The Master of Winterbourne

‘Lawrence,’ Aunt Clifford whispered. ‘I do think that might have been more delicately put.’ She raised her voice. ‘Mary, see the household is given ale and cider in the hall. Alice, pour the wine here, if you please.’

Matthew still held her left hand in his. ‘Sir, my hand,’ Henrietta protested.

‘Mine now.’ He smiled down into her eyes, keeping her fingers trapped in his.

Alice brought two Venetian glass goblets, bobbing a curtsy as she offered

them. As she turned away from Henrietta one eyelid fluttered into a wink.

Henrietta tried to calm her fluttering nerves by sipping the sweet wine, but all she was conscious of was the imprint of Matthew’s lips on hers and the warmth of his fingers interlaced with her own.

‘… and the consequences of the Bill set before Parliament last week will be far-reaching, I'm sure you will agree, Sheridan. Those of us who live outside Town will need early intelligence to advise our clients to their best advantage.’

Matthew nodded, his face serious as he guided Lawyer Stone to the window embrasure to continue the conversation.

‘Well, my dear,’ Susan said drily, watching their retreating backs, ‘I suspect we are both about to discover there are penalties attached to marriage with a lawyer.’

‘Business certainly claims their attention at the least opportunity,’ Henrietta found she was nettled. It wasn’t that she wanted to talk to Matthew all evening, but even so…

‘Men are all the same, Henrietta, whatever their calling or station. I recall the afternoon you were born – your father was pacing the floor in this gallery when word came from Lord Willoughby that he had received some news or other from Court. Your father was off like a greyhound after a hare, and not back home till near midnight, two hours after you were safe delivered.’

‘Poor Mother.’

‘In truth, she told me it was a relief to be left in peace and know he wasn't fussing. Men are little help and much hindrance on these occasions. But I cannot stand here reminiscing when there is supper to be got. Those giddy girls will be flightier than ever after all this excitement.’

Left alone, Henrietta glanced across to where the two men still stood in earnest conversation, dark head against grizzled. Matthew seemed to be winning some point, driving it home with emphatic movements of his long hands.

Once again she was struck by the quality of his intelligence. How was she to keep the secret of the hidden casket from him? She wasn't used to dissembling, for in all her life she'd had no need of anything but the truth.

Matthew caught her eye and smiled, a fleeting caress across the room, then turned back to his argument. Henrietta swallowed hard, wondering how he could look at her like that, yet continue exchanging dry legal anecdotes with Lawyer Stone. Now he had her would he trouble to woo her at all? He desired her, that much was plain in his eyes, his kisses, the touch of his fingers. And she might as well be frank with herself – she desired him too. But she wanted to get to know him, to have him understand her and Winterbourne. Her parents had shared a deep friendship as well as a marriage but there seemed little likelihood that she and Matthew could lay the foundations of that before the wedding day.

But however close they did become she must not allow that to blind her to the truth or her duty. She was a loyal servant of His Majesty, he a follower of the usurper Cromwell. The longer that casket lay hidden in the priest's hole, the greater the danger that she would unwittingly betray its existence. If only there was someone to tell her how much damage would be done if the contents of the casket were revealed.

Henrietta turned in a swirl of skirts and left the room. Neither man acknowledged her going and she thought they had not noticed. The staircase and hall were empty of servants and she gained the parlour unseen, snatching a branch of candles as she went. The empty room was shrouded in shadows flickering in the candle-light. She closed the door quietly behind her and leaned against the panels, collecting her thoughts.

What to do with the casket once she'd removed it from its hiding-place? She couldn't give it to Robert – that would be to put her burden of responsibility on his shoulders. Nor dared she risk burning the thing, there were too many people in the house, too many questions might be asked about a fire lit on a warm summer's evening.

Then the answer came to her with the memory of Sim and his mud-splattered breeches that morning: she would throw it in the carp pond. The farm workers always claimed the mud in the depths of it was bottomless, and frightened impressionable kitchen maids with tales of what lurked in its murky deeps.

She had pushed back the carpet and hooked her little finger into the knot-hole to lift the board when she heard a firm step outside the door. Swiftly she tossed back the covering, then tugged off one pearl drop from her ear. When Matthew entered the carpet was back in place and she was on her knees seemingly searching under the window-seat.

‘Henrietta?’

‘Oh, Matthew, my earring…’

‘You would do better to have light on the matter,’ he said drily. ‘Come, get up, you will mark your gown. Where did it fall? On the carpet here?’

‘No! I mean, I thought I heard it roll under the window-seat. But I dare not look there.’ She cast down her eyes. ‘Alice saw a mouse in here yesterday and I am stupidly afraid of them.’

‘A very fierce mouse to cause you such emotion.’ She saw him take in her flushed cheeks, the rise and fall of her bosom, in one comprehensive glance, then he dropped to his knees, a candle in one hand.

So, once more, the feminine wiles she had employed on Marcus Willoughby and his like deceived this man too. But even as she employed them she despised herself for doing so. Matthew must think her a foolish, fluttering female.

‘Here.’ He held out the shimmering teardrop on his palm. ‘Sit on the window-seat and I will restore it to its rightful place.’ His fingers were warm and dry on the sensitive flesh of her lobe. They lingered and she shivered, conscious of his closeness. ‘I claim a kiss for valour against man-eating mice,’ Matthew said, his breath fanning her throat.

‘I do not believe there was a mouse under there at all.’ Henrietta shifted away from him along the seat, heart thudding against the tight lacing of her bodice.

‘Not a whisker of a mouse,’ he admitted. ‘But I was not to know that when I undertook the endeavour. There could have been an army of mice. Come, Henrietta.’ The laughter died out of his voice. ‘You must not be afraid of me.’ He drew her gently to him, tipping up her chin, compelling her to meet his eyes.