4 A Plague of Angels: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery Read Online Free PDF Page B

spring?’
    Will shrugged. ‘Can’t be helped, sir.’
    Mistress Bassano had swept a glance at Dodd which instantly dismissed him, moved to the virginals in the corner and lifted the cover. She sat down and pressed some of the notes, tilted her head consideringly and then leaned down to find the tuning key. Dodd tried to stop himself from staring at those milky plump breasts that seemed fashionably on the point of bursting out of the bodice. Would they? Could they?
    She caught him at it and gave him a coldly knowing glare as she twiddled one of the pegs that was not to her satisfaction. Then she put the key back on its hook and placed her fingers to play.
    Carey stood over her, no doubt getting a leisurely eyeful of the view and she smiled over her shoulder at the manservant.
    ‘Will,’ she said. ‘Would you fetch me the Italian songsheets?’
    Will’s pointed face went pink. ‘Yes, mistress,’ he said and hurried over to delve in a chest by the wall, bringing out sheafs of paper dotted over with music. When he brought them to her, Dodd saw his hands shake as he arranged them on the music stand. He too seemed to be fighting the urge to stare and then Dodd was shocked to see one of Mistress Bassano’s slim hands lift from the keyboard and briefly brush his leg. Carey was craning over, ostensibly to read the music, and Mistress Bassano’s other hand went quietly out of sight somewhere in the vicinity of Carey’s trunkhose.
    Dodd’s mouth had to be shut consciously. It turned down in stern disapproval of the whole proceedings.
    ‘Sir,’ said Mistress Bassano, turning from between her two admirers and finally favouring him with a dazzling smile that seemed to promise worlds of pleasure. ‘Robin has been very rude to you, not introducing you.’
    Dodd coughed, pulled off his hat, did the best bow he could muster which he knew, to his despair, was a lumpen misshapen thing in comparison to Carey’s grace.
    ‘Sergeant Henry Dodd,’ he growled. ‘Land Sergeant of Gilsland.’
    The pointed chin on its proudly held neck tilted a little in acknowledgement. ‘Can you sing, Sergeant Dodd?’
    ‘Ay I can, a bit,’ he allowed.
    ‘And what is your voice?’
    Her own voice was deeper than most women’s but as velvet as the rest of her. Dodd’s mouth had gone dry as the old Adam in him went skipping off into sinful daydreams. He licked his lips.
    ‘Ah. I dinna ken. It’s just a voice.’
    Carey was smiling knowingly at him, over the top of Mistress Bassano’s gleaming head. ‘I’ve never heard you sing, Dodd?’
    You bastard, thought Dodd. ‘Ay, well, I wouldnae claim to be a gleeman, see,’ he said. ‘But I can hold ma own wi’ a lay.’
    Delicate frown lines appeared on Mistress Bassano’s smooth forehead. ‘What is he saying, Robin?’ she asked. ‘Is he a northerner?’
    Carey bent and whispered in her ear and her magnetic smile dimmed a little to become patronising. ‘Well, but I am disappointed. Robin and Will are both tenors, and it would be good if we had a basso. Do you have a deep voice, Sergeant?’
    Dodd coughed again, suppressing the wistful wish that she would call him Henry. ‘Ay, I reckon. But I cannae read music, mistress. Words, ay, but not notes.’
    The full pink lips pouted in disappointment as Carey whispered his translation. ‘Oh what a pity. Never mind. You can be our audience and make useful criticisms.’
    I could criticise you, mistress , Dodd thought, as he watched a blush going all the way up into what was left of the manservant’s hair under his cap, I could criticise you with a will, ay, criticise you till ye squealed for more, but it doesnae suit me to take thirds . Mistress Bassano’s hands reappeared to place on the keyboards and she launched into the beginning of one of Carey’s favourite Court songs, a ditty that had all the pointless complexity of a lace ruff.
    Carey’s voice rang out, taking the main part and Mistress Bassano’s voice rose with his. Somewhere in