Conspiracy of Hearts Read online

  “Well?” Serena snapped irritably.

  “What are you gawping and grinning at? Is it your intention to finish what Thomas Blackwell began?”

  Unperturbed by her anger, Kit laughed. “If you believe that, I can only assume that the fiery color of your hair has baked your brain.”

  “Do you think that because I was unwilling to succumb to his vile attentions I might be more amenable toward yourself? I have a care for my virtue and am particularly choosy who I surrender it to!”

  Kit chuckled. “I don’t doubt it!”

  Conspiracy of Hearts

  HELEN DICKSON

  HELEN DICKSON

  was born and still lives in south Yorkshire with her husband on a busy arable farm where she combines writing with keeping a chaotic farmhouse. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure, owing much of her inspiration to the beauty of the surrounding countryside. She enjoys reading and music. History has always captivated her, and she likes travel and visiting ancient buildings.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  1605

  Riding beside her brother Andrew—a Jesuit priest in his late twenties, who had been home to Dunedin Hall in Warwickshire for three weeks and was returning to his priestly duties at the Vatican in Rome—Serena Carberry sighed with deep regret at their parting. It had been so good having him home again.

  Pride stirred her heart at the sight of him. Never had she seen a man who looked less like a priest. Officially all priests were classed as criminals by the Government, and so it was necessary for them to disguise themselves in order to avoid detection, which was why Andrew was garbed in the fine apparel of a gentleman, consisting of a deep purple velvet doublet, puffed trunk hose of the same hue, and a short matching cloak lavishly embroidered with gold thread around a high stiff collar.

  His features were tanned by the hot Mediterranean sun, and his auburn hair fell to his shoulders from beneath a purple toque. With all this, together with his humorous mouth and laughing green eyes, he possessed all the charm and sophistication of a gallant one would expect to see at the court of King James.

  Andrew looked at his sister with a deep and abiding affection. ‘I’m glad you accompanied me so far, Serena. I could not have wished for a prettier escort.’

  ‘I wish you didn’t have to go, Andrew, but I know you must. It’s far too dangerous for you to remain in England. But I miss you and James dreadfully,’ Serena said sadly.

  James was their younger brother who was a pupil at the Jesuit school at St Omer, near Calais, a school which attracted the children of wealthy Catholic families in England. For a young Catholic man to be educated with the possibility of obtaining a university degree in England, it would compromise his faith, as it would involve taking the Oath of Supremacy—an oath acknowledging the supreme spiritual authority of the Crown instead of the Pope, one that no Catholic could swear, which was why any kind of education was sought abroad.

  ‘I’m glad you are to see him before going on to Rome,’ Serena went on. ‘You have my letter to him safe, don’t you?’

  Andrew patted a pocket in his doublet. ‘I have it next to my heart. I intend spending several days with James before travelling on to Rome.’

  Andrew studied his sister, struck by her beauty, by the vibrant colour of her auburn hair and the burning luminosity of her eyes. In the two years he had been in Rome, she had changed in a way that delighted him, and also filled him with misgivings, for she had bloomed into an extremely lovely and exotic creature who would be sure to draw the attention of every hot-blooded male.

  At nineteen she was still headstrong, with an uncurbed wildness to her spirit. The bones of the adolescent girl had fleshed out, becoming rounded and supple. Her heart-shaped face, with its angular cheekbones, the dark wings of her eyebrows and twin orbs of her vivid green eyes were both captivating and bewitching. When she smiled her soft lips curved upwards, betraying the sensuality of the woman she had become.

  ‘You will take care, won’t you, Andrew?’

  ‘I will. But Father worries me. He follows the dictates of his religion and his conscience too rigorously for my peace of mind. He’s never slow to voice his opinion—which may lead to trouble. In this time of renewed persecution against the Catholics in England—since King James has not the slightest intention of tolerating the old faith—he must be diligent.’

  ‘I know. But ever since the king ordered all priests to be put to death, and imposing severe fines for recusancy once more, there is little wonder Father is angry. Nowhere in England can the Mass be celebrated. If a priest is caught saying Mass, his punishment is death by the most gruesome means. Small wonder priests live under aliases, not only to protect themselves but also their families.’

  ‘Which is why I am returning to Rome. There are many priests in England being forced to live in a twilight world, but their presence does enable you to maintain those rituals which are important to the faith.’

  ‘With great danger to all involved,’ Serena replied. Like many other Catholics who attended Church of England services as required by the state, she secretly went to Mass in one or another of their recusant friends’ houses. ‘The mood of optimism that prevailed when King James came to the English throne is not what we hoped,’ she said bitterly. ‘Indeed, he is proving to be as harsh a monarch as Queen Elizabeth was before him.’

  Coming to the fork in the road where her brother would leave her, Serena halted her mount and looked at him, her lovely eyes troubled. ‘But why speak of it now, Andrew?’

  ‘Because I’m going away and I worry about you both alone at Dunedin Hall.’

  Serena cocked her head sideways, giving him a suspicious look. ‘And do you know something that gives you cause to worry?’

  ‘Nothing for certain, only rumours that have been bandied about in Rome. But ever since the king introduced the bill in April classing all Catholics as outlaws—and the signing of the Anglo-Spanish Treaty in August, dashing all hopes of Spanish intervention to aid the Catholic cause—it has caused a great deal of unrest.’

  ‘Are you saying there are those among us who would conspire against the king?’ Serena asked in a shocked voice.

  ‘If so, it will not be for the first time. I suspect that something ugly is about to manifest itself, but I must stress that that is all it is—suspicion. I will not reveal the source of my information. The less you know, the safer you will be.’

  ‘I respect your concern for my well-being, Andrew, but if something is afoot I’d rather know about it. I suspect your information comes from a reliable source, otherwise you would not have come all this way to warn Father. That is your reason for coming to England, isn’t it?’

  Looking into her questioning eyes, Andrew began to regret speaking of so grave a matter which would only trouble her. ‘I came because I wanted to see you and Father. I miss you both greatly. The information I have is not all that reliable. Indeed, what is these days?’

  ‘But how did you learn that something is afoot in England when you live in Rome?’ Serena asked, determined to glean as much information from her brother as she could before he left her.

  ‘The king’s chief minister, the Earl of Salisbury, has an energetic network of spies everywhere—not only in Flanders and Spain but also
in Italy—so we do hear of the occasional conspiracy being hatched in England. The treacherous intriguers abroad provide a rich source of information for Salisbury in exchange for pardons and their own advancements. There are Catholics in England who hold on to the hope of liberalisation in the wake of the treaty with Spain, but there are those who are impatient and will not be quiet and will do whatever they can to bring about change.’

  ‘And would you have them be quiet?’

  ‘Yes. England and Spain were at war for many years and now we have peace. The diplomatic solution must be allowed to prevail over the Catholic situation in England. I believe we should trust in God to bring about toleration in His own good time. Be vigilant, Serena. Should you hear of any conspiracies being hatched, I beg you to persuade father to distance himself. If not, then I fear that he and any conspirator will be crushed and not escape with their lives.’

  After bidding him a fond farewell, Serena, deeply troubled, watched her brother go on his way. There had been a deep concern in his eyes, a warning when he had told her to be vigilant.

  Eliza Nugent, the housekeeper at Dunedin Hall, which was a rambling rose-coloured brick house situated on the outskirts of the village of Ripley, between Stratford-on-Avon and Warwick, threw her arms up in despair when she caught Serena sneaking out of the house when it was almost time for Sir Henry’s guest to arrive.

  In the five years since her mother’s death, Serena had changed in a way that worried Eliza. Her wilfulness would lead her into trouble one day if Sir Henry didn’t set about finding her a husband soon. Perhaps if he’d spent as much time guiding her along the path of goodness and beating the waywardness out of her, as he did on religious matters and travelling across to Flanders to see young James, then perhaps she would have turned out as her dear departed mother would have wished.

  ‘Upon my soul,’ Eliza scolded, ‘where do you think you’re off to? Your father wants you here when the marquess of Thurlow arrives.’

  Serena threw Eliza a cross look, which relaxed into a sweet, disarming smile as she set about trying to placate her. Eliza would be outraged if she knew the reason that drew her towards the village. The ageing housekeeper would go directly to her father with the information, who would be equally outraged and order Serena to her room immediately.

  ‘Don’t fret so, Eliza—and please don’t lecture me,’ Serena complained with a toss of her lovely head. ‘The marquess should have arrived hours ago and I will not sit about waiting for him any longer. I won’t be gone very long, I promise.’

  ‘But it’s almost dark.’

  ‘I’m going to the stables. I want John to saddle Polly first thing in the morning. It’s hoped that the marquess will buy two of our horses, and I suspect that he and Father will be in the saddle early to try them out before leaving for Woodfield Grange. Lord Payne has invited them to take part in the hunt, and it’s expected that a large party from nearby Coughton Court—which Sir Everard Digby has rented for a few weeks—will attend.’

  Horses, after his religion, were her father’s abiding passion. Possessing some prime horseflesh, he was immensely proud of his large stable, which was envied and praised by many in the surrounding counties. He was also an expert horseman, who adored his gun dogs and his falcons.

  Sir Henry was also a devout Catholic who had led an eventful and troubled life, having frequently wielded his sword during the reign of Queen Elizabeth in the hope of improving the Catholic lot. This and being a leading recusant—a man among many others of his faith who refused to submit to the authority of, or comply with, the Protestant religion—had resulted in hefty fines and frequent spells of imprisonment; on one occasion when he was confined in the Tower, torture was applied.

  However, his spirit remained undimmed, and his crusade for toleration and liberty for Catholics to be allowed to practice their religion openly in England went on. Serena wished he would take Andrew’s advice and be more acquiescing, trusting in God to bring about the conversion in His own good time.

  An additional worry was the apprehension she felt each time he went to Flanders. Ostensibly he went to visit James and some of his friends, who chose to live there in order to practice their religion freely, but Serena was uncomfortably aware of his close association with a widow, a Mrs Davis, whose husband had left her a wealthy woman with two children.

  According to Andrew, who had met Mrs Davis on the occasions he had passed through Flanders, she was hankering after a proposal of marriage from their father. But he was as reluctant to leave England and his horses as Mrs Davis was to leave Flanders and her freedom to practise her Catholic religion unhindered. Unless a compromise was reached, this was how things would remain between them; secretly Serena, not wanting to see another woman take her mother’s place, hoped it would stay that way.

  After leaving John, foolishly and heedless of any dangers, Serena took the darkening lane to the village, all thoughts of her father’s guest, the marquess of Thurlow, banished from her mind. The man was a stranger to her, definable only by his name; the only interest he aroused in her was because he might want to buy two of her father’s magnificent horses.

  The name of the man Serena wanted so much to set eyes on blazed through her like a comet. Her mind had been in a whirl ever since Eliza had let slip earlier that Thomas Blackwell had returned from fighting in the Low Countries. Prolonged and boisterous celebrations to welcome his return were taking place in the White Swan in the village, and would no doubt go on well into the night.

  Thomas Blackwell lived at Ashcombe Manor on the outskirts of Ripley. It had been a year since Serena had last seen him, when she and her father had been invited to his home and she had looked into his eyes. They hadn’t exchanged more than a few words in all the years of their living in close proximity to each other, and yet that one look, that stirring of pleasure, had spoken volumes. From that moment her life had changed. She had become aware of her womanhood for the first time.

  On reaching the village green Serena paused, hoping Thomas would still be at the White Swan. Sounds of laughter coming from the inn across the green beckoned her and she ran towards it, cautiously entering a passageway at the side of the building from where she would be able to observe the occupants in the rooms without being observed herself. The stale odour of ale pervaded every corner of the crowded inn, and light from a guttering lamp inside the taproom was dim as Serena took her place in the shadows out of sight. The air was hot and fetid and she scanned the faces of the men inside the room, recognising some, others strangers to her.

  But she only had eyes for one man, whose mere presence commanded the attention of all present. Charismatic Thomas Blackwell exercised an extraordinary influence on his contemporaries. He possessed the kind of qualities that captured the hearts of men and women alike. Almost six foot tall and well proportioned, his deep brown eyes and persuasiveness and charm drew the eyes of the village girls and set their hearts aflame. But he was also wild and hotheaded, swaggering and boorish in his arrogance and opinionated ways, and Serena, dazzled by his masculinity, could not imagine the ferocity of his violence if provoked.

  Having looked her fill and eager to return home before her father discovered she was missing, Serena slipped out into the darkening light. The opening and closing of the door caused a draught and the lamp inside the taproom to flicker. Several in the room glanced absently towards the door, and Thomas was just in time to see a woman’s skirts disappear round the jamb.

  Having drunk heavily with his friends and in dire need of another kind of entertainment, suspecting the woman who had been looking in to be one of the village wenches and arrogantly aware of the fever his presence never failed to arouse in them, he followed, just in time to see Serena disappearing along the lane in the direction of Dunedin Hall. Through the liquor fumes that fogged his mind, Thomas recognised her. More important, he recalled that her brother was a Jesuit priest—no doubt hiding at this very minute in a dank and miserable hole behind a chimney in one of the many spacious re
cusant houses that were thick across the Midlands, offering sanctuary to these criminals.

  Thomas was implacable and inordinately cruel in his hatred of Catholics, which went way beyond the call of duty. He had killed many in the battles in the Low Countries; now that he was home and the estate his to administer as he wished since his father was dead, he would be ardent in the pursuit of priests and recusants.

  He recalled the last time he had seen Serena, when she had accompanied Sir Henry to dine at Ashcombe Manor. Thomas’s father had offered to buy a large chunk of Sir Henry’s neglected land, which he had coveted for years, but Sir Henry had surprised and angered his father by firmly declining the offer.

  A grim, calculating smile spread across his full lips. His eyes narrowed with mingled lust and menace when he pondered on the fun to be had with this deluded Papist wench. Clearly she wanted to see him so much that she had come looking for him. It would be a mortal sin to disappoint her now, he thought, and deny himself the pleasure of enjoying her delectable anatomy.

  Darkness shrouded the countryside as Serena hurried along the narrow lane. Having left Ripley behind, she did not look back, and yet every nerve tingled when she sensed she was being followed. Breathlessly she paused and turned to find that Thomas was right behind her.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped, amazed and overjoyed that he must have seen her at the inn and followed her. Her heart began to beat unevenly in her chest and an embarrassed flush rose to her cheeks at being caught out.

  With a smouldering light in his eyes and a smile beginning at the corners of his mouth, spreading slowly into a grin of pure lechery, Thomas’s gaze moved hungrily over her delicate features, pausing at length on her softly parted lips. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t follow you when I saw you flee from the inn?’ he whispered huskily. ‘How could I possibly resist such a blatant invitation? It was me you came to see, wasn’t it?’

  Serena stared at him in confusion. Thomas laughed softly. His strong fingers closed around her wrist and he drew her, unprotesting, away from the lane into the shelter of some bushes, his touch almost destroying her will power. ‘Come now,’ he murmured, pulling her into his arms, clumsily and without tenderness, ‘don’t deny what is in your heart, my sweet. You want me—admit it. Let’s enjoy a kiss before we get down to more serious matters, shall we?’