He placed a kiss against her neck, and she shivered with distaste. Bitterness filled her mouth to the point that she had to fend off retching. She discovered herself agreeing with him because she had been away too long and now she knew that there were places where life was decent such as it had been when she was with Lord Ryppon. Such knowledge bred a desire to escape from everything at court but her son’s fate would not allow such. She swallowed her distaste, forcing it deep so that she might turn to look at the viscount with an expression that was devoid of her true emotions.
“I did as you commanded this morning, my lord.”
The viscount snickered. “So you did, but that does not change the fact that our newly returned baron finds you pleasing to his eye.”
“Baron?”
Biddeford shrugged and moved to the small door that would lead him to the concealed passageway. “Yes, Synclair has inherited the title of Harrow from his uncle who died without issue. Since he appears to be in good standing with the Earl of Hertford, you shall allow him to think you find his attentions ...”
Justina felt her breath freeze in her throat. She couldn’t use Synclair; she didn’t have the ability to conceal what she was thinking around the knight. She would fail, and revulsion for such a task was thick enough to choke her. Synclair was everything noble. She couldn’t soil that.
“I shall allow him to think I find his attentions ... how, my lord?”
“Amusing, for the moment. I am more interested in the Earl of Hertford. Dress yourself more fashionably and see if you can gain an invitation to join his party for supper.”
She had never known so much relief as she did when that door closed behind her guardian.
Except for the day her husband had died.
Her knees felt weak and she pulled in deep breaths while she attempted to steady herself. Despair wrapped its boney grip around her now, threatening to crush her beneath the weight of what Biddeford demanded. Oh, one would think it a simple matter, so much less repulsive than some of the things she had done in the past, but Synclair’s face rose up to torment her with how noble he was.
Could she not at least have one memory of a man that was untarnished by the smut and soot that seemed to be her life? If for no other reason than it kept part of her heart alive with the notion that there were men, rare and few, but living, breathing men who spoke the truth and served honor.
She needed that. Needed it so badly she ached with it. Tears burned the corners of her eyes.
“My lady? A letter arrived from your son.”
A sob broke through her lips as she turned to take the folded parchment the maid offered her. The woman assumed she cried because she longed for her child so greatly, but the truth was that she wept because she simply could not fend off her unsteady emotions any longer and feared they might consume her, leaving her child at the mercy of Biddeford.
Brandon’s writing was neat and clear, his spelling correct even if his sentences lacked the polish that age would bring. The maid fetched her a linen square to keep her tears from marring the letter. Justina read it three times through before forcing herself to fold it and lock it in the small chest that sat on top of the table where she kept all of Brandon’s letters, from the very first ones that were naught more than a practice of his letters, with pictures of what he would have rather been doing instead of his studies, to the one that she held today. The neat stacks of parchment gave her the strength to banish her tears and turn around to wash and dress. Brandon was in the country, her efforts gaining what was truly important. Her own feelings did not matter, that was the path that all mothers must follow.
At least the good ones.
The Earl of Hertford enjoyed merry company.
The man had his own large chambers in the palace and that included a large receiving room he must have set his servants to preparing before he left on the hunt. Long trestle tables lined the room, with ornately carved chairs set along their outer edges so that all who sat there would face in at one another. The tables were laid with fine pewter plates and silver-handled dinnerware. There was pepper and nutmeg, their scents casting even more joy to the moment because of the great cost such spices sold for. At the end of each table was placed a salt cellar, its position indicating that the master of the house granted leave to everyone to speak freely while supping this night. He might have kept the salt near his hand, and no one below the salt’s position might speak unless they were addressed. Sitting below the salt was never much fun.
Justina heard the minstrels before she entered the room. The sounds of them playing their lutes, mandolins, and even the virginals set the mood for celebration to the delight of the courtiers fortunate enough to be allowed past the Earl’s personal retainers. Somewhere, the Queen would be holding her own supper, most likely with the princesses in attendance. Still another gathering would be around the Chancellor Wriothesley and the men who supported him. While the King failed to appear, court would become a separated place, with each person having to make a choice on whom to attend. People were judged by such decisions, the gossips keeping track of who attended whom. Justina approached the Hertford retainers and watched as they cast a look back at their captain for his word on her. A barely noticeable nod from the man granted her liberty to walk into the room with all of its festivities.
A juggler performed at one end of the room, capturing the attention of most of the guests. But Justina discovered herself drawn to a large bird sitting near the head table. As large as a pheasant, the bird’s feathers were blue and gold and its beak curved. It was a parrot of some sort; the king kept one that she had heard speak several words. The bird watched her with large eyes, looking for all the world quite intelligent.
“You have a taste for the exotic, as do I.”
Francis de Canis wasn’t wearing velvet or brocade. The man was more of a rogue and dressed in clothing that was functional. His face bore the proof of his rugged lifestyle, with scars that told of fights in years gone by.
He stood between her and the room because she had stepped up onto the raised dais the bird’s perch was sitting on. Behind her lay a hallway, used to connect to the private chambers of the earl.
“I enjoy a good chase, Lady, and you have not disappointed me.”
Justina stood her ground, conscious of the hallway behind her and how easy it would be for de Canis to molest her in one of the rooms beyond. No servant would help her and the nobles were all occupied with the juggler.
“I do plan to disappoint you, sir, for I shall have none of this game.”
His clothing had warned her that he was a man who enjoyed doing things himself, but that still did not keep her from being shocked when he pushed her down the hallway. His hands delivered a sharp jab to her belly, below her stays where her flesh was soft and unprotected. Her breath went sailing out of her lungs, leaving her gasping for enough to cry out with. Pain filled her body and she stumbled backward out of the need to shield herself from more blows.
“You shall have it, Lady, and the rougher the better will please me well.”
The light from the festivities became muted when de Canis reached for her again. This time, he grabbed her upper arms and flung her toward a doorway like a bundle of laundry. Justina stepped on her skirts and fell across the floor in a tangle of fabric. She was torn between the need to cry out and the fear that being rescued might offend the nobles who considered de Canis indispensable.
The bastard knew it well, too. His face was glowing with victory and a smug smile sat on his lips.
“You are no maiden and no man’s wife. Your last lover is gone to the borderland to breed his wife, so you, madam, need a new master, and I will be happy to prove my worth to you.”
He reached for her, but the word master ignited her temper. She was sick unto death of hearing that she must