Page 7 of The Favourite

“He does.” Vawdrey sent him a level look. “He was not overly enthusiastic about the news, though he sent a fine present. His—er—predilection, shall we say, had cooled in recent months. He has not seen the Lady Helen in person, since—oh, let me think—it must have been the feast of St Danicus.”

Alisander snorted. He could imagine nothing less likely than Wymer dancing attendance on his heavily pregnant mistress.

“To speak frankly,” Vawdrey continued, “I thought back as far as last September, that little business had run its course.”

Alisander plunked down his glass. If the King had tired of Helen Cecil, as indeed popular gossip concurred, then there had been no rumors yet of a replacement that would confirm the fact. “If it was a congé, then it was a handsome payoff he gave her,” he commented. “Nothing less than a royal estate.”

Vawdrey gave his wintry smile. “It is hardly that. Kinnerton formed a minor part of his mother, Queen Etheldreda’s dowry. It was the original seat of the barons of Kinnerton, a now-defunct title. The male line died out over a hundred years ago.”

“You Karadokians and your primogeniture,” Bardulf murmured. “It is always a mistake to put all your eggs in one basket.”

“As you say,” Vawdrey concurred, “it has its drawbacks. Not a mistake your own family made, as I understand it.” He turned his enigmatic gaze on Alisander, who felt an uncomfortable prickle up his spine.

“I am flattered you deign my own family history worthy of note,” he said, lifting his glass again to hide his surprise.

“You are the last of your line, is that not so?”

“Quite so.”

“You have never felt any compulsion to remedy that?”

Now that did bring a laugh to Alisander’s lips. “Never,” he clarified.

Oswald Vawdrey nodded slowly. “Perhaps you should reconsider, in light of recent events.”

Alisander’s mirth died an abrupt death. “And why would I do that?”

“Merely because, in some obscure corner of this kingdom, a certain lady has made a most imprudent promise. One she will find extremely hard to fulfill.” When Alisander refused to be drawn, Vawdrey continued softly. “A young woman, you have recently become aware is … how shall I put this … indispensable to your comfort?”

That was putting things a bit strongly in Alisander’s opinion. Words of denial hovered on his lips but remained unspoken. He eyed Vawdrey suspiciously. “Imprudent promises? Doesn’t sound like the Jane Cecil I know. She’s cautious and careful to a fault.”

“A dying sister might be considered extenuating circumstances,” Vawdrey suggested.

Alisander’s mind whirled. He did not ask how Oswald Vawdrey could know such things. He had eyes and ears everywhere that might be considered the King’s business. Even in the household of a discarded paramour. “She can’t be promising to raise her sister’s bastard,” he protested aloud. “Such a notion is absurd. The Queen would never forgive her, and she lives for the Queen’s approval.”

He glanced at Earl Vawdrey who was pursing his lips. “You’re forgetting the deathbed setting,” Vawdrey chided him. “The moment is a powerful one. Do you really imagine the Lady Jane could deny the last request of her only sister?”

Alisander cursed softly again. No, damn her, she would not. Jane, what the fuck are you doing? Throwing away her court career, that was what. He groaned. “Stupid, so stupid.” And for what? A mewling infant who would keep her from the life at court she truly enjoyed?

“Not only stupid,” Vawdrey continued, “but also one that is bound to bring her into contention with certain … factions.”

Alisander’s eyebrows rose. “Aren’t you being rather dramatic? Armenal would no doubt cut her off, but she is not so vengeful as to hound her husband’s illegitimate offspring.”

Vawdrey shook his head. “I would never malign the Queen in such a manner. No, I speak of your lady’s uncle, Sir Phillip Cecil. A man of singular ambition. It was he who brought the sisters to court in the first place if memory serves.” He shot an enigmatic look at Alisander. “I believe it was you who first brought that fact to my attention.”

Alisander paused to remember that particular interview in this same office many moons ago. “Ah yes,” he reminisced, stalling for time. What the fuck was Vawdrey driving at? His usually keen mind felt dulled and weighed down with trivial cares. Absently, he picked up one of the many-colored inkwells and felt its comforting weight in his hand. “How is your charming Countess?” he asked aloud. “She has not graced us with her presence at court this past few weeks.”

Instead of tensing, as Alisander had anticipated, Vawdrey’s features relaxed into a genuine smile for once. “She thrives,” he said simply. It was a curious fact and much remarked at court that the Vawdreys all made peculiarly devoted husbands.

Alisander gave his head a slight shake to try and clear it. “Sir Phillip,” he stated heavily. “What has he to do with it? You think he means to use this child,” he said slowly, “to further his own ends?”

“He will certainly wish to keep it under his wing in case it may become useful to him later. Which would mean his niece, the Lady Jane, would also be drawn once more under his control.” Vawdrey looked thoughtful. “I do not think she would enjoy that.”

Alisander replaced the inkwell with a thud. “She’s a little fool,” he said abruptly. “If she made such an idiotic promise then she deserves everything that befalls her.”

Vawdrey smiled a damn knowing smile and Alisander leaped out of his chair like a scalded cat. Only by the greatest effort did he manage to perform his elegant bow and make his way out of the office with some decorum. Never before in his life had he been so tempted to slam a door.

Beneath his urbanity, he was seething at this unexpected development. Fucking Vawdrey. Stupid Jane. It was none of his damned business and he would not be drawn into it.