Guinevere said. “You have no need to ask my permission. Pen is well past the age of consent.”
Owen looked at Pen, one eyebrow raised in question.
Pen was in fact eager to talk privately with Owen. He had said he would consider her problem and surely by now he had done so. Perhaps that explained the tingling, expectant fascination she was feeling in his company.
Philip’s face flashed across her mind’s eye and with it came a hot wash of guilt. She felt her cheeks warm and turned aside, feeling for her handkerchief, feigning a sneeze.
“I trust you haven’t taken a chill in addition to your cuts and bruises,” Owen said. “It was a frigid night.”
“No, not in the least,” Pen denied. “Just a tickle.”
His eyes still glowed with amusement. “So, Lady Pen, would you show me the long gallery? I understand there are some interesting Holbeins.”
“My great-uncle, King Henry, was Holbein’s patron,” a rather childish voice stated.
Jane Grey had crept up to them, a thin figure clad in a dull lavender gown. She turned instantly to Guinevere, her expression now eager. “Lady Kendal, I was hoping to discuss with you that text from Tacitus that was mentioned the other afternoon. I was wondering if perhaps you had a moment now when . . .” She glanced towards the door and seemed to flinch.
Guinevere understood immediately that the girl was afraid her terrifying mother would enter the room and put an end to any discussion of scholarship. She put an arm around Jane’s skinny shoulders and said, “But of course, my dear. I remember the discussion well.” She bore her off to a secluded corner of the parlor.
Hugh paused for a minute, his eyes resting on the chevalier but his expression unreadable. Then he smiled, reiterated his wife’s invitation, and followed.
Pen laughed slightly. “Poor Jane, she would have done well to have had
our
mother. Mama has never said Pippa and I disappoint her, but I know she finds our lack of interest in scholarship puzzling to say the least. And Anna isn’t much more promising.”
Owen laid a hand gently on her arm, turning her towards the door that led to the long gallery. “Your mother is very learned?”
“Oh, yes! She defeated old King Harry himself . . . the machinations of Lord Cromwell, the Lord Privy Seal, and the king’s entire Privy Council when they put her on trial in the Star Chamber.” Pen shook her head in admiration. “No one is as clever as Mama.”
If only her mother and Lord Hugh had believed her about the baby . . .
But only one person had ever seemed to believe her. Deliberately she turned her face up to Owen’s and smiled at him as they left the parlor. She had made a copy of the page taken from the ledger and the names and sums were now burned into her memory. Before the afternoon was over, the chevalier would promise to go to High Wycombe and investigate those names for her.
There was something guileful about that smile, Owen reflected. Quite unlike Pen’s usual open friendliness. Experienced as he was at intrigue, Owen recognized that Pen wanted something from him. Well, she would find a receptive audience.
The long gallery was bustling with servants, ushers, heralds. The ill-fitting glass rattled in the windows and gusts of wind blew through cracks in the panes, sending the heavy arras billowing against the cold stone walls behind. Pen walked briskly. It was not a place for secrets.
“Are we not to look at any of these paintings?” Owen inquired on a plaintive note. “I am most interested in Holbein’s work.”
“Later,” Pen said. “I wish to talk to you.”
“Can we not talk and look at the same time?”
He was teasing her, but she was too impatient to play games.
“Let us go this way.” She set off towards a side corridor.
Owen followed, his long stride keeping easy pace with her quick steps. He found this aspect of Pen Bryanston fascinating. She had the same air about her as she’d had when he’d followed her
Owen looked at Pen, one eyebrow raised in question.
Pen was in fact eager to talk privately with Owen. He had said he would consider her problem and surely by now he had done so. Perhaps that explained the tingling, expectant fascination she was feeling in his company.
Philip’s face flashed across her mind’s eye and with it came a hot wash of guilt. She felt her cheeks warm and turned aside, feeling for her handkerchief, feigning a sneeze.
“I trust you haven’t taken a chill in addition to your cuts and bruises,” Owen said. “It was a frigid night.”
“No, not in the least,” Pen denied. “Just a tickle.”
His eyes still glowed with amusement. “So, Lady Pen, would you show me the long gallery? I understand there are some interesting Holbeins.”
“My great-uncle, King Henry, was Holbein’s patron,” a rather childish voice stated.
Jane Grey had crept up to them, a thin figure clad in a dull lavender gown. She turned instantly to Guinevere, her expression now eager. “Lady Kendal, I was hoping to discuss with you that text from Tacitus that was mentioned the other afternoon. I was wondering if perhaps you had a moment now when . . .” She glanced towards the door and seemed to flinch.
Guinevere understood immediately that the girl was afraid her terrifying mother would enter the room and put an end to any discussion of scholarship. She put an arm around Jane’s skinny shoulders and said, “But of course, my dear. I remember the discussion well.” She bore her off to a secluded corner of the parlor.
Hugh paused for a minute, his eyes resting on the chevalier but his expression unreadable. Then he smiled, reiterated his wife’s invitation, and followed.
Pen laughed slightly. “Poor Jane, she would have done well to have had
our
mother. Mama has never said Pippa and I disappoint her, but I know she finds our lack of interest in scholarship puzzling to say the least. And Anna isn’t much more promising.”
Owen laid a hand gently on her arm, turning her towards the door that led to the long gallery. “Your mother is very learned?”
“Oh, yes! She defeated old King Harry himself . . . the machinations of Lord Cromwell, the Lord Privy Seal, and the king’s entire Privy Council when they put her on trial in the Star Chamber.” Pen shook her head in admiration. “No one is as clever as Mama.”
If only her mother and Lord Hugh had believed her about the baby . . .
But only one person had ever seemed to believe her. Deliberately she turned her face up to Owen’s and smiled at him as they left the parlor. She had made a copy of the page taken from the ledger and the names and sums were now burned into her memory. Before the afternoon was over, the chevalier would promise to go to High Wycombe and investigate those names for her.
There was something guileful about that smile, Owen reflected. Quite unlike Pen’s usual open friendliness. Experienced as he was at intrigue, Owen recognized that Pen wanted something from him. Well, she would find a receptive audience.
The long gallery was bustling with servants, ushers, heralds. The ill-fitting glass rattled in the windows and gusts of wind blew through cracks in the panes, sending the heavy arras billowing against the cold stone walls behind. Pen walked briskly. It was not a place for secrets.
“Are we not to look at any of these paintings?” Owen inquired on a plaintive note. “I am most interested in Holbein’s work.”
“Later,” Pen said. “I wish to talk to you.”
“Can we not talk and look at the same time?”
He was teasing her, but she was too impatient to play games.
“Let us go this way.” She set off towards a side corridor.
Owen followed, his long stride keeping easy pace with her quick steps. He found this aspect of Pen Bryanston fascinating. She had the same air about her as she’d had when he’d followed her