Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “But… what about this uncivilized hour?” Iris somehow managed to tease, her breath already coming in little gasps.

  “Perfectly fitting.” Sandhurst kissed her then, before she could ponder his words. How convenient that she was always so hot and willing…

  A loud, irritating tapping began on the bedchamber door. Impossible, he thought dimly. No servant could be so foolish. The racket continued until he finally lifted his head and shouted, “God’s life, stop that!”

  “Sandhurst? Are you awake? It’s Rupert! I must speak to you!”

  Rupert! What the hell was his illegitimate twit of a half brother doing in London—at his town house—at dawn?

  “Don’t you know what time it is? Go downstairs and have them bring you an egg or something. I’ll join you after I’ve bathed and dressed.”

  “No, no, no!” Rupert’s tone grew shrill. “I must speak to you now. I’m coming in!”

  Furious by now, Sandhurst threw off the covers, bare feet meeting the chilly, rush-strewn floor. He yanked on his hose before throwing open the door.

  “Be grateful I’m sparing your life, crackbrain!”

  Across the chamber Iris clutched the thick covers against her chin and stared in shock. It wasn’t often that Sandhurst lost his temper.

  Now he was leading the slight, spindly younger man to his dressing room. Rupert gaped openly in Iris’s direction until he suddenly found himself closed in with his ominous-looking half brother.

  “Don’t be angry, I implore you!” he whined. “I’ve come to help you!”

  Sandhurst took a deep breath before replying coldly, “Pray explain. Quickly.”

  “The duke is here. Our father!”

  “I appreciate the clarification,” he said sarcastically. “Just tell me what the devil is going on!”

  “Well, well, we were all settled in at Aylesbury Castle for the winter. Patience, my dear wife, and Father, who had a chill, and our younger sister. Cicely—”

  “Rupert, I bloody know who lives at Aylesbury Castle! I am still a member of the family.” It galled Sandhurst to be instructed by this stammering fool. If his own mother, the duchess, were still alive, Rupert Topping would never have managed to infiltrate the family. Five years ago Andrew’s mother had died after an accidental fall, and the duke, ill and lonely in his castle, had allowed his old lover. Jane Topping, to take residence with the son she insisted was the duke’s. Sandhurst, already estranged from his father, lived far to the south in London, and Cicely, at eight years of age, was not a fit companion for a crotchety old man. So Jane Topping made herself at home, while Rupert, then nineteen, treated his father as if he were God. After Jane, too, died, Rupert had stayed on, playing the dutiful son in the Marquess of Sandhurst’s absence. Even the horse-faced Patience Topping, recruited as Rupert’s wife last year from the village of Bubwith, had wormed her way into the family’s bosom.

  Lord Sandhurst’s scorn for the entire situation that the duke had allowed to develop was almost surpassed by the repulsion he felt for his obsequious half brother. As a consequence, Sandhurst stayed far away from his family and the already cool relationship with his father virtually disappeared.

  “Oh, I know that you are one of the family, my lord!” Rupert was blubbering. “You’ll never know how grateful I am—How honored—to know that I am your relative! I would do anything to help you, to bridge the gap between you and our father, to heal the wounds, to—”

  Pained, he closed his eyes. “I perceive your meaning.”

  “Well, the thing is, I had a suspicion that Lady Dangerfield might be here, and I was afraid that our father’s valet might come to your chambers to inform you of our visit. Kettlewell tells Father everything—he’s almost like a spy!” Something in Sandhurst’s eyes caused Rupert to get a grip on himself. “Well, that’s getting ahead of the story. You see, this is what’s happened. We were all settled in for the winter, as I told you, when King Henry sent word that he wanted to meet with Father at Whitehall. We had no idea what it was about, but the duke allowed all of us to accompany him. Cicely was especially eager for the chance to visit you!” He paused to nod cheerfully several times. “We arrived in London two days ago and went immediately to Whitehall. Exciting times, I don’t mind telling you! Father met with the king, then last night he suddenly announced that we must come to your house at once. It was quite late when we arrived—you were, umm, asleep—and the servants saw us to our beds.”

  Now that the gist of the story was revealed, Sandhurst hated to prolong the interview, but curiosity got the better of him. “You are not exactly privy to the intimate details of my life, Rupert, so I wonder what led to your suspicion that Kettlewell might find Lady Dangerfield in my bed.”

  Rupert blushed and dropped his eyes. “Lord Dangerfield arrived back from a journey to Cornwall yesterday. As I understood the story, he went to his home, but his wife was absent. Then he—uh—visited the court at Whitehall, where he imbibed a rather injudicious amount of ale and told anyone who would listen that Lady Dangerfield was embroiled in an open affair with you, that she was doubtless in your bed as he spoke, that—”

  “Am I to assume that you were one of those people who ‘would listen’?”

  “Only for your sake, Sandhurst!” Rupert assured him eagerly. “Only to help you!”

  “I’m a grown man. I don’t want your help.” He turned away before reason fled entirely and he said something brutal. “Leave me now to bathe and dress. You may tell my father when he awakens that I will join him in his chambers.”

  Sandhurst returned to his own bedchamber to discover that Iris had gone back to sleep. Drawing back the covers, he lightly spanked her shapely bottom and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “You’ll have to get up, I’m afraid.” He spoke distractedly, staring out the leaded-glass windows. Snow swirled against the panes. “Didn’t you tell me that your husband returns from Cornwall today?”

  “Yes, but not until midday.” Iris ran her fingertips down the long, tapering line of his back. “Come back to bed, my lord,” she purred. “I’m still hungry.”

  “Save your appetite for Dangerfield. He’s back, and he knows you weren’t in his bed last night. I’d suggest that you dress and hurry home to appease him, if you still can….”

  *

  Joshua Finchley, faithful valet to the Marquess of Sandhurst, prepared a hot bath for his lordship, then laid out fresh clothing and took his leave. Unlike most noblemen, his master preferred to shave, bathe, and dress himself.

  It was past eight when Sandhurst stepped into the corridor, clad in rich gray velvet. Puffs of white silk showed through the slashings of his doublet, which was sewn tight at his narrow waist. A neat white fraise stood up against his golden-brown neck.

  “Andrew!” cried a familiar female voice. He turned to find his sister, Cecily, running toward him, her face alight with love and excitement.

  “Child,” he murmured, and caught her up in his arms. “How you’ve grown.”

  “I’m almost a lady. I’m thirteen. A boy in Yorkshire has already asked for my hand!”

  Sandhurst blinked, then smiled. “He was refused, I trust!”

  “Of course, silly!” She stood on tiptoe, beaming up at him. Gleaming black curls framed her heart-shaped face which was dominated by beautiful sable-brown eyes. She was petite and slender, with gentle curves that he hadn’t remembered… no longer a baby sister. “I’ve missed you so! How can you leave me up there with… them like this?” Cecily’s voice had dropped to a whisper. She glanced down the hall toward Rupert and Patience, who appeared to be standing guard outside the duke’s bedchamber.

  “I’m not a fit guardian for a young lady,” he replied with more than a twinge of guilt. If only their mother hadn’t died, none of these problems would exist.

  “Do you think it right that I’m being raised by—”

  “My lord?” Rupert and Patience called in unison. “Your father awaits.”

  “I’m coming.�
� He looked down at Cecily’s earnest little face. “We’ll talk about this later, all right?” Then, walking down the corridor toward the duke’s bedchamber, Sandhurst could only feel a familiar rush of hostility. This was his house, after all, and he was thirty-two years old, yet other people continued to attempt to manipulate his life! They arrived without an invitation, ordering him about—

  “Andrew? Andrew, where are you?” came the querulous voice of his father.

  Lord Sandhurst paused for a moment and closed his eyes. Old instincts rose to the surface, but he pushed them back. He’d learned, years ago, that fighting with his father gained him nothing but frustration, though it had taken him many more years to perfect a more subtle approach. Opening his eyes, he practiced a smile on Rupert and Patience as he went through the doorway.

  “Father, it is good to see you.” Approaching the bed, Sandhurst extended his hand.

  The Duke of Aylesbury wore an old nightgown faced with fox. He sat up in bed, propped against a mountain of pillows, his white hair combed back from his craggy face. In his youth the duke had looked not unlike his handsome son, but now his excellent bone structure served only to accentuate sunken cheeks and a sharp chin. His life had been bitter, made bitterer still by this rebellious son and heir who had the effrontery to smile at him and extend his hand in pretended affection.

  “I’m too old for your games, Andrew. Sit down.”

  A muscle moved in his jaw. “I’d prefer to stand.”

  “I see no point in wasting time on aimless chatter,” the duke continued. “I’ve come to tell you that you’re going to be married. King Henry has found a wife for you, and I’ve agreed.”

  Chapter Six

  London, England

  February 5-6, 1532

  Sandhurst’s brown eyes were startled. “I must be hearing things. I could have sworn I heard you say that you and King Henry had chosen a wife for me!” A half-repressed laugh escaped his lips.

  Unable to resist the impulse to toy with his prey for a moment, the duke smiled. “You have only the king to thank on that score. All I have done is set the seal on his plans.” Aylesbury’s smile widened maliciously.

  “Have I no say in this? No voice in my own destiny?” Somehow, he managed to sound calm, though the scar that cut down through his upper lip had gone white.

  The duke’s smile faded. “You can say whatever you like, but I don’t think you’ll fight the will of the king the way you’ve always fought me. It’s time you learned that there are more important things than your wishes! You have never done the smallest thing to please me, your father, but you’ll please me now whether you want to or not!” He let out a hoarse bark of laughter. “For years I’ve begged you to take an interest in my estates. I’ve longed to see you married, with sons of your own, before I die. I’ve encouraged you to make a place for yourself at court, but it seems that the most you could bother to do has been to waste your charm on Henry’s favorite ladies. Even the future queen goes doe-eyed at the mention of your name! You’re a fool, Andrew, and now you’re going to pay for it!”

  The old man was leaning forward, his face crimson as he railed at his son. For his own part, Sandhurst thought that he must be having a nightmare. Dimly he heard himself say, “Perhaps I’ve turned away from you because I sensed that your interest was not in me but in the family title. As the future duke it seemed that I was to be molded like a piece of clay, not a person.”

  “Bah! You needed a firm hand! You still do! If you wanted affection, you should have listened to me and taken a wife years ago. That’s what a good woman is for.” The duke smiled again, thinly. “You see, I’m doing you a favor! After your French bride begins warming your bed, you’ll thank me! The chit probably won’t even speak English, which’d be a blessing. If she can’t talk to you, there will be just one thing for her to do—spread her legs!”

  “This is utter madness,” he muttered.

  “Tell it to King Henry,” the old man shot back.

  “What if I were to do just that? I’m not some twelve-year-old who needs a marriage arranged for him.”

  “You don’t seem to be able to arrange one on your own!”

  “God’s life, why does the king care about my marital state?”

  The duke shrugged. “As I understand it, someone with power in the French court wants this girl disposed of—tidily, of course. A proper English husband who would take her to live across the Channel seemed the solution. Henry was glad to give his aid because he needs assistance from King François in winning over the pope, more than ever now, I’d say, since there are rumors that he and Anne Boleyn were secretly married last month.”

  “But why was I chosen to be sacrificed?”

  “Perhaps it was the will of God,” the old man suggested with another malevolent smile. “Besides, you’re an ideal candidate. You’re an eligible, wealthy aristocrat, and the king would seem to have reasons of his own for wanting to see your wings clipped.”

  “And if I refuse to be a party to this madness? Will the king send me to the Tower and deprive me of my head?”

  “Oh, no, we decided that the punishment should fit the crime. If you choose to rebel again, not only against me but the King of England, you’ll lose your inheritance. Obviously no one can take your title away from you… and you will be Duke of Aylesbury when I die. But you would receive nothing else. Henry has agreed to make Rupert a baron this year, and upon my death all my wealth and estates would pass to him.”

  Sandhurst couldn’t bear to look at his father any longer. Dazedly he walked to the window, every muscle in his body clenched. Yet through his rage he had to repress an urge to laugh wildly at the sheer lunacy of the situation.

  “Your bride arrives in April. Her name is Micheline Tevoulere,” the duke continued, his tone triumphant now. “You’ll be married at Aylesbury Castle, of course, and King Henry has assured me that he intends to be present to join in the festive celebrations!”

  *

  A fire blazed in the winter parlor of Lord Sandhurst’s town house, casting shadows that leaped and danced up the walls. On one side of the chamber his lordship presided over a table covered with the remains of supper. He was alone except for his friend Sir Jeremy Culpepper, who nibbled leftover bits of cheese, meat pie, and a fig someone had discarded after one bite.

  “I still can’t believe it,” Sandhurst muttered. He’d lost count of the tankards of ale he’d consumed that day. Raising the latest, he took a long drink and sighed loudly.

  “You’ve said that already,” Jeremy complained. “Dozens of times. What’s that little carcass on your dish? Quail? Did you pick it clean?”

  Glancing heavenward, he pushed the plate across the table. “How can you eat at a time like this?”

  “I’m not the one getting married to a stranger… from France,” Culpepper replied cheerfully. “D’you suppose the chit speaks English at all? What’ll you do if she can’t learn?”

  Leveling a deadly stare at his friend, Lord Sandhurst said, “If you find this amusing, you can go upstairs and have a few laughs with my father.” He drank again, then added, “Besides, now that the shock’s wearing off and I’ve had the day to think about it, I’ve decided not to participate in this farce.”

  Sir Jeremy Culpepper was a pudgy young man with curly blond hair, an unguarded tongue, and a tendency to flush when overcome by emotion. His cheeks were quite red now as he cried, “Be reasonable, old fellow! You’ll be ruined if you refuse to go along with this plan of the king’s! Not only will you be penniless, but you’ll be shunned at court. Come to think of it, you’ll be shunned by everyone!”

  “Say no more,” Sandhurst mocked. “You’re scaring me!”

  “But how would you live?”

  He felt himself relaxing, muscles untensing as a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I believe that I could make my own way rather well. You know, this house is mine. I bought it with profits from the horses I breed in Gloucestershire. I could sell it and buy anot
her place in the country, then support myself with the horses.” He paused, brightening. “The prospect of being out from under my father’s thumb is rather appealing, actually.”

  “Look here, you’ve got to consider this matter carefully! You’re talking about a decision that would affect not only your life but also the lives of your descendants. Just because you chafe under your father’s admittedly overbearing efforts to dominate you, that’s no reason to punish your offspring! He’s an old man; he’ll be dead soon. How will you feel then if you’re breeding horses at some manor house while that ticklebrain Rupert is lord of Aylesbury Castle and the Sandhurst estates in Gloucestershire?! What will you tell your children? Don’t raise that eyebrow at me! One day you’ll have a family. How will your children feel when they grow up and Rupert’s offspring own what’s rightfully theirs?” Jeremy paused, breathing hard, then leaned forward to play his ace. “And what do you think your mother would say if she were here?”

  Sandhurst wasn’t smiling anymore. He closed his eyes and drained the tankard of ale. “I refuse to go like a lamb to the slaughter, Jeremy.” He sighed. “My father would have a collar and a leash fitted for me, and I’d be angry for the rest of my life.” After a brief pause, he added, “Even angrier than I am already.”

  “I know, I know. And you’d doubtless take it out on your poor little French wife, and then on your children,” Culpepper fretted. He drank from his own tankard, brow furrowed in thought.

  His lordship was thinking, too, turning the various aspects of the situation over and over in his mind, yearning to discover a ray of light in the darkness.

  “It’s possible,” Jeremy murmured doubtfully, “that the French might be a beauty. Perhaps she’s even a bit of a rebel like you—maybe that’s why they want to exile her!” Warming to his imaginings, he reached for a half-eaten sweetmeat on a distant plate and nibbled on it happily while continuing, “You might take one look at her and fall desperately in love!”

  “It’s more probable that Mademoiselle Tevoulere is a plain, shy fourteen-year-old with spots…” He rubbed the edge of his jaw, staring into space. “However… it might be prudent to investigate further before I make a decision.”