Lady Merry's Dashing Champion (6 page)

"I know almost nothing."

"Why should I risk my employment, miady? And what does it matter, since you will be sacrificed, whether you succeed or fail. Chiffinch cares nothing for his people, only the game. Even if you win through, he will not risk that you would reveal your part and thereby reduce his glory. He's after a knighthood."

Meriel leaned forward and clutched Agnes's hand. "Confide in me, because we are together in this venture. Don't you see that if I do not survive, you will not be allowed to live to tell of failure, either? If I do win, I will see you bettered ... Somehow, I swear it."

Agnes looked alarmed at that, but the truth of Meriel's words at last softened her face. "What do you want to know?"

"What lies before me? Chiffinch will not tell me the whole of it."

"I think because he does not know himself more than a few steps ahead. Lady Felice was caught with plans for the defense of the Thames, or rather how unprepared we are. Chiffinch had been on the watch for someone who was close to the Duke of York to appear at the shop of a known Hollander spy. Her ladyship's noble arrogance and greed caused her to fall into his trap. But Chiffinch cannot risk the Dutch knowing her ladyship has been exposed. I overheard him say he means to use you as a lure to bring out more at Whitehall in the pay of the enemy. That is all I know. Mayhap you will learn more as Chiffinch questions the countess."

"But why chance sending me to the palace where Lord Giles could expose me?

Agnes sighed. "Because no one would believe that Lady Felice would stay from court in the country for longer than a week. Not even for her health, as has been put about. Mayhap 'tis one of Chiffinch's tests. If Lord Giles does not discover your identity, then the Dutch might not. The Dutch fleet commander has seen Felice but once while with her husband on a diplomatic mission several years ago. That is probably when they recruited her."

Meriel's patriotic anger flared. "The woman has betrayed everything!" Then abruptly she sat down, shaking. "You mean he intends to send me to the Dutch fleet as Lady Felice." Agnes didn't answer. Meriel fairly shrieked at her, "Doesn't he?"

Agnes shrugged. "Expect anything."

After each session at the spy hole, Meriel was sent away to repeat an imitation of Lady Felice's haughty speech, practice her carriage and manner of walking, first with Agnes and then each evening with Chiffinch to that hard taskmaster's rare satisfaction. Now all this learning took on a life-or-death meaning and Meriel's mind was wonderfully concentrated on her lessons.

A simple thing though it was, Meriel found it was most difficult to learn that a countess never looked down because nothing was expected to be in her path.

Yet all was easier than the formal court curtsy. The hasty dip of a servant maid would not do for a highborn lady. Bending one knee, stepping back on the other leg, sweeping the three-foot train of heavy velvets and silks attached to her court dress to the rear while sinking to the floor, all with eyelids languid, took two full days of almost endless, exhausting practice.

On her third night of training, she was awakened by Agnes, who helped her dress. "What? Not more curtsy practice. Please, Agnes, I beg of you, allow me to sleep."

Agnes looked away. "I promise your ladyship. Not more curtsy practice this night. Be brave."

Meriel stumbled sleepily after her. "Brave? What could be worse?"

They came to a lower room with a burning brazier, and the funny little doctor, Wyndham by name, standing beside Chiffinch. The spymaster pointed to a stool near the brazier, and Meriel sat down.

"You have done well, Meriel St. Thomas. But to be Lady Felice in truth, both to Lord Giles and to the Dutch, you—"

To protect Agnes, Meriel had to pretend shock. "What do you mean be Lady Felice to the Dutch, sir? I know I'm to pretend to be the countess at Whitehall so that the enemy will not know they have lost their spy. I am even prepared to pass false information, but—" Quickly, Meriel stood, backing away from the brazier, for she had focused on a metal rod with a flattened end, glowing red hot in the sea coals. "No," she said, having no doubt as to the spymaster's plan.

"I must protest, sir," the doctor said, horror writ on his features. "The wound could fester and suppurate, beyond my powers to cure."

Chiffinch ignored him. "It is your choice, girl. You submit to becoming Lady Felice in all ways without question, or I am pleased to offer you a quick boat trip to the Clink prison, where you will be bound and thrown into the Thames some foggy night. I cannot risk that you might trade what you know to the Dutch for some revenge or benefit."

Meriel shivered, feeling the water close over her head.

Chiffinch smiled, which did not restore her confidence. "Submit to scarring, m'girl, and be successful in this wifely masquerade for only a month and—"

"A month! Blessed lord, how could I not be found out in such a time?"

"Mayhap two weeks," Chiffinch said impatiently. "Our captains report that the Dutch are on the move in the Channel. As soon as their fleet sails south, you will be substituted for their spy, Lady Felice."

"How substituted? And then what?"

"You will be told what you need to know as you need to know it. If you succeed in convincing the Dutch that you are Lady Felice, they will give you a fortune and sanctuary in Holland. If you do not succeed—" He made a cutting motion across his throat.

"Holland! Nay, I will not leave my country, not for any fortune."

For a moment, Meriel thought he would hit her or order one of the yeoman guards to put a pike through her chest. Still, she stood straight and as resolute as her quavering in-sides would allow.

Chiffinch spoke through clenched teeth. "If you are successful and make your way back to England from Holland, or perhaps convince the Dutch there is more service you can render from London—" He stopped, squinting at her.

She realized that he would promise her anything without any thought of keeping his word. Actually, the promise was less than she expected.

"—You will have a pension at one hundred pounds per annum and receive a small house and garden off the Strand. You have but one charge: never to tell your tale during your lifetime if you wish to end it in your bed."

Meriel flung his offer back at him, marveling at courage that did not seem her own. "One hundred pounds for a hot branding like any common pick-a-pocket, for being a false wife to an English hero, who has done no wrong, and lastly, for making a fool of a fleet of Dutch admirals, who are not fools. You demand much of a countrywoman and hold your spies cheap, sir."

The spymaster ground out the words: "Perhaps we could arrange marriage to an ailing country squire of good estate." He lost the last of his sorely tried patience. "Now choose, girl! I have not all night to argue with a serving wench!"

"No serving wench, sir, but the Countess of Warbor-ough." She resumed her seat, and lifted her hair. It was obvious which course was easily the most desirable, and truth to tell, had ever any English maid been pensioned so well for playing the wife of a handsome hero? The memory of Lord Giles keeping Ms posture erect and perfect in the king's Presence Chamber caused her to forget fear of danger and of the burning pain for the moment. She would do nothing for Chiffinch, but for the Earl of Warborough. ... A plan began to take form in her mind. Lord Giles would never know, but
she
would know that he had been spared discovering his wife a traitor, and the following public humiliation. She would do this for him. Meriel St. Thomas, an orphan girl, would save the honor of an earl.

The little doctor turned his face away as the yeoman guard lifted the iron, saying, "You must be very still."

"No, not you," Meriel said to the guard, knowing that this was one time she could give the orders. "You do it, spymas-ter. A man should be first to do the deeds he commands of others." She looked in his eyes, and saw surprise and something more: admiration.
Hey, well, a very little admiration, but there.

Meriel swore to herself that she would not scream, not shake in her skin and not cringe away. If she was to be worthy of the hero of the Battle of the Four Days, she must bear this as he would.

She felt the heat of the poker flattened into the shape of Lady Felice's scar before she heard the sizzling of her own flesh and more... the smell of it, like an animal on a kitchen spit. The pain was instant, flashing through her entire body, and she did not think she could keep her oath a moment longer, when the poker was removed, taking her skin away with it. She looked up into Chiffinch's face, her own eyes swimming, but no tears falling.

"I have indeed not been mistaken in you, my lady," he said, bowing. He replaced the poker in the brazier and left the room without another word.

The little doctor hurried forward, a salve on his fingers. "England is fortunate in her women, my lady."

He was a royal physician, but Meriel believed she had a friend in him. One she might need again.

Five days later, Lady Felice, Countess of Warborough, returned to Whitehall from Harringdon Manor near Great Yarmouth on the Norfolk coast. Meriel's training had taken one day longer than the promised week to reach a perfect degree of court curtsy.
Hey, well, a real countess would practice a lifetime!

Her ladyship's majordomo met the coach. He informed her that Lord Giles was inspecting the river forts and escorted her and a line of servants carrying many cases to her apartments, where her ladyship dismissed all with a wave of her delicate bejeweled hand, claiming utter fatigue from her long journey over racketing coach roads from Norfolk.

Meriel collapsed into a large tapestry-covered chair, one of a handsome pair placed before a cheery fireplace. She was grateful for the heat, the old palace being chilled most nights and mornings even in May. Meriel knew that she had passed the first test. A servant who saw her daily had accepted her without question. Now she must gather her thoughts before she had to use them for the ultimate test, her first meeting with Lord Giles.

Alone, Meriel had time to examine what had brought her to this moment. She would take Lady Felice's place to save her own life.... Yes.... for a way out of servitude, no matter how gentle . .. yes ... but for far more. For the hero of her dreams. For the Earl of Warborough. For Giles. She tried to halt her fantasies about a man she had seen but once from a distance, yet they fed her starved heart as they had for more than a year.

Taking a very deep breath, the new Lady Felice touched her soft linen handkerchief to the still aching, weeping scar, but sat straighter in the chair, folding her now softer hands on her emerald green silk gown. They were shaking slightly, so she smoothed the wrinkles, which certainly indicated hard travel, smiling at the delicacy of material that was nonetheless appropriate for this difficult job. She heard maids in the next room shaking out her clothes and putting them away. She could smell the lavender and raised a finger under her nose to stifle a sneeze. Would she have to face the ultimate test of a wife on this first night? For king and England, after all. She smiled because she could not deceive her own heart.

A delicious shiver traveled through her and she stoked the fire higher. She had only to call for a servant to perform that duty, but she wanted to be alone in this place, surrounded by a room that had often held Giles Harringdon, a place that had more luxuries than the whole of Cheatham House. The marble floors were covered with turkey carpets that were meant to hang on a wall; a japanned cabinet on a gilded stand with enough scrollwork to cover an entire bed was in place against one wall. A pendulum clock and a giant marble vase with dancing gilt goddesses stood in one corner. She doubted any of it had more purpose than just to be beautiful.

Pulling a chess table nearer, she delighted to see finely carved and polished mahogany pieces. But the delight faded when Meriel remembered that her good Sir Edward would not be able to play at endless games with her, since he thought her to be dead. Chiffinch had thought of everything. He'd ordered a girl's corpse with battered features dressed in Meriel's own plain stuff gown thrown into the Thames at low tide, to be fished out by men paid a bounty for such work. It was reported that Sir Edward accepted the death of his maid, saying the girl had wandered into London alleys against his express warning.

Meriel poured a small glass of brandywine from a decanter near her and drank it down, knitting together her frayed nerves. Leaning her head against the chair back, she closed her eyes, going over in her mind how she would greet the Earl. . .. Er, her husband, when he returned. Coldly, she had been taught. Lady Felice had said in plain speech that she and Lord Giles rarely had use for their marriage bed, at least with each other.

She would have time to prepare herself for their first meeting, to practice concealing her secret love for him. And it would take practice, though she'd learned early and often to conceal her true feelings. Yet none of them had been of love.

Dozing, she found herself dreaming quite a different idea.
Hey, well, a young woman can be forgiven such dreams, can't she ?

Upon a knock, the door opened, and the majordomo stepped inside. "The Earl of Warborough, your ladyship."

Giles Matthew Harringdon strode through the door, so tall he bent his head to the side, then stood erect, a heroic statue become full living flesh. He stopped and bowed stiffly.

Meriel was too astonished by his unexpected appearance to move, though she did manage to exclaim, "But I thought you engaged at the river forts."

Giles dismissed the servant and shrugged. "Then I cannot be here."

There was so much sarcasm in the words that Meriel was jolted from her reverie. She gathered her trembling legs under her, stood and curtsied, calling down blessings on Agnes for the long, difficult hours of practice she had supervised.

The earl moved with long strides toward her across a richly hued carpet, his sensitive mouth clamped in a hard line, his face without expression. "Are you going to swoon at sight of me, m'lady?"