The Least Likely Bride (23 page)

“How did His Majesty seem?” Ellen asked anxiously. “Is he very dispirited?”

“Less than one might imagine.” Anthony took a sip of wine. “He’s still negotiating with the Scots through Live-say.” He shrugged. “And he still seems to think those negotiations are concealed from Parliament.”

“But you don’t think that’s so?”

“No. Forgive me, Ellen, but the king is deluded in this as in so many other areas.”

Ellen’s mouth tightened. “If you don’t wish to do this, Anthony, I’ll not blame you.”

He smiled then, absently moving his cup around the table. “Yes, you would. My feelings are irrelevant, Ellen. I do this for you. I have no particular interest in the outcome of this war, except that the sooner it’s over, the
sooner a man will be able to resume the life that suits him.”

Ellen got up and went out to the scullery, returning in a few minutes with a bowl of stewed gooseberries and a jug of thick yellow cream. “I picked these this morning.”

Anthony accepted that his indifferent attitude troubled Ellen and that she had no desire to continue the conversation. He helped himself to fruit and cream. “Before we go back, I’ll nail the loose door on the goat shed. The next strong wind will tear it right off.”

“Thank you.” Ellen pushed the bowl across to Adam, who had taken little part in the discussion. He was accustomed to being an observer rather than a participant in such matters.

Anthony finished his gooseberries and with a word of excuse took himself outside. Soon the sounds of the hammer reached the kitchen.

“He’s so like his father in so many ways,” Ellen said. “I don’t understand how he can be so different in this one particular. Edward was full of passion and ideals, misplaced many of them, but he
believed
in so much. Anthony doesn’t seem to believe strongly in anything…. Oh, nobody could be more loyal or a better friend,” she added, seeing Adam’s frown. “But in terms of conviction … he doesn’t seem to have any.”

“Reckon ’e saw what conviction did fer ’is father,” Adam said. “And ’twas conviction that led the Caxtons to cast off both Sir Edward an’ his son. A mere innocent babe, their own flesh and blood, cast out to die fer all they cared. A cruel thing is conviction if’n ye looks at it in a certain light.”

Ellen sighed. “I suppose that’s true. But sometimes when I look at him I see Edward so clearly it hurts. The same rakehell charm.” She sighed again.

“Aye, well that charm’s goin’ to get ’im in trouble one o’ these days. Shouldn’t wonder if it ’asn’t already done so,” Adam said darkly.

Ellen’s eyes sharpened. “Tell me.”

Adam told her in a very few words.

“Lord Granville’s daughter!” Ellen looked at him in horror. “But Granville’s utterly committed to Parliament. Anthony can’t possibly be involved with his daughter. She’ll betray him to her father.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions.” Adam waved a forefinger. “First off, Anthony’ll never let ’er in on ’is secrets. He’s far too canny an’ careful.” He paused, frowning, then said, “Besides, this one’s not like ’is usual sport, Ellen.”

“How so?”

“Spirited kind of a lass,” Adam said. “I doubt she’ll fall fer ’is line some’ow. One minute they’re all over each other, next she’s off with ’er nose in the air an’ Anthony’s lookin’ black as a wet Monday.”

“Oh dear,” said Ellen helplessly. But she turned brightly at the sound of Anthony’s step in the scullery. “Thank you, my dear.”

“My pleasure.” Anthony stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, regarding them with a quizzical gleam. “I trust you’ve both enjoyed your little chat. Dissected the situation thoroughly, have you?”

“Oh dear,” said Ellen again. “Couldn’t you … well, couldn’t you find someone more suitable, Anthony?”

At that he laughed. “Suitability doesn’t come into it, dearest Ellen. But don’t fret, the lady’s not exactly falling over herself to get into my bed.” A shadow crossed his eyes as he said this, a shadow not missed by his companions.

He took his jacket off the hook where he’d hung it when they’d arrived and slung it over one shoulder. “Come, Adam, it’s time we were on our way.”

Ellen walked with them to the gate.

Anthony bent to kiss her and then came to the main point of this visit. “I’ve a considerable consignment of luxury goods to dispose of. Can you get word to our contact in Portsmouth?
Wind Dancer
will be in Portsmouth harbor the day after tomorrow and I’ll hold the auction the next day.”

“I’ll send the message this evening. Just have a care, my dear.”

Ellen watched them stroll off down the lane towards the river, then she hurried inside for her cloak and made her way to the vicarage to deliver her message.

“B
EGGIN’ YER PARDON, M’LORD.
”

Cato looked up from his breakfast the following morning at Giles Crampton’s familiar portentous tones from the doorway. “What is it, Giles?”

“A letter from the colonel, m’lord.” Giles came into the room, dropping his head in the gesture of a bow to the three ladies at the table. “I think summat’s up,” he confided.

“Sit down, break your fast.” Cato waved to a chair as he took the letter.

Giles offered another nod of his head to the ladies as he took a seat at the table. He had known the three women for a long time, in Olivia’s case from early childhood, and while he offered a degree of social deference, he was perfectly at home in their company.

“Ham, Giles?” Olivia pushed the wooden carving board towards him.

“Thankee, Lady Olivia.” He speared ham, cut bread, helped himself to eggs, and settled into his meal.

Phoebe gestured to a servant to fill a tankard for the sergeant from the ale pitcher on the sideboard.

“Damn,” Cato muttered, his eyes on the letter.

“What is it?” Phoebe asked.

“A summons to London. I’m afraid your husband is needed too, Portia.” Cato glanced at his niece as he refolded the letter.

“Well, I shall stay here, if I’m welcome,” Portia said with a smile.

“You and your tribe.” Cato returned the smile. “We’ll be away a few days, not too long.” He pushed back his carved armchair.

Giles instantly set down his knife and rose too.

“No, no, Giles, finish your meal.” Cato waved him back. “I’ve some preparations to make. I’ll meet you in fifteen minutes.”

Giles sat down again but it was clear to his breakfast companions that he was itching to leave and only his lord’s instructions kept him at the table.

“Deviled mushrooms, Giles?” Portia inquired, passing him a bowl. They had the most enticing aroma.

His hand reached for the spoon, hovered over it, then he said, “No, I thankee, Lady Rothbury. If ye’ll excuse me, Lady Granville.” He set down his knife, offered them his jerky little bow, and hastened from the room, his relief to be moving after his lord very obvious.

“Ah, Giles,” Portia said, remembering how he’d come to find her in Scotland after her father’s death. How his bluff manner to the scrawny barmaid she had then been had convinced her of the sincerity of her uncle’s offer of protection. “I wouldn’t be here without him.”

“I can’t imagine Cato without Giles; he’s somehow joined to him,” Phoebe said. “It annoys me sometimes that Cato always asks Giles’s opinion first on military matters, but I feel better when he has Giles riding beside him…. I remember when the king escaped from the siege of Oxford and …” She stopped, following Portia’s gaze. Olivia, her expression as distanced as if she were deep in some unconstruable text, was repeatedly spreading butter
on a piece of wheaten bread. The butter was now so thick it made a mountain.

“Olivia?”

“Mmm?” Olivia looked up, smoothing her butter mountain with the flat of her knife.

“We seem to have lost you, duckie.” Portia reached for the ale pitcher to refill her tankard.

“I have a chess game to play,” Olivia said. “With my father away, now seems the opportune moment.”

“You’re going to find the pirate,” Phoebe declared.

“Yes. I’ve promised him a return match.” Olivia smiled and took up her tankard. “Phoebe, don’t worry. If my father’s not here, you don’t have to concern yourself.”

“Of course I do!” Phoebe declared. “This man is … is …”

“An outlaw,” Portia said gently.

Phoebe said nothing. It wasn’t the man’s activities that troubled her so much as the knowledge that there could be no future for Olivia in such a relationship. Phoebe could see only hurt ahead. She gave Portia a slight shrug and saw from the swift flash in Portia’s eyes that she understood.

Portia said, “So, why d’you want to go and play chess with this pirate, duckie?”

“Because I owe him a game,” Olivia said. “And I can play it safely, because my father is away.”

“You really think you can play it safely?” Portia leaned her elbows on the table and looked closely at Olivia, her meaning clear.

Olivia met her gaze. “I think I have to decide that for myself.”

There was a short silence that Olivia broke. “
Yo u
both decided it for yourselves.”

“I think the third member of our little circle has found her wings,” Portia observed. “Come, Phoebe, don’t look so glum.”

“It worries me,” Phoebe said simply.

Olivia pushed back her chair. “I don’t mean to worry you.” She stood with her hand on the back of her chair, and some of her confidence had evaporated. “But I don’t want to go without some … some understanding.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Phoebe reached into her pocket and laid a ring of braided hair, faded now, upon the table.

Portia slipped fingers inside her shirt and brought out her own. She laid it beside the other.

Olivia took her own from her pocket. She placed it on the table. “Thank you,” she said.

Nothing else was said as they each took back their rings. Olivia tucked hers back into her pocket. She gave them both a half smile and left the room.

“You have to let go of Olivia,” Portia said as Phoebe looked down at her own ring that she now held on the palm of her hand. “She has to make her own decisions.”

“I know. But she’s always been the little one. The one we have to protect, take care of.”

“I think she can do that for herself now.” Portia slipped her own ring inside her shirt.

“But she’s Cato’s daughter. I feel responsible.”

Portia shook her head. “She’s
our
friend, Phoebe. First and foremost.”

O
LIVIA WROTE HER MESSAGE
to the pirate. It was succinct.

If you wish for a return match, I will be available either this evening or tomorrow evening. I will look for you outside the front gate at precisely six o’clock.

She sanded the ink to dry it and smiled to herself. It struck the right decisive, uncompromising note. It was
time Anthony learned that his opponent in this tournament had a mind of her own. She could imagine his shock when he discovered she knew how to contact him. He was also about to discover that she had a few pointed questions to ask him and she wouldn’t be satisfied with his usual evasive answers.

Throwing a shawl around her shoulders, Olivia left her chamber and hurried out of the house. It was a steep climb up St. Catherine’s Hill, but the wind was behind her, coming off the sea. At the top of the hill she turned and looked out across the glittering expanse. Was
Wind Dancer
out there at the moment? Would someone be looking out for a sign from the island?

She turned to the oratory, little more than a small, loosely formed pillar of stones that crowned the summit. She could see why the master had chosen it as a contact point. It was a very prominent spot that would be visible for miles around, both on the island and from the sea.

Olivia knelt to examine the stones. There was a small space between the two bottom layers. It formed a square box, almost like a cupboard. She slipped her hand in and found a white flag closely furled on a stick. She took it out, slid her message into the space in its place, and stuck the flag at the top of the oratory, pushing the stick hard down into the stones.

The white flag flew out jauntily in the brisk breeze. Now all that was needed was a watcher.

Olivia nodded to herself and set off back down the steep hill against the wind to await developments.

A
NTHONY WAS SITTING
with his back to the mast, sketching a pair of gulls squabbling over a fish head, when Mike rowed his dinghy into the chine and came alongside
Wind Dancer
later that afternoon.

Mike climbed up the rope ladder and swung himself
over the side of the ship. “There’s a message, master … at the oratory. I can’t read the writin’. It’s joined up.” He handed the folded paper to Anthony with a worried frown.

Anthony opened it. He whistled softly. “How the
hell
… ?” He looked up at Mike, eyebrows arched in question.

“The flag was flyin’, master. I thought you wanted me. Thought maybe we was puttin’ to sea or summat. But when I saw the writin’, like, I knew it wasn’t from you.” He pulled anxiously at his earlobe. “You know what it’s about, sir?”

“Oh, yes,” Anthony said softly, “I know exactly what it’s about. What I don’t know is how the hell she learned about the oratory.” He leaned his head back against the mast, closing his eyes to the sun’s rays as it shone directly overhead into the cool green depths of the chine. “Somebody let something slip, Mike.”

Mike tugged even more fiercely on his earlobe. “Weren’t me, master.”

“No, I didn’t imagine it was.” Anthony’s eyes opened and his gray gaze was uncomfortably penetrating. “But someone did.” He stood up in one easy, graceful movement. “So I have some preparations to make. And I have a task for you, Mike.”

“B
RITCHES
,” O
LIVIA SAID.
“I would like to borrow a pair of your britches, Portia. Skirts blow about in the wind and get tangled up in things.”

“Anything you like, duckie,” Portia said obligingly. “I’ll go and fetch a pair. You’ll need a doublet too.” She left Olivia’s bedchamber with her usual quick stride.

“How long will you be?” Phoebe asked. “You’ll be back by morning, won’t you?”

Olivia stepped out of her petticoat before answering.