a moment!” Anne snapped impatiently, but her humor seemed quickly restored, for she smiled like an angel when Molly returned with bread and ale; she told Hardgrave she found the service ample.

  Molly curtsied and scurried away once again. Jake watched her at the fire, fixing Hardgrave’s plate. He frowned, unable to hear the words at the next table as Hardgrave suddenly lowered his voice.

  Anne laughed again, a tinkling, melodious sound that worried Jake gravely—more gravely than the fact that the two of them were here! It could be no accident. This was none of those places of ill-repute that the nobility were known to haunt!

  Molly set the plate before Hardgrave, hovering there as long as she could, but then Hardgrave seemed to lose patience with her.

  “What are you, girl, a moth? I’ve the food before me—now get your rump gone!”

  Molly left him, disappearing into the kitchen, returning with another foaming tankard for Jake, though he had ordered none. She was a bright girl, that Molly, for she had used it only as an excuse to whisper into his ear.

  “I cannot linger, Jake, perhaps if I stand by the fire—”

  “Nay, Molly, I can hear them fine, mostly, meself! Go about yer work, love!”

  She nodded, astutely leaving him so he would miss nothing more.

  “Will you hurry with that!” Anne urged Hardgrave. “I don’t want you about when Deauveau arrives!”

  “And why not?” Lord Hardgrave asked Anne, smacking his lips over his venison, washing it down with a swig of ale and a sigh. He wagged a greasy finger at Anne. “Why do you wish to meet him alone to begin with—”

  “Oh, we have been through this!” Anne said impatiently. “You will grow impatient; you will be—uncouth! This is a business deal we make here. I wrote the message, did I not? And we received an immediate response! Lyle, he is a man—and I best deal with men! Now, shall we have this go smoothly, or no?”

  Hardgrave muttered something that Jake could not hear, no matter how he tensed and strained. Yet already it seemed that the blood had gone cold in his body and raced like icy streams throughout him. Deauveau! Some kin of Ondine’s—the uncle or the cousin—was coming here to meet with this most untrustworthy pair, spelling trouble if not complete disaster.

  Hardgrave stood suddenly in anger, wiping his mouth against his shoulder sleeve, yelling once again for service. Molly came to him quickly.

  “Clean this mess away, and be quick with it. Bring a fresh tankard of this donkey piss you call ale!”

  “Aye, milord, right away!” Molly promised.

  Lyle Hardgrave stared down at Anne. “I’ll be outside; the fresh air will be welcome.”

  “Don’t be—obvious, Lyle! I don’t want him seeing you tonight! Not until we’ve fathomed his thoughts!”

  Hardgrave strode out of the place, his grip on the door so severe that it seemed not even the wind dared best him.

  Anne remained at the table, her lovely face shadowed by the hood of her cloak, her head lowered, yet her smile still visible. She studied her small, delicate hands with idle pleasure while she waited, sipped more ale, tapping a foot against the floor.

  Jake waited more impatiently than she. He felt himself like a wire, drawn too taut, near to breaking.

  Men continued to laugh, wenches to flirt, dice to fall. The fire snapped and crackled, smoke and warmth filled the room. The passing minutes did not seem to disturb Anne; she waited serenely.

  Jake jumped and cringed inside with each sizzle of the blaze, keenly aware of everything and suddenly too hot.

  The lady Anne looked up. He pressed himself more closely against the wall, so closely he might have become a part of it. But she did not see him; she seemed only mildly interested in what went on around her.

  Finally, when Jake thought he might well go mad, the door opened again. A man entered. He was no young man, but one of middle age, yet still straight as a poker and handsome of face and form.

  The uncle, Jake decided. There was no question that this was the one who was to meet Anne. He was finely dressed, wearing dull soft gray, but his breeches were of velvet and his overcoat was fur lined at collar and cuffs. It did not take him long to discern Anne from the rabble within. He came straight to the table and stood before her, eyeing her carefully. Anne returned his scrutiny with amusement.

  “You are the lady who sent the message?” Deauveau asked at last.

  “I am.”

  “How can I trust you?”

  “Sit down, my fine sir, and I shall tell you!”

  Deauveau sat. He didn’t indulge in the ale, but pushed the tankard away with disgust.

  “Who are you?” Deauveau demanded.

  “Oh, I don’t care to have my name known,” Anne said charmingly. “Call me Jake, if you wish.”

  “How—”

  “I’ll tell you what I know, sir, then perhaps you will understand! You are the adoptive brother of the late Duke of Rochester. The lands by right belong to his daughter, your niece, yet I think you’ve no real mind ever to turn them over to her! You’ve a son—”

  “Raoul,” Deauveau breathed.

  “Oh, precisely!” Anne chuckled. “And, yes, I can imagine it well! The fool boy has been tricked—”

  “What do you know of this?” Deauveau demanded hoarsely.

  Anne leaned closer to him over the table, eyes aglitter like a cat’s.

  “I know the, uh, duchess is a little slut! ‘Tis no true bride your son would be taking!”

  Anne must have been stunned that her beauty failed her, for Deauveau suddenly caught her wrist in a punishing grip. “Is this blackmail?” he rasped out harshly.

  Anne appeared stunned, then she chuckled with pure tinkling delight. “Blackmail, nay, sir! I intend to offer you a heavy sum of money!”

  “For what?” Deauveau queried suspiciously.

  “As I mentioned in my letter, I believe we have common interests. Sir, I t
hink that you would love nothing so much as your niece’s total disappearance—with a death certificate involved— so that you may, by way of being legally next of kin, take all that is hers with none to bar you. And you would no longer have her there—your son’s bride—a nasty thorn slicing into your ribs!”.

  Deauveau stared at her long; he inhaled and exhaled slowly.

  “Why should this be done? What do you gain? From where would I receive the money?”

  “You are interested!” Anne exclaimed coquettishly. “I’m ever so glad …”

  “Details!” Deauveau snapped.

  “There is a gentleman, a friend, greatly enamored of the girl. He will pay a fair price—”

  “Nay! For she could escape him and reappear.”

  Anne shook her head. “This friend will not let that happen; he will take her to France until he tires of her, then—umm, shall we say—he may regain his financial loss through another business deal, this with certain sailors who have discovered a pretty face can be their most lucrative cargo.”

  “She’ll live—”

  “Aye, but justly so—can’t you imagine? No longer duchess or lady, but concubine to some stern sultan!”

  Deauveau hesitated, then leaned back, eyeing Anne now with uncertainty. She smiled and placed a small leather purse upon the table. “Gold,” she whispered to him softly. “Go on, touch it! Feel it. Taste it…”

  Deauveau’s gleaming eyes grew round. He hesitated only a second longer, then reached for the purse, weighing the contents first, then sliding it across the table to himself to peek within. He looked around, then drew out a coin and bit into it, quickly slipping it back into the purse and secreting the purse within his coat.

  “What is your interest in this?” he asked Anne.

  “Oh,” she purred, “rest assured, sir, I will gain from it!”

  “When? How?”

  “Tomorrow evening my friend and I will come with a closed carriage. When you dine”—she paused, indicating the purse he had taken and hidden at his breast—“you must see that the vial of powder you find at the bottom of that bag goes into her drink. Then see that she retires quickly, for in less than half the hour she will sleep like one dead.”

  “That is it?” Deauveau queried crossly. “Then how will I explain her death, her disappearance, to the king?”

  “Ah, easily! Easily!” Anne claimed. “You have some servant, surely, who could don something of hers that will hide him? You pretend the next morning that you are going for a drive. Thieves, sir, bandits, will attack you. You will have only to become disheveled then, and make a hue and cry. My friend and I will see that a body is found in London, and that it will be identified as that of Lady Deauveau, Duchess of Rochester. Clean and neat, milord!”

  “Nay—not so clean or neat! What of my son?”

  “Send him away on business; he need never know.”

  Deauveau digested that information for a moment. “It could be done,” he said slowly.

  “It can, sir, and will.” Anne smiled beguilingly, then added, “Ah, see, too, sir, that something is done with that blacksmith of yours for the eve.”

  “Why?” Deauveau narrowed his eyes warily. “What do you know of him?”

  She laughed—nervously, Jake thought, and rightly so!

  “I know nothing of him, except that he is a big brute and could be dangerous.”

  Deauveau did not seem happy with that; Anne offered him no more information. Deauveau reached for the ale he had previously rejected and drained it quickly, grimacing as the liquid went down.

  “Come, sir!” Anne urged with annoyance. “Do you want her gone or not? If you do what I say, none can point to you!”

  “Aye, I want her gone!” Deauveau said with vehemence.

  Anne smiled and raised her hand, looking about for their tavern maid. Jake frowned then, for he couldn’t see Molly about anywhere. What had happened to the girl?

  “Ale here!” she commanded.

  “Nay—I need no more.” Deauveau stood, staring down at Anne very carefully once again. “Madam, know this: Beauty moves me not at all. If this plan fails and leaves me beholden, I will find you—and kill you in her stead.”

  Anne was not frightened. “Deauveau, I cannot tell you how devoted I am to this bargain of ours! It will not fail; I seek that death certificate with greater vengeance than you can imagine!”

  Her passion must have convinced him, for he nodded and strode from the tavern.

  Jake barely kept from moving, yet he didn’t dare. The lady Anne would certainly recognize him if she saw him. He would have to wait for Hardgrave to return, for the two of them to leave this place, before he could seek the means to get a message to Warwick.

  Once again time dragged. What was Hardgrave, truly the devil’s own, doing to endure the cold so long?

  Once again the minutes dragged endlessly. Even Lady Anne grew impatient, frowning, drumming her fingers against the table, staring at the door again and again.

  At least ten minutes passed before Hardgrave arrived, coming ridiculously close to Jake when he went first to the fire to warm his hands and backside.

  “What in God’s name took you so long?” she snapped when he joined her.

  He shrugged. “I wandered, I lost track of the time. Is the deal made?”

  “It is!” Arme exclaimed, too wickedly ecstatic to care any longer that he had taken such time.

  Hardgrave nodded. “Good. Then let us quit this place!”

  He tossed a coin on the table, and Anne rose. Hardgrave set an arm about her shoulders, and together they left.

  Jake had just started to rise, to move limbs cramped from frozen inertia, when Molly burst back into the tavern from the front, shivering with cold, rubbing her red and chafed hands together. But she was so full of excitement that she rushed straight to Jake, heedless of her chills.

  “Molly,” he began, “I need help—”

  “More than ye know!” she exclaimed in a terse whisper. “The gent—that nasty,, arrogant fellow—I saw him from the kitchen, I did. Waitin’ outside, yet waitin’ as if he had something on his mind! I knew ye wanted to know everything, Jake, so I snuck out after him—”

  “Without a coat? Bless ye, girl!”

  “Hush, hush, listen! When Deauveau—”

  “How’d ye know it was Deauveau?”

  “I told ye about the Deauveaus, remember!” Molly said indignantly. “Now, listen! When Deauveau came out, calling fer his horse, the other man hailed him before he could leave. Deauveau was impatient; the lord was insistent. He started talking about that friend of yers—”

  “Warwick?” Jake demanded.

  Molly rolled her eyes at him with reproach. ” ‘E’s no blacksmith, that one, he ain’t!”

  “Ah, Molly, I know, it’s just—”

  “Ye couldn’t trust a tavern wench, I know!” she chastised him. “Well, it seems ye must now, Jake!”

  “Molly, I trust ye! Fer God’s sake, tell me what happened next!”

  “Lord What’s-his-face told Deauveau that he was the ‘gent’ in question—that all that the lady had said stood, but that there was more. He told Deauveau that the blacksmith was the duchess’s lover. Deauveau said that he’d kill the cur; the lord said no, that he wanted to kill the man himself, but that the lady inside was to know nothing of it! The lord was very insistent, even when Deauveau started raging. He said that Warwick was his, and his alone to slay, and that he’d been waiting for that vengeance for a long, long time. Deauveau finally calmed down, and the lord gave him some package, saying that it was more of a ‘powder’— all Deauveau had to do was put it in something that the blacksmith drank, and he’d be out like a downed bull in a matter of minutes. He said to make it all happen tomorrow night, at the dinner hour.”

  Jake grabbed her cheeks between his hands and kissed her soundly.

  “Ah, Molly, yer one in a million fer sure, girl!”

  “I like ye, too, Jake. Ye know that!”

 
“I’ve got to reach Warwick immediately,” he murmured worriedly, but Molly chuckled and swung herself happily onto his lap.

  “One in a million, that I be, Jake! My sister’s married to the son of one of the old servants at Deauveau Place; she can have her boy bring his grandpa a new knit shawl. And old Jem can get a message to the blacksmith, all right, you mark my words! Jem’s been staying on there just on the chance the girl might come back—he’ll be yer most willing friend!”

  “Then get me a quill, Molly, girl! And know this, ye’ve just made a friend yerself, and that friend be one of the king’s favorites. Rewards, Molly, will be yers!”

  ” ‘Tis not fer reward, Jake!” Molly admonished him with a cuff upon the ear. ” ‘Tis for love!”.

  At his cottage, far from the main house, as such workers’ lodgings were, Warwick lay upon his thin pallet staring at the ceiling, waiting for time to pass, for the night to grow deep and dark. Firelight danced upon the ceiling, and he watched its pattern, yet his mind raced as he did so, his body tensed and eased, tensed and eased.

  Ah, these feelings! They tortured him, they ripped him in two. He saw again a blood-red fury as he thought of the Deauveaus, William and Raoul, and his fists would clench, his muscles constrict. How he longed to face them in a battle to the death! Come hell itself, he would do so! Cold-blooded murderers and worse! Traitors, debauchers, blackmailers; conniving, sniveling snakes!

  Raoul—ready and eager to slay a babe! His babe!

  Agh!

  He rolled and twisted, bracing against the bed to still his rage. And yet it was something he could contain, in his fashion, for he determined with lethal intent that he would, in time, find a way to force the men into open battle. Cowards—they were no true foes! They had used trickery to perform their murder, slaying the duke before he ever understood their treachery!

  But Ondine …

  He rolled again, staring at the dancing patterns on the ceiling. He was almost afraid to see her this night, yet he was compelled to do so. He longed to drag her over his knee and redden some fair part of her anatomy! God! How could she have done this! Left Chatham, come here, left him, entered into this liars’ maze when she carried his child! Dear God, he couldn’t yell in her room—he was overflowing with oaths. Time had not eased his bitter anger against her; it had increased it. He shouldn’t go there; he had to. He had to tell her that she was to meet him tomorrow at this cottage, and that they would leave then—be damned to all else! He was her husband; he was her law. He was the father of the life within her that she so carelessly endangered; he was the man who loved her beyond all else!