The Greatest Lover in All England (19 page)

“Lady Honora, you know the state of the queen's finances,” Tony chided. “Her household is ever growing and she likes not to call Parliament to adjust her allowance. And let us not mention the queen's own stinginess.”

“And let us also not mention the queen's displeasure with Tony,” Jean added helpfully. “We know not for certain if she'll forgive him.”

“Certes, 'tis true.” He examined his fingernails.
“Nay, I would imagine I'd come to a marriage shorn of wealth.”

“But he's still a mighty stallion,” Jean said helpfully. “Capable of producing many children. Although, forsooth, should a woman decide to wed a penniless man, I'd think she'd prefer to wed one who's elegant and courtly. Someone like Sir Danny.”

“I couldn't wed Sir Danny.” Lady Honora leaped up and paced across the floor. “He's as common as dirt.”

“I never linked your name with Sir Danny's.” Jean stared in assumed surprise. “I never suggested you should wed Sir Danny. Why should you think that's what I meant?”

The one thing Rosie never imagined could happen, did happen. Lady Honora blushed from the top of her stomacher to the top of her plucked forehead.

Rosie hid a smile, and Jean answered her own question. “He's a charming man, and one would never know he's an actor should he decide to act the part of a nobleman.”

“That's true,” Lady Honora said, obviously much struck.

Jean said, “In sooth, he's probably related to my family in Cornwall.”

Astounded, Lady Honora asked, “He is?”

Patient with Lady Honora's gullibility, Jean said, “Just as Rosalyn was brought up by your aunt in seclusion and in perfect respectability.”

“I don't have an aunt,” Lady Honora said, then stopped. “You mean,
lie?
”

“It wouldn't be the first time the gentry has added relatives in such a manner.” Jean rose as Ann's bright voice sounded on the stairs. “Ah, my sister arrives at last. There's hope we'll make London this day.”

Dressed in her traveling clothes, Ann rushed into
the long gallery, riding a wave of violet scent. “Forgive me, good people. Have you been waiting long?”

Speechless, Jean could only stare, but Tony took Ann's fluttering hand and patted it. “Not at all. My sister Jean would probably like to have a bit of speech with Rosie before she leaves, anyway.”

“Oh, Jean.” Disgusted, Ann placed her fists on her waist. “I hurried because I thought you'd be angry, and you want to sit and chat?”

“I—”

Ann rushed on before Jean could complete her sentence. “It's not possible, I tell you. We must leave at once, or we'll not make London this day, and you know how we hate the inns between here and there. Tony, you should send a gift to Queen Elizabeth.” The footman handed Tony a package wrapped in brown paper and ribbon, and Tony handed it to Ann. “Excellent!” Ann cried, weighing it in her hand. “'Tis clothing. Shall I tell her she should think of you when she wears it?”

Jean grabbed Ann's arm and pulled. “Let us begone before you repeat our entire conversation.”

Lady Honora accepted a cloak from her hovering maid, but Tony took Rosie's cloak and wrapped her in it himself. He seemed very concerned that it remain close about her; he tied it at the neck, tucked it close around her arms, pulled the front shut, and brushed Rosie's skin a dozen times in the process. She remained aloof.

At least she thought she did, but Tony chuckled with deep satisfaction and released her only when a footman opened the door onto the terrace and the winter wind whistled through.

“What a day to travel.” Tony accepted his long cloak and pulled it over the top of his short one and stepped out into the cold.

Rosie held back, watching him as he welcomed the winter with an exuberant shout. That was his secret, she mused. Everyone liked Tony, even Old Man Winter, because he liked everyone. He wasn't a stupid man; he judged everyone astutely, but he reveled in their differences, their personalities—them.

Rosie
had
to convince herself that Tony was nothing more than a good-looking man whose conceit was perfectly justified and perfectly odious. Just because he shone like a sun god with his golden halo of hair and his relentlessly radiant personality didn't mean she should waver like a willow in the wind. She was stronger than that.

Ann scurried after him, chatting with animation, adoring him with her gaze. Lady Honora followed with more dignity, but just as much eagerness. Jean hurriedly pulled on her leather gloves and stepped out into the wind with a fond smile at her brother.

And Rosie? How did Rosie feel about him? She'd been avoiding the subject for weeks, blaming her own adoration on lust, on madness, on just about anything but the truth.

She idolized him just as much as Ann, admired him just as much as Lady Honora, and loved him…Od's bodkin, she loved him more than Jean, more than any sister, different from any sister. She loved him like those lovestruck fools in Uncle Will's plays, and she wanted to know if he loved her. He said he did, but she hadn't been ready to listen. Now, dared she ask him?

Aye, she did. Puffing out her chest, she stepped out on the terrace and caught sight of him.

Nay, she didn't. She stopped short and was bumped by the door as a footman shut it behind her.

Aye, she dared. She'd do it now. Right now. In front of everyone.

Then Ann cried, “My hat!” as it lifted off her head and sailed over the edge of the terrace.

Rosie sighed in relief. Not now.

A footman ran down the steps after Ann's hat, Lady Honora and the sisters hurried to the railing and peered over, and Tony laughed and chased a few steps after the footman.

Rosie watched them, trying to catch her breath and watching Tony. He stood halfway down the stairs, encouraging the footman with shouts, then looking back at his sisters and teasing Ann. He grinned at his sisters and even at Lady Honora, then turned and saw her. His smile softened; he looked as if the mere sight of her tantalized him. His smile invited her to reply, and she almost answered. Almost.

Then the sky fell.

Thunder battered
Tony's ear. Dust rushed up in a whirlwind. Women screamed, and windows shattered.

“Rosie!” Tony leaped up the steps in two bounds, darted into the cloud, and tripped over a piece of the sky. A tall stone statue from the roof's trim lay shattered in the crater of the ruined terrace floor. He leaped it, skidded on the chips, and ran into Rosie, rushing at him.

She was alive. She was on her feet. He could see no more, for the wind, like a giant broom, whisked the dust aloft. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he coughed, then gasped, “Hurt? Are you hurt?”

His hands ran over her as he spoke, and he found her doing the same thing to him. “I'm fine. You?”

“Fine. Move!” He glanced up through the cloud, and
silhouetted against the cloudy sky, he saw a hole gaping among the finials at the edge of the roof. “God's love.” He pushed Rosie out of the center of destruction, and wanted to keep pushing her until she was safe.

But valiant Rosie choked, “Your sisters. Lady Honora.”

His sisters. He stumbled, trying to find them, then the dust swirled away as if it had never been. The three women were huddled at the rail, their faces shielded by their cloaks. They were not crushed. All was right.

“Away, ladies,” Rosie cried, and she and Tony rushed to them.

Ann sobbed, and Jean's ominous silence worried him. Wrapping his sisters in his grasp, he gave the shattered statue a wide berth. He spared a thought to Lady Honora, but knew he could depend on Rosie to care for her. They reached the manor as the servants spilled out the door.

Inside, the cacophony of many voices assaulted his ears. Eager hands took charge of his sisters. Ann was untouched, although shock had bleached her swarthy skin to white. Or was it covered with a fine coating of dust? Jean lowered her cloak, and he inspected her. She seemed hale, although she coughed into her handkerchief.

Then he heard gasps from many throats and spun to the door. Lady Honora swayed there, propped up by a white-faced Rosie. Blood flowed from a long gash on Lady Honora's temple and dripped from tiny wounds on her cheeks and chin.

The footman stood behind them, holding Ann's squashed hat. The serving maids hovered, and Tony realized with a wrench they were too much in awe of Lady Honora to touch her. Springing forward, he caught Lady Honora as she toppled, unconscious. He staggered beneath her weight, but Rosie helped steady them.

She said, “Flying fragments slashed her. Gravel may be in the wounds. If you'll take her upstairs to a bed, I'll see to her.”

Tony started for the stairs. “I'll get a surgeon.”

“You will not!” Rosie hurried ahead of him. “We'll not leave her to one of those butchers.”

“But you—”

“I've acquired some skills in my travels, skills a lady might not have.” She called for the maids as they reached the hall and ordered hot water, towels, needle, and thin sheep gut thread. Seeing his horror, she explained, “I had to stitch wounds when the actors got into fights.”

“Stitch? You want to stitch?” He stopped and clasped Lady Honora. For the life of him, all he could remember were the simple skills Rosie had had to be taught—how to use a handkerchief, how to eat at a leisurely pace. And she wanted to sew Lady Honora's face? When Lady Honora had been her primary instructor, and she'd resented every minute of her education?

“Sir Danny taught me. He is a most excellent healer, and that big gash must be stitched.” Rosie adjusted Lady Honora's lolling head and peered into her unconscious face. “Or it will heal poorly.”

“I'll send for a surgeon,” Tony said firmly.

“If it'll comfort you, do so.” Rosie held the door to Lady Honora's room while he maneuvered her inside. “But I'll try to finish before she wakes.”

Laying Lady Honora on her bed, he turned to speak firmly to Rosie, but Rosie was directing the maids, and capably, too. With a minimum of fuss, she prepared a needle, thrusting the limp brown sheep gut through the tiny eye with dispatch. Climbing on a stool, she leaned over Lady Honora and examined her. Tony edged forward, fascinated by this exhibition of efficiency from
the woman he had considered, well, primordial clay for his molding. She called for a warm wet cloth, then carefully bathed the wound. He crept so close that when she turned again, she knocked his head with her elbow. Exasperated, she cried, “Move, Tony! I can't work with you there.”

“Better yet, leave,” Lady Honora said.

She was awake, and glaring at him. “Go away, Tony. I don't want you here.”

He found himself backing away. Even wounded, Lady Honora was formidable, and if she wanted him gone…he found himself in the hall, but not alone. Jean waited for him, a serious expression on her grubby face. “Is it Ann?” he asked, alarmed.

“Ann's fine.” Using the end of her skirt, Jean scrubbed at his face and showed him the dirt. He shrugged, but she said, “Come into this room and I'll wash your face.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she glanced around at the milling servants. “Ah.” He nodded, understanding. “Whatever you wish, madam.”

Jean led him to one of the empty rooms and shut the door. Leaning against it, she whispered, “I'm not sure, but Tony—I would swear I saw a man on the roof.”

 

Visible through the windows, an occasional tendril of mist swirled like a flaw in the diamond-cut ebony of night. Inside the study, the dark, polished paneling reflected the glow of candlelight, and the air smelled of beeswax. Only the crackle of the fire broke the profound silence which matched Tony's solemn mood.

He had a murderer on the estate.

He'd spent the afternoon on the slippery slate roof, examining the evidence. Stone chips littered the area
where the statue had been; some maniac had worked very hard to push it over.

But on whom? The arrow had been aimed at either him or Rosie, but this attempt could have killed everyone on the terrace. In fact, it was a miracle no one had died. The servants who'd been employed to clean up the shattered remnants had chattered about the extraordinary depth of the crater left in the marble floor of the terrace. The statue had weighed perhaps a ton, and they'd found chips in the grass, in the bushes, and inside the house mixed with the shattered glass of three large windows.

Despite Jean's discretion, everyone in the manor seemed to know the accident was no accident. Everyone buzzed about their fear of Ludovic and how he must be caught, and Tony had immediately put his best huntsmen on Ludovic's trail. But how had a man of Ludovic's size and appearance entered the house and reached the rooftop without someone
—anyone—
seeing him? Unless he had an accomplice, it seemed an impossible feat, and an accomplice placed a whole new light on the situation. He, or she, would have to be a member of the household, and why would a member of the household want to kill anybody? More than that, why would a member of the household need Ludovic to do the killing?

Rosie, when she heard the rumors, insisted Ludovic would never take the chance of hurting her, but she looked troubled.

So where did that leave them?

With an unknown murderer who sought an unknown victim. Or was it victims?

A faint knock sounded and he turned away from the window to stare at the door. He didn't know if he could bear more excited servants giving him clues which meant nothing and led nowhere.

Before he could respond, the handle turned and the door slowly opened. A head popped around the edge. “Rosie.”

He must have sounded welcoming, for her solemn expression lightened, and she slipped into the room. She'd washed off the dust of the afternoon, for she smelled of soap and flowers. She wore a demure white gown of a style so old-fashioned and informal, it was made with a bodice instead of a stiff stomacher. Her damp hair was caught back in a ribbon, and a faint dark hue smudged the skin beneatxh her eyes.

She looked lovely.

“Am I disturbing you?” she asked.

He walked toward her. “You are the only person I want to see right now.” Taking her hand, he kissed the cold fingers and marveled at the quick squeeze she gave him. Then she blushed as if she'd been bold and tried to recover her hand. Hastily he asked, “Is Lady Honora sleeping?”

Serious at once, she answered, “Aye, but not well. She's in pain, and when she sleeps, she dreams horrible dreams.” She glanced around the chamber. “I've experienced that.”

He glanced around, too, remembering her reaction the first time she'd seen the room. Rosie had too many secrets, and when he uncovered one, he found ten more. She was a mystery, and he loved mysteries—except when they threatened Rosie's life. And his craft had to be ten times greater than her stealth, for she liked to keep her secrets, so he casually inquired, “Have you spoken to Jean and Ann?”

“They're retiring early tonight and plan to stay until Lady Honora is better. Perhaps even through the holidays, for they say they'll scarcely make Cornwall in this vile weather.”

He knew that. He knew it all, but he didn't want her to leave, and he struggled to think of something else to discuss, something comforting, something not related to the horrible events of the day.

She glanced down at their still-entwined hands, then up at him. “May we continue with my reading lessons?”

Her reading lessons? She'd come for her reading lessons? “Certes!” He looked for the materials he'd used to teach her her letters, but didn't see a quill. Had one of the servants cleaned his study again?

He frowned, and she said, “If you're too busy…”

“Not at all.” Not for her. Thinking fast, he said, “I think we'll read a real book.” Tugging her by the hand, he pulled her along until she stood beside his desk, and he picked up his Bible. “'Tis a gloomy, vaporous night, and we'll sit by the fire and read.”

She caught her lower lip in her teeth and gazed at the massive Bible. “Read a book?”

“Exciting, isn't it?”

She accepted it, and her hands trembled as she touched the leather binding.

She seemed almost reluctant, and he promised, “I'll help you.” She nodded and sat on one of the straight-backed chairs. He dragged a table beside and behind her, placed a candelabra on it, then drew his chair close. Seating himself, he said brightly, “There. That's cozy.”

The room grew very quiet. The gilt edges of the pages seemed to fascinate her. She ran her finger along them many times, then took a breath.

At last he realized the problem.

The big Bible intimidated her. She knew sections of it by heart. But to read it…ah, that would surely frighten her. Perhaps she feared that she would make a mistake, or that he'd laugh at her, or that the great mystery of written speech would not open for her.

“I know you anticipate your first chance to read a book,” he said. Anticipation didn't seem to correctly describe her expression, but he plowed valiantly on. “You know the letters and many, many words. I've never met a pupil as clever as you.”

Her gaze flashed to his. “You've never met a pupil as old as I.”

Ignoring that, he continued, “I had wondered if someone taught you your letters years ago, for you seem to know them almost without my telling.”

She looked around at the room with that expression she sometimes wore when the ghosts of the house were speaking to her. “Who would have taught me my letters?”

“Perhaps your father?” She didn't answer, and he said, “In fact, I've actually put off allowing you to read a book for fear you'll decide you don't need me anymore, and these quiet hours will stop.”

She smiled. “Really?”

“I've enjoyed it.” He smiled back at her. “Have you?”

She watched him from beneath her lashes. “Very much.”

Her shy admission quickened his heartbeat, and he almost reached for her. He wanted to hug her, to hold her against him, to assure himself that she still breathed, that the blood still coursed through her veins, that her skin still flushed with warmth, that her lips still guarded paradise….

“Tony, are you sure you wish to read tonight?” She cocked her head like a kitten unsure of its welcome.

“Read?”

“You seem far away.”

Waking to the dangerous trek of his thoughts, he subdued them. “Nay, I am too close.”

Her lashes fluttered again. “Tony?”

“We'll read,” he said firmly. Taking her hands in his, he helped her open the book. “This is Cranmer's Great Bible, published after our beloved King Henry declared himself head of the Church of England. Look at the illustrations.” He helped her stroke the pages back. “Aren't they colorful? When I learned to read, 'twas with this very book. 'Twas given to me by the lady I called ‘Mama,' and she told me when I couldn't decipher a word, I should rest my mind by studying the illustrations.”

She glanced up at him. “You can't decipher all the words?”

“I can now.” He guided her to turn another page. “But I couldn't when I was learning to read. My tutor used to complain that I was a difficult student to teach. That's because I wanted to be outside, riding with my father and brother. You put me to shame with your eagerness.”

She turned a page on her own, and he slowly released her hands. He contemplated her as she studied the page. She'd never looked lovelier, with her hair swept back and her expression intense. She squealed suddenly and pointed. “Look! 'Tis the word ‘and.'”

“So it is.”

“And ‘the.'” She pointed again and again. “‘Thou,' ‘time.'” She paused, then announced triumphantly, “‘Borders.'”

He sighed in feigned despair. “I knew your ability would make a mockery of mine. Can you read a sentence?”

Flipping the pages, she looked until she found one she liked. “
Ten fat oxen, and twenty oxen out of the—
”

He leaned over and looked. “Pastures.”