The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1) Read online

  “You do not find such men necessary, my Lord?”

  “No. This is the year of our Lord 1620—not the age of Elizabeth. When she died in 1603, I am pleased to think that the romantic crew she lavished with her praise also went out of style.”

  “Like Sir Francis Drake—and Hawkins, not to mention Raleigh and the Earl of Essex?”

  Lord Roth threw his head back and laughed in genuine amusement. He took her hand boldly and kissed it, then leaned very close to whisper, “I can see I have touched unholy hands to your list of sainted heroes, Cecily! I beg your pardon—though all those men would be out of place in our world.”

  “The world of King James the First.” Cecily gave a sour smile. She waved her fan around the large room and said languidly, “You imitate his horrid taste, Lord Simon. His Majesty thinks that if only one spends enough, the result will be beauty. Father says he will ruin the kingdom if he keeps emptying the coffers on his ridiculous attempts to rival the Roman emperors.”

  Simon shrugged and glanced around the large ballroom. “Guilty, my Lady, I must confess. It seems to infect us all—the rash and foolish habits of our Most Sovereign Majesty.”

  They both gazed now at the room, which in itself was larger than many small palaces. Massive walls of stone held up the fan-arching of the ceiling, and on each side huge fireplaces blazed, six of them, and each held logs up to eight feet long. The flickering flames, aided by a great many candles, threw light up among the shadows, and the flash of gilt was everywhere. The rushes on the floor served to deaden the sound of dancers who moved back and forth across the room in the latest Italian steps, and the colors of the costumes almost dazzled the eye—red, green, yellow, all mingled and flashed as the dancers wove intricate patterns in the ever-changing firelight.

  Lord Roth drew his gaze from the milling scene of dancers, servants, musicians, jugglers, and a group of Kempe dancers accompanied by three men with taborers and pipes, to draw closer to Cecily.

  “It is rather busy, isn’t it? Perhaps we should find a quieter place?”

  With an arch smile, she put her mask up and said, “No, Lord Simon, that would be too romantic! And you have already informed me that such romance holds no interest for you.”

  He gave her a sly glance. “I shall hope to convince you otherwise, Cecily. Would you care to try one of those new Italian dances? They are certainly romantic enough, even for you!”

  She nodded, and they began to move back and forth in the intricate patterns of the newly imported dance that had been accepted by the court of England. There was a seductive quality in the ritual; as Cecily played her role, she felt as if she were the quarry and Lord Simon the aggressive male who must sooner or later corner her and have the way of the flesh.

  “Perhaps now that you have finished putting the Went-worth whelp through his paces, you may be more attentive to genuine prospects?”

  Despite herself Cecily reacted strongly, throwing her head back to look up at her partner, her eyes growing enormous as she swept his dark saturnine features. Then she attempted to cover up her surprise by murmuring in a bored tone, “I presume you refer to yourself, Lord Roth?”

  “You’re not surprised at that, surely,” he said, holding her even more closely. “Your mother must have pointed out my eligibility to you long ago.”

  “My mother will not select my husband—nor will my father.”

  Suddenly Lord Roth drew her through a narrow opening into a small room set in one side of the vast hall, evidently made for storage. In the flickering light of the candles he kissed her, his hard lips pressing against hers, trapping her within the confines of his iron grasp.

  Cecily was shaken by his rough passion, but attempted to cover her feelings. She laughed and ducked away from his embrace, saying, “Come, let us dance again!”

  As they moved smoothly through the intricate steps past the spectators lining the walls, many eyes were fixed on them—but none more intently than two men who stood behind one of the long tables filled with food. Lord North watched his daughter with a slight frown on his face, but his companion had happier thoughts.

  “They make quite a pair, don’t they, Henry?”

  Lord North cast a quick glance at the huge form of Bishop Charles Laud. His massive physique swelled out his robe. As the bishop tore at a huge drumstick dripping with fat, North thought, Laud looks even less like a bishop than I look like a royal duke. But he only nodded and said quietly, “Yes—quite impressive.”

  “Money is always impressive, Henry.” Bishop Laud paused to wash the meat down with a tremendous draught of wine, wiped his lips, and looked directly at the smaller man. “And power—that’s impressive, too. Simon has both, of course, and I suppose you and Lady North will approve of his suit for Cecily’s fair hand.”

  “You would approve, Bishop?”

  “Approve? Certainly! He has money and power. You have that, and family as well. What else is there?”

  North saw a slightly confused look in Laud’s eyes, and he said, “There are those who say that Simon’s rise was built on rather unsavory practices. Wouldn’t you, as a churchman, object to that?”

  “Oh, we’ll take care of that!” Laud laughed, picking up a hummingbird pie topped with curls of crisp bread shavings. “That’s what the church is for, Henry—to wipe out the sins of the successful.”

  “I stand corrected,” Henry North smiled. “I had thought it was a little more complicated than that—from what I’ve read in the Scripture. And from what the Reverend John Donne puts forth from his pulpit at St. Paul’s.”

  A frown slipped across the heavy face of the bishop, and he shrugged his beefy shoulders restlessly. “Oh, Donne! He’s a fanatic! Not much better than those rag-tag Puritans!”

  “The Brownists, you mean?” North asked idly. He referred to the followers of Troublechurch Browne, a minister who had filled the land with his idea that all true Christians should separate from the Church of England.

  “Yes! And all the rest of them!” Laud’s face, usually lit up with good humor, was suddenly ugly, and Sir Henry saw that beneath the sleek, smooth facade of Bishop Laud’s cultivated manners lurked a carnivore. “The King has seen the danger of such heresy at last.”

  “Yes, hanging Penry and Greenwood was a rather strict pronouncement, I thought.”

  “They won’t be the last!” Laud snapped. “It was Penry who wrote those scurrilous articles signed ‘Martin Mar-prelate,’ which attacked the holy Church of England. It must be stopped, Henry! It must!” North had heard all this before. His thoughts went to his daughter and Sir Simon Roth—and he was not happy.

  As the tapers burned out and were replaced by the servants, Cecily began to grow bored. Simon excused himself, and for over two hours Cecily danced with practically every man of her rank in the room. Finally she sat down with one of her few close friends, Mary Stanhope, daughter of the Earl, and they waved the young men off and talked idly of the ball and other matters.

  Cecily yawned and said, “Let’s go to our room and talk, Mary. I’ve never been so bored in my life.”

  Mary smiled and turned her well-shaped head to one side. She was pretty, but boasted no such beauty as her friend. “Bored with all these men falling at your feet? You’re spoiled, Cecily.”

  “No. They’re milksops. Not a red-blooded man in the room.”

  “Now that Lord Roth is gone?”

  “He doesn’t have red blood, Mary. Ice water flows through his veins.” She said this quickly, but was aware that a flush was touching her cheeks as she remembered his kiss.

  Mary caught it, and laughed delightedly. “I can see you don’t mean that!” Then she looked up and said, “But—the crop of men isn’t much tonight, I’m afraid.” Then she paused and added, “Except for him, of course.”

  Cecily followed the direction of Mary’s gaze and saw a man dressed in a uniform which bespoke the military, but which she could not recognize. “Who is he? I haven’t seen him before,” she said.

  �
�He came in about thirty minutes ago,” Mary whispered. “He’s been watching all the ladies ever since. I think he’s trying to decide which one to honor with his presence. My! Look how tall he is! And that hair!”

  “Probably cross-eyed and gap-toothed behind that mask,” Cecily shrugged.

  “Look Cecily! He’s coming this way! I think he’s chosen you! Do you feel honored?”

  “I feel he’s an insolent puppy who needs to be brought to heel,” Cecily smiled slowly behind her fan. “It’s a task I delight in.”

  “I don’t know, Cecily,” Mary whispered quickly. “He doesn’t look like a puppy.”

  “Watch!” Cecily hissed. “We’ll teach him to beg.”

  “Lady, will you take pity on a poor stranger? I will be lost forever if you refuse to dance with me!”

  The voice was low and husky, and the eyes that peered behind the mask were the bluest she’d ever seen—blue as a cornflower. There was a humorous light in them that mocked at the humility of the words, for there was nothing humble in his figure. Tall and lean, like the rapier he wore at his side, there was an athletic smoothness to his bow as there had been to his walk. The mask he wore was thin, not concealing the wedge-shaped face that began with a broad bronze brow and tapered down to a jutting chin bearing a small white scar. The scar drew attention to his wide mouth; a crooked smile exposed perfect even teeth that gleamed in the light of the fires.

  Cecily took in the square, well-shaped hands, the strong wrists and shapely arms, the legs set off by the tight-fitting doublet and hose, then said languidly, “A lost soul? Then you must find a priest. There is one over there—Bishop Laud. I’m sure he will help you to find your way.”

  “Ah, Lady, the bishop can only save a soul; it is not my soul that is lost but my heart.”

  “Indeed? Then you need a surgeon. I recommend Mr. Deverreaux. He knows all about hearts and their problems.”

  The wide mouth turned upward in a quick smile, and the blue eyes sparkled gaily as he said, “Not so, fair Lady. He would find nothing wrong with my heart, could he take it out and examine it. For it is not what is in my heart that brings me to death, but what is not there—your lovely self, Lady.”

  It was the language of courtly love, usually innocent enough. Cecily had seen a performance of Romeo and Juliet, and the word play between the two young lovers was light, clever, often stinging. She was quick-witted enough to play the game well, and as for the young man who stood before her, she realized his wit was as keen as his eyes were bright.

  Finally she said, “It is my Christian duty to take pity on those who are in pain. Perhaps the dance will restore your health. But your soul will still need the attention of a parson.”

  Then began a very strange time for Cecily North. For the first time in her life she found a man who could match her wit; indeed, sometimes his words flowed so smoothly she found herself trapped in some of the cunning conceits he laid for her. The ease with which he led her through the dance made the exercise so natural that their conversation—filled with barbed jests and clever innuendoes—was not at all impeded.

  Then he said, in that peculiar husky voice that had the unusual effect of sending a shiver along her nerves, “Lady, time is on the wing. Let us not do as yonder tapers and burn ourselves out with nothing to show for all our brilliance.”

  He had skillfully guided her into the same tiny niche where Lord Roth had led her earlier. If he had it built for this sort of thing, she thought with a wary smile, he ought to keep it locked when he was not in residence. How the red-haired man had found it she couldn’t guess, but she was intrigued by his flow of words and wit as well as by his attractive form.

  “What are you suggesting, sir? Surely you are too much of a philosopher to suggest that physical gratification is more important than matters of the soul.”

  He stepped closer to her and asked, “Do you know Mr. Herrick?”

  “No. Is he a minister or a philosopher?”

  “A poet, who says better than I what I am feeling this moment—” As he began to quote the poem, Cecily found herself leaning toward him of her own free will. Perhaps she had taken too much wine, or perhaps she was just bored—but as he spoke, that husky voice drew her close to him.

  Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

  Old time is still a-flying:

  And this same flower that smiles to-day,

  To-morrow will be dying.

  That age is best which is the first,

  When youth and blood are warmer;

  But being spent, the worse and worst

  Times, still succeed the former.

  Then be not coy, but use your time;

  And while ye may, go marry:

  For having lost but once your prime,

  You may for ever tarry.

  Then he kissed her—but the encounter was not at all like the one earlier that evening. Simon had held her with his iron arm and battered her lips with force. This time, Cecily was lost in a moment of surrender she could not explain. The room was warm; she had tasted the wine more freely than usual; she was weary—but none of this explained how she suddenly leaned forward and lifted her lips to the stranger who promptly took her in arms that, despite their corded muscle, caressed her rather than bound her. Her own arms seemed to rise of their own accord until she was pressing his head closer and her body closer to his. Cecily had been kissed many times, but never had she given herself like this. The music faded and there was a ringing in her ears, like far-off music heard over water.

  “I trust I’m not intruding!”

  Cecily pulled back from the man in sudden confusion. The tall form of Lord Roth stood in the opening; his face was pale, and a wild light glowed in his pale eyes.

  “I—I—” For once in her life, Cecily North had no quip, no reply; not a single word came to her lips.

  “I think this is our dance, is it not, my Lady?” the stranger said suddenly, and she found herself practically pushed through the opening. The red-haired man brushed abruptly past Lord Roth and led her to the floor. He led her through the steps and her head was quickly cleared as she took a glance around the room.

  What was I thinking of! she asked herself. Quickly she looked up at her partner to see if he was laughing at her. If there had been one trace of humor, she would have left him at once, but his gaze was sober and he smiled faintly with a lift of one eyebrow. “We must compare poets, my Lady. I’m sure you know a great many.”

  She felt a quick surge of gratitude as he managed to take the sting out of the moment. Quickly she cast a look toward the wall and saw her father standing with Bishop Laud and another man.

  Anxious to speak of something trivial she smiled and said, “There’s the parson.”

  “The parson?”

  “Oh, yes. My father said that he had invited one of our poor relations here. I think he’s going to make him an object of charity—create some sort of post to keep him from starving. He looks like a parson, doesn’t he?”

  Her partner took his look at the three men and nodded.

  “Most decidedly, a holy man,” he nodded, a merry look in his cornflower blue eyes. “He looks sour and unhappy. Quite right. All parsons should look exactly like that.”

  “Come, I’ll introduce you to my father—and to my poor relation.”

  The three men were watching them carefully, and there was a slight smile on the faces of Laud and her father. The smaller man, who was wearing a common garment, rather the worse for wear, was peering at them also, but narrowly as if he were weak in the eyes.

  “Well, now, you’ve danced the evening away, Lady Cecily,” the bishop laughed. “You look quite ravishing.”

  “Bishops aren’t supposed to notice such things, are they?” Cecily smiled, then turned to her father. “May I introduce you to my partner, Father? Except that we have not met. At a masquerade introductions are necessary sooner or later.” She glanced at the poorly dressed man beside her father. “I take it this is our cousin, the parson?”
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br />   All three men looked a little confused; then her father said, “This is Mr. Tiddle. He serves me in the court from time to time.”

  “Oh, a lawyer.” Cecily looked at him, then shrugged. “I take it you are not insulted to be taken for a parson, Mr. Tiddle?”

  “Not at all, Lady Cecily.” Tiddle shook his head.

  “Your spiritual condition should be considerably better now than at the beginning of the ball,” Lord North said with a quick smile at Cecily.

  Cecily stared at him and wondered if he too had seen the tall man kissing her! “Why, how could that be at a dance, Father? This is no place to practice one’s devotion—even if the bishop does attend.”

  “Perhaps not, but your partner must have given you good counsel, Daughter. That’s his business.” He took one step forward and put his hand out to the red-haired man. “How are you, Mr. Winslow? I trust you’ve been quoting holy writ to my daughter as a good parson should.”

  “I doubt it very much, Henry,” Laud laughed loudly; he, too, offered his hand to the man. “Winslow here had a devilish bad reputation at Cambridge. The most worldly parson in the whole university, it’s said. Well, Lady Cecily, has our parson been effective in saving your soul?”

  Slowly Cecily turned to look up at the face of Gilbert Winslow, who removed his mask and was trying not to smile. For a long moment they exchanged glances, somewhat like the clash of rapiers as they searched for weakness; Cecily, especially, tried to cover up her confusion by throwing up a guard.

  “I have certainly been highly edified by Parson Winslow’s company,” she said carefully. “He was just telling me that life is brief—and that all of us must not neglect to use what time we have in the best possible manner. Isn’t that so, Mr. Winslow?”

  “I doubt that Reverend Donne himself could put it more clearly, Lady Cecily,” Gilbert said. His words were smooth, but there was a mocking light in his amazing blue eyes as he continued innocently, “I trust that we will have many opportunities to exchange views on such matters—now that I am the hired drudge of your father.”