The Water Nymph: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book Two Read online

But Crispin was unyielding. “Those are Lawrence’s dogs. The guards took the other tunnel, the one with the door. All the doors along that corridor are traps. Only the hidden panels go anywhere.”

  “Traps? Hidden panels?” Sophie repeated. “What is this place?”

  Crispin relit the taper. “Pickering’s Highway. It runs from Alsatia all the way to Whitehall, and even has an exit near my house. Lawrence found it advisable to connect all his properties with underground tunnels, so that the profits might be transported to his coffers without interference from his competitors. We should be fairly safe now.”

  Sophie spent a moment appreciating the cleverness of this ploy and the new security of their position, before the import of Crispin’s words set in. “Your friend Lawrence is Lawrence Pickering?” Sophie spoke the name with a mixture of awe and horror. “You propose to leave me with the lord chancellor of the London underworld?”

  “You make him sound like the ruler of Hades. He is not Pluto, merely a very good friend of mine. And I can hardly think of a better place for someone on the run from the Queen’s guards than in his house. Despite his reputation, Lawrence has never once been to prison, or even been charged with a crime. Which is far more than you can say for yourself, Miss Champion.”

  Sophie blushed deeply, not, as Crispin supposed, at his gibe, but rather at the pang she felt when she heard him addressing her formally once again. A pang that was quickly squelched. She no more wanted to be on informal terms with the Earl of Scandal than she wanted him to kiss her again, she reminded herself convincingly. Certainly he had been kind to her, and had rescued her twice, but that was no reason for her to want to lift his hand to her lips and kiss it, and run her mouth over his palm, and lick the salty sweetness of his fingertips and let them roam down her neck, across her collarbone, let them drift along the bodice of her gown, let them dip down and gently—

  No, kindness was certainly no reason for that. Lord Grosgrain had been a thousand times kinder to her, and she had never wanted to do those things to him. The thought of Lord Grosgrain brought her back to herself, and her investigation. Despite herself, she had to admit that Crispin was correct. There was probably no better place for her to hide in London than with the notorious Lord Pickering, probably no one better equipped to help her keep the authorities at bay.

  “Very well,” she conceded, as much to get Crispin to move away from her, and hopefully resuscitate her knees, as because she thought it was a good idea. “I will stay with Lord Pickering. But I will not be a prisoner.”

  “Of course not,” Crispin agreed. “That would hardly be sporting of me. Now come on. I am thirsty.” Thus saying, he set out abruptly down the corridor at a rapid clip. He still had Sophie’s hand in his, and it was all she could do to keep up with him, what with her intoxicated knees and his burst of speed. He dragged her through two turns and up a short flight of stairs, and stopped finally in front of a fine wooden door with gilt gold moldings.

  Sophie had the eerie feeling that she was being watched, but she did not hear anyone, nor could she make out any figures in the gloom of the corridor behind them. She was about to ask Crispin why they were just standing there, when the rasping of a large bolt being shot sounded and the door opened slightly.

  “Who is she?” a harsh voice asked from the darkness.

  “Sophie Champion,” Crispin answered. “I guarantee her personally, Christopher.”

  The door opened a little farther, and a short, sleek man toddled out. He appeared, by Sophie’s best guess, to be four hundred years old, but the black eye squinting at her through the monocle felt vigorous in its scrutiny. He circled her, tracing long lines with his eyeglass as he looked her up and down, surveying every inch of her being as if preparing to whip off her portrait later from memory. When he had memorized her to his satisfaction, he slid past her and nodded once to Crispin. “His Lordship is expecting you,” he informed them, opening the door for them to pass. “Personal apartments.”

  “How would Lord Pickering have known we were coming?” Sophie asked as they started up a set of dimly lit wooden stairs.

  “My guess is that Fortuna beat us here,” Crispin said simply, as if a horse that could premeditate the actions of its master were a regular sort of beast. Sophie was tempted to press him about it, but something in his expression stopped her, and they ascended the rest of the stairs in silence.

  Sophie watched her companion from the corner of her eye. The man next to her was cool and inscrutable, apparently without emotion, and certainly incapable of anything as human as compassion. Whatever motivated him to save her, twice, from the constables, was certainly pragmatic and not something messy like mere kindness. She repeated this to herself three times, until she had wrung away any suspicion that there might be something more, or that the heat emanating from where their hands were still clasped was indicative of anything other than their recent exertions. Indeed, given that he was only helping her for his own ends, she had better concentrate on finding out what those were and why he was so interested in the death of Richard Tottle, anyway.

  The first landing brought them into a wide entrance hall with what Crispin knew was one of the best collections of modern Italian paintings in England. Seeing Sophie’s awe at the sight of them raised his thirst to new heights, and he was tempted to tell her that Lawrence had not picked out a single one of them himself, but had been assisted by Crispin’s cousin Tristan, whose collection was a hundred—no, four hundred—times better. Instead, he rushed her by them, pulling her up the remaining stairs so rapidly that Sophie looked behind her to see if they were again being pursued.

  “Don’t worry, the dogs are otherwise occupied,” a voice tinted with amusement said from the top of the stairs. “Besides, I don’t usually let them in the house when they are hungry.”

  Sophie was panting by the time they reached the speaker, and it was all she could do to perform a one-handed curtsy.

  “Lawrence Pickering, this is Miss Sophie Champion,” Crispin offered.

  “I would have known without your introduction, my friend. The report of Miss Champion’s beauty precedes her, and was by no means exaggerated.”

  “Nor, I see, was your reputation for wit, Lord Pickering,” Sophie countered.

  She now saw a glimmer of what made so many women describe Lawrence Pickering as “meltingly handsome.” Indeed, had he not looked so much like Crispin, with his fair hair and bluish gray eyes, she might have thought Lawrence extremely good looking. But seeing the two together was like seeing a masterpiece and a copy side by side.

  A masterpiece and a copy? Sophie repeated to herself with horror. What was happening to her? She resolved from that moment forward to find Lawrence Pickering the most handsome man alive.

  “Touché, Miss Champion,” the most handsome man alive said, bowing. “I can see that we will get along very well.” Lawrence was about to reach for Sophie’s right hand to kiss it, but he noticed the proprietary way it was grasped in Crispin’s and raised an eyebrow in his friend’s direction.

  “Has Fortuna arrived?” Crispin asked, ignoring the eyebrow.

  “Yes. Along with several members of the Queen’s brigade babbling about the Earl of Scandal’s latest caper, but I got rid of them. Miss Champion, you are certainly a favorite of the Queen today. I feel honored to have you grace my humble home.”

  Crispin gave something between a snort and a snicker at Lawrence’s words, so it was left to Sophie to reply, “The honor is ours, Lord Pickering.”

  “Please, call me Lawrence. All my friends do.”

  Sophie smiled at him, and Crispin felt suddenly parched. “Very well, Lawr—”

  “I am thirsty,” Crispin interjected, to keep things from degenerating further.

  Lawrence smirked at Crispin. “I wish I could offer you a glass of the very special wine King Philip sent over to me last month—I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “Nothing,” Crispin replied, narrowing his eyes and mouthi
ng “braggart” to his friend.

  “As I was saying, I wish I could have Kit bring you something from my modest cellar, but I’m afraid you’ll have to go without. A messenger from Sandal Hall arrived an hour ago instructing me to dispatch you home at once if you should appear here. Apparently something to do with The Aunts.” Lawrence’s eyes were twinkling with merriment.

  “Are you trying to be amusing?” Crispin asked, his throat an arid desert.

  “If I were trying to be amusing, Crispin, you would be doubled over with laughter right now. I am simply telling the unadorned truth.”

  “You are not leaving?” Sophie turned to Crispin, and the note of alarm in her voice made his thirst disappear.

  “I must,” he told her graciously, but without a hint of emotion. “Do not worry, you will be safe here with Lawrence.” Crispin’s tone stayed level, but he gazed at his friend meaningfully. “You will see to it that she is well looked after, won’t you?”

  Lawrence returned Crispin’s pointed glance and nodded almost imperceptibly. “I guarantee that she will have the best accommodations money can buy.”

  Sophie felt that some sort of negotiation had taken place between the two men, but before she had time to decipher their code of looks and gestures, her attention was distracted by Crispin.

  “It has been a most memorable afternoon, Miss Champion. Thank you very much for your company.”

  Their eyes met as Crispin brought their joined hands to his lips, did not waver as he planted a soft, lingering kiss on her palm, did not move as their fingers slowly untwined, did not separate until Crispin turned to descend the stairs.

  “Thank you,” Sophie whispered softly after him.

  After a decent interval, Lawrence cleared his throat. “Tell me, Miss Champion—”

  “Please, call me Sophie.” It was a poor substitute for hearing it from Crispin’s lips, but it would have to do.

  “You do me too much honor, Sophie. Tell me, why exactly does the Queen desire your presence in her prison so intensely?”

  Sophie gave a feeble smile at his description. “I cannot say. I believe she thinks I murdered a man. But I assure you, I am not dangerous.”

  Lawrence remembered the way Crispin had clutched her hand and wanted to disagree, but he stopped himself. “There is a world of difference between actually being dangerous and seeming dangerous to the Queen. The first you can live with. The second will get you killed.”

  “Lord Sandal tells me that you are expert at avoiding the latter,” Sophie said, taking the arm he proffered and allowing herself to be led toward a set of double doors. “Do you think you could give me any tips?”

  Lawrence smiled thoughtfully. “It is really very basic, fundamentally a question of bartering. Everyone has their price, and the Queen is no exception. I learned long ago that if I can be of service to Her Majesty, she and her guards will leave me alone. In fact, I have just concluded a most interesting deal with her which will ensure my freedom from their interference for many months to come.”

  “What kind of deal?” Sophie asked with authentic interest.

  “The simplest kind. A plain, unadorned exchange.” As Lawrence spoke, he opened one of the double doors. “Her Majesty gets something she wants, and I get something I want.”

  Sophie followed Lawrence into his office and heard the door close behind her abruptly. She had been completely absorbed in what he was saying, and it took her a moment to realize that they were no longer alone. Indeed, the ample chamber was completely filled by soldiers clothed in the armor of the Queen’s guard. Almost all of them were wearing helmets, but she recognized the fat constable from Richard Tottle’s print shop.

  “You’ll not escape me this time, Miss Champion,” he told her, licking his lips, and his beady eyes did not leave her as he issued his commands. “Tie her up, men. You heard what the Earl of Sandal said. We’re to make sure that she is ‘well looked after.’”

  “The bastard,” Sophie said, her numbness returning.

  Chapter Eight

  Crispin rode home slowly, in no great hurry to greet The Aunts. The last thing he needed, with all that had occurred since his return to London, was The Aunts, his father’s sisters, taking up residence at Sandal Hall. He knew they had names, the names had been drilled into him relentlessly by his father, but to him they would always be, simply, The Aunts. It was enough.

  Crispin and his brother, Ian, were convinced as children that The Aunts ate broken glass instead of food and routinely sacrificed small animals in the demonic rituals that gave them their strength. During Crispin’s lifetime, The Aunts had between them run through twelve husbands, mainly by comparing them incessantly and unfavorably with their beloved younger brother, Hugo, Crispin’s father. Since the death of the dozenth lord, The Aunts had undertaken the authorship of A Compendium of Proper Behavior Every Man and Woman Ought to Know for the Improvement of Social Converse and the Strengthening of the English Nation. It was, of course, dedicated to the memory of Hugo, the ideal picture of English manhood, decorum, and civility, and they had been kind enough to send excerpts of it to Hugo’s heirs every year at Christmastide so they might measure themselves against their father and better feel their inferiority. Just thinking about the most recent selection, “On the Appropriate Vocabulary for a Gentleman (With an Appendix of Apparently Harmless Words from Which Great Harm May Come),” nearly made Crispin want to shout “Bottom” (a Strictly Forbidden Word) at the top of his lungs. Crispin would more willingly face the most sophisticated and best-trained imperial army than The Aunts.

  And, indeed, he had. As well as cunning ministers, hired assassins, deadly courtesans, suicidal zealots, traitorous courtiers, two firing squads, and a host of strange beasts—from the sand snake of Turkey, which disposes of its prey by strangling, to the almost invisible Gaelic spider, whose venom makes its victim feel like its blood is on fire for hours before it finally kills—that had been variously introduced into his chambers to destroy him. The secret commission from Queen Elizabeth that Crispin had accepted two and a half years earlier had allowed him to prove to himself, if not to The Aunts, that he was at least the man his father, Hugo, had been. During his service as the Phoenix, Crispin had stemmed three invasions of England, disrupted five attempts to assassinate the Queen, prevented sixteen heavily laden English ships from being captured, and saved the Exchequer well over eight hundred thousand pounds. But now he had been abruptly recalled from his duties, recalled to London, to infamy. And possibly to death.

  A fortnight, fourteen days, was hardly an infinity of time in which to do what needed to be done. Seven days had passed since his meeting with Queen Elizabeth and the dead ends had merely multiplied, until the night before when he found himself at the Unicorn staring down at the body of the late Richard Tottle and at half a piece of parchment clutched in his fingers. That piece had proved very useful to Crispin, and the other, missing half, very dangerous. At least until that afternoon in Tottle’s office on the floor below the pink paradise when the ink that Crispin had accidentally spilled over Tottle’s ledger also ran onto a detailed catalog of Queen Elizabeth’s dinner menus for the past month. The menus were real, but the catalog was more than a culinary record—it was also the key needed to decipher the other half of Tottle’s list. With it gone, the missing piece of parchment could do no harm, and Crispin could turn his full attention back to investigating why Tottle had been killed and, more important, why someone wanted to discredit the Phoenix.

  He had toyed with the idea of pretending to have information about the Phoenix in a more direct attempt to find out who was behind the reward and why, but discarded it. Asking too many questions would only arouse suspicions he preferred to keep dormant, suspicions easily awakened if anyone bothered to note that the time of the Phoenix’s operation on the continent corresponded exactly with the duration of Crispin’s putative exile. The gossip that had been carefully spread through England about Crispin’s exploits
in Europe had thus far worked to prevent such an identification, the rumors of the Earl of Scandal’s wayward, dissolute lifestyle making any relationship between him and the Phoenix seem absurd, but only thus far. Crispin had done his best to behave infamously in every major court in Europe, he and Thurston staying up well into the night many nights concocting better and more outrageous activities for him to perform the following day in order to flesh out his rakish persona. But all that hard work could be erased in the blink of an eye if he was not careful. Even if he could not directly protect his secret identity, he had to be scrupulous not to undermine it himself.

  Which recollection brought with it the first comforting thought he had all day. As Fortuna steered herself into the stable yard of Sandal Hall, Crispin congratulated himself on the fact that he could be sure, absolutely sure, that at least The Aunts believed in his rakish persona. There was no doubt but that they had arrived with trunks full of pamphlets and lectures to administer to him about his misdeeds of the preceding two and a half years. At any other time this would have made him want to groan, but now he saw how he could put it to use. Given The Aunts’ wide acquaintance and even wider circle of gossips, he decided to do his best to confirm them in their opinions of him. Once they got started commenting on his behavior to their friends, people would be hard-pressed to see the Earl of Scandal as anything other than a luxury-loving wretch. He had just begun taking bets with himself as to what they would start in on first, the dishonor he was heaping on the Sandal name or his delinquency in getting married, when he crossed the threshold of his house.

  “I am pleased to see you safely returned, sir,” Thurston said, materializing before Crispin had taken more than two steps. “Your aunts are anxiously awaiting you in the Green Room.”

  “I will be very happy to see them,” Crispin responded with feeling.

  Thurston’s eyes opened ever so slightly wider, a sign of intense surprise, at Crispin’s enthusiasm. “Very good, sir. If I might take the liberty, sir, I have laid out your blue silk doublet in your apartment.”