Читать книгу LIBERTINE in the Tudor Court: One Night in Paradise / A Most Unseemly Summer - Juliet Landon - Страница 10

S ir Nicholas straightened, dropping the stallion’s hoof gently into the deep straw. He patted the sleek brown rump and looked across at his noble employer over the top of it. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘It was the same last night. He’s sound enough, sir.’ He leaned back against the stall.

The Earl of Leicester, the Queen’s favourite and the handsomest man at Court, some said, leaned against the other side of the stall and folded his arms across his wide chest. ‘Samuel Manning certainly taught you a thing or two, Nicholas,’ he said. ‘You believe it was the mare, then?’

Sir Nicholas smiled. ‘Almost certainly, sir. They can do a fair amount of damage when they’re new to it, as you know.’

‘Then we shall have to make sure he’s well padded next time, eh?’

The laughter was mutually rueful. The earl looked pointedly at the reddened skin along the left side of Sir Nicholas’s eyebrow, unable to conceal his interest. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, ‘that you need some padding, too. I’ll not believe it. Was that the problem?’

A hand went up to comfort the tender place. ‘Nothing to speak of, sir,’ Sir Nicholas smiled. ‘A misunderstanding.’

‘Not Lady Celia, surely?’ the earl said gently. He was as tall as Sir Nicholas and, even with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his graceful bearing and proud head showed him to be a man of considerable importance. He crossed his long elegant legs, well muscled and encased in brown leather thigh-boots.

‘Lord, no, sir.’ He sighed, taking hold of the stallion’s tail and slipping his hand down its silky length. ‘No, Lady Celia departs from Portsmouth today. She and her mother and sister will embark as soon as they get a fair wind, and she’s distraught, naturally.’

‘At leaving England, or you?’

‘Both, sir. Nor does she like the idea of marrying her Spanish duke.’

‘Mmm…I heard about that. Her Majesty’s not keen on the connection, but Lord Traverson is adamant about it. Says it’s too good an opportunity to miss.’

‘He would, being of a Roman Catholic family. We ended our relationship weeks ago, but she asked me to meet her, for a last goodbye. Except that it wasn’t the last, of course.’

‘Hah! Never is, man. They say a last goodbye at least three times; I could have told you that. Recriminations, then?’

‘Oh, no, sir. No bad feeling. Just a sadness. Our parting was mutual, but I’d not have wanted her to go all that way, just the same. We were friends.’

‘Sad,’ the earl said. ‘So who’s the unwilling one?’

‘Sir Thomas Pickering’s daughter, sir.’

‘Ah! The Palomino!’ A slow grin spread across his face. ‘The one you hauled out of the river the other day? Well, you’ll not get that one eating out of your hand so easily. Nor will you be the first to try.’

Nicholas was, however, reasonably sure that he had been the first to succeed in areas where others had failed. ‘No, sir. That’s what I heard, but I think now’s the time for some schooling.’ He grinned back at the earl. ‘I also think I’m in for a rough ride.’

Studying the stallion’s beautiful hindquarters, the earl leaned forward and rested his arms across the broad satin back. ‘Then you may be glad of a word of advice, my friend.’

‘Sir?’

‘Keep her guessing. You’ll get nowhere with a woman if you’re too predictable. They can second-guess you every time. And don’t be too kind too soon. Fillies like that one need to know who’s master from the start.’ To his surprise, he saw that his deputy’s chest was heaving with laughter. ‘You don’t believe me?’ he said.

‘Certainly I believe you, sir, but maybe I should tell you what this was for.’ He placed a palm upon his temple.

‘I was hoping you would.’

‘For talking to her as if she were a horse.’

Their laughter made the stallion look round, his muzzle caught by the earl’s hand. ‘So then you began to praise her beauty, I suppose?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact…’

‘Lost your wits of a sudden, man? Tch! You know better than that.’

‘I do now, sir. But I shall have to move fast if I’m to make any headway. There’s Her Majesty’s progress to your castle at Kenilworth in a few days, and young Fowler has got a foothold already.’

‘Argh! She’ll not be serious about him, man. He’s only for show. Nor would her father consider him. Anyway…’ his voice brightened ‘…she can come up to Kenilworth with Sir Thomas, if you wish. Would that help?’

‘Indeed it would, sir, I thank you.’

The earl smacked the stallion’s back and ran a hand down its tail, fanning it like tissue. ‘I’ll see she gets a royal command, then. You need to keep your hands on the reins and stay firmly in control at this stage. As for young Fowler, if he’d been attending to his business, he’d not have let her slip into the river in the first place, would he? Think on it, man. Now, let’s go and take a look at those new Irish geldings. They’re supposed to be fast-goers, too.’

There was probably no other man of Nicholas’s acquaintance from whom he would have accepted advice on such a delicate issue, never having been the kind of man to discuss his love life with others, as many did. But Lord Leicester was as experienced with women as he was with horses, though his stormy relationship with the Queen had been one of the most talked-about since her accession seventeen years ago. At forty-two, they were both as enamoured as ever, though hardly a month passed without some complication arising to set her snarling at him like a wildcat. The earl’s invitation to the Queen to make a royal progress to his magnificent castle at Kenilworth was, as Sir Nicholas knew, a last major attempt to remain permanently high in her favour after so many serious indiscretions, though if the Queen had known what Nicholas knew about his master’s extra-marital activities, she would probably have decided on a progress in the opposite direction instead. His lordship had a huge capacity for intrigue and a magnetism that few women could resist, a combination which seemed to Nicholas like a recipe for disaster.

Had he been faint-hearted, Nicholas might have viewed his own predicament in the same light, last night’s ending being as close as one comes to disaster, thanks to the help of a certain Master Fowler who knew exactly what he was doing. Although he had never before encountered the same relentless resistance in a woman as in Mistress Adorna Pickering, his experience told him that she was certainly not as immune to him as she pretended to be and that her act last evening had been impossible for her to maintain until the end. Then, she had lost it in his kiss, after which he discovered what she had been trying to conceal, even from herself. She wanted him.

With that satisfying knowledge firmly in place, he mused over his master’s advice about the tight rein and decided that a little variation on that theme would not come amiss. She had eaten out of his hand once; she would do it again. Eventually.

Adorna would not at that moment have agreed with this theory if she had known of it. Having wept with anger and other unidentifiable emotions, she had slept badly, waking up to the same reflection of how little regard men paid to the truth in order to win a woman. The truth, she told herself, would have been easier to deal with. At least it would not have left the same sour taste in her mouth as his pathetic lies had done, especially after…no…she would not think about that. But she did. What did it matter, anyway, except that she had given her first kiss to a man to whom it would mean very little except yet another trophy?

Lady Marion could not help but notice her daughter’s swollen eyelids and pink nose. ‘A cold?’ she said, looking doubtfully sideways. ‘Come here, child. I know a tearful daughter when I see one. What is it?’ She took Adorna’s hand and led her back to the cushioned stool she had just vacated. ‘You’ve had no breakfast, and it’s no good saying it’s nothing. It’s men, isn’t it?’

Adorna nodded.

‘Ah! Well, if it’s any comfort, love, there’s probably not a woman in the whole world who hasn’t wept over a man, one way or another. Which one, Sir Nicholas?’ She didn’t wait for a reply, having guessed it already. ‘Yes, well, I admit I got it wrong about having him partner Hester when it’s obvious he’s more interested in you. We can’t tell her so now, of course; that would do her confidence no good at all. But we can soon put it right. I’ll get your father to invite him—’

‘No, Mother!’ Adorna objected. ‘Please, I don’t want him to. I don’t like the man. I prefer Peter.’

‘Don’t like him, love? What is there not to like? I thought he was perfectly charming.’ She scrutinised her daughter’s face for signs, and found them. ‘Ah, I see. So he kissed you.’ Her eyes strayed through the sunlit window where the wobble of green glass distorted the banqueting house grotesquely. ‘So that’s how my best wooden roundels found their way on to the floor. We thought a fox must have got in.’

Adorna laid a hand over her mother’s puffed pink sleeve. ‘I’m sorry about that, Mother. It was my fault, I shall have to find a better hiding place next time.’

Lady Marion’s hand enclosed hers in sympathy, but not too much. ‘Well, you know, love, I’m not so sure that hiding is the answer any more. It served well enough while you were a lass, but your father and I think it’s about time—’

‘Oh, Mother! Not you, too!’

‘Listen to me, love. A determined man is not going to be put off because he can’t find you. And what are you going to do when he does find you alone, as he did last night? You cannot blame him for getting the wrong idea.’

‘Yes, I can, Mother. He should learn to take no for an answer.’

‘Did you mean no?’

Coming from her mother, the question was a surprise, and Adorna didn’t know how to answer it.

Since the calamity was not quite as serious as she had expected, Lady Marion saw no need to hide her smile. ‘One day,’ she chuckled, ‘you will see how unreasonable that is. Since when did a man ever take no for an answer? I’m glad your father didn’t.’

‘Didn’t he?’

‘Lord, no, child. Four times he asked me to marry him. I only said no just to see how long he’d keep on, but it was me who cracked, not him. Did Sir Nicholas ask you to…?’

‘To marry him?’ Dramatically, Adorna’s voice was loaded with scorn. ‘No, of course not. Men like him are not looking for marriage. He has a reputation to uphold.’

Slowly, her mother stood up as Hester entered the sunny parlour. ‘If that’s so,’ she said, ‘then I think, my child, that you could easily put an end to it. And what’s more…’ she lowered her voice for Adorna alone ‘…he might have it in mind to put an end to yours.’ She smiled at Hester.

‘My…?’ Adorna’s eyebrows squirmed, but Hester was close, having no thoughts about an intrusion on a private moment, and the intriguing subject of Adorna’s reputation had to be shelved until Maybelle was obliged to continue it in the privacy of the bedchamber.

‘Your reputation, mistress?’ Maybelle said, giving the full pink skirt a shake. ‘Well, everyone has some kind of—’

‘Oh, don’t hedge, Belle. Just tell me what you’ve heard.’

Maybelle sat on the carved pine linen-chest, deflating the pink silk like a balloon upon her knees. ‘Well, you know what the Court ladies’ maids are like.’

‘And?’ She waited for Maybelle to verify what she herself had already heard.

‘And, yes, they say that you’re hard to catch. But,’ she added hastily, ‘it could be much worse. Better than being easy to catch, isn’t it?’

Adorna had no ready answer to that as she pondered yet again on the apparent ease of her capture by a known master of the art and then, to crown it all, on her capture by default by the one she had been trying to avoid. There was no comparison, Peter’s amateurish goodnight peck being nothing like the earlier sensuous experience from which she had not, at the time, recovered. In that moment, as Maybelle watched for her seemingly artless observation to filter through, the question itself seemed to crystallise Adorna’s dilemma more quickly than all her nightly cogitations. She did want to be caught. She wanted, more than anything in the world, to be crushed against him and to feel his hard arm across her back, his lips touching hers, making her taste his and forget how to protest. And so my love protesting came…

‘Yes,’ she said, finally. ‘I suppose so.’ With one finger, she traced the sinuously entwined frond embroidered on her coverlet.

Maybelle, aged eighteen, prettily dark-eyed and as sharp as a knife, placed the pink bundle to one side and came to sit next to her mistress on the bed. ‘You suppose so?’ she whispered with her neatly coiffed head on one side. ‘Look, if you’ve discovered he has something you want, you can still have it and give him a run for his money at the same time. Why not slow down a bit and let him think he’s caught up with you? Then, when you’ve had enough of him, you sprint off again. You’re good at putting on a show when you need to, mistress. You can act your way through that, easy. You take what you want and then you can go back to Master Fowler. He’ll always be there to help you out.’

‘But that would be, well, asking for a different kind of reputation, wouldn’t it?’

‘Who’d notice? He’d hardly be likely to brag about the fact that you’d dropped him before he could do the same to you, would he? Bad for his image.’

The conversation had rested there, with just enough of an idea to keep Adorna’s thoughts occupied all that day while employing herself in her father’s Revels Office with Hester who, they discovered, was more than content to assist with the embroidery. Before supper, they rode together across Richmond Park with friends, Hester surprising them once again by her excellent horsemanship.

Like words that turn up on a daily basis after an absence of years, Sir Nicholas and some of the men from the Royal Mews were seen in the distance studying the paces of some large greys. Although her party watched them awhile, Adorna trotted off smartly in the opposite direction as soon as Sir Nicholas approached. It was, she told herself, too soon for unrehearsed pleasantries.

She was still unrehearsed when she was presented with another chance on the following day while keeping her promise to Master Burbage, principal actor with Leicester’s Men, the ones who had caused such merriment at the dinner party.

For almost a year, Adorna’s brother Seton had been one of their members, chiefly as a writer of plays, at which he excelled, and more recently as an actor, at which he did not. It was one thing to cavort about at home when all of them were equally inept, but it was quite another to perform professionally when all of them except him were very good.

At seventeen, Seton Pickering was so remarkably like his elder sister that some said, in private, that he ought to have been born a girl. They had the same colouring, the same classic features, the same willowy grace, but Seton’s ability to write plays had brought him, through family friendships, to the attention of James Burbage, who instantly recruited young Seton to write for his company under the patronage of the great Earl of Leicester, no less.

Unfortunately for Seton, the unknown side-effects of his acceptance concerned the company’s constant shortage of suitable young men to play the female roles, a tradition that for reasons of modesty were never allowed to women themselves. So, as one who knew the whole cast’s lines by heart and who had a head start when it came to disguising as a woman, poor Seton was exploited in a direction he would have preferred not to go, having no wish to perform the way his younger brother did. At thirteen-and-a-half, Adrian was rarely not performing.

Adorna’s decision to visit the specially built playhouse at the sign of the Red Lion at Whitechapel did not meet with Seton’s immediate approval, in spite of her promise to Master Burbage. ‘You won’t like it,’ he told her, pettishly. ‘It’s noisy. Hester won’t like it, either.’

‘But it’s you we want to see,’ Adorna said. ‘And Master Fowler will be there to see to our safety. I know you’ll be good.’

‘I won’t,’ he grumbled. ‘I never am.’ All the same, he gave her a hug and a watery smile.

They made the journey on horseback from Richmond to the city, and it was two hours after noon when they were eventually allowed into the building with the eager crowds paying their shillings for seats in an upper gallery supported by scaffolding. Hester, already uncomfortable, was unsure about the wisdom of the whole venture, but Peter’s protective instincts were already alert, for this kind of place was well known to swarm with pickpockets. He shepherded them into a shady corner and did his best to divert Hester’s attention from the press of bodies.

‘Look down there,’ he shouted, pointing to the stage. ‘If we’d paid more we’d have been allowed to sit on the stage itself, as those gallants are doing. I hope they don’t stop the performance.’ The clamour made any attempt at conversation quite impossible, and it was Hester’s nudge that made Adorna turn to where she was looking, not at the stage but to the gallery at one side of it.

A group of fashionably dressed people had just entered and were arranging themselves along the benches, laughing and chattering with excitement, one of whom Hester had already recognised. The sunlight fell on him as he waited to be seated, dressed elegantly in dark green and red, his small white ruff open at the neck to accentuate the strong angle of his jaw. Sir Nicholas Rayne.

Holding her breath, Adorna pulled herself back from the edge of the gallery wondering why, of all times and places, they would be obliged to sit within sight of each other to remind her of a moment she was trying to forget. The trumpets sounded for the start of the play, the audience turned to face the stage, but Adorna was sure that, if she could hear the beating of her heart, then surely everyone else could. She would not, could not look at him.

‘He waved,’ Hester said as the din settled.

‘Did he?’ said Adorna. Indirectly, she had scrutinised every one of his companions, two other men and three young, pretty and vivacious women whose chatter was unaffected by the arrival of the first actor. But then, nor were others until at least five minutes had passed by which time the words could be heard. All the way through, there was a continuous upstaging from the rowdy group of young gallants who had paid well to sit on stools within reach of the actors, and when Seton made his entrance as a lovely young woman, their loud comments would have made a sailor blush.

Adorna’s glance across at Sir Nicholas’s group showed that some of them thought it was hilarious while she squirmed for her brother’s predicament, having to suffer that kind of thing each day in a different role. Though his acting was not quite as bad as he had told her it was, it became clear to her, knowing him as she did, that this sensitive young man was enjoying the performance even less than she was. She applauded loudly and enthusiastically at each of his speeches, ceasing to care whether Sir Nicholas was watching her or not, determined to make Seton aware of her support.

As the actors took their bows, Adorna shouted to Peter that she was going backstage to find her brother. ‘I know where the horses are,’ she called to him in the pandemonium. ‘You take Hester and wait for me. I’ll be all right. I can look after myself.’

‘No, don’t go!’ Peter yelled back. ‘You’ll be trampled to death.’

‘Don’t be dramatic.’ She smiled, squeezing Hester’s arm. ‘I must have a word with Seton. See you outside.’ Slipping past them, she climbed over the bench and found her way at last into the dark shaky stairway that led her in the direction of the stage, elbowing her way against the crowds. To her consternation, she came face to face with those in Sir Nicholas’s group who, although not known to her personally, had been aware of her presence in the gallery. She smiled and squeezed past, seeing Sir Nicholas’s concerned expression over their heads, fortunately too far away to make contact.

His eyes followed her, disapproving. ‘Mistress Pickering,’ he called.

But Adorna pressed forward, ignoring him, finding herself in a shabby wooden passageway where actors, their faces grotesque with thick sweating paint, squeezed past her on their way to curtained cubicles. She peeped into two before she found Seton.

Beneath the pale pink face-paint, the ridiculously red cheeks and painted lips, Seton was beaded with sweat. His eyes were wide and sad, his fair lashes blackened, his head still covered by a massive blonde wig that fell in luxurious curls over his lace ruff. From a distance he had looked convincing; now, he looked absurd. His sweat had made dark stains under each arm and the two bulges on his chest had been trussed until they almost met his chin. The jug of ale in his hand shook uncontrollably.

Miserably, he placed it on the small littered table. ‘Dorna!’ he said, croaking. ‘I saw you.’

They fell into each other’s arms, swaying in mutual comfort, Adorna as pained to see her brother in this state as he was to be seen. He had not wanted it. His malformed shape reeked of sheep’s wool, and she could not tell whether his shaking was for relief, distress, or laughter. ‘Shh!’ she crooned. ‘You were very good.’ Then, hearing the inadequate words, she added, ‘Well done, love. Even Master Burbage didn’t know his lines as well as you.’

‘I should do,’ he said. ‘I wrote them.’

‘By far the best play I’ve ever seen. Wonderful story.’

‘Thank you…thank you, love.’ He turned them both to the sheet of polished brass on the wall that served as a mirror. ‘Look, Dorna. Look at us both.’

Still clinging, they saw two sisters, identical in so many respects that they might have been twins.

‘Well!’ Adorna smiled at his reflection. ‘Shall I call you sister now?’

Seton broke away, eager to be rid of the stifling disguise. ‘Not for the world,’ he said. ‘As soon as my voice breaks, I’ll do this no more. I’m counting the days.’

‘It won’t be long, love. It’s going already.’

‘You heard the squeaks?’ He gave a rasp of laughter. ‘Yes, I know. I shan’t be able to keep it up in that register much longer, thank heaven. It hurts with the strain.’ Seton’s voice had been late to change, though there had been those, Master Burbage, for instance, who hoped it never would. Such things were by no means unusual. ‘Here, help me off with this thing.’ He put a hand to his forehead to peel away the wig.

But before Adorna could comply, the curtain rattled to one side to reveal an unknown figure who stood swaying on the threshold, his face bloated and purple with drink, his eyes swivelling from one female figure to the other. ‘Eh?’ he said, thickly. ‘Two…two of you?’ He swept a hand over his face. ‘Can’t be. I’m seeing things again.’ He kept hold of the curtain for support while he fell into the cubicle with an outstretched hand ready to grab at Adorna’s bodice.

She lashed out, yanking at the man’s hair as he came within range while Seton, in the confined space, picked up the jug of ale to hit him over the head. The curtain and its flimsy pole came down with a splintering crash as the intruder was yanked firmly backwards by a dark green arm across his throat and, above the mesh of curtain and limbs, Adorna identified the green-and-red-paned breeches of Sir Nicholas. Standing astride the prostrate drunkard, his eyes switched from brother to sister and back again, his expression less than sympathetic.

‘Congratulations on your performance, Master Pickering. Are you hurt, mistress?’ he said to Adorna.

There had not been time for any injury except to her composure, which had suffered even before her meeting with Seton. ‘No, I’m not hurt, I thank you,’ she said. Curious faces had appeared behind Sir Nicholas, and a pair of stage-hands came to drag the man away by his feet, still parcelled. The curtain rail lay smashed across the passageway. ‘Who was he, Seton?’ she asked.

‘The usual kind of backstage caller with his congratulations. It’s quite a common occurrence, love.’

‘You mean they come here to…?’

Seton smiled and pulled off his wig, making himself look, in one swift movement, utterly bizarre. ‘Yes, all part of the business. You have to get the wig off first. That usually stops ’em.’ He took Adorna’s hand. ‘Now you must go. Let Sir Nicholas take you home. He appears to be more security-conscious than your Master Fowler. Sir…’ he turned to Sir Nicholas ‘…we were glad to have your assistance. I thank you. Could you see my sister safely home, please? She should never have been allowed to come backstage on her own.’ His voice wavered over an octave.

‘Your sister didn’t come here alone, Master Pickering. I was waiting at the other end of the passage for her. And you may rest assured, I intend to see that she gets home safely.’

On that issue, there seemed no more for Adorna to say except to hug Seton once again and assure him that she would give good reports of the play to their parents. Outside, however, in the emptying space of the shadowy theatre, she began her objections, suddenly realising how impossible it would be to follow Maybelle’s advice at a time like this. ‘Sir Nicholas,’ she said, slowing down, ‘I came with Master Fowler and Cousin Hester and our servants. We shall be quite safe enough, I assure you. I thank you, but—’

‘No need to thank me, mistress,’ he said, coldly formal with his use of her title. ‘You will be going home with Master Fowler, as you came. But I told your brother I would give you my personal protection, and that is what you’ll get, whether you want it or not.’

She stopped in her tracks. ‘You came here, sir, with your own friends and I came with mine. I prefer not to join you.’

Unmoved, he stopped ahead of her with a loud sigh, only half-turning to explain as if to a difficult child. ‘You are not joining me,’ he said, wearily. ‘I’m joining you. My friends have gone home. They are Londoners. Now, can we proceed? The horses will be getting restive and your cousin Hester will be worrying, I expect.’ Whether about Adorna or the horses he did not specify.

She could not explain why she preferred Peter’s company to his, nor why she felt embarrassed that he had seen her brother at less than his best and unable to shield her from harm, the way he had done. The afternoon had not lived up to her expectations, and her heart bled for Seton, whose discomforts had been far more acute than any of theirs.

Rather like the play itself, the journey home was long, uncomfortably hot, and tense with an act which, as far as some of the characters were concerned, made them relieved to reach the end. Whether she would admit it to herself or not, she had been further nettled by this latest display of Sir Nicholas in the company of women, though the thought no more than skirted the labyrinth of her mind that there was no good reason why he should not be at a playhouse with friends of either sex. New to jealousy, she still did not recognise its insidious tentacles.

Just as bad was the small howling voice of reason that reminded her, at every glance, of the prejudice he had pleaded with her not to hold. A dozen times on that journey from London to Richmond, she watched him and listened to his deep voice as he talked easily with both Peter and Hester, and she wondered whether this unpredictable return to his original abruptness signalled an end to his efforts to win her interest and, if it did, then why had he followed her when she went to see Seton? She recalled her father’s persistence, his four times of asking, and wondered how her mother’s nerves had stood up to the uncertainty.

On reflection, it could only have been by design that, as they entered the courtyard of Sheen House in the early evening, Sir Nicholas manoeuvred his horse near enough to hers for him to be the one to lift her down from the saddle, leaving Peter to assist Hester. As her feet touched the ground, she would have removed her hands from his shoulders as quickly as she could, but he caught them tightly and held her back, unsmiling.

After miles of contemplation, Adorna would have pulled away, angrily, her hurts being multiple and confused and not to be easily soothed. Certainly not in the temporary shelter of her horse in a crowded courtyard. But she was surprised enough to wait as he touched both her knuckles with his lips, sending her at the same time the quickest whispered message she had ever heard. ‘At bedtime. In the banqueting house.’ Then he released her, turning away so fast that she might even have imagined it.

Her first reaction was of an overwhelming relief that, like her father, he had not given up too soon. Hard on its heels came the heady thrill of fear and promise; already she could feel his arms, his mouth on hers. Then, what if she refused to meet him, to show him once and for all that she had no intention of being added to his list, whether at the bottom or the top? How that would teach him a lesson more swiftly than Maybelle’s version, though it would leave her longing for something she had tasted and would never taste again? Was she experienced enough to deal with that?

As she had half-expected, Peter and Sir Nicholas were both invited to supper and, since it was already an hour later than suppertime, they readily accepted. Hester, exhausted by the three-day effort of being sociable, left the conversation to the others and retired to her bed soon after the meal. Adorna, however, was compelled by the circumstances and by her own confusion to maintain a pretence of indifference towards Sir Nicholas, which, she believed, would give him no hope that she would accept his invitation. At times she came close to being sure that she would never do so, for that would be to walk into his trap like a drugged hare. Her resolution veered by the hour.

Peter and Sir Nicholas took their leave of the Pickerings together, the duties of Her Majesty’s Chamber coming before pleasure and, whether for friendship or to make sure of the competition, Sir Nicholas rode with him back to the palace, presumably to return later, unseen.

‘I do wish you would try to unbend to Sir Nicholas a little, Adorna,’ Sir Thomas said as they watched the guests depart. ‘He’s a most pleasing and competent chap. Knows his job, too, by all accounts.’

‘You’ve been making enquiries, Father?’

‘Yes,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘Of course I have. He’s Lord Elyot’s son and he’s gleaned most of his horse skills from Samuel Manning, Hester’s uncle. Good connections.’

‘And what about his connections with Lord Traverson, Father? Do you know anything of those?’

‘Traverson? No, nothing at all. All I know about Traverson, the old fool, is that he’s sent his eldest daughter off to Spain to marry some duke or other. That’s as near to being a royal as he’ll ever get, for all his efforts. What do you know about him, then?’

‘Nothing at all, except that he’s one of the Roman Catholics that Her Majesty objects to.’

‘So that’s why he’s sent his wife and daughters off to Spain, I expect, to get them to safety. No Protestant would risk the Queen’s anger by taking the daughters on, her views being what they are, and nor would Traverson allow it, either. So much for religious tolerance. Come on in, love. Time for bed. You’ve had a busy day.’

‘Yes, Father. I’ll go and lock up the banqueting house.’

‘Eh?’ he frowned. ‘Lock up the—?’

His arm was caught, quite firmly, by his wife’s hand; she pulled him back and closed his mouth at the same time.