Lisbon: Richard and Rose, Book 8 (2 page)

“You may tell them that we will accept their presence in the morning. I will not allow them on board until then. Send them back.”

The captain touched his forehead with two fingers in an informal salute. “But, my lord, they are waiting to embark.”

“Let them wait.” He turned away, the conversation obviously done.

The captain made a gesture of helplessness to the officials in the boats. Several lights glinted off the telescopes some were holding, so they could see his action perfectly well. He snapped out an order, and a man scurried to the rear of the vessel to send a message by using that intriguing combination of flags and gestures.

I watched as the man sent the message and someone in the boat waved wildly back. The response didn’t appear as controlled. More furiously angry.

Smiling, I went below to join my husband for dinner. Very few people got the better of him.

After another night aboard spent in my lonely bed, I dressed, ate and visited my children before going back up on deck to discover if the small boats had reappeared.

Richard was already there. It was the first time I’d seen him that day. He studied me, searching, I knew, for signs of strain, but I had perfected my veneer of serenity since my illness, and I was sure he could see nothing untoward. In truth, I was longing to see my sister, and I wanted nothing to get in the way of that today. In her last letter to me, she said she would try to meet us at the pier, but she could not promise it. We had sent word, but she didn’t usually reside in the city, rather, in her house a few miles distant.

I saw the hard edge to Richard’s expression, the firm line of his mouth, and knew he was thinking of the safety of me and our children. We still had enemies, despite defeating two of them last year. Every great lord had adversaries, but because of family matters and Richard’s zeal to further the cause of justice, we had more than most.

Richard appeared smooth, in control on the surface. He had dressed up for our visitors. On board, he had been at his most informal, preferring country coats and plain materials, often leaving off his formal wig to bare his golden hair to the sun, but today he had returned to being the leader of fashion, and he appeared at his daunting best.

Magnificent only began to describe his appearance. He looked formidable, in full command of his destiny, and for that matter, ours too.

He’d chosen to wear his favourite colour that matched the hue of his eyes. His clothes were laced with silver that glinted in the bright sunshine; he could challenge the King of Portugal himself for magnificence. The large faceted silver buttons on his coat flashed, echoing the ones on the hilt of his dress sword, which I knew for sure were real, all adorned with the Kerre family coat of arms. He’d applied some powder to his face, and a tiny black patch teased the corner of his left eye. He would cow the officials into allowing us a speedy passage into port today.

I would not even attempt to compete with Richard in his peacock glory, but I had dressed more formally than had been my wont recently. I wore my blue silk gown over a silver-grey petticoat, with blue ribbons in my hat and pearls around my neck and wrists.

My gloves were of fine kid, pure and clean, the kind I would have preserved carefully in my Devonshire days, but now I discarded them when I considered them worn. Sometimes I smiled at the grand lady I’d become, but I’d never lost sight of the reserved, practical daughter of the gentry. Richard used to say he loved them both and adored the differences, but he hadn’t said that in a while.

Three rowboats approached the yacht. There must have been eighteen people aboard those small boats, if not more. It made interesting viewing, and when they came close enough, I could see how full they were, men jockeying for places, the wide skirts of their coats crushed between their bodies.

Next to me, Richard murmured, “I’ll do my best to get rid of them. I have the stairs blocked so they will not get to the children without our permission.”

“Good. By your dress, you could wear that coat at court.”

“They want a show. I could do nothing but oblige.”

I laughed, and some of the reserve between us melted. I could see it in his eyes as his expression softened.

But we weren’t alone, and we didn’t have the chance of being alone again for some time. In the company of other people, he would feel safer because he knew I couldn’t show him the fondness I felt for him in more than conventional ways. I couldn’t try to seduce him, undress for him or share intimacies.

However, he had unbent somewhat from the cold, restrained man who greeted me on my return to sanity after the fever broke. He no longer conducted himself like some kind of animated marble statue, but he was still far from accepting effusive displays of affection in public. I would take what I could while I could and be pathetically grateful for it. It would help to sustain me in the battle ahead. For it was a battle and would continue to be so until I had him back in my bed.

A middle-aged man led the way aboard, concentrating on his steps up the rickety rope ladder to the yacht, so he didn’t look up until he had both feet planted on the wooden deck. Just as well really, because he nearly tumbled over the side when he lifted his eyes and saw Richard.

Totally in his element, Richard raised a brow, the rest of his face still and waiting. The man stuttered something, and one of the men with him murmured, in English, “The pilot, your excellence.”

“Your lordship.” Richard’s valet and general factotum, Carier, had unobtrusively arrived on deck and stood between the pilot and my husband. “You address him as ‘your lordship’.”

The pilot bowed low but straightened and held up his chin. For that alone, I liked him. Richard hadn’t dressed like this for him, an honest man doing an honest job, but the threatened officials, who arrived in the pilot’s wake. They crowded on deck with their entourage, and chaos ensued, the noise from many feet shuffling on the wood and the conversation, jabbering in a language I barely understood, shattering the relative tranquillity that we’d had before their arrival.

Richard moved to stand in front of me, partially blocking me from their view and impeding their access. He glanced at Carier, who went to the captain and said something. The captain nodded and gestured to his men, who came forwards and effectively boxed in our visitors. We had thought our yacht spacious, but it didn’t appear so now.

They wanted to see the English gentleman. Perhaps Richard’s reputation had gone before him, or maybe the magnificence of the vessel sailing into the harbour had aroused their curiosity, but I was sure most of the people had no right or reason to be here.

I felt severely underdressed when the port officials extricated themselves from the mob and came forwards to stand before us. One in particular wore garments that rivalled my husband’s, although to my prejudiced eyes, neither so well fitting nor so beautiful, and not embellished with a coat of arms. However, his cocked hat bore braid and badges, but whether some kind of badge of office or the fashion of Portugal, I had no idea.

Another wore the sober black garb of the priest, his only adornment the heavy silver crucifix around his neck. His flat, broad-brimmed hat sat completely straight on his head, like one of those china figures used for snuffing candles, the resemblance more noted by the way he had his hands folded neatly before him. Another man, the one who spoke English best, as it turned out, dressed in what looked to me like ordinary day wear, neat but unremarkable. They all seemed to have at least three assistants or followers, though that could hardly be the case, although they milled around so much it appeared that way.

These men spoke English, one fluently, the rest in a variation that sounded charming but that I found almost incomprehensible. I spoke French and Italian well, but not Portuguese and certainly not this version of English. They barely spared me a glance as they goggled at Richard before bowing low.

For one moment I thought he’d present them with one of the graceful, mocking bows London knew him for. Richard was greatly renowned for his bows, the depths of which he calculated to a nicety. If he gave someone a bow far too deep, he was mocking them, and they often knew it. As we didn’t know the intricacies of Portuguese behaviour, we couldn’t be sure that they wouldn’t take one of Richard’s low bows seriously, and I guessed that was why he kept his response to a curt nod.

The plainly dressed man spoke. “My lord, my lady, I have pleasure in introducing to you
Señor
Antonio Alvares, our esteemed Magistrate of Health.”

Richard raised a brow. “We have no sickness on board to my knowledge. We are all in positively rude health.” He did not reveal the wave of sickness many of the crew had suffered since it had passed and would only have delayed us now.

The man relayed the fact to his compatriots and received a string of instructions in return.

Richard spoke perfect Spanish and could probably work out most of what they were saying, although Portuguese had a different cadence to my ears. Less musical than the liquidity of Spanish, but attractive. I couldn’t understand a word, but I employed my time listening to the rhythms and imagining how it would translate into bars and staves.

Richard remained silent, his chin up, his eyes half-lidded and his mouth firm and severely straight.

The interpreter gave us a sketchy bow and an apology. “The magistrate says that everyone must appear on deck.”

I glanced around, and a bright head of fair hair on one of the visitors caught my attention, though by the time I returned for a closer look, it was gone. I shivered.

Richard, being Richard, noticed at once and bent to me. “You are tired?”

“Not at all. I just saw something that recalled another time to mind. I’m fine, truly.”

The sight had brought back what we’d left behind, and what we’d been forced to do to ensure our safety and that of our children. I would not let such memories affect how I behaved now. Dead people could not hurt me, nor could people half a world away.

Chapter Two

Señor
Alvares refused to budge on his decision to gather everyone on deck, even though Richard stared him down. Any longer and we’d all freeze from the fresh wind whipping up.

“You wish to disturb our children?” Richard asked the inspector, his voice positively arctic. “You wish me to produce my children like a man parading his stock before a buyer? You are doomed to disappointment, sir.”

The official spoke, and our interpreter reddened. “It will be sufficient if you allow
Señor
Alvarez and myself to see the children. We will go to them, he says.”

“If you absolutely must, then that is the only way you will see them.”

Richard lifted his hand. The lace fell back from his wrist as Richard gave a signal to Carier, who nodded and hurried below, ignoring the officials intending to block his presence. When the magistrate opened his mouth to protest, Richard shot him a warning glance that made him close his mouth, his words remaining unspoken.

“Only you two gentlemen. You understand? Then you all leave.”

The magistrate bowed, flourishing his hat in what I would have considered far too deep an obeisance. Probably an insult, though I couldn’t be sure. I’d have to ask Lizzie about the customs here.

The Magistrate of Health strolled down the deck, the crew parting before him like one of the gentle waves supporting our vessel. An uneasy silence settled on the men.

The pompous man sauntered around, occasionally pausing to take a man’s hand and feel his wrist, perfunctorily doing his job. No doubt he had other tasks, like reporting back to his masters that we had the bare minimum of weapons—not counting the ones the captain kept hidden behind the boards on the lower deck, which the magistrate would not know about—and that a great lord and his family had sailed into port.

The news would be all around Lisbon by nightfall. I hoped we could be well away from the shore by then, although I didn’t know Lizzie’s plans for us in any detail.

Her husband, the Marquês de Aljubarrotta, owned a plethora of names, but we had learned to call him Paul. His English mother had retired to her native country after she was widowed, and that had ensured his visits to our homeland, where he’d met my sister and fallen in love during the course of a season. The happiness in her marriage was a constant delight to me, but I missed her very much. We exchanged letters as frequently as we could, but we hadn’t met since the birth of her son. Or of my babies. She sent me letters full of laughter and smiles, letters that went a long way towards buoying my spirits after my illness.

This delay to our reunion irked me. For all I knew, Lizzie waited for us on the shore, and I was so close to seeing her that had I a spyglass handy, I could have used it to search for her. Or she might have sent a coach.

Weariness swept over me in an all-too-familiar wave, but I fought to show none of it, apart from clenching my fist in the fabric of my gown to aid my concentration. I blinked and heard Richard’s murmur, “Not long now. I’ll send them packing very soon.”

It irked me that he could read me so easily, but it also sent warmth to my soul to think that he understood me as well as he did.

Knowing the game was up, with Richard at least, I allowed myself to lean on his arm a little more, glad of his support.

The magistrate returned to us, coming much too close for comfort. I could smell his breath, faintly tainted with coffee, and sense his body odour mingled with the pervasive perfume of camphor. He hadn’t worn this coat in some time, then. He must have drawn it from its careful packing especially for us. Or maybe the king was planning to visit him. For now he’d have to make do with us.