His Forsaken Bride (Vawdrey Brothers Book 2) Read online

  Fen gave a weak-sounding laugh. “I suppose not.” She felt winded, and not just from Bess’ elbow. Once again it was being brought home to her just how little she knew about her new husband. It never failed to give her a deep feeling of unease.

  “Ah, here comes Eden now,” said Hester approvingly as a young woman marched into the room, followed by a trail of miserable looking supplicants clutching papers and hats.

  “Why do artists always look so oppressed?” wondered Lady Bess. “Miserable-looking bunch.”

  “It can’t be easy to come along with the begging bowl,” said Hester sympathetically.

  “The first one to crack a smile is mine,” said Bess decisively.

  Fen was studying Lady Eden Montmayne with interest. She had black hair and dark eyes and wore a black dress with only one brooch to alleviate the head to toe black. Certainly it was an unusual look for one so young. She somehow projected the fact she had a forceful personality into the air around her which seemed to ripple with her energy. She was casting a quick, appraising look around the room and seemed to focus on their little group at once. She turned back to her gaggle of artists and made a few brief gestures with her hands. Three stepped forwarded as she bore down on them determinedly.

  “Oh Lord,” said Lady Bess. “She’s going to organize us first.”

  “Such a redoubtable girl,” said Hester in a murmured aside to Fen.

  “She certainly exudes a great deal of confidence,” agreed Fenella.

  Eden’s face formed a quick business-like smile as she sunk into a graceful curtsey.

  They all bobbed back. This time Fen was convinced that Bess bowed.

  “My dear Lady Schaeffer,” Eden greeted her friend. “I am so pleased to see you here this morning. It has been a few weeks since you last attended.”

  “Allow me to introduce my new friend, Lady Fenella, Countess Vawdrey.”

  Fen bobbed again and was pleasantly surprised to find Eden Montmayne had no comment to make about her marital status.

  “How do you do?” she asked gravely instead. “I am very pleased to meet you.”

  “And I, you.”

  “And I am sure,” continued Hester. “That you must be already acquainted with Lady Bess Hartleby.”

  “By sight only,” answered Eden. “I am glad you have brought along new members to our society, for we have need of new blood.”

  “And new pockets, I’ll be bound!” joked Lady Bess with a loud guffaw at her own joke.

  Lady Eden squared her shoulders, but inclined her head agreeably enough. “Indeed, Lady Bess. You speak the truth,” she acknowledged. “Have you a mind to become a patron, may I ask?”

  “You may,” agreed Lady Bess. “And I do. But I want none of these milk and water artists,” she boomed. “Give me a fellow of conviction. Not some poultry rhymer, reed-voiced singer or mere dabbler of paints.”

  Fen became aware that around them was the sound of inward breaths being drawn. Their little group was undoubtedly the center of attention.

  “Of course not,” Eden Montmayne answered, not looking remotely embarrassed by the fact they clearly had an audience. “I would never do you such a disservice.” She looked back over her shoulder and signaled to a rough-hewn looking man with bushy eyebrows and a shock of curly brown hair. “Signor Arnotti is a great painter who studied at the Ottoline school in Holbrahns,” she said grandly.

  Lady Bess gazed at him looking unimpressed, as he shambled forward.

  “D’ye paint dogs, sir?” she asked at length.

  The artist’s eyebrows waggled furiously. “Dogs?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Hounds,” she clarified. “I’ve a fancy to see mine on canvas, you see.”

  “How many do you own, Lady Bess?” asked Fen with interest.

  “Six of the devils,” answered Bess promptly.

  Signor Arnotti slipped his thumbs in his pockets. “I will paint these dogs,” he said nodding his head. “But only at the feet of their mistress.”

  “Me?” boomed Bess. “Not likely!”

  “That is my condition,” answered he firmly.

  “Is that so? Sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  Fen fancied she could hear a grudging respect in Bess’s tone.

  Signor Arnotti nodded sagely.

  Bess gave an amused snort. “Very well,” she conceded. “As you wish. But I wish I you joy of turning this physog into a work of art!” She pointed at her face.

  Someone nearby tittered, but they all ignored it.

  “Excellent,” enthused Eden. “We will leave you to arrange the details.” She turned determinedly to Hester. “And now you, my dear Lady Schaeffer,” she said brightly. “I seem to remember you were in need of a poet to add to your collection of artists?”

  “Was I?” asked Hester looking diverted. “Well if you say I do, then it must be so, my dear.”

  “Superb,” Eden clapped her hands. “Mr Leadbetter,” summoned Eden. “Approach please.”

  Fenella listened as Eden ran through Mr Leadbetter’s body of work, sharing excerpts from his most recent sonnet. Hester professed herself charmed and agreed to be his patroness without much pressing from her young friend.

  “Your cousin Lenora does not join us this morning?” said Hester. “A great pity. It would put those Cecil girls in their place to see the reigning court beauty shine.”

  “No,” replied Eden, her lips pursing. “I had hoped she would, but…” her words trailed off.

  “She had a more enticing offer?” Hester ventured.

  “Lord Loughridge asked her to join him hawking this morning,” admitted Eden with disapproval.

  “Young Loughridge?” repeated Hester. “Has he joined the ranks of her beaux now?”

  “So it seems,” said Eden. “She did say she would try to join us later, but she is a little disillusioned with artists of late. Her last three portraits have scarcely done her justice.”

  Fen could tell she really did not want to discuss her cousin’s conquests. “I wonder,” she said clearing her throat. “That is, my husband did say…”

  Eden looked up keenly. “Yes? You are interested in sponsoring an artist, Lady Vawdrey?”

  “I thought, maybe a poet?” said Fenella uncertainly. “I mean, I don’t really know anything about poetry but…”

  “Do you have a favorite kind?” asked Eden.

  “I prefer it when they tell a story,” shrugged Fen. “Like a ballad maybe?

  “A story,” repeated Eden thoughtfully. “How about a playwright? I have one that might suit you admirably. A Mr John Entner.” She took a step closer to Fenella and lowered her voice. “I’m afraid the unfortunate man is in rather straitened circumstances of late. He used to write in his spare time and maintain his family of five children by working as a clerk, but sadly his clerking position was lost. He is finding his muse elusive, with creditors hammering on the door.”

  “Oh, the poor man! No wonder his inspiration has abandoned him.”

  “But perhaps a new patron will bolster him?” suggested Eden hopefully.

  Fen turned to look at the crowd of artists. “Tell me, which one is Mr Entner?” she asked, already knowing deep down that it would be the thin, soulful looking fellow, who stood on the edge of the crowd, clutching the brim of his hat and looking deeply sorrowful.

  Eden gave a swift smile that lit up her face, “Allow me to fetch him, Lady Vawdrey.” With a rustle of black fabric she took off across the room with her light, quick steps and Fen found that becoming a patron of the arts was not so difficult after all.

  **

  “I might have known you would be taken in by a sob story,” tutted Hester as they walked back to their rooms together arm in arm.

  “Oh, but indeed, Mr Entner has fallen on some very hard times,” insisted Fenella. “And Oswald himself told me that I might trust Eden Montmayne’s judgement of art.”

  “Oswald?” interrupted Hester and arched an eyebrow at her. “Why, I do believe that is the fir
st time I have heard you refer to your husband in such informal terms, Fenella.”

  Fen felt herself turning bright red. “Is it?” she faltered.

  Hester Schaeffer laughed. “I will not tease you,” she promised. “But you must both come to dine with Andrew and myself one evening this week.”

  “Of course,” said Fen pressing her friend’s arm. “Are you going to-” her mind went blank. “Oh dear, some banquet this evening? The Dowager something or other-?”

  “The Dowager Duchess of Lessing,” Hester supplied. “We’ve had an invite but Andrew is so stuffy, poor dear, and I really can’t put him through more than one social event per week. He finds it very wearing. Especially after one of the council meetings. They can be quite involved.”

  Fen pressed her lips together remembering Oswald’s displeasure at her inquisitiveness that morning. Clearly Lord Schaeffer told his wife more than her own husband did.

  “But there, you are not interested in such dry stuff,” said Hester when she made no reply. “And I can’t say I blame you. At your age I had no interest either.”

  Fen nodded, reluctant to explain that she had been warned off having any such interest.

  “And here we are, your rooms,” exclaimed the older woman. “Do you think you would be able to find your way back down again, my dear? This place is such a rabbit warren.”

  “I think so,” said Fen hesitantly. “Although I might take a wrong turn or two as so many of the corridors look the same.”

  “You’re doing very well,” her friend assured her. “You should get Lord Vawdrey to give you a full tour of the palace at some point.”

  “Yes, I have really only seen parts of it,” Fen admitted. “And I don’t really have a clear idea in my head how it is laid out at all.”

  “I can certainly show you some more walking routes around the parks and walkways,” Hester offered. “How about tomorrow morn?”

  “Bors and I would like that very much,” replied Fen warmly.

  “I’ll take my leave of you then, my dear.” Hester kissed her cheek and left Fen outside her door. “Have a nice time this evening and I will call for you on the morrow,” she called as she disappeared around a corner.

  “Goodbye.” Fen paused a moment before entering into the Vawdrey apartment. It occurred to her that she would miss Hester Schaeffer when she went to Vawdrey Keep, but perhaps they could keep up a written correspondence? Masculine voices brought her out of her musings and she looked up to see Roland sat playing cards at the table, with two other young men dressed partly in chainmail. They both sprang to their feet though Roland remained lolling in his chair.

  “Oh! Roland, your pardon I did not mean to interrupt-” she began, but her brother-in-law forestalled her.

  “This is Bevan and Attley,” he said, nodding to his friends.

  “Lady Vawdrey,” said the first executing a creditable bow. “Your servant. Sir Edward Bevan.”

  “Sir James Attley,” added the other hastily.

  Fenella curtsied. “I am happy to meet you both,” she said brightly. They did not seem hostile at any rate though they both goggled at her as though she were some sort of rare bird before dropping back into their seats. Both were well-built young men and from their apparel she guessed they had been practicing with arms and were part of the competitive tournament faction.

  “See you got your pearls back at any rate, eh?” joked Sir Edward feebly. He pointed at his own neck to illustrate his point.

  Fenella blushed and darted a look at Roland who rolled his eyes. “Oh – er, yes,” she agreed.

  “Did you show them to Lady Thane?” asked Sir Edward with a chortle.

  His friend Sir James elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Ignore Bev,” Roland advised not looking up from his cards. “We all do.”

  “You know, it would serve Thane right if Lord Vawdrey were to challenge him to a duel,” carried on Sir Edward cheerfully.

  Roland snorted. “Oswald would never challenge the likes of Thane in combat.”

  “Why not?” asked his friend. “Vawdrey was in the King’s army, wasn’t he? Could handle himself in a fight.”

  Roland turned a look of utter scorn on his friend. “Exactly you fool.” He looked at Fen and then back at his friend. “Gods, you all think you know him, but you haven’t the first notion.”

  Sir Edward looked uncomfortable. “Steady on Roly. There’s a lady present.“

  “I tell you, you don’t know him!” insisted Roland. “You only think you do.” He was looking directly at Fen now, the challenge plain in his expression.

  “You’ve said that before,” said Fen. “But perhaps I am not such a stranger to his character as you suppose.”

  “Think so, do you?” sneered Roland throwing down his hand of cards. “You’ve only been wed a week! If you truly knew him, you would run for the hills.”

  “I think not,” said Fen, and for some reason, she suddenly thought of the scarring at Oswald’s back. She may not know him as well as some did, but she knew some of his secrets alright. Even if he did not mean to let her into the heart of them. She lifted her chin.

  “Tell you about his work did he?” mocked Roland.

  “No, would you recommend I asked him?” asked Fen mildly. She was determined not to let her brother-in-law get the upper hand.

  “I thought not.” He smirked.

  Bors peeked out from under his chair and yawned. Roland reached down and patted his head.

  Fen approached the table to pour herself a cup of ale from their pitcher. She took a few sips and then sat down next to Sir Edward and opposite Roland. She saw a look of surprise flit over his face and was pleased. Did he really imagine she would go and hide in the bedroom? She was made of sterner stuff than that! “What are you playing?”

  “Huntsman Bold,” answered Sir Edward

  “You wouldn’t know it,” said Roland shortly. “It’s not a ladies’ game.”

  “I played cards with my brother Gil many a day,” protested Fen.

  “For money?” asked Roland.

  Fen looked at the table. “I see no coin,” she pointed out.

  Sir James laughed. “She has you there.”

  Fen peered at the cards which depicted various beasts of the hunt. They were a beautifully painted deck.

  “What games did you play with your brother?” asked Sir Edward with interest.

  “Let me see,” said Fen tapping her chin. “There was Find the Acorn…”

  “A child’s game,” dismissed Roland.

  “Heap of Fish.”

  “My dribbling nephew could play that.”

  “A Fine Red Apple…”

  “Nursery fare.”

  “I made that one up,” said Fen leaning back in her chair. “You really are too predictable Roland. I’ll wager you’re a terrible card player.”

  He smirked. “Now you’re trying to bait me into letting you play. But you’re not as clever as you think you are, sister.”

  “Or you’re not as stupid,” she replied, before catching herself. Her eyes widened as his friends snickered. “Your pardon,” she stammered.

  Roland frowned. “Why are you apologizing?”

  “Because, I addressed you then as if you were truly my brother,” she admitted.

  He held her gaze a moment. Then he swept up the cards. “Attley, do you have your deck?” he asked.

  His friend reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a well-worn set of cards. Roland took them and spread them across the table top. “Are you familiar with these?” he asked quirking a brow.

  Fen looked. “No,” she said. These were crudely drawn, yellowing cards that curled at the corner. “What are they - professions? Guilds?” she guessed spying was what looked like a blacksmith with his anvil, and there was a miller with his grindstone.

  “It’s called Livelihood,” said Sir James. “It’s what all the hawkers and stable-hands play.”

  “What’s interesting is that the lowest suit wins out,�
� enthused Sir Edward. “So, a fishmonger trumps a baron, and a beggar trumps a king. D’you see?”

  “I do,” said Fen. “So, it’s like the Lord of Misrule. When everything is upside down?”

  “Exactly,” said Roland who was now dealing the cards. To her gratification, he was dealing her a hand.

  Sir James poured them all more ale and Fen settled back into her seat and examined her cards. “What trumps a cleric?” she asked with interest. The other three sat still a moment.

  “Errrr…” said Sir James turning red.

  Roland turned a card to show her a bare-breasted woman. He cleared his throat. “A nursing mother,” he said shortly.

  Sir Edward had a coughing fit.

  “I see,” said Fen. Though she couldn’t see why they were acting so skittish about it.

  **

  A gust of laughter surprised Oswald as he paused on the threshold, before shutting the door behind him. Roland had better not have bought some tavern wench back to their rooms, he thought grimly as he made out female laughter above the male.

  “Serves you right, Attley!”

  He recognized his brother’s voice. Then, with a start, his wife’s.

  “And you thought I would be a hindrance,” she said smugly. “But we have won the last three hands since we partnered up, have we not?”

  Oswald walked through and found a card game in full swing.

  “Vawdrey!” he was hailed enthusiastically by Sir Edward Bevan.

  “Pull up a chair!” encouraged Sir James Attley.

  Fenella beamed at him, while Roland looked defiant. Which was nothing new.

  “What have we here?” he asked casually, while unbuttoning his cuffs.

  Meldon was piling logs on a roaring fire and Bors was lay on his back on the hearth rug, snoring.

  “We’re playing cards, my lord,” said Fenella. “Have you ever played Livelihood?”

  He paused. “Livelihood. Not for a long time.”

  “Not since you were a soldier?” asked Roland provokingly.

  “A soldier trumps a knight,” said Fen holding up a finger and looking pleased with herself.

  “And a nursing mother trumps a cleric,” stressed Sir Edward hastily.