“Is she bringing all the children?”

“She never goes anywhere without them.” Phoebe kissed the baby in her arms as she spoke. “One couldn’t, really.”

“No, I suppose not.” It astonished Olivia how her two friends had become so devotedly maternal. Phoebe seemed more the type, but Portia was a mystery. A woman who was once happiest riding into battle at her husband’s side, and who still wore britches most of the time with a sword at her hip, was the most fond mother, drawing no distinction between her own son and daughter, and Rufus Decatur’s two illegitimate sons.

“So when’s she coming?”

“Any day, Cato says. He thinks there’s going to be another attempt to get the king away to France, and Rufus has some information from army sources that might throw some light on it all.”

Olivia nodded, but her mind had begun to race. Was this what Anthony was about? Engineering the king’s escape to France? An action that put him in direct opposition to the marquis of Granville, who was sworn to keep the king secure.

Dear God, she thought. Of course that was what he was doing. As she’d half suspected last night, the king, or rather his supporters, were the highest bidders for the mercenary’s services. And where did that leave the marquis of Granville’s daughter?

She glanced at Phoebe… Phoebe, so serene, so sure of where her loyalties lay.

The baby began to wriggle and Phoebe said, “I think Charles needs changing. But let’s go for a picnic on the downs. There’ll be a breeze up there and Nicholas can run around. He has so much energy.”

She hurried to the door as the baby began to whimper. “Come, Nicholas.” She held out her hand to the marquis’s son and heir. The little earl was reluctant to abandon his play with a string of pearls, but was eventually persuaded with the promise of a piece of honeycomb to go quietly with his mother.

Olivia picked up the pearls and replaced them in her jewel box, then she went to the window that looked out over the sea. From St. Catherine’s Hill, just behind the house, one could look out across the Channel and see the ships coming around the point. At the top of the hill was St. Catherine’s oratory, where messages to and from Wind Dancer were left.

The master would presumably use that means of communication to send Mike to summon his chess partner. But by the same means, the chess partner could send her own message. Olivia Granville was not at anyone’s beck and call. When she was ready to play chess, she would tell the pirate so. And she would also find out exactly what he was playing at in his games at court.


* * *

Godfrey, Lord Channing, rode up to the front door of Lord Granville’s house in Chale at four o’clock that afternoon, the fashionable hour for visiting. He dismounted and gave his horse to the servant who had run out at the sound of hooves on the gravel sweep before the front door.

Godfrey adjusted the set of his peacock blue silk doublet and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his lime green britches. He knew he cut a very fine figure. His wardrobe was a major expense, but he’d kept back from his culling a bolt of particularly elegant painted silk, a length of figured velvet, and a roll of Brussels lace. Worth, he reckoned, at least fifty guineas. They would replenish his wardrobe nicely.

He marched to the front door, where a stately figure awaited him.

“Lord Granville is not at home, sir.”

“Lord Channing is come to call upon Lady Granville. I believe she is expecting me.”

Bisset thought this unlikely. Lady Granville and Lady Olivia had returned a few minutes earlier from their picnic. They had looked as disheveled as the children.

“I believe Lady Granville is not yet returned, my lord,” he said diplomatically.

“Bisset, who is at the door?” Phoebe’s cheerful voice rendered the butler’s discretion as nought.

“Lord Channing, my lady. I didn’t know if you were receiving.”

“Oh, I don’t think I am,” Phoebe said, coming up beside him. “Good afternoon, Lord Channing. You find us at sixes and sevens, I fear. We have been having a picnic and are not at all respectable enough for visitors.” On anyone else such frankness would have been heard as discourtesy, yet somehow Phoebe managed to speak such truths without giving offense.

Godfrey bowed deeply. “Forgive me, madam. I will return at a more opportune moment.” He smiled as he straightened. “I wished only to pay my respects to you and Lady Olivia.”

Phoebe hesitated. It seemed churlish to send the man all the way back to Carisbrooke without so much as the offer of refreshment. She had promised that she would help Olivia deal with the suitors that Cato had warned would beat a path to her door. Better not to procrastinate with this one. “You must take us as we are, but pray come in, sir. May I offer you a glass of wine?”

Godfrey stepped with alacrity into the hall. “Thank you, Lady Granville.”

“Bisset, bring wine to the parlor. This way, Lord Channing.”

Godfrey followed her, noticing with a shock that the hem of her skirt had come down and she seemed to have grass in her hair.

“Olivia, look who has come to call,” Phoebe said brightly as she led the way into the parlor. “Lord Channing has come to pay his promised visit.”

Olivia was sitting on the window seat with Nicholas, weaving a daisy chain from the mound of limp flowers in her lap. The child leaning against her was half asleep, sucking a very grubby thumb. His mouth bore evidence of the red currant bush, and some of the juice had found its way onto Olivia’s gown of pale muslin. Her hair hung loose to her shoulders and she seemed to have daisies entwined in it, Godfrey realized in astonishment. And they were dead daisies too.

“Good afternoon, Lady Olivia.” He bowed from the doorway.

Olivia’s breath caught in her throat as his cold green eyes fixed upon her. His thin mouth smiled at her. She could detect no warmth in him, only menace. Even as she told herself she was being ridiculous, she could hear Brian’s taunting voice, see his narrowed eyes flickering over her as he looked for some new way to torment her. She had felt like a butterfly about to lose its wings when Brian had looked at her like that, and she felt exactly the same now.

She stood up, careful not to disturb the sleepy child. A shower of daisies fell from her lap. “You c-catch us unawares, I’m afraid, Lord Channing.”

That was more than apparent. Godfrey saw that her feet were bare and there were grass stains on her skirts. There was something offensive about the entire scene. These two high-born women looking like peasant girls on May morning, their hair disheveled, their cheeks touched with the sun, their gowns disordered. Like milkmaids, he thought with a twinge of disgust.

But according to Brian Morse, this particular milkmaid had a dowry of some hundred thousand pounds.

“I find your dishabille charming, madam.” He smiled and bowed again. “And who is the child?”

“Mine,” Phoebe said, moving swiftly to take up her son. “Earl Grafton… Bisset, ask Sadie to come and take him to the nursery.”

“Yes, my lady.” Bisset set the tray with wine decanter and glass on the table and left with stately tread.

There was a moment’s silence, then Olivia forced herself to speak. “Wine… you would like a glass of wine, sir.”

“Yes, I thank you.”

Olivia poured the wine, aware as she did so that he was looking at her bare feet. She felt as vulnerable as if she were naked. Her hand shook slightly as she gave him the glass; his fingers brushed hers and she was suddenly cold.

“My thanks, Lady Olivia.” He smiled as he took a sip of wine.

The arrival of the nursemaid and the handing over of the boy gave Godfrey the opportunity to examine his quarry more carefully. Untidy, yes, but there was something undeniably sensual about her. The thick dark hair, the large black eyes, the warm red mouth. A man would certainly not need to keep his eyes shut when he possessed Olivia Granville. He felt a pleasurable warmth in his loins.

“Do you find life at Carisbrooke interesting, Lord Channing?” Phoebe asked, desperately searching for a topic of conversation.

“I am equerry to the governor, madam. It is an interesting and rewarding position.”

“I imagine you spend much time with the king,” Phoebe said.

“Indeed I am much in His Majesty’s company,” he responded complacently. “But when I can, I enjoy solitude with my books.”

“Oh, do you have an extensive library, sir?” Phoebe shot Olivia a slightly indignant look, wondering why she was leaving the entire conversational burden to her.

“I have some interest in the philosophers, madam.”

“Greek or Roman?” Olivia inquired, correctly interpreting Phoebe’s look. She had retreated to the window seat once again and was sternly telling herself not to be stupidly fanciful. What possible menace could there be in Godfrey Channing?

“I find the works of Plato most enlightening,” Godfrey responded solemnly, hoping she wouldn’t launch into an exhaustive conversation on the subject. He had done a little reading but not enough to satisfy a true scholar. But he doubted that a woman, whatever Brian might say, could achieve true scholarship. Olivia probably merely dabbled and considered herself very learned.

“Which works in particular?” Olivia asked. “The Republic, I imagine, but also-”

Much to Godfrey’s relief, the question remained unspoken as the door burst open to admit a veritable whirlwind. There were children and dogs and a thin young woman with startling red hair and a mass of freckles, clad astoundingly in britches and doublet. There were cries of delight, much hugging and kissing, and one of the dogs, a large mustard-colored mongrel bitch, pranced and barked and greeted all in sight, including Lord Channing.