TWENTY-THREE

Julien had been camped outside Wynfield Mote for four days before anything of import happened. He had thought himself a patient person—or at least one able to entertain himself while waiting—but he truly thought he might run mad within sight of Wynfield Mote and unable to do a thing but wait.

It was a small encampment—Dominic and Minuette Courtenay, their youngest daughter, Pippa, and a dozen retainers, all armed. If Julien had been afraid of his reception by the family, he need not have worried. He had known Minuette to be beautiful when he was younger—but in his youth he had overlooked her great warmth and generosity. And perhaps Dominic had said a word or two in her ear about his suspicions of Julien’s feelings. Heaven knows he’d said little enough himself, but the Duke of Exeter seemed to know how to read the quality of his silences.

In any case, he was welcomed as an ally, though Julien had no illusions: if it were between him and Lucette, they would cheerfully throw him to the wolves. At least in that, their intentions aligned perfectly.

For days now, Julien had done little but ponder his brother’s astonishing betrayal. He still wasn’t sure of Nicolas’s motivations. Nicolas hardly spoke of politics at all—when had he come to care so much about Mary Stuart and England? Julien had thought he’d been the one keeping all the secrets these eight years. Once again, his self-absorption had blinded him.

An hour or two after sunset on the fourth day since reaching Wynfield, Dominic and his man Harrington received the scout’s report of riders coming fast. Julien recognized Kit Courtenay on horseback and guessed the second rider was the other brother, Stephen.

“We’ve got it,” Kit called as he swung off his horse, both man and beast looking utterly exhausted and soaked through from long hours of hard riding. “Stephen’s got the Lord Chancellor’s seal and we have the phrase from Mary.”

“She is gone?” Minuette asked her oldest son. He looked like his father, but Julien thought there might be a streak of his mother’s temper running through him.

“Mary Stuart?” Stephen said with contempt. “She’s gone, sailed off to whoever wants her. France, I suppose. It was a French ship.”

“Let me have the seal,” Dominic said, and Stephen handed the velvet bag containing the symbol of England’s most powerful office to his father.

“I want to go in,” Kit announced.

Dominic shook his head. “You’re worn-out and that’s my home and my daughter.”

“And Anabel!” Kit said fiercely.

With a glance at his wife, Dominic again shook his head. “I won’t forget. I will get them both out.”

Julien had mostly kept his own counsel, aware that he was here on sufferance, but finally he offered, “Shouldn’t I come with you? I thought I was here to deal with Nicolas.”

“He hasn’t asked for you. I’d rather keep you in reserve till necessary.”

If something went wrong, Dominic meant. If Nicolas broke his word and kept the women, or took Dominic hostage as well. Julien felt a chill along his spine. He knew perfectly well that this would only end when he and Nicolas were face-to-face.

But he was in no position to argue.

Kit had no such scruples. “Take me with you.”

“No.”

“Father, please, it should be me, I’m less valuable than you. If something happens—”

Surprisingly amidst all this male tension, it was Pippa who broke in. “Let Kit do it,” was all she said, but it froze everyone to silence.

Minuette looked searchingly at her daughter. “Are you certain?”

“I don’t think—” Dominic started, but stopped when Pippa laid a hand on his sleeve, just above his missing left hand.

“I am very certain, Father. Kit is right. Let him go.”

There was something otherworldly and yet absolute about her, and the chill Julien had felt before shivered through him again. Lucette had never told him her sister was a…What? Seer? Visionary?

Whatever it might be called, the men in her family listened. Dominic handed the bag with the Great Seal to Kit and said grimly, “Bring them out, son.”

—

“They’re moving.”

At the note in Anabel’s voice, Lucette steadied herself and reluctantly returned her thoughts to the chamber she was in. She had taken to retreating in some form to pass the long days under Nicolas’s razor-sharp attention. She was clever enough to hold up her end of the conversation without being wholly present, and gave thanks to Dr. Dee for teaching her how to think of more than one thing at a time.

She didn’t stir from her chair, though, for she had learned by hard experience that Nicolas liked to tell her when and where to move. He went to the window where Anabel looked out and studied the landscape with her.

“I believe you’re right,” he said. “That does appear to be a party for parlay approaching from their encampment.”

He opened the door and summoned Laurent with barked orders. Anabel and Lucette exchanged a long glance, then both looked away. As long as Anabel got out of here, Lucette would be happy. She was perfectly certain she herself would be staying behind.

Laurent took the princess, and Nicolas escorted Lucette, both of them with daggers negligently held to their sides. Lucette was under no illusions about how quickly that positioning could change. Her father had taught her several ways to bring a dagger into play and was certain these men knew even more than she did.

The four of them took up position in the rebuilt medieval hall of Wynfield Mote. Though designed along its previous lines, modern comforts and touches had been introduced when it was restored after the fire. Lucette had always loved the hall, redolent as it was of family and laughter—would she ever be able to feel that way again?

She had been expecting her father, certain he would not let anyone else do it. But perhaps Nicolas’s men had been ordered to keep the elder Courtenay out, for to her surprise it was Kit who entered. Her brother had always possessed a certain grace, but his movements today spoke more of contained violence than fluid action.

His eyes went first to Anabel, and Lucette nearly caught her breath at what she saw in his face. But he was quick and shut down his feelings before they could more than briefly flash.

Did Anabel know that Kit was in love with her? Did Kit even know it before now?

“And why,” Nicolas wondered aloud, “did they send the young colt?”

“Because I saw Mary Stuart board ship for France and sail away with my own eyes. I have the Lord Chancellor’s seal, and your phrase.”

Nicolas cocked his head impatiently. “And?”

Kit tossed him a small velvet bag, then spoke. “ ‘The nightingale sings her freedom.’ ”

Kit let it linger, and Lucette felt Nicolas’s satisfaction through the points where he touched her. However much he’d had his own agenda—and still had things to finish—he was truly satisfied to have freed Mary.

No one moved, though Lucette could see what it cost her brother to stand still and wait. His jaw was tight surely to the point of pain, but he would not speak first for fear of unbalancing the moment.

At last Nicolas flicked the tip of his dagger in Anabel’s direction. “Let her go, Laurent,” he said softly.

Like the good soldier he was, Laurent released Anabel without hesitation. She shot a glance at Lucette.

“Time to go, Princess,” Nicolas said. “I think the young Courtenay boy will be only too glad to take you out.”

“What about Lucie?” Kit broke in.

“You got what you came for. Take her now, or forfeit.”

“Anabel, go,” Kit said softly, but she reached his side and took his hand, determined to stand with him. Lucette nearly shook her head at the foolishness of both of them.

“I won’t offer again,” Nicolas promised.

“You said Mary’s freedom for the girls.”

“I promised a princess for a queen. You have her.”

“And my sister?”

“Ah, a sister requires the offer of a brother.”

Kit glared. “Good thing I’m standing right here.”

“Not her brother, boy. Mine. I know perfectly well that Julien is just outside these walls aching to get his hands on me. Take your princess out, and send my brother in.”

It was Lucette who had to order them. “Go now.”

Anabel at least had sense, and more time with Nicolas to know he meant what he said. She pulled Kit with her. “Wait outside, Laurent,” Nicolas said. “Bring my brother in when he arrives.”

Then he turned to Lucette and caressed her cheek with the flat of his dagger blade. “The three of us have unfinished business.”

—

Kit returned with the Princess of Wales. Everyone in camp had watched the two figures approach in grim silence, and waited for word from inside.

Julien didn’t think anyone was surprised when told that Nicolas would not deal for Lucette until his brother had surrendered himself. Not surprised, but disappointed.

He said roughly to the princess, “Has he touched her?”

“He has not hurt her,” she answered carefully.

Which was not an answer. Julien simply nodded once and began to walk toward the manor house.

Minuette stopped him, though her husband was immediately beside her. Julien expected to be told to do whatever it took, perhaps even to be careful for they were not cruel people and would not lightly see him hurt, even for Lucette’s sake.

But she put her hands on his face and pulled it down to kiss him on the forehead. Like his mother used to do. “I am sorry, Julien,” she whispered. “I know what it costs to confront one who has betrayed you—especially when it is someone you love.”

She dropped her hands. Dominic’s face looked carved in stone, but he nodded once. In approval? In resignation? Julien didn’t much care. As he began the walk to Wynfield Mote, he silently spoke toward the woman inside: Lucie mine, you’re coming out of there alive and whole. Whatever it takes.

Once across the shallow moat, he was searched thoroughly by the kind of men who would kill without thought when ordered. He had dressed plainly and casually, prepared to fight. No weapons, of course. He’d figure something out.

It was odd walking into Wynfield Mote. There were flashes of memory from his previous visit, his body remembering where buildings were: the practice yard to his right, the stables where he’d hit Nicolas for his insolence…and been interrupted by the fierce ten-year-old girl who’d followed his brother around like he was God. There had been a week or two this summer when he’d imagined returning to Wynfield Mote with that fierce girl—if not tamed, at least gentled to his hand, coming home to receive her parents’ blessing.

He should have known better. Dreams were only that.

Felix’s tutor waited for him outside the front door. Julien had never been fond of the supercilious Laurent, and now that the fanatic in him had been given free rein, Julien would cheerfully have knocked the man senseless. Instead he submitted to the tutor’s search, though he did say, “You saw your men search me already. Is it that you like to feel men’s bodies?”

He received the expected backhanded blow without a word. Laurent laughed grimly. “Can’t wait to see you brought down, traitorous filth.”

Julien, his jaw throbbing, kept his mouth shut. Better not risk too many blows before he got to Nicolas.

Laurent shoved open the door and jerked his head for Julien to precede him.

His strange sense of déjà vu continued to overlay his vision—the wide-planked floors strewn with rugs, the medieval fireplace—but the moment he locked eyes with Nicolas, all déjà vu vanished. There was nothing but an awareness, deep in his bones, that only one of them would be leaving this hall alive.

With effort, he pulled his gaze to Lucette, for it seemed dangerous to take his eyes off Nicolas for even a second. She looked back at him steadily, no colour to her face at all, dark hair hanging loose. Her gown was plain and clearly could be laced without aid. He didn’t know if it made him feel better or worse that Nicolas had not insisted that she be dressed and pampered elegantly.

“Are you well?” Why did one ask that? Because to ask anything more would upset his own precarious balance, not to mention whatever balance maintained between Nicolas and Lucette at this point.

“Perfectly.” If she could not control her colour, she could control her voice. Neutral, verging on bored. Seized by an insane desire to laugh, Julien nodded once, then turned his attention back to his brother.

“So, Nic, I’m here now. Whatever lies between us began long before Lucette was involved. Let her go.”

“The moment she leaves, my men will be overwhelmed by her father’s men and I will be seized for Walsingham’s vicious questioning. I have no intention of being racked by the English. I need her to get to the coast and out of England.”

“So you plan to return home as though nothing has happened, as though Father isn’t going to say a word about the fact that you violated the trust and hospitality of his friends and laid violent hands on a girl he cares about for her own sake?”

“Whatever you may say about my hands on Lucette, they are never violent.”

Julien took a furious step forward before he managed to restrain himself, but it was enough for Nicolas to pull Lucette against him as both warning and shield. Swallowing the bile that rose, Julien halted.

“Lucie mine,” Nicolas purred, and how Julien wanted to smash his brother’s face for appropriating that phrase, “why don’t you wash your face and change? We should celebrate being together. It’s the way I want it, you know. The three of us. Together. I’ve had weeks to think about it.”

“I’m not changing clothes with Laurent watching me.”

He managed to sound injured. “Of course not! Go on up to your chamber. We’ll wait for you here.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll do something rash, like jump out a window?”

Though Nicolas spoke to Lucette, it was Julien he stared at. “There is not the slightest chance in the world that you will do a single thing to jeopardize my brother’s life. Knowing that he’s here with me, that if you are not back in this hall in a quarter hour—dressed and fashioned appropriately—knowing Julien will pay forfeit for whatever price I demand…no, Lucie mine, there’s not a chance in hell that you won’t do exactly what I say.”

Julien could only hope Nicolas was wrong. That Lucette would use her head, and figure a way either to get out of the house or to signal to her father and brothers…as long as she was out of reach of Nicolas, everything could be borne.

Because this would only end when one or both of them were dead. He knew it as surely as he knew his name. Death loomed in Wynfield Mote’s hall, waiting to pounce. All that mattered was that Lucie be well out of death’s reach.

27 August

Outside Wynfield Mote

As soon as Julien headed for the house, Dominic and the other men questioned Anabel closely about the state of affairs in and around Wynfield. Bless the girl for having her mother’s practicality and quick wits! She not only did not wonder at the purpose of such questions, but had clearly anticipated them. Her answers were prompt and clear. The men on the outside, of which we have counted eleven, never enter the house. The cooking, such as it is, is carried out by the tutor, Richard Laurent. Laurent and Nicolas LeClerc are the only men in the house. They are armed with daggers, swords, and pistols.

Anabel and Kit described the scene in the hall before she was handed over. “It was the first time we were let out of my chamber,” Anabel said. “It’s possible Nicolas took Lucette straight back up when Kit and I left.”

“Possible,” Dominic said slowly, “but also highly possible they’re still there. If he wanted a stage for the first part of the climax, he’ll most definitely want it for his confrontation with his brother. We should proceed as though they are in the hall.”

“Proceed how?” I asked. Mostly to force my husband to speak it aloud for those who do not read him as quickly as I do. Though I imagine our sons knew what he would say—and for certain Harrington did. He had already alerted the small force of handpicked men who have been kept two miles away so no one at Wynfield might catch sight of them. Dominic had spoken privately to Julien while Kit was in the house. He knows what is coming. When it is full dark, in less than an hour, those men will be led by Dominic, Harrington, and both my sons. No matter the tiredness Dominic noted—my boys will not be left behind. And like their father, they have the necessary strength to do what must be done when it must be done. They can sleep after.

Of course, the hope is that Julien will be able to talk—if not himself—at least Lucette out of Nicolas’s hands. But if she is still inside Wynfield when darkness covers all, then my men must move silently and swiftly.

While I sit with Pippa and Anabel and Carrie and pray. And wait.

There is nothing more difficult in this world than waiting.