Faye Kellerman - The Quality of Mercy

Rebecca laughed. “Dear cousin, an intelligence of wit assumes a whit of intelligence. One must have the latter to have the former.”

Dunstan frowned.

“Idleness has not made you less clever,” he said. “But it has made you more vicious than ever.”

Rebecca cocked her head and pouted. Marry, she was lovely, Dunstan thought.

“Shall I take you to Cheapside?” he asked.

“Mayhap you mean to bed?”

Dunstan bit his lip to hold back a smile.

“If that be your desire.”

“Go home to your wife.”

Dunstan sat down and cradled his chin in the palms of his hands. He looked so troubled, Rebecca thought, but in a rather childish way. As if his mother had taken away his sweetmeats.

“What is it?” Rebecca asked.

Dunstan sighed. “Grace has been so unresponsive since she has foaled. I don’t understand it. I give her gifts, I’ve hired for her more servants than wait upon the King of Scotland. I’ve indulged her every whim.”

“You might consider giving her attention.”

“I’m very attentive.”

“Aye, to the scullery maid, the milkmaid, the chandleress—”

“I’m not a monk, Rebecca. Do not lecture me.”

She became silent at the tone of his voice.

“Come, cousin,” he said. “Let us take a ride to the country.”

She shook her head. It would be disastrous to fill him with false hopes. The sparks she’d once felt for him had died years ago. She’d been just a little girl, and Dunstan had been her porthole to the world. Things were different now. She was no longer dependent on him to teach her things. Still, Dunstan persisted in trying to revive the past.

“The country would do your nerves well,” he begged.

“I thank you, but no.”

“You’re a stubborn twit of a wench,” Dunstan said angrily.

“Or a wit of a wench,” she smirked.

He grabbed her. “Remember, it was I who broke you in.”

“I remember it well,” she said.

“Then why have you turned so cold to me?”

Not wanting another exhausting confrontation, she smiled and stroked his cheek.

“You look handsome, Dunstan.” She tugged the corners of his mustache. “The color red suits you well.”

“You taunt me, Becca.”

“Not at all.”

“Then bed me.”

“Impossible.” She straightened out his ruff.

“Why do you treat me as thus—the tongue of a kitten one moment, the bite of an asp the next?”

“Blame it on the stars.”

“You toy with my emotions.”

“Dunstan,” she answered, “listen to me. Your cap houses one head, your codpiece the other. Think with the proper one. I’ve grown into a marriageable woman now. You must stop your ridiculous flirting.”

“I love you.”

“Would your ardor remain hot if I wore the battle scars that decorate Grace’s belly?”

Slowly he released her from his grip. “I cannot stop thinking about you. You must marry before I do something … very foolish.”

“You mean I must become pregnant, fat, and complacent. Then I will no longer be desirable.”

Dunstan smiled sadly. “That is exactly what I mean.”

“At the least, you’re truthful, if not honest.” She pushed him away. “Go home to Grace. Perhaps she’s not the wildest between the sheets, but indeed she’s served you well.”

Rebuffed again, he stood, bowed, and doffed his hat, showing her the inside of his cap—a gesture of scorn. As he left, he turned to see her gathering almond blossoms in her skirt. Her black hair was loose and long, her ungloved hands so delicate and slender. He felt the sting and cursed what he once had, what he finally realized he had lost forever.

Politics, politics, and more politics. It made Roderigo weary, and he almost wished himself a simple country doctor again. Putting down his quill, he reread the letter to Ferreira de Gama, admiring the strokes of his Italian hand, so rich with flourishes yet far easier to pen than the traditional secretary hand. Satisfied with the correspondence, he folded and sealed the letter, removed his spectacles and leaned back in his chair. Surrounded by solitude in his private closet, he tried to forget the discouraging words of his nephews. But they buzzed through the air like gnats.

What if Essex were to intercept their correspondence with Philip? What would it mean?

Disaster!

Blank failure from your mind, Roderigo told himself. Just use caution and worry not. There would always be naysayers. Let them say nay, he would say yea.

The fire needed to be stoked. Rather than call a servant, he got up and poked the logs himself. The embers erupted into flames, and the gust of heat warmed his stiff hands.

Roderigo regarded the hearth in his closet. The Great Hall was outdated, being warmed by only a central pit. It was time to mason a fireplace there. One that would hold a majestic mantel … a mantel carved from the finest walnut. And the hearth should be chiseled from Sicilian marble—deep green preferably, to match the view of the orchards from the leaded-glass windows. And a magnificent chimney puffing out big bellows of smoke so that all of London—and Essex—would know that the Great Hall of Dr. Roderigo Lopez was royally warmed, suitable for entertaining the most revered prince of state. He’d talk to Sarah. A dutiful wife, she’d arrange the details quickly. He had but to speak and Sarah would carry out his wishes.

Lopez heard a knock upon the door. He asked who it was and his daughter identified herself. He allowed her to enter.

Rebecca stood for a moment underneath the frame of the door. Roderigo was surprised to find her still dressed in black. He would have thought she would abandon the dark clothing as soon as her shiva —her first period of mourning—had finished.

Mourning. It had only intensified her beauty, and that worried Roderigo. She had become as jumpy as a kenneled hound, and God only knew what would happen when she was freed from her obligatory month of grieving. An appropriate suitor had to be found lest he find himself the grandfather of a bastard. In his mind, Miguel was still the preferred son-in-law, despite his … whatever it was. He couldn’t imagine marrying her off to anyone but kinsmen. Perhaps there existed an appropriate suitor in the Low Countries or the Levant. He’d speak at length with Solomon and Sarah. They would know who the available men were. Another detail to arrange. He sank down into a padded armchair and called to Rebecca.

“Come to me, daughter.”

Approaching with a coy smile, Rebecca took a soft velvet pillow and sat at her father’s feet, her overskirt and petticoat billowing over the floor. She curled up against his leg. He reached down and entangled his fingers in her thick, black hair, then stroked it as he would the fur of a lapdog.

“Has the Queen summoned you yet, Father?”

“You can answer your own question,” Roderigo said. “You seem to know much about my affairs.”

“You’re angry at me for telling Dunstan the words of Philip’s letters to you,” Rebecca said. “So be it. Punish me if you desire, but I did it out of love. I’m worried for Miguel’s safety. For yours as well. Essex is clever and vicious.”