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“But she could be,” Andrew murmured.
Indeed, he could see that the girl was a beauty despite the dirt on her face and the Medusalike appearance of her dull hair. “With a little cleaning and polish, she could be every inch a lady,” he continued.
Brandon chortled. “You are growing soft in the head with your advancing old age, Andrew. That girl is a strumpet, plain as daylight.”
Andrew smoothed his crimson velvet sleeve and fluffed the lace at his wrists. “Looks are deceiving,” he remarked to his three hot-blooded companions. “Tis clothes that make the difference between a prince and a pauper—or can turn a whore into a lady.”
Brandon pointed at the white-faced girl. “You could never turn her into a lady! A strumpet is a strumpet.”
Andrew lifted one eyebrow in mock surprise. “Indeed, Sir Brandon? Perchance you would care to make a wager upon that opinion?”
The elder Cavendish gaped at him. “How now? You can’t be serious!”
Andrew inclined his head. “I fear I am, my young friend. I wager that I can take that delightfully wretched creature and transform her into a duchess who will dine at King Henry’s feast in twelve days’ time.”
Guy whistled through his teeth.
Jack draped his arm around Andrew’s shoulder. “Oh most excellent jest! Pray tell me, what potent wine have you drunk tonight, old man?”
Brandon gave Andrew a calculating look. “’Sdeath! You are serious!” He grinned. “Then make haste, Andrew. The bidding for your virgin has already begun. What will you wager to shoe this goose?”
Andrew plucked Jack’s arm from around the collar of his new doublet. He readjusted his starched collar. “One hundred sovereigns.”
Guy choked. Jack roared with laughter.
Brandon held out his hand. “A princely fortune, but I know that you have enough coin to toss away on such tomfoolery. Done, and here’s my hand to it. Jack and Guy, witness this bargain.”
“Tis reckless folly!” his brother mumbled.
Andrew clasped Brandon’s large hand in his and shook it with zest. The young bear’s jibe about Andrew’s advancing years had pricked his tender self-esteem. “I trust you will earn enough at cards and in the lists to cover your wager, my noble lordling.”
Jack chortled. “Ha! If you win, Andrew. But you do not have your bird in hand as yet, and her price is already two angels.”
Andrew turned his attention to the auction. “Angels for an angel,” he murmured. “Tis fitting. Five,” he shouted.
“Seven!” bellowed another.
Andrew frowned. “Ten angels!”
“Twelve!” the other countered.
Andrew craned his neck. “What knave bids against me? I know that voice, yet cannot place the face.” He tapped Guy. “Can you see who it is?”
The blond giant made a rude noise in reply. “A slycrawling cat,” he answered. “Tis Sir Gareth Hogsworthy.”
Jack clicked his tongue against his teeth. “If he wins the girl tonight, she will be mincemeat by morn. Inflicting pain is his chief delight.”
Andrew adjusted his scarlet cap. “Then we shall do an act of mercy by saving the child from him. Twenty angels!” he shouted.
“Thirty!” Gareth answered.
“Thirty-five angels!” Andrew’s heartbeat increased its tempo.
Guy blew out his cheeks. “God’s mercy, Andrew. Tis a good thing frowns are not arrows. Hogsworthy just sent you a poisonous dart.”
Andrew shrugged his shoulders to show his youthful admirers that he did not care. The crowd murmured. Some of the bystanders turned to stare at him. He pretended to ignore them, though his mouth had gone dry. The price for this night of pleasure—even with an avowed virgin—had soared far beyond common sense.
“Thirty-eight!” Gareth bellowed.
Jack elbowed Andrew’s ribs. “That’s the spirit! You are wearing down the opposition.”
Instead of replying, Andrew fingered the money pouch that hung from his belt. He knew he had only thirty angels. “How much coin do you have on you, boys?” he asked in an undertone.
Jack grinned and shook his head. “Five shillings, a few groats and a French ecu. I have a mind to spend them on my own pleasure tonight.”
Brandon shook his head. “None but Angel-face—” He winked at his handsome brother. “Lady Luck smiled upon his jousting this afternoon.”
Andrew grabbed Guy’s arm before the younger Cavendish could punch his brother. “Temper your ire! There is more at stake than your precious vanity, Guy. How much is in your purse?”
The bawdmaster cupped his hands around his fat lips. “The last bid was thirty-eight golden angels. Are there any more bids?”
The poor wench on the barrel looked ready to faint. Guy scowled at his brother.
Andrew snapped his fingers. “Be quick, sluggard! How much?”
“Going once…” the bawdmaster shouted.
“Ten sovereigns,” Guy muttered with some reluctance.
“Going twice…”
Andrew waved his silken handkerchief. “Thirty angels and three sovereigns for the virgin!”
Brandon gasped. “You could have bought every wench in Calais for that sum!”
The bawdmaster looked as if he had been struck by lightning, then an enormous gapped-tooth smile split his unshaven face. “Thirty and three it is! Any more bids?” He turned hopefully in Gareth’s direction.
Andrew held his breath. Hogsworthy conceded with a hair-curling oath. Andrew relaxed his shoulders inside his padded doublet. He took another whiff of his pomander. “It appears that I have made a purchase,” he mused in a calculated offhand manner. He hid his growing excitement from his young companions and their vulgar humor.
The bawdmaster mopped his greasy face with his soiled sleeve. “Going once, going twice, sold to the gentleman in the feathered hat!”
The auctioned virgin peered into the darkness and chewed her lower lip. Andrew found her vulnerability particularly appealing, even though he suspected that the girl was anything but virtuous.
Guy shook his head as he handed his pouch to Andrew. “Methinks today’s sun has cooked your usual good sense, my friend.”
Andrew grasped the boy’s prize money. “Mayhap, but now my wager can begin in earnest. Make a path, Guy. Lead me to my lady fair.”
Jack whacked Andrew between his shoulder blades. “Truly the moon has addled your wits, old man! Tis the easiest wager Brandon has ever made. Practically money in his pocket!”
“Aye,” Guy agreed over his shoulder as he pushed through the crowd. “But mind you, twas my coin that bought the wench.”
Andrew inhaled another deep breath of the pomander’s spicy aroma. The overwhelming stench of the dense crowd was enough to make a pig gag. “Consider your contribution to my endeavor as an investment, my boy. You may deduct your fee—with interest—from my winnings.”
“You are very free with the money you have not yet won,” Brandon observed as he elbowed a burly varlet out of the way. “Methinks since Guy paid for part of the wench, he should take his own pleasure with—”
Andrew halted and grabbed a thick handful of Brandon’s corduroy jerkin. Even though the twenty-year-old was five inches taller and a good deal stronger than Andrew, the older man knew that his former pupil would never lift a finger against him. “You will keep a civil tongue in your mouth when you speak of yon lady. Do you mark me, jolthead?”
Brandon held up his hands in a show of defeat. “Peace, good Andrew. Put down your hackles. I only jested.” He winked at his brother and Jack.
Andrew released him. “Good! If I am to conjure a transformation with that girl, then all of us must begin right now to treat her as a lady. Is that understood by you wooden heads?”
Jack chortled. “Aye! I look forward to turning this dainty sow’s ear into a silken purse! I offer myself as her instructor in bed sport.”
Andrew looked down his nose at the prattling churl, despite the fact that Stafford towered over him. “Go hug a swine, Jackanapes.”
Jack merely laughed again. “In my own good time, old man.”
“Sir Gareth has preceded us. He speaks to the bawdmaster and looks as angry as a wet tomcat,” Guy remarked in an undertone.
“Then why do we tarry here?” Dropping all show of dignity, Andrew hurried ahead of the trio.
The bawdmaster stank of fried onions, stale sweat and unwashed clothing. Hogsworthy overperfumed himself like a courtesan. Andrew shot both men a withering look of disgust. Holding his brown suede money pouch, he jingled the coins together for dramatic effect.
“Good evening, Master of Damsels, and to you, my Lord Hogsworthy. Is it not a fine night for the procuring of pleasure?”
Sir Gareth’s face paled with anger. His thick eyebrows bristled like a badger’s. “The slut is mine, you popinjay! I saw her first. I doubt that you possess the fortune you bid.”
“Pray do not bleat like a motherless lamb, my lord.” Andrew tossed his orange pomander to Brandon. “Hold that, Sir Brandon, whilst I conclude this bit of business.”
With a flourish, he emptied his bag on the barrelhead, literally at the bare feet of the girl he had just purchased. He noticed her skin was incredibly filthy. Her toes curled when some of the coins touched her. Andrew looked up to give her a smile of encouragement and he nearly gasped aloud. Upon closer inspection, her breasts proved to be more perfect than he had first thought. Twin peaks of cream rose and fell with a mesmerizing rhythm. His dormant loins sent a flash of heat surging through him. His awakened reaction to her charms tied his tongue for a moment.
“Count it!” Gareth practically frothed at the mouth.
In silence, Andrew stacked the angels into neat piles. He had the most uncontrollable urge to stroke the lass’s bare ankle to see if her skin was as soft as it appeared. As if she could read his mind, she inched a step backward, as far as the diameter of the rough barrelhead allowed.
Gareth’s eyes glowed like burning coals when Andrew’s money ran out at thirty. “My bid was thirty-eight! She is mine!” He reached for her.
Andrew restrained himself from grabbing the man around his scrawny neck. “You are too hasty, my lord.” He produced Guy’s pouch. With a self-satisfied smile, he untied the leather strings and drew out three coins. “Tis wise never to keep all of one’s fortune in a single place. Three sovereigns.”
Gareth fumed with unsavory growls. Andrew noticed that the ragged hem of the girl’s skirt trembled, though not a whisper of wind stirred through the enormous English camp. Compassion softened his lust. He congratulated himself for saving the waif from Gareth’s brutal clutches.
He slapped the final coin on the golden pile. “Are we square now, Purveyor of Wenches?”
The bawdmaster slobbered his assent. “Take her, my lord. Pleasure yerself as long as ye like.”
Andrew cocked an eyebrow at his three companions. “Mark his very words, my young friends. The master says I may have the lady as long as I like. Trust me, knave, I intend to take my time.”
“Take all the time ye need,” the bawdmaster gibbered. His red-rimmed eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets at the sight of the gold.
Gareth ground his teeth. A thick blue vein throbbed at his temple. “Enjoy the strumpet while you can, Ford, but I will have her yet. You have made me look a fool, and I will be avenged. I swear it on my sword!”
Andrew regarded the enraged man through half-closed eyelids. “You grow tedious, my Lord Hogsworthy. I fear we must discontinue your company. Adieu! Creep back to your kennel.” Then he turned his back on the seething man and held out his hand to his prize. He flashed her a warm smile of encouragement.
“Come, fair lady. Tis time we quit these rude surroundings.”
Chapter Two (#ulink_e240a304-b00e-5388-9007-9878b18adef5)
Rosie jumped at the sound of his voice. Never had she beheld anyone so garishly dressed as the man who had just paid a king’s fortune for the dubious privilege of taking something that she no longer had.
Her new master was clothed completely in scarlet and gold from the great wealth of nodding yellow plumes on his crimson hat to the toes of his bright red leather shoes. His thigh-length scarlet doublet was trimmed with yards of golden lace. His shirt of ivory silk peeked through the slashing of his full padded sleeves. Panes of gold decorated his red trunk hose and bright yellow stockings encased his muscular legs. The magnificence of his colors put everyone else into dark shade.
Rosie presumed that the gentleman must be a cousin of the king. She wondered why he had chosen her, when he obviously could have had his pick of finer quality ladies.
Then she looked into his face. His mouth, with fine full lips, drew apart in a smile that lit up his clean-shaven countenance. Laugh lines crinkled at the corners of his hazel eyes. His nut-brown hair, shot with streaks of silver, waved over the collar of his short red cape. Rosie’s heart skipped a beat. Even though he was past his prime, the gentleman was still very handsome by any woman’s reckoning.
Quince rapped her toes. “Quit gawking, girl, and attend to yer business with this lord. ‘E don’t want to wait until doomsday to swive ye.”
The nobleman ignored Quince. He continued to smile at Rosie. “Come, sweetheart, take my hand. I will not let you fall.”
His eyes surveyed her in a kindly manner and not with the raw lust Rosie had expected. Summoning all her courage, she placed her hand in his. His gloved fingers closed around hers and he gave her a little squeeze. When she looked into his eyes again, she saw only warmth and approval. A little trill of excitement fluttered in her heart. The doeskin of his gloves caressed her work-roughened palm with butter softness.
Quince shoved her. “Take a strap to the wench, if she don’t move fast enough to yer liking,” the bawdmaster advised.
Rosie nearly fell on top of the richly clad nobleman. Her new patron tightened his grip to steady her. “Do not be afraid, my dear.”
She took a deep breath. “Haint afeared of ye, sir. Methinks ye have paid too much money to do an injury to your goods.”
His thick brown eyebrows rose up his forehead. “Well-spoken, mistress. I shall keep your opinion under advisement.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but she heard the friendly tone in his voice. She cautioned herself not to take heart from it. All men were deceivers. Holding her skirt with her free hand, she jumped lightly to the hard-packed ground. Giddy from hunger, she wobbled. She hoped that the gentleman would spare her a goodly supper after he had finished his business with her. She touched the hidden vial of blood to assure herself of its safety, then folded her arms over her bare breasts.
The noble drew closer to her. He smelled of spice and wealth, like someone from God’s side of paradise.
“Pull up your shift, sweetheart. There is no need to display your charms to this unworthy assembly,” he murmured. His low voice rolled over her like warm honey.
Nodding her gratitude, she gathered the thin muslin around her shoulders. Then her patron looped her arm through his and led her out of the ring of torchlight. The sea of leering men parted before them.
One of the crowd guffawed. “You have bought yourself a pretty posy, Ford! Phew! She reeks like a polecat.”
Rosie’s temper flared in response. She gritted her teeth.
“Lout!” the fine lord muttered. He patted her hand.
“Save a bit for me!” shouted another.
A third stroked at her as she passed him. “I will look for you in the morning, wench, when you walk with bowed legs!”
She shivered at their lewd catcalls and thanked her lucky stars that she had been purchased by the lord at her side.
