She nodded. Will’s servants couldn’t question her if they couldn’t speak her supposed tongue. It would be a hard part to play, but do it she must, for exposure could be the ruin of them both.
She walked beside him as they traversed a small vegetable plot, entered a narrow passageway, and emerged onto a cobbled courtyard.
And immediately ran into trouble.
“Aha, Sir William!” A well-dressed gentleman with white hair and beard had just emerged from the main door of the house, followed by a small entourage. Isobel froze, but Will quickly whispered something to Maybury, who pulled her off to the shadowed side of the courtyard.
“We have no role in this masque, lady. Best give Cavendish the stage. I wonder who that golden-haired beauty is?”
She’d been wondering the same thing. A young woman, with a plump bosom and small mouth was fawning all over Will. A short but well-made gentleman stood on one side of her, looking sour, while the white-haired man—her father, mayhap—spoke to Will in slow, deliberate tones, loudly enough for his words to reach her where she stood with Maybury. Although, she must remember not to appear to understand what passed between them.
Alas, the blonde lady had noticed her, and the thin lips were pressed close together. Isobel shuffled and stared at her feet, then drew out her handkerchief and blew her nose loudly. She hunched her shoulders, too, for added effect, and eventually, the woman lost interest.
“You’ve been on your travels again, Sir William,” the older man was saying. “I’m disappointed. I thought we had business to discuss.”
“What kind of business?” Will’s manner was reserved, even cold. He didn’t look at the young woman or the fellow at her side.
The older man glanced over at Maybury, who was paring his fingernails with his dagger, a pursuit requiring a good deal of concentration.
“Concerning the packet I received on your behalf. Most particularly the personage from whom it came. A person with whom an ambitious man would not wish to be associated.”
“You already know the contents of the package. And a passing whim of Robert Dudley’s hardly bears the brand of treachery. What more is there to say on the matter?”
The white-haired man’s face darkened. He waved at his younger companion. “Take my daughter back home if you would, Comte. I shall return shortly, after a brief discussion with my neighbor here.”
The rosy-cheeked young woman was borne off, pouting, but as she departed, she subjected Isobel to intense scrutiny, then tossed her head haughtily as she sailed through the gateway to the street beyond.
Will had claimed to have no betrothed. But that didn’t mean no one had a claim on him. Isobel realized, with an unexpected twinge of her heart, that the woman had more than a passing interest in Sir William Cavendish.
Will and the girl’s father had vanished into the house, and peace descended on the courtyard, broken only by the odd coo and flutter of the doves inhabiting a small dovecote in the corner. Maybury glanced up.
“Ah, it looks as though Cavendish has sent us his housekeeper. She appears to have set a course for you, Mistress, so I’ll follow the gentlemen and demand my cup of Canary. And I should like to hear about this packet from the Earl of Leicester, and why Cavendish is so dismissive thereof.”
With a wink, he left Isobel and disappeared into the house.
She glanced at the woman before her, then lowered her gaze. For good measure, she executed a curtsey. If Will had, indeed, informed his housekeeper she was a seamstress, the woman was a cut above her, and she must remember her place.
But how did one pretend to be Portuguese? She had no idea what the language even sounded like. Best to mutter and mumble, and signal with her hands. Mercy—could Will not have come up with a better disguise for her?
“I am Goodwife Cooper.” The housekeeper, neatly dressed in a tan bodice and skirt, with a generous rouleau to accentuate the width of her hips, spoke each word with exaggerated clarity. “Follow me.”
When Isobel pretended not to understand, she beckoned. Smiling and nodding, Isobel followed her through another doorway into a narrow passageway. She was taken into a small paneled parlor with a decorated plaster ceiling and invited, with exaggerated hand gestures, to sit down, wash her hands, and help herself from a charger bearing bread, cheese, a brace of cold chicken legs, and a slice of sweet onion tart.
This was good fare for a servant. Did all Will’s people dine so well, or only the higher ones? She was grateful for the vittles—her stomach had misbehaved ever since she’d been deprived of her poppy juice, and the only way to quiet it was to fill it.
She was given no instructions, no duties, but left to her own devices as the housekeeper vanished into the depths of the building.
Looking around, she surmised she must be in the preserving room. A carved dresser bore various pots and ceramic bottles either corked or covered with pigs’ bladders. A sugarloaf stood on a high shelf, partly covered with a muslin cloth, and a spice chest had its own shelf further down. Salt and candle boxes hung from hooks in the paneling, and a large bunch of dried lavender was suspended from the ceiling, along with other flowers and herbs she didn’t immediately recognize. A chafing dish stood near the fireplace, on the hearthstone.
This would be a pleasant place in which to work. She could make simples, sweetmeats and conserves, tussie-mussies, and bowls of dried, scented petals—such as roses, stocks and lavender—to set about the house.
What was she thinking? This was a mere island in the storm, a temporary refuge while her perilous situation was resolved. She needed security, coin, and her own house back. She had to assume it was her house, and that Hubert hadn’t already found some way to deprive her of it. Her sojourn with Will would be but brief. It had to be, for who would marry her if they knew she’d dwelled in another man’s house, especially a gentleman as handsome and eligible as Will?
She took a swig of small beer to cool herself. Since when had she thought of him as available? She’d banished all thought of marriage—but then, he hadn’t suggested it for the right reasons. A marriage of convenience to Will Cavendish would be a misery—unless she could tempt him into making it something more. Merciful heavens, she was confused!
The door into the housekeeper’s room slammed back against the wall, making the paneling reverberate, and Will stalked into the room.
Desperate to hide the flush on her cheeks, Isobel stood and backed away from the light.
Will’s fist hit the table with a thump. She had never seen him look so furious before—rage boiled in his pale eyes, and a muscle worked in his jaw.
She came forward and laid her hand over his. “Whatever is the matter?”
He rolled his wrist and clutched at her, his grip strong enough to hurt.
“That accursed scoundrel Mathieson is blackmailing me into marrying his daughter, Paulina.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Forgive me. I should control myself better. This is not the behavior of a gentleman.”
Will looked down as Isobel rubbed her thumb across his clenched knuckles. Her touch was sensuous, tender, too. Yet, it made him feel worse.
“It is of no matter. You must tell me what this Master Mathieson said.”
He collapsed onto a bench and ran a hand through his hair. “He took in a packet addressed to me, sent as payment for my assistance to Leicester. And, in some sense—though the earl ought to know he can trust me—to buy my silence over that issue with the Mayor of Grave. Leicester somewhat foolishly used his own seal, which, of course, Mathieson recognized. Apparently, he’s been making inquiries in my absence, and has proof positive I was with the earl on that ill-fated expedition.”