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“Since you are amenable to dining with me, I invite you to Sheffield to celebrate the wedding of my son and heir next month.”
Bess caught her breath. Shrewsbury's heir would be the greatest catch in England, and she wondered what blue-blooded heiress Talbot would accept as his daughter-in-law. “And who is the lucky bride?” she asked lightly.
“Anne Herbert, the Earl of Pembroke's daughter.”
Bess almost choked with chagrin that William Herbert and his gossipy countess had struck such a profitable alliance for their daughter. Until this moment Bess thought she had done exceedingly well for her daughter Frances, but young Harry Pierrepont's fortune paled into insignificance beside young Francis Talbot's. With an effort Bess restrained her tongue. “How lovely. I shall look forward to receiving the invitation.”
His eyes never left her face. “You haven't said you'll accept.”
Bess smiled. “I accept your invitation; it's your proposition I decline.”
“We'll see,” he replied with generations of inbred arrogance.
Bess wheeled her mount and galloped off, but the ache in the pit of her belly was a direct result of the close proximity of the dark devil she left behind, as was the hardening of her nipples against her crimson silk undergarment.
“Peste take it! That wretched Anne Herbert has pulled off the match of the decade for her daughter. She has espoused the girl to Shrewsbury's heir!”
Marcella raised bristly brows. “I warrant it was Talbot and William Herbert who did the deal. The Countess of Pembroke likely had naught to do with it.”
“The mere fact that she's a countess had everything to do with it. Nothing less than an earl's daughter would do for blood-proud George Talbot!”
Bess's secretary, Robert Bestnay, brought her the post, mentioning that there was an unusual amount today.
“Well, speak of the devil,” Bess said, as she sorted through the envelopes and found one decorated with the crest of the Earl and Countess of Pembroke. She tore it open and scanned the contents. A small shriek escaped her lips. “God damn and blast it! Not only is their porridge-faced daughter marrying Francis Talbot, their snot-nosed son, Henry Herbert, is to marry Catherine Talbot, Shrewsbury's eldest daughter, on the same day.”
“Well, well, there's nothing like keeping their fortunes in the family,” Marcella observed shrewdly.
“Shrew never mentioned a bloody word to me!”
“Shrew?” Marcella's eyebrows twitched upward.
Bess tossed her head as her cheeks flushed. “ 'Tis the name I call Shrewsbury, among others. Gertrude Talbot must be a coldhearted bitch. Her daughter Catherine cannot be much more than ten. I think it's shameful!”
“When the fortunes involved are as large as Shrews-bury's, they must be protected by early espousals. You have a hard head for business, Bess; I'm surprised at your attitude.”
Bess wrinkled her nose as her innate honesty came to the fore. “I'm just pea-green with envy that it's not my children who are marrying into the Talbot family.” As Bess finished reading the letter, another small shriek erupted. “Anne Herbert says she's looking forward to staying at Chatsworth for a few days. Ohmigod, everyone who is anyone will be coming!”
She flung down the letter, and slowly a look of radiance transformed her face. “They'll all die with envy when they see my house. Robert, get James Cromp for me—Francis Whitfield and Timothy Pusey as well. The battlements must be finished before next month and all the excess stone carted away from the grounds.”
There were letters from Nan Dudley and William Parr, Marquess of Northampton, informing her they were attending the wedding and hinting for an invitation to Chatsworth. Bess saved Syntlo's letter until last, yet it brought the most startling news of all. Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth would be traveling north to attend the double wedding and would be staying at Haddon Hall, which was only a couple of miles away. “I can't believe it —I'm about to entertain the queen and the entire Court at Chatsworth!”
Bess spoke with the gardeners and the entire inside staff—now considerable—and told them what to expect. She consulted with the gamekeeper to make sure there was a good supply of both red and gray partridge. She inspected the blue livery of her footmen, as well as the bed linen, silver, plate, and china. She took stock of the wine cellar, then sat down at her desk to make a long list of supplies and spices for Syntlo to purchase in London and ship up to Derbyshire. She told her musicians and harpist to learn some new dances and songs, since the queen's courtiers loved music only second to gambling.
All three stories of Chatsworth were now completed, and Bess knew nothing in the north could compare with it. Sheffield Castle, of course, was larger, with far more servants and costlier furnishings handed down through generations of Talbots, but Chatsworth from top to bottom reflected Bess's impeccable taste.
Once she was satisfied that her magnificent house was in order, her thoughts turned to her own wardrobe. She wanted to look spectacular for the wedding and outshine them all. She called her head seamstress to her solar and invited her mother and sister Jane, since they also would need new gowns.
Bess examined a bolt of cloth of gold and another of silver tissue, but both were becoming so commonplace at Court, Bess shook her head. “No, I intend to wear my Persian sapphires and want something that will show them off to perfection.”
“Your breasts will do that, darling,” her mother supplied.
“I think I'd like a gown of sapphire blue, cut very low in front.”
“Velvet or brocade, madam?” asked the seamstress.
“Both are too heavy for summer. I think taffeta; it rustles and whispers so deliciously.”
“La, anyone would think you were out to catch a man, darling.”
