of his kind who screeched of betrayal and broken promises and made their position all the worse.
Nicholas too had been raised a Catholic, yet he had denied his faith these many months. What kind of a god would let scum like Miguel Cortes flourish when poor Isabella lay in her grave unavenged?
Not for much longer! Somehow Nicholas would find a way to tempt that monster from his lair—and then he would kill him with his own hands.
Dismissing his wayward thoughts of a girl with fire in her eyes, Nicholas put his mind to the task ahead. Henri had news for him. Perhaps at last the means to take his revenge had come within his grasp.
Perhaps Miguel Cortes had at last been driven back to sea by his frustration at having been cooped up for so long. If that were not the case, then some plan must be found to make him leave the shores of Spain.
Chapter Two
T he girl was lost in a mist…running from something that terrified her. She glanced over her shoulder, but could not see anything. Yet she knew if she stopped running it would catch her and then…
Deborah woke from her dream, shivering with fright. What could she have been thinking of to make her have such a nightmare? She usually slept peacefully and woke refreshed, but that morning the unease the dream had created seemed to stay with her as she dressed and went downstairs.
Was it that strange meeting with the Marquis de Vere the previous evening, that had prompted such dreams? No, how could it be? She laughed at herself. She had met the man but once and he could mean nothing to her. She would think of him no more.
They had come to London to enjoy themselves, and she meant to make the most of her visit. It was very unlikely that they would come again. Nor did she particularly wish for it. Oh, it was amusing at Court, and she liked to see the courtiers parading in their fine gowns, but there was too much backbiting and spite amongst them to please her.
She thought that, if she were to marry, she would like to live in the country with her friends about her. She tried to picture the man she might wed, but the only face that came to her mind was the Marquis de Vere’s. How very vexing! She was sure she did not wish to meet the rogue again.
‘Ah, there you are, daughter,’ Sir Edward said, coming out of the parlour as she reached the hall of the house where they were lodging. It was a fine house, sturdily built of brick and wood in the Tudor style, and situated near the river. Like most other houses in the street it had wooden shutters, which were firmly closed at night, and the windows were so tiny and so dark that they let little light inside. ‘I have been composing a letter to Don Manola. Señor Sanchez is to call for it this morning. Would you care to see what I have written?’
‘Thank you, Father.’ She took the letter and glanced through the elegantly phrased words. ‘I think it will do very well, sir.’
‘I shall send the small portrait I had done of you on your last birthday as a gift for Don Miguel,’ her father said, smiling at her with affection. ‘I have others and it is my intention to ask the artist to make another portrait of you when we return home. I shall want some keepsake when you leave me for your husband’s home, Deborah.’
‘Oh, Father,’ she said, her heart aching for the look of sadness in his eyes. ‘You know you will always be welcome in my home. I could not bear to part from you forever.’
‘Ah, my sweet child,’ Sir Edward replied. ‘I must not seek to hold you. You must be allowed to find happiness in a home of your own—but I admit that I shall miss you sorely.’
‘I am not married yet,’ she reminded him. She linked her arm in his, smiling up at him. ‘Now, dearest Father—pray tell me what you have planned for today?’
‘I thought we might take a little trip on the river,’ Sir Edward replied. ‘And then, after we have supped—a visit to the theatre?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Deborah smiled at him in delight, the remnants of her headache disappearing as she thought of the pleasures to come. ‘Yes, my dear Father. I think I should enjoy that above all things.’
She would forget the marquis and his impudence and she would forget her foolish dream. The next few weeks would fly by and then they would go home—whether or not they had found husbands.
‘Prithee tarry a little longer,’ Sarah begged as she poured over the fabulous wares of the silk merchant in Cheapside. ‘I cannot decide between the rose damask and the green brocade—which do you prefer, Debs?’
‘They would both suit you very well,’ Deborah replied with an indulgent smile at her cousin. ‘Why do you not order a length of each?’
‘But they are so expensive.’ Sarah stroked the soft materials under the indulgent eye of the silk merchant. ‘And I have already overspent my allowance. I do not like to ask my uncle for more.’
‘I have sufficient monies left to lend you some. Besides, my father would not think of denying you. Order both and let us away to the glovemaker. The hour grows late and I have bespoke a pair of gauntlets for Father.’
Sarah dimpled with pleasure, for in her heart she had wanted both silks. She gave her order to the merchant, who promised to deliver it within the hour to their lodgings, and, tucking her arm into Deborah’s, she willingly accompanied her cousin from the shop. The two girls walked farther down the street, then turned into another where the sign of the glovemaker swung to and fro in the breeze.
‘Mistress Palmer—Mistress Stirling. Stay a moment, I beg you.’
Deborah glanced at her cousin and, seeing the blush in her cheeks as Master Will Henderson hurried up to them, understood why her cousin had lingered so long over the purchase of the materials. This meeting had not happened by chance.
‘Oh, how pleasant to see you, sir.’ Sarah dimpled up at her young and handsome suitor. ‘We are on our way to the glovemaker.’
‘Why do you not wait here a moment or two?’ Deborah suggested as she caught the longing in the young man’s eyes. ‘The shop I need is but a step away and I have our footman to watch over me. Bide here while I see to my business, Sarah. I shall not be long and you will be safe enough with Master Henderson.’
‘That she will,’ he declared, ‘for I would defend her with my life—and you, of course, Mistress Stirling.’
‘I do not doubt it, sir.’ Deborah smiled and left them together. Sarah had other admirers, but only one made her blush so prettily. She was certain that her cousin would soon be wed. As for her…Deborah sighed. They had been in London for more than three weeks now and she had met no one she could think of as a husband.
She had not lacked for suitors, but none appealed to her. Some were too old, some too foolish—but most were greedy. They wanted her for her father’s fortune, not her person. She saw no reason to exchange her happy companionship with her father for something that could afford her no pleasure or benefit.
As yet no news had come from Spain. Deborah was not certain how she felt about the prospect of marrying a man she had never met, but the negotiations were only just beginning. Until the contracts were signed, it would be a simple matter for either side to draw back. Besides, Don Miguel might not be pleased with her likeness.
When she thought about it, she was not at all sure she wished to wed anyone. Perhaps she would do better to remain at home and care for her beloved father?
For a moment the memory of a pair of mocking eyes came to haunt her, but she dismissed it instantly. The Marquis de Vere had been no more to Court—at least, he had not on the days when she and Sarah had attended. Why should she care whether he came or not? Besides, she did not like him. He was arrogant, insulting and rude!
There was to be a masked ball at Court on the morrow. It would be their last visit for the time being, for Sir Edward was minded to go home. He did not care to neglect his estates too long, and Deborah was tired of the long, tedious appearances at Whitehall, which for her were neither pleasurable nor useful.