Will bowed. “Your daughter is a sweet lady, but there was no need. I’ve been in no danger.”
Mathieson, a grizzled former courtier fallen from grace, was no great friend. Used to the in-fighting that went on around the queen, he was utterly untrustworthy, continually contradicting himself, and forever involved in dubious money-making schemes. These—thus far—Will had managed to avoid.
“I’m glad to hear it.” The man’s eyes scanned Will’s horse, his clothes and saddlebags. “You’ve been traveling, then. I assured Paulina that was all it was, but she swore you’d have told her if you were going away. She was certain some ill had befallen you.”
“No ill.” Will frowned. They shouldn’t be talking like this in the street, especially not about Paulina. He’d never given the woman any reason to worry over him, had done nothing to secure her interest. Now Mathieson was making it sound as if she’d set her cap at him—which was the very last thing he wanted.
“I’m weary, sir, if you’ll forgive me. I’ll just walk my horse along a little way and rouse my servants to heat me some water. Mayhap I’ll call on you upon the morrow when I am more myself.”
Mathieson’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, but I have something for you. A messenger came a few days ago with a packet. A sealed package. I’ve seen the seal before, so he didn’t need to tell me it was from the Earl of Leicester. Of course, I did the neighborly thing and took it in, as we’d no idea when you might return, and we all know servants are not to be trusted. The messenger wasn’t keen to give it up but a shilling persuaded him. I shall not charge you for that.” Mathieson sniffed and looked smug, then added, “Now, why don’t I send a boy to alert your staff you’re on your way, while you come to my house, sup with us, and retrieve your packet?”
Will didn’t like the way the man narrowed his eyes, or the touch of those fingers, digging into his shoulder. A serpent of doubt slid down his spine. Mathieson had that look about him, the subdued excitement of another scheme, a brightness to his eyes like that of a hound on the scent.
“From Leicester, you say? That does surprise me. I wonder what he can have sent me, and why.” It wouldn’t do for Mathieson to know Will was Leicester’s man. He who had once been Queen Elizabeth’s favorite had blackened his own name by taking the title of Governor of the Netherlands against her wishes, and later, he’d executed the Governor of Grave for surrendering to the Spanish. It had been a grim affair, sickening both Will and Edward, but their loyalty to Leicester remained steadfast. What else could they do? They’d been in an impossible situation.
Of course, Leicester’s detractors had made the most of it, whispering lies and deceit into the queen’s ear. Consequently, now was not a good time to be openly supportive of Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. Particularly not in front of scheming neighbors like Mathieson.
But if Will didn’t accept the man’s invitation, he’d never get his packet.
He made a gracious bow. “Most generous, sir. Send a boy if you will. I may not stay long—I’m not dressed for company and, as I said, am weary from riding.”
Mathieson dispatched a messenger, along with Will’s horse for stabling, and opened the heavy oak door that led into his plot. Larger than most on the street, it boasted a cobbled courtyard, an herb garden, and small fishpond. The building itself was a towering three stories high, allowing much-needed access to light and air from the top floor. As the men entered, some doves fluttered noisily up from the yard to perch on the roof of their rickety dovecote.
A young woman, blonde and rosy-cheeked, glanced up from scattering seed. As soon as she saw Will, her eyes lit up, and she hurtled towards him across the cobbles, then bobbed a breathless curtsey.
“Sir William! I cannot believe ’tis you. We had given you up for dead. I asked your housekeeper whenever I saw her but she swore to me she’d heard nothing of the kind.”
She linked her arm with his. “Why so secretive? Why depart without bidding us farewell? I should chastise you, I truly should—should I not, Father? I have quite broken my heart over you.”
Ah, Paulina Mathieson. His memory of her had faded in his time abroad. He’d forgotten how pretty, but not how garrulous she was, nor how inclined to be a nuisance. Most women would have matured in over half a year but she, it seemed, was reluctant to relinquish her girlish behavior.
“I regret you have done so. As you can see, it was needless.” As Paulina bounced him towards the house, he made sure to conceal his limp. The family was too sly, too apt to ask awkward questions.
She hugged his arm tightly. Yes, very pretty, but he knew her rosebud mouth was quick to pout or droop when she failed to get her way. He’d seen her pinch a female servant on more than one occasion, and whenever she walked abroad, her nose was held so high, it surprised him she wasn’t forever stepping in something. As soon as they were within the home, he disentangled himself.
The commodious parlor housed Goody Mathieson, Paulina’s mother, working a square of cutwork embroidery in her lap, and one other person, a gentleman who was leaning against the empty stone fireplace. As Will doffed his hat and handed his cloak to a manservant, the man came forward.
“Good morrow.” The stranger spoke with the hint of an accent.
“Good day to you, sir.” In the dim light that filtered through the window, Will could see the man was short in stature, though well-made, sporting a doublet with the fashionable peasecod belly he himself despised. He’d far rather his clothes fitted him—padding was a foolish frippery, and impractical withal.
“You are thinking me a suspicious Spaniard, or one of the deplorable Dutch.” Dark, intelligent eyes twinkled at Will. “I assure you, I am merely a compatriot of your queen’s ‘Little Frog’, God rest him, but have lived here so long I no longer feel myself French. The Comte de Velors, at your service.”
Will had heard of the French count. After Elizabeth’s rejection of her French suitor, the Duke of Anjou, the disappointed peer had taken himself off to stir up trouble in the Low Countries, before dying of a tertian ague. De Velors had been in the duke’s retinue while he was in England and having—so he claimed—an English mother, had elected to remain here rather than follow his benefactor. He’d spent the past few years borrowing, gambling, and speculating to secure his financial position. Rumor had it that much of his small fortune consisted of gifts from grateful widows and single ladies. However, the comte was allegedly too handy with a sword for anyone to suggest this to his face.
What was this handsome, capricious creature doing in the Mathieson household? Courting Paulina, mayhap? But not for gain, surely—the Mathiesons were middling folk at best, despite their ambitions. He must have been tempted by Paulina’s good looks—Mathieson had better watch out, lest his daughter become more of a burden than she was already, by getting with child.
Only… only Paulina was hanging on his arm once more, gazing up adoringly at him, not at the comte. And both her parents looked on benignly, neither of them castigating her for her impropriety.
Will cleared his throat and extricated himself from Paulina’s grip. “I am honored, monsieur.” He turned to Mathieson. “Sir, you said you had a packet for me?”