The Accidental Bride (7 page)

“Aye, Sire. And I heard talk already of some dissension among their high command.” Brian Morse stepped out of the shadows, where he’d been standing silent up to now, listening and awaiting the moment when he could draw himself to the king’s attention.

King Charles regarded the young man with a slight frown, trying to place him. The slender frame clad immaculately in dove gray silk was vaguely familiar, the little brown eyes, hard as pebbles, more so.

“Brian Morse, Your Majesty.” Brian bowed low. “Forgive me for speaking out.”

The king waved a hand in vague disclaimer. “If you have something useful to say, sir, don’t stand on ceremony.”

“Mr. Morse was responsible for bringing the offer of munitions from the king of Orange, Sire. You may remember congratulating him on his return from Rotterdam.” The duke of Hamilton spoke up from the window embrasure at the far end of the paneled room, opposite the window looking onto the quadrangle. He was chewing at his thumb, carefully
peeling back loose skin with his teeth and spitting it onto the floor at his feet.

The king seemed to consider this for a minute, then he smiled. It was a smile of surpassing sweetness. “Indeed I do remember. You have served us well, Mr. Morse. Your counsel is most welcome.”

Brian felt a surge of triumph. He was there, at last. Into the holy of holies. He stepped a little further into the chamber. “My stepfather is the marquis of Granville, Sire.”

A pained frown crossed the king’s countenance. There had been a time when the marquis had been both friend and most loyal subject.

“A man is not responsible for his treacherous relatives,” declared Prince Rupert, the king’s nephew, in what could have been an attempt at heavy comfort. His florid, handsome face was flushed from the contents of the chalice he held between his beringed hands.

“And even less for a stepfather,” agreed Sir Jacob. “Does Granville still receive you?”

“He has done up to now, sir.” Brian’s mouth thinned to the point of invisibility, and his hard eyes seemed to grow even smaller. He would not soon forget the humiliation visited upon him the last time he’d stayed under his stepfather’s roof. The marquis’s bastard niece, Portia Worth, now the countess of Rothbury, had played him for a fool, and the brat Olivia had had her part in it too.

He still squirmed at the memory of his stepsister’s laughing, taunting eyes as she’d enjoyed his mortification. A true case of turned tables. In the past he had held the upper hand, subjecting the child to a reign of terror and uncertainty purely for the amusement it afforded him, and he had every intention of regaining that control. Once he stood as head of the Granville family, he would have ample opportunity to seek revenge upon the girl.

“I had thought that perhaps I might work some mischief
to good purpose under my stepfather’s roof,” he continued smoothly. “He will receive me again, and with open arms if I imply that perhaps my allegiance grows uncertain?”

He glanced around the room, watching for reaction. The king looked merely weary, Rupert interested, Sir Jacob and the duke clearly reserving judgment.

“A spy in the enemy camp?” queried Rupert.

“In a manner of speaking, sir.” Brian shrugged easily. “Someone to plant misinformation, perhaps. To look and listen. To find something useful, perhaps. Something that might make trouble between Granville and the others.”

There was a short silence, then the king said, “D’ye have a clear plan, Mr. Morse? Or are you catching at straws?”

“No straws, Sire. I don’t have a clear plan as yet, but, if I might say so, I have a certain . . . a certain facility for seizing the main chance. Things occur to me that might not occur to someone else.”

“To a less devious mind,” said Prince Rupert with a chuckle. “Aye, I heard tell of your dealings with Strickland in The Hague. Fooled him completely for a while, I understand.”

“For long enough to gather the information we needed,” Brian agreed without undue modesty. This was neither the time nor the place for such.

“Granville’s married again, I hear,” Sir Jacob said suddenly.

Brian’s face became as smooth as polished marble. “To his late wife’s sister,” he replied. “The alliance of Granville and Carlton thus continues as strong as before.”

King Charles rubbed his temples. “Which brings us back to Sir Jacob’s plan of divide and rule.”

“Cromwell and Fairfax are as close as two peas in a pod,” the duke pointed out. “And as Morse says, the alliance between Granville and Carlton is well cemented.”

“But if they were obliged to take sides over one of their number,” suggested Brian. His mind was racing. He hadn’t expected to be given such an opportunity so quickly. But he
could see his way clear now to making a dramatic contribution to the king’s cause. A contribution that would further his own ends.

He stepped up to the table and stood with his hands lightly balled into fists resting on the gleaming satinwood.

“My stepfather’s trusted by both Cromwell and Fairfax, but supposing his loyalty came into question. If Cromwell supported him and Fairfax didn’t . . .” He glanced around the paneled chamber, an eyebrow raised interrogatively.

Sir Jacob kicked a slipping log back into the grate. “Granville’s an honorable man.” The quiet statement lay untouched for a moment in the dusty, crowded chamber.

“You would call a man who has risen against his sovereign honorable, sir?” demanded Prince Rupert, his eyes flaring under the lamplight as he pushed back his chair and jumped to his feet. He glared angrily around the chamber, his flush deepening. He was an impetuous man, as jealous of his reputation as a brilliant commander in the field as he was passionate in defense of King Charles’s divine right to rule England.

“Granville’s a traitor and he’ll lose his head when this is over,” the prince continued. “As they all will.” He refilled his silver chalice from the wine flagon on the table, his movements jerky so that ruby drops scattered over the long table.

Sir Jacob shrugged. He had little interest in defending the marquis of Granville against the passions of the king’s nephew.

Rupert drained the contents of his chalice, throwing his head back, his powerful throat working, the rich curling flow of his hair cascading over his wide lace collar. He set the cup down with a snap.

The king coughed gently, reminding his lords of who really made the decisions in this company. “Gentlemen, let us return to the matter in hand. I find myself imprisoned in this city, chased into it by a troop of Cromwell’s cavalry. Our armies are in disarray, our loyal supporters are being besieged in
their own houses. To enlist further support from the Scots, I will have to agree to the covenant . . ..”

He leaned his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. The convenant would compel him to agree to establish the Presbyterian Church in England. A sin he was convinced would bring down upon him divine justice. It was not a course of action he could contemplate except in extremis.

“I am open to any suggestion. Astley’s has merit, it seems to me. And in Mr. Morse, here, we seem to have the perfect instrument to hand.” He bestowed another of his smiles upon Brian, who only barely managed to restrain a crow of triumph.

“Aye, then we’ll start with Granville.” Sir Jacob’s voice was now brisk. “But you’ll need more than ordinary trickery, Mr. Morse. I repeat that Granville is as honest as he’s clever.” He regarded the prince for a minute, one sardonically raised eyebrow inviting dissension, but when Rupert maintained silence, he continued.

“If we bring down the marquis, I believe the entire house of cards will topple. They’ll turn against each other. Granville has many supporters, but there are those who wouldn’t mind seeing him fall.” His mouth took a cynical quirk. Human nature and its foibles could always be relied upon.

“If you will entrust this matter to me, Your Majesty, I give you my word I will not fail you.” Brian spoke earnestly, a throb of sincerity in his voice.

“We put our trust in you, sir.” The king rose to his feet. “Gentlemen . . .” He gestured in brief farewell and walked to the door. An equerry jumped to open it for him, and the king departed his bowing subjects, Prince Rupert on his heels.

“Lay your plans carefully, Morse,” Sir Jacob advised, moving to the door himself. “Granville’s no fool.”

“No, but he’s a newly married man,” one of the others said with a cynical chuckle. “He’ll have a few other things on his mind I daresay . . . for a month or two at least.”

Brian made no response to this sally. He walked to the window opposite the quadrangle. This one looked out over
the broad sweep of Christ Church meadow and the line of winter-bare trees along the riverbank. It was a peaceful scene, one that made it hard to imagine the war raging beyond the city walls. Tom Tower struck five, its hollow, sonorous chime booming out over the city.

Cato had a new bride. New brides meant children. Brian’s luck couldn’t hold forever. One day Granville was going to get a son, unless something intervened. So far and against many odds Granville had survived the war, and with his luck he might well continue to do so. But Brian’s first priority must be the new bride. The wedding had been a month ago and she could well have conceived by now, be even now carrying the child that would disinherit him.

He stared out into the lowering dusk, his mouth pinched and hard. He had managed to dispose of the other one before she could produce more than squalling girl children; her sister should be no more difficult. He’d never met the girl, but if she was anything like Diana, she’d be easy to cozen, without a thought in her head but pleasure and fashion. Once under Granville’s roof he would find the way to remove her. But first, maybe he could use her. He had nearly succeeded in using Diana to work against Cato. Why not this one? And then once she’d served her purpose, he’d get rid of her . . . her and whatever embryo she was carrying.

And then, if the war hadn’t taken care of Cato, he’d have to turn his attention that way. Accidents were easy to arrange for a fertile and imaginative mind.

Brian nodded to himself as the last chimes of Tom Tower died in the dusk.

C
ato and Giles Crampton rode into the stable yard at
midday. It was a bright, clear day with even an intimation of warmth in the early March sunshine.

“ ’Ow long d’ye reckon we’ll be at ’ome this time, m’lord?”
Giles inquired with apparent casualness. He whistled tunelessly between his teeth as he looped the reins over his mount’s neck and dismounted.

Cato was well aware that Giles was seething with the need to get back to the business in hand—the long and dreary siege of Basing House. They’d only managed to spend three days there before Cato had received a message from Cromwell to attend a briefing in the general’s camp outside Oxford. Giles, his most trusted lieutenant, had perforce to accompany him. Giles as usual was torn between his need to oversee the health, welfare, and discipline of the Granville militia and his need to be at his commander’s side.

On the way to Cromwell’s headquarters, Cato had made the detour to his own house in Woodstock. It was hard to tear his mind away from its constant preoccupation with the war, but he could not ride right by his house without checking up on the health and welfare of his wife and daughters

“A couple of hours today, then we’ll ride into Cromwell’s camp this evening. After the meeting I’ll probably spend a day or two here. You may return to the siege.” Cato dismounted as he spoke, handing the reins of his bay charger to a groom. As he did so, his two small daughters, riding Shetland ponies whose leading reins were held by a stolid groom, came into the yard.

They smiled shyly at their father as he came over to them, and solemnly informed him that they had been learning to trot. At four and five that was impressive, Cato reflected as he congratulated them with appropriate gravity. But their mother had been an intrepid horsewoman. So very unlike her little sister.

He left the children and made his way back to the house, thinking how he must teach Phoebe to overcome her fear of horses. It was absurd that she would only ride pillion behind a groom. There wouldn’t be time this visit, but as soon as he had a few days clear, he would begin.

The soft weathered brick of the manor house was mellow in the sunshine, the mullioned windows gleaming. He caught himself thinking as he approached the house how welcoming it looked. He caught himself remembering how much he’d enjoyed coming back to Nan after an absence. Her dislike of the bedchamber hadn’t ever dulled the warmth and affection of their companionship. He knew he’d been fortunate in the comradely pleasures of that marriage, and her death had grieved him terribly. Much more so than the death of Brian’s mother. Their marriage had been too brief for any real emotional attachment. The marriages of his friends and his own to Diana had taught him how rare were the conjugal ease and affection he’d enjoyed with Nan. It had taken him a few bitter and disillusioning months to realize he wouldn’t get it from Diana; he wouldn’t set himself up for disappointment with her little sister.

The housekeeper glided across the hall to greet him as he entered, blinking to adjust his eyes after the brightness outside.

“Good morrow, Your Lordship. We wasn’t expecting you for another week.”

“No, but I have business outside Oxford and stopped on the way,” he said, tossing his whip onto the long bench beside the door and drawing off his gloves. “Is Lady Granville within?”

“She’s abovestairs, I believe, m’lord. I believe she’s not yet risen this morning.”

Cato frowned. Phoebe was never a slugabed and it was now past midday.

“Good morrow, sir.” Olivia came down the stairs, the inevitable book in her hand. “We weren’t expecting you t-today.”

“No, I have a summons to headquarters,” Cato replied, regarding his daughter with a smile that sprang directly from his earlier thoughts. Olivia was so very like her mother, except for the long Granville nose. She had the same habit of
drawing her brows together and pursing her lips when she was considering something.

“I c-came down for some reading candles,” Olivia informed him. “It’s hard to see to read in the parlor even though the sun’s shining.”