The Quality of Mercy. Faye KellermanЧитать онлайн книгу.
not for my sake,” Rebecca said. “Instead worry for Hector and Miguel. I fear that Raphael’s death will leave them weak with grief.”
Dunstan sighed and nodded.
“And what about your grief?”
“I’ll survive.”
“Did you love him?” Dunstan asked.
“He was my betrothed, Dunstan. Of course I loved him.”
Dunstan touched his earring with his forefinger and thumb.
“And did you love him even as he bedded your chambermaid?”
Rebecca faced him. “You’re despicable.”
“Admit it,” Dunstan said with a half smile. “You feel relieved.”
Rebecca turned away, blushing at the truth. Carelessly, she said, “Raphael’s death leaves us in a ticklish position, does it not?”
Dunstan whipped his head around and whispered, “Quiet. We’re among strangers.”
“My father talks freely,” Rebecca said. “He’s often unaware who is listening.”
“God’s sointes, Rebecca, keep your voice down!” Dunstan reprimanded her. “Your father is discreet because he trusts you and speaks unmolested in your presence. Don’t make an ass out of him—or us. As comfortable as we live, we’re not immune from the whims of our rulers.”
Rebecca knew that to be the truth. England’s religious tolerance could quickly be replaced by the Queen’s sudden death or military mutiny. It wasn’t that long ago that peace was threatened by Her Majesty’s cousin—Mary Queen of Scots. Staunch Catholics had been slaughtered. If the Papist burns easily, how much hotter burns the unbaptized heretic?
Rebecca said, “Father instructs me to concern myself little in matters of politics, only to do what I’m told. I forge the documents and forget what is being said around the house.”
“Sound advice,” Dunstan answered.
“He treats me as if I hadn’t a brain.”
“He’s worried for your safety. Uncle has some formidable enemies—”
“Essex—”
“Lower your voice.”
“I’m whispering.”
“Say no more about the mission.” Dunstan scanned the room. Thank God no one was watching them. “Raphael’s death is not only a great loss for our people, but a dilemma for you as well. We both know that Miguel is unfit as a husband. Your future is no longer ensured.”
“It matters not to me.”
“Aye, but it matters much to your father.” Dunstan patted her knee. “But God gave you a fair face and a beautiful form.”
“And a keen mind as well,” she reminded him.
“That is no asset, dear cousin. It’s a defect.”
She turned her head away.
“Not to worry,” he said philosophically. “I overheard your father talking to quite a few lords.”
“A waste of time.”
“Tis good you are less than anxious to wed.” Very good, he thought wolfishly. “I approve not of the merchandise available.”
Rebecca sighed. “And what does not meet with Sir Dunstan Ames’s approval?”
“They’re Englishmen … real Englishmen. Best to stick with kinsmen who understand our ways, even if we have to import a man from the Continent.” Dunstan looked at his hand, at his gold ring. “Although there are advantages of marrying peerage …”
Such as the weight of their purses, Rebecca thought. She said nothing.
Dunstan stroked her cheek under the veil. “Such a face you have. You could be a countess with the bat of an eyelash … The revenues of an earldom at your command … all those golden angels falling at your feet.”
“And a tarnished noble as well.”
Dunstan smiled. “A comfortable position nonetheless.”
“And a grand one for the mission,” Rebecca said. “A matter of time before hands dip into my lord husband’s pockets.”
“We don’t use money for personal gain, Rebecca,” Dunstan said.
Rebecca said, “Then why do your fingers sparkle?”
“I work hard, cousin,” Dunstan said. “I go without sleep for nights—”
“Yet you still live, while Raphael is cold,” Rebecca snapped. “Need I remind you of that detail, cousin?”
“I offer my services wherever I’m needed.”
“Bah,” Rebecca said.
“Even at a time such as this, you bait me, Becca,” Dunstan said. “What pleasure do you derive from it?”
“The same pleasure you derived when you bespoke of Raphael bedding my chambermaid?”
Dunstan didn’t answer, and glanced around the room. All he saw were people preoccupied with themselves and the food. The tables sagged under the weight of platters. And so much more still being prepared in the kitchen. As one tray grew empty, another was brought out by a scullion. Since no one was paying them any mind, Dunstan took her hand, and she didn’t resist. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Rebecca.”
For the first time this afternoon her lip quivered. The overflowing lakes that had formed in her eyes became rivers of tears pouring down her cheek.
“It was for no purpose, Dunstan,” she whispered. “A barter of Raphael’s life for another. Yes, I confess that I wasn’t keen to wed, but I grieve for the loss of my betrothed. At times the mission seems like such folly—”
“Shh,” Dunstan reprimanded her. “There’s much thou knowest not, little one.”
“Oh Dunstan!” she implored. “Don’t let Father marry me to Miguel, as is his duty. You’re a man. Be my lips and plead my case. Though I am so very fond of Miguel, our union would be a mockery!”
In sooth, Dunstan thought. He shook his head, knowing it was his cursed luck to tell his uncle Roderigo the truth about Miguel’s preferences in the art of love. Uncle had a vile temper and was bound to become enraged. He had always loved Miguel like a son. Diplomacy would be of the essence.
He turned to Rebecca. “Nonetheless, it’s your father’s duty to find you a husband.”
But in the meantime, … he thought.
Rebecca moaned. “Dear God help me. At least I had learned to understand Raphael. I become ill at the thought of marrying anyone else.”
“Hush,” he said soothingly. “Keep your ideas to yourself, Rebecca. The more obstinate you become, the more your father feels a need to tame you by marrying you off to the proper gentleman.”
“Yes.” She dabbed her eyes with a lace kerchief. “You’re correct … for once.”
Dunstan ignored the barb. They’d become so frequent of late. He said, “Until an appropriate suitor is found, your hand shall remain free.”
“I don’t want a suitor.”
“You are young and foolish. You don’t know what you want.”
“Had I the skills of a surgeon, I’d rip my womb from my body—”
“Quiet!” Dunstan said. “You’re too young to know the power of the bush between your legs. It will not be plump forever, Rebecca. One day it will dry up and no one shall be enamored of it—or you. You must learn