The Maiden's Hand Read Free

the clink of glass as Spencer poured himself more of his medicine. “I should not have asked. Of course he is your son and heir.” She shivered and continued to face the window, battered by a storm of bitter memories. “Your only one.”
    “You must help me stop him. Wynter wishes to exalt Queen Mary by reviving a religious house at Blackrose Priory. He’ll turn this place into a hotbed of popish idolatry. The monks who lived here before the Dissolution were voluptuous sinners,” Spencer went on. “I sweated blood into this estate. I need to know it will stay the same after I’m gone. And what will become of you?”
    She rushed to the stool by the bed. “I try not to think about life without you. But when I do, I see myself continuing the work of the Samaritans. Dr. Snipes and his wife will look after me.” It had occurred to her that she possessed some degree of cleverness, perhaps even enough to look after herself. She knew better than to point that out to Spencer.
    He gestured at the chest at the foot of the bed. “Open that.”
    She did as he asked, using a key from the iron ring she wore tied to her waist. She found a stack of books and scrolled documents in the chest. “What is all this?”
    “I’m going to disinherit Wynter,” he said. She heard the pain in his voice, saw the flash of regret in his fading eyes.
    “How can you?” She closed the lid and rested her elbows on top of the chest. “You do love your son.”
    “I cannot trust him. When I see him, I notice a hardness, a cruelty, that sits ill with me.”
    She thought of Wynter with his hair and eyes of jet, his lean swordsman’s body, and his mouth that was harsh even when he smiled. He was a man of prodigious good looks and deep secrets. A dangerous combination, as she well knew.
    “How will you do this?” she asked without turning around. “How will you deny Wynter his birthright?”
    “I shall need your help, dear Lark.”
    She turned to him in surprise. “What can I do?”
    “Find me a lawyer. I cannot trust anyone else.”
    “You would entrust this task to me?” she asked, shocked.
    “There is no one else. I shall need you to find someone who is discreet, yet totally lacking in scruples.”
    “This is so unlike you—”
    “Just do it.” A fit of coughing doubled him over, and she rushed to him, patting his back.
    “I shall,” she said in a soothing voice. “I shall find you the most unscrupulous knave in London.”
     
    Lark stood at the grand river entrance of the elegant half-timbered London residence. It was hard to believe Oliver de Lacey lived here, along the Strand, a stretch of riverbank where the great houses of the nobility stood shoulder to shoulder, their terraced gardens running down to the water’s edge.
    The door opened, and she found herself facing a plump, elderly woman with a hollowed horn thrust up against her ear. “Is Lord Oliver de Lacey at home?”
    “Eh? He ain’t lazy at home.” The woman thumped her blackthorn cane on the floor. “Our dear Oliver can be a right hard worker when he’s of a mind to be wanting something.”
    “Not lazy,” Lark called, leaning toward the bell of the trumpet. “De Lacey. Oliver de Lacey.”
    The woman grimaced. “You needn’t shout.” She patted her well-worn apron. “Come near the fire, and tell old Nance your will.”
    Venturing inside a few more steps, Lark stood speechless. She felt as if she had entered a great clockwork. Everywhere—at the hearth, the foot of the stairs, along the walls—she saw huge toothed flywheels and gears, all connected with cables and chains.
    Her heart skipped a beat. This was a chamber of torture! Perhaps the de Laceys were secret Catholics who—
    “You look as though you’re scared of your own shadow.” Nance waved her cane. “These be naught but harmless contraptions invented by Lord Oliver’s sire. See here.” She touched a crank at the foot of the wide staircase, and with a great grinding noise a platform slid