Anthony played his card, neatly destroying his game, and endured the angrily derisive complaints of his partner, who had lost five guineas on Caxton’s poor play.
“So sorry… so sorry… of course, I yield my place.” Anthony fluttered his hands in distress. “I fear my lord Daubney has had ill luck with his partners this evening. But I am such a poor cardplayer. Mr. Taunton, perhaps you can compensate for me?” He gestured to the gentleman who was standing at the king’s elbow.
“Yes, yes, if you wish it,” the man said eagerly. “I own I have long wished for the honor of playing with His Majesty.”
Charles smiled faintly. Candlelight set the rings on his white hand sparkling as he indicated that this other esquire hungry for royal notice should take Anthony’s seat.
Anthony bowed to his sovereign and melted into the throng. Olivia was still in the knot of people around Mistress Hammond. She was clearly restless, shifting from foot to foot, opening and closing her fan, but he noticed with a touch of bitterness that she had learned from their clandestine love enough of conspiracy to keep her eyes from wandering, seeking him out, now that she’d signaled her message.
“Lady Granville… Lady Rothbury. How delightful to see you here. I hardly dared hope that I would have the honor of meeting with you again.” He simpered as he bowed to the two married women.
“The honor, Mr. Caxton, is all ours,” Portia said with a distinctly ironic flash of her green eyes.
Anthony caught the flash, but he turned to greet Olivia. “Lady Olivia. I am so happy to see that your gown suffered no ill effects from my clumsiness.”
“We were fortunate, Mr. Caxton.” She curtsied, her eyes demurely lowered. “But if you would make recompense…”
“Anything, dear madam. Anything I can do to make you think well of me again.” He raised her hand to his lips. As he did so, he caught the faintest glimmer of appreciative amusement on Lady Rothbury’s countenance, another flash of those green eyes. He glanced at Lady Granville and she averted her gaze with that slight touch of hauteur he’d noticed before.
So Olivia had confided in her friends.
“My shawl,” Olivia said. “I find myself a little chilly and I wonder if you would escort me to the carriage so that I may retrieve it.”
“It will be my pleasure, Lady Olivia.” His tone was noncommittal as he gave her his arm.
Olivia laid a hand on his arm and felt the muscles beneath the dark blue silk immediately harden beneath her fingers. Just touching him in this way brought a wave of heat flooding her skin, setting her head spinning. Her grip tightened, her fingers involuntarily biting into his arm, as he led her from the hall.
The courtyard was bustling with soldiers as the watch was changed on the battlements. “What is it?” Anthony demanded quietly. “I assume you’re not seeking a lovers’ tryst.”
He sounded so cold, so hard.
“May we walk in the privy garden?” Olivia whispered. His bitterness was only to be expected-she had caused it-but it hurt most dreadfully. She wanted to scream at him that it was as hard for her as for him. Demand that he understand how she felt. But if ever there had been a moment for that kind of revelation, it had passed.
Anthony without comment directed their steps across the courtyard to the chapel and the garden beyond it.
There were a few couples taking the evening air in the walled garden, and no one looked curiously at the new arrivals.
“So, what is it you wish to say to me?” His voice was low but curt.
Olivia kept her eyes on the gravel path. “You have fallen under suspicion,” she murmured. “I wanted to warn you. They are saying you’re not what you seem.”
She felt the muscle in his arm jump beneath her hand, but his step didn’t falter. He glanced around once, quickly, as if assessing the situation, then said, “So you let something slip.”
“No!” she exclaimed. “Of course I didn’t. I said I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t break a promise.”
“Hush,” he commanded. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. Tell me what you know.”
In soft, rushed tones Olivia related the supper table conversation. “My father said it was just a whisper.”
“And where did the whisper come from? If not from you, then from one of the friends in whom you confided my secrets?” His tone was harsh.
“No,” Olivia repeated firmly, but her hurt was clear in her voice despite its strength. “I needed their help to get here tonight without causing comment. They knew of nothing until now… when it didn’t matter anymore. You’re already under suspicion. No one I know has betrayed you. My friends would not betray a friend of mine. Friends don’t betray friends.”
He glanced down at her. She met his gaze steadily, although he could read the pain in her eyes at his accusation.
“I came to warn you,” she repeated.
Slowly he nodded. “In friendship?”
No, in love. Olivia hesitated, then she said, “If you like.”
He gave a short laugh. “Well, I thank you for your friendship, my flower. I’m sure it’s more than a dishonorable man deserves. Now I must go before they set the dogs on me. I will leave you at the hall. If I leave you here alone, it will draw attention.” He strode with her across the courtyard, then moved his arm from beneath her hand.
He looked down into her pale face in bleak silence for a minute, then as if he couldn’t help himself he slowly raised a hand and cupped the curve of her cheek before saying with quiet finality, “Goodbye, Olivia.” He turned on his heel and strode towards the gatehouse.
Olivia stood in the light from the open doorway. She struggled to compose her expression. She could not go back inside, into that noisy oblivious throng, with tears clogging her throat, pricking behind her eyes. She felt as if she had lost all touch with herself, her knowledge of who and what she was. She would never see him again. He would be gone from the island before they caught him, and she would never see him again. It was what had to be and yet her heart wept in protest.
But go back into the hall she must. She must do nothing to draw attention to Anthony’s abrupt departure. She took a step towards the light, then a familiar voice in the courtyard gave her pause.
“My lord?” It was Giles Crampton, hurrying across the courtyard from the gatehouse.
“Giles, what news?” Cato appeared out of the shadows of the barbican wall.
Olivia guessed he had been making his way to the hall. He had not seen her as yet. She trod soundlessly back down the stairs. There was a niche in the wall, untouched by the light of the pitch torches around the courtyard. She pressed herself into the tiny dark space and listened.
“We took the Yarrows, sir. I’ll swear Caxton never lays his ‘ead in that room of theirs. It ’as his things in it, but he’s not been there in months, if ever.”
“Are they talking?”
Olivia held her breath. She seemed now to inhabit some cold, clear space where her mind was lucid, emptied of all emotional turbulence. The Yarrows must be the people in Newport, where he was supposed to lodge.
“They’re about to be disembarked at Yarmouth, sir. I’ll go along an‘ welcome ’em. Just thought to let ye know where we’re at.”
“Good. Bring me any information as soon as you have it.” Cato turned to mount the steps to the hall, then he paused, saying over his shoulder, “Don’t do anything you don’t have to do, Giles. No need for… for heroic measures.” His tone was ironic.
“Goodman Yarrow’ll tell all ‘e knows an’ the ‘istory of the universe into the bargain afore ye can get close enough to say ’boo,‘ ” Giles said scornfully.
“Then see that no one says more than ‘boo,’ Giles.” Cato disappeared into the hall. He had little stomach for torture. There were occasions when it was necessary. It was a fact of ordinary life, let alone war. But a civilized man moderated its use.