Linnet said nothing; she was far too good with money to lay a wager she might lose.
“I knew it,” the queen said with a wink.
Something might happen again between her and Jamie Rayburn, but it would not be a wedding.
“Now, I have something to divert you until our favorite men return.” The queen held out two sealed parchments. “Your letters. A servant just brought them up.”
“Thank you,” Linnet said, breaking into a wide smile. If she did not count the time she spent with Jamie—which she certainly did not—the favorite part of her day was reading Master Woodley’s daily missive sent up from London.
“Reading your clerk’s letters seems dull work to me,” the queen said, patting her arm. “I shall sit with my ladies for some needlework and gossip.”
Linnet hurried to her chamber to read her letters in private. As soon as she saw her brother’s familiar script on one of them, she missed him. She was too anxious to take the time to light the lamp. Instead, she stood by the narrow window, where she had to strain to read in the stormy afternoon light.
She read the letter from her clerk first. What a good man Master Woodley was. He had sold most of the prized Flanders cloth she had brought to London—and at a very fine price. As she expected, he had made little progress on his other assignment. After so many years, tracing where her grandfather’s property had gone—and into whose hands—was a difficult task.
She set his letter aside and took up Francois’s.
My dearest Linnet,
Your ancient Master Woodley hounds me without mercy. I beg you, dear sister, return at once to rescue me from him and these damned accounts.
Locating the persons you asked me to find was no challenge for a man of my talent. I must warn you, however, that speaking with them will prove considerably more difficult. I shall explain when I see you. Is that sufficiently tantalizing to bring you back to London?
I cannot be answerable if you do not soon relieve me of the relentless Master Woodley.
With great affection,
Your most devoted brother,
Francois
Poor Master Woodley. She hoped Francois was not exhausting him with his antics. She stared at the sheets of rain outside the window as she tried to guess at the meaning of Francois’s intentionally mysterious message.
Clearly, Francois had found Leggett and Higham, two men she hoped could help unravel the mystery of what happened to her grandfather’s profitable business ten years ago. Leggett was the one merchant in London she knew she could trust. When her grandfather’s creditors were closing in, he came to their house in the dead of night and helped them get out of London. He had even paid their passage on the ship to Calais.
If that swine Mychell was to be believed, Higham was one of the men who had been in their London house that day she and Francois hid under the bed. Mychell said it was this Higham who carried the unusual silver-tipped cane she remembered.
She did not expect to recognize the men’s voices after all this time, but she would remember until her dying day that silver claw pounding on the floorboards.
Mychell told her that he and this Higham received their instructions from the third man, whose name they never knew. But Mychell was lying. Whoever had the cane was the man giving instructions that day. Now that Francois had found Higham, she intended to discover if he was another intermediary or the man behind it all.
It was time for her to make a trip to London.
Jamie wiped the rain from his face with his sleeve. Damn, it was coming down hard.
“There’s no game,” Owen said as he pulled his horse up to ride next to Jamie through the brush. “Animals have the sense to stay under cover.”
Jamie had insisted they go hunting, despite the freezing rain. He needed to get away from the castle or go mad. Every time he saw Linnet in the hall, he found himself speculating over which man she had taken as a lover.
Or men. Blood pounded in his ears every time he recalled her saying she might require more than one.
Fortunately, there were few noblemen or wealthy merchants at Windsor in this lull before Christmas. But since Linnet made it clear she was not looking for a husband, she could just as well dally with any of the myriad clerks, grooms, hawkers, and guards. There was an abundance of such men at Windsor.
“Why the sour look, my friend?” Owen said.
“The damned rain is running down my neck.”
“ ’Tis more than this foul weather,” Owen said, wiping the rain from his eyes with his gloved hand.
