She was the first one to ask him that. "He was in pain, Mistress Talbot, but not for long. Death came quickly."
"Thank God Almighty for that," 'she said somberly, and under her unwavering blue-green gaze, he told her how Gervase had died, omitting any mention of the queen's letter and his own rash promise to the goldsmith. When he was done, she sighed, daubed unselfconsciously at her eyes with the flowing sleeve of her gown, and then insisted upon fetching him a cup of wine. "I am glad you sought me out so we'd have this chance to talk.
And I am very glad, indeed, to be able to thank you, Master de Quincy, for all you did for Gervase — and for Edwin, too."
He'd had this same conversation once before — with Gervase's wife. Except that she had not thought to include Edwin. He hadn't expected Aldith to be so warm… or so guileless. She ought not to open her door to strangers like this, or to take what she was told on faith. He managed to rein in this newborn protective urge, at least long enough to ask her a few casually calculated questions about Gervase, questions she answered readily.
Yes, she confirmed, Gervase had been off on a business trip to Rouen. After his ship had docked at Southampton on Epiphany Eve, he had continued on to Winchester. Later that evening, he'd stopped by to let her know he was back and to explain that he must depart again on the morrow for London. He'd stayed only an hour or so, for he was weary and wanted to sleep in his own bed. That was the last time she'd seen him, alive or dead, for she had not been invited to the funeral. And no, he'd told her very little about his business in London.
"He hinted that he'd be able to tell me all about it on his return. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, he said, a chance to gain a king's favor. I did not understand, but when I asked what he meant, he just laughed and promised to bring me back a trinket from London."
She sighed again, and Justin resolutely kept his eyes on her face, not letting his gaze follow the rise and fall of her bosom. He ought not to be having lustful yearnings for a woman so recently bereaved. But she was sitting so close that he was having trouble keeping his thoughts from wandering into forbidden territory. Her perfume was scenting his every breath, her mouth as soft and ripe as summer strawberries. She was too trusting, not even realizing she was being interrogated.
"Poor Gervase…" A tear trembled on her lashes, and Justin watched in unwilling fascination as it trickled down her cheek, onto the soft skin of her throat. "I did not love him," she said with unexpected candor, "but I was very fond of him, I truly was. He was always right good to me. He deserved a far better death than the one he got. How much worse it might have been, though, if not for you, Master de Quincy… Justin. You cradled him as he lay dying, you sought to comfort him, you prayed over him, and for that, you will have my eternal gratitude." And leaning over, she kissed him on the cheek, a kiss feather-light and honey-sweet.
Drawing back then, she began to laugh. "Ah, look what I've done to you — smeared lip rouge all over your face! Here, let me repair the damage…" Licking her forefinger, she touched the smudge and began to rub gently. Justin reminded himself that she was a woman of dubious morals, a woman at least ten years older than he, a woman in mourning. But it was not his brain he was heeding at the moment, and when she smiled at him, the urge to kiss her was well-nigh irresistible.
But Justin was never to know if he would have yielded to the temptation. There was no warning whatsoever. He heard nothing until the shout, a hoarse "Christ on the Cross!" that seemed to fill the room like thunder. He spun around on the settle so fast that he spilled some of his wine, staring at the man framed in the doorway.
He had only a fleeting glimpse of the intruder — tall, tawny haired, and enraged — before the man lunged forward, crossed the cottage in three giant strides, and knotted a fist in the neck of Justin's tunic. Reacting with fury, not thought, Justin flung the contents of his wine cup into his assailant's face. The man gasped, his grip slackening enough for Justin to break free. Sputtering and swearing, he seemed ready to renew his attack. But by then Justin was on his feet, and Aldith had planted herself firmly between them.
"Have you gone stark mad? You're lucky I did not set Jezebel on you!" she scolded the interloper, although the threat would have been more impressive had the mastiff not been leaning her huge head against the man's leg, her tail beating an eager tattoo in the floor rushes.
The man paid no more heed to Aldith than he did to her dog. Never taking his eyes from Justin, he snarled, "I suppose I ought to get your name so I'll know what to tell the coroner! Who in hellfire are you?"
"I would ask you the same thing," Justin shot back, "except that it is obvious who you are — the town lunatic!"
"A bad guess, whoreson! I'm the under-sheriff for Hampshire."
Justin was stunned. "You? You are Luke de Marston?"
"Yes, I am sorry to say that he is!" Aldith was glaring at the deputy. "Had you not burst in here, raving and ranting, you'd have found out that this is Justin de Quincy, the man who came to Gervase's rescue on the Alresford Road."
Luke's eyes narrowed, flicking from Aldith to Justin. His face grew guarded, impossible to read. "On another mission of mercy?" he asked Justin. "You cannot stop doing good deeds, can you?"
Justin ignored him, turning toward the settle to retrieve his mantle. "I will be going now, Mistress Talbot."
"Yes," she agreed, "I think that would be best." Following Justin to the door, she gave him an intimate, regretful smile. "I am so sorry…"
"Yes," Justin said coldly, "so am I." As their eyes met, she had the grace to blush a little. She started to speak, then stopped herself, but stood watching in the doorway until Luke s voice summoned her back inside.
The temperature had plunged once the sun set, but Justin was indifferent to the cold. His brain was whirling with half-formed thoughts. Yet one fact stood out in unsparing clarity. He had been set up. He had no doubts whatsoever that Aldith had contrived that compromising scene for Luke's benefit. He just did not understand why. Was she one of those women who enjoyed baiting men into fighting over her? Or was there a more specific intent to her mischief — a deliberate ploy to make Luke de Marston jealous?
But a moment later, Justin had forgotten about his bruised pride, halting abruptly on the darkened street in a belated, troubled understanding of what he'd witnessed. Aldith's dog had not barked at Luke's entrance. Nor had he knocked. The sheriff's deputy had a key to Aldith Talbot's cottage.
4
TOWER OF LONDON
January 1193
The groom took Copper's reins, then glanced inquiringly over his shoulder. "You want me to unsaddle him?"
Justin shook his head. No need to bother. He did not think he would be long at the Tower. Once he'd confessed to the queen that he could not solve the goldsmith's murder, what further use would she have for him?
He was nearing the keep when he noticed the couple standing by the stairs. He recognized the woman at once: the queen's lady and his good angel. Even if she had not been so helpful to him, she was far too pretty to be forgotten. The man was unfamiliar, but Justin knew at once that this stranger was someone of significance, for he was richly dressed in a fur-lined mantle, and when he reached out to touch her cheek, an emerald ring glowed like fox fire. She did not appear to welcome the caress, but she did not rebuff it, either, showing a diffidence that Justin found surprising. She'd impressed him as a born flirt, and a sleekly self-confident one at that. She'd had no trouble spurning Durand's unwanted advances, for certes. Now, though, she seemed flustered. Justin waited to make sure she did not need a distraction, for he owed her a favor and would like nothing better than to repay it.