Lord of Deception Page 4

  As the congregation from the village and the servants and guests from the house rustled and muttered their way through the doors, she gazed around to see if any of the villagers were absent. She’d always taken a great interest in their affairs and ofttimes visited the sick. Kate encouraged these charitable excursions, although Alys suspected her cousin was glad to get her out of the house.

  The Selwood servants, although bleary-eyed, were present. Bess from the kitchen, Jacob the head gardener, Lettice and the other kitchen wenches, the serving boys, the cook, the steward—aye, all were present, but with one notable exception. Though she cared nothing for his blighted soul, Alys was shocked by Kit’s absence.

  A worm of doubt gnawed through her mind, and she stopped concentrating on the prayers and responses. What if Kit had stayed behind for a tryst with Kate? She could think of no other reason for him not to be here—he’d not been ill, and had no home or family nearby to visit, as far as she knew.

  The more she tried to put the thought from her mind, the larger it grew—and when the sermon centered on the sins of the flesh, it was like a sign from God she was correct in her surmise. Anger coursed through her.

  She must catch them in the act, force Kate to be rid of the man and entreat her to mend her ways. But by the time the churchgoers returned, there’d be no evidence of the lovers’ guilt. She must catch them now.

  “Hannah, I must run back to the house. I set a shift to dry by the fire and forgot clean about it. There’s no one to see to it, and I’d not start a blaze.”

  “Hush, I’m sure no harm will come of it. You worry overmuch.”

  Alys waited a moment, made sure Hannah was watching, and fumbled with her prayer book until it fell to the floor. Several heads shot up at the sound.

  “For goodness’ sake, sit still.” Hannah frowned.

  “I cannot. I’m too worried. I’m certain I can smell burning.”

  “Probably just one of the villagers’ dinners. But if you’re going to disrupt the sermon for everyone else, better you should go. But don’t come back, or you’ll disturb everyone again.”

  Alys made her way up the aisle, shooting an apologetic look at the minister as she went. He nodded briefly and continued with his sermon. Once outside, outrage gave wings to her feet, anger at the two people who could so easily bring the household into disrepute and ruin her chance of escape by making a good marriage. She’d tried so hard to maintain high standards at the manor, doing the job that Kate should have been doing. She’d put in too much effort to see it all cast to the wind.

  How could Kate ever hope to remarry if her behavior became more widely known? Only a man with low morals would take such a wanton—and how could Alys bear to live under the hand of such a master?

  As she came in sight of the warm red brickwork of the house, her face reddened as she pictured the scene she might discover. Suddenly, she was far more concerned about confronting a naked Kit than her cousin. It took great effort to swallow her fear and restore her heart to its regular beat.

  She paused as she reached the passage leading to her cousin’s chamber. Should she first rouse Sir Thomas and beg him to be a witness? He’d put Kate in her place, and dismiss the gardener on the spot, whether Kate agreed or not. Nay, what if she were mistaken? It was best to do this herself. She opened the door at the end of the passageway… and froze.

  Kit stood a little ways down, right outside Kate’s chamber door, his dark head almost brushing the decorated ceiling. The rough shirt he wore was open at the neck, the sleeves rolled back above his muscular forearms. Strong, sun-browned hands cradled a bunch of pink roses. Her breath caught.

  For a fraction of a moment, when he caught sight of Alys, he seemed rooted to the spot. Then, affecting an air of nonchalance, he gave her a deferential nod. “God give you good day, Mistress Barchard.”

  Alys prayed he’d put her flush down to anger. “What do you do here?” She kept her voice low, lest Kate hear their conversation. She’d prefer to deal with her separately.

  Frowning, he held up the roses. “I bring these for Mistress Aspinall.”

  “Pray keep your voice down. Should you not be at church?”

  His face cleared. “I shall go later. Mistress Aspinall asked for these yesterday, but I forgot.”

  What nonsense! He’d brought a gift for his lover, that was the truth of it. “What makes you think you can just march through the house and put flowers in her private chamber?”

  “I removed my boots first—”

  “Insolent dog!” How dare he answer back like that?

  The gardener must have realized his mistake, for he hung his head. “I humbly beg your forgiveness, my lady—I meant no harm. My only wish was to please Mistress Aspinall when she returns from church. I’ll willingly cut blooms for your chamber, too, if you wish it. There are some sweetly scented pinks—”

  “I do not wish it!” Alys looked at the door, then lowered her voice again. “Are you not aware that the lady is within, sick from a headache?”

  A fleeting disquiet crossed his face, but all he said was, “Your pardon, I did not know it.”

  Oh, but he was a smooth liar, this fellow. She clenched her fists. “You expect me to believe that when I know you stayed away from church for quite another purpose.”

  The gardener looked wary. “Lady, if you find fault with me, I wish you might be clear about your reason. If my absence from church so offends you, then why are you not there yourself?”

  Either the fellow was clever, or extremely stupid. “I’ve just come from church. The sermon was about the sins of the flesh. Do you understand me now?”

  He still looked utterly baffled. Infuriated, she tilted her chin at him. “I know you and Kate have both remained behind because you are lovers.”

  Chapter Ten

  There was a soft sliding noise, followed by several gentle thuds. Kit looked down, confused, as his handful of roses cascaded to the floor. What? He and Kate lovers? He’d rather bed a gorse bush than that vain Jezebel. Sinking to his knees, he began gathering up the fallen blooms, wondering how in Christendom Alys had come up with such a laughable idea.

  As soon as he felt he’d composed himself, he said, “If you have any mercy in your soul, my lady, you’ll allow me to defend myself.”

  “I will hear you.” She sounded breathless, and her cheeks were rosy. Delightfully so. He cleared his throat. “I know my place—I’ve never striven to rise out of it. But if I did, ’twould be through merit, not by tumbling my employer. Whatever Mistress Aspinall has said to you, she must have reasons for. But believe me, her truth is not the same as mine.”

  He risked meeting her gaze for a moment. There was a storm in those blue-grey eyes, and the color in her cheeks deepened. To his surprise, she knelt beside him to help gather the fallen roses.

  “Kate likes to jest.” Alys no longer sounded aggrieved. “She also likes a wager, and made one concerning you.”

  “I know. I was to appear to kiss her, so that she could win her bet. If my mistress wishes to wager, how can I gainsay her?” It was an effort keeping up the image of a faithful servant when he wanted to take his accuser by the shoulders and express his total outrage at her suggestion. “But I swear by all I hold holy, I am not your cousin’s lover, nor do I ever intend to be. A mere gardener such as me? It would be the utmost folly.”

  There was a tremor in Alys’ fingers, and she abandoned the roses and stood. “If that is true, you may forget this conversation. Now, I shall look to my cousin to see if she improves.” She rose, lifted the latch of Mistress Aspinall’s door, and pushed.

  The door refused to budge. Kit sat back on his heels and watched Alys peer through the keyhole. “The key’s in the lock on the other side. Odd.”

  He shrugged. “If she has a bad head, she won’t want to be disturbed.”

  Alys gazed at him, and he forgot to look away. The flush had subsided, but she was worrying at her lip, drawing his eyes to her mouth. Were he not a mere servant, he�
�d have received an apology by now—her guilt and embarrassment were palpable.

  “I will aid you with those.” She crouched again to scoop up the last of the roses, then yelped.

  “Lady, have you pricked yourself? Let me see.” He shuffled closer, crushing roses beneath his knees, and took her hand. “There’s a thorn broken off in your finger, but I think I can fetch it out.” He stood, helped her up, and maneuvered her to the window where he applied himself to the task of removing the thorn. Her breath stirred his hair as she watched him work, coming fast and rapid, just like his own.

  When the thorn came out, he flicked it away. “With your permission, I should suck on the wound, to make sure there is no poison within.”

  She stared at him, her lips half-parted. “That… that won’t be necessary.”

  He licked at the small bead of blood. “It’s best to keep it clean.” Wrapping his hand around her finger, he squeezed. “It will cease bleeding in a moment. I can bring you some salve from my hut if ’tis your will.” Forgetting propriety, forgetting he was just Kit the undergardener, he pressed her hand against his chest.

  Startled blue-grey eyes locked with his own. How dark her hair was, as black as a raven’s wing, but with a delightful wave that framed her oval face. Her skin was as pale as marble, unblemished save for the remaining color in her cheeks. The sensation of her small hand trapped inside his sent a surge of desire through his body. All he had to do was pull her closer and bend his head…

  A faint clicking sound shocked him into stillness. The key had been turned in Kate Aspinall’s door, but it didn’t open. God be thanked! What would Kate have seen? A lustful servant leering at Alys Barchard, greedily eyeing that delectable mouth. He could have lost everything in that unguarded moment.

  Wrapping the undamaged roses in his kerchief, he presented them to Alys. “You may as well have these, my lady—have a care not to prick yourself again. I’ll clear away the rest.”

  She stared at him, then seized the roses and hurried back towards the stairs.

  Kit followed in her wake, saw her disappear into her chamber, and decided it was best to head back to the garden. The crushed roses missed the compost heap by a clear yard, he left the hut door swinging open on its hinges and neglected to remove his boots. Sitting on the three-legged stool, which was his only piece of furniture, he unclenched his fist and grimaced at the ruddy stains gilding his fingers.

  Alys’ blood. It sent a shudder through him. For all he knew, the woman was an enemy of the queen he’d sworn to protect. No—how could he believe it of so sweet, so charming a lady? He pressed his palm over his heart for a moment, then curled it into a fist and slammed it mercilessly against the wall of the hut.

  If he didn’t come to his senses this very instant, all his carefully laid plans would be as chaff in the wind.

  Chapter Eleven

  After the incident in the passageway, Mistress Barchard ignored Kit. Whenever she came into the gardens, she remained too far away from him to make greetings necessary. Illogically, this annoyed him. He was supposed to be keeping a low profile, not attracting attention, but he hadn’t planned on being deliberately snubbed. It was some days before he was able to put the events of the previous Sunday into perspective and finally admit to himself that he had damn near kissed Mistress Barchard, and she knew it. Well, thank the lord she had more sense than he, and knew not to encourage him any further.

  Thrusting his personal feelings to the back of his mind, he continued gathering information about the people in the house and their movements. However, there was nothing to arouse his suspicions—except the reason Mistress Barchard had given for accosting him on Sunday. Him having an affair with Mistress Aspinall? Laughable!

  But at the end of that week, there was nothing amusing about Kit’s situation. Bess of the kitchen told him Mistress Aspinall planned to leave for Sir Thomas Kirlham’s house on the Norfolk coast. As an undergardener, he couldn’t legitimately follow, so only a few days remained for him to unmask the traitor he’d been sent to find.

  Desperate for evidence to present to Walsingham, he started hunting through the bedchambers while everyone was out at archery practice. Eager to exonerate Mistress Barchard from any guilt, he decided to begin with hers.

  The first thing that struck him was how tiny the room was—little bigger than a dressing closet. It held a low truckle bed, a small window almost obscured by creepers, a linens chest, and a stool. The lady’s possessions seemed but few and far between, mostly confined to a few books, and a small oak box beside the bed, used for writing.

  Recalling what he’d learned of codes and ciphers since becoming one of Walsingham’s spies, he examined the books thoroughly. None gave him any cause to doubt Mistress Barchard—they were mostly unadulterated classical texts. One was of particular interest, however, as it matched the book Bessie had described, which had aroused his suspicions.

  He rolled his eyes, chuckling at his folly. The book was a Greek text of Homer’s Odyssey, with annotations in English. Nothing nefarious about that. Summoning up his schoolboy Greek, he established that Bessie’s “strange letters” were no more than Mistress Barchard’s attempts to teach herself a classical language. It certainly supported Bessie’s assertion that Mistress Barchard was clever.

  Turning his attention to the writing box next, he carefully removed the ink pot, quills and paper from the top, all the time listening intently for the sound of returning voices.

  The box contained a few pages of verse Mistress Barchard had penned herself—despite the blots and crossings out, he had to admit the content was worthy. He also found an English translation of the Bible inscribed with the names of her parents, and a matching prayer book bound in red leather. He seized on these excitedly—they could be evidence enough to prove her innocent of recusancy. What closet Catholic or supporter of the Spanish would treasure such books?

  When he opened the Bible to make sure there was nothing concealed within, a thin slip of muslin slid out, containing a pressed pink rose. Taking the stem between finger and thumb, he twirled the flower around—was it one of those he had given her?

  He gritted his teeth—he’d behaved so foolishly. His reaction to her nearness had been no more than the result of enforced chastity, and he should be able to control that. Yet he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the woman, holed up in this tiny room with only the memories of her dead family, and a crushed rose from a worthless servant to occupy her thoughts.

  He returned the flower to its wrapping, and replaced all the objects in the box, returning the writing materials to its top. It was a relief to know he’d not experienced those stirrings of lust for a traitor. But now he must make haste, lest the real deceiver escape before he had time to smoke them out.

  Leaving the attic by a rickety stairway, he entered the passageway where Mistress Aspinall’s chamber was. Despite knowing she was outside, he knocked softly on the door before letting himself inside.

  This chamber was sumptuous compared to the one he’d just seen. Two of the walls were hung with Flemish tapestries, their colors bright in the summer sunlight. The window was large and uncluttered, with a deep sill whereon reposed a vase of Venetian glass, filled with fiery calendula blooms.

  The end wall of the chamber was also the end wall of the house—it was clad in new oak paneling, shining with beeswax polish. The bed was large and four-posted. Kit grimaced to think Mistress Barchard had imagined he’d shared it with her cousin.

  Gowns abounded, leaking out of chests and armoires, their gold and silver threads glinting in the light. Jewelry was heaped carelessly on a shelf in front of a high-quality mirror, and the whole room exuded opulence. He wondered at such wealth—few of the ladies at court had such finery as this. How could the woman afford it? Her husband had only been of the middling sort of gentry.

  There were no Bibles or prayer books evident in this room—in fact, no books or pamphlets of any kind, despite Mistress Aspinall being a capable reader. But that, in and
of itself, was no proof of her betrayal. Kit was about to give up his search when his eyes fell upon the paneling. It was newer than anything else in the room. What if it was a division of the room, not an end to it? Was there enough space behind there to conceal something?

  Heart beating in his throat, Kit tapped softly at the squares of oak. Odd’s blood! The whole thing sounded hollow. His blood tingled with excitement as he pushed and prodded at the panels, looking for anything that might spring open a hidden door. So absorbed was he that it took a while for the sound of approaching footsteps to penetrate his mind. It was not the light tripping step of a lady, but the heavy measured tread of a man.

  Fleetingly, Kit looked for a place of concealment, then decided it would be safer to brazen it out than be caught hiding in his mistress’ bedchamber. Picking up the Venetian vase, he carried it to the door and stepped out just as Sir Thomas Kirlham walked past, pulling off his archery gloves.

  Even though he bowed low and kept his eyes down, Kit felt the man’s animosity.

  “What is your purpose here, fellow?”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, I was just a-changing the flowers for my lady. She do like them fresh, and I know which ones to choose. I hope I’ve done no wrong, sir.”

  Praying this sounded servile enough, Kit backed away, still bowing, until the frowning Kirlham was out of sight. Then, feeling all the while as if he were being watched, he emptied and cleaned the vase in the scullery, before fetching fresh blooms for it. But he didn’t take it back himself—he besought Lettice to return it to Mistress Aspinall’s chamber.

  Kirlham’s was the next room that needed to be searched, so the less he came under that man’s nose, the better.