Meg fetched a wearied and bitter sigh. “With deep regrets, I was obliged to send Felipe away from Faire Isle and ask him never to return.”
“Oh, Meggie! I am so sorry.” Seraphine enveloped her in a hard, compassionate hug, only to draw back with a frown. “But you have a rejected lover out there who knows all your secrets.”
“Felipe would never betray me. He swore upon his medallion of the Blessed Virgin to keep my secret and he would never break such an oath. He had that much honor in him and in any case he is now on the far side of the world. He sailed to make his fortune in la Florida and found it. From what I heard, he was appointed governor of one of the new Spanish colonies there.”
“Good. That saves me the trouble of going to find the wretch and cut off his—er—heart.”
Meg smiled. “You need not harbor such vengeful thoughts on my account. I have long ago recovered from any hurt Felipe dealt me.”
“Except for the urge to burrow deeper into your island and never trust again.” Seraphine eyed her shrewdly. “How long ago was your liaison with Captain Felipe?”
“Three … no, perhaps closer to four years ago.”
“Far too long. When one is tossed by a mean-tempered steed, it is well to get quickly back into the saddle again.”
Meg tried to protest that Felipe was not a horse, but Seraphine was not listening.
“You need to take another lover,” she mused. “But this time keep your heart and your secrets to yourself. And choose someone whose lovemaking does not inspire such adjectives as warm, comfortable, and very pleasant. Your gentle Sir Patrick will never do, despite his handsome face.” Seraphine’s gaze traveled across the deck to where the doctor was harassing the very annoyed Mr. Johnston.
“Blackwood should be your man.”
“Blackwood?” Meg laughed. “You don’t even like him.”
“I don’t need to. I am not the one who should bed him.”
“Neither am I.”
“You should at least consider it. Blackwood is a rogue, the kind of scoundrel who would make a good lover, but leave your heart unscathed. I know enough of men that I would wager he would bring a deal of fire and passion to your bed.”
“Is that what Gerard did for you?”
“No, I was the one who brought the fire to our marriage.” Seraphine looked a trifle wistful. “But I must admit, Monsieur le Comte kindled marvelous well.”
This was the opening Meg had been seeking, to once more urge the possibility of Seraphine reconciling with her husband. But she was prevented by Sir Patrick joining them.
With Seraphine and Blackwood both insisting that she was enamored of Sir Patrick, it was all Meg could do to meet the man with any degree of composure. But she refused to allow their nonsensical accusations to turn her into some foolish blushing chit. Forcing herself to look him in the eye, she greeted him cheerfully.
“Good morrow, Sir Patrick.”
“Good morrow, milady.” He took her hand and bowed over it, his lips curving into his shy half smile that touched Meg in some way she could not explain.
She was not infatuated with Sir Patrick. Meg was sure of that and yet she could not deny she was drawn to him, something in his sad blue eyes calling to her like the haunting rhythms of the sea.
He retained her hand, his gaze meeting hers for a long moment until Seraphine gave an exaggerated cough. He released Meg and turned his attention to Seraphine.
He bowed. “Madame la Comtesse. I hope you are feeling better?”
“Somewhat. I will not feel entirely well until you get me off this ship.”
“Your ordeal will be over soon, I promise you. I hope to have both of you comfortably installed in my own house by tonight and then arrange Mistress Wolfe’s meeting with the king for tomorrow or the next day at latest.”
Seraphine’s brows rose with haughty surprise. “You are entirely too hasty, monsieur. You have already denied us enough time to prepare for this journey. Neither of us has brought any attire appropriate for an audience at court. We will require at the very least a fortnight to visit the shops, acquire a skilled dressmaker, and I may have to send back to Paris for some of my jewels.”
“None of that will be necessary.” Sir Patrick smiled at Meg. “I promise you your meeting with the king will be very informal and of a most private nature.”
Meg, who had listened to Seraphine’s plans with dismay, was relieved by Sir Patrick’s assurance, but Seraphine scowled.
“You propose to sneak the Lady of Faire Isle up the back stairs of the palace as though she was some lowly spy or a hired doxy? I think not!”
“I intend no insult to the Lady. But you must appreciate the delicacy of this situation. The utmost discretion is required. His Majesty would not wish the story of his curse to become a matter of court gossip.”
Seraphine gave a derisive laugh. “It likely already is if his court is anything like the one in Paris.”
“But I agree with Sir Patrick,” Meg said. “I would prefer my meeting with the king to take place as quietly as possible.”
Seraphine opened her mouth to argue, but she was forestalled by the sound of a louder altercation taking place. Angry voices carried across the deck, drawing Sir Patrick’s attention away. Meg followed his gaze to where Mr. Johnston clearly had had enough of Blackwood’s company.
The doctor had retreated a step, flinging up his hands, but the gesture was more mocking than placating. “If I am mistaken, I beg your pardon, Guido.”
The agent’s weathered face stained a darker red. “I told you, the name is Johnston. John Johnston. You would do well to remember that, you drunken fool.”
He jabbed his finger against Blackwood’s chest. Blackwood continued to smile, but Meg saw his hands curl into fists. Sir Patrick had clearly noticed as well.
“Excuse me,” he muttered and sprinted across the deck. Crew members had paused in their work, faces avid in the expectation of a brawl. But Sir Patrick insinuated himself in between Blackwood and Johnston. Meg could not hear what was being said, Sir Patrick’s voice low and intense.
The doctor relaxed, but Johnston remained rigid, as tightly coiled as a snake that could easily be provoked to strike.
“There is something dangerous about that man,” Meg murmured to Seraphine.
“Which man? Sir Patrick or Blackwood?”
“Mr. Johnston.” Meg frowned. Something about him had rendered her uneasy from the moment he had come aboard, and she struggled to articulate the feeling. “He neither behaves nor dresses like other merchants I have seen. He carries himself like a soldier, erect, vigilant, looking over his shoulder as though in anticipation of an attack. I do not think Mr. Johnston is at all what he claims to be.”
“You could easily say the same for Dr. Blackwood or Sir Patrick Graham. This Johnston joined us in St. Malo?”
“Yes, when you were first confined to your cabin.”
“And he was quite unknown to anyone before?”
“Mr. Johnston behaved as though he was unacquainted with Sir Patrick or Dr. Blackwood.”
Seraphine’s gaze narrowed as she studied the three men still engaged in low conversation. “They do not act as if they are strangers.”
Meg was receiving the same disquieting impression. Seraphine turned to her, her face earnest. “There is still time to turn back, Meg. When we reach Gravesend, we could slip away and find a ship to carry us back to Faire Isle.”
“I would like nothing better, but I can’t, ’Phine. At least not until I have met with the king and judged the truth of this troubling matter for myself.”
“Then insist upon His Majesty receiving you properly at court. You are not some Gypsy girl. You are the Lady of Faire Isle.”
“You would enjoy such a public reception, but you know I shudder at such a thing. I always prefer to attract as little notice as possible.”
“There is a great danger in that, Meg. Fade into the woodwork and no one will notice if you disappear.”
“Yo
u would.”
“But perhaps not in time to save you.”
“Sir Patrick has said—”
“Damn Sir Patrick. You place far too much blind faith in that man’s assurances.”
“Not a blind faith, but I do trust his honor enough to see me safely through one meeting with the king. And one meeting is all I require. If I am to uncover the truth of this curse and the connection with Maman and the Silver Rose coven, I do not believe I will find my answer at Whitehall, which is just as well. Could you imagine me trying to make my way among a palace full of ambitious, gossiping courtiers, up to my ears in intrigue?”
“My dear friend,” the countess replied somberly. “I fear that you already are.”
Chapter Eight
FIREWORKS SPLINTERED THE SKY WITH ICICLES OF LIGHT THAT shimmered to earth, vanishing into the dark waters of the Thames. Decks of the vessels riding at anchor and the rooftops of houses on the banks were all crammed with spectators. Cries of delight were punctuated by outbursts of raucous laughter and cheers.
The stretch of the Thames that flowed past London was always a challenge to navigate, wherries and tilt boats darting like fireflies among the stately barges and three-masted ships. The celebration made it even more difficult for the passenger barge from Gravesend to maneuver to the landing steps.
Armagil Blackwood, Sir Patrick Graham, and his servant Alexander were among the first to alight, but Blackwood soon lost sight of the other two men. As he wove his way through the revelers that crowded the docks, he trod on the toes of a dockworker. But the lanky fellow was either too good-humored or too numb from the amount of sack he had consumed to object.
“Sorry,” Blackwood shouted to make himself heard. “What the devil is all this?” He gestured toward the eruption of another spray of fireworks. It appeared to emanate from the direction of Whitehall.
“Celebration,” the dockworker yelled back.
“Of what?”
“The king’s deliverance from conspiracy.”
Blackwood felt his heart miss a beat. His gaze darted in search of Graham, but he was nowhere to be seen. Fighting to contain his alarm, he asked, “What conspiracy was this?”
“Don’t know. Some plot against the king’s life that was foiled years ago in Scotland. King James likes to mark the anniversary of it.”
“Oh, that. I had forgotten,” Blackwood said. For one terrible moment, he had feared … He exhaled, able to breathe again. When the dockworker’s attention strayed back to the sky, Blackwood slipped away and found a quiet spot behind some stacked crates and barrels.
The laughter, the revelry, and the endless drunken toasts to His Majesty’s health were mercifully muted. Blackwood drew forth his own flask, his lip curling with contempt. Two years ago, after Queen Elizabeth had died and James of Scotland had been named as her successor, bonfires had been lit and the wine had flowed. The aged virgin queen was at long last dead, the crown passed to a man in the prime of life who had already proved his ability to sire heirs. A new era would surely dawn for England, one of prosperity, stability, and opportunity. Optimism had prevailed until James Stuart descended upon London with hordes of Scottish fortune-seekers in his wake. The king himself regarded England’s coffers as a bottomless treasure trove.
It had not taken long for the country to become disillusioned with its new king, although one could not discern that from the buoyant mood of the crowd on the docks tonight. Londoners were eager to embrace any celebration, no matter the cause.
Blackwood drank a toast to the folly of his fellow men. And then another to his own. As the fiery liquid burned a path down his throat, he amused himself by watching a group gathered near the landing steps. A doxy moved among them plying her wares, the torchlight just enough for Blackwood to make out the red glint of her hair and a white expanse of bosom spilling above her low-cut gown. While the minx distracted the gentlemen, no doubt she had a confederate nearby picking pockets and cutting purses.
The thought was enough for Blackwood to make sure his own purse was still fastened to his belt. The city streets could be hazardous enough by day, let alone after dark. He wondered what had become of Graham.
Sir Patrick and Alexander had set out to arrange for the cart and horse to convey the ladies and their belongings back to his house. Perhaps they were having some difficulty, owing to the unusual amount of activity in the streets, but Blackwood had no doubt Sir Patrick would achieve his end.
From the time that Blackwood had first known him, Graham had always been good at arranging things, efficient, with a close eye to detail. If there had still been monasteries in England, Blackwood could imagine Graham as the abbot, carefully regulating the life of the order.
Unfortunately he could just as easily imagine Graham organizing a rebellion or quietly planning an assassination. A sobering thought; Blackwood took another swallow. He wasn’t drunk, but feeling woolly-headed and tired enough to long for his bed.
He was about to go in search of Graham when he spotted him returning to the landing with a pair of linkboys, holding lit torches, trailing in his wake. Blackwood hailed his friend, managing to gain his attention above the rest of the din.
When Graham joined him, he frowned at the flask in Blackwood’s hand, but made no remark upon it.
“Alexander is waiting with the cart,” he said. “But I judged it best to wait until the fireworks are over and the crowd disperses before escorting Mistress Wolfe and the Countess. I had entirely forgotten this celebration was planned.”
“As did I.” Blackwood took another swallow. The flask was nearly empty. “For a moment, I wondered if James had died in our absence and we had acquired a new king. It would certainly save you a deal of trouble.”
“For the love of God, Gil!” Sir Patrick cast a glance about him and drew Blackwood deeper into the shadows. “We are back in London. Please show a little discretion and mind your tongue.”
“I will if you mind the use of your trinkets.”
“If you are referring to my rosary, I have already hidden it in the lining of my doublet.”
“And what about this?” Blackwood brushed aside the fold of Graham’s cloak and drew forth the silver chain fastened about Sir Patrick’s neck. The small locket containing the sacred strands of hair dangled between Blackwood’s fingers.
Graham snatched the locket away from him. He reverently brought the locket to his lips. “No one but you would even understand its significance to me.”
“What, not even your good friend Johnston?”
Graham scowled as he tucked the chain back out of sight. “That is another thing I must admonish you about. Whatever possessed you to bedevil Johnston that way? You know what an uncertain temper the man has. From now on, I must ask you to leave him alone.”
“That would prove no hardship to me. I don’t like Guido Fawkes. He’s a singularly humorless man, but if he means to pass himself off under a false name, he could have chosen something better than John Johnston.”
“Unfortunately, when it comes to constructing lies, the man is not as creative as you.”
Nor you, Blackwood was tempted to retort, but he didn’t want to quarrel with his friend. “I don’t know what you are plotting, Graham. I could hazard a guess, but I don’t want to. But I think you and your friends would be wise to disassociate yourself from Fawkes. He is far too volatile.”
“Fawkes—I mean Johnston—is a soldier, an expert in the use of ordnance and firearms.”
“So are you.”
“Only when aiming at wooden targets or hunting waterfowl. I have never leveled a weapon at the heart of a man before.”
“Neither have I.”
“Do you think that you could?”
Blackwood considered for a moment before answering, “Oh, yes. I think I could be far better at taking life than saving it, if I allowed myself to be.”
“I am not sure that I could, no matter how just my cause.” Graham looked shamed by the admission. “That is why my association wit
h Mr. Johnston is necessary.”
“But you don’t need her.”
Graham did not feign confusion or demand to know who Blackwood meant. Blackwood sensed that the Lady of Faire Isle was weighing as heavily upon Graham’s mind as his.
“Margaret Wolfe has become necessary to my plans whether I wish her to be or not,” he said.
“Why? You have never believed in witchery or the powers of these so-called cunning women. And yet you dragged me the length of France to find this one.”
“I did not drag you anywhere. You insisted upon accompanying me. And Mistress Wolfe is no ordinary ignorant cunning woman. She is well read, a lady of great learning. I have enjoyed much interesting conversation with her during the course of our voyage, despite the fact that she is pagan in her beliefs.”
“If she is a pagan, will that help to quiet your conscience if any harm should come to her?”
“If I have placed her in danger by fetching her to London, I had no choice,” Graham replied irritably. “It is not my fault that the king insists upon seeing her.”
“What if the Lady does manage to cure His Majesty of his belief that he is cursed? I wager that would not suit your aims. Did you not wish to see him driven mad?”
“All I want to see is James Stuart held accountable for his sins and I would think you would desire the same.”
Blackwood could not make out Graham’s face well in the darkness, but he noted the hardening of Graham’s jaw. It was an expression that Blackwood was uncomfortably familiar with, stony, unfeeling, only Graham’s eyes alive with a blaze so hot, they chilled.
He had known Graham for so long and loved him as much as Blackwood was capable of loving anyone, like the brother he had never had. But he preferred Patrick Graham, the gentle scholar, the compassionate friend who kept all of Blackwood’s secrets, helped him to bed when he drank too much, listened to accounts of all his sins, and passed no judgment. Graham the fanatic disturbed and repulsed him.