The Lady of Secrets (16 page)

“My dear friend,” the countess replied somberly. “I fear that you already are.”

F
IREWORKS SPLINTERED THE SKY WITH ICICLES OF LIGHT THAT
shimmered to earth, vanishing into the dark waters of the Thames. Decks of the vessels riding at anchor and the rooftops of houses on the banks were all crammed with spectators. Cries of delight were punctuated by outbursts of raucous laughter and cheers.

The stretch of the Thames that flowed past London was always a challenge to navigate, wherries and tilt boats darting like fireflies among the stately barges and three-masted ships. The celebration made it even more difficult for the passenger barge from Gravesend to maneuver to the landing steps.

Armagil Blackwood, Sir Patrick Graham, and his servant Alexander were among the first to alight, but Blackwood soon lost sight of the other two men. As he wove his way through the revelers that crowded the docks, he trod on the
toes of a dockworker. But the lanky fellow was either too good-humored or too numb from the amount of sack he had consumed to object.

“Sorry,” Blackwood shouted to make himself heard. “What the devil is all this?” He gestured toward the eruption of another spray of fireworks. It appeared to emanate from the direction of Whitehall.

“Celebration,” the dockworker yelled back.

“Of what?”

“The king’s deliverance from conspiracy.”

Blackwood felt his heart miss a beat. His gaze darted in search of Graham, but he was nowhere to be seen. Fighting to contain his alarm, he asked, “What conspiracy was this?”

“Don’t know. Some plot against the king’s life that was foiled years ago in Scotland. King James likes to mark the anniversary of it.”

“Oh,
that.
I had forgotten,” Blackwood said. For one terrible moment, he had feared … He exhaled, able to breathe again. When the dockworker’s attention strayed back to the sky, Blackwood slipped away and found a quiet spot behind some stacked crates and barrels.

The laughter, the revelry, and the endless drunken toasts to His Majesty’s health were mercifully muted. Blackwood drew forth his own flask, his lip curling with contempt. Two years ago, after Queen Elizabeth had died and James of Scotland had been named as her successor, bonfires had been lit and the wine had flowed. The aged virgin queen was at long last dead, the crown passed to a man in the prime of life who had already proved his ability to sire heirs. A new era would surely dawn for England, one of prosperity, stability, and opportunity. Optimism had prevailed until James Stuart descended
upon London with hordes of Scottish fortune-seekers in his wake. The king himself regarded England’s coffers as a bottomless treasure trove.

It had not taken long for the country to become disillusioned with its new king, although one could not discern that from the buoyant mood of the crowd on the docks tonight. Londoners were eager to embrace any celebration, no matter the cause.

Blackwood drank a toast to the folly of his fellow men. And then another to his own. As the fiery liquid burned a path down his throat, he amused himself by watching a group gathered near the landing steps. A doxy moved among them plying her wares, the torchlight just enough for Blackwood to make out the red glint of her hair and a white expanse of bosom spilling above her low-cut gown. While the minx distracted the gentlemen, no doubt she had a confederate nearby picking pockets and cutting purses.

The thought was enough for Blackwood to make sure his own purse was still fastened to his belt. The city streets could be hazardous enough by day, let alone after dark. He wondered what had become of Graham.

Sir Patrick and Alexander had set out to arrange for the cart and horse to convey the ladies and their belongings back to his house. Perhaps they were having some difficulty, owing to the unusual amount of activity in the streets, but Blackwood had no doubt Sir Patrick would achieve his end.

From the time that Blackwood had first known him, Graham had always been good at arranging things, efficient, with a close eye to detail. If there had still been monasteries in England, Blackwood could imagine Graham as the abbot, carefully regulating the life of the order.

Unfortunately he could just as easily imagine Graham organizing a rebellion or quietly planning an assassination. A sobering thought; Blackwood took another swallow. He wasn’t drunk, but feeling woolly-headed and tired enough to long for his bed.

He was about to go in search of Graham when he spotted him returning to the landing with a pair of linkboys, holding lit torches, trailing in his wake. Blackwood hailed his friend, managing to gain his attention above the rest of the din.

When Graham joined him, he frowned at the flask in Blackwood’s hand, but made no remark upon it.

“Alexander is waiting with the cart,” he said. “But I judged it best to wait until the fireworks are over and the crowd disperses before escorting Mistress Wolfe and the Countess. I had entirely forgotten this celebration was planned.”

“As did I.” Blackwood took another swallow. The flask was nearly empty. “For a moment, I wondered if James had died in our absence and we had acquired a new king. It would certainly save you a deal of trouble.”

“For the love of God, Gil!” Sir Patrick cast a glance about him and drew Blackwood deeper into the shadows. “We are back in London. Please show a little discretion and mind your tongue.”

“I will if you mind the use of your trinkets.”

“If you are referring to my rosary, I have already hidden it in the lining of my doublet.”

“And what about this?” Blackwood brushed aside the fold of Graham’s cloak and drew forth the silver chain fastened about Sir Patrick’s neck. The small locket containing the sacred strands of hair dangled between Blackwood’s fingers.

Graham snatched the locket away from him. He reverently brought the locket to his lips. “No one but you would even understand its significance to me.”

“What, not even your good friend Johnston?”

Graham scowled as he tucked the chain back out of sight. “That is another thing I must admonish you about. Whatever possessed you to bedevil Johnston that way? You know what an uncertain temper the man has. From now on, I must ask you to leave him alone.”

“That would prove no hardship to me. I don’t like Guido Fawkes. He’s a singularly humorless man, but if he means to pass himself off under a false name, he could have chosen something better than
John Johnston.
”

“Unfortunately, when it comes to constructing lies, the man is not as creative as you.”

Nor you,
Blackwood was tempted to retort, but he didn’t want to quarrel with his friend. “I don’t know what you are plotting, Graham. I could hazard a guess, but I don’t want to. But I think you and your friends would be wise to disassociate yourself from Fawkes. He is far too volatile.”

“Fawkes—I mean Johnston—is a soldier, an expert in the use of ordnance and firearms.”

“So are you.”

“Only when aiming at wooden targets or hunting waterfowl. I have never leveled a weapon at the heart of a man before.”

“Neither have I.”

“Do you think that you could?”

Blackwood considered for a moment before answering, “Oh, yes. I think I could be far better at taking life than saving it, if I allowed myself to be.”

“I am not sure that I could, no matter how just my cause.”
Graham looked shamed by the admission. “That is why my association with Mr. Johnston is necessary.”

“But you don’t need
her.
”

Graham did not feign confusion or demand to know who Blackwood meant. Blackwood sensed that the Lady of Faire Isle was weighing as heavily upon Graham’s mind as his.

“Margaret Wolfe has become necessary to my plans whether I wish her to be or not,” he said.

“Why? You have never believed in witchery or the powers of these so-called cunning women. And yet you dragged me the length of France to find this one.”

“I did not drag you anywhere. You insisted upon accompanying me. And Mistress Wolfe is no ordinary ignorant cunning woman. She is well read, a lady of great learning. I have enjoyed much interesting conversation with her during the course of our voyage, despite the fact that she is pagan in her beliefs.”

“If she is a pagan, will that help to quiet your conscience if any harm should come to her?”

“If I have placed her in danger by fetching her to London, I had no choice,” Graham replied irritably. “It is not
my
fault that the king insists upon seeing her.”

“What if the Lady does manage to cure His Majesty of his belief that he is cursed? I wager that would not suit your aims. Did you not wish to see him driven mad?”

“All I want to see is James Stuart held accountable for his sins and I would think you would desire the same.”

Blackwood could not make out Graham’s face well in the darkness, but he noted the hardening of Graham’s jaw. It was an expression that Blackwood was uncomfortably familiar with, stony, unfeeling, only Graham’s eyes alive with a blaze so hot, they chilled.

He had known Graham for so long and loved him as much as Blackwood was capable of loving anyone, like the brother he had never had. But he preferred Patrick Graham, the gentle scholar, the compassionate friend who kept all of Blackwood’s secrets, helped him to bed when he drank too much, listened to accounts of all his sins, and passed no judgment. Graham the fanatic disturbed and repulsed him.

Graham drew closer in an effort to peer sharply at his face. “Why are you suddenly showing such concern for the Lady of Faire Isle? Do you mean to appoint yourself her protector?”

“Lord, no. Knight errantry is your forte, not mine.”

“But you do fancy her.”

When Blackwood shook his head in denial, Graham insisted, “I saw you kiss her.”

“I kiss every pretty woman I meet. It is a careless habit of mine.” Blackwood hoped the darkness was enough to conceal the rush of blood to his face. Kissing Margaret Wolfe had been a mistake. He had only done it to tease her, bring a halt to her questions that probed too deep. He had never expected to find her mouth warm, sweet, and yielding enough to stir his lust.

The line of Graham’s jaw softened, but his voice was grave as he said, “Armagil, I beg you, nay I must insist, you have nothing to do with Margaret Wolfe. My affairs are complicated enough without you seducing the Lady of Faire Isle.”

“I have no intention of doing so. I like my wenches coarse and earthy, with big bosoms and plump arses. I have no taste for ethereal females like Mistress Wolfe. She is the sort of woman calculated to make a man think and feel too much and those are two activities I strenuously avoid.”

His words coaxed a laugh from Graham. “Good. Then you will avoid Margaret Wolfe as well.”

He glanced up toward the sky, which had gone silent, surrendering its darkness to the usual scattering of stars and the solemn light of a three-quarter moon.

“It appears the festivities are at an end and the crowd dispersing. I should go fetch the ladies, but I am glad we have reached this understanding.” Graham smiled at Blackwood and headed toward the barge tethered near the landing stairs.

“I am right glad that you are so glad,” Blackwood muttered as his friend moved off into the darkness. “But I still don’t understand a blasted thing.”

He realized now that Graham had deftly avoided answering any of Blackwood’s questions regarding Margaret and how she figured in Graham’s plans, whatever they were.

At the top of the landing stairs, Graham was accosted by the red-haired doxy. She sashayed closer, reaching out to touch him, but he sprang back. Although his revulsion was evident, he engaged the woman in a few moments of conversation before bowing and moving on. No doubt Graham had abjured the woman to forsake her sinful way of life. Advice that had fallen on deaf ears. The woman merely shrugged and pranced off to accost someone else.

Blackwood smiled. At times, Graham could be so naively earnest and at others … Blackwood’s smile faded. At other times, Graham worried the devil out of him.

Although they had much in common, he and Graham were very different men. Neither of them had experienced a halcyon youth, both plagued by memories that were the stuff of nightmares. But Blackwood chose to bury his past deep beneath the rubble of chaos that was his present life. Graham
nurtured his grievances like live coals on a hearth, fanning them to a white-hot pitch. Blackwood had always feared that one day those embers would flame out of control, consuming Graham and anyone unfortunate enough to be close to him.

That day might be approaching at a perilous rate, but how could he help Graham when he couldn’t even conquer his own demons? The harsh truth was that he’d never been any good at saving anyone. He was a complete failure as a doctor and a miserable excuse of a friend. The best he could do was honor Graham’s request and keep his distance, especially from Margaret Wolfe. That should prove no hardship.

But he was beset by a vivid image of moonlight spilling through the loft of his lodgings, bathing the Lady of Faire Isle as she sprawled on his bed, her body lithe, warm, and naked. Modesty and primness forgotten, her face would be flushed with passion, her lips cherry ripe. Her green eyes all come-hither, she would welcome him to bury himself deep in the tight delta of—

“Christ’s blood,” Blackwood swore, pinching the bridge of his nose to dispel the vision before it had its inevitable effect on his body. Too late, he could already feel himself get hard.

Was it possible to feel this degree of arousal from one stolen kiss? Maybe there was something of the witch about Margaret Wolfe or maybe it was his own perversity. Tell him something was forbidden and he immediately yearned after it.

He tipped up his flask for a drink. Empty. He gave a hollow sigh. What he really needed was a night of oblivion, dicing at some low tavern, getting drunk on sack, and going upstairs with some willing doxy.

As though he had conjured her up with the thought, the red-haired wench he had observed with Graham accosted him.

“All alone, sir? Perhaps in need of a little companionship?” She ran her hands over the curve of her bosom with a giggle. Despite her efforts to play the coy girl, the days of her youth were far behind her. The rouge smeared on her cheeks only accented the lines that creased her eyes and the cloying scent of her perfume repulsed him.