“Most likely not, Robin,” she said, smiling at him.
“You’re already plotting,” he accused her.
She smiled mischievously. “How can you tell? It has been years since I did any serious plotting, Robin.”
He laughed. “I remember the look, madame.” Then he grew serious. “I am glad I was here this Twelfth Night instead of giving my fete in London. The damned thing has become outrageously expensive. I count it good fortune that I came to Queen’s Malvern this year.”
“I loved your father’s fetes,” Skye said, the memories rising to fill her heart. “Especially the Twelfth Night one. I can still see the queen’s barge making its way up the river to Lynmouth House. Twelfth Night has always been special to me. I knew I carried you one Twelfth Night, Robin. And do you remember that Twelfth Night just a few years back when Jasmine almost caused a scandal because Sybilla caught her in bed with Lord Leslie. And now Twelfth Night will always be etched in my memory with Adam’s passing.” She shivered, and drew her cloak about her shoulders. “I shall never enjoy the holiday again.”
“Though I know you need your solitude,” Robin said, “I dislike leaving you, madame.” His arm was tight about her.
“I feel fragile at this moment, Robin,” she admitted to him, “but it will pass. It did with your father, and it did with Niall.”
But you had Adam to be your bulwark each time, Robin considered, but kept the thought to himself. “Tell me before you leave England,” he said. “And tell that niece of mine to come home.” He kissed her soft cheek, then hugged her hard.
“Godspeed, Robin,” Skye said to her son, then stood watching as his coach made its way down the drive and around a bend, out of her sight.
“Yer a devious old woman,” Daisy told her mistress as she helped her into the house. “You have no intention of telling him when yer leaving for France, do ye?”
Skye chuckled. “Of course not,” she replied. “If I tell Robin, he will tell the earl of Glenkirk who will seek to follow me to Jasmine and the children. Nay, I’ll not tell him a thing.”
“He’ll tell the earl anyway when he passes through London in a few days,” Daisy said.
“Which is why I’ll already be on my way to France,” Skye answered her tiring woman. “They’ll not use me to force my darling girl back to England. She’ll not come unless she chooses to come.”
“Oh, yer a wicked creature,” Daisy said chortling, but then she grew serious. “How will ye mourn his lordship if ye go, my lady?”
“I do not have to remain at Queen’s Malvern to mourn my Adam,” Skye told her servant. “Adam is always with me no matter where I go.”
“I’ll begin packing this very day, m’lady,” Daisy said, “and I’ll pray for a calm sea when we cross to France.”
“You do not have to come with me, Daisy. I can take a younger lass to serve me. I think Martha would do, do ye not?”
“I do not!” Daisy said indignantly. “Yer not going off without me this time, Mistress Skye. We’re of an age, you and I. If you can travel, then so can I! Martha indeed! Why the chit is a slattern, and not fit to serve a child. Martha, humph,” Daisy snorted. Then she bustled off to begin packing for their trip.
Skye had not yet removed her cloak. Pulling the hood up, she slipped from the house and, walking through the barely ankle-deep snow, made her way across the lawns and up the gentle hillock to her husband’s grave. A small wooden cross marked the spot although later there would be a more impressive monument of stone. She stopped and stared down.
“Well, now, old man,” she said softly, “and didn’t you give us a Twelfth Night to remember. How could you leave me, Adam? Ahhh, I know ’twas not your fault.” She sighed deeply. “They’ve all gone now. I don’t know when I’ve been quite so irritated with Willow. Yes, yes, I know she means well, but you know how I dislike it when she tries to run my life. Three daughters. One who brays constantly like a donkey; the second, a dear mousekin; and the third, in Scotland. God’s boots!”
A gentle wind ruffled the fur edging the cloak’s hood, and a small smile touched the corners of Skye’s mouth. “Now don’t go trying to wheedle around me, Adam de Marisco,” she said. “You know that I’m correct. Not one of my girls is a bit like me. Only Jasmine is like me, old man, and well you know it. I’ll have to leave you for a while because I’m off to France to tell her of how you left us. She’s enjoying her freedom, I can tell, but ’tis past time she came home with the children and settled down. She won’t have an easy time with Lord Leslie until she makes her peace with him. You were right, old man. I should have insisted she come home long since instead of encouraging her in her rebellion. Ahhh, Adam, I can almost hear you laughing with my admission. I didn’t often say you were wiser than I, but you were, my dearest.”
Two days later, before the dawn had even begun to tint the eastern skies, Thistlewood, the de Marisco coachman, climbed up onto the box of his mistress’s great traveling coach where his assistant already waited. “Well, me boy,” he said, his breath coming in icy little puffs, “we’re off for France we are. At least this day appears to be coming on fair, but Jesu, ’tis cold!” He settled himself and, turning, asked the younger man, “Are ye ready then?” And at his companion’s nod, Thistlewood cracked his whip over the horses’ heads. The coach lurched forward, moving slowly down the drive of Queen’s Malvern toward the main road and southeast toward the coast.
In London the earl of Lynmouth found his friend, the earl of Glenkirk, at Whitehall Palace. “Are you in the mood to bring a wily vixen to heel, Jemmie?” he asked, a wicked smile upon his lips.
“You know where she is?” James Leslie replied, his tone cold.
“No, but if you are quick, I know how you may find her,” Robin Southwood replied. Then he went on to explain that his stepfather had died, and Skye had said she would go to France to tell Jasmine.
“In the spring?” James Leslie said. “Then there is time.”
“My mother said in the spring, but she is guileful as always. I would wager she’ll be on the road now, racing for the coast, because she knows full well that on my way home I have come to London to tell you. I set two riders on my brother Murrough, who did not go straight home as he said, but rather has headed for Harwich according to information I received today. Mama will cross to Calais from there. You must get to Dover so you may intercept her and follow her to wherever my niece has hidden herself.”
The earl of Glenkirk’s green eyes narrowed in contemplation. Thanks to Robin Southwood, he was finally to catch up with the recalcitrant dowager marchioness of Westleigh, Jasmine de Marisco Lindley. A woman he had once believed himself in love with, but whom he had learned to hate these past twenty-one months since she had made him the laughingstock of the court by jilting him in the face of King James’s order that they marry. Worse, she had taken the king’s grandson, the late Prince Henry’s infant, their child, with her. Yet the king had appointed Glenkirk the boy’s legal guardian. But now for the first time in almost two years he had a serious chance of catching Jasmine, and this time, he instinctively knew he would catch her.
He had known she was in France all along, but the three times he had crossed the Channel to entrap her she was always gone, and her French relations always claimed no knowledge of her, shrugging in that particularly irritating Gallic way the French had. Yet his informants were his own relations who had married into France. They had played a very crafty cat and mouse game these many months, but somehow Jasmine always knew when he was coming, and was gone, with her children, before he could reach her. This time it would be different because no one knew he was coming. Because he would follow