Chapter 13: The Name in the Letter

The name hung in the air between them like a physical thing, a blade suspended by a thread. Edmund stared at the paper as if it might burst into flame, but the ink remained stubbornly, damningly legible. Charles Howard, Earl of Effingham. Lord Chamberlain of the Household. A man whose ships patrolled the narrow seas against the Spanish. A man who stood within arm’s reach of Elizabeth at every court function.

“Effingham,” Cecily repeated, and her voice was flat, almost wonder-struck. “You are certain?”

“I am certain that I have just ruined my appetite for supper,” Edmund said, folding the letter with exaggerated care. He placed it on the table between them as if it were a viper that might strike. “The man is cousin to the Howards of Norfolk. Catholic kin, though he swore the oath of supremacy with a smile and a wink. And he commands the fleet.”

“He commands the Queen’s ships,” Cecily corrected, her eyes narrowing. “That is worse.”

“It is the worst possible thing.” Edmund rose abruptly and walked to the window, pressing his brow against the cold glass. Outside, the Morland gardens lay in the grey December light, bare trees like skeletal fingers scratching at the sky. He could see his own reflection in the pane, a ghostly visage with hollowed eyes. “If the Armada comes and Effingham turns his guns, there is nothing between Spain and the Thames. Nothing but prayers and stubbornness.”

“Then we must go to Walsingham.”

“We must do nothing of the sort.” Edmund turned, forcing his voice into the lazy drawl that had served him so well for thirty years. “If I walk into Walsingham’s chamber and announce that his own Lord Chamberlain is a traitor, I will be laughed out of the room. Or worse, arrested for slander. He has been hunting for this name for a year. He will not thank me for finding it in a letter that should have been burned.”

Cecily’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You think he will suspect you?”

“I think he suspects everyone. That is his trade.” Edmund returned to the table and poured himself a cup of wine, though it was barely past noon. His hand trembled slightly, and he hated that it did. “And I think, my dear Cecily, that you are not entirely displeased to see me trapped.”

She did not answer. The silence between them stretched, taut as a bowstring.

Edmund took a long draught of wine and let it burn its way down. “The letter speaks of dates. Locations. It mentions a landing at Milford Haven on the fifteenth of March, and a rising in the north that will coincide with a Spanish disembarkation at Harwich. If the trails are true, then we have weeks, not months, to act.”

“Then we act.” Cecily stepped closer, and for a moment Edmund saw something in her eyes that was not calculation but genuine fire. “We are not helpless, Edmund. You have Walsingham’s ear, however much you pretend otherwise. You have me. And you have that mind of yours, that lazy, brilliant mind that sees what others refuse to.”

“You flatter me.”

“I do not flatter. I observe.” She reached out and touched the folded letter. “This is not a trap you have walked into. It is a door that has been left ajar. You may choose to close it and pretend you saw nothing. But you will not.”

Edmund looked at her, at the stubborn set of her jaw, the intelligence glittering in her eyes. He had spent years cultivating his reputation as a wastrel, a man of no consequence. He had let everyone—from the Queen to his own stewards—believe that his greatest ambition was a warm bed and a well-stocked cellar. And yet here was this woman, this widow with her sharp tongue and her questionable loyalties, seeing through every layer of his pretence.

“You are a menace, Lady Thorne.”

“I have been called worse.” She smiled, and it was not a kind smile. “What do we do?”

Edmund was silent for a long moment. Then he laughed, a short, bitter sound. “We do the only thing a lazy man can do when confronted with a mess of this magnitude. We delegate.”

Cecily raised an eyebrow. “To whom?”

“To the one man in England who can move against Effingham without raising suspicion.” Edmund set down his cup and straightened his doublet. “The Queen herself.”

He saw the colour drain from Cecily’s face. “You cannot mean to walk into court and accuse the Lord Chamberlain of treason before Elizabeth.”

“I mean to do nothing so theatrical. But there is a man at court who has the Queen’s ear and a grievance against Howard. A young man, ambitious, handsome, and utterly convinced of his own brilliance.” Edmund allowed himself a thin smile. “The Earl of Essex.”

“Essex is a fool.”

“He is a useful fool. And he has been angling to replace Effingham in the Admiralty for a year. If I hand him this letter—anonymously, of course—he will do the rest. He will storm into the Queen’s presence, brandishing proof of Howard’s treachery, and Elizabeth will have no choice but to act.”

Cecily studied him for a long moment. “And what will you do while Essex plays the hero?”

“I shall be conspicuously absent. I will be at Morland, catching up on my sleep, with an impeccable alibi.” Edmund’s smile widened, and for a moment he looked almost alive. “I have no desire to be the man who brings down a Howard. That is a death sentence, not a reward. Let Essex take the credit. Let him hang himself with it later. My only ambition is to be far away when the rope tightens.”

Cecily shook her head slowly, a reluctant respect creeping into her expression. “You are a coward, Edmund Ashworth.”

“I am a survivor. There is a difference.” He picked up the letter and tucked it into his doublet. “Now, I need a messenger I can trust. Someone who will deliver this to Essex without a trail leading back to us.”

“I know a man,” Cecily said. “In London. He owes me a debt.”

“Of course he does.” Edmund sighed. “Everyone owes you a debt. It is one of the more terrifying things about you.”

She inclined her head, accepting the compliment without comment. “I will leave at dawn. You will remain here, as the world’s most indolent earl, and wait for news.”

“And if Essex fails?”

“Then we will need a new plan. And a new country to flee to.”

Edmund laughed, and this time it was genuine, a sound that surprised even him. “You are a remarkable woman, Lady Thorne. I shall be sorry to see you go.”

“I am not leaving forever,” she said, and her voice was softer than he had ever heard it. “Only until this is done.”

She turned and walked toward the door, her skirts rustling against the stone floor. At the threshold, she paused and looked back at him, her expression unreadable.

“One more thing, Edmund. When you sent me that letter from Rye, you addressed it to ‘The Lady of the Blue Door.’ You knew what that meant. You knew who I was.” Her eyes held his. “When did you first suspect?”

Edmund met her gaze and did not look away. “The day I met you,” he said. “You asked me what I would do with a hundred pounds and a ship. No one asks that question unless they are thinking of leaving England. And no one thinks of leaving England unless they have reason to fear staying.”

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she nodded, once, and stepped out into the corridor.

The door closed behind her, and Edmund was alone again, with nothing but the wine and the weight of the letter against his chest. He drained the cup and set it down, listening to the wind rattle the casements.

The storm was coming. And for the first time in years, Edmund Ashworth found that he did not want to sleep.