A Woman of Passion (3 page)

“How? My mother protested, but the
bloody
Court ruled against her,” Bess replied passionately.

“The property could have been held by trustees. You should have had a lawyer. They are costly but worth every penny. The side with the better lawyer
always
wins.”

Bess pondered his words for a moment. “That's a valuable piece of advice you've just given me. Oh, I wish I were a man. The things they teach men are so worthwhile. Lady Zouche's daughters are taught Latin and Italian, which are nearly useless, in my opinion. I persuaded the Zouche steward to teach me to keep the household accounts, a far more practical skill.”

“For when you run your own vast household,” Cavendish teased.

“Don't laugh at me, sir. I
shall
have my own household!” she vowed. “I want to learn so many things … how to buy and sell property, for instance. Oh, I warrant you could teach me a lot. I am insatiable!”

His groin, finally starting to behave itself, suddenly went wild. Lord God, he thought, the things I'd like to teach you. His mouth curved. “You'd make an apt pupil.”

They were at Whitefriars' stairs, and perversely William didn't want to let her go. He jumped up onto the stone steps to hand her from the barge. “You have been delightful company, Mistress Elizabeth Hardwick. Lady Zouche is an old acquaintance of mine; it seems high time I paid my respects to her.”

Bess at last relented and gave him a dazzling smile, perfectly aware that she had engaged his interest.

L
ater that day, when Bess handed her employer a letter from Frances Grey, she suspected that she was about to be severely scolded for absenting herself all afternoon without permission.

“Robert Barlow was indisposed, Lady Margaret,” she explained, “so I delivered your letter to Lady Frances myself. She was extremely pleased to see me, for she had an invitation for you.”

Margaret Zouche opened the letter and eagerly scanned its contents. “Oh, how lovely. We are invited to Chelsea for all of next week. Frances and I will be able to catch up on the latest gossip! Bess, my dear, there is so much to do, I don't know where to start.”

“Don't worry about the girls, Lady Margaret. I shall begin packing immediately.”

“You are so organized, I don't know how I ever managed without you. Come to my dressing room; I should like your advice on what clothes I will need for Chelsea.”

Bess was delighted. She took a great interest in Lady Zouche's wardrobe and had a natural flair for fashion.
When she arrived in London, Bess had owned only one change of clothes, but now, thanks to her wealthy employer, she possessed four dresses. As she accompanied Lady Margaret to her dressing room, Bess decided this was the perfect opportunity to double her wardrobe!

As the two women looked over dozens of expensive gowns, Bess said casually, “A friend of Lord Dorset bade me carry his regards to you. Now, let me think, could his name have been Cavendale?”

“Rogue Cavendish! He's Henry Grey's dearest friend and a devil with the ladies. I must include him in my next dinner party; Sir John enjoys his company, and I admit he's set my heart aflutter since I was a girl.”

Bess looked unsure. “This gentleman seemed older than you, Lady Margaret.” The ploy worked like a charm.

“That's most flattering, Bess, but I believe we're about the same age. He was widowed when he was quite young … he can't be much more than thirty.”

“Thirty? When you wear pink you look no older than twenty.”

“La! Remember the ages of my daughters! I shall take the pink to Chelsea.”

“Some colors age a woman,” Bess murmured.

“Really? I never thought of it before. Which colors?”

“Shades of purple, definitely, and gray is so drab.” Bess stroked an emerald velvet gown covetously. “Green makes the skin look sallow, I think.”

Lady Margaret gathered up the offending garments. “Here, take them; aging isn't a problem for you, dear child.”

As Bess hung the precious dresses in her wardrobe, she hummed a merry tune. The sleeves were separate and interchangeable, and in her mind's eye she pictured how
striking the green velvet sleeves would be paired with the elegant gray and how vividly the colors would contrast with her blazing hair. Bess had known in her bones that today would be lucky for her. She rubbed her cheek against the velvet and thought breathlessly of Rogue Cavendish. A widower in his thirties! No wonder he had seemed so worldly. And she was going to see him again. There was little doubt that Lady Zouche would invite him and no doubt whatsoever that Cavendish would accept!

Bess suddenly remembered poor Robert Barlow and ran up to the attic on the fourth floor, where the male servants were boarded. She rapped lightly on the door to his room before opening it. He was lying on his narrow bed. “Are you recovered, Rob?” she asked softly.

“I feel much better. Thank you, Bess, for what you did today. I wrote a letter home, telling them how good you are to me.”

She saw the look of adoration on the boy's face and wished he would stop mooning over her. “Next week we are going to Chelsea. You will have an opportunity to rest and regain your strength while we are away.”

Robert looked crestfallen. “I will miss you sorely, Bess.”

“What rubbish!” she said impatiently, hurrying off to ready her charges for dinner.

In the Great Chamber at Whitehall, Henry Tudor entertained his courtiers at dinner. As William Cavendish and Henry Grey pushed their chairs away from the banquet table, the latter remarked, “As has become custom, the food and wine were far too rich and plentiful.”

Cavendish drained his goblet. “Speak for yourself,
Henry. He's catering to the greatest appetites in England tonight, my own included.”

“I take it you are not referring to food and drink.”

Cavendish's amused glance swept the hall. “The raw ambition of the people in this room tonight is exceeded only by their lechery.”

“Your own included,” Henry added lightly, stroking his blond mustache.

Frances Grey kissed Cavendish. “We're at Chelsea next week; do come, William; I'll arrange a hunt. You didn't come to Bradgate this summer, as you promised, so I won't take no for an answer!”

As Frances moved off toward the dancing, Cavendish thought the blood sport here tonight would be greater than anything Chelsea had to offer and was glad he had pressing business in Dover. Then he wondered what had put him in such a cynical mood. He was thankful that his occupation involved a good deal of travel and he was not expected to dance attendance at Court regularly. The king had surrounded himself with beautiful females every night since he had beheaded foolish little Catherine Howard, and most of them went willingly to his bed.

Cavendish saw his old friend, Lord William Parr, just returned from putting down trouble on the Scottish border, and sought his company. Parr was of medium height, but his military bearing and close-cropped beard gave him an air of authority. Cavendish was in time to hear Parr make an assignation with the beauteous Elizabeth Brooke, daughter of Lord Cobham. As she kissed Cavendish, she murmured in his ear, “No tales, Rogue,” so William forebore to tell his friend that she had been spreading her legs for the king.

“You two seem very cozy,” Parr accused.

“That is because I have just betrothed my daughter to
the lady's brother.” Marriage was the single most important step to advancement in Tudor society, and the espousal of children was a serious business.

“Splendid!” Parr clapped him on the back. “When I wed Elizabeth, we'll be related.”

Cavendish did not ask Parr what he planned to do with his present wife.

Thomas Seymour, the handsomest man at Court, made his way across the room to greet Cavendish and Parr. Seymour's sister Jane had made him brother-in-law to the king, and though Jane was now in her grave along with three of Henry's other wives, the king was extremely fond of his late wife's brother. Thomas put his arms around both men in a friendly gesture. His golden beard curled about his laughing mouth, making him look like a young god just stepped down from Olympus. “Cavendish, you're a bloody genius. Your plunder of the monasteries has made me a wealthy man.”

“God's death, that incautious tongue of yours will send us all to the block.”

Seymour roared with laughter, and Cavendish couldn't help but like the good-natured young devil who hadn't a cautious bone in his body. Thomas was enjoying the intimate favors of Lord Parr's sister, Lady Catherine, in spite of the fact that she was wed to old Lord Latimer. Seymour thumped Parr on the back and said outrageously, “Do keep me informed of Latimer's health; the old swine can't hang on much longer.” Wealthy widows were snapped up within a week at Court.

William Parr looked at Cavendish and quipped, “Christ, before long we'll all be related.”

When Cavendish caught sight of Lady Catherine Parr Latimer, his gorge rose. Her demeanor was the epitome of respectability, yet she was cuckolding her husband
with Thomas Seymour, and according to his friend Frances Grey, Catherine Parr was also the king's latest choice of bedmate.
The Court is no better than a brothel—an incestuous one at that!

William excused himself and made his way down the chamber, for once ignoring the inviting female glances being cast his way. He noted with cynicism the men who never left the king's side. Edward Seymour, Thomas's older brother, was fawning on Henry, while the equally ambitious Lord John Dudley monopolized the conversation. Cavendish walked directly to the lord treasurer, Paulet, who immediately held up his hand to stay William's words.

“No need to tell me—your fees are late again, my friend. I am buried beneath an avalanche of paperwork and ask you to exercise patience.”

“I have a solution, my Lord Treasurer. While collecting money for the Crown, I can collect my own fees at the same time. It will relieve your office of unnecessary work. I'll still submit my accounts in detail, but they will be marked
paid in full.
”

“Yes, I think we can accommodate each other in such a satisfactory manner. I'll get the king's authority for you. You did a most commendable job at St. Sepulchre's in Canterbury.”

William thanked the treasurer and moved off, gratified to have accomplished the profitable business for which he had purposely come. He contemplated the cardroom and the ballroom, both overflowing with predatory, expensively gowned females willing to lift their skirts for him at the crook of his finger. But for some reason he found the company tonight unappealing.

As Cavendish left Whitehall, his mind conjured a picture of a girl with large dark eyes and red-gold hair. Elizabeth
Hardwick was the antithesis of the shopworn courtesans who bartered their wares at the Tudor Court. She was so fresh and young and, yes, innocent! His chance meeting with her had shown him just how jaded his palate had become. Rogue Cavendish decided she would make a most enchanting mistress.

The following afternoon, Bess was giving the Zouche girls an embroidery lesson. She had learned needlework at her aunt Marcy's knee. Not only did Bess do exquisite work, she also drew original designs on the cloth. While the girls worked on samplers, Lady Margaret and Bess were putting the finishing touches on a pair of sleeves that were to be a gift for Frances Grey. Bess had drawn the Tudor roses, whose petals were now filled in with Spanish silk.

When the house steward announced William Cavendish, Bess was so disconcerted she pricked her finger. Her mistress, all aflutter, dismissed her daughters and flew to the mirror. When Bess arose to follow them, Lady Zouche said, “I really shouldn't be alone with him —just sit quietly and do your embroidery.”

Cavendish was so gallant, he had Margaret eating out of his hand in seconds. His devilish gaze flicked over Bess in the far corner, and she knew immediately his words were meant for her.

“Forgive me for coming uninvited, but I haven't been able to get you out of my mind since yesterday.”

“Cavendish, you are a flatterer and a rogue. It's been far too long since we've seen you.”

“You are even lovelier than I remember.”

Bess's mouth curved into a smile as she lowered her eyes and bent her head over her work.

William's glance fell on the sleeve that Lady Zouche had been embroidering. “I've interrupted your needlework. Tudor roses—I had no idea you were so talented.”

“ 'Tis a gift for Lady Frances; we are invited to Chelsea next week.”

“I, too, am invited. I was going to decline, but you have quite changed my mind. Suddenly, I cannot wait.”

His voice was deep and, to Bess, held a wealth of hidden meaning. If he did not stop, Lady Zouche would suspect something. She must find a way to warn Cavendish to guard his wicked tongue. When a footman came in with wine and wafers, Bess jumped up quickly, relieved the servant of the tray, and brought it forward.

“Thank you, dear child.” Lady Zouche picked up a wineglass and, turning her back on Bess and Cavendish, carried it to a side table across the room.

With her back to Lady Zouche and a forbidding look of disapproval on her face, Bess offered him the tray and whispered, “Stop!”

His eyes glittered with amusement. He knew Margaret could neither hear him nor see what he did. “No,” he murmured. He noticed the drop of blood on her finger, quickly raised it to his lips, and sucked.

Bess yelped and almost dropped the tray. She felt her cheeks begin to burn. He really was a damned rogue to toy with her right under Lady Margaret's nose. She could be dismissed on the spot.

“Is something wrong, Bess?” The question was sharp with suspicion.

“Yes, my lady, I'm afraid I've spilled the wine.” Bess very deliberately tipped the glass so that it splashed over Cavendish, then bit her lip at her own daring. “Forgive me, sir. I'll get a footman.” Bess glanced up into his eyes
and saw that her deliberate act had not angered him; rather, it had challenged him.

Though the village of Chelsea was only a few scant miles upriver from the city of London, it was considered to be in the country. Here, too, sumptuous mansions had been built along the river, but all were surrounded by meadows, beyond which lay dense woods.