The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(13)
Ormond took them into a long gallery flooded with light pouring through the open diamond-paned windows and overlooking a meticulously planned ornamental garden. Despite its comforts, the chamber lacked the indefinable touches that reminded Kit that Ormond had been single for nearly twenty years. He’d separated from his wife long years ago with no legitimate children and had not remarried. Yet.
“Tell me about the roads,” Ormond said when he’d passed around wine and the three were seated casually before a stone fireplace.
“Quieter than we’d feared,” Brandon answered. “But not quiet in a good way. More in the manner of being watched and weighed.”
“I wish I could say your unease is unwarranted, but you’re no fools. Kilkenny is safe enough, but best you stick to Dublin this autumn. Unless Pelham and Dane are pulling you into the mess of Munster?”
Brandon shook his head. “We’re not a fighting force. Her Majesty wants us in Dublin and to be seen supporting you in the east. The west is not our affair.”
“Will Desmond throw in with the rebels openly?” Kit asked bluntly.
For a measuring gaze, Ormond seemed likely to slap him down for interrupting. But then a spark flashed through his eyes. “That’s right—the Earl of Somerset has men with Oliver Dane’s forces. Your older brother. Why aren’t you marching with him?”
“I wasn’t invited.”
Ormond laughed heartily. “Ah, to be young and so easily offended. Fear not, little brother. If Philip of Spain manages to land forces sufficient to break free from the west coast, there will be fighting enough for all Her Majesty’s men in Ireland. Pray that it does not come to that.”
As far as Kit had gathered, Ormond himself was desperately praying for it not to come to that. He was Elizabeth’s man through and through—not only by the blood of cousinship, but in temperament. Black Tom Butler wanted to preserve what he had, not see it scorched to the ground as so much of southern Ireland had been. And, after all, Gerald FitzGerald was not only a fellow Irish earl but had been married to Ormond’s mother after the death of his father. Family ties marched hand in hand with family resentments, and Ireland provided fertile ground for such a disastrous mix. Another of Pippa’s stories popped into Kit’s head: That when English troops had last laid siege to Desmond’s castle at Askeaton, they had destroyed the neighboring abbey and wantonly flung corpses out of their crypts. Including that of Desmond’s second wife—who had been Tom Butler’s mother.
Into the silence of men contemplating the complexities of war as they drank came the trill of feminine voices. One voice clearly dominated—one that made Kit swear to himself softly when he recognized it.
How had he not known that Eleanor Percy was currently resident at Kilkenny? He had noted her absence from Dublin during their brief stay and been glad of it, without bothering to wonder where she had gone. He really must learn to think ahead, as Pippa was always counseling him.
“What need have I to think ahead when you do it for the both of us so neatly?” he usually teased. But Pippa wasn’t here and so Kit met the lady unprepared.
He’d never seen a woman so thoroughly able to take charge of a room outside his mother and the queen. Eleanor did it not through position or warmth or natural respect, however, but by wielding her considerable physical charms. Past childbearing she might be, but everything about her was cultivated for best display. Even Kit grudgingly conceded her appeal to that part of a man interested only in pleasure.
“Such a delight!” she trilled in overdone rapture. “To have three such handsome men in attendance tonight. Nora and I could never have dreamed such good fortune.”
She had her daughter by the elbow, holding on to her as she might a horse prepared to bolt. Nora was objectively as lovely as her mother but had none of Eleanor’s instinct for presenting herself. She usually looked either shy or bored. Today, however, there was a stain of colour on her cheeks and she spoke without being urged.
“It is a pleasure to see you again, my lord.”
Ormond’s gaze slid sideways, for she was not addressing him, but Brandon Dudley. Brandon was too well-practiced a courtier for Kit to tell if he was merely being polite when he answered, “The pleasure must always be mine.”
From the way Nora lit up when Brandon spoke, it was clear that if it was up to her, Stephen Courtenay was not the earl she would be trying to land. It unaccountably cheered Kit, though he doubted his brother had ever looked at Nora Percy with anything like personal interest. Perhaps he just liked being reminded that not everything in the world revolved around Stephen.
“I must see to the men,” Kit said before Brandon could beat him to it. The Earl of Leicester had an expression of well-bred forbearance, but what protest could he make? It was Kit’s duty to see after such matters. And if he managed to avoid dining with the nobles later, all the better.
“Such a pity.” Eleanor pretended to pout. “If only your brother were here in your stead.”
If only he were, Kit thought grimly as he escaped the now-cloying chamber. He had nothing against Nora Percy, and wondered if her mother were setting her sights on Brandon as a possible replacement in case Stephen proved reluctant. Or even Ormond—the man was vigorous despite his age, and despite his long solitude would surely be eager to get legitimate children on a young wife. And Nora was the queen’s niece. It made her attractive, despite her difficult mother.