His Forsaken Bride (Vawdrey Brothers Book 2) Page 3

  “This I like,” Bardulf said. “I could use one like this in my study.”

  “You don’t have a study,” Oswald pointed out mildly.

  Bardulf smiled. “My office is the salons and ballrooms of the rich and mighty. That is why I am always so well informed.” He pointed a long elegant finger toward him. “You should take a leaf out of my book. Then you would not need all your spies hiding around corners and sifting through people’s letters.” His lip curled at the idea of such bad manners.

  Oswald smiled at this. “People do not tend to discuss treasonous plots at balls.”

  “Of course they do, my dear Vawdrey!” Bardulf contradicted him roundly. “But I can see you are laughing at me. Your spies are at the parties also, are they not, my friend?” He gave a sly smile.

  Oswald waited patiently. He was sure more would be forthcoming, if he bided his time.

  “Which reminds me, were you at the King’s winter ball on Thursday week? I forget if I saw you there…” he held up a white hand. “No, I remember. You had to send your apologies. Again, as you were so hard at work on the King’s foreign policy.”

  Oswald nearly rolled his eyes. Bardulf was aware as anyone that he very rarely attended such events. Still, he put a thoughtful look on his face and steepled his hands. “Last Thursday, you say? I do not think I was able to tear myself away…”

  “Such a shame,” tutted Bardulf, settling back into his seat. “For you quite missed the dazzling court debut of the Cecil sisters.” Bardulf inspected his immaculate nails and Oswald’s eyebrows snapped together.

  “Sir Philip Cecil’s daughters?” he hazarded.

  “Nieces,” Bardulf corrected him swiftly.

  “And they were universally admired?” asked Oswald politely.

  “The elder sister was held up as a paragon of virtue and accomplishment.”

  “And the younger?” asked Oswald.

  Bardulf smiled. “Her virtue was not so immediately apparent,” he admitted. “But the attention she garnered, came from rather more exalted corners.”

  Oswald shut his eyes briefly and then reopened them.

  “Quite so,” said Bardulf gently. “She simply entranced the King with her twinkling laugh and fulsome…hair.”

  Oswald winced. “The Cecil family would never allow one of their number to become one of the King’s mistresses,” he said, suddenly tired of all the subterfuge.

  Bardulf gave him a direct look. “Therein lies the problem, my friend.”

  Oswald guessed the Queen had sent Bardulf to him in a fit of pique at this latest bauble to catch the King’s roving eye. “I don’t see-”

  “Do not mistake me, my friend,” said Bardulf guessing his line of thought. “The Queen did not send me.”

  Oswald sat up straighter in his chair. In his experience it was very rare that Bardulf ever came flat out with anything. “Then…?”

  “Word has it the little innocent is not so naïve after all. She is pleading her reputation and demanding some recompense from the King if she is to deliver her prized virtue up to him.”

  “Such as?”

  “A high-ranking marriage,” said Bardulf gravely.

  Oswald sat very still.

  “In short, my dear Vawdrey, you will need to step very carefully or you will find yourself ensnared in the parson’s trap and shackled to the King’s latest paramour.”

  Oswald leant forward in his chair.

  “But perhaps you would not mind so very much,” said Bardulf airily. “After all, everywhere I go, everyone whispers at your monk-like existence. Your devotion to the King’s cause.”

  Oswald realized he was drumming his fingers against the desk top and snatched back his hand.

  “After all,” carried on Bardulf leisurely. “It may consolidate your position of power if the little who- your pardon – lady in question manages to hold his attention.”

  Oswald snorted. “She’d be the first one who did.”

  “Of course, you’d end up raising royal bastards to inherit your title and lands,” added Bardulf wryly.

  Oswald made an impatient gesture with his hand. “That’s quite out of the question,” he said, surprising himself with his vehemence.

  “Your family does have a history of elevating bastards,” pointed out Bardulf.

  “Mason was my father’s bastard. Not another man’s.”

  “Yes, there is that distinction,” agreed Bardulf still watching Oswald closely.

  “I must thank you, Bardulf. For bringing this to my attention,” said Oswald. “Forewarned is forearmed.”

  “I will await your next move with great interest,” said Bardulf looking amused. “But I think you may find this predicament beyond even your ingenuity, Vawdrey.” He looked a little rueful. “I have not given you as much notice as I would like.”

  Oswald smiled wanly. “We shall see.”

  **

  His Majesty King Wymer's Court at Aphrany

  Oswald slid into his seat opposite the dais and tapped his assistant discreetly on his shoulder as the King listened to his latest petitioner. Bryce nearly jumped out of his skin, and then looked so relieved he might cry. “My lord,” he whispered. “I was so worried. You never miss an audience with the King and his majesty was quite put out to start without you.”

  “Who is this?” Oswald asked in a low voice. Bryce was right, he never missed because someone had to keep an eye on the King. And that someone was usually him.

  Bryce cleared his throat. “This is his majesty's equerry to the north, Sir Ambrose Thane,” he whispered back.

  “Ah Thane,” Oswald looked down the list his assistant had provided for him. Thank gods he was the last on the list today for this morning’s session. He had a stack of work to get back to. Oswald frowned as the King made a gracious speech of acquiescence which had Sir Ambrose breaking out in smiles all round. An insipid looking blonde on the sidelines squealed and ran forward to clutch Sir Ambrose's arm. “What exactly did he ask for?” he asked with slight misgiving. Wymer could get carried away sometimes in granting requests and Oswald had to admit he had taken his eye off proceedings for a moment there.

  “A divorce,” responded Bryce helpfully.

  Oswald's eyebrows rose. “A divorce?” he echoed. “On what grounds?”

  Bryce coughed. “Sir Ambrose did not go into the specifics.”

  Wonderful, thought Oswald grimly. Watching Sir Ambrose kiss the hand of the blonde, Oswald guessed he had a replacement lined up already. He cast a sour look Wymer's way. He just hoped the previous wife did not come from a powerful family or there could be hell to pay. “What was the name of the discarded wife?” he asked with a frown. He'd scarcely slept a wink the previous night. He could really do without any added complications this morning.

  “Lady Fenella Thane,” muttered Bryce helpfully.

  “Her maiden name, Bryce,” he clarified testily.

  Bryce blushed faintly. “I'm afraid as to that my lord, I could not say...”

  “Never mind, the damage is done now,” Oswald interrupted him. He would have to cross that bridge when he reached it. Giving himself a slight shake he moved over to where the King was now signaling for the doors to be opened, the public royal audience having ended for another month.

  “A divorce?” he murmured reproachfully.

  King Wymer shrugged. “I looked in your direction,” he said defensively. “And you weren’t there to give me any indication either way!”

  Oswald suppressed a sigh.

  “You think it will be a problem?” asked the King, with a yawn. “It seemed like the quickest way to shut the prosy bore up.”

  “Very likely,” agreed Oswald dryly. He pressed a finger and thumb to his eyes.

  “You look tired, Vawdrey,” grunted the King clapping him on the shoulder. “You work too hard. Get a bit of shut-eye.”

  “I've got that treaty to finalize for tomorrow,” Oswald reminded him.

  “So you have,” agreed the king heartily. “B
etter get back to it. Don't want me to look a fool in front of all those visiting dignitaries, hey?” He punched Oswald in the shoulder and guffawed. “Thought you might like to join me for supper later,” he added airily. “Lord Schaeffer is joining me.”

  His casual air instantly struck a false chord with Oswald. “You usually sup with Lord Schaeffer on a Tuesday night, your highness,” he commented.

  “Oh yes,” the King agreed with a wave of his hand. “But I thought you might like to join us, you know.”

  Oswald shot a sidelong glance at the King, but he was emanating nothing but a cheery bonhomie. Immediately, this put Oswald on his guard. “There is something you wish to discuss with me?” he suggested.

  The King hesitated. “Not here,” he said tapping a finger to his nose. “Somewhere with a bit of privacy, eh? Little idea I want to run by you.”

  Oswald’s brows snapped together. Wymer rarely had ideas of his own but when they did they usually meant trouble.

  “You’re a good-looking devil, Vawdrey,” said the King appraisingly. “How old are you? Seems long overdue you were leg-shackled.”

  Oswald nearly choked on his own spit. Bardulf’s warning had barely been in time. He eyed the King much as he would a snake pulled back to strike.

  “Probably my fault, taking up all your time,” said the King jocularly. “But it’s not too late to put it to rights! Never fear!”

  Oswald glanced around to see if their conversation was overheard. As usual there were courtiers on every corner, eager to listen to any royal gossip. “It has not been a priority of mine,” he murmured, in an effort to quell the King’s enthusiasm.

  “And well do I know it!” sighed the King shaking his head. “But it’s not natural for a man in his prime like you are, Vawdrey!” He eyed Oswald. “What number you, in years? Thirty?”

  “Thirty-three,” Oswald corrected him automatically. His brain was scrambling. He really hadn’t expected the King to go on the offensive so soon.

  “And I’ve never yet heard of you playing the lover to any of our beauties at court,” complained the King. “It’s not right, begad!”

  Beauties at court. Oswald felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. In his peripheral vision he saw a shadowy figure by the window to his far left, only just in sight. It was Lord Phillip Cecil. Out of the corner of his eye, Oswald saw him exchange a charged look with the King. Wymer cleared his throat and turned his back to Cecil in a clumsy attempt to distract Oswald’s attention from it. Ah. It all clicked into place. So, it was true. Bardulf was right. Oswald felt cold anger course through his veins.

  “If you’ll excuse me, your highness,” he said coolly. “I must return to that treaty immediately.”

  “Of course, of course,” blustered the King. “Don’t forget. Around nine o’clock in my private chambers.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Oswald responded with a brief bow and strode from the room.

  **

  Anyone who had followed Lord Vawdrey that morning would have found he did not return to his study as avowed, but instead made his way to the Vawdrey family quarters in the coveted west wing of the palace. He was not followed, something he knew for sure as he discreetly glanced about him as he made his way unhurriedly down the warren of cloistered passages. It would not do for Wymer’s spy-master to be followed and he did this mostly from habit despite his inner turmoil. No-one would have guessed at this either, for his face was an impassive mask. But inwardly he was seething. He had no sooner spotted the door to their rooms then a maid slid out the door carrying what looked like her own petticoat and stockings. She giggled and pulled her chemise up over one bare shoulder as Oswald averted his eyes, surmising his brother would be found within. He was right, as he entered the room he found Roland sat at the table, half dressed and picking at some bread and cheese. He looked up as his brother came in and made a noise with his mouth full of bread. Oswald guessed it was some form of greeting. “Who was that?” he asked as he crossed the room. “Not a member of the palace staff I hope, at this advanced hour?”

  Roland lolled back in his chair. “Relax. Tavern wench,” he said. “I’ve learned my lesson. Maybe you should try it.”

  “Learning my lesson?” asked Oswald, taking a seat directly opposite him.

  “Tavern wenches,” his brother corrected him with an impertinent grin. “Might make you seem a bit more human.”

  Oswald considered the youngest Vawdrey, as Roland continued devouring his plate of cheese and grapes. Roland had been a late bloomer, but in the last four years had turned into a heavily muscled copy of his father and older brother. “How’s your arm?”

  Roland snorted and rotated his shoulder. “It would take more than the strength of that simpleton de Bussell to stop me from competing tomorrow,” he boasted referring to the tournament being held the following day. “My lance arm is fine.”

  “That’s good,” murmured Oswald. “Who knows, there may be some new champions in that party lately returned from the North?”

  Roland shrugged. “We can but hope. I’ve beaten everyone else round here.”

  “That’s why you’re the King’s champion,” pointed out Oswald with a smile at his brother’s boastfulness.

  “As to that, all that plaguey title’s done is reduce my winning purse,” complained Roland. “Who will bet against the King’s champion? Wish he’d never bestowed it on me.”

  “Is that why you masqueraded as the black knight with no sigil at Cereny?” asked Oswald dryly.

  Roland gave a visible start and then colored up. “You set your spies on me?” he asked belligerently.

  “Of course not,” scoffed Oswald. “I hardly need the aid of a spy to recognize my own brother.”

  Roland shrugged a brawny shoulder in annoyance. “Always forget how bloody observant you are,” he muttered. “Why bring it up now? You never let on before!”

  Oswald sighed. “I don’t know. No reason.”

  “There’s always a reason with you,” said Roland darkly.

  Oswald wondered with surprise if that was true. “I’m tired,” he admitted. “And speaking without considering my words.”

  “Must be a first for you,” retorted his brother. “Ever the damned politician.” Roland pushed his plate away and contemplated his brother frowningly. “What is it? What’s got you rattled?” he asked slowly.

  “It’s nothing,” said Oswald aloud. “Just a trying morning, that’s all.” He smiled wanly. “So far there’s been a divorce and a suspicious invitation to supper.”

  “Who got divorced?” asked Roland with a raised eyebrow. They very rarely discussed Oswald’s business.

  “Sir Ambrose Thane.”

  “Oh?” grunted Roland suspiciously. “Who’s he?”

  “Diplomatic equerry to the King in the north.”

  Roland pulled a disgusted face. “Oh, a damn ambassador! Court’s overflowing with dullards these days! Who’s the wife?”

  “Which one?” Oswald answered wryly.

  Roland choked on his cup of ale. “The devil you say! I’ve heard a lot of things about the North, but I didn’t know they practiced polygamy!”

  “He’s not northern,” said Oswald absently reaching for the fruit bowl. He helped himself to a grape.

  “How did he end up with two wives then?”

  Oswald watched his brother as Roland pushed away his plate of half eaten cheese. He was suddenly sick of Sir Ambrose Thane and his many wives. Instead he realized this was the first conversation he’d had with his youngest brother in weeks. “Did you read the letter from Mason that came last week?” he asked in an abrupt change of subject.

  Roland shrugged. “I glanced it over.”

  “It seems unlikely he and Linnet will come to court in the next few months.”

  His brother grunted.

  “It can’t be easy to travel with three children,” Oswald said mildly. “Especially Archie,” he added with a vague shudder thinking of his godson.

  “Why don�
�t they leave them at Cadwallader, then?” said Roland belligerently. “Especially that red-haired little demon-spawn!” They both brooded a moment on the subject of Archie Vawdrey, their nephew.

  “Don’t let Mason hear you refer to his son and heir in those terms,” warned Oswald. For some reason their brother and sister-in-law insisted on believing their son was some kind of angelic protégée, instead of the little villain he really was. “Maybe he’s improved in the last two months since we last saw him?”

  “He could hardly be any worse,” retorted Roland.

  “Still,” said Oswald. “It would be good to have all the family together again.” He hesitated. “Since father died…”

  “Save it,” Roland growled.

  Oswald sighed. It was strange to think their blustering, purple-faced sire had been the glue that held them together. “I know you were closest to him…”

  Roland dragged his chair back abruptly. “Are we done here?” he gritted out.

  Oswald shrugged. “Apparently.”

  Roland crossed the room and shut the door behind him with a loud bang. He was still touchy over their father’s death. And by all accounts, burning the candle at both ends with wine, women and the tournament circuit. Oswald just hoped his younger brother wasn’t riding for a fall. They weren’t close and never had been. Was it too late to close the gap between them? Of course, he had more pressing problems, with this threat to his marital state. Not that Roland could help in any way, even if they were closer. Oswald took no-one into his confidences. He had always kept himself to himself. Linnet had been right. He had no close particular friends or confidantes. His powerful role at court did not encourage such bonds. His brother Mason was probably the closest person to him, and even he only knew the side of Oswald that he presented to him. The fact was that he was a very private person. And the idea of being pledged in marriage hit him in a raw place, as it was something his father had taken great liberties with when he was a young man. Match after match had been drawn up and then cast aside as another more lucrative prospect came into view. It had been humiliating to be bartered like goods and the only relief he found from the embarrassment was to remove himself emotionally and physically from the parade of young women who had been presented to him time after time as his future wife.