The Least Likely Bride (28 page)

“I foresee an endless procession of prospective suitors,” he went on, still smiling. “You’re of age to marry and you have much to recommend you.” This last was said in a teasing voice, and Olivia couldn’t help responding with her own somewhat rueful smile.

“I shall reject them all, sir,” she declared. “But please c-could you try to reject this one for me? I really c-can’t endure to be in his presence.”

Cato knew the stammer only escaped her under pressure. “What has he done?” The question was sharp with concern.

Olivia shrugged helplessly. “Nothing … it’s just a feeling.”

Cato looked relieved. “I’ll see what I can discreetly do,” he offered, beginning to move away, his thoughts once more returning to the issue uppermost in his mind. Someone, somewhere on the island, had information about a plan for the king’s escape. Ordinarily the king’s affairs were known to his jailers almost before Charles was aware of them himself. It made the present impenetrable secrecy all the more puzzling.

It was this issue that had summoned him to London. Cromwell had suggested strongly that they move the king to some other, more secure prison. Cato had been reluctant to make the king’s life even more restricted than it was when they had nothing definite to go on, and it had been left that he would make what decisions he considered necessary as circumstances developed. If the king
did
escape, Lord Granville would be held solely responsible. It was an uncomfortable burden.

Olivia made her way to the parlor, where Phoebe and Portia were to be found in the noisy midst of their children.

“You came back just in time,” Phoebe said bluntly. “Cato returned at dawn.”

“And I was safely asleep in my bed,” Olivia said. “Thank you for … for, well, you know what I mean.”

“The ring was a clever idea … once we’d decided it wasn’t a cry for help,” Phoebe said, reaching into her pocket for Olivia’s braided ring.

Olivia took it. “Surely you didn’t think …”

“No, of course we didn’t,” Portia said, looking up with a quick smile from the toy soldier whose broken leg she was mending for her impatiently waiting son. “Phoebe’s only teasing.”

Olivia managed a half smile. “My father says you’re going to the c-castle this evening.”

“Yes, I’m missing my husband,” Portia said with a grin.

“Are you coming too, Olivia?” Phoebe asked.

Was she going to go?
And yet even as she asked herself the question, she heard herself say, “Yes, I might as well, I suppose.”

Phoebe’s blue eyes glowed in ready sympathy. “It might take your mind off things, love. I don’t mean to pry but you seem so sad. Did things not go well after all?”

“They went very well. I’m just facing reality, that’s
all.” Olivia picked up her small half brother. “So, my lord Grafton, how are you this fine morning?”

The child regarded her solemnly from eyes as dark as her own. Then he threw back his head and shrieked with laughter as if she had said something hilariously funny.

“He has such a wonderful sense of humor,” Phoebe said proudly, diverted for a moment from her concern for Olivia.

Olivia couldn’t help laughing as she relinquished the ecstatic child to his doting mother. “I wish he’d share the joke.” She was aware of Portia’s sharp scrutiny and bent hastily to stroke Juno.

“D
O YOU PLAY BOWLS,
Mr. Caxton?” King Charles turned from the casement in the chamber above the great hall and regarded his visitor from beneath heavy-lidded eyes.

“Indifferently, Sire.” Anthony stood beside the empty fireplace, one silk-clad arm resting along the carved mantelpiece. There were perhaps ten men in attendance on the king. Colonel Hammond stood beside the door, his stance watchful, his gaze roaming the chamber as if he expected the king to disappear suddenly into thin air.

“Hammond, my friend, you seem perturbed,” the king remarked gently. “These last days I’ve found you most unsettled. Is something troubling you?”

The governor controlled his irritation with difficulty. If plans
were
afoot to rescue the king, then His Sovereign Majesty was well aware of what was disturbing his jailer.

“I am aware of no perturbation, Your Majesty.”

“I am so glad to hear it,” the king responded sweetly. “But now I have a mind to bowl. Mr. Caxton, you shall show your skill.”

Anthony bowed low and Godfrey Channing jumped to
open the door. The little group followed their sovereign down the stairs and out into the courtyard.

“Walk with me, Mr. Caxton.” The king beckoned Anthony to his side and took his arm. “Tell me something of your family estates. I have always had a fondness for the New Forest.”

Anthony talked glibly as they crossed the courtyard, went through the postern gate and into the outer bailey, which the governor had turned into a bowling green for his royal prisoner’s entertainment.

The round bowls were piled at the far side of the green, and the group strolled across under the afternoon sun, the king’s arm still resting on Anthony’s. No one saw as Anthony slipped a tiny fold of paper into the deep cuff of His Majesty’s coat.

“You shall roll first, Mr. Caxton.” The king gestured to where a soldier stood holding the first bowl.

Anthony demurred politely but allowed himself to be persuaded. Laughingly he protested his lack of skill and made a great play of hefting the bowl before rolling it across the smooth green lawn. It was a pathetic roll and drew laughter from the assembled courtiers. No one noticed the king retrieve the slip of paper and put it in his pocket.

They were still playing when Mistress Hammond with the Granville party approached through the postern gate.

“Your Majesty is winning as usual,” she observed.

“I fear I’m unable to give His Majesty a good game, Mistress Hammond,” Anthony said with a little titter. “Lady Granville … Lady Olivia.” He bowed with a flourish of his plumed hat.

“Lady Rothbury, allow me to present Mr. Edward Caxton.” The governor offered Portia a gallant bow as he gestured to Anthony.

“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, madam. Such a pleasure, I do declare.” Anthony bowed over her hand, brushing it lightly with his lips, before acknowledging the men who had accompanied the ladies.

“Lord Granville … Lord Rothbury. Such a pleasure, my lords. Such an honor to have your notice.” They were the enemy, formidable individually, together an almost insuperable force. Outwitting them would be no easy task and Anthony harbored no illusions, but his expression showed only a hopeful eagerness to please.

They acknowledged his greeting with polite nods that nevertheless conveyed a degree of contemptuous indifference that reassured Anthony that he was playing his part well.

He stepped aside as the king with a brief nod deigned to acknowledge the new arrivals.

“Lady Olivia, how delightful to see you. I was
so
disappointed to miss you yesterday.” Godfrey Channing swept her a flourishing bow. “I trust you’ll indulge me with a little private speech anon.”

Olivia could see nothing but his thin lips and the cold calculation in his eyes. Involuntarily her gaze darted to Anthony, who gave her a vague smile.

“What’s this … what’s this?” the king inquired with a burst of joviality. “D’ye have an eye for the lady Olivia, my lord Channing?”

Olivia flushed to the tips of her ears and turned to Cato with a gesture of appeal, but before he could intervene Godfrey had bowed to the king and was answering him.

“A man could not call himself a man, Sire, if he failed to see the lady’s beauty. What man would not aspire to the lady’s hand if given a word of encouragement?”

“Well, I’ve always enjoyed a wedding,” the king declared as jovially as before. “I trust you would give my lord a word of encouragement, madam?”

Olivia was struck dumb. Desperately she sought for an answer. Channing had come out in the open now, in the most public way imaginable, and the king had signaled his approval of his subject’s suit. In fact he’d all but ordered her compliance.

“Sire, my daughter is but newly entered this society,” Cato said quietly. “I would give her time to find her feet before she’s swept off them.”

The king frowned. In the past such jocular attention as he’d bestowed upon the marquis’s daughter would have been seen as the greatest sign of royal favor. His countenance took on a petulant air.

“Well, be that as it may,” he said, turning his shoulder to Lord Granville. “Hammond, I have done with bowls for today. Mr. Caxton, give me your arm again.”

Anthony obeyed.
That greedy, dangerous, cowardly fool was intending to court Olivia.
His expression gave away nothing as he strolled with the king back to the postern gate, maintaining an even flow of flattering responses to his sovereign’s lethargic conversation.

Once back in the great hall, where supper was laid at the long banqueting table, Anthony accepted his dismissal and left the king’s side.

The guests were taking their places on the long benches at the table, and Godfrey Channing was making his way purposefully to Olivia and her two friends. Rufus and Cato were nowhere in view. Anthony crossed the room, his one thought to forestall Godfrey Channing.

“Lady Olivia, may I escort you to the table?”

She turned and for a moment her expression was unguarded. Her eyes, filled with a riot of trouble and question, flew to Anthony’s face.

“There’s no need to be afeard,” he murmured, instinctively feeling her terror and confusion.

She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that he
would protect her from Godfrey Channing, wanted to believe he would protect her from himself, from
her
self. But how could he protect her from this tangled skein of dreams and deception when it was a skein of his own tangling? If only he was a different man, a man who didn’t do the things he did. But what good was a different man when this was the one she wanted?

Her hand fluttered towards him, then fell to her side. “I’m not afeard,” she said, and turned back to her friends.

Anthony moved away immediately, wondering why she’d refused his escort. Sometimes he didn’t understand her at all. He told himself that she was merely playing his game, keeping away from him because it was safer. He told himself that, but it didn’t somehow ring true. There had been such trouble in her eyes. Perhaps it had something to do with Channing’s declared suit.

Anthony’s mouth hardened. He would have to put a stop to that, but how to do it without breaking his own cover?

Godfrey Channing approached the three women as they reached the table. “My ladies, allow me to escort you to the top of the table.” He spoke to all three of them, but his eyes were on Olivia and it was Olivia to whom he offered his silk-clad arm.

“Why, you may escort us with pleasure, sir,” Portia said, taking the proffered arm before Olivia could move. “Our husbands appear to have deserted us.”

“Lady Olivia …” Godfrey offered her his free arm.

“Olivia can take my arm and you may escort Lady Granville,” Portia said firmly. “We are very strict about rank, and married ladies take precedence.”

Phoebe controlled her laughter at this absurdity and took up her cue. Godfrey had no choice but to accept the fait accompli.

Cato and Rufus awaited their wives at the head of the
board. Cato saw the strain in Olivia’s eyes as she approached, clinging to Phoebe’s arm. “Come and sit beside me, Olivia,” he said, taking her hand and drawing her down to the bench beside him.

“If Lady Olivia will permit me …” Godfrey smiled and took his place on her other side.

Olivia sat rigid. Her eyes darted down the table to where Anthony was sitting idly toying with his wine goblet. He looked at her just once, then turned to his neighbor.

Godfrey placed a slice of roast swan on Olivia’s platter. “Pray allow me to serve you, my lady … in all ways. I am always and entirely at your service.” His thin mouth smiled meaningfully; his cold eyes regarded her hungrily.

Olivia said in an undertone, “You must forgive me, Lord Channing, but I have no interest in marriage. My father is aware of this. I am a scholar, and have no time for marrying.”

“I trust your feelings are not already engaged,” he said, his voice suddenly sharp, his fingers tightening around his goblet.

Olivia shook her head. “No.”

“Then I may hope,” he returned, smiling again. He touched her hand as she picked up her knife. “I have been reading the poetry of Catullus. There was a stanza I found somewhat confusing. I wonder if you would enlighten me.”

“Catullus is not one of my favorites,” Olivia lied, her voice dull. “You’ll have to forgive me.”

Godfrey cast about for another topic of conversation as Olivia sat still as stone beside him, the food cooling on her plate. He moved his thigh closer to hers, and she jumped as if burned.

This was not going to be as easy as Brian Morse had implied. But he would have her in the end. He glanced sideways at her. She was beautiful. A man would be proud
to own such a wife. Such a wealthy wife. If gentle persuasion didn’t work, then there were other ways.
He would have her.

Godfrey turned his attention to the conversation between Lord Rothbury and Lord Granville. There at least Brian’s tactics had succeeded. Lord Granville had complimented him several times on his astute observations.

Cato, anxious to take the pressure off his daughter, whose strained silence was as loud as a thunderclap, leaned across her and inquired, “Channing, what do you know of this Caxton fellow? He’s a relatively new acolyte at the king’s altar. My men found little of interest when they checked him out. He lodges in Newport, I believe.”

Rufus speared venison on the tip of his knife. “I gather he’s well known on the island.”

“He’s a hanger-on,” Godfrey said, eager to impart what he knew. “A man who likes to brag that he dines at the king’s table. He has some fortune, I believe, but comes from an undistinguished family on the mainland.”

Olivia listened. Anthony’s game was clearly succeeding. He appeared so insignificant, no one would give him the time of day in this heavily suspicious atmosphere. But how, she wondered, could anyone be truly fooled if they looked at him? Everything about him radiated authority and competence. How could anyone not see the wicked gleam of amusement in his eye? Not be aware of the razor-sharp mind behind the foolish, vacant exterior?