She kissed his neck, which was where she was snuggled tight. “I like it when you call me beloved.”
“Then sleep sweet, beloved,” he murmured. “And forget the fears of the past.”
Chapter Fifty
The Fox and Pheasant served a cold breakfast. The private parlour and its table were overcrowded, each squashed tight to his neighbour, and Avice sat, carefully quiet while her mother’s eyes, colder than those of the mackerel on her plate, warned her not to speak a word, even with Mistress Sysabel Frye’s right elbow digging hard into her ribs. Sysabel was equally subdued. She ate nothing, sipped her light ale, and kept her eyes on her empty platter. The baroness was wearing a new gown of rose pink sarcenet, trailing sleeves trimmed in crimson velvet, and the neckline, also trimmed, deeper than a respectable lady of her age was normally expected to wear.
“I see,” noticed Lady Wrotham, “that young Nicholas is absent.”
“I expect, madam,” nodded the earl, “the boy is tending to his lady upstairs. I have no idea why a few chills and sniffles are keeping her apart from us for so long, but no doubt she’s better off avoiding the embarrassments of our recent sordid family affairs.”
Adrian was not seated with the others. He stood in front of the empty hearth, his back to the table and its occupants, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared down at the cold shifting ashes. He spoke under his breath. “My dearly beloved cousin is no doubt once again pretending the hero by protecting his wife from murderous traitors.”
“Actually,” grinned Jerrid, “he’s out at the stables, releasing your parcel of foolhardy henchmen, Adrian, since last night our men trussed yours up like piglets ready for the pot.”
Adrian turned abruptly. “What? Attacked my men? How dare he?”
“So far, never noticed much he wouldn’t dare,” smiled his uncle. As Adrian strode from the parlour, and just before he slammed the door behind him, Jerrid called, “But not so innocent, your men, Adrian. Since one of yours killed one of ours back on the road some days ago.”
The earl looked up in surprise. “What’s this? More murder and mayhem?”
“A long story, Symond.” Jerrid shook his head. “And a mean spirited one. Having taken that cursed letter from Urswick’s henchman, we were waiting around to finish the other half of our orders from the king, when the servant boy travelling with us was knifed and left dead in the tavern courtyard. As far as we can guess, it was because he’d recognised one of Adrian’s men from the Strand stables, and the bastard wouldn’t risk his identity passed on to others.”
“Since the man was also involved in the treachery at hand?”
“I believe so, my lady.” Jerrid answered the baroness, frowning. “The boy was simply a child and innocent of everything except recognising his attacker. It’s more than possible Adrian’s companions are working not for Adrian himself, but directly for the exile Tudor.”
The earl stood, throwing his napkin to the table. “Then I shall investigate this business myself,” he announced. “I’ve my own outriders bedded in the long barn, six fine Leicestershire fellows ready to lay down their lives for me if needed.” He bowed slightly to the baroness. “If you’ll excuse me, my lady, I mean to get to the bottom of this.” He took a deep and laborious breath, and his stomach swelled. “Never,” he informed the table, “– never since my great grandfather’s time – has there been a traitor to the crown amongst the Chatwyns – and there won’t be now if I have to wring his scrawny neck to ensure it.”
The Lady Elizabeth watched her brother leave, winced as the door slammed a second time, and sighed. “I never,” she decided faintly, “thought of young Adrian as having a scrawny neck.” She took a small slice of cold roast beef and began to cut it into tiny squares with her penknife. “I believe he has rather a thick and stubby neck. Don’t you think so, my dear?” Sysabel declined to answer and kept her glare rigid on her powder blue lap. Her aunt sighed. “As for bad temper and brawling, my maid Joan is upstairs darning the hem of my best cloak, but if I called her I imagine she could sort them all out in an instant. A very fierce young woman, is my Joan, when roused.” Once again she turned to Sysabel. “Isn’t she, my dear. Has a fine thwack when required.”
Sysabel had begun to bite her finger where she had previously burned the nail, holding it within the candle flame. Now she was gnawing on the tip so it appeared raw and red. Avice turned and slapped her hand away. “You’ll make it bleed,” she hissed. “Chew something else.”
Sysabel immediately burst into tears. “You’re all so – horrible,” she sobbed. “To me and my poor brother. I wish I’d never come.”
“It’s nice to know we agree on something,” said Avice.
“Quiet, both of you,” ordered Lady Wrotham. “There may be matters of some importance to deal with today, and I’ve not the slightest intention of missing any of it. You two children will be sent to bed if you don’t behave.”
“I’m not a child,” Avice objected. “I’m old enough for – for being married.”
Her mother sighed. “What a tempting thought.”
“And I might be,” Avice retaliated, “if you arranged something honourable and bought me some nice new gowns so I’d look more – eligible.”
“I’d marry you tomorrow, my dear,” Jerrid said, pushing back his stool and bowing low with impressive elegance. “With new clothes – or without them, my dear.”
Avice seemed a little unsure as how to react to this, and the baroness quickly interrupted whatever she might have been about to say. “It is thoroughly improper to speak of marriage and such matters – especially at breakfast. You will keep silent from now on, Avice.”
“Just not at breakfast? It would have been all right to say it at dinner?”
Aunt Elizabeth nodded. “We are all family to be sure, and will take no offence. However,” she looked around, “the principal difficulty is that of young Adrian. What a bothersome letter that must have been. Though why Adrian should wish to wed with the Earl of Northumberland, I have no idea.”
Sysabel was still crying into her napkin. Avice glowered. Jerrid was grinning for motives uncertain to anyone else. The baroness folded her napkin neatly, replaced it on the table, and stood. “I am going upstairs,” she said. “If anyone makes a sensible decision on any matter whatsoever during the next few hours, I should appreciate being informed. Otherwise, I shall remain in my chamber with Martha, who at least speaks some sense.” She glanced briefly at her daughter. “Marriage,” she said, “would do you a great deal of good, my girl. I shall begin negotiations immediately on my return home. Probably with a family of Scottish reivers, or perhaps a kindly warden from Newgate.”