Lord of Deception Page 3

  The woman was unlikely to divulge her secrets to him. But he had another informant. Swiftly cutting a bunch of marigolds, he put on his most charming smile and headed for the back door by the kitchen. He knocked, then opened it a crack. “Bess! Bess, my dove! Here are marigolds for the cheeses. Will you come? I miss your sparkling eyes.”

  A rotund female appeared at the end of the passageway and steered towards him. “Ah, ’tis the sweet-tongued rogue with the muddy boots. Have a care with your honeyed words, sir, or I may come to think you are in earnest.”

  He laughed. He liked to flirt with Bessie, the kitchen wench, even though she was twice his age, with a face like a bag pudding. No woman he knew was above flattery, and he considered himself an expert in the art. Especially when he was after information.

  “Here. Flowers with petals as silky soft as your tresses, my sweeting.” He dropped the blossoms into her hands.

  She grinned as his fingers slid slowly over hers. “Hast come for a tidbit?”

  “Only so much as my lady is prepared to give me. I’m an honorable man, as you do know.”

  He followed her into the kitchen, where she fumbled the marigolds into a pot of water. “How fares the garden? Does Jacob keep his nose out of your business, or order you about as if he were the steward?”

  “Mostly, he leaves me be.” Kit leaned against the doorpost, noting with satisfaction the roses he had brought to Bessie’s cheeks. “And is Cook keeping her nose out of your business?”

  “Aye. There’s a bowlful of pottage for you if you wish it.”

  “Then you offer a good deal more than a tidbit, Bessie, my little bird.” He grinned as she filled a bowl for him.

  “My, but you’re a handsome fellow.” Bessie sighed. “Promise me you’ll never get into a quarrel and get your beautiful teeth knocked out.”

  “You’re always so good to me, Bessie.” He laughed, throwing his arms about her ample waist. “I know I will ever find good cheer in your embrace.”

  “Get off me, you great lummock!” She backed away, but her eyes glinted with pleasure. “Now tell me the real reason why you’re all silken-tongued today. What is it you want of me?”

  “You don’t believe I would come here just for your delightful company?”

  She shook her head and waved a large wooden spoon at him. “Be quick now, Kit, for Cook is expected back at any time.”

  He chewed a mouthful of his pottage. “This is delicious—you have outdone yourself. I would know what has upset Mistress Barchard.”

  “Her cousin probably.” Bess’ face fell. “’Tis always her cousin. Mistress Barchard was brought up a proper lady, the other not. Mistress Barchard neither married nor had wealth—the other had both. Mistress Aspinall is not as fine as she should be, whereas Mistress Barchard is a real gentlewoman, though she’s treated like the dirt beneath their feet.”

  “A grim situation. But if this is ever the way, what could be so particularly bad this morn to upset her?”

  “I cannot tell you that. I know they’re going out a-hawking with Sir Thomas later on, for we’ve to bake them some pasties. That should cheer Mistress Barchard.”

  “Does it sometimes seem to you she has something on her mind, something to hide?”

  “Mayhap. She’s deep, that one, but she keeps her own counsel. If I were any judge of wit, I’d say there’s none with sense enough in the house to understand her.”

  “You say she’s clever?” He already suspected that. “More learned than her cousin?”

  “Indeed. Mistress Barchard can read, for one, and writes, too. Some of the letters she uses confound me, mind. I know enough to tell they are not English ones.”

  Not English letters? Was Mistress Barchard using a cipher? The skin on the back of his neck prickled, but he kept his tone neutral as he inquired, “Where have you seen these strange letters written down?”

  “She left a book in the kitchen garden once, when I went out to fetch some fennel for a griping stomach. I know books cost a pretty penny, so I gave it to Cook to return to her.”

  He tilted his head. “But not without first looking inside?”

  “Don’t chide me! I needed to know whose book it was. I know my letters well enough to read a name. Hers was written there in English, but the rest of the book wasn’t, and she’d penned a few things in the margin, in the same odd lettering. So, aye, I say she’s a clever one. More so than the rest of them. They never make time for her—she must be so lonely, poor thing.”

  “You have a great heart, Bessie.” He put down his bowl and grabbed at her again, swinging her around, and slapping her on her ample behind. It would not do for her to think him too ardent in his inquiries about Mistress Barchard.

  Bess recovered her feet and whipped her apron at his legs. This sent him darting away from the kitchen door, laughing. But as soon as he was back in the walled garden, his levity dissolved.

  So, Mistress Aspinall wasn’t considered clever. In his experience, those who appeared as fools, were fools. The mistress of the household—despite having powerful, intelligent friends—was, indeed, the empty-headed flirt he’d originally thought her.

  Even though his gut rebelled at the idea, it was becoming increasingly likely Mistress Barchard was the traitor he’d been sent to unmask. But he understood not to rely on hearsay or instinct. His heart wanted Mistress Barchard to be innocent, but only the uncovering of evidence could prove her to be guiltless.

  He must intensify his efforts to find out what everyone in the household was up to, and find something that proved the identity of the Selwood traitor beyond all doubt.

  Chapter Seven

  Kit’s initial plan was to observe the current occupants of Selwood when they set off on their hawking expedition. It would be useful to know which horse belonged to whom—thus he’d always know who was on the estate and who was away, by merely glancing into the stables. He decided to establish himself on the rough ground bordering the old fishpond, from where he could watch the hunting party cross the bridge to the woods behind. He’d be close enough to recognize individual riders.

  There was long grass and feathery willow herb which needed cutting behind the pond—the perfect excuse for his presence there. Sighing, he hefted his sickle, lamenting the inevitable damage to his hands. This assignment was ruining him for womankind—what lady of Queen Bess’ court could stand so rough a touch?

  The sun beat down mercilessly as he hacked and slashed at the fibrous stems. Before long, he was sweating profusely. When was the hawking party going to appear? Once he’d finished his task, he’d have no excuse to linger here.

  After an hour and a half of hard labor with no sign of the riders, Kit threw his sickle down on the crumbling brick wall of the fishpond and scowled at it. His over-long hair kept sticking to his face, and burrs had worked their way beneath his shirt, scratching at his skin. With a grunt, he yanked off his straw hat, dragged off the old linen shirt, and thrust his arms into the cool water of the pond.

  It smelled musty and foul but—oh—it was such a relief to bathe his overheated skin and soothe the irritation. Grass seeds clung to his shirt, so he dipped it in the water and swirled it about until it looked clean before spreading it out on the sun-warmed brickwork to dry. He ducked his head beneath the surface of the pond, splashing the water over his shoulders and chest, then straightened. Just as he was shaking the drops from his hair, the sound of hoofbeats made him stand stock-still.

  Sir Thomas was trotting across the bridge on a massive black stallion. Kate Aspinall followed on a bay mare, with some of her ladies, several grooms, and Mistress Barchard bringing up the rear on a chestnut, a tiny merlin on her wrist.

  One of the ladies, mounted on a skewbald mare, glanced around and her gaze fixed on Kit. Her gasp of surprise brought Kate to a stop, and thus all the others behind her.

  “So much for not working with his shirt off.” The woman made no effort to lower her voice. Kit reached for his shirt, but it was still soaking, so he pre
tended to be absorbed in something he’d found behind the wall. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mistress Aspinall idly stroke the breast of her peregrine.

  “There is that mark I told you of. If you don’t believe I saw it under the circumstances I claimed, Alys, dismount and ask him. If he denies it, I shall give you back your pocket.”

  What mark? What circumstances? He could feel the ladies’ stares on his back. They muttered and tittered behind their leather gloves as their hawks shifted, jingling, on their wrists. If he continued to ignore the group of women, Mistress Aspinall would cause a scene, and that was the last thing he wanted. He straightened up and bowed.

  The lady on the skewbald raked his chest with her eyes before bursting into a fit of giggles. Mistress Barchard’s cheeks turned crimson. Kirlham, fortunately, had already passed out of earshot and the grooms had followed, leaving the ladies to their unabashed perusal of Kit’s damp, naked torso.

  They were staring at his sword wound. He ducked his head, doing his best to look subservient and apologetic at the same time, scratching at the scar beneath his right breast as if it were of no significance whatsoever. If anyone asked, he’d say he was once attacked by brigands on the highway. One couldn’t tell the quality of a blade from the scar it left. Could one?

  The sound of hoofbeats indicated that his moment of humiliation was over. The ladies had had their fill and continued on to find better sport. Heaving out a breath, he straightened, and drew his hand across his brow, only to find himself looking directly into the angry blue-grey eyes of Mistress Barchard.

  “You, sirrah, have no place here. You have brought shame to this house, and I intend to remove you from it. Forthwith.”

  Before he could ask how a servant being caught shirtless on a hot day brought shame to Selwood, she’d tossed her head, dug her heels into her mount’s flanks, and chased away after the others.

  He scowled after her. There was more to her enmity than this present indiscretion. As he shouldered into his damp shirt, a shudder ran through him. There was stalwart determination in that charming little chin, sharp intellect in those blue-grey eyes.

  If he wasn’t mistaken, Mistress Barchard already suspected him of being a spy. A fact that could cost him his life.

  Chapter Eight

  Alys hadn’t given up hope of curbing Kate’s outrageous behavior, but every time she attempted to speak to her cousin about it, she was ignored. None of the other ladies seemed worried—they were amused by the scandal of Kate’s liaison with the gardener. So, she decided to watch him like a hawk, find fault with his work, and encourage head gardener Jacob to dismiss him.

  Before she was able to put her plan into action, distraction arrived at Selwood Manor in the shape of Sir Thomas’ brother-in-law, Richard Avery. The man’s wife had died in childbirth the previous year and, so rumor had it, he had taken to spending a good deal of time with Sir Thomas thereafter, as he couldn’t bear to be idle or alone.

  Rumor had it right. No sooner had Avery arrived than he was devising entertainments for them all—hunting to hounds, a masque, minstrels, poetry reading. He carried everyone with him in his enthusiasm, exhibiting an apparent joy in life that made him excellent company. Kate preened and simpered appallingly in his presence. Unsurprisingly.

  Avery’s first event was to be a costume party, to include Kate’s female friends and their swains, the local gentry, and some of Avery’s acquaintance who would come up from London. Alys hoped the presence of eligible gentlemen might turn Kate away from the gardener’s masculine charms.

  In her role as housekeeper, it was Alys who had to cope with the influx of guests. This involved everything from balancing the tradesmen’s books to supervising the cleaning and laundering of rooms, ordering fresh lavender and flowers from the garden to make potpourri, and polishing the best pewter tableware. This gave her no time to participate in the merry-making—she’d be directing operations, like an actor’s prompter watching from the wings.

  And just like the actor’s prompter, she was not meant to be seen by the guests. Such exclusion was a constant goad—Kate did it quite deliberately, by loading her up with tasks from dawn until dusk, so she felt like little more than a servant. Even if she could find a spare moment to indulge in frivolity with their guests, she’d be too ashamed of how she looked. Her kirtles were of serviceable wool, not brocade or taffeta. Her headgear sported no silver braid, and her coif no Venetian lace edging. There was no string of pearls around her neck, nor a golden chain—both of which Kate owned in abundance, these having been bestowed upon her by her doting husband.

  Avery had decreed that the guests must deck themselves out as Greek and Roman heroes or goddesses. This sent an exhausted Alys to the gardens in search of laurel with which to make suitably classical-looking headdresses. She’d made sure to ask Jacob to cut it for her, not being keen on any further confrontation with Kit when she had so many other things about which to think.

  She now sat in the sunny courtyard between the two wings of the house, a basket of greenery at her side, fashioning laurel wreaths. It was a mindless occupation, giving her time to think about the visitors lately arrived at Selwood Manor, and affording her a much-needed rest.

  The presence of Richard Avery had lightened Sir Thomas’ mood. She’d no idea why the latter was so rarely cheerful when he had more reason to be so than his bereaved brother-in-law. What cause had Sir Thomas to repine? He’d never lost a wife or a child—he’d never had any. She herself was barely recovered from the loss of her family in an epidemic of the sweating sickness. And that had been a full five years ago. The Four Humors must be unevenly apportioned in Sir Thomas’ constitution, to make him so often melancholy.

  “Deep in thought, my lady?”

  She looked up as a shadow fell across her. There stood Richard Avery, fully costumed as a Greek hero. With his blond hair curled to caress his face, and the thin linen tunic accentuating the lithe shape of his body, he was a sight to melt any woman’s heart. He smiled at Alys, then winked. “I do hope that laurel crown’s for me.” He stooped to look over her shoulder. “I feel this costume is lacking something.”

  “I’m making this laurel crown double. It will be awarded to the best poet this night—who’ll be chosen by the mistress of the house.”

  “Ah, that divine goddess, Mistress Aspinall. But what does a woman know of good poetry, when none are able to rhyme as well as a man?”

  She bridled at that. Was he being pompous, or teasing her? “Think you that rhyme is the only way to construct a poem? What about meter and rhythm?”

  “Oh, I see you wish to dispute with me!” Avery made a wry face. “Very well, rhyme me a rhyme, and I’ll mete you out a meter!”

  “I’ll do better than that, for rhyme is meat and drink to me.”

  “Ah.” He pressed his fists against his slender hips. “So, you like to pun. I know not if it is meet that you should pun with me, as I am renowned for my wit.”

  “Say not for your wit, for the owl is wiser than you.”

  “How so? An owl is a mere bird.” His blue eyes danced.

  She thought quickly, desperate not to be outdone. “Ah, but you have only the one, whereas the owl has two wits.”

  “Two wits? Two… oh! Too-whits!” He threw his head back and laughed. “Fie, you are too clever for me, Mistress. It may be that you are making the laurel crown for yourself, after all.”

  She turned the garland around in her fingers and dragged her gaze away from his smiling face. “Alas, nay, for I shall be too busy organizing the entertainments to participate in them.”

  “Oh, no, sweet lady.” He seized her hand and kissed it. “I would not have you excluded for the world. Your tongue is a whetstone upon which I may sharpen my wit—I’ll fight much better with a good foil against me. I shall speak to Mistress Aspinall, and see that you are relieved of mundane duties.”

  Alys smiled as she watched him stride away. Avery’s flattery had warmed her, and she felt more than equal to the c
hallenge of besting him in a poetry contest. Her confidence much boosted, she hastily finished the laurel crown and hurried away to devise some manner of costume for herself.

  And prayed he would be able to use his silver tongue to persuade her cousin to let her have some pleasure for a change.

  Chapter Nine

  Sunday morn dawned bright and fair. Alys lay a-bed a while, recalling the events of the previous evening, Richard Avery’s so-called masque.

  In her opinion, it had been sadly disappointing. So much of the Aspinall’s wine cellar was breached, everyone’s wits were too addled for rhyming. Sir Thomas in his cups was a man who liked a song, and every time someone suggested a different entertainment, he’d struck up another tune on his lute and overcome all opposition. When he’d finally tired of this, the dancing had begun, although most people were too drunk to follow the steps.

  Nonetheless, it was all taken in good heart—there was uproarious laughter as one dancer after another fell, or toppled onto somebody’s lap.

  Alys had but little time to spare, ensuring the feasting and drinking ran smoothly, but she couldn’t help notice Richard Avery’s gradual loss of dignity. His face became ruddy and sweaty, the laurel wreath he’d stolen from her hanging rakishly over one eye, making him look more like a drunken Dionysus than the Apollo he claimed to be.

  Kate had seemed little better off—a puzzle, as she’d drunk but little. Indeed, Alys could have sworn to it neither Kirlham nor Avery had imbibed a great deal, but the wine seemed to affect them powerfully.

  The clanging of a distant bell reminded her she should be rousing the household to go to church. Hastily, she dressed, nibbled on a stale manchet roll, and joined the subdued party that made its way down the lane to the manor church. Kate, Sir Thomas, Richard, and a few of his friends were all missing. Hannah Shawcross told Alys they’d all protested sore heads this morning. It chimed with how drunk they’d appeared to be, if not with how much they’d drunk. A sliver of unease teased Alys’ spine.