The Greatest Lover in All England Read online

  Hal whimpered, shrinking beneath Tony’s gaze like a slug exposed to caustic salt.

  Parson Selwyn droned on. “Lady Rosalyn is the daughter of Edward Bellot, earl of Sadler, a noble house of impeccable ancestry, and when Her Majesty discovers Lady Rosalyn’s existence, she might wish a different union for her.”

  Was Hal about to collapse? Tony held out his palm and walked toward the steward.

  Emboldened by Tony’s inattention, Parson Selwyn rocked back and forth on his heels and said in a stern tone, “Although it is a sensitive issue, I feel I must speak freely. You are a bastard, and as such are damned by the Almighty to a lesser—”

  “What?” Tony spun around and glared at the parson.

  “I was saying”—Parson Selwyn frowned, the staff of his self-importance propping him up—“that you are a bastard and since Lady Rosalyn can trace her ancestry back to the Conqueror, it would be inappropriate—”

  “For you to finish the sentence.”

  The parson lowered the lofty tip of his nose. Tony stood stiff and still, one hand on his sword, one hand on his dagger, and the willingness to use them etched on his brow. Parson Selwyn blanched. “I meant no disrespect, Sir Anthony.”

  “If I did not need you to perform the ceremony, and perform it now, my good man, you would not live to see another dawn.” Tony stalked toward Parson Selwyn with murder on his mind while the parson backed up with cowardly dispatch.

  “Sir Anthony, I simply tried to do my duty by playing devil’s advocate.” Parson Selwyn put a chair between himself and Tony. “I wouldn’t have you surprised when others say what I have said.” He skidded around the edge of the laden dining table. “’Tis sad, but true, this union has the appearance of a marriage forced on Lady Rosalyn by a man who holds her captive.”

  Tony stopped stalking the absurd little man. It was true. Others would say he had forced Rosie to be his wife. It was true. When he discovered her heritage, he determined to marry her, and would have married her if she’d been one hundred years old. It was true. If Rosie were allowed to take the fruits of her heritage to court, she might find a man she could better love.

  But she would never find a man who could love her better.

  Tonight, Mistress Child had done just as he requested. Every one of Rosie’s favorite foods was represented in this sumptuous supper. Wild fowl and venison steamed in rich gravies. The rich odor of wheaten bread warmed the air, and conserves and marmalades waited to be laden thereon. The pinnacle of the cook’s artistry was the rainbow of jellies that glistened, mixed with a variety of flowers and herbs and formed to represent the manor itself.

  It was a wedding supper to remember.

  He would make the wedding night one to remember also. He would make every day of their lives one to treasure. She would never regret her marriage to him.

  If only the queen hadn’t chosen this moment to summon him, just when he needed to rescue Sir Danny. Her letter had been vague: a gracious forgiving for his previous insolence, an invitation to join the Christmas court at Whitehall, and a casual mention of his continued position as master of the Queen’s Guard. His enduring good fortune was contained within the letter, but more important, beneath the cordiality ran a thread, tight with tension. Something worried the queen, something serious enough for her to forgive Tony his effrontery about Essex. While the queen was old, Tony had total respect for her keen mind. If she perceived danger, if she suspected Essex of rebellion, then to her side Tony would fly.

  But without Rosie. Without his bride.

  Wanting to see her, wanting to marry her, he bellowed, “Hal!” No one answered him, and he realized Hal had slipped away. “Hal,” he called again, striding through the door and into the gallery.

  A strange scene met his eye. Hal and all his servants stood as motionless as stone statues. His sisters sat before the fire, also frozen by the spell which held his servants enthralled. No one moved, no one looked at him, and the chill of foreboding shuddered down his spine. “What is it?” he asked.

  No one answered.

  He stepped closer to his sisters. “Ann? Jean? What’s wrong?”

  Ann turned her head away. Jean looked at him, then looked at the tips of her slippers that peeked from beneath her skirts.

  Spinning around, he searched the room. “Rosie?”

  Jean croaked rather than spoke. “She’s gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  Jean shook her head. “Just gone.”

  He waited to hear the joke. “She can’t be gone.”

  “She packed her bags.”

  “Impossible.” He started for the grand stairway, moving as quickly as he could, yet not quickly enough. Shoving open the door of her chamber, he sprang inside. “Rosie?” Her dresses had been laid neatly across the bed, but in the middle of the room a trunk gaped open, showing its remaining contents. He knelt and tossed through them, seeing the young men’s clothing, knowing what it meant, yet refusing to believe the truth. He remembered the night before, the morning after, Rosie’s bright and shining pledge to marry him.

  She couldn’t be gone.

  Battered and bruised, Lady Honora came from her room to lean against the door frame. She observed him through her one good eye. “She’s gone.”

  “Someone kidnapped her,” he declared. Absurd, he knew, but he couldn’t stand to admit that Rosie would seduce him, lie to him, take his seed with every expression of gladness, then flee him.

  “No one kidnapped her.” Lady Honora enunciated her words carefully, her face so swollen even her lips were affected. “She’s only an actress, cut from the same cloth as Sir Danny. He pledged to send me word of his travels, and I’ve heard only once. She’s treating you as he treated me.”

  “Sir Danny?” Tony rose to his feet as the idea surged through his mind. “Sir Danny!”

  He rushed toward the door and tried to step around Lady Honora, but she caught his arm. “What about Sir Danny?”

  He shook her off, and in her weakness she let him, but she slowly followed him as he rushed down the stairs and into his office. A single glance revealed that his papers had been returned to his desk, placed in stacks—read, perhaps, by a woman desperate for news of London and her father.

  Frantically he sought the letter he knew should be there. He found it nowhere.

  “What are you seeking?” Lady Honora had reached his office at last, and her weakness made her no less formidable.

  “A letter.”

  “With news of Sir Danny?”

  He didn’t answer, but she took that as an affirmation.

  “What has he done?” she asked. “Is he dead?”

  “Not dead. Not yet.”

  “He’s in danger?” Lady Honora’s face flushed with distress. “My God, I have to go to him!”

  Her cuts and bruises shone on the pale palette of her face, and Tony cried, “Doesn’t anyone trust me to handle this? I will handle this. I’ll take care of him. Trust me.” Going to Lady Honora, he took her hands and found them shaking. More gently, he said, “Just trust me. You can’t go to London in your condition. You can barely stand. I promise I’ll beg the queen. I’ll bribe the jailers.”

  “He’s in the Tower?”

  “In Newgate Prison with the rest of the common prisoners.” He took a breath. “You must realize I’ll do all in my power to get Sir Danny released.”

  She searched his face for reassurance. “Aye, I know you will.” Staggering to a chair, she lowered herself. “Is that what you seek?”

  A crumpled wad of paper lay by the window, and with a cry he sprang for it. Smoothing it with shaking hands, he saw what he dreaded. The communication which relayed the news of Sir Danny’s capture, and the stains of tears that blurred the ink.

  Aye, Rosie was gone. Gone to London to rescue Sir Danny. Gone because she believed Tony had betrayed her by keeping her in ignorance. She would never forgive him for seeking her safety.

  “Rosie!” The anguish of his cry sounded through the room an
d rose to the heavens, and on the dark road that wound away from Odyssey Manor, Rosie heard its echo.

  Inside the padded doublet, her father’s signet ring hung by its ribbon around her neck. Shivering from cold and fear of the night, she pulled it from its place in her bosom and held it in her hand.

  She remembered it all now. The study, the manor, the grounds, the servants, Hal…Hal. She understood his dedication to the manor now, the awe and fright he exuded when he looked at her. She ought to tell of his crime, but she clutched the ring tight and the sharp edges dug into her palm, reminding her of her own shame. How could she destroy a fellow prisoner of Purgatory when she so well comprehended the wretched guilt that haunted Hal’s sunken eyes?

  Her thoughts made her stumble in the ruts hidden by the night. They made her wish to turn back, yet urged her on. Real guilt for hiding the ring, imagined guilt in the cause of her father’s death, guilt for leaving Tony. Aye, she knew she had plunged Tony into a maelstrom of rage and grief. She valued herself, and he valued her, too. He didn’t just want her for her property, she knew that, but a man like Tony could always find another woman. A man like Tony had only to crook his little finger, and women would be on him like flies on honey.

  But she suspected his need to lay claim to his child transcended every other need. The child she probably carried. The child she was taking away from him with every step she took.

  How would he react when he realized she was gone? Would he search for her, or would he go to answer the queen’s summons? She thought he might comprehend the bent of her mind in much the same manner as she comprehended his, and seek her in London while fulfilling his duty to the queen and the nation.

  And that, too, would be disaster. He needed to concentrate his whole mind on the queen’s business. Would he still have the confidence of the finest swordsman in England, yet maintain the wariness of a man marked by greatness for an assassin’s blade?

  As if in answer to her questions, she heard the thunder of a horse’s hooves behind her. It was Tony. She knew it was Tony, and she fled toward the thicket that lay just ahead. Just in the nick of time. As she sprang into the bushes, she felt the tremble in the loam beneath her. She flung herself face first onto the ground and clasped the tough grass. She had to hang on tight, for when the horse and its rider drew close to the thicket, their rapid pace slowed. She turned her head and saw Tony silhouetted against the moonlit horizon.

  “Rosie!” he called. “I beg you, Rosie, don’t go by yourself. Come to me. I swear I’ll take you with me. I swear.” His voice broke, and he spurred his horse on. “Rosie” he called again.

  She rubbed her forehead in the cold dirt, trying to convince herself she was doing the right thing. Sir Danny needed her. Tony would only try to protect her, and thus endanger himself. He’d get in her way; she didn’t want to be an ornament on Tony’s chain. She needed to be in the midst of the action, and Tony—damn him, damn him—had betrayed her by keeping Sir Danny’s imprisonment a secret. She hated him for that, and understood why he’d done it, and wished she didn’t need to be brave and strong, to vanquish the dark and the phantoms that lurked there.

  Holding her head against the ground, she listened as the vibration of the hooves died away, then pushed herself onto her hands and knees. Squinting at the vague forest forms, she thought she didn’t remember the tree planted so close to her nose. She looked up and realized the massive presence didn’t extend to the heavens, but only to the height of a man. With a shriek, she fell back.

  Ludovic said, “You’ve come out to me at last.”

  II

  It is well done, and fitting for a princess

  Descended of so many royal kings.

  —ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA, V, ii, 326

  20

  London

  February 1601

  “I will not have my tooth pulled.” Queen Elizabeth plunked out a tune at her virginal, in too much pain to play with her usual skill. “There’s nothing wrong with it. I’m healthy as an English war-horse.”

  Tony exchanged glances with Robert Cecil, secretary of state, and realized again how glad he was not to hold that post. As Elizabeth’s adviser, Cecil held a position of power, glory, and wealth. Unfortunately, it included the task of persuading the queen that one of her rotting teeth would have to go. A thankless job, but one which no one else had the stomach to perform. Within the confines of Elizabeth’s antechamber, Cecil had to bear the brunt of the royal displeasure. Still, he spoke without flinching. “The tooth drawer says we can dress it with fenugreek, and it will fall out.”

  “Excellent!” Elizabeth’s long, thin face accentuated the puffiness of her cheek, and she pursed her thin lips as if hiding her problem would somehow vanquish it.

  “But that might make the neighboring teeth fall out as well.”

  The queen’s deep-set eyes had circles beneath them, for toothache had kept her sleepless for two nights, but they flashed with vibrant royal displeasure, and Tony wished he were elsewhere. But since his arrival in London, Elizabeth had kept him close at her side. Fruitlessly, he had begged to be told of the concern which brought him to her. Imperiously she declared he was the master of Her Guard, and as such, he should guard her.

  “What have I done to deserve such trials?” she cried petulantly. “I vigilantly use the tooth cloths, but to no avail. Still am I cursed with this pain.”

  Tony contemplated her with a knitted and serious brow. “I think, Your Majesty, that the gods fear your perfection.”

  Her shrill voice deepened and smoothed. “Why are you prating of perfection?”

  “When I look upon you, I see perfection. Your long hands, your white skin, the beauty of your eyes, the sharp wit of your mind. I fear the gods punish you for daring to be a woman of extraordinary gifts.”

  Queen Elizabeth plucked at her ruff, striving for modesty while acknowledging the truth of Tony’s sentiments. Robert Cecil thanked Tony with a nod, although they both knew the queen’s blackened teeth owed more to her fondness for sweets than the gods’ displeasure.

  Wrapping his hunched body deep in his cloak, Cecil returned to the fray. “Your Majesty, you’ve had teeth extracted before.”

  “I didn’t like it.” Queen Elizabeth peered at the two men. “The last time, the archbishop of London had one of his teeth extracted to show me it didn’t hurt.”

  Tony and Robert Cecil both shut their mouths with a snap and remained silent. Satisfied with muffling her two tormentors, Queen Elizabeth turned back to the virginal and picked out a plaintive, haunting tune.

  Did she regret summoning Tony from Odyssey Manor? He didn’t think so. He was the weapon she concealed until she needed the use of him. While flattered by her trust, he chafed at her caution. She refused to speak to him of Essex, for she still retained a fondness for the handsome young man. She believed, and rightly, Tony admitted, that Tony despised Essex and wished for his downfall. Despite the application of Tony’s finest tact, she took any mention of Essex’s perfidy as criticism of her previous foolishness.

  But he desperately needed to discuss Sir Danny, and she, in her wiliness, had evaded his every attempt. He had guarded her through Christmas and Twelfth Night, cajoling her, playing cards with her, searching for Rosie at every opportunity, and all the while Rosie’s beloved dada had been suffering in prison.

  Sir Danny hadn’t died—yet. The winter cold bit deep, even in Whitehall Palace, and Tony cringed when he thought of the damp cold of prison seeping into Sir Danny’s bones. Worse, for all his bold gallantry, Sir Danny couldn’t remain immune to the exquisitely skillful tortures. Tony had done what he could with liberal bribes, but he woke every day afraid he’d hear the news—the news that Sir Danny had died.

  And if Sir Danny died, Tony would never get Rosie back. He had tried to find her, but she’d slipped into the London acting world without a ripple. She had the connections to remain hidden, and had chosen to do so.

  If he could rescue Sir Danny, Rosie would come back to him. It wa
s a guarantee for his future happiness, and desperation made him gauche. “Your Majesty, the tooth pains you. Miasma flows from it and poisons your blood and, therefore, must be withdrawn, just as the earl of Essex pains you and must be plucked forth.”

  The melody ended in a clash of chords, and Robert Cecil coughed in dismay. He’d never heard Tony fail in tact, and the queen seemed to realize it at the same moment as Cecil. “I know what ails me, my dear Tony. Now what ails you?”

  “A heartache, madam, at the injustice which is perpetrated in your kingdom. Right now one of your most loyal subjects lies in Newgate Prison, accused of treason by the earl of Essex.”

  “Have you run mad?” Cecil murmured.

  Tony ignored him. “Your subject came to me—the master of the Queen’s Guard—with information concerning the traitorous activities of Essex and Southampton. I sent him to you with a letter, recommending you listen to his story, and before he could even reach you, Essex intercepted him, charged him with traitorous activities, and had him incarcerated.”

  Queen Elizabeth leaped off the padded stool. “I know that. Do you think Essex runs this country?”

  “Never, Madam.”

  “You’re jealous of him.”

  “I just want to know why you ignored my letter.”

  Grabbing his doublet in both her hands, she pulled his face down to hers. “Are you demanding answers from me?”

  She might be old, she might be a woman, but she was the queen. His queen. And this time she was wrong. “Did you ever see my letter?”

  “Are you demanding answers from your queen?”

  “My letter told you—”

  She boxed his ears.

  He hadn’t had his ears boxed since Jean did it when he was a boy. He wanted to roar and shout. Instead he smiled with all his charm and determination. “If you won’t listen to me, perhaps you’ll listen to your subject.”

  “My subject. An actor! Do you think I don’t know about the actor?” Her knuckles turned a bony white as she clenched her fists tighter. “Sir Daniel Plympton is his name, and he confessed to being a troublemaker even before the torturer began his work.”