by Anne Herries
‘Mistress Palmer—Mistress Stirling. Stay a moment, I beg you.’
Deborah glanced at her cousin and, seeing the blush in her cheeks as Master Will Henderson hurried up to them, understood why her cousin had lingered so long over the purchase of the materials. This meeting had not happened by chance.
‘Oh, how pleasant to see you, sir.’ Sarah dimpled up at her young and handsome suitor. ‘We are on our way to the glovemaker.’
‘Why do you not wait here a moment or two?’ Deborah suggested as she caught the longing in the young man’s eyes. ‘The shop I need is but a step away and I have our footman to watch over me. Bide here while I see to my business, Sarah. I shall not be long and you will be safe enough with Master Henderson.’
‘That she will,’ he declared, ‘for I would defend her with my life—and you, of course, Mistress Stirling.’
‘I do not doubt it, sir.’ Deborah smiled and left them together. Sarah had other admirers, but only one made her blush so prettily. She was certain that her cousin would soon be wed. As for her…Deborah sighed. They had been in London for more than three weeks now and she had met no one she could think of as a husband.
She had not lacked for suitors, but none appealed to her. Some were too old, some too foolish—but most were greedy. They wanted her for her father’s fortune, not her person. She saw no reason to exchange her happy companionship with her father for something that could afford her no pleasure or benefit.
As yet no news had come from Spain. Deborah was not certain how she felt about the prospect of marrying a man she had never met, but the negotiations were only just beginning. Until the contracts were signed, it would be a simple matter for either side to draw back. Besides, Don Miguel might not be pleased with her likeness.
When she thought about it, she was not at all sure she wished to wed anyone. Perhaps she would do better to remain at home and care for her beloved father?
For a moment the memory of a pair of mocking eyes came to haunt her, but she dismissed it instantly. The Marquis de Vere had been no more to Court—at least, he had not on the days when she and Sarah had attended. Why should she care whether he came or not? Besides, she did not like him. He was arrogant, insulting and rude!
There was to be a masked ball at Court on the morrow. It would be their last visit for the time being, for Sir Edward was minded to go home. He did not care to neglect his estates too long, and Deborah was tired of the long, tedious appearances at Whitehall, which for her were neither pleasurable nor useful.
‘Your cousin is in a fair way to be settled,’ Sir Edward had told his daughter a day or so earlier. ‘As for you, Deborah, I have seen no sign of any preference on your part?’
‘I have none, Father. I would as soon go home unpromised.’
‘I expect word from Señor Sanchez any day now. We shall hear what my old friend Don Manola has to say—and then we shall go home and discuss the matter. I am duty bound to find Sarah a husband, but there is no haste to arrange your own marriage, my dear.’
Deborah knew that her father was secretly glad of a reprieve. In his heart he dreaded the moment of their parting yet felt he would be failing in his duty if he did not see her safely wed. Deborah would be an heiress of some substance. Sir Edward had no male heir or any relatives to speak of, and his estate was not entailed. There was a distant cousin on her mother’s side—Mistress Berkshire—but she and her husband were old and lived quietly in the country, and would not be deemed fit guardians.
If anything should happen to Sir Edward before her marriage—God forbid!—Deborah’s estate would be overseen by the King’s council and she become his ward. A marriage deemed suitable by His Majesty would be arranged, unless James coveted her estate. She might then be left to live a solitary life or sent to a nunnery, never to fulfill the bright promise of her youth.
Sir Edward knew he must see her safe one day, but he was still only in his middle years and a strong, healthy man. A few more months, even a year or so, could not harm her and would afford him joy.
Deborah completed the purchase of the gauntlets for her father. They were fashioned of soft grey leather and studded with pearls at the cuffs. She thought he would be very pleased with the gift and was smiling as she left the merchant’s shop. A startled cry left her lips as she walked into a man who was about to enter, stepping heavily on his foot and dropping her package.
‘Forgive me, sir! I was not aware of…’ The words died on her lips as she found herself staring into the mocking eyes that had haunted her dreams these past three weeks. Her heart began to beat wildly. ‘Oh, it is you…’
‘You seem determined to injure me, mistress,’ said Nicholas and bent to recover her package.
‘Indeed, I do not!’ Deborah gave him a speaking look, but despite her annoyance a smile quivered at the corners of her mouth, which had she but known it was quite delectable and extremely tempting. Face to face, she had to acknowledge that her cousin had been right from the start—he was a fine figure of a man! She had seen none to rival him at Court.
‘Your purchase, mistress.’
‘Thank you. I apologise if I injured your foot.’
Nicholas grinned. God’s body! She was a beauty—and such spirit! It was no wonder the memory of their brief encounter had lingered in his mind despite all attempts to dismiss it. Perhaps it was in part why he had returned to London sooner than he had intended, though he also brought news for King James.
‘You have no doubt made a cripple of me, mistress—but I shall struggle to bear the pain with dignity.’
His taunt was so outrageous that Deborah laughed. ‘You are a wicked tease, sir. I cannot think what I have done that you should mock me so.’
‘Nor I, come to think on it,’ he replied, his bold eyes challenging her. ‘Unless it is that your eyes are more lovely than the brightest star in the heavens—your lips as sweet as a rose dew kissed.’
‘You would rival Master Shakespeare,’ Deborah replied with a toss of her head. She had been to the theatre several times now, and found the performance entrancing, though the audience was noisy and often shouted at the actors whenever they disagreed with something that was happening on stage. ‘I shall listen to no more of this nonsense, sir. My cousin awaits me in the street and I must go to her.’
‘I believe she is pleasantly engaged,’ Nicholas said, a faint smile on his mouth. ‘You will allow me to delay you a little, mistress. May I be of service to you? Perhaps I could call chairs for you and Mistress Palmer?’
‘Thank you, sir, but I believe Master Henderson will escort us should we wish it—and my footman is close by.’ Deborah avoided looking at him. He was too sure of himself and her heart would not behave itself when she saw the way his eyes danced with laughter.
‘If Master Henderson puts his claim above mine I have no love for the rogue. I believe I shall call him out!’
‘Pray be serious, my lord.’ Deborah was beginning to remember this man’s reputation. She had been warned that he was not to be trusted. She ought to walk away at once, but her feet would not obey her. ‘Your levity does not become you.’
‘I fear you would like me even less if I were to show you my other side, lady.’
‘Yes, I do think you have a darkness in you,’ Deborah said with a considering look. There were two sides to this man, one charming and pleasant, the other dark and threatening. ‘I sensed it when we first met.’
‘Is that why you disliked me?’ Nicholas frowned. ‘You have no need to fear me, Mistress Stirling. I have never harmed a wench. It is true that I have a devil inside me, but it is for others to fear—not you.’
‘Do you speak of a Spanish gentleman, perchance?’
‘What have you heard of that accursed rogue?’ Nicholas’s eyes glittered with sudden anger, startling her. ‘I swear you will hear nothing to his good from me.’
‘They say you attack Don Manola’s ships—that you are little more than a pirate.’ Deborah tipped her head to gaze up at him defiantly
. She did not know why she was pressing him like this, unless it was a perverse need in her to see his reaction. She would be a fool to let his charm sway her judgement of him. He was both a scoundrel and a thief.
‘Some would call me a privateer,’ Nicholas muttered, his mouth hard, features set into the harsh lines she had noticed before. ‘Know this of me, Mistress Stirling—I may be Le Diable to the Spaniard I attack, but I have never killed for pleasure.’ He touched his hat to her. ‘I bid you adieu, mistress.’
For a moment Deborah was quite unable to speak. She wanted to cry out, to beg him to wait and explain his meaning, yet could not force the words from her lips.
What could he have meant? Who killed for pleasure—Don Manola? It was what he had implied, yet it could not be. He was her father’s friend and Deborah would trust Sir Edward’s judgement above any other. He was considering a marriage between her and Don Miguel Cortes. Never would he think of entrusting her to the son of a man he did not admire or trust.
Was it merely spite on the marquis’s part, then? She would not have thought it of the man. Surely a powerful man like that would have no need of petty lies and innuendo? His weapons would be sharper and more deadly.
There was clearly some quarrel between Don Manola and the marquis. She imagined that the marquis truly believed his cause was just. Was it not always thus when men quarrelled? For herself she abhorred violence of any kind. It was surely wrong to attack another man’s ships? Men must be wounded or killed during the action. Yet seemingly the marquis believed he was behaving fairly. Why should that be?
‘Know this of me…I have never killed for pleasure.’
Once again Deborah shivered as she felt the chill go through her. She sensed a dark shadow hanging over her, as she had after their first meeting at Whitehall. Yet what had she to fear from him? Her destiny was not to run with his. Sir Edward would never contemplate such a match—nor did she wish it!
Deborah denied the prompting of an imp within her—a wicked voice that whispered she had never felt so challenged, so alive as when in the presence of the marquis. It was but a wayward thought that told her life had been almost too safe, too comfortable, that her true fulfilment as a woman would only come if she were brave enough to snatch at the burning brand this man offered.
For there had been fire in her when she gazed into his eyes. She had known a restless longing for something—but she knew not what. It was surely not to be in the arms of that wicked rogue!
Deborah shook her head. She was foolish to let him into her head. The Marquis de Vere was nothing to her, nor ever could be.
Sarah turned to her as she approached, her eyes glowing with excitement. ‘Dearest Deborah,’ she cried. ‘You will never guess what has happened since you were gone.’
‘What is it, cousin?’
Deborah was already certain that she knew. Master Henderson had spoken of his intentions. She smiled but held her peace. Let Sarah enjoy her moment of triumph to the full.
‘Master Henderson has gone to summon chairs for us, Debs—but that is not my news. I told him we were to leave London soon and he was devastated. He returns with us to the house and will beg my uncle for my hand in marriage.’ Sarah looked at her anxiously. ‘Do you think Sir Edward will look favourably on the match?’
‘Is it what you truly desire, Sarah?’
‘Yes, with all my heart.’
‘Then I am sure my father will consent. Master Henderson is of good family and, though not wealthy, will come into an estate on his father’s death. Besides, you have money lodged with the goldsmiths of London. Father placed it in safe keeping when your father’s house was sold. You will not go to your husband with empty coffers.’
‘Both you and my uncle have been so good to me,’ Sarah declared. ‘I shall be sad to leave you, Deborah—though I cannot wait to be Master Henderson’s true wife. He loves me with all his heart and I love him.’
‘Then you are fortunate, cousin.’
‘Yes, indeed I am.’ Sarah smiled as she saw her gallant returning with two sedan chairs and their bearers in tow. ‘Is he not handsome, Debs?’
‘Very handsome,’ Deborah agreed, though privately she thought the young man’s features a little weak. For herself she preferred stronger men like her father…and the marquis. ‘All I wish for is your happiness, cousin.’
‘And I yours,’ Sarah replied, her eyes curious as she looked at Deborah. ‘Have you found no one at Court who stirs your heart, Debs?’
‘No one,’ Deborah answered at once. She did not meet her cousin’s open gaze for she knew that she lied, and Sarah would see it in her face. One man had stirred forbidden feelings in her, but she would not admit it to anyone. ‘I have not been as fortunate as you, sweet Sarah.’
‘Mistress Stirling…’ Arriving breathless and anxious at that moment, the young man looked at her and then his beloved. ‘Mistress Palmer has spoken to you of my hopes?’
‘She has, sir—and I approve. I am certain Sir Edward can have no objection, though of course I may not speak for him.’
‘No, no, of course not. It was just that Sarah said he always does as you wish…’ Master Henderson flushed and looked awkward. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to imply anything…’
‘I have taken no offence, sir. It is well known that my father indulges me. I am in favour of my cousin’s marriage to you—and I ask only that you treat her with kindness.’
‘I shall spend my life serving her,’ he avowed, a flush in his cheeks. ‘I live only for her.’
‘Then I may ask no more.’
Deborah was thoughtful as she was handed into her chair. Master Henderson was truly a gentleman and it was thoughtful of him to escort her and Sarah back to their lodgings, though they were safe enough with her father’s servant to walk a little distance behind. There were parts of London she would not have dared to venture to, even in broad day, but here in this busy street with honest folk going about their business, they had never been in danger.
She smiled as she saw the young man’s hand upon his sword. He was prepared to defend his beloved with his life—yet she wondered how capable he would be should beggars or footpads attack them. If that were to happen she would rather trust her stout footman—or perhaps the Marquis de Vere.
Deborah thought it would be a brave footpad who attacked a lady escorted by the marquis. She imagined that he was skilled with the weapon he had worn at his side that morning. If she were ever in a dangerous situation, she would be glad of his company.
Such foolish thoughts! She was more like to need protecting from the Marquis de Vere. He was charming but a rogue and she had best remember that and put him out of her head once and for all.
Deborah tried valiantly to dismiss the pictures, which would keep popping into her head. Soon she would be returning to her home in the country, and then she would never see the rogue again.
Perhaps she would be married within the year—to the son of the man who was the marquis’s sworn enemy.
‘Well, Deborah, I am glad to see your cousin settled,’ Sir Edward remarked to his daughter when they were alone later that day. ‘We shall remain in London for her betrothal and we can all travel home together when Master Henderson takes Sarah to meet his family.’
‘Yes, Father. It is fortunate that Master Henderson lives no more than fifty leagues from us. His family will not have so very far to travel for the wedding. We must do our best for her, see that she leaves us well endowed with linens and goods.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Sir Edward agreed. ‘All that will be seen to. Now it is of you and your marriage I wish to speak, Deborah. Señor Sanchez has returned. He called on me while you were out this morning, bringing letters for us both and a gift for you.’
He handed her a small object wrapped in blue velvet. When she opened it, Deborah gasped in surprise and pleasure. It was a miniature portrait of a young and handsome man painted on a shell background and framed in gold set with garnets and pearls.
‘O
h,’ she said. ‘He is beautiful, Father. I have never seen such a countenance on any man. Do you think it can be a true likeness? Can anyone have hair that colour—like spun silver—and eyes so very blue?’
‘If you look at the back you will find a compartment that opens,’ her father said. ‘Within it there is a lock of hair just that colour.’ Sir Edward smiled as he saw the wonder in her face. ‘So if the hair be true we must suppose the artist has not lied and it is a faithful likeness.’
‘And this is Miguel Cortes?’
‘I am assured of it, Deborah.’ Her father arched his brows at her. ‘Does his gift please you, my child?’
Deborah stared at the portrait in her hand for a while before answering. She seemed to see another, darker image—a man with laughing eyes and a roguish manner—but she resolutely shut it out. The Marquis de Vere was a man of mystery and shadows, of light and dark: Miguel Cortes had the face of an angel, his mouth curved in a smile of great sweetness.
‘It pleases me very well, Father,’ she replied at last. ‘If Miguel Cortes is as pleasant as his likeness would indicate, I think he would make any woman a fine husband.’
‘I believe it could be a good match for you, Deborah.’ Sir Edward was clearly excited about something. ‘Don Manola’s letter was writ in the warmest terms. He says it would give him great pleasure if our families could be joined in marriage—and he has asked that we visit him. If I find the life suits me, I am invited to join with the Don in a new business venture.’
‘Oh, Father!’ Deborah gazed at him in delight. ‘Does that mean that I should see you sometimes?’
‘Often,’ her father assured her with a smile. He seemed to have shed all his inhibitions about her marriage. ‘I must admit that I wondered how I should bring myself to part from you, daughter—but now it may not be necessary. Don Manola offers me the hospitality of his home whenever I care to visit—and to help me build a villa on his own land if I should wish to settle in Spain. He has told me of a place where sweet oranges grow…’