Page 88 of Almost a Bride
When Rodney Shaw arrived in London close to midnight, the third horse he’d used in the last two days almost collapsed beneath him. But what was another horse, compared to arriving in time for Lord Forman’s party? Every noble family would be represented—perhaps even the queen, the old bitch, would deign to come.
Shaw himself would be seen by all those who mattered. Although only the government knew of his mission to spy on Spain’s armada, he would make certain he hinted in a few noblemen’s ears where he’d been this last year.
Nothing would stop him from convincing the government that Thornton was the traitorous spy.
And when the queen bestowed her favor and a prestigious title on him, even Shaw’s mother would be invited to the ceremony which would please her endlessly.
His mother had done her duty to further both of their ambitions. She’d sent missives to inns and taverns along the coast, telling him the exact day and time of Forman’s ball, so that wherever he landed on English soil he’d be prepared.
When Shaw arrived at Forman’s estate on the Thames in Westminster he had no formal invitation, but the gardens near the river overlooked tall, wide doors he could easily slip through. The great hall sweltered with heat and too much perfume, while the expensive garments worn by both men and women glittered in the candlelight.
He knew his clothing was stained from travel, and caught the disapproving eye of many guests, but on the morrow all would know he was a hero. No one would dare look askance on him again—they would pay him the deference he deserved.
But for now, he contented himself by wandering the great hall and the surrounding parlors. He came to a halt on the edge of the dance floor, stunned to see Spencer Thornton partnering a woman in the dance. Thornton had been too injured to have reached London before him! Had he already spoken to the queen? Was Shaw even now about to be arrested?
As Shaw stood there, feeling the first clawing of terror, the dance brought Thornton close to him. Their eyes met and Shaw stiffened, his mind racing for the words he’d use to throw Thornton’s inevitable accusations back in his face.
But Thornton merely looked down at the stunning woman in his arms, and whispered something in her ear. She giggled and patted his chest as if chastising him. Then they were gone, swallowed in a sea of dancers.
Shaw was engulfed with uneasy bewilderment. Could Thornton have a plan that even now he was setting in motion?
Shaw had survived too much to give up so easily, had risked his life to become indispensable to two countries. He had only one country left, and he would not abandon the dreams he and his mother shared. He would see her in the finest silk as she deserved, the mother of a true nobleman.
He left the party as quickly as he could, determined to go to Sir Francis Walsingham, the state secretary who’d recruited him and Thornton to spy on Spain.
And he wouldn’t wait until morning.
~oOo~
As dawn lightened the sky, Roselyn sat in a damp boat on a wooden seat facing Walter, who rowed upstream through the foggy mist. Holding her saddlebag in her lap, she concentrated on remembering which home was Spencer’s.
She had seen it only once, when her family’s barge had sailed past, and her mother had pointed it out with greedy pride. She could only pray Spencer had arrived there safely.
They glided past the tall, crowded buildings on the northern bank, dodging other boats and barges carrying passengers from farther upstream, hearing the occasional watermen’s cry of “Eastward ho!” or “Westward ho!” Soon the riverbanks became open stretches of well-groomed land, with archways standing sentinel before elaborate gardens. Many wealthy homes had steps rather than docks leading to the Thames.
Walter was almost certain he knew where the Thornton estate was, and he guided the wherry up against the steps. Through the arched gate, she could see a two-story manor in the distance, white stone with darker edging.
She looked at Walter uncertainly as he took off his cap and rubbed the top of his balding head.
“I be waitin’ a bit for ye, mistress. You come back if it be the wrong house.”
When she tried to pay him for his service, he refused, and she gave him a grateful smile.
Roselyn stepped out of the wherry, straightened her shoulders, and started up the steps. The stone walkway leading up to the house was deserted, and she began to feel uneasy. The gardens looked slightly unkempt, drooping in the early morning mist. The walk seemed to take forever, as the manor loomed larger and larger. When she knocked on the front door, the echo sounded cavernous—as if through an abandoned house. She waited a long time before a maidservant finally opened the door.
The girl yawned and leaned against the door frame. “A bit early, ain’t it, luv?”
Roselyn blinked in surprise and tried to reserve her judgment. Spencer had told her that his brother was taking care of everything for him, but much about this estate was amiss.
“Forgive me for intruding,” she began, “but is your master in attendance?”
The girl smirked. “’Course he is, but surely ye don’t expect him to be up and about at this hour.”
Roselyn’s relief almost staggered her, and she braced her hand on the door. Spencer was home and well, not lying injured in some hovel in Southwark—or worse. “I need to see him. It is extremely urgent.”
The maidservant rolled her eyes. “I bet it is, luv. Wait here and I’ll see what I can do.”
Before Roselyn could react, the girl shut the door in her face. She fumed for endless moments until she finally realized that she’d been abandoned.
