Godfrey’s tongue touched his lips in a nervous gesture. “I mean no disrespect to the governor, my lord, but he’s more interested in hard facts than impressions and opinions. And I thought that you might be more open to my impressions of the king’s manner.”
Cato nodded slowly. There was truth in this. “You say the king has appeared distracted.”
“Yes… and his mood fluctuates wildly. One day he seems depressed, the next he’s full of optimism,” Godfrey explained eagerly. “I am convinced that he’s receiving some information that we’re not aware of. When the Scots crossed the Border, he was in particularly good spirits, and I know that he was not informed of the troop movement by Colonel Hammond.”
“Mmm.” Cato nodded again. He had long suspected that the king had access to information about Royalist supporters on the mainland. “I’ll inform Colonel Hammond of your impressions.” He glanced at the young man, wondering what it was about him that he disliked. His eyes were perhaps too close together. But one could hardly fault a man for that.
“The king seems to favor me,” Godfrey said. “If I can be much by his side, then perhaps I can discover more concrete information. If perhaps you suggested to the colonel that my duties should be more concentrated upon the king…” He looked a question.
“You think you’d make a good spy?” Cato inquired.
“I think I’d make an excellent spy, my lord,” Godfrey said with conviction. Brian Morse had told him that Lord Granville had no time for shilly-shallying. He liked people to come to the point and speak and act with decision, and he had no time for false modesty.
“I’ll discuss this with Colonel Hammond,” Cato said briskly. “In the meantime, keep your eyes and ears open.”
“Indeed I will, my lord.” Godfrey hesitated, a tentative smile on his lips. “I was wondering, my lord, if…”
“If what?”
“If I might be introduced to Lady Olivia,” Godfrey said in a rush. “I would very much like to make her acquaintance, sir.”
Cato stroked his chin. “It seems a modest request,” he observed. He looked around the hall. “Ah, I see her over there with Lady Granville.” He moved off, Godfrey in his wake.
Godfrey had been watching Olivia all evening. Brian Morse had been correct. She was indeed a tasty piece. Notwithstanding the Granville nose. Such an heiress in his bed would do a great deal more than solve his financial problems. He had made a good impression on Granville, and with Brian’s help would continue to provide him with little tidbits of information that would win the marquis’s confidence. He had only to conquer the daughter. That shouldn’t be too difficult. Godfrey knew he was considered charming and debonair, well dressed and passably good-looking. The Granville heiress was apparently not otherwise engaged. It should be a simple campaign. He followed the marquis with brisk step.
Phoebe didn’t notice their approach. She was very content with her poet. Although he had a preference for flowery, sentimental verse, he could talk about the complexities of rhyme and meter with the best, and she had been starved of such conversation in recent weeks. During their earlier sojourn at Hampton Court, when the king had been in residence there at the pleasure of Parliament, many of the finest poets in the land had frequented the palace, but Carisbrooke was a little short on such delicacies.
Olivia merely hovered on the outskirts of the conversation, happy simply to have found an inconspicuous place where she was not obliged to make small talk with strangers. Her eye roved the hall, half dreading, half longing to see Anthony reappear. It was so dangerous for him to be here. What game was he playing? Was Caxton a real name or some alias? Was Anthony his name, or was it Edward? Did he truly have a family estate on the mainland? He’d talked of an aunt… an aunt who embroidered his nightshirts. It sounded so absurd, so unlikely.
“Olivia, my dear…”
Olivia jumped as her father’s voice broke into her musing.
He smiled. “Did I startle you?”
“Oh, I was miles away,” she said, her eyes going to Cato’s companion.
“Allow me to present Godfrey, Lord Channing,” Cato said.
Godfrey bowed low over Olivia’s hand. “Lady Olivia, it is an honor.” He raised his eyes and smiled winningly.
Olivia felt the first deep shudder of revulsion. She pulled her hand loose even as she curtsied and murmured the correct responses. What was it about him? There was something… some echo… that filled her with terror. It was his eyes. So cold and green, even though he was smiling. Cold and calculating. She’d seen those eyes before, not the eyes but the expression. And his mouth, that thin flicker. It was a cruel mouth. And she knew it of old.
“I have been hoping to make your acquaintance all evening, Lady Olivia,” Godfrey was saying, still smiling. “I trust I may call upon you and Lady Granville one afternoon.”
“Yes… I mean, you should address that question to my stepmother.” Olivia gestured to Phoebe, who had turned from her poet at her husband’s appearance.
“Lord Channing, is it?” Phoebe said with her ready smile. She glanced at Olivia and was immediately concerned. Olivia was paler than ever. “We don’t lead a very social life at Chale,” Phoebe said a little hesitantly.
“Oh, I won’t expect entertainment, madam,” Godfrey assured her. “I should be happy just to sit with you.”
Phoebe looked in some surprise at her husband, who offered a half shrug. “Well, of course we should be delighted to welcome you, sir,” she said politely.
“Until later. Lady Olivia, Lady Granville, my lord…” Godfrey bowed to the company in general and strolled off well satisfied with his first steps.
Brian. He reminded her of Brian. The room seemed to spin and Olivia put a hand to her throat.
“Cato, we should leave,” Phoebe said swiftly. “Olivia’s been up too long today.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll summon the carriage.”
“What is it?” Phoebe asked as her husband disappeared. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
It was as if she had, Olivia thought. Brian Morse was dead, killed by Lord Granville’s sword. Phoebe had seen it happen. Godfrey Channing couldn’t help that slight similarity. But anyone with eyes and a mouth like that had an evil in him.
Olivia drew a deep, steadying breath. It was ridiculous, fanciful to think like that. She would not have made such an association before her night with Anthony had released the long-buried nightmare. She must put it back again, otherwise the poison would seep into everything. It had wreaked sufficient damage already.
“The carriage is ready.” Cato reappeared. “Are you feeling any better, Olivia?”
“Yes, much better. It was just a moment of weakness,” Olivia said, taking his free arm.
“Why was Lord Channing so anxious to make our acquaintance?” Phoebe asked from Cato’s other side. “He’s not a suitor for Olivia’s hand, is he?”
“He may have some such plan in mind,” Cato said as they reached the carriage in the courtyard.
“No!” Olivia cried in alarm. “I don’t want any such suitor.” She turned to look up at her father as he handed her into the carriage, her dark eyes intense in the torchlight.
“Then you must simply tell him so,” Cato said calmly. “You’re at the age now, my dear, when suitors are going to come thick and fast. You must decide for yourself how to deal with them.”
“I’ll help you,” Phoebe said, laying a hand on Olivia’s arm. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“No, indeed not,” Cato agreed, mounting his horse to ride beside the carriage. “It’s natural enough that you should have suitors, Olivia.”
Olivia slumped back against the leather squabs. She was being irrational; of course she could dismiss Lord Channing’s suit, if indeed it was what he had in mind. But it certainly added another skein to an already impossibly tangled knot.
Chapter Nine
Brian Morse leaned back against the wall in his customary place in the inglenook of the Anchor’s taproom. He rubbed his thigh and as he moved his arm the thick scar beneath his ribs seemed to stretch and throb. The pain was always with him. The pain and the knowledge of defeat. It was there in the deep lines of his face, in his limp, in the constant dragging pain. No one had expected him to survive after Cato’s sword had brought him down, and he hadn’t wanted to during those months of agony. But somehow he had done so. After many months his body had somehow healed, not straight, not clean, but healed nevertheless.