The Widows Guild: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 3) Read online

  “Well, we were wrong.”

  When did Ben and Trumpet constitute a we without Tom? Months of negotiation, was it? And not a word to him — not so much as a hint — before they hauled him into this airless den as a superfluous witness. They had a second witness already; some relation of the viscount’s, judging by the crooked beak and pallid hair. The man wore black from head to toe and looked about as pleased by the proceedings as Tom. Perhaps they should get together for a drink afterward and trade grumbles.

  The priest intoned another section of the ceremony. The viscount mumbled something and Trumpet murmured her response. The priest nattered on again.

  Tom didn’t like him either. His robes vaunted too much embroidery, giving him a decidedly Romish air. Everything about the ceremony reeked of popery, including this lavishly furnished private chapel, which barely had room for its six occupants. Trumpet’s dress alone took up a quarter of the space. Catholic fripperies cluttered every spare inch: silk tapestries, golden crucifixes, ivory statues, silk-embroidered tablecloths. A gilt table at his elbow held a copper box shaped like a sepulchre with saints painted around the sides.

  How could the viscount afford such blatant noncompliance with the established religion? This glittering trash should be melted down and converted to something useful. And how could Trumpet marry a Catholic? True, she had never been politically minded, and the queen must have approved the match. As the only legitimate child and heir of the Earl of Orford, Trumpet’s marriage was a matter of state.

  Months of negotiation. That phrase irritated Tom like a seed stuck in his teeth. Ben must have helped her draw up the marriage contract — legal work too complex for poor, dull Tom. Never mind that he too was a full-fledged member of Gray’s Inn, the most important of Her Majesty’s legal societies. He’d spent the last year studying till his wits curdled, under no less a tutor than Francis Bacon. He could draw up a marriage contract, he’d wager. Maybe not as clever as Ben’s, but he could have helped. His handwriting was exemplary, even Bacon said so.

  They’d kept their secrets mighty close; secrets evidently too sensitive for Tom the Blabber. Never mind that he’d spent the whole of last spring on a secret commission for the Lord Treasurer himself without leaking a word, not even to Ben and Trumpet. Somehow in the intervening year, he had evidently lost control of himself and become a prattling idiot.

  Tom fumed through the rest of the service, wishing constables would burst in and arrest the viscount for recusancy, along with his dour-faced cousin and the priest. At last, the loving couple exchanged a kiss and turned to make their way out of the over-pomped chamber.

  “Stay for supper,” Trumpet whispered to him as she passed.

  “As my lady pleases,” Tom answered in the tones of an ill-treated servant.

  Her eyes narrowed, but she proceeded at her husband’s side through another small chamber into the great hall, where a hammerbeam ceiling soared thirty feet over their heads and a black-and-white chequered floor spread beneath their feet. A small table had been set up in a corner beside the carved oak screen. It held a small stack of papers, an inkpot, and a pair of quills. Ben went immediately to stand behind it. He reviewed the papers, running his finger down each page, nodding as if satisfied that nothing had been changed. He selected a page with room for signatures at the bottom and turned it toward the others. He dipped a pen and handed it to the viscount with a small bow. “My lord.”

  Lord Surdeval signed it with a flourish and passed the pen to Trumpet. She dipped it in the ink, signed, and passed it to the cousin, who signed in turn. Ben dipped the pen again, signed the page himself, and passed the quill to Tom.

  “Me?”

  “As a witness to the other signatures.”

  Tom blew out a breath. Very well. He would set his name to Trumpet’s marriage contract for all of history to see. He manfully resisted the urge to scribble, “Although I strongly object to this ill-made match,” underneath his signature.

  Ben dusted the page, rolled it together with the others, and tucked the roll into his sleeve. Now for the supper. Tom hoped it would be equally brief.

  A long table had been laid in the center of the hall, spread with pristine linen cloths. Candlelight reflected on silver plates and cups, even though the blue August sky still shone bright behind the high windows. The viscount sat at the head and Trumpet at the foot. Ben and Tom took one side, the crook-nosed cousin the other.

  A liveried footman carried in a platter bearing a whole stuffed peacock, reassembled tail and all. The small party watched in silence as he placed the dish before the viscount and carved a portion for each guest. Other dishes quickly followed: broiled sardines, pork stuffed with apricots, bowls of fresh rocket decorated with beetroot and walnuts. The food was delicious and the wine excellent. Trumpet never stinted in such matters.

  She kept up a stream of lively chatter, gallantly assisted by Ben. Lord Surdeval granted her a wrinkled smile now and then but mainly focused on slurping up a bowl of plain broth. Tom ate heartily — why not? — and glared at the viscount. The cousin nibbled and glared at Trumpet. All in all, it was the most dispirited wedding supper Tom had ever attended.

  The viscount dried his white moustaches with his napkin and levered himself to his feet. “I’ll leave you with our guests, my dear. I want to take a little nap before —” He broke off with what he probably imagined was a droll smirk. The expression made him look all the more like a goblin with a bellyache.

  “Allow me see to your comfort, my lord.” Trumpet hopped to her feet, shifting her belled skirts with a limber swing of her hips. She took his arm and led him through a small door at the back of the hall.

  The three guests sat in silence while servants replaced the main course with an array of sugared violets, nutmeats, and tiny pastries shaped like hearts. They left the treats untouched but had their cups filled to the brim again. The silence deepened as they drank, gazes turned sightlessly toward the clutter on the table.

  Trumpet returned in about a quarter of an hour, striding across the chequered floor like a Lord Lieutenant coming to inspect his troops, her habitual gait. Tom felt a pang of sympathy for the viscount. Could the man have any idea what he’d gotten himself into?

  She did not resume her seat. Instead, she stood at the head of the table to address her guests with her hands demurely crossed over her stomach. “I thank you all for attending upon my lord husband and myself on this important day. I apologize for the suddenness of our arrangements, but as you know, my Lord Surdeval is anxious to restore his line, and we felt it wise to take advantage of his improving health.”

  They were being dismissed. Ben, perhaps with the benefit of advance notice, reached his feet before Tom and the cousin could hoist their arses full off their chairs. Trumpet met each guest in turn as they moved toward the exit.

  “Mr. Whitt, I trust you’ll make copies of the contract straightaway? We’ll keep the original here, but I’d like you to keep two copies at Gray’s.”

  “I’ll see to it at once, my lady.” Ben smiled down at her. He bent and kissed her on the cheek, murmuring, “I sincerely hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Trumpet laughed gaily and batted her lashes, sending a shiver up Tom’s spine. She only played the frisking minx when she had a scheme brewing and Trumpet’s schemes often went awry. Ben crooked a grin at Tom and left without him.

  She held out a graceful hand to the cousin, who lifted it to puff a kiss into the air an inch above it. “You must come to dinner tomorrow, Sir William. I’m longing to become better acquainted. We are family now, after all.” She batted her lashes at him.

  A waste of effort. The man was plainly half-blind. He muttered something and followed Ben out the door.

  Tom’s turn. Trumpet gripped his arm and looked up at him with excitement shimmering in her eyes. “I know you’re not happy with this, Tom. I’ll explain everything, I promise. Please wait here for a few minutes. Catalina will come for you.”

  Tom looked down
into those twinkling green eyes, the eyes of his dearest friend. They’d been through some tough times together, not all of them her fault. He could wait a few minutes to hear her story. He nodded. “All right.”

  She bit her lip at the curt response. “Thank you.” Then she left him alone in the echoing hall, but for a single servant stationed near the screen. Something about the man’s posture suggested he was as eager for this evening to end as Tom.

  Tom grabbed a bottle from the sideboard and returned to his seat. Then he got up and went to sit at the head of the table in the viscount’s carved armchair. The servant watched him with disapproval but said nothing. Tom leaned back in the chair and lifted his feet to the table.

  So Trumpet had married a gouty old goat in need of an heir. Did she truly mean to give him one or would she find ways to evade the marriage bed until he died? She wouldn’t care about the continuation of the Surdeval line. He hoped that was her plan, because the alternative — the plan in which that withered ogre laid his hands on Trumpet’s ripe, young body — was unbearable.

  Tom drained his cup and refilled it. He gazed around the hall, wishing for some distraction. The oak paneling gleamed from a hundred years of hand-rubbed oil. Painted crests and banners hung here and there, separated by the heads of slain animals and off-color patches where armor ought to be hanging.

  An old family like the Surdevals ought to have weaponry going back to Plantagenet times: pikes, flails, maces, halberds. Where was it? Most likely it had been confiscated by the Privy Council along with the horses. His Lordship must be a confirmed recusant; they’d want to prevent him from riding to the aid of the Spanish, if the Spanish should land, which they hadn’t, thanks to God and the courage of the English navy.

  The nobility got off with a slap on the wrist and confinement to their homes, not a hardship in a place as big as Surdeval House, one of the ancient buildings lining the Strand. It had probably been in the family since the time of John of Gaunt. Tom had seen it from the riverside, naturally, traveling upstream or down. The palaces along the Thames were one of the principal sights of London. He’d never been inside any of them until today.

  He took a swallow of wine, fingering the golden pearl earring that dangled from his left ear. His father, the privateer, had brought the jewel back from the South Seas after circumnavigating the globe with Sir Francis Drake. Tom wore it to remind himself of where he came from, however far up the ladder he might climb.

  He’d made it up the first rung last year as a result of the Cambridge commission, raising himself from yeoman to gentleman by virtue of a bachelor’s degree and membership in Gray’s Inn. People called him “Mr. Clarady” now or earned his scorn. But he could never raise himself high enough to reach Trumpet, no matter how hard he worked or how well he dressed. Not even if he got himself knighted for bravery — a private fantasy. An earl’s daughter remained as far beyond his reach as the stars in the night sky.

  When they’d met at Gray’s two years ago, she’d been masquerading as a young lad learning the law. Tom had gotten used to thinking of her as someone more or less like himself. Things didn’t change much even after he’d learned her secret, not for a while. They’d continued to sup together in commons and watch cases being tried in the Westminster courts. Shopping, fencing, idling in taverns, they’d spent the better part of their waking hours together as friends and equals.

  Now, looking around at this great hall with its centuries-long accumulation of heraldry, Tom understood that she was nothing like him. Nothing at all.

  The light falling from the high windows faded to gray. What time must it be? He and Ben had been summoned to appear at five o’clock and the ceremony had droned on for half an hour or so. That miserable supper might have lasted another hour. It could be nearly eight. It would soon be fully dark. Would his hostess be considerate enough to lend him a boy with a lantern to light his way back to Gray’s?

  He swilled the last of his wine and spat the dregs back into the cup. The swishing of silken skirts caught his attention. Catalina Luna, Trumpet’s gypsy maidservant, glided toward him across the polished floor. She beckoned to him, black eyes flashing, a secretive smile curving her wide lips.

  He followed her down a corridor, across a small interior courtyard, and up a stair winding through a narrow turret. They passed through a room furnished with odd shapes draped in canvas to a door at the rear of the house. Catalina opened it, revealing a sumptuous chamber with a wall of windows overlooking the Thames, open to admit the summer breeze.

  Trumpet stood in the middle of the room. She had exchanged her wedding garb for a loose robe of deep red velvet that made her cheeks look like fine damask and her eyes glow like green fire. Her ebony hair hung loose to her waist. “What do you think?”

  Tom had to swallow hard before he could speak. “About what?”

  His words sounded harsh; he couldn’t help it. Had she brought him here to flaunt her beauty on the very night she removed herself forever from his grasp? He knew she was beyond him. But he loved her, or he thought he might. He’d told her as much, or he almost had. She knew it, anyway. She’d told him she loved him in so many words a little over a year ago. He’d only seen her twice during that long and busy year, but now evidently things had changed.

  Her chin tilted in that prideful gesture he knew so well. “What do you think about me? About this.” She held out her hands to display herself. “About what you see.”

  “Ah.” Tom pretended to consider it. “Well, I think you are the most perfect vision of maidenly beauty I have ever seen. I think they should hold a competition among the greatest sculptors in Europe to craft your image in marble as a model for future generations of womankind to strive toward.”

  She blinked, and her mouth twisted in a complicated half frown. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

  “It almost was one.” They glared at each other. Then Tom said, “Why did you bring me here, Trumpet? Do you want some premarital advice? Catalina can give you that, surely. Or have you staged this display to taunt me?”

  “Taunt you?” She cocked her head. “No, goose. I meant to please you.” She bit her lip and began to untie the ribbons at the front of her robe, slowly, one by one. She spread the velvet folds open with both hands, revealing her body, naked beneath a transparent film of white gauze.

  “Guh,” Tom said as the air sucked out of his lungs. She giggled, and lightning lanced up his spine. His hands twitched with the need to grasp, but he stood his ground and mustered the strength to speak. “What?”

  She nodded. “Don’t worry about Surdeval. We gave him a sleeping draught. He’ll snore merrily away till morning in his own room downstairs on the other side of the house. I gave the servants enough money to get stinking drunk and sent them off to celebrate their master’s nuptials. We’re alone, except for Catalina, and she won’t interrupt us.”

  Tom noticed for the first time that the maidservant hadn’t entered the room with him. They truly were alone, here in this moonlit chamber with an enormous bed draped in silk and heaped with tasseled pillows. He willed himself to keep his eyes on Trumpet’s face and worked enough spit into his dry mouth to form another word. “Why?”

  She clucked her tongue, a purely Trumpetarian expression of irritation. “It can’t be that hard to understand. My lord husband wants an heir. I intend to give him one. But you may have noticed he’s a thousand years old and ugly as a long-nosed toad.” She grimaced, sticking out her pink tongue.

  Tom’s groin clenched. He took shallow breaths and cast a glance toward the door. “Your choice.”

  “Yes.” She followed his gaze and moved to stand between him and his only escape. “My choice. My plan. He gives me this house, a generous jointure when he dies — which won’t be long considering his failing health — and little interference in my daily life. In return, I give him sons.” She padded toward him on her bare feet in the measured paces of a panther, letting the velvet robe slide slowly down her white shoulders. “Sons, To
m, which you will give to me. I want you to do the honors.” She reached him, leaned into him, and raised her arm to curl her hand around his neck. Her breasts rose beneath the gauze, her small pink nipples pointed straight at his lips.

  Tom had no more questions. He wrapped his arm around her slender waist and kissed her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tom lost himself for an uncountable span of bliss, his arms and hands filled with lush woman, his nose buried in rose-scented hair. Trumpet feathered kisses up his neck and along his jaw. Her curious tongue darted into his ear and set his loins on fire. He wrapped his hand around the curve of her bottom and pulled her hard against his body, backing slowly toward the bed, oblivious to everything but their rising passion, until his back came up against something hard and pointy. He stopped, blinked, and pulled his mouth free.

  The bedpost. Thank God in all his glory for a grandiose, tree-sized, fully carved bedpost! Some ornate leaf stabbed him acutely in the small of the back. He blessed it for the pain. Trumpet, his dear old chum, was a virgin. Both her husband and her father were peers of the realm. This deed could only bring trouble thundering upon him from every direction.

  Tom murmured, “Stop, sweetling. We must stop.”

  “No stopping.” She nibbled his earlobe and drew him into another kiss. He leaned against the bedpost and let the unyielding oak prod life back into his wits. Freeing his lips, he turned his head, gritting his teeth against the tickling kisses she tongued across his collarbone. He tried to tug her arms away and found her legs wrapped tightly around his waist as well. She’d climbed him like a sailor climbs a mast.

  Sailor. Mast. That was it. He’d spent a year between ’85 and ’86 on his father’s ship, chasing Spanish galleons across the West Indies, seeking loot for the queen’s coffers — and their own. They’d caught three, but not without cost. He could still hear men screaming and cannons booming. He’d seen a sailor’s arm cut clean off not three feet from where he battled for his own life. Red blood had spurted everywhere as the man sank into the black smoke smothering the deck.