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Prologue
London, 1589
He had loved her forever.
And she was smiling at him. Even from this distance the sunshine in her welcoming smile warmed his heart. It always did.
Since her entrance into this world thirteen years earlier, Roger had considered her the sister he'd never had and harbored intensely protective feelings for her. Returning his affection, she showered him with childish adoration.
Twenty-five-year-old Roger Debrett stood in the Earl of Basildon's summer-lush garden and stared across the green expanse of lawn at the girl who sat on a stone bench in the shade of a weeping-willow tree. A gentle breeze teased the sweeping tips of the willow, and Roger paused a long moment to admire the girl's feminine serenity. She always reminded him of a delicate, elusive butterfly. His psyche, as the Greeks had so aptly named both the butterfly and the soul.
Thirteen years old today and no longer a child, Roger thought. Soon she would step across another of life's thresholds into womanhood, and eager young swains would flock to Devereux House to court her.
Roger Debrett, the Earl of Eden and the second richest man in England, could purchase whatever pleased him. Since their very first meeting the girl sitting beneath the willow had pleased him more than anything else. And what had always pleased him most was the unconditional acceptance mirrored in her sunny smile.
Reluctant to end the moment by starting across the lawns toward her, Roger admired the earl's garden, a paradise on earth. Low clipped hedges of thyme, myrtle, and germander had been fashioned into intricate patterns, while lavender and rue provided contrast. Perfectly manicured lawns carpeted the grounds between lines of yew, clipped to form high hedges. Red roses, purple love-in-a-mist, white sweet alyssum, and blue forget-me-nots bloomed in a wanton blending of vibrant color. Yet nature's beauty paled when compared with the girl.
Watching her, Roger saw through her cloak of innocence to the budding beauty beneath. This moment would forever linger in his mind as one of the best days of his life. He would present his little butterfly with her very first adult birthday gift and then share his own happy news that he'd become betrothed. Oh, he could hardly wait to see her reaction to that.
Roger saw her tilt her head to one side as if puzzled by his failure to approach. Surrendering to her magnetic smile, he started across the lawns toward her.
“I knew you'd come,” she said, gazing at him through the most disarming violet eyes he'd ever seen.
“Lady Blythe, the sweetest blossom within this earthly paradise withers beside your uncommon beauty.” Roger bowed formally over her offered hand.
His compliment seemed to please her. Immensely. Roger refused to ruin the moment by scolding her, but made a mental note to warn her to beware of men's flattery.
“How fares Elizabeth's 'soaring eagle'?” she asked, using the pet name the queen had bestowed upon him.
“Seeing your sunny smile has brightened my day,” Roger replied. Then he teased, “How did you know I'd visit? Are you a fortune-telling Gypsy?”
“Past precedence, my lord.” She tilted her head back to gaze up the long length of him, for at six feet and two inches he stood more than a foot taller than her petite height. “You never miss my birthday.”
“'Tis your birthday?” Roger feigned embarrassed dismay, his blue eyes widening with counterfeit surprise. “God's bread, how could I have forgotten such a momentous occasion?”
Blythe laughed, a sweetly melodious sound that reminded him of a songbird. “Sit beside me, “ she invited, casting him a flirtatious look from beneath the thick fringe of her ebony lashes.
Roger grinned. He knew she was practicing her wiles on him, but didn't mind in the least.
Sitting beside her, Roger stretched his long legs out and glanced at her perfect profile. Her mane of ebony hair and her disarming violet eyes conspired with generous lips and a small straight nose to attract any man who saw her. Her faint scent of roses teased his senses.
Blythe was a beauty all right. He'd kill any cocky swain who dared to trifle with her heart.
“Are you planning to make me wait all day for my gift?” Blythe asked, giving him a look obviously meant to seduce.
Roger felt like laughing. Instead, he fixed a suitably disapproving look on his face and chided her, saying, “Sweet psyche, greed is exceedingly unbecoming in a lady.”
“Psyche?”
“Psyche is Greek for butterfly, which is what you have always seemed to me. A pretty, elusive butterfly.”
“Psyche also means soul,” she added with an ambiguous smile.
Her words surprised him, though he knew he should have expected them. Richard Devereux, the Earl of Basildon, had insisted his daughters receive a man's education.
“Are you knowledgeable in Greek as Well as Mathematics?” he teased.
“I'm as fluent as Archimedes,” she answered. “I knew him once. In another life, that is.”
Roger chuckled. “At times you give voice to the most delightfully bizarre thoughts.”
With both hands Blythe reached out and grasped his forearm. “Guess what Papa gave me for my birthday,” she said, her voice animated, her violet eyes gleaming with unmistakable excitement.
Her uninhibited joy enchanted him. “'Tis jewelry?”
Blythe shook her head.
“A new horse?”
She shook her head again.
“I give up,” Roger said, smiling. “What did your father give you?”
“A beautiful ship,” Blythe answered, closing her eyes as if in sublime ecstasy.
“A ship?” Roger couldn't credit what he'd heard. What would a girl do with a ship?
“Papa gave me a ship and control of my own wool and corn export business on the condition that I confer with him each week,” Blythe told him. “I've named my ship Paralda in honor of the elemental god of the east. Papa says if I turn a profit he'll give me another ship and business when my birthday comes around again.”
Roger frowned at her. Turning a profit was a man's domain and a decidedly unfeminine pursuit. What could Devereux be thinking? How many families would starve when the chit mismanaged their commodities?
“Is aught wrong?”
Hearing the tentative note in her voice, Roger patted her hand and assured her, “'Tis merely that your father's gift surprises me.”
“Indeed, 'tis a wondrous gift.” Blythe cast him a flirtatious smile and said, “I'm certain I'll love your gift even more. That is, whenever you give it to me.”
Roger winked at her and produced a rectangular box from inside his doublet. “Happy birthday, little butterfly,” he said, handing her the box as he leaned close and planted a chaste kiss on her cheek.
“Thank you, my lord.” A becoming blush rose upon her cheeks. Blythe traced a finger across the top of the box as if savoring the anticipation.
“Open it,” Roger said, watching for her reaction, knowing he'd outdone himself this year.
Blythe lifted the lid. “Sacred Saint Swithin,” she gasped, surprised by the sight of the exquisite necklace.
The jeweled cross of Wotan, a cross inside a circle, winked at her from its bed of black velvet. Attached to a heavy chain of gold, the cross itself had been created in diamonds with a single ruby in the center. Amethysts formed the circle around the diamond cross.
“'Tis a necklace fit for the queen,” Blythe said, gazing at him through eyes the exact shade of the amethysts.
“Allow me,” Roger said. He lifted the necklace out of the box and set it over her head. Its jeweled pendant rested against the center of her chest.
Blythe reached up and touched it with her right hand. “Will you speak to me of a marriage now?” she asked, surprising him.
“How did you know about that?”
“Woman's intuition.”
“Thirteen years old and already a great lady?” Roger teased.
Blythe gave him an ambiguous smile and dropped her gaze shyly. With a high blush coloring her cheeks, she informed him, “I've begun my menses. That means I am a woman.”
Roger suffered the almost overpowering urge to laugh out loud, but he managed to control himself. Rising from the bench, he walked a few paces away and gazed in the direction of Devereux House. “Lady Darnel has accepted my proposal of marriage,” he told her. “She's inside visiting your parents.”
“Darnel Howard?” Blythe echoed in a voice no louder than a whisper.
Hearing the surprise in her voice, Roger whirled around and noted the sudden change in her demeanor. One moment she'd been as happy as a butterfly flitting around the Garden of Eden, and the next moment she appeared perilously close to tears, Good Christ, what would he do if she started to weep?
“You cannot mean to marry Darnel Howard,” she cried. “I love you.”
Shocked speechless, Roger stared at the unspeakable hurt etched across her lovely face. He'd known her since the day of her birth but had never seen her like this. Why had he failed to recognize the signs of her infatuation?
Blythe stood and stepped toward him. “I have always loved you,” she announced, unshed tears glistening in her eyes.
Roger swallowed the lump of raw emotion that had risen in his throat. “I am a full-grown man of twenty-five,” he said gently. “You are still a child.”
Blythe stepped back a pace as if he'd struck her. Anger and anguish warred on her finely etched features.
On my fifth birthday you promised to wait for me to grow into womanhood,” she reminded him. “You promised to marry me.”
“'Twas a jest,” Roger said with an inward groan. “Empty words meant to appease a pretty child.”
Blythe stiffened visibly at his honest explanation. “I will never forgive you for betraying my trust,” she said in a scathing voice. With that she turned her back on him.
“Blythe, I do love you, as a brother loves his favorite sister, as an uncle loves—”
Roger broke off, realizing it was the wrong thing to say.
Searching for words more comforting, Roger glanced at the sky. Clouds had gathered together, blocking the sun's warming rays, and a sudden gust of wind sent the willow's sweeping branches slashing against his ankles.
“Little one, I would never purposely hurt you,” Roger said by way of an apology.
Blythe whirled around and pleaded as only a thirteen-year-old would. “Then send that woman away and marry me.”
“I love her,” Roger insisted, running a hand through his hair in utter frustration. How could he make her understand?
“Darnel Howard us unworthy of you,” Blythe cried, her voice rising with her obvious agitation.
Roger realized he'd let their conversation get out of hand, and he refused to argue the point any longer. Fixing a suitably stern look on his face, he said, “I love Darnel Howard. Come October I will marry her.”
“And you will live to regret the day you did.” Blythe lifted the empty gift box she still held and threw it at him, catching his left cheekbone dead center. Turning her back on him, she hurried in the direction of her father's quay.
Roger felt a painful constriction around his heart that hurt more than his bruised face. Aching loss assailed him as he watched her walk away.
She would never forgive him for rejecting her; nor would she cast that sunny smile at him again. Roger knew that as surely as he knew she'd drawn blood with the damned gift box.
Yanking his handkerchief out of his doublet, Roger pressed it against his bleeding cheek. Unexpectedly, a branch of the willow slapped the uninjured side of his face as the wind off the Thames River grew in strength. He looked up and noted the ominous darkness of the afternoon sky. Slowly and wearily, Roger walked across the garden toward the mansion.
***
Struggling against her tears, Blythe paused where the quay met the river Thames. She closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath.
The only man she'd ever loved was marrying another woman.
How could she live without him? How could she bear to see him, knowing that he belonged to another? And yet how could she survive if she never gazed upon his beloved face again?
Blythe turned around and watched Roger walking back to the house. She knew with her blossoming Druid's instinct that they were meant for each other.
Oh, why was he unable to see that? Having loved each other through many lifetimes, the Great Mother Goddess had brought them together again.
Blythe reached out in silent supplication as Roger disappeared inside the mansion, and hot tears welled up in her eyes. The clouds above her head darkened, and the wind gathered strength.
The man she'd loved since the beginning of time loved another woman.
A sob caught in her throat. And then another. Surrendering to her heartache, Blythe bowed her head and wept for what she'd lost.
“Don't cry, sister,” said a familiar voice. “You'll make it rain.”
Blythe looked up and gazed through tear-blurred vision at eleven-year-old Bliss. Her sister touched her arm, which brought a reluctant smile to her lips.
“Is your touch making me smile?” Blythe asked.
Bliss nodded.
“Weeping is sometimes necessary to cleanse the soul,” Blythe told her, removing her sister's healing hand from her arm.
Bliss glanced at the threatening clouds and suggested, “In that case let's sit in the willow. Her branches will protect us from the elements.”
Hand in hand Blythe and Bliss hurried back to the willow tree. Using the stone bench as a lift, Blythe climbed the willow first and then helped her sister up. Ensconced on a thick branch, the two sisters peered through the willow's sweeping branches in the direction of the mansion. In the distance Lord Roger assisted Lady Darnel onto her horse, while Earl Richard and Lady Keely stood nearby.
With her right index finger Blythe touched her heart and then her lips, whispering, “O ancient willow of this ancient earth, older than I can tell, loan me your power to charge this natural spell.” Then she pointed her finger outward at the brunette beauty sitting on top of the horse.
A sudden whirlwind swept through the gardens. The dark clouds yawned, and pelting rain lashed the earth and the four adults in the distance.
Lady Darnel uttered a cry of dismay and yanked the hood of her summer cloak up as Lord Roger swung into his saddle. The Earl and the Countess of Basildon hastily retreated inside Devereux House.
“Did you do that?”
Blythe cast her sister a sidelong smile and nodded.
Bliss giggled and clapped her hands with delight. “Lady Darnel looked like a drowned rat. 'Tis certain the petty use of your talent will displease Mother, though.”
Blythe closed her eyes for a moment and whispered, “Thank you, O wondrous willow, for sending your power through me,”
Ten minutes later the rain abruptly ceased, and five minutes after that the sisters spied their mother advancing like a general on the willow tree.
“Here she comes,” Bliss said needlessly, casting Blythe an “I-told-you-so” look.
Blythe swallowed nervously. Her mother appeared none too happy.
“Get down!” Lady Keely turned on the eleven-year-old when the girls dropped to the ground in front of her and ordered, “I desire private words with your sister. Return to the house.”
“You always make me leave at the most interesting part,” Bliss complained, but started toward the house without being told a second time.
“Using your special gift in such a cavalier fashion will certainly anger the Goddess,” Lady Keely said, giving her oldest daughter her attention.
“I'm sincerely sorry,” Blythe apologized. “But Roger—” She broke off with a sob, unable to control her raw emotions any longer.
Lady Keely sat on the stone bench beneath the willow and said, “Come here, dearest.”
Blythe sat down and rested her head against her mother's shoulder. “You said that Roger would be mine,” she sobbed. “You said that our fate had been written in the holy stones. Didn't you know what would really happen?”
“Being Druid means knowing,” Lady Keely said, tilting her daughter's chin up. “At the moment of your conception the wind whispered your destiny to me, and Roger Debrett is that destiny. Trust me, dearest, for I have seen it.”
Blythe managed a wobbly smile. She trusted her mother without question. Only she hadn't expected Darnel Howard to capture Roger's heart before she did.
“Please tell me the story again,” Blythe said.
“Once upon a long ago time, the winged creatures of the air held a great assembly,” Lady Keely said with a smile. “They decided that kingship of all those with wings, whether bird or insect, would go to the one who flew highest. Naturally, the majestic eagle became the immediate favorite and began his flight toward the sun. Soaring high above the others, he proclaimed his lordship over all. A clever butterfly, who had hidden herself beneath the eagle's feathers, popped out unexpectedly from under his wings. She few one inch higher than the eagle and squeaked, 'Winged creatures, look up and behold your queen.'
“Unused to flying so high in the sky, the butterfly began to fall. The eagle, amused by the butterfly's womanly wiles, stretched his wing out and caught her before she fell to her death.”
“Together, the eagle and the butterfly ruled the heavens.” Blythe added, knowing the story by heart. “The majestic eagle and his clever butterfly—his soul—could be seen gliding across the horizon forever after.”
“Roger is the queen's soaring eagle, and you are his clever butterfly,” Lady Keely finished the tale.
Blythe smiled at that.
“I have a birthday gift for you,” Lady Keely said, reaching inside her pocket.
“'Tis lovely,” Blythe said, inspecting the gold emblem ring that her mother slipped onto her right index finger. Engraved on the ring's flat surface was a butterfly perched on top of an eagle's wing.
“Together, Roger and you will soar to paradise and beyond,” Lady Keely told her. “Never concern yourself again with Darnel Howard.”
“I love you,” Blythe said, hugging her mother.
“And I love you, dearest.”
Lady Keely inspected the jeweled cross of Wotan that her daughter wore. Turning it over, she looked at the back of the pendant and smiled at what she saw.
“Here lies the proof of my words,” the countess said.
Blythe peered down at the necklace's inscription: And thee I chuse. Puzzled by the sentiment, she asked, “Why would Roger inscribe these words on my necklace when he planned to wed Darnel Howard?”
“The Goddess moves in mysterious ways,” Lady Keely said with a shrug. “Always place your trust in her, and never doubt that Lord Roger will be yours one day. With these words he has chosen his path in life.”
Blythe smiled, happy once more. The man she'd loved forever would be hers. The Goddess had decided their fates.
“Unless 'tis an emergency, manipulating the wind for your own satisfaction is an abuse of power,” Lady Keely reminded her in a stern voice. “Do I make myself clear?”
Blythe nodded.
“And throwing a gift box into the giver's face is unpardonable,” the countess went on. “Violence against another is sinful.”
“I'll write Roger a note of apology,” Blythe promised.
“Give it to me when 'tis written, and I'll send it to Debrett House,” Lady Keely said, rising from the stone bench. She paused and added, “You will not see Roger again until the moment has arrived for the butterfly to perch on the eagle's wing.”
Watching her mother walk back to the mansion, Blythe placed the palm of her right hand on the jeweled cross of Wotan, and renewed hope swelled within her breast. Roger would belong to her. She sensed it with her blossoming Druid's instinct.
And thee I chuse.
Those four words of eternal love echoed within her heart, her mind, her soul.
Blythe smiled. Aye, the queen's eagle and his butterfly—his soul—would soar to paradise and beyond. Her mother had seen it, and whatever her mother saw came to pass. Always.
The wind in her father's garden calmed to a caressing breeze, and the afternoon sun peeked out from behind the clouds.
Blythe was happy again.
Chapter 1
April, 1594
Dusty and tired, Roger Debrett opened the door to his chamber and stepped inside. The journey from Eden Court, his ancestral home, had been long and grueling, but he'd managed to reach Whitehall Palace in time for Queen Elizabeth's Saint George's Day gala. First he needed a strong drink and a hot bath, and then he'd be ready to face the world.
“You're back already?” said the brunette beauty, admiring her own reflection in the mirror.
Doffing his hat, Roger flicked a sidelong glance at his wife but made no reply. Instead, he crossed the chamber to the table where he poured himself a dram of whiskey. Raising the glass to his lips, Roger downed the amber liquid in one gulp. Then he refilled the glass and turned around to look at her. She preened in front of the mirror as if she were unable to bear parting with her own flawless image.
“I warrant 'twas the fastest trip from Winchester on record,” Darnel said, without bothering to spare him a glance. “Perhaps Elizabeth should give you a medal.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Roger replied, raising his glass of whiskey in a silent but mocking salute to her. “Find other accommodations for your nightly rendezvous with your lover of the moment.”
Darnel Debrett smirked at him in the mirror and gave her attention to her tirewoman, who held a tray of jewels for her perusal. She lifted an emerald necklace up, held it against her throat, and then tossed it carelessly down on the tray. Darnel concentrated on the jewels as if the realm's security depended upon which necklace she wore. Finally, she decided on the diamond choker.
“I wish to bathe and change my clothing,” Roger said, “Send the girl away.”
“Leave us,” Darnel dismissed her maid.
Darnel cast Roger a sidelong, measuring look before answering, “No, I'll be quite late tonight.”
The tirewoman bobbed a curtsy and left the chamber. The door clicked shut behind her.
Roger removed his doublet and tossed it aside, but then paused to watch his wife putting the final touches on her appearance.
Once upon a long ago time he'd loved her more than life itself, Roger thought bitterly. How incredibly naïve he'd been. After getting herself pregnant with his child, Darnel had married him for his fortune and trapped him into this fiasco posing as a marriage. Even worse, her amorous adventures now threatened to bring disgrace on the honorable Debrett name.
“That gown is particularly low-cut, even by court standards,” Roger remarked. “Are you planning on wet-nursing a few courtiers this evening?”
“Don't be crude,” Darnel snapped. “Besides, do you really care what I choose to wear?”
“I cared once,” Roger said softly, capturing her dark gaze in the mirror.
“Humph! You cared so much that you ordered the goldsmith to engrave my betrothal ring with the oh-so-romantic sentiment My special friend,” Darnel shot back, apparently unmoved by the regret in his voice.
Roger smiled without humor. “I've told you at least a thousand times, the goldsmith confused your ring with Blythe Devereux's birthday pendant. Besides, my gold has purchased you a hundred new rings since then.”
“Your explanation doesn't matter anymore.”
“No, I suppose it doesn't.”
Abruptly turning away from her reflection, Darnel crossed the chamber to stand in front of him. “Why, you haven't even reached for me in years,” she said, a note of accusation in her voice.
“I've always preferred the road less traveled,” Roger told her, his voice purposefully cold as he stared at her lush cleavage.
Darnel raised her hand to slap him. With lightning-quick reflexes Roger grabbed her wrist and yanked her against his hard, unyielding body.
“Don't force me into rash action,” he warned.
“Spare me your empty threats,” Darnel said in a scathing voice, meeting his gaze unwaveringly. “Everyone at court believes you are the queen's dangerous, soaring eagle, ready to pounce on the unwary, but I know better. Hurting a mosquito is beyond your capability.”
“Given the correct dose of provocation, each of us is capable of violence,” Roger countered, but then released her wrist and folded his arms across his chest lest he strike her.
Darnel smirked and cast him an ”I-told-you-so” look. She retreated across the chamber.
“Miranda and Mrs. Hartwell are safely ensconced at Eden Court,” Roger said conversationally. “Miranda is looking forward to the three of us summering together in Winchester like a real family.”
Darnel stared at him blankly.
“You do remember our daughter, Miranda?” he asked.
“I shan't be in Winchester this summer,” she informed him. “I've decided to accompany the queen on her progress.”
“You've scarcely glanced at Miranda since the day of her birth,” Roger said. “You will be passing the summer with her at Eden Court.”
“I think not,” Darnel replied. “Next year perhaps.”
“And who is the lucky gentleman of the moment?” Roger asked. “Edward deVere? Dudley Margolin? One of my own brothers?”
“Each would be preferable to you,” Darnel answered. “A lady never kisses and tells, you know.”
“You are no lady,” Roger said.
Darnel smiled at his impotent insult. “Are you implying you don't take lovers?”
“I'm hardly celibate,” Roger conceded. “Nevertheless, resign yourself to summering with Miranda and me in Winchester. I also attend this court and still manage to visit our daughter five times each week. You've disappointed her for the last time. The only acceptable excuse for your absence is your untimey demise.”
“I just told you I'm attending the queen's summer progress,” Darnel said. “My daughter will understand.”
The snide, almost secretive tone in her voice jerked Roger into instant alertness. He crossed the chamber, grasped her arm, and whirled her around. “What do you mean by 'my' daughter?” he demanded.
Darnel smiled, apparently pleased that she'd managed to crack the wall protecting his feelings. “Miranda is mine because she slipped from my body. As for her paternity”—she shrugged—“I was already pregnant when we wed. Miranda could have been sired by another.”
“Liar,” Roger said in a clipped voice.
“Am I?”
In a flash of movement Roger grasped her throat. How easy it would be to squeeze the life's breath from her adulterous body.
“Your death isn't worth the trip to the gallows,” Roger said, dropping his hand. “Miranda resembles me. Admit it, you want to cast a shadow across my love for her. You hate me so much, you can't bear that my own daughter loves me. She would love you, too, if you gave her more of your attention.”
“You're correct about one thing. I do hate you.” With those parting words Darnel started for the door. “Don't bother to wait up for me, dear husband. I may dance all night.”
“Is dance now a euphemism for fuck?” Roger asked baldly.
Darnel cast him a withering glance. The door slammed shut behind her.
Roger poured himself another whiskey. He raised his glass in salute to the empty chamber and murmured, “Would that the bitch was permanently gone from my life.”
An hour later Roger stood in the entrance to Queen Elizabeth's Presence Chamber. England's finest musicians stood on one side of the enormous rectangular chamber and played their various instruments. Along the wall opposite the entrance, Queen Elizabeth sat in a chair upon a raised dais surrounded by imported carpets. The middle of the chamber had been saved for dancing.
Doublets, hose, and accessories created in golden brocade, crane-colored silk, or murrey velvet harmonized on each nobleman. Earrings fashioned with gold and precious gems dangled from their ears, and rough colored many a masculine cheek. The noblewomen wore scandalously low-cut gowns and bedecked themselves with every priceless jewel they owned.
Dressed completely in black, Roger appeared like a bird of prey invading a land filled with gaudy peacocks. He stared into that noble throng and spied the only other black-clad person in attendance: Richard Devereux, his illustrious mentor, with his countess, Lady Keely.
Intending to speak with them, Roger raised his hand in a silent greeting and started forward. He hadn't taken more than five steps when a hand on his arm stopped him.
Roger glanced at the woman's hand and then lifted his blue-eyed gaze to the voluptuous redhead, his mistress. He cast her a devastating smile, meant to make her heartbeat quicken.
“Welcome back to court, my lord,” twenty-five-year-old Lady Rhoda Bellows greeted him.
“Thank you, my lady.” Roger bowed over her hand and then asked in a teasing voice, “And how fares your husband?”
Lady Rhoda gave him a feline smile. “Poor Reggie wearied from today's activities and retired for the evening.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and added, “I could meet you later.”
“I rode straight through from Winchester in order to gaze upon your lovely face,” Roger said smoothly. “Unfortunately, I have depleted my energy. Could we possibly meet tomorrow instead?”
“Yes, but you'll never know how disappointed I am,” Lady Rhoda replied.
“I'm certain I'm more disappointed,” Roger assured her. “However, I fear my fatigue would embarrass me.” He flicked a glance across the chamber and added, “I'd like to consult with Devereux before I retire. Will you excuse me?”
“Until tomorrow.” Lady Rhoda drifted away.
Again Roger started forward in the direction of his friends, but stopped short when he heard someone calling his name. Turning toward the voice, he spied Lady Sarah Sitwell, his other mistress, advancing on him. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, Lady Sarah at thirty-seven was a spectacularly beautiful woman and so appreciative of attracting a younger man's attention.
“How lovely you appear this evening,” Roger complimented her, bowing formally over her hand. He dropped his gaze to her exposed cleavage, smiled lazily, and added, “The cut of your gown enhances the perfection of your exquisite breasts, my lady.”
“Will you have time this evening for a private supper in my chamber?” Lady Sarah asked, obviously pleased by his words.
“You do tempt me,” Roger answered silkily. “Unfortunately, I've ridden straight through from Wincester. The only feasting I'll be doing this evening is with my eyes. Could we sup together tomorrow?”
“Of course. You'd be no good company if you fell asleep,” Lady Sarah answered.
“My lady, your understanding is surpassed only by your beauty,” Roger replied.
“Would you care to dance?”
“Tomorrow, sweetheart.” He flicked a glance in the direction of the Earl of Basildon. “At the moment I do desire conversation with Devereuz.”
Lady Sarah inclined her head in a gesture of dismissal. “Then, my lord, do not let me keep you from your intent.”
Roger kissed her hand again and walked away. Hoping that no other woman crossed his path, he headed in the direction of the Earl and the Countess of Basildon.
“You've become quite a lady's man,” Lady Keely teased when he reached them. “I can remember when you were a twelve-year-old page purchasing aphrodisiacs.”
“I'd hardly refer to these jades as ladies,” Roger replied, bowing over her hand. He shook the earl's hand and asked, “How is our Levant Trading Company doing?”
“Prospering beyond our calculations,” Richard Devereux answered. “Will you keep Keely company while I dance with the queen?”
“'Twould be my pleasure.” Roger watched the earl walk away and then remarked, “Seeing you here is a surprise.”
“I always attend the queen's Saint George's Day gala,” Lady Keely replied. “'Tis poor substitution for my absences on her annual summer progress.”
“Since Miranda's birth I summer with her in Winchester each year,” he said. “Why is it that Richard and you never attend the queen's progress?”
“For the same reason,” she answered. “We visit my brother in Wales because I couldn't bear to be separated from my children for the length of the progress.”
Roger nodded in understanding. How different this mother's love for her children was from his own wife's attitude.
“Would you care to dance?” he asked, turning his head to watch his fellow courtiers.
“I'd prefer conversation,” she answered. “At the moment you're in need of a sympathetic friend.”
Roger snapped his head around to stare at her. How could she possibly know the misery that dwelled in his heart?
“You do appear troubled,” Lady Keely explained, as if privy to his thoughts.
Roger gazed at the passing dancers. His wife, he noted, had changed partners. Now she was flirting with Edward deVere, the Earl of Oxford, his bitterest rival for the queen's regard.
“Spill it, Roger,” Lady Keely ordered in a quiet voice. “What troubles you?”
“I never should have married her,” he admitted, gesturing in the general direction of his wife. “She's a brazen harlot and intent on disgracing the Debrett name. Nothing good and fine has come from this union.
“What about Miranda?”
“Aye, my daughter makes up for a great many things,” Roger agreed. “Too bad my wife cares nothing for her.”
“I'm positive Darnel loves her only child,” Lady Keely disagreed. “Appearances can be deceiving, you know.”
Roger nodded and glanced toward the dance floor. A sudden bolt of anger shot through him when he saw Edward deVere lean close to Darnel and plant a kiss on the side of her throat.
“Excuse me—” Roger started forward.
“Do not create a public spectacle in the queen's presence,” Lady Keely warned, snaking her hand out to stop him.
“I'm ending the spectacle,” he said, shrugging her hand off.
With grim determination etched across his features, Roger stepped onto the dance floor. He pushed his way through the myriad couples who stopped dancing and watched his unprecedented behavior.
Ignoring Oxford, Roger whirled his wife around to face him. “The party is over,” he said. “Return to our chamber at once.”
“I will not,” Darnel cried, clearly appalled by his behavior. “I refuse to go anywhere with you.”
“Leave this gathering now,” Roger ordered as if she hadn't spoken.
“I said no.” Without warning, Darnel slapped him.
Pushed beyond endurance, Roger grabbed her throat and yanked her toward him, saying, “I would that you were married to your grave instead of me. At that he sent her crashing into the Earl of Oxford, who kept her from falling.
“'Til death us do part,” Darnel said, obviously relishing the angry misery etched across his face. “Do not forget that, dear husband.”
“In that case, dear wife, a just and merciful God will part us sooner than you think.” Roger turned on his heels and marched out of the Presence Chamber, leaving a titillated audience in his wake.
Roger retraced his steps down the torchlit corridors of Whitehall Palace. He would be rid of his adulterous wife one way or another. Passing the next thirty years married to a harlot was simply out of the question.
He'd believed in the power of love. Too late, he'd learned that gentle emotion was actually the product of an idle brain.
Edward deVere . . . Dudley Margolin . . .God's bread, even his own brothers had made love to his wife.
Reaching the sanctuary of his chamber, Roger poured himself a fortifying glass of whiskey. Unreasoning anger numbed him to the amber fire burning a path to his stomach.
Roger sighed in growing despair. What terrible flaw did he posses that prevented others from loving him? Since his mother's death when he was five, he'd tried unsuccessfully to win his father's regard. For years he'd tormented himself about his father's lack of love for him; and then he'd met Darnel Howard, whose dark eyes had held the sweet promise of love. Her sweet promise had been nothing but the bitterest of lies.
Let the slut find another place to sleep, Roger decided, deliberately throwing the bolt on the door. Wearily, he sat down on the edge of the bed and removed his boots. Then he stood and disrobed. Naked, he lay on the bed and flung one arm across his eyes.
Divorce leaped into his mind. Come morning he would request an audience with Queen Elizabeth and broach the subject of his divorcing Darnel. Surely, Elizabeth would not refuse his request to be free of an adulterous wife. And then . . . he'd keep his distance from designing jades. Never again would he marry. All he needed was his daughter's love.
The burgeoning hope of freeing himself from his wife calmed him. Roger dropped into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Roger swam up slowly from the depths of unconsciousness.
“Open the door, Debrett,” a voice ordered. “I charge you, in the name of Her Majesty the Queen, to open this door.”
Roger bolted up. Bloody Christ, what was happening? He leaped out of the bed, staggered sleepily across the chamber, and yanked the door open.
“Are you alone?” Edward deVere asked, apparently startled by the sight of his rival's nakedness.
Roger nodded and focused on the group in the corridor. Behind deVere stood a contingent of five armed guards. Richard Devereaux and William Cecil stood directly behind the guard.
“What do you want?” Roger demanded, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“By order of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, I am placing you under arrest,” deVere announced, brushing past him into the chamber. “Pack your belongings.”
The Earl of Oxford's declaration startled Roger into full alertness. “Arrested for what?”
Oxford smiled without humor. “For suspicion of murder.”
“Murder?”
“The murder of your wife, Darnel Howard,” deVere explained.
Roger cast a confused look at his rival. “Darnel is dead?”
“Get dressed, and be quick about it,” the Earl of Oxford snapped. “Or I'll drag you naked to the Tower.”
Ignoring the command, Roger looked helplessly at his friends, who now stood directly behind deVere. “What happened?” he asked, his gaze on the Earl of Basildon.
“I'm sorry,” Richard Devereux said. “Someone strangled Darnel.”
Roger felt his whole world crumbling around him. Only a few hours ago he'd grabbed his wife's throat and threatened her life in the presence of the whole damned court.
“We believe in your innocence,” William Cecil spoke up, drawing his attention. “Richard and I will investigate this fully and discover the guilty.”
“We'll soon have you out of the Tower,” Devereux added, handing him the clothing he'd worn the previous evening. He flicked a contemptuous glance at deVere and added, “I'm accompanying you downriver to verify that Roger arrives safely.”
Wishing his wife dead did not make it so, Roger thought as he pulled his breeches on. That left him with one unanswerable question: Who else wanted to rid the world of Darnel?
The sun on the fifteenth day of July reached its highest point in the sky and slowly began its westward descent.
Two young women sat inside the Earl of Basildon's garden in the shade of a willow, its sweeping branches shielding them from the sun's relentless rays. Their younger siblings sat together beneath an enormous oak on the other side of the garden and their afternoon picnic snack.
“'Tis the feast of Saint Swithin,” Blythe Devereux informed her younger sister. “Whatever weather the Lord of the Winds sends this day will remain with us the whole year through.”
“Then I suppose we'll be having a warm winter,” Bliss replied. “'Tis hotter than the bowels of hell today.”
“Bowels of hell?” Blythe echoed, suppressing a smile. “Mama would scold you for your vocabulary. Ladies never use profanity, you know.”
“She also insists we should never trust a man whose eyes are set too close together,” Bliss reminded her. “Heaven help us if we should trust a man with a pretty dimple in his chin.”
“Eat your vegetables or you'll grow warts,” Blythe warned, imitating their mother. The two sisters dissolved into giggles.
“The mountains of Wales would have been refreshingly cool this summer,” Bliss said, a wistful tone in her voice. “I don't understand why we couldn't go this year.”
“Papa attended the queen's progress in order to investigate Lady Darnel's death,” Blythe said. “Poor Roger has been wilting in the Tower for three months.”
“Well, Papa returned two days ago,” Bliss replied. “We could have gone then.”
“By the time we reached Wales 'twould have been time to return to England,” Blythe said, gazing in the direction of the house. Feeling her sister's touch on her arm, she turned and saw the solemn expression on her face.
“I'm glad you never married Roger,” Bliss told her. “You could have been the one who lies in an early grave.
“I'm positive Roger had nothing to do with his wife's death,” Blythe insisted, placing her hand on top of her sister's. “Though I do appreciate your concern.”
“Perhaps you're correct.” Bliss cast her a sidelong glance and remarked, “September is nearly upon us. Are you eager to leave us and assume your duties as one of the queen's maids of honor?”
“I'm not eager to leave you, but 'twill afford me the opportunity to help Roger,” Blythe answered, touching the jeweled cross of Wotan she'd worn each day for the past five years.
“Becoming involved could prove dangerous,” Bliss warned. “If Roger is truly innocent, then a murderer stalks the corridors at court.”
“I promise to be very careful.”
Wild whoops drew their attention to their younger siblings. Ranging in age from two to fourteen, the six youngest Devereux children raced across the lawns toward them.
“We want to play rhibo,” fourteen-year-old Aurora said, referring to the traditional harvest game they played each summer when they visited their mother's family in Wales.
“'Tis entirely too early for rhibo,” Bliss said.
“Aye, we play rhibo to celebrate Lammas on the first day of August,” Blythe agreed.
Four-year-old Adam Devereux, the sole male in a tribe of females, leaned close to his oldest sister. Nose to nose with her, he demanded, “Tell us the story.”
“Please?” chimed Summer and Autumn, the eleven-year-old twins.
“Pretty please with sugar on it,” eight-year-old Hope pleaded.
“Everyone must sit down,” Blythe said, lifting two-year-old Blaze onto her lap.
With no thought for soiling their garments, the children plopped down on the grass and looked expectantly at heir oldest sister. Blythe smiled as she gazed at their violet eyes and shining ebony hair, so much like her own. Only Blaze, the youngest, had managed to inherit heir father's copper hair and emerald eyes.
“Lady Blythe! Lady Bliss!” interrupted Jennings, the Devereux majordomo, as he hurried across the garden toward them. “The earl and the countess require your presence in the study.”
“Both of us?” Blythe asked.
Jennings nodded. “All the other children accompany me to Mrs. Ashemole,” the majordomo ordered. “'Tis time for napping.”
When they reached the mansion Blythe led the way into the study. She paused inside the door and stared in surprise at the five people gathered there.
Her father sat in the chair behind his desk. The elderly Lord Burghley, Queen Elizabeth's most trusted adviser, claimed on of the chairs in front of the desk while Grandpapa Robert Talbot, the Duke of Ludlow, her mother's father, sprawled in the other chair. Her mother and Grandmama Chessy, her grandfather's second wife, stood near the window that overlooked the garden.
“Oh, my sweet darlings, 'tis a momentous day for both of you,” Gradmama Chessy cried, rushing across the chamber to kiss them. “How I wish I were your age again.”
“Chessy, please,” Duke Robert said. “Allow their parents to broach this subject.”
“I'm just so excited,” the duchess gushed.
Though puzzled by this exchange between her grandparents, Blythe maintained her poise. She curtsied first to Lord Burghley and then greeted her grandfather with a kiss on his cheek. Bliss followed her sister's lead.
“Shall I begin, dearest?” Earl Richard asked, glancing at his wife.
Lady Keely nodded and cast her oldest daughter an ambiguous smile.
“As you know, Roger Debrett has been imprisoned in the Tower for three months,” Earl Richard said, giving Blythe his attention. “Meager circumstantial evidence prevents his being brought to trial. On the other hand, Elizabeth cannot release him, because of the public protest that action might incite.”
“I have an idea that will allow the queen to free Roger,” Lord Burghley spoke up. “However, we need your cooperation to implement this plan.”
“I'd do anything to help Roger,” Blythe said without hesitation.
Earl Richard flicked a sidelong glance at his wife, who took her cue and crossed the chamber to her daughter. “If you harbor any reservations about this plan, then I urge you to refuse,” Lady Keely said. “We will understand your reticence.”
Blythe felt confused, but nodded in agreement.
“Are you willing to marry Lord Roger?” her mother asked.
“You want me to we with Roger?” Blythe echoed, surprised by the request.
“Roger requires a bride whose father is both powerful at court and popular with London's commoners,” Lord Burghley explained. “'Twould be enough of a show of faith from your father to enable the queen to release Roger and to prevent the commoners from grumbling publicly about such an action.”
Blythe touched her pendant and stared off into space as if pondering what they'd said, but the hint of a smile flirted with her lips. Her mother's prophecy was coming true! The eagle and the butterfly would unite and soar together across the horizon.
Blythe slid her gaze to her mother. Lady Keely nodded as if she knew her daughter's thoughts.
“I still think Roger Debrett is too old for her,” the Duke of Ludlow remarked before Blythe could answer. “Twelve years do separate them.
“The older the fiddle, the better the tune,” the duchess replied. “Take us, Tally, darling. You are sixty-two and I'm only a shade above forty.”
Blythe and Bliss looked at each other and giggled. Their grandmother had been a shade above forty for as long as they could remember. Only God and she knew her real age.
“Love acknowledges no boundaries like age,” Blythe said, and then blushed when the others shifted their gazes to her. “I will gladly wed with Roger,” she announced, trying to keep her eagerness out of her voice. “But what about my position with the queen's maids of honor?”
“I cannot like this part of the plan,” the earl said, glancing at his wife. “At sixteen Bliss is entirely too young to attend court.”
“Tally and I will protect her,” Lady Chessy argued. “Besides, Bliss is a virtuous maiden. Aren't you, darling?”
“If any man tries to kiss me, I'll say 'yuck-yuck-yuck,'” Bliss promised, reciting the words her father had taught each of his daughters. “And if any man does kiss me, I'll slap his face.”
Blythe smiled when she saw her father roll his eyes and then look at his wife. Lady Keely shrugged and nodded.
“Very well, but 'tis against my better judgment,” the earl agreed finally.
“'Tis settled. Blythe will marry Roger, and Bliss will assume her position as a maid of honor,” Lord Burghley said, rising from his chair. He turned to the countess and added, “The wedding ceremony must be as public as possible. London's populace must see that Richard believes in Roger's innocence enough to give him his daughter in marriage.”
“Will Saint Paul's Cathedral suit?” Lady Keely asked.
Lord Burghley nodded and started for the door, saying, “Are you coming, Richard? We'll go downriver together to tell Roger.”
“I'll meet you at the quay in five minutes,” Earl Richard said, escorting the queen's minister to the door. “I'd like a private word with my daughter before we leave.”
“Come, darling,” Grandmama Chessy said, drawing Bliss toward the door with her. “Planning your wardrobe is our first order of business. I have impeccable taste, so you can trust me with this.
The Duke of Ludlow stood to follow his wife and his grand-daughter out.
“And what will you do, Papa?” Lady Keely asked.
“My sixty-two-year-old bones need enough rest to keep up with my shade-over-forty wife,” the duke said with a grin. “I believe 'tis time for my afternoon nap.”
Alone with his wife and his oldest daughter, Earl Richard asked, “Are you absolutely certain this is what you want?”
“Yes, but—” Blythe broke off.
“But what, poppet?”
“Will I retain control of my ships and businesses?” Blythe asked. “A woman should have her own fortune, you know.”
“Poppet, you are indeed my daughter,” her father said, planting a kiss on her cheek. “The betrothal agreement will stipulate anything you want. Roger Degrett is in no position to negotiate.” At that he headed for the door.
“And thee I chuse,” Blythe murmured, echoing the inscription on the pendant Roger had given her. “The choice Roger made five years ago is coming true.”
“Yes, but listen carefully to the warning that came to me in a dream,” Lady Keely said, looping her arm through her daughter's. “Find happiness with the soaring eagle in the Place of the Winds. Beware the dark sun.”
“Roger is the soaring eagle, and Winchester is the Place of the Winds,” Blythe said. A chill of apprehension rippled down her spine. “What is the dark sun?”
“You must discover what or who that is,” her mother told her. “You will sign the betrothal agreement on Lammas, the most auspicious day for unions in the year's cycle.”
Yes, Blythe thought. She would find happiness in the Place of the Winds, Winchester, where Saint Swithin's shrine was located.
Blythe knew with the confidence of youth that she possessed sunlight in abundance to vanquish clouds, shadows, and even dark suns. Roger, the queen's eagle, would soar majestically across the horizon, and perching on the eagle's outstretched wing would be his psyche, his butterfly, his soul.
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