Her hand fluttered towards him, then fell to her side. “I’m not afeard,” she said, and turned back to her friends.
Anthony moved away immediately, wondering why she’d refused his escort. Sometimes he didn’t understand her at all. He told himself that she was merely playing his game, keeping away from him because it was safer. He told himself that, but it didn’t somehow ring true. There had been such trouble in her eyes. Perhaps it had something to do with Channing’s declared suit.
Anthony’s mouth hardened. He would have to put a stop to that, but how to do it without breaking his own cover?
Godfrey Channing approached the three women as they reached the table. “My ladies, allow me to escort you to the top of the table.” He spoke to all three of them, but his eyes were on Olivia and it was Olivia to whom he offered his silk-clad arm.
“Why, you may escort us with pleasure, sir,” Portia said, taking the proffered arm before Olivia could move. “Our husbands appear to have deserted us.”
“Lady Olivia…” Godfrey offered her his free arm.
“Olivia can take my arm and you may escort Lady Granville,” Portia said firmly. “We are very strict about rank, and married ladies take precedence.”
Phoebe controlled her laughter at this absurdity and took up her cue. Godfrey had no choice but to accept the fait accompli.
Cato and Rufus awaited their wives at the head of the board. Cato saw the strain in Olivia’s eyes as she approached, clinging to Phoebe’s arm. “Come and sit beside me, Olivia,” he said, taking her hand and drawing her down to the bench beside him.
“If Lady Olivia will permit me…” Godfrey smiled and took his place on her other side.
Olivia sat rigid. Her eyes darted down the table to where Anthony was sitting idly toying with his wine goblet. He looked at her just once, then turned to his neighbor.
Godfrey placed a slice of roast swan on Olivia’s platter. “Pray allow me to serve you, my lady… in all ways. I am always and entirely at your service.” His thin mouth smiled meaningfully; his cold eyes regarded her hungrily.
Olivia said in an undertone, “You must forgive me, Lord Channing, but I have no interest in marriage. My father is aware of this. I am a scholar, and have no time for marrying.”
“I trust your feelings are not already engaged,” he said, his voice suddenly sharp, his fingers tightening around his goblet.
Olivia shook her head. “No.”
“Then I may hope,” he returned, smiling again. He touched her hand as she picked up her knife. “I have been reading the poetry of Catullus. There was a stanza I found somewhat confusing. I wonder if you would enlighten me.”
“Catullus is not one of my favorites,” Olivia lied, her voice dull. “You’ll have to forgive me.”
Godfrey cast about for another topic of conversation as Olivia sat still as stone beside him, the food cooling on her plate. He moved his thigh closer to hers, and she jumped as if burned.
This was not going to be as easy as Brian Morse had implied. But he would have her in the end. He glanced sideways at her. She was beautiful. A man would be proud to own such a wife. Such a wealthy wife. If gentle persuasion didn’t work, then there were other ways. He would have her.
Godfrey turned his attention to the conversation between Lord Rothbury and Lord Granville. There at least Brian’s tactics had sueceeded. Lord Granville had complimented him several times on his astute observations.
Cato, anxious to take the pressure off his daughter, whose strained silence was as loud as a thunderclap, leaned across her and inquired, “Channing, what do you know of this Caxton fellow? He’s a relatively new acolyte at the king’s altar. My men found little of interest when they checked him out. He lodges in Newport, I believe.”
Rufus speared venison on the tip of his knife. “I gather he’s well known on the island.”
“He’s a hanger on,” Godfrey said, eager to impart what he knew. “A man who likes to brag that he dines at the king’s table. He has some fortune, I believe, but comes from an undistinguished family on the mainland.”
Olivia listened. Anthony’s game was clearly succeeding. He appeared so insignificant, no one would give him the time of day in this heavily suspicious atmosphere. But how, she wondered, could anyone be truly fooled if they looked at him? Everything about him radiated authority and competence. How could anyone not see the wicked gleam of amusement in his eye? Not be aware of the razor-sharp mind behind the foolish, vacant exterior?
“The king seems to favor him,” Cato said thoughtfully.
“Sometimes it pleases His Majesty to play favorites,” Godfrey said. “I’ve noticed how, particularly if he’s out of sorts with Colonel Hammond, he’ll deliberately take up with some nobody, almost as if he would slight the governor.” He nodded authoritatively as he spoke, and glanced down the table at the man in question. Caxton had turned his head towards his neighbor. Godfrey’s hand stilled as he raised his goblet to his lips. There was something about his profile… something so familiar…
Godfrey stared. But the reference eluded him. He’d seen Caxton before at Carisbrooke. The king was notorious for choosing to favor insignificant outsiders. He did it to pique his noble jailers. Governor Hammond understood this, as did his staff. They put up with the king’s little game, because, after all, how few power games remained to him?
And yet there was something about this lowly esquire that didn’t sit right. Godfrey watched him. He was doing nothing out of the ordinary, had his usual vapid smile on his lips.
So what in the devil’s name was it about the man?
The king set down his silver chalice. He was bored with his supper, bored with his company, and had something better to do. “I will retire, Hammond.”
The company set down their utensils. Most hadn’t finished their first course, but they rose awkwardly at the benches as the governor moved to the king’s chair.
His Majesty cast a glance down the table, offering the favor of a nod to no one, then he stepped away from the board. The governor escorted him to the barred and guarded chamber in the north curtain wall.
“I bid you good night, Sire.” Colonel Hammond bowed in the doorway.
“The nightingale in his cage, Hammond.” The king gave a short laugh as he looked around his comfortable prison. “But I must thank you for taking such good care of me.”
“I will take such care of Your Majesty as conscience and duty dictate, Sire.” The words were carefully chosen, designed to let the king know that this newest escape plan was a secret only in its proposed execution.
“Good night, Hammond.”
“Sire.” The governor bowed himself from the chamber. The two guards moved into place. They would not turn the key on His Sovereign Majesty, but only a spirit could pass unnoticed through the door.
“Pour hot water, Dirk. I would wash my hands.”
The valet turned to the washstand and hurriedly Charles took the folded slip of paper from his pocket. He slid it beneath his pillow, then stretched and yawned.
“Your Majesty is fatigued.” The valet held a basin of hot water, a towel draped over his arm.
“Aye. But ‘tis the fatigue of the spirit, Dirk. Not that of bodily exertion.” The king washed his hands, dried them. “You may go now. I’ll put myself to bed.”
“Your nightshirt, Sire.” The valet was uncomfortable with the command and lifted the snowy garment from the end of the bed. “I should take Your Majesty’s suit for brushing.”
“Leave me, man!” There was an unusually rough note in the king’s tone.
The valet bowed himself out.
The king waited until the soft conversation between the valet, a servant of the governor’s, and the guards had ceased before he took Edward Caxton’s slip of paper from beneath his pillow.