“Yes, above,” Ethan said, standing aside so that the man might pass.
Simon waited for the man to ascend to the upper floor before turning back to Ethan. “Is there anything I can do?” He came away from the banister and stepped down one level toward the young man who was ascending the stairs slowly.
Ethan reached inside his tunic and withdrew a wad of parchment. When he was on the same riser as Simon, he shoved the crumpled page into the priest’s chest so hard that Simon slammed back into the railing.
“Thisis the message that was delivered to him,” Ethan hissed.
Simon looked down and smoothed the paper with trembling fingers, fingers that soon lost all their sensation as he read the words scrawled boldly there.
The declaration was signed by none other than Glayer Felsteppe.
He swallowed as his chest constricted painfully against his next breath and then looked up at the young man whose eyes stared into Simon’s at exactly the same height.
“You blasphemous son of a bitch,” Ethan snarled, and then grasped Simon’s cassock in his left fist, drawing back his right. “You mocked the friendship—”
“Ethan, what on earth are you doing?” Louisa shouted from the top of the stairs, and both men turned to look up at the woman standing there, still in her thick, embroidered chamber robes. “Come up immediately! He’s awake and asking for you.”
Ethan sent the woman a glare but released Simon’s cassock and ripped the parchment from his hands before leaning close to Simon’s face.
“I’m not finished with you,Priest,” he growled and then took the stairs two at a time, sweeping past his mother without a further glance.
Simon looked up at her stricken face, her pale hand at the neck of her gown, the elegant gray at her temples, the starburst of creases at the outer corner of her eyes—folds from her years of gentle smiles. Now her pale lips pressed together in a grimace of fear for the man who might be dying in her chamber. A searing pain seemed to be weaving itself through Simon’s chest, growing stronger on the loom of his ribs.
“Simon,” she said in a strangled voice, and he knew it was taking all her considerable will to remain calm. “The bishop’s guests . . .”
Simon nodded. “I’ll meet them.”
“They were to stay with us, but—”she broke off and glanced behind her.
“I’ll take them to the palace,” he suggested. “Give them over to the cardinal.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, then seemed to hesitate.
“Go, Louisa,” Simon ordered, fighting to make his words even and gentle. “Bledsoe needs you.”
She brought her fingertips to her lips and sent him a kiss.
Simon tried to smile, but the attempt crumbled when she turned away and was gone down the corridor. He clutched at the banister as he made his way to the marble entry, turning and grasping the handles to pull the double doors closed behind him as he left the house.
Simon walked to Bledsoe’s carriage, still waiting before the doors.
“Good day, Father Simon,” the driver called out with a surprised smile. “Haven’t seen you in an age. ’Tis a miracle you’re here—the lord’s in a bad way.”
Simon only nodded as he grasped the handle and opened the carriage door. “I’m to fetch the bishop’s guests from the docks. We’ll be taking them to the palace.”
“Aye, Father.”
Simon pulled the carriage door shut and then collapsed against the seat as the conveyance began to rumble and sway. It smelled of fear inside. And anger. Simon should know; it had been his own personal scent for two years now.
. . . to inform you of the base indiscretions of your priest, Simon, who had carried on blatant infidelities with Louisa Carmichael, Lady Bledsoe, which I have both personally witnessed and heard the confession thereof by the adulterer’s own voice.
Now the worst had happened. Actually, worse than the worst—the secret had been exposed, and Bledsoe was perhaps on his deathbed because of this revelation. Simon withdrew the elegantly shaped cask of wine from the side wall of the carriage and uncorked it, helping himself to some of Bledsoe’s famous grapes. From the smallest estate Bledsoe had set aside for Ethan to run.
Poor Ethan. The lad would take it hard should Bledsoe die, being the youngest. The rest of the children would as well of course; and Louisa. And well they should—Bledsoe was a good man.
Simon stared out the window as the carriage bore him slowly through the narrow, twisting, smelly streets toward the docks, forced to yield to people and goods, small flocks being herded down the crowded avenues. Deep down, Simon must have known Glayer Felsteppe wouldn’t so easily turn loose anyone who knew so many of his filthy secrets. It had likely been the fiend’s plan all along to reveal his and Louisa’s complicated relationship, ruin and discredit him after he’d used him for every vile service he could wring out of him.
After all he’d done to try to protect them . . .
