Page 49 of Ondine

“Then get off your knee—and see that you don’t plague me with a knave’s behavior in the future. And then get out of my way, so that I might greet Lady Chatham, since I swear she is finer upon my eyes than either of the pair of you!”

Ondine quickly dropped him a curtsy. He drew her to her feet with both hands and kissed her cheeks. “My dear, you grow more beautiful. I know not why you’re here, but I’m glad to see you. Justin, take Ondine for a walk. If you must be about court, be useful. I need a word with Warwick.”

Warwick tensed and started to protest. Ondine felt a sinking misery grip her, for she knew that he feared to have her alone with Justin—for her safety, lest they both be fooled by emotion.

Justin frowned, forced to an awareness that his brother did not trust him.

But the king stared steadily at Warwick, then turned, saying something that only Warwick heard.

Warwick grinned and waved to Justin and Ondine as he followed Charles back behind his laboratory table.

But it was too late, Ondine could tell. Justin now knew that something troubled Warwick deeply.

When Justin took her hand and they left the lab, she knew the king had given Warwick assurance, for guards followed behind them. Justin lowered his voice as they idly wandered trails of oaks.

“What is this, then, that my brother fears my protection is not enough for his wife?”

“Justin, it is not that. He is edgy, nothing more—”

“Nay! Don’t take me for a fool!” Justin cried, and she knew that he had been hurt deeply by his brother’s distrust.

“Justin—”

“He suspects me—his brother!—of some foul deed?”

“Nay!” Ondine protested lightly. “Surely ’tis a foul mood—”

“Why, then, his mood?”

She managed to laugh at that. “You tell me, Justin! You are the ‘beast’s’ own blood!”

He eased a bit and chuckled with her, but then they both stiffened as the guard that followed them gave way to a woman elegantly dressed in velvet and lace in the deepest sky blue.

Lady Anne.

“Justin Chatham! Why, you lovely boy, so you are here with your brother and his . . . lady.”

“Aye, Anne, that I am,” Justin replied, bowing to her.

“And lady Chatham! How nice to see you at court again. You are such a fascinating creature. Of such wonderful mystery and intrigue! Oh, I do love a good mystery, don’t you, Justin?”

“Oh, most assuredly,” Justin replied, but Ondine was certain that he eyed Anne as suspiciously and warily as she did.

For there was, beyond a doubt, something very sinister about Anne today. She was so gloriously . . . smug. And happy. She was so very much like a cat, happy with cornered prey.

“Where’s Hardgrave?” Justin asked her.

“Lyle?” she asked, smiling sweetly. “Why, he’s about somewhere, I do imagine. A busy man, though, of course.”

“Of course. Yet strange, isn’t it, that we all travel about the country at the same time?” Justin asked politely.

Anne smiled a vibrant smile, and Ondine felt heat quake through her. Anne was beautiful. A cat that might crawl into beds, she was still stunningly lovely.

“Strange? Maybe,” Anne murmured elusively. “And just how are you, child?” she asked Ondine. “Do you survive married life well?”

Her expression was bland. Ondine returned to her with all the sweetness she could muster.

“I adore married life, Anne. And all the wonderful . . . endowments it brings to one!”

“Ah! There they are!”

The king’s voice stopped them all. Charles and Warwick appeared on the trail. The king greeted Anne with a frown.

“I heard that you had returned.”

“The North was too quiet.”

Charles raised a dark brow, but said nothing more to her. He took Ondine’s hand and started down the path with her, leaving the others to follow as they chose, but clearly displaying his desire for them to remain a distance behind.

Ondine longed to turn around; longed to discover why Warwick’s voice was low, and why Anne laughed so beguilingly.

She did not. In a low voice Charles claimed her attention. “I am deeply distressed. It had been my belief that Warwick was plagued by sorrow and guilt; now I know that murder haunted my hospitality, my court. You were attacked?”

“Frightened near to an early grave,” Ondine admitted.

“There will be guards about you always,” the king promised. Then he hesitated. “He asked me today that I arrange a divorce. I told him that I am not, of course, the Church.” He sighed. “Yet we all know that such things are possible.”

She gasped. “He asked you—today—to arrange for a—divorce?”

“Aye.” Charles’s wonderful dark eyes found hers with empathy and curiosity. “He feels now that his plan to marry you was a careless one. Lady, he does not want you harmed.”

He does not want me at all, and certainly not as wife! she thought with such ardent anguish and dismay that she feared she would scream or burst into tears before the king.

“I asked him about his child, and he betrayed by his baffled expression that you are not enceinte. When you leave here this time, he plans to go home but a night to see to all your things, then send you to the Colonies by way of Liverpool.”

She lowered her head, still unable to speak.

“I am warning you, my dear, of his plans, for although he is among the best and most valued of my friends, I have yet to betray a woman with your beauty, honesty, passion—and honor. Perhaps you may find you are forced to desert his cause to see to your own.”

She found her voice at last, though it was hoarse and broken. “You have not told him—who I am?”

“I do not betray what I consider to be a confidence.”

“Thank you. Bless you, sire,” she whispered.

“No tears! Tonight we banquet together. And I claim the dances again. The future will come, and when I may help you, know that I will.”

She nodded, aware only that they had paused and the others were behind them. She could not speak at all as they walked to the river to board the barge.

Justin was silent. Only the king, Anne, and Warwick found conversation, and Anne’s was exceptionally merry. Ondine caught Anne’s eyes frequently upon her, and she was very wary, for it seemed that Anne knew something she did not and was, perhaps, preparing to strike.

Strike? Ondine queried herself uneasily. Was it possible? Could Anne have taunted her in cape and talons at Chatham? Had she, in fact, taunted Genevieve unto death?

This did not seem such a thing. It was more open; blatant, perhaps, as if she held some prize.

Ondine lowered her head, weary of it all, numb.

Warwick would have to pursue his own demons.

If he intended to send her to the Colonies, she would have to start worrying about her own future.

The Colonies! She couldn’t leave England!

There was still the matter of her own life and the treachery played against it to be solved!

In the courtyard at Hampton they parted ways, Justin seeing Buckingham and determining to speak with him, the king muttering something inaudible, and Anne waving to Hardgrave across the walk, laughing gaily at Ondine, and rushing off to join the viscount.

Ondine had nothing to say to Warwick as they returned to their chambers, nor did it seem to matter; he was so withdrawn. Her head splitting, she decided to lie down for a while and left him in the outer chamber.

Lying down, she slept and, sleeping, dreamt.

Her visions came and went like whispy clouds, but none was soft.

She saw the jailer in Newgate, rotten-toothed and leering, then that image faded and returned, and the face she saw belonged to the masked creature in the chapel.

She fought that masked creature and saw herself on her father’s arm, at the king’s side at Westchester, saw a sword rise and fall, heard screams and the rage of guards . . .

She saw blood, red blood, staining the stone floor—her father’s blood. In her dream she remembered the anguish, the terror, and herself running and running, for if she did not escape, none would believe her pleas . . .

She did not know that she screamed aloud until she was startled awake. Her arms flailed wildly, and the cry she sounded was only stopped by the hand that was fitted tightly over her mouth.

“Sshh! What demon you wrest, lady. I know not, but you’re about to raise the palace in arms!”

Warwick’s voice was tender; he held her gently to his chest and for long moments she lay there, gasping, fighting to escape all the shadows and lingering ghosts.

The strength of his arm was a tower to which she might cling; the steel of muscle beneath fabric was security; the living, vibrant wall of his chest a great harbor.

“Lady, tell me, what battle do you wage?”

She stiffened at the question, pushing furiously from him.

He’d asked the king for a divorce that very day, and now he quizzed her.

He wanted her to be a commoner, easily cast away.

By God, she’d never be more to him! She would never betray the truth of her birth to him, or the mysteries and deceit that plagued her past.

“None who you will ever meet, Chatham!” she snapped. He caught her wrist and forced her eyes to his.

“What new venom is this, lady? You dream, and I soothe you, only to find your claws more deeply drawn.”

She jerked at her wrist. He did not release it, but held it taut.

“No new venom,” she told him wearily. Perhaps he did care for her safety. “Only that which has always been. Warwick, please! Will you leave me be!”

He released her and stood, staring down upon her. “Aye, milady, for now I’ll leave you be! Yet I think there is a graver fear, for Anne and Hardgrave whisper and plot, and I wonder what discovery has been theirs.”

She froze, shaken anew. Was that Anne’s great pleasure that afternoon? Had she found out that Ondine was the old Duke of Rochester’s daughter?

Warwick turned to leave her, bowing deeply at the door. “We leave for dinner shortly, if you would prepare.”