Knight of Pleasure

by Margaret Mallory

  “If I do not get to speak with Stephen alone, Linnet, tell him”—she said it with her eyes still closed—“tell him… there is no child.”

  It hit her again. There was no child.

  Isobel opened her eyes. In the mirror’s reflection, she saw her fist clutched against her chest and slowly lowered it to her lap. Did she hope Stephen cared? That he would suffer as she was suffering? Nay, she would not wish this pain on him.

  Linnet touched her shoulder. “I’ve finished.”

  Isobel met Linnet’s eyes in the mirror. “Wait outside the door until I call you.”

  Linnet nodded.

  “Trust me.” Isobel stood and took the shawl Linnet held for her. Taking a deep breath, she hurried out the door.

  She was within a few steps of the entrance to the hall when a voice behind her stopped her.

  “I was just looking for you, my dear,” de Roche said, taking her arm in a firm grip. “We should welcome our guest together.”

  She would not have even a moment alone with Stephen. Before she could prepare herself, de Roche led her in.

  Her heart stopped at the sight of Stephen. Last night, he looked like an impossibly handsome prince, bedecked in jewels and gold trim. Today he was in the sort of clothes he regularly wore. Their very familiarity made her ache to run her fingers along his collar, down his sleeve.

  The usual humor and mischief were missing from his expression, however. His face was drawn, the laughter gone from his deep brown eyes. How could she have found fault with the easy, lighthearted Stephen of before? The man who made her laugh. She missed him now more than she could say.

  It was evident Stephen’s purpose in coming was to speak to her alone. It was equally clear de Roche would not permit it. After straining to make small talk for a few minutes, Stephen rose to his feet.

  “I leave the city today,” Stephen said, “so I must bid you adieu now, Lady Hume.”

  “Wait!”

  She said it more loudly than she intended. Both men looked at her expectantly. De Roche’s eyes were narrow, suspicious; Stephen’s hand was on the hilt of his sword.

  “Sir Stephen, I must ask you to take back the two servants you loaned to me,” she said in as cool a voice as she could manage. She lifted her chin. “My new husband has more than enough servants to meet my needs.”

  Stephen furrowed his brow. “You are welcome to keep Linnet and François all the same. I am sure they are a comfort to you in your new surroundings.”

  “My husband provides for my comfort,” she said. “I do not wish to have the girl here. She is headstrong and difficult. Her behavior is an embarrassment to me.”

  Stephen visibly stiffened. The shocked disapproval on his face almost made her falter.

  She kept her expression hard and called out, “Linnet!”

  On cue, Linnet came quietly into the room. The girl played her part to perfection. She stood, eyes cast down, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “You and your brother are leaving with me,” Stephen said. Lips pressed together, he grabbed Linnet by the wrist and charged out. At the door, he turned to cast a scorching look at Isobel that nearly knocked her from her feet.

  The hall was silent, save for the muffled sound of retreating footsteps. De Roche stood, mouth agape, staring after them. It happened so quickly he had no time to object—or to speak at all.

  She had done it.

  She had saved Linnet and François. They were in Stephen’s hands now, and he would protect them. And she had uncovered the plot to murder King Henry. The twins would tell Stephen, and he would warn the king. It was enough.

  After collecting François, Stephen strode ahead, barely aware of the twins trailing at his heels. Every now and then, Linnet’s sobs penetrated his stormy thoughts, and he was angry all over again.

  How could she dismiss Linnet so coldly? Little Linnet, who was wholly devoted to her. What she said about Linnet was surely true, but Isobel was always patient and tolerant with the girl before. What happened to her? Was it possible for a woman to change so much in so short a time?

  Her new husband provides all the “comfort” she needs! Comfort, indeed. That remark was meant to cut him to the quick. It had.

  He did not notice until he reached the Palais that François and Linnet had fallen behind.

  “Sorry, we could not keep up,” François said as they caught up to him on the steps. It was not François, whose legs were nearly as long as Stephen’s, who could not keep up.

  Stephen’s blood was still pounding in his ears. He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. “I apologize, Linnet. Come, we shall go to my room now.”

  Linnet blew her nose loudly and half coughed, half sobbed. Stephen narrowed his eyes at her—something was not quite right here. Deciding not to press her at the entrance, where anyone could be watching, he led the way to his room.

  The servant assigned to watch him was frantic. “Where did you go, sir? You should have told me—”

  “Be gone until morning,” Stephen said as he shoved the man out of the room, “or I shall tell them how easy it was to slip by you.”

  As soon as he slammed the door, Linnet threw her arms up and danced around the room. “Was I not wonderful? You did not guess! François, you should have seen his face! And de Roche’s!”

  He clenched his fists to keep from strangling the girl.

  “How could you believe Isobel would throw me out?” Linnet asked, rolling her eyes at him.

  “Tell me the reason for this farce,” he demanded.

  In the blink of an eye, Linnet’s face changed from delighted self-congratulation to anguish. “Isobel sent me away so I could tell you that de Roche and his cousin are plotting to kill King Henry.”

  What? His head was spinning. “How does she know this?”

  “By spying on de Roche, of course,” Linnet said.

  Stephen sat down and closed his eyes. Alone, without a friend in this city, Isobel was spying on de Roche while living in his house? He shook his head. “What can she be thinking?”

  “She is only doing her duty,” Linnet said.

  “Is Isobel quite certain of this plot?”

  Linnet nodded. “Aye, she found a letter from his cousin in a locked drawer.”

  God help her, she was taking chances!

  “The cousin writes that all is set to murder the king in church upon some grand occasion.”

  Murder the king! He stopped to think. “I wonder if they mean to do it at the knighting at Easter…”

  “That is what Isobel believes,” Linnet said. “And she says the cousin is Georges de la Trémoille, because the letter is signed ‘T.’ ”

  Stephen nodded, his thoughts on Isobel. “But why did Isobel devise that ruse to send you away? Surely she could have found another way to get a message to me.”

  Linnet’s fair skin went red, and she would not meet his eyes. Stephen turned and raised an eyebrow at François.

  Blushing as fiercely as his sister, François stepped next to him and whispered, “As we were walking here, Linnet told me de Roche was… that he was… after her. She thinks Lady Hume used the message as an excuse to get her away from him.”

  God’s blood. Stephen wanted to kill the man with his bare hands.

  François straightened and said, “She is right to trust you to protect my sister.”

  But who would protect Isobel when de Roche discovered the games she was playing? What could Stephen do now that she was living with the man? Nothing! Nothing at all. She was de Roche’s wife now, beyond his reach.

  He must go quickly to warn the king. Easter was still two weeks away, but men would begin arriving sooner. The conspirators could be in Caen any day, ready to act. He swallowed hard at the thought of leaving Isobel, of perhaps never seeing her again. Still, he had to go. He could not let his king be murdered.

  But how could he leave her?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

  It was one of the Palais g
uards. “This young woman says you arranged a… meeting… with her.” The man waggled his eyebrows and jerked his thumb behind him.

  Before Stephen could protest, a stunning woman with smoky dark eyes emerged from behind the guard. In a voice rich with unspoken promises, she said, “Claudette sent me.”

  Stephen winked at the guard. “Claudette knows the best.”

  He put his arm around the woman and let his hand slip down to squeeze her nicely rounded bottom as he pulled her inside. With another wink and a grin, he tossed a gold coin to the guard and kicked the door closed.

  He moved his hand to the woman’s arm and guided her to a seat. With languid ease, the woman sank into the chair.

  Linnet was scowling at him furiously.

  “My name is Sybille,” the woman said in her sultry voice.

  “You are a friend of Claudette’s?”

  The woman nodded. “I’ve just come from Paris, where I saw her. She asked me to carry some news to you. Something she thought you should know.”

  An hour later, Stephen walked her to the door.

  “Thank you, Sybille,” he said. “I hope coming here has not put you at risk.”

  The woman shrugged her shoulders and gave him an unconcerned smile. “The guards know me. I have visited important guests at the Palais before.”

  Stephen reached into the pouch at his belt, wondering how much a woman like this cost.

  Sybille put her hand over his and shook her head. “I owe Claudette a favor.”

  She ran her tongue over her top lip and leaned forward until her breasts were a hair’s breadth from his chest. She smelled divine.

  “Since it is a very big favor I owe her, I could…”

  “I appreciate the offer, and you are breathtaking,” he said, putting his hand to his heart, “but I cannot.”

  She gave a soft laugh. “You made me lose my wager with Claudette.”

  With a saucy wink at François that made the boy blush crimson to his ears, Sybille went out the door, hips swaying.

  Stephen sat down to think. What the courtesan told him changed everything.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Stephen donned his showy clothes—the heavy gold belt, particolored hose, and all the rest—for his grand departure. He had no choice but to leave the city. A dozen heavily armed men waited outside to make sure he did.

  Guy le Bouteiller, the garrison commander, rode beside Stephen to the gate. Stephen liked le Bouteiller and was glad for the opportunity to have a few words with him.

  “I am flattered,” Stephen said, glancing at the column of men armed to the teeth, “but how much trouble do you think these two children and I could cause on our way to the gate?”

  “ ’Tis not what you would do that concerns me,” le Bouteiller said, returning the smile. “Let’s just say there are men in Rouen who might wish to answer the king of England by returning his envoy without his head.”

  “I tell you,” Stephen said, “an honorable man like you would be happier serving King Henry.”

  Le Bouteiller did not dispute the point.

  Before they parted at the gate Stephen said, “The men of this city make a grave mistake by spurning his peaceful offer.”

  “Return in a few months,” le Bouteiller said in a low voice. “Much could change by then.”

  “The city should take the generous terms he offers now,” Stephen said, not bothering to keep his own voice down. “Next time, King Henry will come himself, and he will bring his army.”

  With that last warning, Stephen turned his horse. He signaled to the twins to follow and galloped out the city gates.

  Isobel felt Linnet’s absence so keenly in her rooms that she simply had to get out for a little while. She slipped down the stairs, intent on reaching the courtyard unseen. Perhaps everything would not seem so very hopeless in the sunshine.

  Seeing Stephen again—and then having him leave her in anger—left her ragged and shaken. Losing the twins at the same time was more than God should ask of her. The gaping hole in her heart would never heal.

  After Stephen and Linnet left, de Roche had taken her hand and told her all was settled. As if it still mattered to her. It gave her no comfort to know de Roche was prepared to go through the formalities to finalize their marriage now.

  She stepped lightly as she passed the door to de Roche’s private parlor. Just when she thought she was safe, the parlor door creaked open behind her.

  She closed her eyes and stood perfectly still, wishing him away. Did God hate her so much that he would even deny her an hour of solace in the courtyard? Now she would have to listen to de Roche lecture her about not following his command to wait in her rooms for him.

  She had a vision of her life constantly alternating between terror and tedium. Pride had led her to this. She would have been better off in her father’s care than under the thumb of this tyrant.

  He cleared his throat behind her. Slowly, she turned to face him. If she could have drawn breath, she would have screamed. It could not be! The man standing before her was not de Roche, but the black-haired man who had led the attack on the abbey.

  She knew she was not mistaken. The distance from gate to church had not been far in the small abbey; the piercing eyes and hawkish face were chiseled in her memory.

  With the slightest inclination of his head he said, “I seemed to have startled you, madam.”

  He did not know her.

  “I—I expected Lord de Roche,” she said.

  His black eyes seemed to go through her. Panic closed her throat as she waited for him to recognize her. Then she remembered: She wore her brother’s clothes that day at the abbey. He had no cause to guess the finely dressed lady before him was the same person.

  “My name is LeFevre,” he said.

  She forced herself to offer her hand to the monk killer. When he touched his lips to it, she swallowed the bile that rose in the back of her throat.

  “And you, madam, are…?”

  “Lady Hume,” she said. “Lord de Roche’s betrothed.”

  His eyes widened. “Philippe’s betrothed?” He paused, as if expecting her to contradict him, then said, “I shall chastise Philippe for not sharing his good news with me.”

  She could not remain in his presence a moment longer.

  Aware she was making an awkward departure, she gave him a stiff nod and turned back the way she had come. The courtyard would not do now. She wanted a barred door between her and the black-haired man. With his eyes burning into her back, she fought not to break into a run before she turned the corner.

  She sat on her window seat, shaking and holding her arms across her belly until she was calm enough to think. LeFevre. LeFevre. Where had she heard the name before?

  Then it came to her. One day she overheard Robert and Stephen speaking in low voices about men associated with the Dauphin and the Armagnacs. They mentioned several names before they noticed her and abruptly changed topics.

  LeFevre had been one of the names.

  So it was the Armagnacs who were behind the attack on FitzAlan and the abbey. What was she doing, sitting here? King Henry was adamant about how important it was for him to have this information. Somehow she had to get to the Palais and tell Stephen before he left the city.

  She was reaching for her cloak when she heard angry voices echoing through the courtyard. One of the voices was de Roche’s. Whoever was arguing with him could not be a servant, because both of them were shouting.

  Damn him! She could not risk attempting to leave the house with de Roche just below. When the shouting faded, she stood on her window seat and leaned out the window. Had they moved into another part of the house? Or were they simply speaking too quietly for her to hear? She would have to take her chances.

  No sooner did her feet hit the floor than the solar door banged open with a crash. De Roche filled her doorway.

  “My Lord,” Isobel said, dipping her head. How would she get to the Palais with him barring her way?

 
De Roche stood glaring at her with hard, angry eyes. “I thought you would wish to know,” he said, his voice slow, taunting, “Carleton has left the city.”

  Though she tried to cover her reaction, she felt herself pale. He has left me, he has left me, he has left me, ran through her head like a chant. She wanted to sink to her knees and cover her face in her hands.

  “I must say, Carleton looked rather grim during his visit to our fair city.” De Roche walked around the solar, picking up things and setting them down again, as though what he said held little interest to him. “Still, I don’t believe it will take him long to forget you.”

  He made a tutting sound with his tongue. “No time at all. In fact, I’m told he looked considerably more cheerful when he rode out the gates this afternoon. But then, he’d just spent an hour with the highest-priced courtesan in the city.” He gave a loud sigh. “Sybille would cheer any man.”

  A courtesan? Without thinking, she parroted the words Robert once told her: “A man may enjoy a courtesan’s company in public without employing her services in private.”

  Roche laughed aloud, appearing to be genuinely amused. “But he did ‘enjoy her company’ in private. The hour they spent together was in his bedchamber at the Palais.”

  “Since Sir Stephen is neither married nor betrothed,” she said through her teeth, “he is free to do as he pleases.”

  De Roche laughed again. “You are mistaken if you think betrothal or marriage will cause a man to forgo other pleasures.”

  A courtesan. Stephen went to a courtesan right after leaving her.

  De Roche cupped her cheek, forcing her attention back to him. “My betrothal will not stop me from taking you.”

  His words made no sense.

  He ran his hands down her arms and encircled her wrists. “You look puzzled, Isobel.”

  The heat in his eyes told her what he wanted from her. With Linnet safely away, she could try to put him off.

  “The banns have not yet been read thrice,” she said.

  He forced her back until her heels struck the wall. Holding her wrists against the wall on either side of her head, he leaned down until his nose nearly touched hers.