Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) (23 page)

CHAPTER 38

Dinner that day was a tense affair. Stephen, unable to pry any details about Bacon's accident out of either Tom or Trumpet, resorted to loud ramblings about his reign of misrule. Tom pretended to listen while he constructed an elaborate masque in which he rescued Clara from Newgate by stealth, substituting Stephen, unconscious and dressed as a harlot, in her place.

After dinner, Tom and Trumpet spent a good hour running errands for Ben on Bacon's behalf. They sent a boy to fetch the one physician Bacon trusted; they instructed the staff of Gray's to deliver hot water and light meals on a schedule, but quietly, quietly; and they bundled up a supply of fresh linens, a favorite pillow, and other necessities for Ben, who refused to stir from Bacon's bedchamber until his servant returned.

Ben couldn't even hear words not related to Bacon's comfort. When Tom tried to tell him about Clara's predicament, he'd looked at him as if he were speaking gibberish. He guarded Bacon like a dragon guards a chest of gold, barely allowing Tom to peek at him through the doorway. There would be no help from that direction.

Tom racked his brains for another source of trustworthy advice. Luckily for his overstrained wits, the answer sprang quickly forth: Mrs. Anabel Sprye at the Antelope Inn. She knew every judge in Westminster and would understand Tom's involvement in the case without insisting on any uncomfortable details.

Trumpet came with him. They were silent as they walked down to Holborn, each occupied with heavy thoughts. Tom felt that he was trapped in a shrinking chamber, walls closing in and squeezing out the very air he needed to live. Smythson's death had been horrible, of course, but unreal; painted, as it were, with the colors of the Queen's Day pageantry. Shiveley's death had been shocking and sad, but Tom had hardly known the man. If his death had truly been an accident, he would almost have forgotten it by now.

The Fleming, though: he'd had a conflict with the Fleming. A powerful connection, in fact. Tom had hated him. He'd wanted to slice him through with his rapier, to cow him with his superior status. He'd wanted him defeated, brought to his knees, banished from Clara's life.

But not dead. His death had left Tom with the frustration of deeds undone.

Now Clara was falsely imprisoned in a perilous gaol. His fear for her ran hot and constant, driving him through every new-demanded chore in a feverish agony. Never in all his life had he felt so useless. And now Bacon, who on a normal day made Tom feel like an upstart pantry boy grasping at honors he couldn't understand, lay on his bed all pale and fragile, snatched from death's snapping jaws by the sheerest accident of choosing one errand over another. More than anything, Tom wanted to prove to his brilliant tutor that he, the privateer's son, was worthy of inclusion in the Society of Gray's Inn.

He couldn't do that if the man were dead.

This murdering traitor must be stopped. Tom had to stop him. When this had begun, it had seemed a new sort of game. Tom had been one of four friends guided by a clever tutor. Now Stephen, bosom companion for many years, had turned into a prattling, make-believe prince who had betrayed a crucial secret. Not to mention making a perfect jackanapes of himself. He was worse than useless. And Ben, the man he'd come to admire and rely on for guidance, chose to sit by Bacon's bed night and day, oblivious to the world outside the chamber.

Not that Tom blamed him. A guard was definitely required, and at this point, they didn't know who they could trust.

That left Tom with only Trumpet to help him rescue Clara, solve the murders, and put the world right again. After which, he decided, he would bundle up Clara and Ben and Trumpet and Francis Bacon too, if necessary, and carry them back to his mother's house in Dorset, where everyone would be safe, and he could lie on a soft bed in a warm room and let his sisters and aunties and Uncle Luke pamper him and feed him sweets until this whole miserable season of misrule had faded into a humorous anecdote.

***

Mrs. Sprye was shocked to hear of Clara's treatment at the hands of City officials.

"That pompous, potbellied porker." She added a string of ungentle epithets concerning the undersheriff's relatives then launched into a diatribe about the audacity of men who dared to abuse respectable craftswomen, ending with a pessimistic assessment of the undersheriff's chances of reaching higher office or ever again having satisfactory relations with his wife.

"We'll have her out in two shakes of a puppy dog's tail," she promised. Tom felt the pressure of his dread for Clara abate for the first time since she'd been lifted onto that cart.

Mrs. Sprye outlined their plan with the snap of a seasoned general. Tom could do no more today since it was Sunday. First thing on the morrow, however, he and Trumpet were to assemble a list of necessaries that she ticked off on her fingers: bed linens, underclothes, a thick blanket, food that would keep for several days, candles, a tinderbox, and other oddments. Tom repeated each item under his breath, committing the list to memory.

Mrs. Sprye smiled at him, crinkles softening her sharp eyes. "Don't go buying rich stuff now, my boy. They'll only steal it from her. Plain but serviceable, that's what you want."

She herself would sit down at once and write letters to half a dozen judges, including the one responsible for gaol delivery at Newgate. Sir Avery Fogg was due at the Antelope within the hour and would be gifted with a piece of her mind. She was sure — nearly sure — that he'd had nothing to do with the writing of that warrant. If he had, by her late husband's hopes of everlasting bliss, she'd roast his feet in the fire right there in her tavern.

Tom smiled for the first time in hours. "I love you," he told her, knowing she wouldn't take it the wrong way.

***

Tom and Trumpet took the shortcut back to Gray's. By mutual unspoken consent, they turned west to detour around the spot where the Fleming had died. They would walk up past the duck pond and enter Gray's from the north.

They rounded a dense thicket of hazel and were surprised by a lad about Tom's size, who planted himself in the middle of their path and confronted them with his hands on his hips.

"What have we here? Purpoole's Captain of the Guard and Master Intelligencer strolling along, all by their lonesomes, without any retinue? What d'ye say, lads? Shall we take 'em?"

Three other men emerged from the thicket. "They'll fetch a pretty ransom," one said.

"Lincoln's men," Trumpet snarled. Lincoln's Inn stood south of Gray's on the other side of Holborn. The rivalry between the two Inns of Court was centuries old and fiercely maintained. Its members rarely ventured this far into enemy territory. "A flock of prancing coxcombs. We don't have time for this."

Tom wasn't so sure. He found the prospect of a good brawl agreeable in the extreme. He'd thrash these beef-witted dewberries inside out. He'd stand them on their heads and then he'd kick their bilious backsides black and blue and send them yelping back to their own hall.

He grinned at them, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

"I'll take the knave in the middle," Trumpet muttered out of one side of his mouth.

"Good," Tom said. "I'll take the rest of them."

He waded into the fray with gusto, laying about him with his long arms and his heavy fists. All of the fear and lust and frustration of the past few days boiled into his veins, filling him with a scalding exaltation of battle glory. He soon sent his would-be assailants scurrying for the safety of their own Inn.

Only one left. He grabbed the knave from behind and lifted him right up over his head. Someone was shouting, "Tom! Stop!" but he ignored the quibbling naysayer. He twirled twice around with his enemy wriggling helplessly in his mighty hands and threw the dastard full length into the duck pond.

He laughed as he watched the puny minnow floundering through the lily pads. He laughed louder as the measle slipped and fell back into the mud on his little round rump. Then his eye was caught by something furry floating toward the bank.

Not a rat. Certainly not a duck. It looked like a serjeant's coif made of hair. Curious, he stepped gingerly to the edge of the pond and fished it out.

"What ho! It's a wig! And a funny sort of a moustachio too." He held them up. "Trumpet, look what I found!"

He looked behind him. No Trumpet. He looked at the wig in his hand. Trumpet-colored hair.

A disturbing thought crept into his mind. He turned slowly back to watch the varlet floundering in the pond. His eyes were open, he knew he was awake, and yet he could not be seeing what he saw. He took a few steps closer, his feet moving unbidden into the water.

There, kneeling among the lily pads, draped in long green strands of pond scum, was a beautiful, soaking wet, raven-haired girl with fury flashing in her emerald eyes.

Tom was gobsmacked. His legs turned to jelly and he sank backward onto his rump in the mud.

"God's light, Trumpet." His voice sounded hollow in his ears. "You're a girl."

CHAPTER 39

Tom covered Trumpet's head with his jerkin as they scurried on to Gray's. They slipped into Trumpet's staircase without being seen. Luckily, Mr. Welbeck was out. Trumpet locked the door behind them. Tom grabbed him, or her, by the shoulders and turned her, or him, around. He studied his erstwhile boon companion's features as if he had never seen a human face before.

"You're very pretty," he said at last.

Trumpet grinned up at him, eyes dancing.

"That moustache was pathetic. I felt sorry for you."

Trumpet laughed. The laugh sounded musical. Had it been musical before?

"How long have you been a girl?" Tom realized the minute the words left his lips how absurd they were.

Trumpet's giggles were contagious. Soon they were both howling with laughter, leaning against each other for support.

Tom felt weak, as if his bones had turned to soggy strips of pastry. "I think I'm going to fall down."

"Here, sit." Trumpet helped him to a stool. He only landed half his arse on the first try and had to stomp a leg out to keep from capsizing. He balanced his elbows on his thighs and carefully lowered his head into his hands.

Trumpet stood beside him, patting him on the back. "You've had a difficult day." His voice trembled with laughter.

Tom groaned his agreement. "Is everyone a girl?"

Trumpet giggled again. Had he always been such a giggler?

"Is Ben a girl?"

More giggling. Well, that one deserved it. No one could be less girlish than Benjamin Whitt. The man had hair on his back and his voice was an octave lower than God's.

A hideous thought flashed into Tom's mind and he sat up straight. "I took you to a brothel!"

Trumpet nodded happily. "That was one of the most interesting experiences I have ever had. That whore was most informative. I can't thank you enough for taking me."

Tom watched her with amazement. It was like watching a pony discourse on the art of embroidery. He blinked several times and shook his head. It didn't help. "That's why you insisted on a private room."

"I'm fairly certain you would have seen through my disguise if I'd stayed with you."

"You were in there for an hour!" Tom knew there were more pressing questions, but he couldn't get past this one. "What in the names of all the Seven Seas were you doing?"

"Talking," Trumpet said. "Mostly."

Tom knew that
mostly
would haunt him for many sleepless nights to come.

She, or he — no, definitely she — giggled again. Her giggles were cute. Charming, even.

"You're adorable," Tom said, not realizing that his mouth had opened.

Trumpet's eyes flashed and Tom was rocked back in his chair as a very wet, very sturdy girl landed in his lap. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Next thing he knew, he was kissing her back with considerable pleasure.

"Wait, wait, wait." He managed to free his lips and disengage her arms from his neck, budging her off his lap with a shake of his knees. He shot a brief prayer of thanks for last night's vigorous love-making and its calming effect on the said lap. Which thought brought a twinge of guilt about Clara; not that he needed another reason for not kissing his old comrade.

Which thought overloaded his feeble wits altogether.

Trumpet sighed. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

"Don't tell me, I beg you." He scratched his beard and gazed at the floor for several long moments. Was it in truth a floor? Or was it painted paper, like the scenery in a masque? He tapped on the floor with the toe of his soggy boot. It felt solid enough.

He remembered the other question. "Who are you?"

"I am Lady Alice Trumpington, only child and heiress of Lord William Trumpington, the third Earl of Orford." She sank into a full court curtsy with an agile grace that would have left the average noblewoman gnawing her lips in envy.

Tom wasn't surprised by the grace. He had coached the lad at fencing and found him an able opponent.

"Why?"

"Why? To learn the law, of course." Trumpet seemed to think the reason was self-evident. "Books are not enough. You need the moots and the bolts, the case-putting after supper. Full immersion in the subject and the language. You need a man like Ben to help you through the hard parts. Would Francis Bacon tutor a girl in Law French?"

"But women aren't supposed to learn the law. It's too strenuous for them. They aren't allowed in universities either."

"And why shouldn't we be? We have brains, have we not? Should we not exercise them as we exercise our bodies? Do you want untutored idiots rearing your children and managing your estates?"

Tom shrugged. "My mother isn't an idiot, and she manages our estates expertly. With the help of a competent steward, of course." He wasn't much interested in this dispute, having heard it time and again from Mrs. Sprye. But he enjoyed the way Trumpet tossed her raven hair and stamped her little foot. How had he never noticed the lushness of her lashes? He shook his head. He was in love with Clara, and one woman was more than enough at present.

Trumpet blew out her impatience with his lack of interest in her lecture, forming a neat pout with her cupid-bow lips.

Tom shook his head again, harder. Thinking about Trumpet as a girl was equal parts stimulating and disturbing. No, at least three-quarters disturbing.

She watched him, her expression a mixture of amusement and disappointment. "I'm going to change." She turned on her heel and stalked into the inner chamber.

"Into what?" Tom called after her. "A unicorn?"

"Ha-ha," came the witty retort.

Tom got up and started poking around the room. These chambers boasted an exceptionally large hearth lined with soot-blackened bricks. No fire was lit and yet the room was quite comfortable. "Why is it so warm in here?"

"We share a chimney with the kitchen."

"Ah. I forgot. You're lucky."

"I love it. I hate to be cold."

"Like a girl," Tom said softly. He thought back over the past three months, lingering over scenes in which he perhaps ought to have recognized that Trumpet was a girl. She'd always refused to use the privy in company, but her excuses were plausible enough. Some boys — and men — were like that, even on board ship. They couldn't piss if anyone was watching. Then at dancing and fencing lessons, where they stripped off their doublets for the freedom of movement, she'd always kept her shirt buttoned up right to her ruff. He dug into that memory. No, there'd been nothing to see beneath that shirt. No wobble, no bobble. No nipple. She must have bound her breasts with white linen. Unless she was flat-chested. Otherwise, everyone dressed and undressed in their own chambers. Why wouldn't they?

He had to give her credit at the skillfulness of her deception. "You're a very good boy." That didn't come out quite right.

She laughed, understanding his meaning. She always did. "Why, thank you, kind sir. My uncle helped. He enjoys the deception as much as I do. He likes putting one over on the other barristers. He's the one that came up with the wispy moustache. He said men would feel sorry for me and not want to look at me directly, for fear of shaming me."

"Your uncle is too clever for his own good." Tom ruffled through the papers on the desk he guessed was Trumpet's. Her commonplace books were as tidy as Ben's, inscribed in her neat, round hand and cross-indexed, with a table of contents inside the cover. "Why do you want to study the law? You're good at it, mind you. You're ten times the scholar I am. But why bother? It's excruciating."

"It's fascinating."

"But you're an earl's daughter. You should be at court. You could be a lady-in-waiting to the queen, like those girls we saw the other week."

She squealed in disgust. "Can you imagine how boring that is? Waiting: that's what ladies-in-waiting do. You live in a common bedchamber, constantly chaperoned by the queen's old cronies. You can flirt with men who only want your father's title and your dowry, you can do needlepoint, you can play with clothes, and that's all. No fencing, no brawling, no moots, no brothels. No challenges. Nothing! I'd rather be like Clara and earn my own living."

"I sincerely doubt that Clara has ever visited a brothel."

"You know what I mean."

He did. Her complaints reminded him of his scorn for the life of those Essex men. "I do. I think I do. Those people at court did look peevish, didn't they? Bored and bitter and struggling to hide it. I care about clothes as much as the next man, but I'd hate for that to be the center of my existence. A man needs a purpose in life."

"So does a woman," Trumpet said.

"If you say so." He began to browse the books on the shelf. Some of them were probably Trumpet's. He wondered what she would do with her law books when she went back to being an heiress. "You don't have to go to court," he called over his shoulder. "You could stay home and do whatever earls' daughters do."

"They do nothing." Trumpet's head appeared around the edge of the door.

"They must do something."

"No, they don't." Her eyes flashed. "An earl's daughter is expected to be as idle as a midwife in a nunnery. Decorous and passive. She can read devotions. She can study certain kinds of literature, chiefly religious. Certainly not Ovid or Horace. Nothing too exciting: no battles or seductions. At least, not when anyone's looking. She can practice dancing, but no leaping. She can play the virginals, but not too well. She can ride; that's the only good thing."

"I can't imagine you sitting in a window reading devotionals all day," Tom said. "You'd be out brawling with the stable boys or dismantling the east wing or some such."

She gazed at him with an inscrutable expression. "You'd let me, wouldn't you? If you were my husband."

Tom frowned and shook his finger at her. "The brawling has to stop. Not only because it's obnoxious but because sooner or later you're going to get hurt and need a surgeon and then your secret will be out." He stopped short. He'd just given his approval for the whole scheme. Ah, well. He liked Trumpet; he had from the first. He couldn't stop now merely because the lad was a lass. He shrugged. "Ovid? Fencing? I have no objection. The east wing would be entirely your concern."

She sighed. She didn't seem to have made much progress on the dressing front, but then Tom couldn't see much. He tilted his head to get a better look.

She drew in a sharp breath and flung open the door, revealing herself clad in nothing but a long shirt and her raven tresses. The shirt was not opaque and she was definitely not flat-chested. Her figure was womanly in every way except that her limbs showed the sleek lines of muscles that could lift more than a feather fan.

Tom's jaw dropped. "God's light, Trumpet," he whispered. "You're a woman!"

She put one hand on a curvy hip and flaunted her figure. The lad had never been shy. Tom acknowledged the effect with an appreciative grin.

"How old are you?" he demanded.

"I'll be eighteen in April." The woman whose sometime name was Trumpet padded toward him on her well-arched and finely boned feet. Tom suddenly felt very much like a pig being stalked by a panther.

"Wait one minute." He took a step backward.

"I could help you forget about Clara," she murmured in a throaty voice.

"Oh, no," he said. "I mean — I mean: no, no, please no. You're an earl's daughter." He held out both hands to stop her. "I am absolutely, positively certain that Trumpet was a virgin when we took him to that brothel. You rather obviously didn't know, er, how things worked. And since all you did in that place was talk, I am equally certain that you remain a virgin still."

"I don't have to be," Trumpet-Alice purred. She walked her long fingers up Tom's arm and curved her hand around his neck. The gesture arched her back, lifting her ripe breasts fully into his line of sight.

Tom's body hummed with a more than willing response. His heart turned somersaults of confusion in his chest. His brain — last out of the gate — told his lesser parts to behave themselves and answered, in a strangled voice, "I am absolutely, positively certain that you do." He grasped her hand and returned it to her. "I beg you, my dearest friend Trumpet, turn yourself back into a boy. At least until the present crisis is over."

She regarded him through her lush lashes for a moment, lips curved in an inscrutable smile. "I knew you'd say no." She raised herself up on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Then she flounced in a manner most feminine back to her bedchamber. The which environment Tom steadfastly refused to contemplate.

He blew out a breath, rubbing his hands over his head and pulling on his hair. Law school was infinitely more perilous than he had imagined it would be. "You still haven't told me why you want to be a lawyer," he called once the panther was safely back in its lair.

"I don't want to
be
a lawyer. I only want to learn enough law to hold on to my own property when I marry."

"Is that hard to do?"

"Yes." Her voice dripped with scorn. "If the men who are supposed to love and protect you turn out to be villainous, onion-eyed varlets whose only thought is piling up riches so they can gamble them away, it is."