Page 9 of Lord of Loyalty

“Good morrow.” The stranger spoke with the hint of an accent.

“Good day to you, sir.” In the dim light that filtered through the window, Will could see the man was short in stature, though well-made, sporting a doublet with the fashionable peasecod belly he himself despised. He’d far rather his clothes fitted him—padding was a foolish frippery, and impractical withal.

“You are thinking me a suspicious Spaniard, or one of the deplorable Dutch.” Dark, intelligent eyes twinkled at Will. “I assure you, I am merely a compatriot of your queen’s ‘Little Frog’, God rest him, but have lived here so long I no longer feel myself French. The Comte de Velors, at your service.”

Will had heard of the French count. After Elizabeth’s rejection of her French suitor, the Duke of Anjou, the disappointed peer had taken himself off to stir up trouble in the Low Countries, before dying of a tertian ague. De Velors had been in the duke’s retinue while he was in England and having—so he claimed—an English mother, had elected to remain here rather than follow his benefactor. He’d spent the past few years borrowing, gambling, and speculating to secure his financial position. Rumor had it that much of his small fortune consisted of gifts from grateful widows and single ladies. However, the comte was allegedly too handy with a sword for anyone to suggest this to his face.

What was this handsome, capricious creature doing in the Mathieson household? Courting Paulina, mayhap? But not for gain, surely—the Mathiesons were middling folk at best, despite their ambitions. He must have been tempted by Paulina’s good looks—Mathieson had better watch out, lest his daughter become more of a burden than she was already, by getting with child.

Only… only Paulina was hanging on his arm once more, gazing up adoringly at him, not at the comte. And both her parents looked on benignly, neither of them castigating her for her impropriety.

Will cleared his throat and extricated himself from Paulina’s grip. “I am honored, monsieur.” He turned to Mathieson. “Sir, you said you had a packet for me?”

“Aye, here it is.” Mathieson held out a package tied with thick ribbon and sealed with the Earl of Leicester’s distinctive bear and ragged staff device. Will felt its weight—it was a box, probably containing coin or jewels, the personal payment the earl had promised him for his loyalty.

His heart lifted, but he forced all expression from his face. “Ah, yes, I recall now, he promised me a pair of fine bollock daggers I once admired. Thank you for taking care of them for me.”

“How splendid it must be to be friends with an earl!” Paulina clapped her hands together.

“I wouldn’t say we were that, in truth.”

“Nay, indeed.” Mathieson inclined his head, giving Will an oily smile. “Particularly not when he is out of favor at court. The queen’s favor means everything, does it not?”

He felt forced to defend the man by whose side he had fought. “Her favor may change.”

“It may. But currently, to be associated with the Earl of Leicester is to be at a great disadvantage. The stain of his failure will spread to his associates, and those whose characters are damaged may find their reputations never recover. Unless they are well-supported by powerful friends, relations, or advantageous marriages.”

Will stared at Mathieson, who returned his look with one of innocent disinterest.

“Then it is as well he and I have no more than a passing acquaintance.”

“He knows you well enough to give you a brace of fine… um, daggers.” Mathieson nodded meaningfully at the packet.

Aware that everyone in the room was looking at him expectantly, Will huffed out a laugh. “I assure you—I admired the daggers as a politeness when I encountered the man at court and, on a whim, he offered them to me, but I refused. He said he had another, lesser pair in his lodgings I might appreciate. I never expected he would adhere to his promise.”

His story sounded weak, but it was the best he could concoct at short notice. The last thing he wanted was for all of London to know what he’d been doing the past seven months. As Mathieson had pointed out, a tarnished reputation meant doors were slammed in one’s face. He couldn’t allow the ancient name of Cavendish to be sullied thus. No one must ever know the truth.

He bowed. “Forgive me, gentlemen, ladies. I’m keen to return home and unpack my belongings. Pray, dine without me. I shall be but poor company in any case, being wearied and saddle-sore.”

“Paulina will be so disappointed.” There was a hard edge to Mathieson’s voice. A very hard edge. The comte looked merely bored, yet something about the atmosphere in the room smacked of conspiracy.

“My apologies again. I shall endeavor to make recompense for my bad manners upon the morrow. Thank you for taking care of my packet. Good day to you.”

Will gave them his deepest bow, pretended not to see the hand Paulina held out to him, and beat a hasty retreat. A few quick steps brought him to his own front door, and he entered it with the relief of a man who has just escaped an ambush.

But what had been the purpose of that ambush? And in exactly how much danger was he likely to find himself?