Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  Which was why he’d married Ada, of course—to help propel him beyond his station. No wonder he became so incensed when he found out his new bride was, in fact, Lord Gui’s “shameful little secret.”

  “Is he married?” Graeham asked carefully.

  “Aye. Pretty young thing.”

  Graeham bit his tongue to avoid asking How pretty? What does she look like? His impending betrothal to Ada’s twin sister was, of course, tied into the rest of it, so he must needs conceal that, as well. “You’ve met her?” he asked.

  “Nay, but I’ve seen her—from a distance, when he first brought her back from Paris last year. She did a little gardening out back last summer. I understand she’s been suffering with a rheum of the head since Christmastide, though. The apothecary’s daughter brings her a tonic every day, but it doesn’t seem to help. Some people are like that—they nurse head colds all winter and get better once spring comes.”

  “It’s spring now,” he said. “It’s mild.”

  She shrugged. “Mayhap she’ll show herself soon. It’s time to plant her garden.”

  From the window that faced the alley, Graeham heard a steady clacking that grew louder as the source of it—a leper, undoubtedly—approached. The sorry creature, wearing a black, hooded cloak and tattered straw hat that disguised both disease and gender, shuffled into sight with a walking staff in one hand and the required wooden castanets in the other. A shabby pouch, which probably held all his worldly possessions, was slung over the poor soul’s back.

  “Good morrow, Thomas.” Joanna approached the window.

  The leper paused and looked in, smiling. “Good morrow, mistress.” The gruff, thick-tongued voice was the only indication that this was a man, for his face had been so ravaged by thickened skin and discolored nodules as to nearly obliterate its distinguishing features. One eye was clouded and clearly blind and his ear lobes drooped with ulcerous flesh, but strangely, it was his complete lack of eyebrows that Graeham found most unsettling. He’d seen many victims of disfiguring maladies, yet still it took an effort of will to regard this man impassively when his instinct was to look away in horror.

  “I looked for you when I passed by the stall,” Thomas told Joanna. “I got worried when I saw the front window still shuttered.” That he spoke like a gentleman, despite his affliction, surprised Graeham.

  “I’m just a bit late getting set up this morning,” she said.

  The leper’s one-eyed gaze fell on Graeham, lighting on his bandaged ribs and splinted leg. “You’ve graduated to taking in human strays, I see.”

  Joanna’s chuckle had a pleasantly rusty sound. “This is Graeham Fox, who stumbled upon a bit of bad luck yesterday. Serjant, I’d like you to meet Thomas Harper.”

  “Who no longer plays the harp—” Thomas raised the scaly hand that held the clacker to display his curled-up fingers “—having stumbled upon a bit of bad luck himself.” He laughed wheezily at his jest. Graeham found himself yet again at a loss for words.

  “I’ve got some porridge in the kitchen,” Joanna told Thomas, “if it hasn’t burned to the pot by now. The serjant has refused my offer of it, and the cats won’t touch it. ‘Twill only go to waste if you won’t have a bowl.”

  Grinning and shaking his head, the leper dropped his clacker, which was tied to one end of the rope knotted around his waist, and lifted a battered tin bowl, which was tied to the other. To Graeham he said, “She has a way of making it seem as if I’m doing her some great boon by accepting her charity.”

  “You are,” she said. “I can ill afford to be throwing food away. I’ll meet you at the kitchen.”

  “Many thanks, mistress. Good day to you, serjant.”

  “Good day,” Graeham said as Thomas walked away, his steps slow and laborious. His toes were undoubtedly as misshapen as his fingers.

  “How old do you think he is?” Joanna asked him.

  “Sixty?”

  “He’s six-and-thirty.”

  “Poor bastard. Do you feed him every morning?”

  “Aye. And sometimes he’ll come back later, if his begging hasn’t gone well—or if he just can’t stomach the humiliation any longer. He’s a proud man, Thomas. He was a renowned harpist once—he used to play at the Tower of London for King Henry. He’ll never play the harp again.”

  “Not with those fingers.”

  “‘Tisn’t just that they’re deformed. He’s got no feeling left in them—nor in his feet.”

  “None at all?”

  Joanna shook her head. “He showed up here once with blood pouring from his foot. He’d stepped on something sharp and not even known it. And last winter, a candle set his shirt on fire in back, but he had no idea until he smelled the linen burning. His back ended up blistered.”

  Graeham winced. “Is there no lazar-house where that poor wretch can live?”

  “There’s St. Giles, and I’m told it’s a fine hospital, regardless that it’s for lepers. But Thomas likes his independence, and I can certainly understand that.” She sighed. “He’s waiting for me. I must go. Is there anything you need before I open up the shop?”

  Graeham rubbed the sharp stubble on his jaw. “A razor, if it’s not too much trouble. That is, if you’ve got one.”

  “There should be one upstairs, with my husband’s things. I’ll fetch it as soon as Thomas has had his porridge.”

  After she closed the leather curtain behind her, Graeham struggled awkwardly to his feet, got out of his drawers, lathered up the wash rag, and set about scrubbing himself from head to toe. Movement in the croft caught his eye: Joanna Chapman crossing to the kitchen, in front of which Thomas Harper sat on a barrel with his tin bowl, waiting for his breakfast. His feet, Graeham saw, were bound in rags.

  Joanna went into the kitchen and came out a few moments later, carrying a big ladle full of porridge, which she poured into his bowl. Evidently she didn’t notice Graeham watching her. This was a small, deep window; he’d be hard to see from outside.

  Beyond the croft, le Fever’s stable yard was deserted. In his kitchen, the wench continued to stir and chop, happy as a plump house sparrow. The sitting room and bedchamber were empty, the solar windows still shuttered.

  So...the bald-headed man had lied about being Byram. Still, it was possible he and his cohorts had been hired by le Fever—likely, even. He’d known Graeham’s name, and had been lying in wait for him; how could that be if le Fever hadn’t put him up to the attack? The greedy mercer had wanted those fifty marks—he had pretensions to keep up, after all—but without the indignity of having his wife snatched away from him and returned to her father.

  Had those rapacious thugs actually handed the stolen silver over to le Fever? Fifty marks was a great deal of money, especially now that so little of it was being minted. Coinage was scarce of late; folks who had it hoarded it, and the rest relied on barter to get by. Fifty marks might have been just enough of a temptation to make double-crossing le Fever worth the risk. In that event, Graeham’s attackers—those who survived—would most likely simply disappear, and le Fever would never find out that Graeham had escaped death at their hands. Even if they dutifully turned the money over to le Fever and admitted having left Graeham alive, the mercer might reasonably assume that they’d at least succeeded in driving him away.

  Assuming he stayed out of sight.

  Graeham heard a soft thump and turned to find the black and white tom cat on the deep sill of the alley window. The animal had a black nose on a mostly white face, making him look rather like a jester Graeham had once seen who’d painted his face like that for comic effect. He began to squeeze his bulky body between the iron bars, then noticed Graeham. Startled, he backed up, leapt down from the sill and sprinted away.

  Graeham took stock of his situation as he dried himself off. Fate, it seemed, had landed him in the perfect vantage point from which to carry out his mission, or at least prepare for it, injuries or no. From the rear storeroom window, he had an unobstructed view of the backs of the su
rrounding houses and shops, as well as their yards, gardens and outbuildings. He could see into the windows of Rolf le Fever’s house, the stone house next to it, and nearly every house on the west side of Milk Street, without moving from his bed.

  The prudent thing would be to recuperate right where he was. At St. Bartholemew’s he’d be isolated outside the city walls, but here he could keep his nose to the ground. If he was clever, perhaps he could ascertain the status of Ada le Fever—possibly even arrange for her to return to Paris—despite his shattered leg.

  Sitting on the edge of the little cot and leaning over the wash bowl, Graeham poured water from the bucket over his hair and reached for the soap.

  He could write to Lord Gui and let him know that there were complications, but not so grievous as to jeopardize his assignment. He supposed he could write to Phillipa, as well, assuring her that, although the wedding would be delayed, he was still eager to claim her for his wife. But given that he’d never met the woman, nor communicated with her at all except through her father, perhaps it would be best to let the baron deliver the message for him.

  Above all, he must reassure Lord Gui that he had every intention of bringing Ada home at the earliest possible opportunity—and then he must do so. Failing at his mission was not an option; he had far too much at stake.

  * * *

  Kneeling in the rushes in front of the big, iron-banded trunk at the foot of her bed, Joanna twisted the key in its lock. This had been Prewitt’s trunk, where he’d kept his valuables even after she’d banished him to the storeroom. All during their marriage, she’d never seen the inside of it; she’d never had the key until the Genoese official had returned her husband’s effects to her upon his death. When the shock wore off, she’d gathered up his clothes and belongings from the storeroom, washed what needed washing, and unlocked the trunk to store them away with his other things.

  Raising the trunk’s heavy lid, she felt the same mixture of grief and anger that had assaulted her the first time she’d done this, eight months ago. Just as it had then, the scent of her husband—or rather, of the herbs in which he’d bathed—rose from within the trunk to sting her eyes and clutch at her throat.

  She’d loved that scent when she first met him. It had captivated her; everything about him had. His sleek black hair and long-fingered hands, his dark and yearning gaze when he looked upon her, his easy laughter...the charm, the attention, the breathless need, the kisses and promises...He’d cast a spell on her.

  It hadn’t mattered that he was of the mercantile class and she was Lady Joanna of Wexford. Nothing had mattered but that they should marry and be together always.

  Always.

  Joanna smoothed her hand over the mantle lying folded on top of everything else in the trunk—silky-smooth purple wool trimmed with black lambskin. Prewitt had been wearing this the first time she’d ever laid eyes on him; he’d been so devastatingly handsome she could barely stand to look at him. Someone had complimented the mantle, and he mentioned that he’d gotten it on his last trip to Montpelier, where he went twice a year to buy Sicilian and Byzantine silks—although he’d also been to Sicily several times and Constantinople once. Oriental silks came through Alexandria, and these he purchased at the Italian ports. Joanna, who’d never been farther from Wexford than London, had been astonished at all the places he’d been. Never had she known a man more well traveled, more sophisticated, more strikingly beautiful.

  And he wanted her for his wife.

  Her. Many times she’d thanked God in her prayers for bringing Prewitt Chapman into her life.

  In the beginning.

  Joanna removed the mantle and placed it on her bed. Beneath it in the trunk were two silk tunics, a sleeveless wool overtunic and a felt cap, which she withdrew and set on top of the mantle. Next came four pairs of silk chausses—the connected pairs he’d favored, which were like snug trousers, coming all the way up to the waist. She set these on the bed, then pulled out two pairs of russet braies, which she’d made for him right after their wedding, but which he’d never worn; a man who made his living importing silk, he’d declared, ought not to dress in baggy homespun trousers like a water carrier.

  She added the braies to the stack on the bed, thought about it for a moment, and set a pair aside. Shirts and underdrawers came next. She chose her favorite shirt, of India muslin—Prewitt had bought it in Rome—and put it and a pair of drawers with the braies.

  At the bottom of the trunk, she sorted through belts, shoes, mantle pins, gloves and sundry other odds and ends until she found what she’d been seeking: Prewitt’s little steel looking glass in its leather case, his knifelike razor, his whetstone and his oxhorn comb. She put these with the clothing she’d set aside for Graeham, and then she turned back to the trunk, contemplating the carved wooden box at the very bottom.

  Joanna had never seen this box until eight months ago. The first time she’s opened it, she’d felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She’d contemplated pitching it into the Thames, but in the end she’d kept it. It was, after all, her most meaningful memento of her marriage, and its presence at the foot of her bed would serve as a constant reminder not to let herself be used again as Prewitt had used her.

  She lifted the lid of the box, steeling herself to its contents: a tangle of ladies’ stockings; a dozen or more garters; a pink kid glove; innumerable locks of hair tied with ribbons; hairpins of ivory and silver; a desiccated rose; a little pot of lip rouge; a handful of earrings, mostly cheap glass; and several chemise sleeves, some still redolent with their owners’ perfume.

  One of the locks of hair was hers.

  She slammed the lid on Prewitt’s collection of souvenirs. What was it Hugh had called him last night? “Handsome devil,” she whispered out loud.

  Joanna dumped Prewitt’s clothes back into the trunk, relocked it, and descended the ladder with the things she’d put aside for Graeham. The leather curtain over the storeroom door was closed. She pushed it aside. “I’ve brought you some—”

  She gasped. He stood in front of the cot, completely naked except for the splints on his leg and the bandage around his ribs, toweling his hair dry.

  “I’m sorry.” She dropped the curtain and backed up into the salle. “I...I...didn’t realize you—”

  “It’s all right,” he called through the curtain. “Here. I’m covered up, more or less. Come back.”

  Joanna stared at the curtain, hugging the clothing and shaving gear to her chest. It had been five years since she’d viewed Prewitt’s unclothed body, but what she remembered of her husband was a far cry from what she’d just seen of the man in the storeroom. Graeham Fox had the body of a soldier, a body that had been molded into a weapon, hard and sinewy. He was a formidable male animal, in every respect. Prewitt, although several years older, had looked—in all particulars—like an adolescent by comparison.

  “Mistress?”

  “Um...I brought you some clothes. I mean, I brought you the razor, of course, but I also...I thought perhaps...” Babbling lackwit.

  Parting the leather curtain, she found Graeham sitting on the cot, the damp towel draped over his lap, his splinted leg straight out before him with his heel resting on the floor.

  “Um, here.” She took a few steps toward him and reached out to hand him the items. Fool. Did she think he was going to bite her?

  He’d washed his hair, she saw; it was wet and snarled, with tendrils sticking to his forehead. His face, without its layer of grime from yesterday, glowed with vitality, and there was something almost aristocratic about his high-bridged nose and well-carved cheekbones. He looked younger and even handsomer than she’d realized.

  He held the braies up. “Perfect. These are just what I need to fit over this splint.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  He still struck her as naked, covered by that flimsy towel and nothing else; Joanna was hard-pressed to keep her gaze on his face. His chest was smooth and layered with muscle, his legs uncommonly
long. He shifted, and the towel slipped down an inch, uncovering the upper edge of the patch of dark hair on his lower belly.

  “There’s a favor I want to ask of you.” Graeham set the clothing next to him on the bed and laid out the other things on the chest, frowning in a preoccupied way. “Not a favor, precisely. A...proposition.”

  “What kind of proposition?”

  “From things you’ve said, I gather you’re in...rather difficult circumstances.”

  A mannerly way of asking whether she was destitute. Joanna lifted her chin; if she wouldn’t share her predicament with Hugh, she most certainly wouldn’t share it with this virtual stranger. “Not at all. I live simply because I choose to.”

  Graeham looked at her, his eyes searingly blue in the morning sunlight. “Because I can help you,” he said in measured tones. “I have silver, as you know. ‘Tis my overlord’s, of course, but I have the authority to spend it. Some of it could be yours. Naturally...I’d want something in return.”

  She stared at him, hoping he didn’t mean what she thought he meant.

  “I’d like to stay here,” he said when she didn’t respond. “To live here for the next two months or so, while my leg heals. Instead of going back to St. Bartholemew’s.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s all you’d want of me? To let you stay here?”

  “Well...no. There would be something more.”

  She nodded, her jaw set. “I thought as much.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I should have used that axe on you last night,” she said, fury making her voice quiver.

  “What?”

  “Instead, I gave you refuge. And this is how you repay me—insulting me in my own home.”

  “By what manner did I...” His eyes lit with sudden revelation. “Oh.” He stood; the towel dropped to the floor.

  She spun around and swept the leather curtain aside.

  “No, don’t leave,” he said quickly. “I’m an idiot—I spoke clumsily. I didn’t mean...that. I would never make such a proposal.”