Mary cast her eyes to the carpet in a show of humility—goodness, it was rich; she could just imagine her bare toes sinking into it.
“You are even kinder than your reputation would paint you,” she said, dragging her gaze back up to the old man’s jowly face. “But it is I who must apologize for my lack of attention. Surely you must think I had no care at all for you and your plight here at Beckham Hall.”
Now his hoary brows drew together, and although he kept hold of Mary’s hands for far longer than was appropriate, she allowed it. “My plight? If you mean the weevils, I must say that it really wasn’t that bad, and it was only that one instance at Eastertide. By spring all the flour has a bit of them. It was Lady Elmsbeth, was it not? That old gossip! I knew I shouldn’t have let her invite herself. Cook has assured me that—”
Mary gave a laugh that was genuine. It seemed the dowager lady had been keeping a close eye on Beckham in Mary’s absence, and she did hope to meet the woman again soon.
“No, Lord Quimby, I was not speaking of the weevils, although I am aware of the havoc the loathsome creatures can wreak on one’s holy day feasts!” She shook and pressed his fingers with another little laugh and then deftly slipped her hands from the old man’s papery grip. “I meant your plight in holding Beckham in my stead until I returned to England. While extremely noble in service to the king, I’m sure it was hardly convenient for you to take on such a task without knowing the terms. You have my deepest gratitude and I will be certain to relay it also to the king.”
Now the old man frowned in earnest. “Holding Beckham until you returned . . . ? There must be some mistake. I—”
She heard the footsteps behind her, and by Lord Quimby’s wide gaze darting over her shoulder, Mary knew her support was nearby. She turned slightly and took the parchment that was already at her elbow only to hand it directly to the old man.
He snatched it from her, almost all traces of his earlier courtesy gone. “You can’t be . . .” he muttered to himself as he held the parchment close to his nose. “Lady Mary Beckham?” He jerked the parchment down with a rattle and glared at her.
Mary forced her expression into one of gentle surprise. “Lord Quimby, I can’t help but think that you are dismayed—nay, shocked and dismayed!—at my return. I can’t fathom why that would be.”
“You,” he said, the parchment trembling in his hand, “were rumored to have abandoned your home with a known traitor and then thought dead! Save for a handful of letters that could not verify your whereabouts, there has been no sign of you for nearly two years! Henry couldn’t pay someone to take Beckham now—the harbor’s overrun with pirates! No soldiers of any worthy spirit agree to be stationed here, and the sheer lunacy of the types of pilgrims we see through the village now marks the place as little better than a barbarian purlieu!”
She gave him a sideways, chastising look. “Oh, don’t be so modest. The hall is simply lovely.” She leaned up straightaway and tapped the scribbled calligraphy on the parchment with her fingernail. “As you can see, it plainly states that I have returned to Beckham with my husband,” here, she rolled her eyes up to indicate the men behind her, “and that the estate is to be returned to me immediately.” She drew her hand back to fold her fingers together primly before her waist. “Which would be right now.”
“This is outrageous!”
“Why, Lord Quimby, you behave as though you didn’t receive your own copy of this decree from the king a fortnight ago.”
The old man sputtered. “I most certainly did not!”
Valentine leaned around Mary and used his forefinger and thumb to pluck the page from the old man’s hands before he could tighten his grip. “Excuse me. I am sorry, but this one belongs to me.” He straightened behind Mary once more.
“What an embarrassing mistake. I’m afraid you’ll have to speak to the king about it,” she said with an air of grave seriousness. “I wouldn’t dare go against a royal decree myself.”
“Speak to him I certainly shall!” Lord Quimby said in a trembling voice and drawing himself up to his full height. “I’ll depart at first light for the king’s court and—”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. This is a simply shocking turn of events and I think your plan most appropriate.” Mary stepped closer to the old man and took hold of his elbow. She began walking toward the stairs, her arm linked with his. “I shall have your personal belongings sent to the inn right away, and any private servants you have employed.”
“What?” The old man jerked to a stop. “The inn? I’m not going to the inn; I’m staying here, in my home!”
Mary clasped her hands again and gave him a sweet smile and a wrinkle of her nose before she shook her head. “I’m sorry, but . . . no.”
She heard a door open and the pale, thin Father Braund emerged from the chapel at the end of the hall.
“Lady Mary?” he said, his kind voice full of amazement. “Is it really you?”
Her smile deepened as she rushed toward the priest, breaking into a run the last few steps and embracing him.
He drew away and his gaze beamed down at her. “I daresay you look much improved over the last time we met. Have you come home?”
“I have. And not only I, Father, but also several others I’ve brought with me whom I can’t wait for you to meet.”
“She. Has. Not!” Lord Quimby shouted with a stamp of his slippered foot.
“Lord Quimby is rather put out with me, I fear,” Mary said in a pseudo-whisper.
“Shall I try to appease him?” Father Braund muttered, only barely moving his lips. “He’s rather inhospitable on his good days.”
“I understand. But I’d hate for something untoward to happen to him if—”
The old man stalked toward Mary and the priest, already shaking his finger at her, his face alarmingly red.
“You will get out of my house this instant, young woman!” he shouted. “Or I’ll have you forcibly removed! I don’t know what sort of trick you think to put over on me, but—”
Mary saw Valentine and Roman exchange glances before coming up behind the irate Lord Quimby. Before the man knew it, they had flanked him, seizing his flabby arms and lifting him from his feet.
“What? Wha—? Put me down this instant!” he screeched, circling his feet over the rug—it was so lovely and deep. Almost an indigo color. Why, you could nap comfortably on a rug of such thickness. Even make love on it.
Oh, that most certainly would happen, very soon.
Valentine and Roman turned and carried the man toward the stairs, while Father Braund took Mary’s arm and escorted her in their wake. She looked over her shoulder at the design along the edge of the rug—fern leaves, if she wasn’t mistaken. How elegant.
“Put me down!” Lord Quimby’s shouts echoed in the stairs.
“How did you find the continent?” the priest asked her with interest.
“Rather boring in general, I must confess, although it did have its moments,” she said with a rueful smile. “Father Victor sends his regards.”
“Kind of him. I’ve always wanted to visit Melk in the autumn.”
“Oh, you must!” she insisted. “The river is simply lovely.”
They ceased their conversation as they made their careful way down the steps—the old man’s shouts rendering all attempts at speech pointless—and came into the hall.
“Help me, you idiots,” Quimby demanded of the ranks of Beckham’s soldiers, who were lined up in the hall before one of the tables. But they only looked at him briefly before their gazes turned back to the head of the table, where Adrian Hailsworth sat, a small open trunk of coin near his elbow, fresh parchment and quill and ink beneath his hand. A pirate stood to each side behind him as Adrian took individual soldiers’ marks and then doled out the stipend for their continued service to Beckham Hall’s rightful mistress.
“Maria,” Valentine called, gaining her attention to where he and Roman still held the struggling old man aloft. “To the inn, yes?�
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She nodded and blew him a kiss.
Roman was holding the old man with only one hand near his armpit. “I think we should tie him up, Val. He’s kicking me on purpose now.”
“We do no wish to convey the idea that we have detained Lord Quimby in any way. However, I should advise you, my friend,” Valentine said as they made their way toward the guardhouse, “if you think to kick me—” Mary heard his intake of breath. “Yes, that is what I mean. Roman?”
The two men stopped at the top of the stairs and released the man with a little toss. Roman turned away and came back into the hall at once, but Valentine stood on the top step, his arms held wide.
“I tried to warn you, my friend. And now you will have to walk to the inn and carry your things yourself. They will be waiting here for you by the time you have secured other accommodations. Ah-ah!” he said in a warning tone. “If you should come back inside, I will have the soldiers arrest you.” He paused. “Or worse.”
“They’re my soldiers!” Mary heard Lord Quimby wail.
“Good day to you, sir,” Valentine said with a bow and then stepped inside and slammed the door. He dusted his palms together and then placed his hands on his hips to regard Mary with his warm gaze.
“You,” he said with a grin, “were magnificent, mi amor.” He put his hands together in applause as he crossed the floor toward her, and soon the whole of the hall was clapping—even the soldiers, who weren’t entirely sure why but were fairly thrilled with the unexpected wages that now weighed in their hands.
Mary felt her cheeks tingle and she gave a short curtsy to the hall before Valentine snaked his arms around her waist.
“Excuse me, Father,” Valentine said to the priest, who looked on with an indulgent smile. “I must kiss the lady of Beckham Hall now.”
“Valentine,” Mary said quietly, drawing his attention to the blond boy who stood just beyond his elbow.
“Yes, Christian?” Valentine said.
“Is it time now?” the boy said, looking from Mary and Valentine to the faces of the people around the hall he knew, the only people he could now trust. “Can we go find my father?” He dropped his gaze back to the falcon he still held but glanced at Adrian a final time.
Everyone’s eyes went to the man still seated at the table, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his tattooed arms.
“Soon, Christian,” Adrian promised with a nod. “Soon.”
Chapter 15
Dori awoke the next morning with a decidedly strange feeling of warmth about her person; her toes weren’t numb, her chest didn’t hurt, there was no ache in the pit of her stomach nor ringing in her ears. The absence of them all was so startling that for a moment she simply lay on the bench staring at the wall, wondering that she had become so used to the discomforts that the deficiency of them was akin to being reborn into a different body.
The oratory was warm, but she had nearly gotten used to that since Constantine Gerard’s arrival and so she attributed her returning health to the fortifying food they’d eaten the night before, and the strong, piney tea she’d drunk. The heavy, ornate altar cloth slid from her shoulder soundlessly as she pushed herself upright and turned to face the room.
Lord Gerard was sitting before the hearth, the small fire crackling cheerily. His right leg was stretched out before him on the stool and he was stirring the contents of the pot the two of them had nearly consumed in its entirety the night before. She hadn’t yet made a sound and so she thought she should greet him to let him know that she was awake rather than suddenly intrude on his grim pensiveness. But in the perpetual evening of the windowless oratory, his outline was black against the glow of the fire, the silhouette of his face strong and peaceful, and she couldn’t help but take the opportunity to study him. His lashes were darker than his brows or his beard or his long, tawny braid; his eyes reflected the dancing sparks before him. His upper lip was deeply bowed in the center.
Dori felt a stirring in her middle, looking at him at her leisure while he was unaware. He was a very handsome man, older than her, true, but no one could accuse her of childish fancies any longer. She was a woman now, and as she looked at him through a woman’s eyes her mind turned to Patrice Gerard and the horrid rumors that had been the favorite fodder for the gossips before the woman died.
What wife in possession of her right mind would even consider straying in her fidelity to a husband such as Constantine Gerard? And then, in the very next instant, indignation rose up in her chest and Dori wanted to defend the woman; Lady Patrice could have been prompted by any manner of secrets in their marriage, Dori supposed. Perhaps Lord Gerard had beaten her or had had lovers himself.
Perhaps he didn’t even prefer women.
Heaven knew Theodora Rosemont had kept secrets no one would ever guess. Didn’t people likely think her worse than Patrice Gerard? If Dori had felt the choices she’d made were unavoidable, what corner had the countess of Chase been pressed to inhabit?
Dori indulged herself a moment longer by imagining that it had been this man she’d married, his child she’d borne, and her heart beat faster in her chest. What would her life be like now? What boundless opportunities would await her son with a man like Constantine Gerard to bring him up to manhood?
But he’d rarely been in residence at Benningsgate, had he? The sudden thought cooled her enthusiasm for the fantasy she’d been constructing in her mind.
“Good morn, Dori,” he said without turning, and his low, gravelly voice surprised her so that she blinked the last of her musings from her imagination and sat up straight.
He’d somehow known she’d been awake and watching him the entire time.
And he’d used the name she’d bade him call her.
“Good morn,” she said briskly and swung her feet to the floor. “How fares your leg this day?”
He answered with a sigh and glanced at her as she gained her feet and began to fold the cloth into a neat square. “I’d hoped to return to the keep, but it’s doubtful I could climb the ladder for either entry or exit. I’d be in little danger if forced to shelter in the place overnight, but—”
“It would be foolish to attempt it and then have no choice but to stay there because of an injury,” she interjected sharply—more sharply than she’d intended, but the idea of him sleeping alone in that damned place, at the mercy of the spirits of those he loved free to torment his dreams all the night, caused Dori’s stomach to flutter. What memories would they share?
She placed the cover neatly on the bench and then walked to the table to pour herself a cup of water. “You’d likely only make it worse,” she said stiffly, but at least her tone wasn’t so panicked.
“This is still warm,” he said, and when she turned her head to look at him, he was holding the metal cup toward her. “You slept so well last night, I assumed the brew suited you.”
Dori set down the wooden tankard and was struck dumb for a moment. She stepped toward him and took the cup.
“Thank you,” she said hesitantly.
He nodded and looked back to the fire.
“I assume you did not sleep well?” she said, and then blew on the surface of the fragrant tea before raising it to her lips and sipping, watching him closely over the rim.
He stirred the fire with a long poker. “I’ve much on my mind after yesterday,” he said. “And my knee pained me so as to make finding a comfortable position a trial.”
Dori was certain that sleeping on the floor hadn’t helped, even if he’d made his pallet before the small hearth. The stones were still damp and sucked the warmth from anything that touched them. And yet he hadn’t complained about the location of his bed.
“Lord Gerard—” she began.
“You called me Constantine yesterday,” he interrupted, and the idea that he’d noticed her use of his given name shocked her so greatly that she fell back into silence.
Could he perhaps begin to see her as someone who was not at odds with his goal? Not Glayer Felsteppe’s wife, not
detestable Theodora Rosemont, but as she saw herself—Dori, someone he could trust?
He glanced at her. “It’s doubtful I’ll recover Benningsgate or my title any matter. Once I’ve accomplished what I came here to do, it’s possible the king’s men might apprehend me. I’d likely be hanged.”
“But,” Dori stammered, “I promised you that I would vouch for you. And I will. I will go to the king myself and testify to Felsteppe’s misdeeds. You’ll surely be exonerated.”
Constantine turned his head with a sniff of incredulous laughter. “Henry’s not going to believe you.”
He might as well have struck her. She felt the breath go out of her lungs and her fingers tightened around the warm cup still in her hands. The tea he’d made her. She looked down into its dark, murky depths to avoid his amused gaze and then stepped to the table to set the cup down carefully. Her eyes burned with humiliation as she stepped to the peg on the wall to remove her cloak, now little more than a long, hooded rag.
“Have I upset you?” he said behind her.
Her fingers paused for only an instant as they struggled to fasten her cloak at her throat. “How could you have possibly upset me?” The blasted loop was so worn and stretched that the knot wouldn’t stay hooked. “You only suggested that my testimony would be completely worthless and unreliable. Am I known as a liar now, too? I fear I’ve been out of the circle of gossip, so I can’t be sure what’s been said of me since my fortuitous death.”
He sighed. “That’s not what I meant.”
The cloak wouldn’t fasten, so she jerked it from her shoulders and threw it to the stones before turning around to face him.
“You didn’t mean the king couldn’t possibly believe me because of my reputation before my father died? Because I journeyed all the way to the Holy Land to become married to the very demon I would accuse? Because I allowed everyone to believe I was dead while I cowered in this hellish, ruined hovel and my infant son is at the mercy of that beast and his servant dog?”
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