Free The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries) by Fiona Buckley

Charon? Matthew? Could it, after all, be Matthew?
    Heart thumping, I turned to face the bolted door. The bolts were being drawn back. The door opened.
    Roger Brockley, stepping warily, with a drawn sword in his hand, came through, keeping his back against the door, and peering through the gloom, eyes narrow.
    “Brockley!” I gasped, and made for the ladder. “Brockley, I’m here, I’m here! How on earth did you find me?”
    His hand, strong and friendly, was there to help me off the top of the ladder. “Madam? You’re all right? Unharmed?”
    “Yes, yes! Oh, Brockley, I’m so glad to see you! But once again, how did you . . . ?”
    “Questions in a moment, madam,” said Brockley. “First of all, I think we’d better get away from here!”
    • • •
    “I didn’t like it, you going off alone like that,” Brockley said as he rowed us back towards Whitehall. The tide had turned and the ebb was draining out of the river, carrying us along. “I just didn’t care for it. From the beginning, I didn’t think much of the notion that Fran and I shouldn’t come with you. What if it did make us a large party? People usually travel in groups. And when your boatman said I couldn’t even see you safe to your husband . . . ! Well, there are dinghies the servants in the palace use; I take one now and again and the boatkeepers know me. I had my sword on already, under my cloak. I got myself a boat and rowed after you like a madman. I lost a few minutes and you were a fair way ahead, but I’ve got good long sight and I had you in view as soon as I was round the first bend.
    “I tracked you all the way here. I saw you land and go round to the other side of that boathouse, but while I was still trying to reach it, that walking parcel of winter clothing who was your boatman, got into his craft and came back towards me—leaving you in the boathouse, presumably. With Master de la Roche, I hoped, but it seemed a funny place for a meeting. I was scared for you.”
    “I was scared for myself,” I said.
    “I didn’t want him to recognise me,” Brockley said. “I pulled away over to the bank to let him go past and waited till he was a good long way off. The tide was on the turn then, and it was hard going, the last bit up to the landing stage. I thought I’d never get there. Now, madam, just what happened? There was no sign of your husband, I take it?”
    “No. I was to be held there, Brockley, but I don’t know why. That man said I was to wait until I was fetched, and that I would be taken to Matthew, but I didn’t believe him. That’s all I know.”
    “You’ve no notion who he was?”
    “It seemed to me,” I said grimly, “that he’d taken pains to make sure he couldn’t possibly be identified!”
    “Yes. Likely enough.” Brockley frowned, pulling on the oars, then he said, “Whoever he was, he knew of your marriage to Master de la Roche, and—I suppose—of your wish to join him. Tell me, madam—you had a letter purporting to come from your husband. Do you think it was genuine?”
    “I’ve been wondering.” I had the letter with me, in a pocket inside my open-fronted overskirt. Reaching under my cloak, I got the letter out and looked at it. “My name on the outside looks convincing enough,” I said, “but the letter itself . . . well, it could be Matthew’s hand if he were in a great hurry, or it could be an imitation. The seal isn’t quite right, either. I think it’s a forgery.”
    “I wonder,” said Brockley thoughtfully, “if whoever sent it also knew what you were going to this place, Lockhill, for? The name of your husband would make good bait, I fancy, if someone wanted to make sure that you didn’t set out after all.”
    “But how could that be? Very few people,” I said, “know of my marriage, and fewer still that I have asked permission to go to France. It’s no secret that I’m to visit the Masons and help with their daughters for a while, of course, but my real purpose has