“As I recall, you said your men had checked Caxton’s background.” Rufus looked at Cato.
“Aye. He and everyone else who hangs around the king. As I said, they could find nothing amiss. He lodges in Newport when he’s on the island.”
“Perhaps he merits further investigation,” Rufus suggested aridly.
Cato nodded. “I’ll put Giles himself onto it. He’ll run the truth to earth if anyone can. The Newport landlady is probably as much a conspirator as the rest of the island.”
“But what of Caxton?” Godfrey leaned forward in his chair. “You’ll arrest him now?”
“Not yet,” Cato answered. “Let’s find out some more about him before we jump.”
Godfrey didn’t like the sound of that, but he was obliged to be satisfied. “Is there anything further I can do, my lords?”
“Just keep your eyes and ears open as you have been doing,” Cato said, giving him a nod of approval.
Godfrey bowed and withdrew.
Olivia listened to the sounds of the children returning from their ride with Portia. It was the usual Decatur babble. They all seemed to talk at once and yet they all seemed to understand each other perfectly. She leaned her head against the chair back and tried to summon the energy to go downstairs, to be her usual self. It seemed impossible.
Would Godfrey Channing have reported what he’d seen on the driveway? Would her father have questions about Anthony? She couldn’t say anything about Brian without revealing what she could not bear to reveal, although if he was on the island her father would want to know it. It was so complicated, all such a muddle. What had started with a dream of entrancement had become a web of half-truths, outright lies, and a swamp of impossible feelings.
If only she had never slipped from the cliff. Never met the pirate. And yet Olivia knew that she could never wish for that.
Wearily she got to her feet. It was close to six and suppertime, and she could hear her father’s voice in the hall, talking with Rufus. She couldn’t cower in her chamber all evening even if she wanted to. She needed to discover if Godfrey had said anything to her father.
Olivia left her chamber. She heard the voices in the hall more clearly now and reflected on another sign of changing times. Rufus Decatur would eat at Cato Granville’s table. He would not lay his head beneath his roof, although he was happy for his family to do so, but he would break bread with him. Seven years ago he would have killed Granville as readily as Cato would have served him the same. They had made common cause in this war, and their wives had forced them to acknowledge the good in each other. They were not friends exactly, but they respected each other.
Giles Crampton and Portia were in the hall with Cato and Rufus when Olivia came slowly downstairs.
“I would start with the Newport landlady, Giles,” Cato was saying. “See if you can frighten something from her. She must know something. The entire goddamned island knows something that we don’t. Let’s try for a roundup of conspirators. Get as many into the net as you can, and don’t worry too much how good your evidence is. If our man sees his friends threatened, he might make a premature move. Then we can-” He broke off when he saw Olivia on the stairs.
“Ah, there you are. Do you know where Phoebe is?”
Olivia took a second to answer. There was nothing significant in her father’s greeting, but there was an air of grim satisfaction about the three men, a sense of purpose that she knew had eluded them during the last weeks. Unease prickled her spine.
“Do you know where Phoebe is?” Cato repeated. “Portia doesn’t.”
“She went to the village. Isn’t she returned yet?”
“Not according to Bisset.” He frowned. It was growing late and he didn’t want Phoebe roaming the lanes at dusk.
“Giles, before you go to Newport, go into the village and escort Lady Granville home.”
“Aye, sir.” Giles turned to the open front door. “Oh, ‘ere she is now, sir.”
Phoebe came hurrying in. “Have I kept supper waiting? I do beg your pardon.” She beamed. “I was helping to deliver a baby. A fine healthy girl. Shall we go in to supper?”
“I think it can wait a few more minutes,” Cato said gently. “Just while you wash your face and hands and tidy your hair perhaps.”
Phoebe’s beam didn’t waver. “Oh, do I still look like a midwife? You go in to supper. I’ll be but a minute.” She hastened up the stairs.
“Shall we?” Cato gestured to the dining room. They took their places at the long table and waited for Phoebe, who reappeared looking only moderately tidy a few minutes later. She helped herself to a dish of cod and peas in a cream sauce and launched into a detailed description of the birth she had attended.
“Phoebe, must we have all the gruesome details?” Portia asked.
“Oh, are they gruesome?” Phoebe looked surprised. “It was all very natural and really quite quick.”
“But not perhaps supper table conversation,” Cato murmured. He took a chicken pasty from a dish and resolutely turned the topic. “What do you think of Mr. Caxton, Olivia? You seem to have had some conversation with him, as I recall.”
Olivia’s heart jumped and plunged. Was this a prelude to a discussion of what had happened that afternoon? She coughed as if a piece of chicken had gone down the wrong way, and took up her wine cup. Cato waited courteously until the spasm seemed to have passed.
“Why do you ask, sir?”
Cato shrugged. “I saw you talking to him at the castle one evening. I wondered if you had formed an impression.”
So Godfrey had held his tongue, at least for the moment. “I don’t think anything of him, sir,” she said calmly. “His c-conversation has little merit, I believe.”
“By which you mean he has no obvious scholarship,” Cato observed with a slight smile.
“He’s such a ninnyhammer,” Phoebe observed. “Why are you interested in him?”
“It’s possible he’s not quite the ninnyhammer he seems,” Cato said.
Olivia’s fingers quivered on her fork and she put the utensil down. “How do you mean?”
“He may have an ulterior motive for hanging around the king,” Rufus said. “There are those who think so.”
“Oh,” Olivia said, taking up her fork again. Was this behind that conversation in the hall? “You mean he might want to rescue the king?”
“If it’s true that he’s not what he seems, it’s not an unlikely deduction,” Rufus said.
“What makes you suspect him?” Portia took a forkful of dressed crab. “These island crabs are delicious.”
“A whisper,” Cato replied. “Just a whisper.”
Who? Olivia pushed a piece of fish around her plate, trying to appear as if this information was of little interest. Who could have let slip a whisper? How much did they know? Did Anthony know he’d fallen under suspicion?
“I was thinking it might be pleasant to go up to the castle this evening,” she said casually, reaching for her wine goblet, adding, “If you’re returning there yourself, sir.”
“I had thought to do so. There are preparations to be made.” He sounded surprised at his daughter’s suggestion.
He wasn’t the only one. Olivia was aware of her friends’ sudden scrutiny. It was most unlike Olivia to suggest voluntarily subjecting herself to a castle soiree. She met their gaze steadily, her eyes shooting her appeal for their support.
“In that case, we’ll come with you,” Portia said.
“Yes, maybe Mr. Johnson will be there,” Phoebe put in.
“I had intended you should accompany me to the castle tonight, anyway, Portia,” Rufus said casually.
“Oh, are you borrowing me for the whole night?” his wife inquired with an air of innocence completely at odds with the gleam in her eyes.
“That was my intention.” He raised a pointed eyebrow. Portia grinned.
“In that case we had better change our dress,” Phoebe said, pushing back her chair.