On Monday morning, a misty drizzle shrouded the streets, keeping indoors anyone with a choice in the matter. Trumpet and Catalina draped themselves in long black veils and sat together in silence for the short trip down the river to the Temple Stairs. They could have gotten off at the Savoy Palace, but Trumpet feared her uncle would recognize her, even looking out the window two floors up, even when she was covered from head to toe in anonymous black.
They walked down the Strand to the Savoy’s middle gate and marched quickly into the first alley on the left. That led to a row of small houses snugged up against a high brick wall.
“This would be a good place to hide books,” Trumpet said as she nearly tripped on a brick that had fallen out of the wall. “Look at this mess!” When no answer came, she turned around. Catalina was yards behind her, dawdling and casting glances back toward the gate.
“He won’t see us,” Trumpet said, pitching her voice just loud enough to carry that far. “My uncle hasn’t even gotten out of bed yet. We’ll pop in and surprise him afterward, if you want.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t have time. She’d come half an hour early to get rid of the music master. She’d decided against writing a letter. A brightly polished angel would speak more clearly. She’d offer him the coin in exchange for half an hour alone in his house, encouraging him to believe she was meeting a lover. From what she’d heard, facilitating such assignations was one of the principal functions of a music master.
She marched up to the last door in the row and raised her hand to knock, but it opened before her fist met the oak. A man in a mask grabbed her around the waist, lifted her off her feet, and pulled her inside, clasping her to his chest. The door banged shut behind her, the lock clicked, and a wide hand covered her mouth and nose. “Don’t scream and I’ll let you breathe.” The voice belonged to Peter Hollowell.
His grip loosened enough for her to gasp a breath and answer, “I never scream.”
Catalina pounded on the door, shouting. Hollowell answered, loud enough to be heard. “Stop that noise or I’ll kill her right now. Be quiet, be patient, and you’ll see her soon.”
He carried Trumpet farther inside the house, into the front room where she had her lessons. She could barely see the shuttered front windows through her veil. She kicked at him, but her skirts muffled the effect. He squeezed her waist and shook her. “Stop that.”
He set her on a hard chair and pressed her down while he wrapped a rope around her chest. He let go then, but pulled the rope tight before she had a chance to wriggle free. Finally, he drew off her veil. “Wouldn’t it be awkward if I’d grabbed the wrong woman?”
She glared up at him as he chuckled. Then he took a few steps and offered her a mocking bow. “Martin Junior. At last we meet.”
She’d signed that name to the letter she’d written him last night. “How do you know it’s me?”
“I saw you in the window, Lady Alice. Don’t you remember? It was only yesterday, after we were introduced in church. I was in your house talking to Lady Russell, also known to a select few as Martin Marprelate. One doesn’t have to be Francis Bacon to put those pieces together.”
Trumpet shook her head. “You couldn’t see me. That was only your reflection.”
“If you could see me, then I could see you. It’s a simple matter of optics.”
Trumpet scowled, not only at him. Tom probably knew everything about optics from his classes at the university and had failed to share that useful knowledge with her. “Are there books about optics?”
Hollowell laughed. “This is your first question for me? Of course there are. I’ll send you one if I decide not to kill you.”
“You won’t kill me. It’ll cause far too much trouble. But what have you done with poor Mr. Lewis?”
“I’ve granted his fondest wish. He’s been pestering my master for months for an audition with the Chapel Children’s company. I sent him an invitation to perform tomorrow in Richmond, with a few shillings for his journey. Then I sent a faster messenger to advise the master to show him every courtesy, as a favor to Lord Burghley. It’s wonderful, the things one can accomplish from a seat of real power.”
Trumpet grunted softly. “That’s better than the bribe I was going offer him.”
“I’m not a monster, Lady Alice. I’ve done what I’ve done to protect our mutual secret — and the reputation of Lady Russell, whom I hold in the highest regard.”
“As do I, Mr. Hollowell. I frankly don’t see the need for all this drama. We have a mutual problem, you and I. We should be able to arrive at a mutually satisfactory solution.”
“We should, in principle, and yet I have doubts, my lady. You seemed so familiar with Mr. Bacon and his clerk yesterday. Of course I know about your history with Tom Clarady — how you were discovered half-naked in his arms beside the bed of your murdered husband.”
“That is not what happened,” Trumpet said. “Rumors are always grossly exaggerated, Mr. Hollowell. You know that.”
“Even so, I fear you might be tempted to share your new discovery with Clarady, who would trot straight to Francis Bacon with it like the good little dog he is.” Hollowell shook his head sadly, as if coming to terms with an unpleasant truth. “No, you can’t be trusted, my lady. You’ll have to go.”
Fear raced up Trumpet’s spine at the calmness in his tone, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. She blinked and swallowed, mastering herself. “Catalina is right outside that door. If I fail to appear, unharmed, in a few minutes, she’ll summon help. Furthermore, Lady Russell will soon find the letter I left explaining everything. You’ll be exposed and she will bring the full wrath of her powerful family down upon your head.”
“I don’t think so,” Hollowell said, although his mouth had tensed at the word “wrath.” “Not right away. Your reputation will give her pause. And I can easily lure your servant inside here, where I can silence her as well.”
He walked around behind her and untied her ruff, tossing it aside. Then he stroked her bare neck, making her shudder with revulsion. Her stomach roiled with dread.
But she was her father’s daughter. Her ancestor had helped Great Harry sack Ravenna. She wouldn’t beg and she wouldn’t give up either. She would watch this varlet hang and cheer while the rope strangled the life out of him. If she could just loosen these bands . . .
“I’ll enjoying strangling you, my lady,” Hollowell purred. “This soft white throat, so smooth to the touch. Like well-washed silk. Then I’ll strip you naked and toss you into the Thames after dark for the fish to nibble.”
He was trying to scare her, no doubt from some sick humor. That alone roused her courage. She’d spend eternity in the iciest level of hell before she’d let this frustrated play-actor frighten her. “You’d be seen,” she said dismissively. “It’s light till nine o’clock these days, and after that the river is crowded with lamp-lit barges filled with merrymakers.”
“I’ll wait until the wee hours.”
“That won’t work either. There’s no moon. You’d need a lantern and you can’t carry that and me both.” A shadow passed across the front windows. Catalina must be seeking a way to get in.
Hollowell laughed. “Aren’t you a quarrelsome wench? No wonder you’re still unmarried at your ripe age. I can carry you over my shoulder with ease. You can’t weigh more than seven stone.”
She winced as he squeezed her throat — lightly, teasingly, testingly. She couldn’t think of another argument and didn’t think arguments would do much —
Glass exploded from the windows with a ripping crash and a thundering roar. Bricks flew past Trumpet’s head, smashing into the wall. Tom burst through the debris, howling like a barbarian, swarming over the furniture, knocking down tables and lamps, grappling Peter Hollowell in both hands and hurling him bodily into the cold fireplace.
Tears sprang into Trumpet’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks as she laughed in sheer relief. Her heart overflowed with gratitude and pure joy for that amazing, powerful, loyal, loving, awe-inspiring man. No wonder she adored him. He was beyond all compare.
Hollowell lay still, crumpled on the stone floor of the hearth. Tom watched him, head cocked, hands on hips. Trumpet could not take her eyes off Tom, though she heard Catalina clambering through the broken window, murmuring something in Spanish.
“That was too easy,” Tom said, but then Hollowell groaned and stirred and rolled over. He crawled out of the hearth on his hands and knees, shooting a black look at Tom, who laughed and said, “Stand up, you coward, or I’ll kick you like the slinking dog you are.”
Hollowell used the shallow mantelpiece to haul himself onto his feet. He stretched his shoulders with a little groan, then faced Tom with a sneer. “You’ll let me go unharmed, Clarady. That little bitch has secrets she doesn’t want shared.”
Tom danced forward, slapped him sharply across the face, then danced back. “Language, please. There are ladies present.” Then he tilted his head toward Trumpet, whose bonds were being cut by Catalina. “All right, Trumplekin?”
Trumpet nodded. “I had everything under control.”
“I know.” Tom gave her half a grin. “I’m just helping.”
“Mmm. Thrash him soundly, won’t you?”
“Gladly. Care to join me?”
She laughed, fresh tears springing into her eyes. “Not in this dress.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” His eyes were a little shiny as well.
Hollowell moved a few feet from the wall and Tom’s attention snapped back to him. “Going somewhere, Pete? I’m not done with you yet.”
Hollowell held up his hands. “I’m not your enemy, Tom. She is. She’s Martin Junior!” He stabbed his finger at Trumpet.
“She’s what?” Tom whirled around to gape at Trumpet. “How can that be?”
She gave him a full Iberian shrug. “It was Lady Russell’s idea. She’s Martin. That varlet is — or was — Martin’s minion. We knew nothing about the murders, of course. We didn’t even know who — Tom!” she shrieked. “Look out!”
Hollowell had drawn his knife. Now he dropped into a fighting stance, slashing toward Tom, who whirled on his heel and reached out one long arm to slap the man across the face again while the other hand grabbed the wrist beneath the knife. He pressed the man to the wall, holding him with an elbow while he cracked the knife hand hard against the oak mantelpiece.
“Am I short, Mr. Hollowell?” he demanded, cracking the hand again.
Hollowell winced but kept the knife in his grip.
“Am I bookish?” Tom asked, with another crack.
“You do read a lot,” Trumpet offered.
Tom grinned but didn’t move his gaze from Hollowell’s face. “Am I a woman, Pete? Caught by surprise?” This time he crushed the wrist so hard the fingers wilted, letting the knife fall to the floor. Catalina swooped in to pick it up.
Tom shifted his stance abruptly to wrap his other hand around Hollowell’s throat. “Not as pleasant from the other side, is it, Pete?”
Hollowell gurgled. “Mercy, I beg you.”
Tom shook his head, frowning doubtfully. “I’m only a clerk, Mr. Hollowell. Like you. In truth, I’m inclined to let your master decide what to do with you.”
Hollowell paled visibly. “No, please.”
“But then there’s this Martin Junior business to consider.” Tom shot Trumpet a glance over his shoulder. “We really must discuss that, but this churl keeps interrupting us.”
“He’s very rude,” Trumpet agreed.
Tom nodded. “And more than a little arrogant.” He looked the varlet in the eyes and smiled in a friendly fashion. “Time for a nap, Pete.”
“I have money,” Hollowell begged. “Lots of money. Enough to pay your special livery.”
“Too late for that.” Tom let go his throat and took two steps back, pulling his captor with him. Then he drew back his fist and drove it into Hollowell’s jaw, smacking his head against the plaster wall with a satisfying thump. Hollowell crumpled to the ground again, this time fully insensate.
“Sweet dreams,” Tom said. Then he turned full around and spoke to Catalina. “Would you do the honors?” Leaving her to secure the villain, he walked toward Trumpet, slowly, his intentions burning bright in his blue eyes. He wrapped one strong hand around her waist and smoothed the other up her neck to cup the base of her head. “I’m going to kiss you.”
“I know.” She tilted up her face. “I’ll help.”
After a long, long time, in which all her fear was healed as if she’d never been an inch away from death, Catalina’s voice sounded somewhere nearby. “My lady?”
“Mmm?”
“Where is Mr. Lewis?”
“Who’s he?” Tom murmured, nuzzling under her ear.
She inhaled his special fragrance, that mix of musk, warm wool, and pure Tom. Then she placed her hands on his chest and pushed him away so she could think again. “The music master. He’s gone for a few days. Hollowell —” She glanced at the man on the floor, who still hadn’t awoken. “He sent him on an errand to get him out of the house.”
“That’s a relief.” Tom laid one last kiss on her cheek and went over to poke their captive with his foot. He bent to place his fingers on the man’s neck. “He’s alive.”
Then he inspected Catalina’s bindings. She had tied Hollowell’s hands together in front of his body, palms out. Next to impossible to undo. She’d also used Trumpet’s veil to lash his ankles together.
“Nice work,” Tom said, grinning at her. Trumpet realized only now that Catalina must have warned him about this meeting, the little traitor. For that dirty deed, she deserved a week at a comfortable inn with a very pretty man.
“What should we do with him?” Trumpet asked.
“I’ll stay here and guard while you and Catalina run up to Gray’s and tell Mr. Bacon.” Tom grinned. “He won’t be happy.”
“Better for him that Martin should be his aunt than his cousin though, don’t you think?”
“Trouble either way,” Tom said. “But you’re probably right.” He regarded her with a curious look, as if struggling to reconcile this new quality with what he’d known about her before.
Trumpet held her breath. She trusted him, mostly, but this was big. Almost as big as turning from a boy to a girl in the space of a few minutes.
But no — she knew her man, and her man was true. Tom flashed that dimpled grin that melted her insides and said, “You wily women outfoxed the whole of England, from the queen on down. If I hadn’t lost my hat in the scuffle, I’d take it off to you.” He bowed, a full court bow, sweeping his arm across his chest. Then he turned and bowed to Catalina too.
“Let’s go to Italy,” Trumpet said, eyes brimming. “All three of us, today. We’ll find that troupe of players Catalina used to travel with.”
“I wish we could,” Tom said, and the spell was broken.
Trumpet picked her way through the rubble he’d created with his dramatic entrance to a sideboard against the far wall. She poked her nose into jars and jugs, searching for something to drink. She found some wine that smelled fresh enough and poured a cup. Leaning back against the sideboard, she cocked her head and gave him a challenging look. “Are you going to marry that driveling nidget?”
“La femmina Golding?” Tom laughed. “No. I sent my refusal to Lady Russell the minute I got home. I’d sooner marry Nashe, though I didn’t put it that way.”
“You’ll be stuck in wardship with her for another year.”
“Longer. That Golding girl is rich. But it can’t be helped, Trumplekin.” He tilted his head to meet her eyes. “She doesn’t measure up.”
Trumpet sighed. Her newly betrothed didn’t either. He didn’t belong in the same room as Thomas Clarady.
“Have you chosen from among your flock of swains?” Tom’s voice held a bitter note.
“I have.”
“May I know the name of this fortunate knave?”
“I only got one decent offer, you know.” She stopped the protest signaled on Tom’s face by adding, “I have my pride, which is worth nothing. In spite of a year of penance with the irreproachable Lady Russell, my reputation remains in tatters. He’s the only one who didn’t care.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing — much. He wants a wife of the same age and status, which narrows the field considerably. And he used to be friends with my cousin Allen.”
“Wait.” Tom held up a finger. “Your cousin Allen is you, or he was, during your time at Gray’s. A short time, after which Allen vanished into the mist. Not many people would remember him, especially not people of the same age and standing.” His eyes narrowed. “No, Trumpet. It can’t be. Please tell me your future husband isn’t —”
“Stephen Delabere. Alas, camarade, it is.”
“That mewling, spongy, clay-brained, flap-mouthed witling Stephen Delabere? God’s great green and mossy bollocks, Trumpet! You care for him about as much as I do. How can you even think about marrying him?” That last part was almost growled.
“He’s the only one who made me a decent offer, Tom. I can’t wait any longer. You have no idea what’s it like. The constant jabs and nudges, the whispers behind my back, the peck-peck-pecking from every woman I meet. Even my uncle! ‘You must marry, Alice. You’re getting too old.’ I’m nineteen, which is practically ancient by the standards of the nobility.”
“You’re twice as beautiful as any woman in the world and ten times as smart. A hundred. You must not marry that prattling idiot!”
Trumpet shrugged. “Remember when I said I wanted a man who was old, wealthy, and stupid? Two out of three isn’t bad, considering.”
“Stephen’s not wealthy.”
“Oh, he is now. His father kept him on very short rations. And their lands are worth much more than they’ve been getting in rents, according to Ben. Once I get my hands on them, they should produce several thousand a year at a minimum. I could do a lot with that money.”
Tom scowled at her. He kicked at some pieces of broken window, then picked one up and punched the last pane of glass out of the twisted mullion. “When’s the happy day?”
“Not soon. Ben thinks we can stretch things out for a year, at least. I have a long list of unreasonable demands that will have to be negotiated one by one.”
Tom tossed his piece of wreckage aside and showed her a toothy grin. “A lot can happen in a year. For instance, I’ve learned a great deal about murder since I entered into Mr. Bacon’s service. I should be able to cook up a way to get rid of Stephen in that length of time.”
“Don’t even think about it, Tom, I beg you. This one has to live.”
Tom snapped his fingers. “I know! I’ll take him out to practice shooting and pass him a pistol rigged to blow up in his hands.”
Trumpet blew out a lip fart. “That would just give him a few burns. He’s young and healthy. A little salve, he’d heal in a week.”
“All right, then.” Tom took one thrilling step toward her, his eyes sparking blue fire. “I’ll push him into the Thames and watch him drown.”
“No good. He’s an excellent swimmer. How many stories have you told me about those halcyon days on the River Frome?”
He took another step toward her, and she nearly leapt into his arms. She bit her lip and envisioned the sacking of Ravenna. Smoke, fire, women wailing, men dying . . .
Tom said, “Then I’ll push him down a steep flight of stairs.”
She trilled a laugh. “That never works! We’ve seen it fail ourselves twice in as many years.”
“Three years, but you’ve made your point.” Now scarcely an arm’s-length away, he looked down at her, his face somber, his blue eyes clear and candid, like windows into his heart. She saw the battle raging between sadness, fury, and despair. The same three combatants tore at her heart as well.
He sighed and gave her that dimpled half smile that made the rest of the world disappear. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an exasperatingly quarrelsome wench, Lady Alice?”
“Why, yes, Mr. Clarady. More than once.”