Page 133 of The Favourite

“There was a scuffle in the south bailey two nights ago. That ruffian of yours got into a spat with someone who darkened your name.”

“What ruffian?” He frowned. “Davis, do you mean?”

“I think that was his name. Large, uncouth individual.”

“Defending the de Balon family name, was he? Stalwart fellow.”

“He broke a royal guard’s nose,” Oswald said coldly.

“Well, I did save his life once,” Alisander reminisced. “So, it is likely that he harbors some kindness toward me.”

“Not only that,” Oswald complained. “But your servant Watkin acts like I have given him the gravest offense.”

“Is he threatening to quit your service again?” Alisander asked with a flicker of alarm, “because, if so, you must not let him. I won’t have you setting another Betteridge to dog my every step. His predecessor was quite insupportable.”

Oswald tutted. “Could we please try and retain some subtlety to our dealings? Without a dash of mystery to proceedings, it all seems so sordid,” he complained.

Alisander smirked. Without Vawdrey’s visits, he realized with surprise, he would have nothing to look forward to at present. He eyed his writing materials with a suppressed sigh. He supposed he really ought to set his mind to official business instead of dwelling on domestic matters.

Mayhap, Jane was coping very well at court without him. Maybe she even found things easier without him there, getting in her way.

*

It was a mere two days later that a knock on the door heralded the arrival of a visitor. To Alisander’s annoyance, it was Sir Symond Chevenix who came first through the door. Pompous prick. If it had to be a member of the King’s Guard, he would have preferred a more seasoned hand like Sir Palmerston du Vrey or perhaps Sir Walter Pomfritt. Practically anyone was preferable to Chevenix who had an air of self-importance that he was by no means entitled to.

Chevenix was politely addressing someone on the other side of the door. Alisander supposed it was Vawdrey. That bastard’s visit was well overdue. He had not seen him all morning. There was a rustling of skirts, and then Jane appeared in the doorway, utterly staggering him.

Alisander stood up so fast, he nearly overturned the table, now spread with writing instruments. He had been halfway through a touching missive to Master Arnold, thanking the Glaziers Guild for their unwavering support. The letter lay now abandoned with a spreading ink blot obscuring the last word.

“Jane!” he uttered. “What the hells—?”

“I will be just outside in the corridor, my lady,” Chevenix said, fixing a stern eye on Alisander. Alisander ignored him. Jane was wearing a fur-lined cape with a matching hat. She was looking, he noticed critically, damnably pretty without a red-rimmed eye in sight. She was also wearing far more jewels than she did usually. They glittered at her fingers, waist, and throat. Had she thought to bribe his way out of prison?

Then something else caught his stunned eye. Was that the emerald green gown peeking out from under her cloak? The one he had ordered from Barbier, specifically, with the idea of her wearing it to celebrate some royal feast and stunning the populace? Instead, Jane had decided to squander its grandeur on a visit to Traitor’s Tower.

Alisander was outraged. And that was before he saw she wore the huge emerald brooch, pinned to the middle of her bodice. The one she had seemed so wholly unimpressed with when he had presented it to her. Jane turned back to Chevenix. “I thank you,” she said prettily, and the oaf practically preened. Alisander fumed as the door clanged shut and Jane advanced into the room.

“Madam, you did not receive my letters it seems?” he started coolly. “I will have to take the matter up with Lord Vawdrey, who assured me that any note I wrote to my family would be duly delivered.”

Jane crossed the room and walked straight up to him. “I did receive them,” she said pertly, “and I disregarded both, as quite absurd.” She stuck her little nose in the air. “Kiss me, please.” She tipped her face up, and so stunned was he, that he obligingly seized her upper arms and kissed her with unaccustomed roughness before practically shoving her from him.

Jane tottered toward the seat by the window and sank into it, seemingly oblivious to the way he was staring at her. She dragged off her hat, affording him a view of her pale gold hair. “Perhaps you do not feel as though you require sight of me at present,” she said thoughtfully. “But you see, I feel quite differently on the matter.”

Alisander picked up his overturned chair and set it to rights before he, too, resumed his seat. Quite deliberately, he picked up his quill and scored through the inkblot. If he acted very cool with her, perhaps she would not see the way his heart was practically beating out of his chest. “Oh? And if I might enquire, which part of my company is so vital to you at precisely this moment?” he asked politely. “It has been a mere five days.”

“And four nights!” she pointed out.

Alisander blinked. “So,” he said drawing out the word suggestively, “it is my presence in your bedchamber that you miss, is that it, wife?” Predictably, Jane’s cheeks bloomed with hectic color. This, of course, was the way to make her back off sharply. She could never abide any teasing on that score.

He threw down his pen and glanced back over his shoulder. “There is a bed to hand, and I should not object to performing my duty if it is so essential to your comfort, wife.” He met her eyes, his cool and challenging.

She cleared her throat. “That is good,” she said with a swift nod and stood up, unfastening her cloak before discarding it on the chair. It was the emerald green gown, and it became her even better than he had dreamed it would.

It was a shock to see her in such vivid color after all the muted mauves and white, just as he had known it would be. He was irritated that the picture she made should be wasted in a dreary prison tower when he had imagined a social occasion where she would turn all heads.

“You are no longer in mourning, it seems,” he managed to force out as she walked right up to the bed and sat down on the edge of it.

“No,” she agreed. “I am not in mourning.” She held his gaze, though her cheeks were poppy red.