To Kiss A Spy (13 page)

“Most probably.”

Pen turned to the door. Then she paused. “No, I’ll bring it to you right now.”

He shrugged. “By all means. I’ll await you here.”

Pen heard the frustration in his voice just as she heard the resignation, but she ignored both.

She slipped through the door and out from behind the arras. She threaded her way through the shadowy couples in the great hall and hurried up the stairs to her chamber. She thought only of her goal. She wouldn’t think about what had happened between them, and soon it would be as if it had never happened.

She unlocked the chest and took out the list of names and figures. It held the key, she knew it did. And Owen d’Arcy was going to find it for her.

Then she paused. How could she be certain he would exert his best efforts in her cause? Why should he? It was not his child. It was not his quest. And he too had called it an obsession.

How could she trust him now?

Pen sat down slowly on the bed. She looked at the parchment in her hands. How could she trust anyone to act for her? She had lived for so long alone with her desperation, with her secret conviction that informed every minute of her days, and every dream of her nights. She could not sit by while someone else, even someone as skilled at spying and extracting information as Owen d’Arcy, unraveled
her
mystery.

She would have to go with him.
It was a very simple answer to the problem, one she should have thought of long ago. Its execution, however, was not so simple. How was she to get away? How was she to escape the confines of the palace and the close-knit world of Mary’s household? How was she to keep such a journey from her family? They would never countenance it. No one would.

Pen tucked the folded sheet into her bodice and rose to her feet. Now was not the moment to discuss her new intention with Owen. He was angry and frustrated enough as it was. She needed to work out how to execute the plan first. He would be much easier to manage if presented with a
fait accompli.

She returned to the hall and stood for a moment against the wall, looking for an opportunity to approach the arras amid the frenetic whirl of shadows around the darkened chamber.

“Pen?”

Her heart sank and she turned reluctantly to the shadow beside her.

Robin held his flowing lion’s mane in his hand; his curly hair was sorely in need of a comb. He stood awkwardly, as if the last place he wanted to be was here beside her.

“Where did you go, Pen?”

“Just now? Upstairs. I needed something from my chamber.” She tried to smile, to hide her impatience. If she waited too long, Owen might leave.

“No, before. You disappeared from the hall.”

She laughed and it sounded unconvincing to her own ears. “ ’Tis Twelfth Night, Robin. Everyone is playing games. Don’t question mine.” She kissed his cheek and melted into the crowd.

Robin slammed his mask against the paneled wall behind him in frustration, then turned on his heel, leaving the Lord of Misrule’s kingdom to its revelry.

Pen slipped behind the arras and back into the small chamber. Owen was perched on the edge of the table, idly swinging one leg, his expression a mixture of irritation and boredom at the delay. He was anxious now to be gone from here, to get this business over with.

“Here.” Pen took the parchment from her bodice and held it out to him.

It was warm and faintly perfumed from her skin. Owen felt his frustration fade. “Sweetheart—”

“No!” she interrupted, holding out her hand as if to ward him off. “It can’t happen again, Owen. We are partners, we have a bargain, that’s all that we have. Do what you promised to do.” And she was gone.

He pocketed the parchment.

A glimmer of gold caught his eye in the empty hearth and he bent to pick up the pins from Pen’s hood. He held them in his palm, staring down at them.

Ten

Pen slept fitfully. In her dreams she heard the attenuated cry of an infant, saw the hard brown eyes of her mother-in-law, heard her voice with a strange complacent edge to it.

The child is dead.

She awoke when Pippa crept into the bed beside her close to dawn.

“Are you asleep, Pen?”

Pen didn’t answer. She couldn’t face an intimate conversation with her sister just now. She lay breathing deeply and steadily until Pippa’s own rhythmic breathing indicated that she had fallen asleep.

Pen rose soundlessly, trying not to disturb the covers too much, and slipped on her furred night robe. The room was frigid, the fire a mere ashy glow, but a maid would be in before cockcrow to riddle the ashes and rekindle the logs before the ladies were ready to get up and dress.

She left Pippa asleep behind the tightly drawn bedcurtains and let herself out of the chamber. The princess’s suite of rooms opened off the corridor at the far end. A sleepy page with two lidded buckets of night soil came towards her, his head down, his slippered feet scuffing the waxed floorboards. He stepped aside, pressing himself against the wall in the narrow passage as she passed.

The princess was abed when Pen entered her apartments. She lay propped up against a mountain of pillows, a prayerbook in her hands. When she saw Pen she dismissed the maid who was tidying the chamber and laid down her book.

Pen approached the bed. “I give you good day, madam.” She regarded Mary with concern. She looked genuinely ill. “How are you feeling?”

“Weak,” Mary said. “The physician did his work all too well. Did you talk to Northumberland last even?”

“Aye, madam. He was not best pleased, but the word has gone out that you’re gravely ill.”

“Good . . . good.” Mary closed her eyes for a minute. “I will stay in seclusion for a week and send each day to my brother for permission to visit him while I still have some strength. If I can but talk to him directly, I am certain he will give me leave to return to Essex.”

Pen had spent much of the night working on the best way to present the request she was about to make. She knew how the princess’s mind worked. If Pen was at all apologetic or tentative, Mary would attach little importance to her petition and reject it, so she spoke now with calm assurance.

“Madam, since you are to stay secluded for a week, you will have little need of my services. I would ask leave to visit my parents for a few nights.”

Mary frowned. She was not unreasonable but she relied upon Pen, upon her counsel and her friendship. None of her other ladies comforted her in the same way. And none of her other ladies was aware of the present deception.

“My little sister Anna has been ill,” Pen said into the silence. Pippa had said that Anna was now fit as a flea, but Mary didn’t know that. She knew only that the girl had been sufficiently unwell not to attend the Twelfth Night festivities.

Still Mary hesitated, and Pen waited quietly. If she didn’t capitulate to Mary’s disapproving silence, the princess would eventually agree.

Mary sighed heavily. “I can ill spare you, Pen, but I know that you’ve been separated from your family since we came to Greenwich.”

“I would dearly love to spend some time with them before we return to Essex, madam.”

“Oh, very well.” The princess turned her head aside on the pillows in an almost petulant gesture. “I daresay my other ladies will attend me well enough. But no more than four days.”

“My thanks, madam.” Pen curtsied. “Will you break your fast now?”

“I cannot be seen to eat heartily when I am upon my sickbed,” Mary snapped.

“A little porridge perhaps?” Pen suggested. She was used to the princess’s moods. Mary did not like to be inconvenienced.

“Very well.”

Pen rang the handbell for the maid who awaited outside, and gave the order, then she returned to the princess’s bedside and brushed Mary’s hair in soothing strokes, chatting cheerfully until the woman’s temper had mended.

“I shall miss you, Pen,” Mary said as her breakfast arrived and Pen laid down the brush. “You’re the only person I can really talk to.”

“I’ll be gone but four days, madam,” Pen said firmly, recognizing a two-pronged appeal to her conceit and her sympathy. She rose to her feet and drew her night robe around her. “With your permission, I’ll go and dress now.”

“You needn’t return before you leave,” Mary stated, digging a spoon into the porcelain bowl of porridge. “I’m sure you’re anxious to be on your way.” She frowned at the spoonful of porridge. “Are you sure they put honey in this?”

“I’m certain they have, madam. They know your tastes.” Pen curtsied and left, heaving a sigh of relief when the door was safely closed behind her.

She hurried back to her bedchamber. It was now full daylight, and a thin ray of chilly sun fell across the floor from the large easterly facing window beyond the bed. Pippa was sitting beside the newly kindled fire eating bread and bacon with gusto.

“There you are. Were you with the princess?”

“Yes, she’s no better,” Pen said, taking a crispy piece of bacon from the platter and popping it in her mouth. “She’ll keep to her bed for several days. What time are Mama and Lord Hugh due to arrive this morning?”

“Around nine o’clock, I would say.” Pippa proffered the ale jug.

Pen drank, and broke a crust off the loaf of bread that was still warm from the oven, its rich fragrance mingling with the scent of burning logs and pinecones in the hearth.

She regarded her sister covertly. Despite a certain air of dishevelment, Pippa looked as fresh and rested as if she’d slept the night away instead of falling into bed at dawn.

Pippa selected another piece of bacon, holding it between finger and thumb. “What happened to you last even?” she asked, a mischievous glint in her narrowed eyes. “I lost sight of you.”

“You would have done. They snuffed the candles,” Pen pointed out.

“Oh, but I
did
see you go off with the chevalier behind that arras.”

“How could you have done?” Pen demanded. “When it was dark?”

“I was a cat, remember? Cats can see in the dark.” Pippa chuckled and ate the bacon. “I lost sight of you
after
you disappeared behind the arras.”

Pen merely shrugged and allowed a little conspiratorial smile to touch her mouth. It helped her scheme that Pippa had seen them leave the great hall. It would make her motive seem more believable.

“So, did you have an amusing adventure? Did you have a night of unbridled passion, Pen?” Pippa’s eyes gleamed.

“Mind your own business,” Pen retorted, but still with the smile.

“You are my business,” Pippa responded. “When I see you with the chevalier I can’t work out whether you take pleasure in his company or not.”

“Of course I do!” Pen exclaimed. “I’d hardly spend so much time in his company if I didn’t enjoy it.”

“If that’s so, I’m glad! It’s time you came out of the doldrums at last. We were all so worried about you.” Pippa paused, then said hesitantly, “You were so unhappy and we were so worried when you wouldn’t think about anything but the baby. . . .” Her voice trailed off as she saw Pen’s face close, her mouth set.

Resolutely she continued on a slightly different tack, her tone once more as bright as before. “So, is he married?”

“He says not.” Pen sat down at the dresser and picked up her hairbrush.

Pippa frowned. “Don’t you believe him then?”

“Of course I do. Why would I not?”

“I don’t know. You just sounded a little uncertain.”

Pen said nothing as she pulled the brush through her sleep-tossed hair. She was remembering the strange shadows that had gathered in Owen’s eyes when she’d asked him if he was married. All the light had left his countenance.

She turned on the dresser stool. “I’m not uncertain at all, not about anything, Pippa. And I need your help.”

Pippa’s eyes widened. She leaned forward eagerly. “How?”

“I need you to lie for me,” Pen said simply. “I want to go away for a few days. I have the princess’s leave to spend four days with my family, but that’s not where I’m going. I need you to tell Mama that I’m closeted with the princess during her illness and cannot see anyone. Mary will not let me out of her sight until she feels better. That’s happened before. It will not be such a great untruth.”

“It
will,
” Pippa said fervently. “It’s a terrible, big lie.”

Pen sighed. “I know. But will you do it?”

“Yes, of course I will. But where are you going?” Now there was neither mischief nor laughter in the younger woman’s penetrating gaze.

Pen turned back to the dresser mirror. The king’s palace at Greenwich was amply supplied with the precious objects, all of Italianate design. A rare luxury even for Pen, who had grown up in its lap.

She began to braid her hair, concentrating on the movement of her fingers making order out of the thick brown mass. “If I tell you that it concerns the chevalier, will you leave it at that?”

Pippa whistled soundlessly. She came to stand behind her sister. “You are going to have a tryst with Owen d’Arcy? A four-day tryst?”

Pen met her astounded gaze in the mirror. “Yes.”

“Well, you are a dark horse,” Pippa said after a minute. “I just hope to God no one finds out.”

“There’s no reason why they should so long as Mama and Lord Hugh don’t have any conversation with the princess. At least until I get back. If they find out then, I’ll deal with it.” She sounded calm and definite.

Pippa stared at her. This was so unlike Pen. Not the calm composure, that was very much her sister, but for Pen even to think of such a deception, let alone put it into practice! That was just totally out of character. Pippa didn’t think she would dare to do it herself, and she was much more adventurous than her sister.

“This is just
passion
?” she asked after a minute’s incredulous silence.

“And why not?” Pen was beginning to enjoy her sister’s reaction. It was so unusual for anyone to be able to throw Pippa off balance. “You’re no stranger to passion yourself, are you?”

Pippa frowned. “I flirt, I play games, but
passion
! No.” She shook her head firmly. “I can honestly say that’s something I have never felt.”

Pen raised an eyebrow. “No sex?”

Pippa grinned suddenly. “Not of the passionate kind, Pen. Only the playful. Believe it or not, I’m very careful.”

Pen nodded. It didn’t surprise her. Pippa was no fool, despite her apparent volatility.

There was a tap at the door and they both turned, annoyed at the interruption. Their little sister stuck her head around the door. “Oh, good, you’re both awake.” She came in without waiting for an invitation.

“We weren’t expecting you so soon,” Pen said, rising from her stool to kiss Anna, concealing her dismay. She had hoped to be well away by the time the Kendal party arrived so that Pippa’s fiction would be all the more believable.

“Oh, we left almost at daybreak,” Anna said, hugging Pen and turning to do the same to Pippa. Pippa gave Pen a comprehending nod over the girl’s dark head. They would need to modify their plan.

“I had such a
dull
Twelfth Night!” Anna complained, darting around the bedchamber, alighting on her sisters’ scattered possessions, examining them and moving on like a honeybee in a flower bed. “I was perfectly well by the afternoon. We could have come easily enough.”

She pouted slightly. “My father really doesn’t want me to appear at court at all. He uses any excuse to keep me at home.”

“He doesn’t want you to grow up too fast,” Pen said, exchanging a look with Pippa. Their stepfather adored his daughter and could barely tolerate her spending a night under any roof but his own. His wife, his son, and his stepdaughters derived considerable amusement from this single-minded care and devotion. Its recipient, however, who as a child had basked in it, was now beginning to find it somewhat irksome.

“It’s not just,” Anna complained. “Jane Grey is only fifteen, and she’s been going to revels and dances and feasts for years.”

“Jane Grey is the king’s cousin,” Pippa stated. “She’s expected to be on display. You don’t have to be.”

“That’s very true, Anna,” Pen agreed. “You can be thankful that you’re not Jane. Her life’s a living hell with that dreadful mother of hers, who’s always pinching at her and criticizing her in front of everybody. You know she’s going to be forced to marry whoever suits the duchess and the king’s council. At least no one will coerce you in that way.”

“No, but I’ll have to marry someone, and how can I meet someone if my father will never let me out of his sight?” Anna declared, pirouetting in front of a long mirror. “Do you like my gown? Isn’t it pretty?”

“Very,” her sisters agreed.

Anna darted to the armoire. “May I help you dress? What will you wear, Pen?”

Pippa joined her at the armoire. “I think Pen should wear this.” She took out a gown of flaming orange velvet.

When she saw Pen’s frown she forestalled the coming objection. “I know you don’t like bright colors as a rule but I’m sure that today you would wish to look your best.” She raised a meaningful eyebrow.

Pen shot her a warning glance, recognizing that her sister was now in a teasing mood. “Anna, could you pass me my shift?”

Anna passed her a white linen shift delicately embroidered at the neck and wrists.

Pippa said, “Anna, love, would you go and take our respects to Mama and Lord Hugh and say that we will join them in half an hour?”

“Oh, they know that,” Anna said cheerfully.

“They may do, but we would not be lacking in courtesy,” Pen said. “We cannot just ignore their arrival and wander in when we’re ready. You know that’s discourteous.”

“Oh, very well,” Anna said and left.

“Now, dress quickly,” Pippa said. “As soon as you’re gone I’ll go to them and say that after Anna left you were summoned urgently to the princess. I’ll pretend that then you sent a message saying that you’re unable to leave her bedside . . . the physician is gravely concerned. They won’t question it.”

“No,” Pen agreed. “And then they’ll return to Holborn. If they can’t see the princess and they can’t see me, there’ll be no reason for them to stay.”