When Spencer was shown to his quarters in the Beauchamp Tower within the Tower of London garrison, he could not believe such a spacious, well-windowed room was a prison. But when he looked out of the windows to the east he could see the White Tower, where they could rack him in their search for answers; to the northwest he could see Tower Hill, where they could remove his head if they weren’t satisfied with his replies.
And he could still see the Thames, where the barge had carried him beneath Traitor’s Gate, which had dropped down behind him with a finality that would ruin many a night’s sleep.
But for two days no one came to question him. He was provided with ample food and a feather mattress and blankets for his bed; he could even talk to Alex through a loose floorboard—when Alex would speak to him. Such lax treatment of a prisoner made no sense.
And gave him too much time to dwell on Roselyn.
He imagined her riding Angel, bound for the island, safe at last from the dangerous politics he had swirled about her.
But part of Spencer worried that she wouldn’t flee, that she’d think she could help. In the past few short weeks, she’d become a woman who took foolish risks just for him—and he didn’t know what to make of it. It contradicted everything he ever believed a woman could mean to him.
So he continued to pace, pondering Rose and his love for her and the impossibility of it all, until Alex pounded on the floor beneath him to make him stop.
After sending a missive to Queen Elizabeth asking for an audience, Roselyn waited two days for a reply. Each hour of each day made her more and more certain that Spencer was being tortured for information, that the soldiers were looking for any excuse to have him killed and the problem of his treason finished.
She couldn’t sleep; she could barely eat—and then only when Lady Thornton personally watched each mouthful that passed her lips.
“If only I could see him,” Roselyn said yearningly as she broke her fast on the third day of Spencer’s imprisonment.
“You know I cannot allow that,” Lady Thornton said.
“But with the proper bribe, I know the guards will allow me to see Spencer. I have heard of such things.”
“Perhaps, but my son would not wish you to place yourself in danger. You must trust Her Majesty in this matter.”
“Trust?” she said, coming to her feet. “How can I trust—”
There was a discreet knock on the door, and Lady Thornton called for the visitor to enter. The steward, Allbright, opened the door and bowed.
“My lady, there is a message from Whitehall. Her Majesty intends to formally accuse Lord Thornton of treason this afternoon.” He paused for only a moment. “I have ordered your barge prepared.”
Lady Thornton and Roselyn almost collided in their haste to leave the dining parlor.
“Change your gown, Roselyn,” Lady Thornton said breathlessly as they ascended the stairs to the second floor. “We must look our best for the queen.”
“I’m retrieving my cloak only, my lady,” she said, glancing down at the dark green woolen gown she wore. “I will not pretend that I have returned to my old life; the queen will know that as a falsehood.”
“But her respect—”
“I will earn her respect again,” Roselyn said firmly as she disappeared into her own chamber.
But when she tried to work the clasp on her cloak, she found that her hands were shaking uncontrollably. This would be her only chance to save Spencer. What she did this afternoon could result in his death—or a life with him.
But not until Roselyn stood in the arched doorway to the queen’s privy chamber did she realize just what she had to face.
Two years before, she had made herself an outcast to these people who now turned to look at her with contempt. Every courtier and nobleman was dressed in bejeweled satins and silks, puffed and painted.
Her parents, the Earl and Countess of Cambridge, stood near the queen as if they’d been invited to watch Roselyn’s final defeat. Though she thought her father might feel sympathy, he wouldn’t dare to show it beneath the cold, watchful eyes of his wife.
To face it all again hurt more than she could have imagined. It was as if beneath these condemning eyes, she relived every mistake she’d made and was judged anew for them.
But for Spencer she would bear it all; for Spencer she would make public every misery with which she’d been punished for her recklessness: poverty, neglect, even the death of her child. She could only apologize for her past mistakes, and pray that the queen would listen to her.
Roselyn lifted her chin and walked slowly down the path opening between the courtiers, with Spencer’s mother at her side. Soon she could see the raised dais where Queen Elizabeth sat on her golden throne beneath a canopy of estate. She wore elegant black and white satin, encrusted in garnet and rubies that glittered when she moved, along with the jewels that decorated her ears and throat and fingers. Beneath her red wig, the queen’s whitened face wore a stern frown.
To the queen’s right, Spencer and Alex stood unbound near a phalanx of guards. The brothers still wore the same rumpled garments, but looked unharmed. Roselyn’s relief nearly brought her to tears, and she shook off Lady Thornton’s restraining hand to run to Spencer.
When he did not acknowledge her she searched his beloved face, but he looked over her head. The agony of his rejection made her feel light-headed with bewilderment. She saw Rodney Shaw’s smug face at the front of the crowd, surrounded by the smirking expressions worn by all the courtiers.
Once again she’d embarrassed herself before them all.
Roselyn straightened her spine, gathered her courage, and turned back to face Spencer. She refused to believe that every bit of gentleness and consideration he’d shown her had been false.
While the crowd tittered, she gazed into the eyes that had so often concealed things from her, and saw desperation. She knew suddenly that he was trying to protect her from association with him, that he would deny himself her comfort and help if those things meant dragging her down with him.
And she loved him so for the attempt.
With the return of her courage rushing upon her like wind filling out a ship’s sails, she walked to the queen’s dais and swept into a deep curtsy.
Spencer knew that everyone in the privy chamber could see the tension in him, and sweat trickled down his temples. He didn’t care if it made him look guilty; it was all for brave Roselyn, who presented herself as a target in a futile effort to protect him.
He knew every courtier here—had wooed the women, teased the dowagers, fell into his cups with every young rakehell. But only Roselyn dared to stand by him—Roselyn, who had more cause than anyone to despise him. Before the entire court he had rejected her, yet still she would not leave. She was ready to destroy herself to save him, and he was humbled by her bravery.
He would do anything to protect her from scorn—and he would give anything to be with her always, to prove that he was worthy of her.
Queen Elizabeth’s expression did not change as Roselyn straightened from her curtsy. “Lady Roselyn, what have you brought us?” she demanded.
Spencer watched as his mother came forward and stopped Roselyn’s hand before it could enter the pouch at her waist. She put a small box in Roselyn’s hands and pushed her forward.
One of the ladies of the privy chamber brought the gift to the throne. While Queen Elizabeth admired the rope of pearls and diamonds, Spencer could only stare at his mother, who stood at Roselyn’s side like a guardian in black. He finally understood that it was easy for her to accept the scorn of others, as long as she could be with his father. He was ashamed of himself for worrying about her heritage, when he should have been ashamed of his own behavior.
“Lady Roselyn,” the queen said, “why did you interrupt the business of our government?”
“Your Majesty,” she answered in a clear voice, I have evidence that will help you clear Lord Thornton and his brother of these false charges of treason.”
“It is impertinent of you to suggest that we need your help,” the queen said haughtily.
But her gaze slid to Spencer, and though he kept his face impassive, he could not help wondering what Roselyn was talking about, and worrying that she would make herself a formidable royal enemy should her “evidence” be contrived.
Queen Elizabeth glanced back at Roselyn. “Nevertheless, we shall view this evidence you have brought us.”
Roselyn reached into the pouch at her waist and withdrew a folded piece of paper. Again one of the queen’s ladies brought it to Her Majesty.
“What is this?” the queen demanded.
“The letter is from Rodney Shaw’s superiors in the Spanish army, ordering him to kill a British spy.”
Spencer’s mouth dropped open only a fraction before he remembered to shut it. Roselyn had had the pouch all along! But he could hardly be angry with her, or blame her for not trusting him. For the first time in weeks, he allowed hope to blossom in his heart.
Rodney Shaw stood frozen before all the court, his pale face suddenly dotted with perspiration.
“Your Majesty, ’tis a forgery!” Shaw cried, looking about him for support. “Would I have come straight to Sir Walsingham if I were a traitor? I tell you, I found Thornton standing over the corpse of the last British agent!”
The only people paying him any attention were the courtiers, who now began to back away from him.
Roselyn stepped closer to the queen. “The letter is in Spanish, Your Majesty. Lady Thornton would be happy to translate it for you.”
Queen Elizabeth eyed her over the letter. “Think you that we are untutored, Lady Roselyn? We read many languages.”
Roselyn bowed her head and curtsied again. “Please forgive me, Your Majesty.”
Spencer saw a snarl cross Shaw’s face, and he wished desperately that Rose were not so near him.
Then Shaw drew his sword.