Sins of Omission (18 page)

April 1686

Paris, France

Sir William Trumbull’s pale gray eyes nailed Luke to his seat, and his mouth virtually disappeared as it compressed into a thin line.  Sir Trumbull was not normally an amiable person when at home; he spent enough time smiling and flattering at Court to feel the need to continue the charade in his private life.  His home was the only place where he could wipe the forced smile off his face and have a moment of unguarded pique, but the moment he was having right now could be described more as a temper tantrum.  Luke cringed as his superior jumped to his feet and stood over him, jabbing his finger in Luke’s chest as he enunciated every word for Luke’s benefit. 

“You absolute, total, brainless, thoughtless, gullible, moronic…” — at this point Sir Trumbull paused, searching for just the right noun, but had to content himself with — “fool.  I have a mind to send you back to England on the next boat, but that would look too suspicious to Louis’s spies, so I have to keep you here despite my better judgment.  I’ve turned a blind eye while you’ve welcomed your old friend to Paris, helped him find a place to live, and have actually been foolhardy enough to socialize with him, but now I must object.  Do you honestly believe that a Catholic king, one who’s as shrewd as Louis XIV, will suddenly welcome a convicted traitor, one who plotted against a fellow Catholic king and the king’s own cousin, into his Court?  Answer me,” Trumbull roared in fury.

“No, my lord,” Luke muttered as he tried to become one with the seat and suddenly wished that he could just vanish off the face of the earth. 

“That’s correct; the answer is no.  If Louis has allowed Everly into his Court, it’s because something of great value has been promised to him in exchange.  And what do you think that might be, you worthless piece of dung?  Well, I will tell you, since you clearly haven’t worked this one out for yourself,” Trumbull fumed, spraying Luke with spittle.  “What does Everly have to offer?  Intelligence.  Intelligence that he will get from his good friend Luke Marsden.  And how will he obtain it?” Trumbull thundered. 

“I’m glad you asked,” Trumbull went on without giving Luke a chance to speak.  “He will gather it through the offices of his comely ward, Mistress Frances Morley.”

“Frances is an innocent,” Luke protested, his face growing hot with humiliation and rage at the unfairness of the accusation against Frances.  He was used to Trumbull’s tirades against himself, but he would not sit by quietly and listen to his superior tarnish Frances’s reputation.

“Is she, by God?  And have you asked yourself exactly who she is?  What’s her relationship to Hugo Everly?  Why has he taken her with him to France?  Who are her people?”

“She’s his ward,” Luke replied hotly, suddenly aware of his own gullibility.  Sir Trumbull was an ass, but in this instance, he was right.  Luke knew very little about Frances, and Hugo had not been exactly forthcoming with information.  Perhaps he should have dug deeper, but Frances appeared to be so angelically innocent that it was impossible to conceive of her doing something underhanded.  She was a child –- a charming child.

“Well, it might surprise you to learn that I’ve made inquiries into Mistress Morley in my last communication with England, and they had quite a lot to say on the subject in the return post which arrived only this morning.  Morley is her maiden name — she’s a Finch by marriage.”

“Marriage?” Luke gasped, now fully cognizant of the magnitude of his idiocy.

“Yes, marriage,” Sir Trumbull spat out, his jowls quivering with righteous indignation.  “She was married to one Lionel Finch, the same Lionel Finch who accused Everly of abduction, attempted murder, and treason.  It might surprise you even more to find out that Lionel Finch had been found dead at the side of the road to Portsmouth.  Murdered.  Think he did that to himself, do you?  So answer me, oh shrewd, devious, political animal that you are, what is her relationship to Everly?  Is she his mistress? His spy?  His illegitimate daughter?  What?” 

A shower of saliva flew from Sir Trumbull’s mouth as he spat out that last question before finally exhausting himself and sinking into an armchair.  He grabbed his glass of brandy and drained it in one gulp; his eyes never leaving Luke’s flushed face.

“I will sever all ties to the Everly household, sir,” Luke offered in an effort to pacify Trumbull, but the bulging of the eyes and the disappearance of the bushy eyebrows into the curls of the wig made Luke belatedly realize that he’d just made an even worse mistake.  He had no intentions of severing ties with anyone, especially not now when he needed access to Hugo’s household more than ever, but he should have considered the suggestion more carefully before blundering forth.

“Sever ties?” Trumbull bellowed.  “Sever ties?  What kind of a fool are you, man?  Why don’t you just compose a formal declaration and present it to Everly?  You must act like nothing is changed.  You must give him no inkling that you know anything.  Watch him like a hawk.  See what you can learn from the little trollop.  Feed him false information.  And for God’s sake, don’t let that transparent face of yours show any emotion other than bland courtesy. One misstep and you are going back to England in utter disgrace.  You will never set foot at Court again if you so much as raise an eyebrow at Everly.  Be his friend, court Frances Morley, and learn all you can.  Now get out!  I’m too vexed to suffer your presence a moment longer.”

Luke got to his feet, bowed to his superior, who scoffed rather loudly, and made his way out of the room, feeling lower than a slug.  His pride was deeply wounded, but not by Trumbull.  The man was right in everything he said.  Hugo had played Luke for a fool, had dangled Frances in front of him, knowing he couldn’t resist a beautiful, fragile girl who needed protection.  Or had he?  Hugo had never encouraged his suit until he, himself, became persistent.  Hugo had no choice but to introduce him to Frances since she was part of his family, but had he done anything to encourage the romance?  Not really, if truth be told. 

If anything, Hugo advised Luke to bide his time and not rush Frances into any sort of commitment.  Of course, Hugo had always been a clever bastard.  It would be just like him to stand back and give Luke enough rope to hang himself with.  There had to be a reason why the widow of Lionel Finch, who met with a grisly end just days before Hugo sailed for France, was now living with the very man whom her husband accused of abduction.  And what was Hugo’s wife’s role in all of this?  Hugo seemed devoted to her and their child, but there were plenty of men who played the loving husband while keeping a tasty morsel on the side, or in this case, right down the corridor. 

Somewhere at the back of his mind, Luke acknowledged that Hugo had always been a man of honor and discretion.  He wasn’t a letch, nor was he someone who would take his marriage vows lightly, but Luke was too furious and humiliated to give his friend the benefit of the doubt.  His stomach burned with anger, and his blood pounded in his temples as he stepped out into the street.  He wanted retribution for the shame he’d suffered at Trumbull’s hands, and he would have it.

But, he had to tread carefully since he couldn’t do anything until Trumbull trusted him again and was less likely to carry out the threat of sending him back to England, which would end his political career.  Luke had plans for the future, and they didn’t include going home in disgrace.

April 1686

Aboard the
La Belle

Max gazed around the well-appointed cabin of Captain Benoit.  The man obviously liked his comforts.  The bed hangings were of rich burgundy brocade embroidered with gold thread, the desk was inlaid with an intricate pattern of flowers and leaves, and several potted plants were arranged by the window spanning the stern; their vibrant blooms muted in the candlelight.  The bookcase was crammed with leather-bound volumes.  One was lying open on the desk, revealing the pages of what appeared to be a medieval illuminated manuscript of some kind; a book, which would be worth millions in a few hundred years, carelessly tossed aside like a day-old newspaper.   

Captain Benoit smiled with pleasure as the steward brought their supper.  It was some kind of seafood stew which smelled strongly of fish and garlic.  Max salivated as the aroma filled his senses, suddenly starved.  He took a sip of the captain’s fine claret and accepted a helping of the food, feeling very contented indeed.  He never imagined that being clean, shaven, and fed would make him so happy, but at this moment, having shaved off his scratchy beard, taken the closest thing he’d had to a bath since leaving the twenty-first century, and about to eat something that wasn’t gruel, he was ecstatic.

The captain was a man in his forties, with graying dark hair and twinkling blue eyes.  His face was tanned to the shade of leather hide, and his girth bespoke of a fondness for good food and wine, but what Max liked most about the man were the laugh lines around the eyes and mouth.  Benoit was a man who smiled easily and obviously did not lack for a sense of humor.  He appeared to be comfortable in his skin and always ready for a hearty meal and a good laugh.  Max had spent so much time surrounded by cruelty and the dour expressions of slaves, that he’d almost forgotten how to be courteous and charming. 

Some part of Max expected the captain to order him to be shackled and locked up as soon as they were under way, in the hope of selling him on to another plantation owner or collecting some kind of a reward for his capture, but instead the captain greeted Max jovially, invited him to dine, and ordered his steward to organize a bath and find Max a suit of clothes to replace the tattered linen pajamas he still wore.  Max luxuriated in the bath for as long as he could before the water became too cold and grimy for comfort, then reluctantly got out of the wooden tub and reached for the razor thoughtfully left by the steward along with a small mirror.  Max propped up the mirror and lathered his face, but didn’t look at his reflection straight away.  He hadn’t seen his own face in over six months, and wasn’t sure he was ready to confront the man who would look back.  Max shaved off most of the springy dark hair before finally allowing himself a peek.  The man who glared back was a stranger, and Max quickly glanced away before forcing himself to turn his eyes back to his reflection and study the damage his ordeal had inflicted. 

Max had always been lean, but now the skin was stretched tightly over the bones of his face, and the eyes and mouth were bracketed by furrows that weren’t there before.  The bottom half of his face was eerily white compared to his tanned cheeks and forehead, having been covered by a thick beard, so he would need to grow a short beard to hide the difference until the tan faded somewhat, and he didn’t look so grotesque.  Max’s eyes had a haunted look in them, accentuated by the gray which now dusted his temples.  He looked like a man who’d drunk long and deep from the cup of sorrow, and the brew left its mark.  He was no longer the handsome, athletic thirty-something, but a haggard, mean-looking bastard who didn’t look a day younger than forty.  No one would mistake him for Hugo Everly again, not unless Hugo had enjoyed a similar experience in the past few months. 

Max finished shaving, then held the mirror to reflect parts of his body.  He was thin, but stronger than he’d ever been, with not an ounce of fat on his lean stomach or muscular legs.  He tossed the mirror onto the berth and donned the suit.  An unfamiliar smell still lingered in the cloth, but otherwise the suit appeared to be clean.  He tightened the laces of the breeches as much as he could and tucked in the too-long shirt before putting on hose, well-worn boots, and a coat which was way too wide; grateful to be wearing something other than rags.  The suit hung on Max as if he were a child wearing his father’s clothes, but Max didn’t mind; at least he no longer looked like a slave. 

Max briefly wondered how Banjo was getting on, but he wasn’t worried.  The boy had been welcomed aboard by the captain’s steward, and invited to the galley for some food before being taken below deck to his hammock.  He seemed happy enough, considering he’d just been separated from his parents whom he’d likely never see again, and Max had seen him exploring the ship with one of the sailors as he followed the steward to a vacant cabin for his bath.  He would check on Banjo tomorrow, Max decided as he brushed his hair, which now hung down to his shoulders, and tied it back with a leather thong he found next to the razor.  He gave himself a last once-over before leaving the cabin to join the captain.

**

Captain Benoit sucked some garlicky sauce from the shell of a mussel and took a sip of claret, sighing with pleasure.  His hands and lips were greasy from his efforts, but he seemed to be greatly enjoying his meal, as was Max.  He hadn’t had anything other than the plainest of food for months, so this was quite a treat.  Max wiped up the delicious sauce with a heel of bread and popped it into his mouth, wishing he could eat more, but he was absolutely bursting at the seams.  His stomach had shrunk since being in Barbados, so he couldn’t consume nearly as much. 

“So, tell me,
milord
, what do you plan to do once you reach France?” the captain asked as he refilled Max’s glass.

“Well, first of all, I’d like to thank you for offering me free passage, Captain,” Max replied, suddenly realizing that he’d been so overcome with his impending freedom that he hadn’t thanked the captain properly.

“Oh, it’s not free,
mon ami
,” the captain replied with a hearty laugh.  “I owed Xeno a favor, and to tell you the truth, I make such a sizeable profit off these boys that the least I could do was offer you passage when asked.  You see, I can’t offer Xeno his share of the profits since as a slave he’d have no use for the money.  Instead, I bring some necessary goods, herbs for his sister, and news of their children.  We all win in our own way.”

“Are the children really well cared for, or is that just something you tell their parents to make them feel justified in their decision?” Max asked, curious as to what awaited Banjo in France.

“For the most part, they are happy.  They are treated like exotic pets as long as they are small and pleasant to behold. They have splendid clothes, plenty to eat, and they accompany their masters to some of the most beautiful houses in all of France.  Once the children get older, they don’t fare as well.  Some are relegated to the kitchens, others to the stables, and some are just thrown out into the street.  But, they still have a better life than they would have had on a plantation.  Many of them would never even see ten years old, either due to disease or hard work.  I’m not a slaver,
milord
, just a businessman with a soft spot for little children.”

“You are very kind indeed,” Max replied, deciding that it would be churlish of him to pass judgment on a man who was at the moment master of his fate.  “And to answer your question, I don’t have any plan.  I will have to seek some kind of employment or try to join a crew of a vessel bound for England.  I’d like to get back home, but, of course, I can’t do so openly or I will be re-arrested.”

“Perhaps you can stay in France for a time.  Your kinsman might offer you hospitality,” the captain suggested, looking toward the door eagerly in anticipation of dessert.  “Oh, where is that boy?” he bristled. 

“My kinsman?” Max asked, confused.  Who could Benoit possibly mean? 

“Why, Lord Everly, of course.  He’s been in Paris these few months.  I just assumed that he was your kinsman since you share the same name and title.  He’s Hugo as well, I believe.  Family name?”

“Lord Hugo Everly is in Paris?”  Max felt his heart begin to race as the implication of what the captain just said sank in.  Was it really possible that Hugo had come back to the seventeenth century and had taken refuge in France while leaving Max to take the blame for his crimes?

“Oh, yes.  He’s in Paris with his family.  I’ hear he’s recently been received at Court, which is something of a feat, given our sovereign’s dislike of Protestants.  I suppose it’s just the Huguenots whom he despises, not the English sort.”

“How do you know that Hugo Everly is in Paris?” Max asked carefully.  Perhaps the man was mistaken.

“I have it on good authority from a friend.  Captain Lafitte was glowing with pride as he recounted the story in a tavern in Le Havre, having performed his very first marriage ceremony.  He fancies himself a man of God now and an instrument of love,” Captain Benoit laughed as he tucked into sliced pineapple that had been brought by the boy.  The pineapple had been soaked in rum and sugar and grilled until it was soft and golden brown.  It was quite delicious.

“Whom did he marry?”  Max could barely contain his curiosity.  Was all this merely a coincidence, or was fate handing him this chance for a particular reason? 

“Why, Lord Everly, of course, and his lady.  Lafitte said she was quite beautiful, with golden ringlets and warm brown eyes the color of good brandy, as he put it, but a bit on the heavy side,”  Benoit laughed again as he made an arc with his hand in front of his protruding belly. 

“She is fat?” Max asked, surprised.  That certainly didn’t sound like Neve, although the rest of the description did.  Had she really gone back to the past with Hugo?  She wouldn’t give Max the time of day in the twenty-first century, but she loved his ancestor enough to give up everything for him and follow him to the past, where he was hunted and despised for his role in the Monmouth Rebellion?  The thought rankled him, but he pushed his injured pride aside for the moment and focused on Captain Benoit, who appeared to be amused by his question. 

“She was with child,
mon ami
, very much so.  Lord Everly was in quite a rush to marry, before the child was born.”  Hugo nearly spat out his pineapple, suddenly unable to swallow. 

“Has she had the baby?  Did they both survive?” he asked carefully, trying not to appear too eager for the news.

“Oh, yes.  They are both well, or so I hear.  It’s endearing that you are so worried about them.  Do you know his wife then?”

“Yes, I do. She’s a lady of great beauty and charm,” Max replied, realizing that he meant it.  Neve was beautiful and charming, but she obviously lacked all common sense if she threw in her lot with Hugo Everly.

“Indeed, but not as beautiful as his mistress,” the captain cackled happily.  “They say the girl is exquisite.”

“Mistress?”  Max couldn’t have heard the captain correctly, but the mischievous twinkle in the captain’s eyes told him that he had.

“Oh, yes.  She’s supposedly Lord Everly’s ward, but she is no relation to the family, and he’s very protective of her.  The wife seems to accept the situation.  Many men take mistresses while their wives are with child, and for some time after, but few of them parade them so openly.”

“And who is this mistress?” Max asked, utterly scandalized.  Hugo didn’t seem like the type of man who’d be so callous, but then again, how well did he really know him?  And was it possible that Neve loved him so much that she was willing to allow herself to be humiliated, or did she not know the truth? Max wondered. 

“Frances something or other,” the captain replied as he helped himself to more fruit. 

“Frances?”  Max nearly choked. 

“You know her too?”

“She’s the woman Hugo was said to have abducted after he nearly killed her husband.”

“There, you see?  Obviously his mistress,” Benoit concluded as he let out a soft burp.  “You English are something, and you say the French are immoral.  I wish I had relatives who are half as interesting as yours.”

You don’t know the half of it
, Max thought bitterly as he pushed away his plate.  Hugo was supposed to be dead; gone without leaving an heir.  According to family history, he’d vanished in the spring of 1685 just before being arrested for treason.  Hugo had never married, and had never had a legitimate or illegitimate child, as far as anyone knew.  And now, here he was, living in Paris with a wife who fit Neve’s description, by whom he had a living child, and a mistress who could also conceive. 

Max had promised himself that he would find his way back to England and return to his twenty-first-century life as soon as possible.  He would be grateful for that life, and never again give Hugo Everly another thought, but fate was having a good laugh right about now, taunting Max with the knowledge that his enemy was not only within reach, but on the brink of changing history and writing Max out of the equation since Max was a descendant of Clarence Hiddleston, Hugo’s nephew.  If Hugo had a living child, Max would come back to the future to find himself disinherited and destitute, Everly Manor belonging to whomever was Hugo’s descendant in the future.  No, he couldn’t allow this to happen; not after everything he’d been through.

“Tell me, Captain, how will Banjo get to Paris?” Max asked, keeping his voice casual as he cut up a piece of pineapple.

“Oh, I will personally take him to Paris and oversee his placement with a good family, for the boy’s sake, of course,” the captain replied with a sly smile which led Max to believe that a “good family” was optional as long as the price was right and they took the child off his hands.