“Done!” he said decisively. “Your stallion against my barge. The time period to be six months from this day.” He held out his hand and Southwood shook it firmly.
“Try not to damage my barge this autumn, Dickon,” Southwood said mockingly. “Come spring, I shall want to take my new mistress cruising on the river.”
“I won’t, Geoff. And you see that my stallion is well cared for and not overbred?”
The two men parted then, each secure in the knowledge that he would soon possess a coveted new toy.
Geoffrey Southwood did not know what intrigued him the most—the lovely widow’s beauty, her air of breeding, or her dislike of him. He would enjoy the challenge of seducing and taming her. And he would be the envy of London for owning such a fine mistress. By fair means or foul, Southwood vowed he would have her.
CHAPTER 14
SKYE’S HOUSE WAS LOCATED ON THESTRAND ON THEGREEN INthe village of Chiswick outside the city of London. The last building in the row, it was much less pretentious than its neighbors. Farther down the line were the palaces of such great lords as Salisbury and Worcester, and the bishop of Durham.
They had sailed from Plymouth up the coast into the mouth of the Thames. There theMermaidhad anchored in the Pool awaiting her chance to dock in London. Skye, Jean Morlaix, and Robert Small had disembarked and ridden ahead. It would be several weeks before theMermaidwas assigned a wharf space, and Robert Small trusted his reliable first mate to oversee the ship in his absence.
Skirting the main portion of the city, they soon arrived at Chiswick. It was a small and charming village with an excellent inn, the Swan, on the far side of its green. Here they stopped to refresh themselves with cups of freshly pressed cider, warm newly baked bread covered with pink ham, and a sharp, pale golden cheese. Skye was ravenous and ate eagerly, much to the beaming approval of the fat innkeeper. He poured her another foaming goblet of cider.
“Be you passing through?” he queried.
Skye sent him a blinding smile that quite stunned him. “No,” she said, “I own a house here, Master Innkeeper, and I’ve come to live in it.”
“Which ’ouse is that, madam? I thought I knew all the great lords and their families. I grew up here, you see. Ever since there’s been an inn in Chiswick, there ’ave been Monypennys in Chiswick. In fact,” and here he chuckled, his fat belly heaving with mirth, “no one ’as ever been quite sure which came first, the Swan or the Monypennys! Aha! Ha! Ha!”
Jean and Captain Small looked askance but Skye giggled, thus increasing the innkeeper’s approval of her. “I am Señora Goya del Fuentes, Master Monypenny. The house I own is ‘Greenwood,’ the last one on the Strand. It belonged to my late husband.”
“You’re Spanish?” his voice was now edged in disapproval.
“My husband was. I am Irish.”
“Almost as bad,” came the reply.
“MonDieu!Quel cochon!” muttered Jean.
“Master Monypenny! I will thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head. Señora Goya del Fuentes is a good and gentle lady, and not to be abused while under my protection.” Robert Small’s hand was on his sword.
The big innkeeper looked down at the little sea captain. “Lord bless me!” he began to chuckle. “She must be a fine lady that the ant would challenge the sparrow! My apologies, ma’am. It’s just that the memory of Bloody Mary and her Spanish husband dies hard.”
“Bloody Mary?”
“The late Queen. Her that was married to Philip of Spain. Young Queen Bess’s half-sister.”
“Oh, yes, of course, Master Monypenny. Now I understand,” said Skye. She had heard the story of the sad daughter of Catherine of Aragon from Dame Cecily. “Well, I promise you I am nothing like Bloody Mary. My daughter and I have no family left anywhere that we know of, and so we have come to England to make a new life. English hospitality is famous worldwide.”
The innkeeper ruffled with pride. “And so it should be, ma’am. So it should be. You’ll be quite happy here upon the Strand. Now, if I may involve myself in your business for a moment … You say your house is the last one in the row. Tsk! The last tenants left it in shameful condition, and if you’ll allow me, ma’am, I’ll have rooms for you and your party set aside. The plain fact is that your house is not habitable.”
“Robbie! Was the agent not notified to prepare the house for me?”
“He was, Skye.”
The innkeeper shook his head dolefully. “That would be Mr. Taylor, wouldn’t it? He’s a bad ’un, but how were you to know that?”
“Bad? In what way, Master Monypenny?” asked Robert Small.
“He’s been renting the house out to youngbloods for their—oh, dalliances, you might say. Charges ’em twice what you asks for the house, pockets the overage, and then collects his commission too.”
“And how do you knowthat?”
“He’s in the habit of taking a drink here now and then. But he can’t hold his liquor. More than two pints and he begins to talk. One night during the late Queen’s reign he bragged about how he was cheating the Spaniard who owned the house.”
