The King's Man (11 page)

At the conclusion of the lesson, the Baron lingered as Thamsine collected her music and put away the instruments. As he nattered on about the latest French fashions, Thamsine nodded and made the appropriate noises. As she walked to the door, he intercepted her, seizing her hand and placing it to his lips.

"You are a very talented musician, mademoiselle."

"You are too kind, Baron.” Thamsine tugged at her hand. “You are a fine musician yourself."

He inclined his head. “
Merci
, mademoiselle."

Thamsine freed her hand. “Good day to you, Baron."

He opened the door to her. “Until next time,
chère
Mademoiselle Granville."

"No!” Kit brought his manacled hand crashing down on the table.

The pen stand jumped out of its neat alignment with the inkpot. Thurloe calmly restored it to its rightful place.

"You have no choice, Lovell. The girl trusts you."

"Trusts me? Thurloe, she's no fool, as soon as I reveal my colors, she will work out who put her in the Tower in the first place. What trust will she have in me then?"

"It doesn't matter what she feels about you,” Thurloe replied, the hooded eyes cold. “She has no more choice in this matter than you."

Kit ran an exasperated hand through his hair. “Thurloe, she's a friend."

Thurloe's eyes flashed. “They're all friends, Lovell, and yet you have no compunction about turning them in. I've told you before you cannot afford to allow friendships to stand in the way of this business."

Kit stared at the man, hating him with every fiber of his being. Thurloe rendered him as helpless as a fly struggling in a spider's web. The harder the small creature struggled the stronger the bonds around it became. It seemed every time he met with John Thurloe another part of his soul became ensnared by the man. He wondered how long it would be before Thurloe's web bound him forever.

Kit's fingers closed over the bag of coins Thurloe pushed across the table, and he strode from the room without another word.

Kit parted from his companions and watched as they slipped away into the darkening streets. Along with most of his co-conspirators Kit had been released. Only Dutton and Whitely remained still incarcerated while the others had simply been cast out into the dank streets.

It would not be long before they reassembled for cards and a continuation of the endless game of trying to restore the King. Kit would go on encouraging them and turning them in. He sighed. He despised himself but Thurloe had left him little option.

He fingered the bag of coins that weighed heavily in his pocket, shivered and let out a heavy breath, watching it steam in the cold air. He shrugged his cloak around his shoulders and lowered his head against the sleety rain that fell, turning the streets into a noisome quagmire.

At Holborn, Lucy's maid, Mag, opened the door.

"Well, well,” she said, with a sneer of distaste, “look who's back."

"It's a pleasure to see you too, Mag,” Kit replied coldly. In his experience round people like Mag were generally pleasant, jovial people. Mag was neither. “Is your mistress in?"

"More fool her,” Mag said with a sniff.

"Who is it, Mag?” Lucy's voice came trilling down the stairs.

"It's that no good wastrel, Kit Lovell,” Mag replied.

"Kit!” There was a shriek as Lucy hurtled down the stairs towards him.

She pulled up short, her hand going to her mouth and nose. She looked him up and down. “My god, where have you been these last weeks?"

"In the Tower.” He smiled ruefully. In his present condition, all he could do was hope his charm won through over the dirt.

"The Tower? Why? What did you do this time?” Her blue eyes widened. “Not that horse again?"

"A simple misunderstanding.” Kit shut the door behind him. “I'm free now and in dire need of both a bath and,” he wheedled, “a little feminine tenderness."

Lucy placed a hand on his chest and pushed him away. “Well the feminine tenderness will have to wait. You will pardon me for not kissing you but you really do stink. Mag, draw a bath for Captain Lovell in the kitchen."

Mag scowled. “Madam, what about dinner?"

"Dinner can wait and make sure he has some food."

Kit dropped a kiss on Lucy's head. “Lucy, dearest, you are too kind."

"She is. Too kind for her own good,” Mag commented as she pushed past Kit. He made a face at her broad beam before the kitchen door slammed behind her.

The following morning, clean, rested, fed and well bedded, Kit lay in Lucy's commodious bed, reflecting that life did have its compensations. Lucy sat at her dressing table, twisting her hair into the complex pattern of ringlets that suited her so well.

"I think we shall go shopping this morning,” she said, “if you have nothing else to do."

Kit went through a mental list of things that required doing and found none that were sufficiently pressing as to delay a shopping trip.

He had no desire to find Thamsine Granville and impart his nasty little secret. She could wait. He could already see the hurt and betrayal in her eyes as she realised that the man who had professed to be her friend had only been waiting for the opportunity to turn her over. She would hate him but nowhere near as much as he hated himself.

He rolled over to watch Lucy finish her toilette. He liked the way her small hands tweaked and tugged at her hair, forcing it to her will. Thamsine could learn a trick or two from Mistress Mouse but then, he reflected, he doubted Lucy's curls would suit Thamsine. The untamed chestnut locks would look ridiculous.

Kit knew that if he played his cards right and endured Lucy's vacillations, he might end up with some new bit of frippery. While he did not consider himself a fop, he did like to dress well and with the current state of his purse and his wardrobe any contributions were gratefully accepted.

He patiently endured Lucy's indecision over a dozen pairs of embroidered gloves, a length of Belgian lace and a long discussion on the merits of apricot velvet over green velvet. She rewarded him for his patience and well-chosen comments with a fine pair of embroidered kid gloves.

As they walked back to High Holborn, Lucy tucked her arm into his. “It's so nice to have you all to myself for a little while,” she said.

He looked down at her. “Lucy, you know it won't last. I'm not a man to be relied on."

She smiled up at him. “I know that. I'm sure you will be gone in a day or two. It's very tiresome of you and it is fortunate that I'm not looking for a new husband, Kit, just a bit of companionship on these long, cold nights."

He drew her little hand closer. “I count myself a very lucky man,” he said, “to have such an undemanding woman on my arm."

Lucy gave him a coquettish smile. “Undemanding, am I? Just wait till we get home, Captain Lovell, and then you will see just how undemanding I can be!"

Kit laughed. The prospect of an afternoon in bed with Lucy stretched ahead of him. Life could be worse.

"Captain Lovell, is it not?” A tall, dark-haired man stepped into their path and bowed, sweeping his hat from his head.

Kit acknowledged the bow. “Colonel Morton."

Morton straightened, allowing Kit the first real look at the man's face in daylight. Long, thick, coal-black hair, peppered lightly with grey at the temples, curled to his shoulders framing an oval face. Kit saw the arrogance in the man's light grey eyes and in the twist of his full lips and felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Even if he had not been apprised of Morton's reputation, he knew his type and instinctively disliked it.

Beside him Lucy stirred as Morton's eyes turned to her.

"Mistress Talbot, Colonel Ambrose Morton.” Kit made the introduction with some reluctance. He did not like the way Morton's gaze slithered over Lucy's small but perfect body, lingering on her heart-shaped face.

"Mistress Talbot, your servant.” Morton lifted Lucy's gloved hand to his lips.

Kit felt a shiver run through Lucy's body and he put a hand possessively over the small hand that clasped his arm.

"A pleasure, Colonel Morton. Are you and Kit old friends?"

Morton's eyes flicked on to Kit's face. “Not so much friends as perhaps casual acquaintances, Mistress Talbot. We share the unhappy circumstance of having wasted our youth in pursuit of a losing cause."

"I am not sure I quite share that sentiment,” Kit demurred.

"Oh come, Lovell, you must admit that it is time to make a fresh start in life, or do you still hanker after what cannot be?"

Kit stared at the man's handsome, smiling face, unsure of how to answer the question.

Lucy interposed before he could reply. “Are you staying in London, Colonel?"

He shook his head. “At the moment, I lodge with friends at Turnham Green, Mistress Talbot."

"Oh, a pretty village,” Lucy exclaimed. “I know of someone who lives there. Who is your friend?"

"Master Roger Knott. He is a lawyer of some repute. Are you acquainted with him?"

Lucy's face lit up and she withdrew her hand from Kit's arm.

"Oh, I know him well. My late husband used his services as a lawyer and he has been a great support to me since Martin's death."

Ambrose raised an eyebrow. “Ah, so you are Martin Talbot's widow?"

Lucy's head bobbed, the feather in her hat rising and falling. “Indeed? Did you know my husband?"

Ambrose shook his head. “No, but I have heard Knott speak of him ... and you."

Kit shifted his feet. “Lucy, it's getting late and it's cold..."

Lucy looked up at him and smiled. “Of course.” She held out her hand to Morton, curtseying as he bowed over it. “I bid you good day, Colonel."

"And I you, Mistress Talbot.” Morton inclined his head to Kit. “Lovell."

Putting his hand under Lucy's elbow, Kit propelled her forward until they were well past Ambrose Morton, then he slackened his pace, allowing them both to fall back to an amble. Lucy tucked her hand into the crook of Kit's arm again.

"What a charming man,” she mused.

Kit grunted noncommittally.

Lucy continued, “And so handsome."

"What makes a man handsome in your eyes?” Kit struggled to keep the irritation from his voice.

Lucy flicked her hand at his upper arm. “You wouldn't understand,” she said. “It's the balance of his features and those eyes..."

Kit gave a snort of disgust.

Lucy sighed and leaned her head against his arm. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Captain Lovell?"

"Don't be ridiculous,” Kit scoffed. “There is just something about the man I neither like nor trust. It has nothing to do with his handsome face or his charming manners."

"If you say so,” Lucy said and smiled.

Much to Lucy's disappointment, Kit's respite from the troubles of the world had to come to an end. He rose early on Monday morning to go in search of Fitzjames and the others. He knew better than to look for them at the Ship Inn, but there were a number of other inns where they could be found. He came across Fitzjames drinking with Jack Gerard at the Saracen's Head in Carter Lane.

"Well, well, Lovell. I heard they'd let you go.” Fitz raised his cup as Kit sat down and sent for a jug of ale.

"Those of us they felt they couldn't hold.” Kit hastily corrected the impression that he had been the only one released.

"Poor old Dutton. Will they hang him?” Gerard asked.

Kit shook his head. “I doubt it. There is really very little evidence against him.” He sighed and stretched his right leg.

After the cold and the damp of the Tower, the wound he had sustained at Worcester was playing merry hell with him.

"I am getting too old to play amateur games like Dutton had in mind,” he grumbled

"Then you were lucky to slip through the net."

"Damned lucky,” agreed Kit. “You two were wise to stay away."

"No doubt they suspect one of us of informing on them?” Fitz asked.

Kit shrugged. “What do you expect?"

Fitz's face tightened. “Well, I can assure you I had no part in it. Whatever my feelings about the stupidity of the plan, I would not have turned them in. I have no time for turncoats.” He leaned forward. “Nor do we have time for amateurs. As I intimated at our last meeting, there are plans in the wind that Dutton and his cronies nearly put paid to."

Gerard took a thoughtful sip of his ale. “Are we wise to involve another, Fitzjames?"

Fitz cast Gerard a hard look. “Lovell could be useful. He speaks fluent French among his many talents. His name was mentioned before as being a possible."

"A possible what?” Kit asked. “I've had my fill of plots and plans, Fitz. Three weeks in the Tower saw to that. My leg hurts damnably, and all I want is a few quiet evenings of cards to restore my fortunes."

"Don't be ridiculous, Lovell,” Fitz smiled. “I know you. You'll be bored within two days. You see those gentlemen who have just entered?” Kit turned to look at the two plainly dressed men who stood at the entrance looking around the gloomy taproom.

"Do you know them?” Fitz enquired.

Kit nodded. “The shorter one is Henshaw. I presume the other to be his brother, Wiseman. Not men I would want dealings with.” It struck him as faintly ironic that he would trust neither of them as far as he could throw them.

"At least listen to what they have to say,” Fitz whispered.

Fitz caught the eye of the taller man. They removed their hats and cloaks and sauntered over to the table with the look of studied casualness as if such a meeting was pure coincidence. The introductions to Gerard were made quickly.

"Lovell,” Henshaw said, as he sat down, “I heard tales that you were one of the Ship Inn plotters."

"So they have a name now do they?” Kit shrugged. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Captain Lovell was against the plan,” Fitzjames said. “It was unfortunate that he was rounded up with the rest of them."

"So, Lovell.” Gerard leaned forward. “Are you interested in a more serious game?"

"A more serious game?"

"To kill Cromwell,” Wiseman said in a low voice.

Kit swallowed. This was not what he expected. He doubted very much that these two were agents of the Sealed Knot, which meant they were off on a dangerous frolic of their own.