My Lady Jane(13)

The book girl.

“Lady Jane Grey. Daughter of Lady Frances Brandon Grey. First cousin once removed to King Edward.”

Lady Gertrude leaned forward. “What do you think, my boy?”

G took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. “I’m thinking lots of things. Like the fact that the lady’s face has rarely been seen because it’s usually buried in a book.”

“You’ve never opposed the education of a lady before,” his mother said.

“And I am still not opposed to it. But what if she is merely using the Second Volume of the Political History of England to cover up some hideous malformation on her face?”

“Gifford!” his father said.

G’s mouth snapped shut at the sound of his given name.

“Your sharp wit will get you nowhere.” Lord Dudley flared his nostrils and exhaled—a move that nearly produced a windstorm. “My boy. It sounds as if you are under the delusion that this match is merely a suggestion.” His lips disappeared into his beard, as they did when Lord Dudley was upset. “Believe me when I tell you the negotiations behind this match have been arduous and delicate, and your romantic notions of lifelong bachelorhood will not be humored.” He stood and put his fists knuckle-down on the desk, the top of his head reaching the mouth of the stuffed bear carcass hanging on the wall, caught in mid-roar. “Let me repeat. YOU WILL MARRY THE LADY JANE GREY!”

His voice echoed off the walls. Nobody moved for fear of disturbing the beast further.

Lord Dudley unclenched his fists and walked over to G. “Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, son. I’m sure you will be very happy.”

“Thank you, Father,” G said through clenched teeth. “One last thing. Does Lady Jane know about . . . the equestrian situation?” G couldn’t believe he’d resorted to using a phrase his father would use, as if the upcoming marriage had suddenly made him more ashamed of his curse.

Lord Dudley put his arm around his son, but it was only so he could escort him from the room.

“It matters not,” he said, and closed the door in G’s face.

It matters not. What was that supposed to mean? That she knew about it and it was of no concern to her? Or she didn’t know, and it wouldn’t matter just as long as she repeated her vows before sunup?

Billingsly met G near the side entrance of the great estate.

“Your overcoat, my lord. I have your horse waiting to take you to your . . . dalliances.”

G rolled his eyes. Every time Billingsly used the code word dalliances, it sounded so suspicious. Maybe he should have come up with a different word. And yet, dalliances had a certain cadence to it. If he thought about it hard enough, he was sure he could incorporate it into his performance tonight.

Dalliances. Dalliances. What rhymed with dalliances? G concentrated as he put his left foot into the stirrup and hoisted himself onto the back of his horse, Westley. Valients . . . es? Balances?

He was lost inside his own head, searching for rhymes, when Stan passed him on his way down the road from the castle.

“Brother,” Stan said by way of greeting.

When G had asked Stan to call him G instead of Gifford, Stan had resorted to calling him the even more generic “brother.”

“Good evening, Stan,” G said.

“Where are you off to?”

G’s heart rate increased. His brother was rarely curious about G’s comings and goings. Maybe Stan knew about the wedding, which would give G more consequence in Stan’s mind. Or maybe he was just making small talk. Either way, the scrutiny wasn’t welcome.

“Um . . . I’m off to . . . dalliant.”

Stan tilted his head.

“To do the dalliant. To be dalliant.” God’s teeth. He’d never really investigated how to use the word, and the only times he’d heard it uttered were in the form of one or both of his parents saying something like, “There he goes again. That boy and his many dalliances . . .”

“I have plans,” G said. “That may or may not involve dalliancing.”

Stan nodded. “Perhaps it will be a redheaded girl this time. A short one. With brown eyes. Would you fancy a girl like that?”

“I’m not generally picky,” G answered cautiously. “It’s just a dalliance, after all.”

“Right. Well, carry on.”

“Thank you,” G said. “Good night, Stan.”

He put his head down and urged his horse into a smooth canter. At this point, he could not afford any more distractions or impediments. He held his lantern as steady as he could, but he didn’t need much light for this journey. It was simply a turn to the right, then to the left, then two rights, then a slight right, then a hairpin left, then up the hill, then over the bridge, then a sharp left, and you were there. G could’ve done it with his eyes closed.

By the time G tied his horse outside the Shark’s Fin Inn, the moon was high. He could already hear the raucous crowd inside cheering and hissing and shouting oaths and clanging goblets. He checked in with the barkeep, signing his name as John Billingsly, and then took a stool at a table with four other men, who had clearly already downed multiple flagons of ale.

“Back again for more, are ye?” said the man with the bushiest beard.

G ignored him and placed his hand over his vest pocket, feeling for his latest work, “The Ecstasy of Eating Greenery.” Then he reached down and felt for the dagger at his hip.