The Maiden's Hand

“I shall lie low,” Oliver had said, “but I should be more content if you were lying beneath me.”

Thank heavens Dr. Snipes had returned and spared her from having to respond.

Now she looked at Spencer and felt such a wave of horror and guilt that her hands trembled. She buried them deep in the folds of her skirts.

“I do not recall his precise words,” she said, lying again. “But he had a most insolent manner.”

“Perhaps his brush with death put him in a foul mood.”

It was an unusually tolerant observation from a man of little tolerance. Lark blinked in surprise. She tried to will her flushed cheeks to cool. “He could use a lesson in manners.”

“Be he rapscallion or man of honor, did he deserve to die?”

“No,” she whispered, instantly contrite. She took Spencer’s hand; his was cool and dry with age and infirmity. “Forgive me. I lack your generosity of spirit.”

His fingers squeezed hers briefly. “A woman cannot be expected to comprehend the matters that move a man to courage.”

She felt a sudden urge to snatch her hand away, then just as quickly buried the impulse. She owed all that she was to Spencer Merrifield. If from time to time his well-meaning comments grated, she should ignore them with good grace.

“And what lofty purpose do you have in mind for Oliver de Lacey?” she asked.

She could see the flame of the dying sun reflected in Spencer’s cloudy gray eyes, which peered all the way through to her soul. Sometimes she feared his wisdom, for he seemed to know her better than she knew herself.

“Spencer?” She touched her stiff gray bodice, wondering if her partlet or coif had come askew.

“I’ve a purpose in mind for the lad. My dear,” he said, “I am sick and getting sicker.”

A lump of dread rose in her throat. “Then we shall seek a new physician, consult—”

He waved her silent. “Death is part of the circle of life, Lark. It’s all around us. I have no fear of the hereafter. But I must make provisions for you. The manor of Evensong is already yours, of course. I intend to leave you all my worldly goods, all my monies. You’ll want for nothing.”

She did take her hand away then and tucked it between her knees, seeking warmth as an unbearable chill swept over her. He spoke so matter-of-factly, when in truth his death would change her life irrevocably.

“You are nineteen,” he observed. “Most women are mothers by the time they reach your age.”

“I have no regrets,” she said stoutly. “Truly, I—”

“Hush. Listen, Lark. When I’m gone, you will be left alone. Worse than alone.”

Worse? She caught her breath, then said, “Wynter.”

“Aye. My son.” The word was a curse on his lips. Wynter Merrifield was Spencer’s son by his first wife, Doña Elena de Dura. Many years ago, before Lark’s birth, the marriage had crumbled beneath the weight of Doña Elena’s scorn for her English husband and her flagrant affairs with other, younger men. Like the Church of England and the Church of Rome, Spencer and Elena had been torn apart, the fissure created by infidelity and hatred.

And Wynter, now a strapping young lord of twenty-five, was the casualty.

When she had left Spencer, Doña Elena had not told him she was expecting a child. While in sanctuary in Scotland, she had given birth and raised Wynter to be as bitter against his father as she was and as devoted to Queen Mary as Elena had been to Catherine of Aragon.

Two and a half years earlier Wynter had come back to Blackrose Priory to hover like a carrion bird over his father’s wasting form. Each day Lark watched him furtively from her chamber window. As slim and darkly handsome as a young god, he rode the length and breadth of the estate, his black horse sweeping along the rich green water meadows by the river or racing up the terraced hills where sheep grazed.

The thought of Wynter made Lark fitful, and she stood and walked to the window. The sun was lowering over the wild Chiltern Hills in the distance, and shadows gathered in the river valley.

“By law,” Spencer said wearily, “Wynter must inherit my estate. It is entailed to my sole male heir.”

“Is he your heir?” she asked baldly, though she did not dare to turn and look at Spencer.

“A sticky matter,” Spencer admitted. “I knew nothing of his existence when I put aside my first wife and had the marriage annulled. But as soon as I learned I had a son, I had him legitimized. How could I not? He did not ask to be born to a woman who would teach him to hate.”

Lark heard the clink of glass as Spencer poured himself more of his medicine. “I should not have asked. Of course he is your son and heir.” She shivered and continued to face the window, battered by a storm of bitter memories. “Your only one.”

“You must help me stop him. Wynter wishes to exalt Queen Mary by reviving a religious house at Blackrose Priory. He’ll turn this place into a hotbed of popish idolatry. The monks who lived here before the Dissolution were voluptuous sinners,” Spencer went on. “I sweated blood into this estate. I need to know it will stay the same after I’m gone. And what will become of you?”

She rushed to the stool by the bed. “I try not to think about life without you. But when I do, I see myself continuing the work of the Samaritans. Dr. Snipes and his wife will look after me.” It had occurred to her that she possessed some degree of cleverness, perhaps even enough to look after herself. She knew better than to point that out to Spencer.

He gestured at the chest at the foot of the bed. “Open that.”

She did as he asked, using a key from the iron ring she wore tied to her waist. She found a stack of books and scrolled documents in the chest. “What is all this?”

“I’m going to disinherit Wynter,” he said. She heard the pain in his voice, saw the flash of regret in his fading eyes.

“How can you?” She closed the lid and rested her elbows on top of the chest. “You do love your son.”

“I cannot trust him. When I see him, I notice a hardness, a cruelty, that sits ill with me.”

She thought of Wynter with his hair and eyes of jet, his lean swordsman’s body, and his mouth that was harsh even when he smiled. He was a man of prodigious good looks and deep secrets. A dangerous combination, as she well knew.

“How will you do this?” she asked without turning around. “How will you deny Wynter his birthright?”

“I shall need your help, dear Lark.”

She turned to him in surprise. “What can I do?”

“Find me a lawyer. I cannot trust anyone else.”

“You would entrust this task to me?” she asked, shocked.

“There is no one else. I shall need you to find someone who is discreet, yet totally lacking in scruples.”

“This is so unlike you—”

“Just do it.” A fit of coughing doubled him over, and she rushed to him, patting his back.

“I shall,” she said in a soothing voice. “I shall find you the most unscrupulous knave in London.”

Lark stood at the grand river entrance of the elegant half-timbered London residence. It was hard to believe Oliver de Lacey lived here, along the Strand, a stretch of riverbank where the great houses of the nobility stood shoulder to shoulder, their terraced gardens running down to the water’s edge.

The door opened, and she found herself facing a plump, elderly woman with a hollowed horn thrust up against her ear. “Is Lord Oliver de Lacey at home?”

“Eh? He ain’t lazy at home.” The woman thumped her blackthorn cane on the floor. “Our dear Oliver can be a right hard worker when he’s of a mind to be wanting something.”