The Least Likely Bride (32 page)

“As I recall, you said your men had checked Caxton’s background.” Rufus looked at Cato.

“Aye. He and everyone else who hangs around the king. As I said, they could find nothing amiss. He lodges in Newport when he’s on the island.”

“Perhaps he merits further investigation,” Rufus suggested aridly.

Cato nodded. “I’ll put Giles himself onto it. He’ll run the truth to earth if anyone can. The Newport landlady is probably as much a conspirator as the rest of the island.”

“But what of Caxton?” Godfrey leaned forward in his chair. “You’ll arrest him now?”

“Not yet,” Cato answered. “Let’s find out some more about him before we jump.”

Godfrey didn’t like the sound of that, but he was
obliged to be satisfied. “Is there anything further I can do, my lords?”

“Just keep your eyes and ears open as you have been doing,” Cato said, giving him a nod of approval.

Godfrey bowed and withdrew.

O
LIVIA LISTENED
to the sounds of the children returning from their ride with Portia. It was the usual Decatur babble. They all seemed to talk at once and yet they all seemed to understand each other perfectly. She leaned her head against the chair back and tried to summon the energy to go downstairs, to be her usual self. It seemed impossible.

Would Godfrey Channing have reported what he’d seen on the driveway? Would her father have questions about Anthony? She couldn’t say anything about Brian without revealing what she could not bear to reveal, although if he was on the island her father would want to know it. It was so complicated, all such a muddle. What had started with a dream of entrancement had become a web of half truths, outright lies, and a swamp of impossible feelings.

If only she had never slipped from the cliff. Never met the pirate. And yet Olivia knew that she could never wish for that.

Wearily she got to her feet. It was close to six and sup-pertime, and she could hear her father’s voice in the hall, talking with Rufus. She couldn’t cower in her chamber all evening even if she wanted to. She needed to discover if Godfrey had said anything to her father.

Olivia left her chamber. She heard the voices in the hall more clearly now and reflected on another sign of changing times. Rufus Decatur would eat at Cato Granville’s table. He would not lay his head beneath his roof, although he was happy for his family to do so, but he would break
bread with him. Seven years ago he would have killed Granville as readily as Cato would have served him the same. They had made common cause in this war, and their wives had forced them to acknowledge the good in each other. They were not friends exactly, but they respected each other.

Giles Crampton and Portia were in the hall with Cato and Rufus when Olivia came slowly downstairs.

“I would start with the Newport landlady, Giles,” Cato was saying. “See if you can frighten something from her. She must know something. The entire goddamned island knows something that we don’t. Let’s try for a roundup of conspirators. Get as many into the net as you can, and don’t worry too much how good your evidence is. If our man sees his friends threatened, he might make a premature move. Then we can—” He broke off when he saw Olivia on the stairs.

“Ah, there you are. Do you know where Phoebe is?”

Olivia took a second to answer. There was nothing significant in her father’s greeting, but there was an air of grim satisfaction about the three men, a sense of purpose that she knew had eluded them during the last weeks. Unease prickled her spine.

“Do you know where Phoebe is?” Cato repeated. “Portia doesn’t.”

“She went to the village. Isn’t she returned yet?”

“Not according to Bisset.” He frowned. It was growing late and he didn’t want Phoebe roaming the lanes at dusk.

“Giles, before you go to Newport, go into the village and escort Lady Granville home.”

“Aye, sir.” Giles turned to the open front door. “Oh, ’ere she is now, sir.”

Phoebe came hurrying in. “Have I kept supper waiting?

I do beg your pardon.” She beamed. “I was helping to deliver a baby. A fine healthy girl. Shall we go in to supper?”

“I think it can wait a few more minutes,” Cato said gently. “Just while you wash your face and hands and tidy your hair perhaps.”

Phoebe’s beam didn’t waver. “Oh, do I still look like a midwife? You go in to supper. I’ll be but a minute.” She hastened up the stairs.

“Shall we?” Cato gestured to the dining room. They took their places at the long table and waited for Phoebe, who reappeared looking only moderately tidy a few minutes later. She helped herself to a dish of cod and peas in a cream sauce and launched into a detailed description of the birth she had attended.

“Phoebe, must we have all the gruesome details?” Portia asked.

“Oh, are they gruesome?” Phoebe looked surprised. “It was all very natural and really quite quick.”

“But not perhaps supper table conversation,” Cato murmured. He took a chicken pasty from a dish and resolutely turned the topic. “What do you think of Mr. Cax-ton, Olivia? You seem to have had some conversation with him, as I recall.”

Olivia’s heart jumped and plunged. Was this a prelude to a discussion of what had happened that afternoon? She coughed as if a piece of chicken had gone down the wrong way, and took up her wine cup. Cato waited courteously until the spasm seemed to have passed.

“Why do you ask, sir?”

Cato shrugged. “I saw you talking to him at the castle one evening. I wondered if you had formed an impression.”

So Godfrey had held his tongue, at least for the moment.
“I don’t think anything of him, sir,” she said calmly. “His c-conversation has little merit, I believe.”

“By which you mean he has no obvious scholarship,” Cato observed with a slight smile.

“He’s such a ninnyhammer,” Phoebe observed. “Why are you interested in him?”

“It’s possible he’s not quite the ninnyhammer he seems,” Cato said.

Olivia’s fingers quivered on her fork and she put the utensil down. “How do you mean?”

“He may have an ulterior motive for hanging around the king,” Rufus said. “There are those who think so.”

“Oh,” Olivia said, taking up her fork again. Was this behind that conversation in the hall? “You mean he might want to rescue the king?”

“If it’s true that he’s not what he seems, it’s not an unlikely deduction,” Rufus said.

“What makes you suspect him?” Portia took a forkful of dressed crab. “These island crabs are delicious.”

“A whisper,” Cato replied. “Just a whisper.”

Who?
Olivia pushed a piece of fish around her plate, trying to appear as if this information was of little interest.
Who could have let slip a whisper?
How much did they know? Did Anthony know he’d fallen under suspicion?

“I was thinking it might be pleasant to go up to the castle this evening,” she said casually, reaching for her wine goblet, adding, “If you’re returning there yourself, sir.”

“I had thought to do so. There are preparations to be made.” He sounded surprised at his daughter’s suggestion.

He wasn’t the only one. Olivia was aware of her friends’ sudden scrutiny. It was most unlike Olivia to suggest voluntarily subjecting herself to a castle soiree. She met their gaze steadily, her eyes shooting her appeal for their support.

“In that case, we’ll come with you,” Portia said.

“Yes, maybe Mr. Johnson will be there,” Phoebe put in.

“I had intended you should accompany me to the castle tonight, anyway, Portia,” Rufus said casually.

“Oh, are you borrowing me for the whole night?” his wife inquired with an air of innocence completely at odds with the gleam in her eyes.

“That was my intention.” He raised a pointed eyebrow. Portia grinned.

“In that case we had better change our dress,” Phoebe said, pushing back her chair.

“Yes, riding britches probably won’t do,” Portia agreed cheerfully. “Come, Olivia.”

Olivia followed them from the room. By mutual consent nothing was said until they’d reached Olivia’s bedchamber.

Portia closed the door quietly and came to the point. “What’s going on, duckie?”

Olivia looked between them. Blue eyes and green held only concern.

“You might as well know,” she said. “It can’t do any harm now. Edward Caxton is my pirate.”

“What?”
They stared at her.

“I should have guessed,” Phoebe said after a minute. “That first night, when you were talking to him, I felt something was strange. But your pirate’s called
Anthony
… oh, of course. He’d hardly use his own name.” She pulled at a loose piece of skin around her thumb, cross with herself for such a stupid question.

“And your pirate is intending to rescue the king,” Portia stated, a deep frown drawing her sandy eyebrows together. “What a pretty pickle. No wonder you’ve been so glum.”

“And you want to warn him tonight, if he’s at the castle,” Phoebe said slowly.

“
If
he’s there,” Olivia stated. “But I needed you to come with me, otherwise it would look very strange.”

“But if you warn him, then you’ll foil Cato’s plan. By helping you to warn him, then I’m deceiving my husband,” Phoebe said in distress.

“But my father is only interested in preventing the king’s escape,” Olivia said swiftly. “If Anthony calls off the attempt, everyone will be happy. It’s not necessary to capture him and hang him, is it?”

Phoebe shook her head. “No, I suppose not. Can you persuade him to call off his plan?”

“I’m going to try,” Olivia said. She looked at her friends. “I know you won’t betray me … him?” It was part statement, part question.

There was a short silence, then Portia answered the question in her own way. “Do you ever think about when we first met?”

“In the boathouse at Diana’s wedding.” Olivia shook her head. “It was only seven years ago and the world’s changed out of all recognition. Everything’s upside down. So many lives lost … so much blood. When will it be over?”

“Rufus thinks they will put the king on trial,” Portia said. “It all began with the execution of the earl of Straf-ford. It will end with the king’s.”

“They would
kill
the king?” Olivia stared at her.

“There are those who would,” Phoebe said gravely. “But not Cato.”

“Nor Rufus,” Portia said. They were all so used to a world at war, it was hard to imagine their lives in a land at peace. But the killing of a king would not bring peace. Only the deluded or the fanatical believed that.

“It’s hard to think of you as you were,” Olivia said. She knew this reminiscence was answer to her question. It was a reminder of the depths of their friendship. “Straight
up and down like a ruler. Determined never to marry. And children … heaven forbid!”

“Well, I wanted to be a soldier and I am,” Portia said.

“And I wanted to be a poet and I am,” Phoebe said.

“And I wanted to be a scholar,” Olivia said.

“As you are.”

“Yes,” she said flatly.

“So we had better get changed and try to sort out this muddle,” Portia said briskly. She was a doer, a fixer, always ready to apply herself to solutions. She looked at Phoebe.

“Yes,” Phoebe agreed. “Of course.” But her eyes were troubled.

“Thank you,” Olivia said simply. “I won’t make it difficult for you again.”

Phoebe nodded.

They left Olivia to change her own gown. She knew that humanity and friendship had allowed Phoebe to make this one small gesture. But from there on, her loyalty to her husband and his cause was absolute. Portia, much less emotional, much more pragmatic, would spend little energy on debating competing loyalties.

For herself, nothing was clear. Nothing was simple. Except that she couldn’t bear Anthony’s death. She had chosen never to love him again, but she could not endure to think of the world without him.

“P
RUE, THEM SOLDIERS IS BACK.
” Goodman Yarrow called to his wife as he entered the tiny cottage on Holy-rood Street. “They was just passin’ St. Thomas’s.”

“Well, what’s that to us?” Prue asked, taking another iron from the fire. She spat on it and nodded at the satisfactory sizzle before applying the flatiron to the shirt spread out on the table.

“They’re comin’ ’ere next,” her husband said. “They be goin’ ’ouse to ’ouse from the church. Askin’ questions.”

“They can ask away,” Prue said, folding the shirt deftly. “We got nothin’ to ’ide.”

“They’ll be askin’ about the master.” The goodman sat heavily at the other end of the table that took up most of the square kitchen.

“An’ we show ’em ’is chamber jest like afore.” Prue picked up another shirt and exchanged the cold iron for the one heating on the range. “Don’t get all agitated, man. Jest stick to the story, that’s all we ’ave to do.”

“But ’e ’asn’t been around ’ere fer a month.” The goodman was clearly unable to take his wife’s advice.

“That’s none of our business,” she said placidly. “We jest rents ’im the chamber. It’s nothin’ to us when ’e comes
or when ’e goes. That’s all we ’ave to say. You jest leave the talkin’ to me.”

The goodman heaved himself to his feet and fetched down a jug of ale from a shelf above the range. He drank directly from the jug as tramping feet sounded from the narrow street beyond the open door.

Giles Crampton loomed in the doorway. “Good even, goodwife.”

Prue set down her iron. The man wore a sergeant’s insignia. Their previous visitor had been a mere private. “Come ye in, sir. Ye’ll take a drink of ale?”

“No, I thankee. Not today.” Giles entered the kitchen. Behind him in the street ranged a phalanx of soldiers, armed with pikes and muskets. Doors closed up and down the street, a series of hasty little bangs, and curious faces appeared at upper windows.

Prue’s hand trembled infinitesimally as she smoothed the garment she’d been ironing. “What can we do fer ye, Sergeant?”

“Well, it’s like this, see.” Giles came closer, his voice confidential, friendly. “We’ve ’eard some things about this lodger of your’n. He still lodge ’ere?”

“No,” the goodman said. “He’s left ’ere.”

Prue laughed. “That’s what my man likes t’ think,” she said. “Doesn’t ’ave much time fer ’im, but ’e pays well, I say. That’s all that matters. Us ’asn’t seen him in a few days, but ’is things is still ’ere.” She gestured with her head to the narrow staircase at the rear of the kitchen. “Go on up if ye like, Sergeant.”