The King's Man (14 page)

"Hardly. Her father promised her to me some ten years ago. Returned from the Continent to find the old fool had allowed her too much freedom. Headstrong and obdurate. Not what I look for in a woman, but she could be curbed. Women are like horses, Lovell. They can be broken to the saddle. I would soon teach her compliance and duty."

Kit looked up at the handsome face and felt his flesh creep. He had no doubt that Morton's means of ensuring compliance and duty would not be pleasant. He had some sympathy with the runaway bride.

"If I find the man who stole her away, I will kill him,” Morton said in a calm voice. “I need her money to make good my estate again."

"We all need that sort of money, Morton,” Kit scoffed.

"Well you won't earn it playing cards, Lovell.” Morton set down his hand.

Kit groaned and tossed his hand in.

"It's not my day today. As for our lost fortunes, the King himself is living on the charity of his cousin."

"At least you still have your estate, Lovell,” Fitz said.

"Half of it's been sold off to pay the fines. The other half barely supports my family,” Kit said.

"Where is your estate, Lovell?” Morton did not look at him as he dealt the cards.

"Warwickshire."

"Near?” Morton persisted.

"It's at Midhurst,” Fitz said before Kit had a chance to answer.

Kit cast daggers at his friend. He had no intention of being that specific. Fitz's tongue had been loosened by drink.

"Who did you serve with during the war?” Morton enquired, picking up his hand of cards, his face betraying nothing.

"My father raised a regiment of foot."

Morton's eyes met Kit's over the cards. “I would have thought you a cavalry man."

Kit met the cold eyes. “I was loyal to my father."

"Did he survive the war?"

"No,” Kit said shortly.

He could have added
He died in my arms on the front steps of our family home with a musket ball in the chest
. Even after all these years the memory of his father's death brought a knot of pain to his heart.

"Well, I enjoyed the war,” Morton said. “I miss those heady days."

Fitz and Kit stared at him. “Enjoyed it?” Kit said.

Morton did not raise his eyes from his cards. “We had some high times."

"You were with Goring,” Kit replied, the distaste evident in his voice. “Looting, raping and destruction were your orders for the day."

Morton looked up sharply. “And you were a saint?"

"I'm not saying I was a saint,” Kit replied. “And I'm not saying there weren't times that I will remember with a degree of affection but at no time will I ever forget that we fought a civil war and that the enemy were my own countrymen."

Morton shrugged. “Own countrymen or not, if they were trying to kill me, far better I kill them first. Anyway that is in the past. My concern now is to rebuild my future."

"And to find your heiress?"

Morton shrugged. “I will find her. I know she's in London. I've seen the little bitch. She can't hide forever."

God help her when you do find her
, Kit thought. His sympathies were entirely with the girl. Marriage to Ambrose Morton did not seem an agreeable prospect for any woman, let alone a woman of substance. Something in that thought recalled his conversation with Thamsine. He looked up at Morton and felt his blood run cold.

They finished the game in silence. Morton cleared the table of the coins and stood up.

"If you will excuse me, gentleman, I have an assignation."

"Pretty?” Fitz enquired.

"Charming as a picture,” Morton said. “She is waiting for me. Good day to you.” He inclined his head and left, pushing past Gerard who had just entered.

Gerard removed his hat and took Morton's seat. “Who was that?"

"Ambrose Morton,” Kit said with disgust. “A disgrace to the King's colors if ever there was one."

"I've heard of Morton,” Gerard said. “One of Goring's crew and from the way my uncle tells it, not one of the better ones."

"Amen to that,” agreed Kit.

Fitz straightened. He seemed to have sobered up a little. Maybe the loss of his purse to Morton had helped slow the intake of wine. “What's the news?” he asked.

"Not good,” said Gerard. “Charles has refused to see Henshaw."

"I told you he would,” Kit said. “His reputation preceded him.” He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Who would be Charles? Who can he really trust?"

"Well, you and I to begin with,” Fitz replied, throwing a slightly drunken arm around his friend's shoulders.

"But the news is not all bad,” Gerard said. “The King has summoned us. He wants to talk directly with us."

"Who's ‘us'?” Kit enquired.

"Fitzjames and I and you, of course. We'll sail on Friday."

"Sail?” Kit's nose pinched at the thought of tossing around on the English Channel for twenty-four hours. “Why me? What can I accomplish?"

"You speak French a damned sight better than we do and the King knows you. He trusts you. Between us we can persuade him."

Kit leaned forward. “What about Willys and his committee?"

Fitz narrowed his eyes. “What about Willys?"

"I only know that whatever committee he is involved with already holds the King's Commission. Are we not better advised to pool our resources? Lend our support to their venture?"

Fitz gave a deprecatory snort. “From what I know of them, Willys’ committee is a pack of old fools. There is not one person of worth willing to lend his name to it. All they do is talk. With the King's blessing, I believe we can actually achieve something."

"My uncle has the King's ear,” Gerard put in. “All it needs is for us to convince him that our plan is feasible."

"And is it?” Kit hid his irritation.

"If we can take Cromwell the rest will fall into place."

"But there is the fundamental error,” Kit said. “It's not just Cromwell. There is Ireton, Thurloe, do you want me to go on listing names?"

He was wasting his breath. The two obdurate faces looking at him told him that their minds were settled.

"Anyway we have help,” Fitz said. “Mazarin will supply us with whatever we need to accomplish the task."

Cardinal Mazarin, the real power behind the French throne! Kit's heart skipped a beat. Was this the connection with the French court that Thurloe was looking for?

"What do you mean?” he asked.

"The French want Charles out of Paris and they want him back on the throne of England all without being seen to provide assistance."

"Such as the necessary military force?” Kit asked.

"Exactly. We have a contact here in London, sent here by Mazarin,” Gerard said.

De Baas? Kit held his breath.

Fitzjames continued. “Gerard and I have met with him and it is clear that they have means to assist us in an assassination attempt."

Kit ran his hand through his hair. “Assassination is not the answer. This is madness, Fitz!"

"It will work, Kit.” Fitz's eyes blazed with a new passion. “Don't you see? With Cromwell and Ireton dead, the army and government will be in disarray and begging for the King to return."

"And if it doesn't?” Kit asked.

"They have a French assassin who knows nothing."

Kit rolled his eyes. “Who is Mazarin's contact here?"

Fitz and Gerard looked at each other. “The Baron De Baas."

"That popinjay!” Kit expostulated. The other two men hushed him.

"You know him?” Fitz asked.

"I know of him,” Kit said quickly, hoping both men would assume his family connections gave him instantaneous knowledge of every Frenchman. “I wouldn't put my trust in that man,” he added flatly.

"We have no choice.” Gerard shrugged.

"He's an amateur playing a dangerous game,” Kit protested.

"He is a confidante of Cardinal Mazarin. We cannot ignore that connection,” Fitz put in.

Gerard drained his glass. “Until we have spoken to the King, there is nothing we can do at present except wait.” He stood up. “We will meet in Paris, gentlemen."

Kit watched the young man's confident swagger as he pushed past through the crowded in. He wished he still felt that sense of immortality but every day he felt death's hot breath on his neck. This was a dangerous game and he was losing his nerve.

"Deep in thought?” Fitz raised an eyebrow at Kit and lifted his cup.

Kit nodded and Fitz summoned the potboy for a jug of wine.

"Am I getting old, Fitz?"

"I don't know. You turned thirty yet?"

Kit nodded. “Just before Christmas. Do you think that's it?"

"That's what?"

"Why I am losing my taste for excitement and starting to think of hearth and home?"

"God forbid!” Fitz filled their cups again. “Lovell, I despair of you. Your Lucy will have you before a priest before you can say ‘praise the lord'."

"Lucy? No, Lucy's not the sort I see myself settling with."

"What became of that girl in The Ship?” Fitz asked. “Now she had something about her. Where'd you meet her?"

"I knew her brother.” Kit said hastily, grateful for Thamsine's confidence. “Anyway, what about you, Fitz, still pining for the lovely Althea?"

"I wrote another poem. Want to hear it?"

"No,” said Kit shortly. He had heard too many of Fitz's sentimental poems dedicated to that particular lovely, but unattainable, young woman.

Fitz looked downcast.

"Oh, very well,” Kit conceded. “Let us hear of nymphs, shepherds and the lovely Althea. It makes a pleasant change from talk of assassination."

"Mademoiselle Granville!"

Thamsine heard the Baron's affected voice and stopped in her tracks. She turned to face him, a smile fixed on her face.

"Baron de Baas."

"Mademoiselle, might I say how radiant you are looking this morning.” De Baas grasped her fingers and held them to his lips in a lingering kiss, his beard and moustache rasping her skin.

Thamsine extricated her hand and surreptitiously wiped it on her skirts. “You are too kind, Baron,” she responded.

"Mistress Skippon's music lessons are progressing?"

"Very well."

"Good, good.” De Baas looked distracted.

"You wanted something Baron?"

The Baron took a step towards her and clasped her hand again.

"My dear mademoiselle, I should be most obliged if you could attend my apartment for a little supper tonight. I require some assistance with some music I wish to perform at the next soiree."

Thamsine felt a shudder run down her spine. Everything in her screamed out to refuse but then she remembered who she was and why she was there.

She gave a nervous laugh. “My dear Baron, I'm not sure..."

He raised a hand, a look of pain crossing his face. “Please do not be alarmed, mademoiselle, it will be quite ...
innocente
. I wish merely to share some music with you and perhaps some talk. I have been rather...” He frowned as if searching for the word. “Rather lonely since I have been in England."

Thamsine bit her tongue and replied sweetly. “I'm so sorry to hear that, Baron. Very well, what time?"

An eager light sprang into his eyes. “Shall we say seven in the evening?"

Thamsine nodded. “Until tonight, Baron."

A door flung open with a crash and Bordeaux stood brandishing a piece of paper.

"De Baas, you fool!” he exclaimed in French. “What game are you playing?"

"My dear Bordeaux, what do you mean?” De Baas replied, also in French.

"You have been sending correspondence directly to Mazarin without my consent."

"I do not need your consent."

"You do when the matter affects the relationship with this country."

Thamsine affected a bemused stare, looking from one to the other.

"My dear ambassador.” De Baas remembered her presence and gave her a reassuring smile, continuing in French. “I think this conversation is one best conducted in private."

"Then in here, now!” Bordeaux stood aside to let De Baas pass into the room beyond.

De Baas bowed to Thamsine. “Until tonight, Mademoiselle,” he said in English.

Thamsine waited until the door closed behind them and was on the verge of pressing her ear to the door when a servant entered, carrying her cloak and hat.

She walked slowly back to The Ship, lost in thoughts of how best to avoid the Baron's roving hands while extricating useful information from him.

"Thamsine!” She jumped at the sound of her name.

Kit stood on the corner of the street, hunched into his cloak. He looked cold as if he had been waiting a while. She hadn't seen him since their vitriolic conversation of the previous day.

"What are you doing here?” she enquired with a frosty edge to her voice.

"Waiting for you."

"Why?"

"Because...” Kit grimaced. “I have to. Now we can stand here getting cold or you can tell me if you have anything to report."

She began to walk “You can stand here and freeze by all means, Captain Lovell. I am going home."

Kit caught her by the arm. “Enough. Tell me what I need to know."

She glared rebelliously at him. “Bordeaux is displeased with De Baas. He accused him of communicating directly with Mazarin."

"And?"

"De Baas didn't deny it.” She recounted the brief conversation she had been privy to that morning. “That's all except...” She paused, frowning. “De Baas has invited me for supper tonight in his apartment."

Kit's eyes widened. “Excellent."

She stared at him. “Have you met the man? He says he is lonely and I can only hazard a guess that it is not my musical talents he has in mind for company."

Kit shrugged. “You're an intelligent woman, Thamsine. I am sure you will find some excuse to avoid any unnecessary advances. It will provide an ideal opportunity to search his apartment."

She looked at him with distaste. “You have no idea what you are asking me to do, Captain Lovell."

"I am not asking you to prostitute yourself, Thamsine.” Kit's face was serious. “Do what you think is necessary but extricate yourself before things become uncomfortable for you."

Her eyes narrowed. “And how do you suppose I do that? You're a man ... you have no idea!” She shrugged. “Well, do not concern yourself on my account, Captain Lovell, I shall advise you if I find anything useful. Now I've told you all I have to tell you, good day to you.” She began to walk again.