The Least Likely Bride (18 page)

Olivia glanced around, trying to look as if she had just had a perfectly ordinary conversation. Mistress Hammond hove into view. “Lady Olivia, I didn’t realize you were acquainted with Mr. Caxton.” Her eyes were sharp in her angular countenance.

“Indeed, I am not,” Olivia returned. “There was an accident … he spilled wine on my gown. I should retire and try to sponge the stain.”

“My maid will help you.” The governor’s lady took Olivia’s elbow and steered her across to a small staircase at the rear of the hall.

“Does Mr. Caxton live on the island, madam?” Olivia inquired casually.

“He lodges in Newport but I believe his family home is in the New Forest, just across the Solent.”

“He serves the king?”

Mistress Hammond stiffened. “We all serve the king, Lady Olivia.”

“Yes, of c-course.” Olivia looked down distressfully at her skirt. “I do hope the stain will come out. I should be most unhappy to spoil this gown, it’s quite one of my favorites. Up the stairs … ? Thank you, Mistress Hammond. There’s no need to accompany me further.” She shook off the hand at her elbow, gathered her skirts, and almost ran up the stairs.

When she emerged from the retiring room some twenty minutes later, she was once more mistress of herself. She
paused at the head of the stairs from where she could view the great hall below. The king still sat in his chair surrounded by eager courtiers, but now there was no sign of Anthony. And she couldn’t see Phoebe either. Her father, however, was talking with a tall dark-haired young man of swarthy complexion, dressed in a suit of puce silk with a scarlet waistcoat and sash. His hair curled to his shoulders, glistening with pomade, and as he talked his hand rested on the hilt of his sword. They seemed deep in conversation.

Where was Phoebe? Olivia felt suddenly rather bereft and out of place, as if everyone had forgotten her and no one was interested in her. Then she saw Phoebe tucked into a window embrasure at the far side of the throng. She was talking with great animation to a small, rather fat man of rubicund countenance and jovial appearance. He was an unlikely looking poet, but seemed to be holding Phoebe’s attention.

Olivia headed towards them.

“I
’M WONDERING
why you haven’t given your impressions to Colonel Hammond, Lord Channing?” Cato was asking.

Godfrey’s tongue touched his lips in a nervous gesture. “I mean no disrespect to the governor, my lord, but he’s more interested in hard facts than impressions and opinions. And I thought that you might be more open to my impressions of the king’s manner.”

Cato nodded slowly. There was truth in this. “You say the king has appeared distracted.”

“Yes … and his mood fluctuates wildly. One day he seems depressed, the next he’s full of optimism,” Godfrey explained eagerly. “I am convinced that he’s receiving some information that we’re not aware of. When the Scots crossed the Border, he was in particularly good spirits, and
I know that he was not informed of the troop movement by Colonel Hammond.”

“Mmm.” Cato nodded again. He had long suspected that the king had access to information about Royalist supporters on the mainland. “I’ll inform Colonel Hammond of your impressions.” He glanced at the young man, wondering what it was about him that he disliked. His eyes were perhaps too close together. But one could hardly fault a man for that.

“The king seems to favor me,” Godfrey said. “If I can be much by his side, then perhaps I can discover more concrete information. If perhaps you suggested to the colonel that my duties should be more concentrated upon the king …” He looked a question.

“You think you’d make a good spy?” Cato inquired.

“I think I’d make an excellent spy, my lord,” Godfrey said with conviction. Brian Morse had told him that Lord Granville had no time for shilly-shallying. He liked people to come to the point and speak and act with decision, and he had no time for false modesty.

“I’ll discuss this with Colonel Hammond,” Cato said briskly. “In the meantime, keep your eyes and ears open.”

“Indeed I will, my lord.” Godfrey hesitated, a tentative smile on his lips. “I was wondering, my lord, if …”

“If what?”

“If I might be introduced to Lady Olivia,” Godfrey said in a rush. “I would very much like to make her acquaintance, sir.”

Cato stroked his chin. “It seems a modest request,” he observed. He looked around the hall. “Ah, I see her over there with Lady Granville.” He moved off, Godfrey in his wake.

Godfrey had been watching Olivia all evening. Brian Morse had been correct. She was indeed a tasty piece. Notwithstanding the Granville nose. Such an heiress in his
bed would do a great deal more than solve his financial problems. He had made a good impression on Granville, and with Brian’s help would continue to provide him with little tidbits of information that would win the marquis’s confidence. He had only to conquer the daughter. That shouldn’t be too difficult. Godfrey knew he was considered charming and debonair, well dressed and passably good-looking. The Granville heiress was apparently not otherwise engaged. It should be a simple campaign. He followed the marquis with brisk step.

Phoebe didn’t notice their approach. She was very content with her poet. Although he had a preference for flowery, sentimental verse, he could talk about the complexities of rhyme and meter with the best, and she had been starved of such conversation in recent weeks. During their earlier sojourn at Hampton Court, when the king had been in residence there at the pleasure of Parliament, many of the finest poets in the land had frequented the palace, but Carisbrooke was a little short on such delicacies.

Olivia merely hovered on the outskirts of the conversation, happy simply to have found an inconspicuous place where she was not obliged to make small talk with strangers. Her eye roved the hall, half dreading, half longing to see Anthony reappear. It was so dangerous for him to be here. What game was he playing? Was Caxton a real name or some alias? Was Anthony his name, or was it Edward? Did he truly have a family estate on the mainland? He’d talked of an aunt … an aunt who embroidered his nightshirts. It sounded so absurd, so unlikely.

“Olivia, my dear …”

Olivia jumped as her father’s voice broke into her musing.

He smiled. “Did I startle you?”

“Oh, I was miles away,” she said, her eyes going to Cato’s companion.

“Allow me to present Godfrey, Lord Channing,” Cato said.

Godfrey bowed low over Olivia’s hand. “Lady Olivia, it is an honor.” He raised his eyes and smiled winningly.

Olivia felt the first deep shudder of revulsion. She pulled her hand loose even as she curtsied and murmured the correct responses.
What was it about him?
There was something … some echo … that filled her with terror. It was his eyes. So cold and green, even though he was smiling. Cold and calculating. She’d seen those eyes before, not the eyes but the expression. And his mouth, that thin flicker. It was a cruel mouth. And she knew it of old.

“I have been hoping to make your acquaintance all evening, Lady Olivia,” Godfrey was saying, still smiling. “I trust I may call upon you and Lady Granville one afternoon.”

“Yes … I mean, you should address that question to my stepmother.” Olivia gestured to Phoebe, who had turned from her poet at her husband’s appearance.

“Lord Channing, is it?” Phoebe said with her ready smile. She glanced at Olivia and was immediately concerned. Olivia was paler than ever. “We don’t lead a very social life at Chale,” Phoebe said a little hesitantly.

“Oh, I won’t expect entertainment, madam,” Godfrey assured her. “I should be happy just to sit with you.”

Phoebe looked in some surprise at her husband, who offered a half shrug. “Well, of course we should be delighted to welcome you, sir,” she said politely.

“Until later. Lady Olivia, Lady Granville, my lord …” Godfrey bowed to the company in general and strolled off well satisfied with his first steps.

Brian. He reminded her of Brian.
The room seemed to spin and Olivia put a hand to her throat.

“Cato, we should leave,” Phoebe said swiftly. “Olivia’s been up too long today.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll summon the carriage.”

“What is it?” Phoebe asked as her husband disappeared. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

It was as if she had,
Olivia thought. Brian Morse was dead, killed by Lord Granville’s sword. Phoebe had seen it happen. Godfrey Channing couldn’t help that slight similarity. But anyone with eyes and a mouth like that had an evil in him.

Olivia drew a deep, steadying breath. It was ridiculous, fanciful to think like that. She would not have made such an association before her night with Anthony had released the long-buried nightmare. She must put it back again, otherwise the poison would seep into everything. It had wreaked sufficient damage already.

“The carriage is ready.” Cato reappeared. “Are you feeling any better, Olivia?”

“Yes, much better. It was just a moment of weakness,” Olivia said, taking his free arm.

“Why was Lord Channing so anxious to make our acquaintance?” Phoebe asked from Cato’s other side. “He’s not a suitor for Olivia’s hand, is he?”

“He may have some such plan in mind,” Cato said as they reached the carriage in the courtyard.

“No!” Olivia cried in alarm. “I don’t want any such suitor.” She turned to look up at her father as he handed her into the carriage, her dark eyes intense in the torchlight.

“Then you must simply tell him so,” Cato said calmly. “You’re at the age now, my dear, when suitors are going to come thick and fast. You must decide for yourself how to deal with them.”

“I’ll help you,” Phoebe said, laying a hand on Olivia’s arm. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“No, indeed not,” Cato agreed, mounting his horse to ride beside the carriage. “It’s natural enough that you should have suitors, Olivia.”

Olivia slumped back against the leather squabs. She was being irrational; of course she could dismiss Lord Channing’s suit, if indeed it was what he had in mind. But it certainly added another skein to an already impossibly tangled knot.

B
RIAN
M
ORSE LEANED BACK
against the wall in his customary place in the inglenook of the Anchor’s taproom. He rubbed his thigh and as he moved his arm the thick scar beneath his ribs seemed to stretch and throb. The pain was always with him. The pain and the knowledge of defeat. It was there in the deep lines of his face, in his limp, in the constant dragging pain. No one had expected him to survive after Cato’s sword had brought him down, and he hadn’t wanted to during those months of agony. But somehow he had done so. After many months his body had somehow healed, not straight, not clean, but healed nevertheless.

He raised his tankard to his lips, glancing towards the door. He was expecting Godfrey Channing with a progress report. Channing married to Olivia was a pleasing prospect. A man with a vast ambition and no morality whatsover. Thus a very dangerous man. A man clever enough to conceal his true colors to achieve his purpose. But he would show them eventually. When it was too late for the Granvilles to do anything about it. And then, oh, then, Olivia would pay the price and Cato Granville’s
pride and arrogance would turn to dust. It was a wonderfully subtle revenge.

The door opened and Godfrey came in. He’d changed his earlier puce and scarlet finery for riding dress and had the air of a man well satisfied with himself. He spotted Brian immediately through the blue smoke of half a dozen clay pipes and strode across to him through the clotted sawdust on the floor.

Brian indicated the pitcher of ale on the table in front of him, and with a nod of thanks Godfrey raised the jug to his lips and drank deeply.

“The evening went according to plan?” Brian inquired over the rim of his tankard.

“I believe so.” Godfrey set down the pitcher and sat on a stool. “Granville was interested in what I had to say and wants me to spy on the king.”

Brian nodded. “I’ll give you bits and pieces of information about the progress of the Royalist uprisings and the Scots march that you can pass on to the king in some secret fashion. Then you simply tell Granville what the king knows. He’ll think he’s finding you very useful. And if you’re useful to Granville, he’ll welcome you into the bosom of his family with open arms.” His mouth twitched in a sardonic smile. “And what of my little rabbit?”

“Little rabbit?” Godfrey looked puzzled.

“Olivia, my little sister. It was a pet name I had for her when she was a child. Such an endearing little rabbit she was. Particularly when she ran.” The smile flickered again.

“I think she’s rather appealing,” Godfrey said. “I won’t have to keep my eyes closed in bed.” He gave a coarse laugh and drank from the pitcher again.

“I haven’t seen her for several years,” Brian mused. “She must be all grown up now. Does she still stammer?”

“I didn’t notice. She didn’t say very much. But my interest in her mouth has little to do with what might come out of it.” He laughed again.

“You’d better not let her know that. I told you, she has a brain.”

“Oh, she’ll soon learn there are other things more important than books,” Godfrey said carelessly. “I’ll keep her far too busy to bother her head with such nonsense.” He drank from the pitcher again and glanced at the watch in the shape of a skull that hung from his belt. “Well, I’d best be on my way. I’ve an appointment at midnight.”

“Your customer?”

“Aye.” Godfrey looked a little startled. “What d’you know of him?”

Brian shook his head. “Nothing. I merely overheard your conversation about a potential customer for your culling with George here … just before you and I began our association. And an appointment at midnight …” He shrugged.

Godfrey remembered. “Aye, well, you’re right. And once we’ve struck this deal, I’ll be a lot plumper in the pocket.”

“Come to my lodgings in Ventnor in two days’ time. I’ll have some more information for you.” Brian leaned back against the wall again, half closing his eyes.

“I’ll be visiting the lady Olivia tomorrow,” Godfrey said over his shoulder as he turned to the door.