A Lady’s Secret (29 page)

Her father.

Her mother had been correct about the resemblance, but she couldn’t have known he’d have a picture in which he looked so much the same, so she’d still trusted to remembered kindness. But the harsher-featured man before her had doubled his age and become the Dark Marquess, the Eminence Noir, the duelist. When all Petra wanted was to collapse into someone’s strong protection, she would have to dredge up a little more strength and stay on guard.

“Varzi seized me in Boulogne,” she said, choosing each word. “I escaped, but he injured two men who were trying to help me. I must confess to injuring one of Varzi’s men when I escaped. There may be trouble over that.”

“No French legal matter can affect you here. As for this Varzi, now that I know, he will not bother you further.”

Do all Englishmen think themselves invulnerable?
“Don’t underestimate him, my lord.”

“I try never to underestimate people, especially enemies. Do you think he has followed you here?”

“I took great pains to lose any pursuers.”

“Good. He need not worry you any longer, my dear.”

Irritation sparked. She might have wanted a father, but she didn’t want to be patted on the head and told not to worry.

Perhaps he read her thoughts, for he smiled slightly. “You must allow me a father’s right to protect.”

That was exactly what she was afraid of.

He rose. “I am delighted you’ve found me, Petra, but I must return to my guests. May I assume you would like to rest, bathe, and change?”

Petra rose, too, remembering her sorry state. “I’m sorry. And I have no other clothes….”

“No matter. Clothes can be found. I believe you’re of a size with my wife.”

She’d forgotten his wife. “She will not mind?”

“Lending you a gown? No.”

“My existence.”

“Mind a love affair over twenty years ago? She’s much too wise, and, in fact, you bring a precious gift. But that, too, must wait.” He hesitated then, in a way that seemed unusual for him. “I will not pressure you, but it would please me if you could eventually call me Father or Papa.”

She stared at him. “You wish to openly acknowledge me?”

“With such a striking resemblance,” he said, amused, “I see no choice.”

He went to the door to speak to the footman again, then returned to lead her out of the room, up the grand staircase, and into a warren of corridors. What sort of remote room did a bastard daughter warrant?

“This place is a maze,” he said. “Too many piecemeal renovations over the centuries. Summon a footman to guide you if you don’t wish to wander. Most rooms have bellpulls.”

He opened a door into a lovely, sunlit bedchamber, decorated in deep pink and creams. “You may choose another later, but this is recently vacated and thus aired. The pull is there, by the fireplace. Request anything you wish, my dear. This is now your home. I’ll station a footman outside your door to serve as guide, and in case you’re wrong about signor Varzi. The abbey is more vulnerable than usual today.”

Vulnerable. Petra glanced outside, seeing the crowded estate with a new eye. “He is ruthless,” she warned. “In Boulogne, he overpowered one guard and threatened to mutilate him unless I went with him. But he had two henchmen then.”

“How many does he have now?”

“None of those. One I wounded. The other…was killed by a smuggler.”

“I’m all admiration. But don’t fear. My own position and activities demand a certain amount of security. He will not threaten you here.”

He left, and Petra sat on a chaise upholstered in deep pink velvet, weakened by relief, confusion, exhaustion, and fear, especially for Robin. Thank God she hadn’t let him bring her here. She’d recognized the sort of man he was at first sight. The Marquess of Rothgar would surely do the same. He did not seem to be a man who’d look kindly on a rake who’d fornicated with his daughter, no matter how protective he’d been.

Of course, she didn’t need to reveal that. Unless she turned out to be with child. That was a disaster she refused to contemplate.

But many fathers would insist on marriage if their daughter was merely alone with a man in an intimate situation, never mind if she shared a bed with him. Three times, if one counted the coach.

A forced marriage. What a horrible thing to do to Robin, and she didn’t want it herself. She was in such turmoil now, too raw and unsettled in this life to take steps that could not be reversed. She needed time to grow accustomed, to understand, to discover what opportunities she had and which she wanted.

She would have to make sense of her story without mentioning Robin….

No, that was impossible.

Then she’d invent someone to play his part. She hated to start her new life with lies, but she must. She wiped tears from her face with her hands. First, she needed a name.

She’d keep “Robin” because she knew she’d make a mistake there sooner or later. Or…Robert. That was more common, she thought.

If anything he’d told her was true. She realized that she wasn’t sure of anything. Ridiculous after their adventures, but she couldn’t be sure even of “Robin.” She searched back to their first day when they’d been playing that truth game, and she’d been concealing facts. No doubt he had, too, and largely because he didn’t want a suspect adventuress to know too much. She wished he’d trusted her with the truth before they’d parted….

But why should he? She hadn’t revealed her secrets to him.

But “Robin.” She had to believe that, or she had nothing, nothing at all.

She had to come up with a surname that sounded realistic for an Englishman, and she knew such things were full of traps in a foreign language. She remembered Mighty Mike Cockcroft. Robert Cockcroft, then. Yes, that should work.

What other details? Derbyshire might be true. In fact, Huntingdonshire probably was, so Robert Cockcroft must be from somewhere far from there. She envisioned a map of England and picked the toe that stuck out into the Atlantic. Cornwall. Robert Cockcroft, a quiet gentleman of impeccable virtue. Older, but not too old for adventures. About forty.

Yes, that would do.

She built Robert Cockcroft in her mind—a little gray, a little stocky. Kind and dependable, with no hint of cockiness.

Next she thought of protecting herself. She would have to admit to folly over Ludo to try to explain his mad pursuit, but not the extent of it. One day rumors would reach here from Milan, but rumors could be denied.

Or she’d prove to be with child, showing she’d made not one mistake but two.

That made her cry again, but she pulled herself together. She was here. She had fulfilled her promise to her mother, and her mother’s predictions had come true. Her father was willing to accept her, provide for her, and protect her, and if anyone could protect her it was the Marquess of Rothgar.

He would pursue Varzi, and that would help keep Robin and his men safe, too.

Possibly, just possibly, with luck and her wits, she would soon have again an orderly, secure life. First she would have to tell her story, however, and she’d feel stronger and braver if she was clean and decent.

She looked at the bellpull, but instead the lovely bed called to her. It was hung with cream cloth scattered with embroidered wildflowers, the mattress covered with a cloth of the same design. Not now. Perhaps later, when she was clean…

But then she couldn’t resist. She stripped down to her shift, toed off her battered shoes, dragged down the covers, and climbed the short steps up onto fresh, white sheets. She pulled the covers back up over herself, inhaling the sunshine in which the sheets had hung to dry, looking up at the gathered silk on the underside of the bed’s canopy.
A clean, well-aired bed will do, in a clean room. In a room entirely for myself.

Oh, Robin. I hope you are in as good a state as I right now.

With that, she fell fast asleep.

P
etra opened her eyes to dimness and rubbed them. Had she dreamt it all? Was she still in some inn bedroom? No. Pleated silk lined the canopy above her bed, and when she sat up she saw the pretty room to which the Marquess of Rothgar had brought her. Someone had drawn the thick curtains, that was all, cutting the light, but chinks at either side showed it was still daylight outside.

How could she have simply gone to bed? What sort of behavior was that?

She climbed out of bed and saw a glass pitcher of water, which made her aware of how thirsty she was. She poured and drank. Then did so again until the jug was empty.

That prompted another need. There was no chamber pot beneath the bed, but she found a privy chair behind a silk screen and used it. There was no washing water on the stand, however, and she was still dirty. She blushed to see her feet had left smears of dirt on the pristine sheets.

Then she noticed that her clothing was gone. She remembered shedding it and letting it lie where it fell, and winced. Now some servant knew that the marquess’s bastard daughter was a slut. This was not the entrance she’d hoped to make.

If she’d stayed with Lady Sodworth she would probably have arrived here in her habit. It wouldn’t have been particularly clean, but there would have been some dignity in that. Except that the English disliked Papists. She shook her head at the memory of leaving her cross and rosary in Robin’s pocket. What use could they be to him?

Robert Cockcroft,
she reminded herself,
sober man of Cornwall
.

She raised the curtains to let in light but still didn’t see her clothing. A brown robe lay over a chair, however, so she stripped off her threadbare shift and put that on, then went to the fireplace and resolutely tugged the pull.

That was when she saw a folded sheet of paper on the mantelpiece with
Petra
written on it.

She reached for it, but then saw it lay beside the cameo brooch, her prayer book, and some coins—the simple contents of her pockets. What had a servant made of them?

She touched the raised design of a robin, wondering if it would betray him, but surely that was far-fetched. To anyone else it would merely be a bird. She picked up the letter, knowing it had to be from her father before she saw the seal, with its clear impression of an R.

R for “Rothgar.” R for “Robin.”

Had the design on Robin’s ring been an R?

She shook that away. A seal would not be a person’s first name.

She unfolded the sheet of heavy paper, remembering the poor stuff she’d used in Speenhurst. Robin should have received that yesterday. Had he done as requested and given up his search?

Clear, straight writing, like Robin’s, but forming darker lines.

It was signed simply
Rothgar
.

Petra read it through again, seeking some deeper understanding. It was somewhat formal, but this was a situation without social guidelines. Half past six. She looked around, but there was no clock.

The prayer book contained her evidence—the picture of an eye and the letter from her mother. It seemed they might not be needed, but she took the book, looking around for something with which to cut out the pieces of paper.

There was a knock on the door.

Petra had only just put the prayer book back in place when a maid entered and curtsied.

“What time is it?” Petra asked.

“Nearly six of the evening, miss.”

She had the rosy cheeks and robust look of the Gainers, but blond hair showed at the front of a neat, frilled cap. Petra felt her own head. Her mobcap was gone, exposing her short hair. Perhaps that was why the maid looked curious. “Miss,” she’d said. What name had the servants been given? She’d look mad for asking.

“I need to wash and change,” she said hesitantly. Despite the marquess’s note, she was unsure of her privileges. “Bathe, if possible.” That might be too great an imposition at short notice.

“Yes, miss.”

“Quickly?”

“Yes, miss.” The maid curtsied again and left. Petra threw her hands up. She should have said she must be ready in half an hour. What was the matter with her? She’d been raised with servants to provide every want, so why not make clear demands here?

The maid returned very quickly, entering through a side door Petra hadn’t noticed because it blended with the white-paneled walls.

“Your bath’s ready, miss.”

“Already?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Your name?” Petra asked.

“Susanna, miss.”

“Then take me to my bath, Susanna.”

“In here, miss.”

“Next door is a bathing room?”

“Your dressing room, miss.”

Petra entered a small chamber, easily warmed by a fire and containing a clothes press and two chests of drawers. The bath sat in the center, but it was not a tub to be carried in for the occasion, but a piece of furniture in a glossy wooden box.

Steam rose from it, and Petra asked, “How is this done so fast?”

“There’s always hot water, miss, and the marquess devised a way to feed it to the dressing rooms.”

Petra was astonished, but didn’t hesitate in shedding her robe and climbing up the steps. When she eased down into the just-right water, she sighed with pleasure. “This is lovely.” Then she realized she’d said it in Italian. Ah, well, the maid probably understood the meaning.

The inside of the bath was decorated with painted flowers, but as Petra scrubbed away days of travel they were soon clouded by dirty water.

As in Montreuil.

Don’t think about Montreuil.

Robin bathing nearby. She’d imagined his naked body. Later she’d been his lover, but all she remembered was taut muscles, intense life, and blinding pleasure.
Oh, God, don’t remember that pleasure.

“Are you cold, miss? Do you want me to draw more hot?”

Had she shivered?

“No, no, thank you, but I must hurry. Wash my hair, please. It’s short and doesn’t take long to dry.”

Don’t remember. Don’t remember anything. Robert Cockcroft, quiet man of Cornwall.

Petra soon rose to step into the towel the maid held. She would think of this bath as a baptism, a transition into a new life, the new life her mother had wanted for her.

She quickly put on the clean shift—one of finest lawn and trimmed with lace. She tied on a new pair of pockets, and then the maid laced her into stays, which she hadn’t worn for years but which encompassed her like a hug of conformity. These were pretty, too, being covered in striped material and trimmed with lace. The stockings were plain, practical cotton, however, held on by simple garters of brown braid. Lastly, she put on something else she hadn’t worn for years—cane hoops to hold out her skirt.

She was changing, remembering. Embroidered silken skirts, floating and bobbing as she danced and flirted. A young girl so sure of her place in her world and her charms…

She turned her mind to choosing between the three gowns laid out for her. One of green reminded her too much of Robin. A red one seemed too dramatic. She chose the gown of sky blue with a thin white stripe. It seemed demure.

She put on the white petticoat and then the gown, which was closed on top but open at the bottom.
Like the gown Robin bought for me…

She shook that away and studied herself in the long mirror. At last, she looked a lady—except for her hair. A clock somewhere chimed the half hour, and she started.

“I must go down. Shoes?” Wherever her own were, they weren’t suitable for this outfit.

Dining with Robin in my stockinged feet…

“I think these slippers will fit, miss.”

The maid offered backless shoes with a small heel, the front made of blue silk. Petra put her feet into them. “Yes, they do. Thank you. I will need a guide down to…to wherever the family is eating.”

“A footman’s waiting outside, miss.”

“Oh yes. Thank you.”

Petra checked her appearance again in the mirror, but then realized she was delaying. She had to do one thing, wise or not. She had no time now to retrieve her evidence, but she hurried into the bedroom and pinned the cameo to the middle of the bodice for courage.

A robin for courage? As likely as a butterfly.

She remembered when he’d told her his name. “Robin.”

She’d said, “The small bird with the red breast?”

He’d said, “Cheerful and friendly,” and continued with a challenge about having stood her friend. That was when he’d teased her about being his sparrow, the one who killed Cock Robin.

That prediction had almost come true outside Folkestone. She’d make sure nothing like that happened again.

She straightened her spine and left the room. A liveried footman stood there, pretending to be a statue. For a moment, Petra couldn’t think of magic words to animate him, but then she said, “I’m ready.”

He inclined his head and set off. She followed, trying to revive the contessina Petra d’Averio, who’d taken servants and fine clothing so for granted that she’d hardly been aware of them.

She was led back down the grand staircase to the marble hall and across it to a door, which the footman opened. He didn’t announce her, so Petra still didn’t know who the servants thought she was.

She saw a relatively small room filled with a large number of people, and faltered. They’d all turned to look at her. She summoned the contessina and walked in to curtsy to the room.

Lord Rothgar was already coming to her, seeming warm and relaxed. He took her hand and presented her. “A delightful addition to our family—my daughter Petra.”

Everyone smiled and welcomed her.

Lord Bryght said, “Now you’ve shown us the picture, I can see why you didn’t doubt, Bey.”

Bey?

No one seemed shocked by her, but which was his wife?

A brown-haired woman approached and kissed Petra’s cheek. “My dear! This must all be quite alarming, but you are very welcome. I’m not sure I’m ready to be a stepmother, however, especially to someone only a little younger than I. I hope you’ll call me Diana. Let me introduce you to the family.”

Petra knew the kind stream of words was meant to soothe her, but she couldn’t stop seeking hidden hostility and traps. For all the charming informality, Lady Rothgar was a grand lady who would be well skilled in sugaring poison.

“I believe you met Lord and Lady Bryght….”

“Portia,” said the smiling, petite woman whom Petra had met in the garden.

“And this is Lord and Lady Steen. Hilda is Rothgar’s sister.”

Petra dipped a curtsy to a russet-haired woman and a brown-haired man who had none of the aura of the high aristocracy. Lady Steen, who seemed to be mending a child’s stocking, said, “Welcome to the madhouse, my dear.”

Mad.

“Hilda,” Diana chided with a smile, and led Petra on. “Lord and Lady Brand Malloren. Brand is another of Lord Rothgar’s brothers, and Rosa is my cousin. You’ll see there are dark Mallorens and reddish ones.”

Lord Bryght and Lord Rothgar being dark, and Lady Steen and this man being reddish.

Petra smiled, but she felt shaken. Lord Brand didn’t actually look much like Robin, but a well-formed face, loose burnished hair, and smiling blue eyes had been enough for a moment of shock and longing.

“Hilda’s correct,” Rosa said. “It takes time to adjust to the Mallorens.” She was plump and pretty except for a sad scar down one cheek that distorted her face a little. It didn’t seem to bother her, and her smile was warm.

“Doesn’t it just!” said Portia. “With a Malloren…”

The women all completed it:
“…all things are possible.”

“But of course, it’s really Bey,” Portia completed.

Bey?
Petra wondered again.

“Petra is already a Malloren,” Lord Rothgar said with a mock frown, “and lives up to the motto, for she has made all things possible in coming here. Her adventures seem remarkable.”

Petra thought perhaps Lord Steen groaned, but when she looked around, she could see only good humor and welcome.

She risked a question. “Bey?”

“Our names are all from before the Conquest,” her father said. “Being first, I received the name Beowulf.”

“Sometimes I threaten to call him Wolf,” his wife teased.

“I am not a predator.”

“No,” said Lord Bryght, “but try denying that you’re a potentate.”

“Has it not served you all well? Ignore this irreverent lot,” Lord Rothgar said, and steered Petra toward a table. “I found a few more pictures.”

Petra saw the miniature he’d shown her earlier, but also a painting about eighteen inches high from the same period, and a skillful pencil sketch that was perhaps most true to life. It captured youthful self-assurance and a touch of haughtiness that went deeper, and a bright-eyed enthusiasm for life. There was more, however—a suggestion of powerful intelligence in the eyes and high forehead. No wonder her mother had been swept into insanity.

As she herself had been by another magical young man.

“I, too, have a picture,” she said. “But only of an eye.”

“Ah yes,” he said with a rueful smile. “I had one in return. I have to confess to not knowing what became of it.”

Whereas her mother had treasured hers. Love was not always reciprocated, and she must remember that.

A footman entered to announce supper. Lord Rothgar took Petra’s hand to lead her from the room. “We’ll be delighted to hear your story as we eat, my dear, but if you wish to wait, simply say so.”

“I’d be happy to tell you,” Petra said to the room.

“But you must tell me if you’re bored.”

“Impossible to imagine.”

The dining room was of moderate size, which made her think there must be a grand one, as well. Even so, it could have held twice their number. Lord Rothgar seated her on his right hand, but she realized she made an uncomfortable ninth. Then an empty chair was taken by a middle-aged man.