Jo Beverley - [Malloren]

by Devilish

  Right under her husband’s nose!

  Despite Diana’s efforts, de Couriac was clearly aware, so why was he doing nothing about it? Perhaps he thought a Frenchman here was powerless against an Englishman, especially a marquess. The French aristocracy had far more sweeping powers than the English.

  Whatever the reason, he must surely take action sooner or later. Having failed to distract him, Diana turned her attention to Madame de Couriac and engaged her in conversation about fashion.

  The woman was clearly not pleased, but had to oblige. For the rest of the meal, Diana relentlessly held her attention with talk of hairstyles, slippers, lotions for the complexion, and means of polishing the nails. She had never talked so long about such matters before in her life.

  By the time the meal ended, Madame de Couriac had—despite efforts—managed only the occasional aside to Lord Rothgar. Diana couldn’t tell how the marquess felt about it. If anything, he seemed amused. She resisted with difficulty an urge to glower at the man. Couldn’t he sense the fiery tension coming from Monsieur de Couriac?

  Thoroughly disgusted, she did finally flash a dark look at him and found him at his most enigmatic. He did not, however, look at all put out. Of course not. All her efforts had only delayed the inevitable. A tendency to burst into tears about it was her own problem entirely. Even though he was a reckless philanderer, she’d still do her best to protect him from himself.

  She rose from the table, smiling at the French couple. “I’m sure you will want to retire early, so as to make a good start on your journey tomorrow.”

  “On the contrary,” said Madame de Couriac with a smug smile. “We are spending some days here.”

  “Well we must continue on tomorrow,” Diana said.

  “And thus we must retire, dear lady?” the marquess asked, making it sound wicked.

  She glared at him, but had to abandon the struggle. If he was determined on folly, there was nothing she could do. “I must,” she said frostily, and inclined her head to them all. “Good night.”

  They all rose, but as she left she was sure they would immediately sit again, though she couldn’t imagine why Monsieur de Couriac wouldn’t take the excuse to drag his wife away. Perhaps, she suddenly thought, they planned one of those ménage à trois events she had read about. Bizarre, but what did she really know of such matters?

  Closing the door of her room with a sharp snap, she acknowledged that a good part of her ill-feeling was jealousy. She was jealous of Madame de Couriac for the pleasures of the coming night, but also of her freedom to seduce a man who took her fancy.

  Oh, what folly, she thought, unpinning her cap and pulling out the pins that confined her curls. The lady had a husband, and therefore should not be free at all.

  Thoroughly disgruntled, she went to the window to look down on the street. It was quiet now that the sun was setting, except for the occasional rattle of a late coach seeking a change before pushing on to York or Doncaster. She was tempted to go out to enjoy some fresh air and exercise, but she would only be an object of curiosity. Everyone here must know that the Countess of Arradale was resting at the Swan, and with the great Marquess of Rothgar, no less!

  She remembered her few hours of freedom last year when she’d played the part of Rosa’s spotty serving maid. There had been heady pleasure in being ignored and unremarkable. That maid could be out there now, chatting to other servants, eating a bun with sticky fingers, perhaps even flirting a bit …

  She eyed Clara, who was much of a size, but then put the idea aside. It wouldn’t do. Without the face paint, servant’s clothes were pointless.

  The marquess could go out, of course. He’d be recognized, but he wouldn’t care. She couldn’t put her finger on why it was different for a lady but she knew it was.

  There was the simple danger of abduction. The new laws made abduction into marriage less likely, but the laws that gave a husband control over his wife’s property meant it was always a risk. Of course, any man who tried that with her would regret it, but how to show that so a fortune hunter would never even consider it?

  She was a woman, and therefore—the world assumed—weak and vulnerable. With a wry smile she contemplated walking around with a pistol strapped to her waist. And a knife or two …

  She might even have done it except that now she couldn’t afford extra notoriety. She had to be a perfect, vulnerable lady or risk being clapped into a madhouse.

  Oh God. She rested her face in her hands. During her recent inquiries she’d visited the asylum in York. It was a well-run place, but hell on earth, with screams and cries, inmates with blank faces or manic laughter, and others who appeared normal until they started to speak.

  What if the woman who’d earnestly whispered that she was a foreign princess—

  No, no. Of course she wasn’t. She spoke broad Yorkshire. All the same, Diana could imagine herself, bedraggled by merely being there, trying to convince a stranger that she was a grand lady, unfairly imprisoned.

  She straightened, fighting back from panic. One thing she knew. The marquess would never permit that. She’d spoken truly when she said that she resented needing his protection, but she was grateful for it, too. Grateful especially for his promise to marry her as ultimate security.

  Then her eyes narrowed as she imagined having to be a complaisant wife as he sought the beds of women like Madame de Couriac. And the exotic Sappho. Perdition, that was certainly another reason to avoid that extreme. She’d end up shooting someone!

  She leaned at the open window, elbows on the sill, wondering if he and the damnable Frenchwoman were already tangled in his sheets. Then she heard a patter of rapid French below.

  Well, she thought, spirits lifting, at least they weren’t tangled yet. Madame de Couriac and her husband were below in the street, talking rapidly and quietly.

  Arguing? Perhaps he’d finally put his foot down.

  “I have tried!” the woman exclaimed.

  “Not hard enough. I saw his interest.”

  “What do you want me to do? Go to his room naked?”

  “If it serves the king, yes.”

  The woman made a hissing noise. “He is not that sort of man, Jean-Louis. He must do the asking.”

  “Then make him ask.”

  A sudden menace in the man’s voice made Diana lean out far enough to see. He had his wife’s arm in what looked like a cruel grasp and she was staring up at him, angry but afraid. “I don’t know—” She broke off a cry. He must have tightened that grip. “I’ll try!”

  He let her go, casting a quick look around. He didn’t look up, but Diana ducked back anyway.

  What were they up to? Why would the man be so desperate to have his wife become Lord Rothgar’s mistress? For money? A threat to tell the world if not paid? She shook her head. She couldn’t imagine the marquess caring about that.

  But then she sucked in a breath. For blood? If Monsieur de Couriac came upon his wife in the marquess’s bed, he could force a duel over it. She knew Lord Rothgar was a formidable swordsman, but there must be better in the world. Elf had mentioned some concern that the previous duel had been an attempt to kill her brother.

  Was this another?

  With a more skillful swordsman?

  Heart pounding, she peered out again, but the French couple had gone.

  Chapter 11

  “Clara,” Diana said. “Go to Lord Rothgar’s room and say that I wish to speak with him.”

  As she waited, she tried to think how to phrase her delicate warning, but in moments Clara returned. “He’s not in at the moment, milady.”

  Already at an assignation? No, there hadn’t been time. How inconsiderate of him, however, to leave the inn. “Go back and say that I must speak to him as soon as he returns.”

  Clara hurried out and Diana went over that conversation again. Had de Couriac said something about serving the king? Perdition. She couldn’t quite remember. She thought so.

  Perhaps it wasn’t attempted assassination,
but espionage. All those documents. Some were doubtless sensitive, perhaps even secret. Perhaps Madame de Couriac was meant to steal them.

  A less dangerous plan than murder, but still the marquess should be warned. And he, plague take him, was out.

  This fine and comfortable room in the best inn was beginning to feel like a prison. When Clara returned, Diana demanded a light cloak and the attendance of her footman, and escaped to enjoy the evening. People did notice her, but it wasn’t unbearable.

  She was alert for sight of the French couple or the marquess, and it was the latter she saw first, taking farewell of a man who looked like a country lawyer. She hurried over, but conscious of the windows of the inn above their heads, she said, “I request a moment of your time, my lord.”

  “I lay a hundred, a thousand at your command, dear lady.”

  Rolling her eyes at this courtly manner, she turned to stroll down the street, until they were far enough from the inn. “I overheard the de Couriacs speaking, my lord.”

  “And?”

  She glanced up, embarrassed by the implication of what she was about to say. “He seemed to be urging her to … to make advances to you.”

  “The lady did seem a little bold.”

  “And perhaps dangerous?” she pointed out, wanting to poke him. Were all men so oblivious when a pretty woman made sheep’s eyes at them?

  “All women are dangerous, Lady Arradale, as we have already established.”

  “I am not likely to get you killed.”

  “I wish I could be sure of that. But,” he continued, “why do you think Madame de Couriac’s charms fatal?”

  Her fears began to seem overblown. “For no reason except their urgency. I think he mentioned something about service to the king. Could they be spies? Have an eye to your papers? Or am I foolish to think them up to no good?”

  “Not foolish, no.” He turned them back toward the inn. “Thank you for the warning. I will take care of it.”

  Despite that, he was disregarding the more serious danger. “What if the plan is to force a duel, my lord? To murder you.”

  His eyes met hers. “I am hard to kill.”

  “But not impossible! I heard of the duel you fought in London. If anyone plans such mischief, they have a measure of your skill now.”

  “You think Monsieur de Couriac is sent to be my executioner?”

  “I think a wise man would give him no cause for a challenge.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Ah, but she is charming, is she not—?”

  Before Diana could argue further, Madame de Couriac dashed out of the door of the Swan. “Ah, Lord Rothgar. Thank heavens you are here!” she declared in rapid French. “Jean-Louis is suffering the most dreadful pains. We have sent for the doctor, but our English is not so good and at times like these, not even so good as that. It is a dreadful imposition, but pleas …”

  Hands on his arm, she looked up piteously.

  “Perhaps I could help, madame,” Diana said sweetly. “My French is tolerable.”

  The Frenchwoman turned with a false, rather frantic smile. “Alas, Lady Arradale, my poor husband, he is half undressed—”

  “I see. I do hope it is nothing serious, Madame. Please call on me if you should need anything. Womanly comfort, perhaps.”

  Diana resisted the urge to flash the marquess a warning glance as she left them. Surely it wasn’t necessary. He was reputed to be devilishly clever. He must be able to see through a stratagem such as this.

  Rothgar went with Madame de Couriac, on guard but also curious to know exactly what she and her husband were up to. The countess could be right in thinking they were after his documents, but equally correct in thinking they were after his life.

  If the latter, it would be another mathematical point. He suspected D’Eon of involvement in the duel with Curry. If the de Couriacs were up to mischief, it was all likely linked to the French.

  He smiled over Lady Arradale’s sharp wits and swift action. Admirable, but not particularly welcome when she must play the part of the perfect lady—the sort who would be blind to plots and politics. A lady who would scream at a mouse, faint at a shock, and react to danger by throwing herself into the arms of the nearest male.

  Not by trying to rescue him.

  The next weeks were likely to be even more difficult than he’d anticipated.

  But interesting.

  Monsieur de Couriac was lying on top of the bedclothes, groaning. The extent of his undress was an undone waistband and a loosened shirt.

  “You have sent for the doctor, you said?” Rothgar asked.

  “Yes.” Madame de Couriac put her hand to her head. “At least, I think so … I am so frightened …” She moved close, and he obliged by putting his arm around her. She turned to press her face into his chest. A knock at the door didn’t even make her twitch.

  So.

  He put her aside and opened it.

  “Doctor Ribble,” the young man there said. Slim and serious, he at least seemed likely to play his part properly.

  “Come in, Doctor. You see your patient. I am Lord Rothgar, serving as translator if needed.”

  The doctor’s sharp look said he recognized the name, but pleasantly, his demeanor did not change. He went over to the bed and asked questions, which Rothgar translated, then examined the patient.

  In the end the doctor said, “I can see no reason for the pain, monsieur, though there is some tenderness. All I can suggest is rest. Often these things pass of themselves and medicines can make them worse.”

  Rothgar approved, but Madame de Couriac stiffened. “And you think we pay for that!” she snapped in her imperfect English. “You must do something!”

  “Madame, there is nothing—”

  “You are a … a charlatan!” She turned to Rothgar. “How do you say?”

  “Exactly that, madame. Charlatan. However, the good doctor is probably correct. It is doubtless something your husband ate.”

  “But you, but I, we ate the same! I insist on treatment, or me, I will not pay.”

  Tight-lipped, Doctor Ribble opened his bag and took out a bottle, pouring some dark liquid into a glass. “There, madame. If you give him a teaspoonful of that in water every hour it might soothe him, and it will do no harm.”

  “So,” the lady declared, magnificent dark eyes flashing, “first there is nothing. Now there is something. Me, I think you hate the French! You want us all to die!”

  “Not at all, madame. That will be five shillings for the visit, and a further two for the medicine. If you need more, you can send a servant to my house for it. However, do not hesitate to summon me if your husband’s condition worsens.”

  Madame de Couriac extracted a silk purse from her pocket and passed it to Rothgar with a faltering hand. “Please, my lord. I am too distressed … Please find the coins for him.”

  As she staggered back to hover over the bed, Rothgar obliged, resisting the urge to share a smile with the doctor. He would remember Doctor Ribble if he ever had need of a physician in this locality. He was sure the medicine was a harmless syrup with some herbs to make it taste unpleasant. Who, after all, would believe in a pleasant medicine? Perhaps even a touch of opium to send the patient to sleep.

  When the doctor had left, he turned to find Madame de Couriac tenderly feeding some of the medicine to a resistant husband. The man saw Rothgar watching and said in French, “It tastes foul, my lord.”

  “Such things usually do, monsieur. I advise you to take it, however. The doctor seemed to know what he was about.”

  De Couriac drained the glass then shuddered.

  “Now,” cooed his wife, “get under the covers, my darling, and rest. Soon, I am sure, you will be completely well again.”

  Though he had no reason to stay, Rothgar did, intrigued to see what happened next. His journey had been no secret. His night here had been arranged in advance. He’d be flattered to think Madame de Couriac was taking extreme measures to get into his bed, but it was more likely to
be another attempt on his life.

  The interesting question was, why? Why were the French so desperate to dispose of him? He had influence with the king, and was known to advise the king to stand firm against them. He was urging limits on exports of anything that would help them rebuild their fleet, and the speedy destruction of the fortifications at Dunkirk.

  None of it seemed justification for murder. There was always the chance that Madame de Couriac could shed some light on matters.

  When the woman had her husband settled to her liking she turned to Rothgar, a picture of grateful womanhood, and ran forward to seize his hands. “How can I thank you, my lord? You have been so kind, so gracious …” Then she swayed. “Oh, I feel … Oh.”

  He caught her against his body as he was clearly expected to. So tempting at such moments to step aside, leaving the lady to tumble to the floor. He’d done it a time or two.

  This time, however, he tenderly supported. “Madame, please. Come to my dining room for a little cognac. We must let your husband sleep.”

  “You are too kind,” she whispered, limp against him. His role now was to sweep her into his arms, but he merely supported her toward the door and down the stairs. On the lower floor he glanced at Lady Arradale’s door, expecting to see her peering out. He was sure she would be if she’d known just when he’d return.

  He sympathized with her curiosity, but hoped she’d not interfere before he discovered exactly what was going on.

  He guided the Frenchwoman into the dining parlor, and to the chaise, slipping off her shoes and raising her feet so she was reclining. Having made it impossible for him to sit beside her, he poured cognac—his own reserve, carried with him—for both of them.

  She sipped, sighed, and said, “You are extraordinarily kind, my lord. I am so grateful. I find many of your countrymen are not so sympathetic.”

  “Our nations were so recently at war, madame.”

  “Alas. But you?” Eyes on him, she drank from her glass with an exaggerated pursing of the lips, pressing her lower lip down with the glass as she slowly drew it away. A whore’s trick. “Do you,” she purred, “still feel enmity toward the people of France?”