Then Anthony bowed with an elaborate flourish. “Edward Caxton at your service, madam,” he said. “I have never been so mortified. How may I make amends?”
Olivia’s eyes flickered. So in the king’s presence Anthony had become Edward.
“Pray… pray tell me how I may make amends,” he insisted.
“If you could but slip out of the gown, I could try to… oh, but, of course, how could we manage such a thing here?”
Olivia shook her head and murmured, “Stop it!”
“I protest, madam, you cut me to the quick,” he responded solemnly, placing his hand over his heart. “To refuse to allow me to do what I can to pay for my clumsiness.”
Olivia didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh or scream. “Believe me, sir, it is nothing.”
“Ah, how kind of you to say so.” He sighed heavily. “But how well I know that such denials so often mean quite the reverse. I recall such an instance just the other morning.” He regarded her with a fatuous smile on his lips and a pointedly sardonic gleam in his eye.
Olivia opened her fan with a flick of her wrist. Her voice was cool and even. “Are you often in the king’s presence chamber, Mr. Caxton?”
“When I have business,” he answered, with the same smile and the same look in his eye.
Business? But of course, a mercenary’s business. Olivia recalled his cynical statement that he sold his services to the highest bidder. Was the king the highest bidder here?
“And your business requires you to play the idiot?” she asked softly from behind her fan.
The gleam in his eye intensified. “Madam, I must protest. ‘Tis too unkind of you,” he murmured. “But I can bear such arrows when they fly from the quiver of such a beautiful lady.”
“Olivia… Olivia, is all well? Does your head ache? I saw you stumble.” Phoebe was suddenly beside her. She regarded Olivia’s unknown companion with a faint hauteur.
Anthony offered another vapid smile and once again began his lament. “So doltish of me… I fear it was all my fault. Such clumsiness. I was-”
“Phoebe, allow me to present Mr. Edward Caxton,” Olivia interrupted firmly. “Mr. C-Caxton, Lady Granville.”
Anthony bowed so low his head almost touched his knees. “Lady Granville, I am delighted. I wish only that we could have met in happier circumstances.” He gestured sorrowfully to Olivia’s gown.
Phoebe curtsied automatically but she looked inquiringly at Olivia. Something was going on here. Olivia was so obviously on edge and Phoebe could see no reason why this Mr. Caxton with his asinine smile should cause that. He was undeniably attractive with his commanding figure and golden hair, but Olivia did not suffer fools gladly, and this one bore all the marks of a prize nitwit.
Of course, being forced to be in his company could easily explain Olivia’s agitation, Phoebe reasoned. She’d been on an urgent visit to the retiring room and had been interrupted by this buffoon. Rescue was required.
“I’m looking for a poet to enliven things a little. My husband promised me there would be one, but I don’t seem to have found him yet. I don’t suppose you would happen to know if there’s a poet around, sir?”
Anthony inclined his head and gave her a bewildered smile. “I beg your pardon, dear lady?”
“Phoebe is a considerable poet herself,” Olivia explained coolly. “My father enticed her here with the promise of a poet to talk to. Though not a good one, he said.”
“A poor poet is better than no poet at all,” Phoebe declared, looking around them as if the man she sought would be carrying some identifying mark. “That man over there. The one in the rusty black coat and lank hair. He looks rather distrait and otherworldly. Could that be him?”
Anthony followed the direction of her gesturing fan. “I believe you’re looking at Lord Buxton, madam. He’s more interested in cattle breeding than poetry. Indeed, I should be surprised to find he can pen his own name.” He simpered at his own witticism.
“You seem very knowledgeable, sir. Are you acquainted with most people in the hall?” Olivia inquired, plying her fan languidly.
“I see no poet, madam,” Anthony responded with another irritating little laugh.
“I shall ask my husband to find me the poet at once,” Phoebe stated. “Will you come, Olivia? I’m sure Mr. Caxton will excuse you.” She gave the gentleman in question a cold stare.
“I must visit the retiring room,” Olivia said. “I was on my way there when I… uh… ran into Mr. C-Caxton. I’ll join you shortly.”
Phoebe looked at her with close concern. “Are you feeling quite well? Would you like me to come with you?”
“No, I thank you,” Olivia said hastily. “Really, I am quite well, Phoebe. I’ll join you shortly.”
Phoebe hesitated, but Olivia didn’t appear to be in distress. She nodded at Mr. Caxton and went off with purposeful step in search of her husband.
“What are you doing here? Who are you?” Olivia demanded in an undertone.
“Edward Caxton is delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Olivia. Perhaps I may call upon Lady Granville one afternoon?”
“As a blundering fop or as a pirate?” Olivia demanded in a fierce undertone. “Mr. Caxton or the master of Wind Dancer?”
“Perhaps you should wait and see,” he murmured, then turned from her as an equerry appeared at his shoulder.
“His Majesty will be pleased to grant you an audience now, Mr. Caxton.”
Anthony bowed to Olivia, his eyes mocking. “I look forward to renewing our acquaintance, madam.” Then he was gone, striding through the crowd, his hair bright under the lamplight.
Olivia glanced around, trying to look as if she had just had a perfectly ordinary conversation. Mistress Hammond hove into view. “Lady Olivia, I didn’t realize you were acquainted with Mr. Caxton.” Her eyes were sharp in her angular countenance.
“Indeed, I am not,” Olivia returned. “There was an accident… he spilled wine on my gown. I should retire and try to sponge the stain.”
“My maid will help you.” The governor’s lady took Olivia’s elbow and steered her across to a small staircase at the rear of the hall.
“Does Mr. Caxton live on the island, madam?” Olivia inquired casually.
“He lodges in Newport but I believe his family home is in the New Forest, just across the Solent.”
“He serves the king?”
Mistress Hammond stiffened. “We all serve the king, Lady Olivia.”
“Yes, of c-course.” Olivia looked down distressfully at her skirt. “I do hope the stain will come out. I should be most unhappy to spoil this gown, it’s quite one of my favorites. Up the stairs…? Thank you, Mistress Hammond. There’s no need to accompany me further.” She shook off the hand at her elbow, gathered her skirts, and almost ran up the stairs.
When she emerged from the retiring room some twenty minutes later, she was once more mistress of herself. She paused at the head of the stairs from where she could view the great hall below. The king still sat in his chair surrounded by eager courtiers, but now there was no sign of Anthony. And she couldn’t see Phoebe either. Her father, however, was talking with a tall dark-haired young man of swarthy complexion, dressed in a suit of puce silk with a scarlet waistcoat and sash. His hair curled to his shoulders, glistening with pomade, and as he talked his hand rested on the hilt of his sword. They seemed deep in conversation.
Where was Phoebe? Olivia felt suddenly rather bereft and out of place, as if everyone had forgotten her and no one was interested in her. Then she saw Phoebe tucked into a window embrasure at the far side of the throng. She was talking with great animation to a small, rather fat man of rubicund countenance and jovial appearance. He was an unlikely looking poet, but seemed to be holding Phoebe’s attention.
Olivia headed towards them.
“I’m wondering why you haven’t given your impressions to Colonel Hammond, Lord Channing?” Cato was asking.