Jo Beverley - [Malloren]

by Devilish

  She knew they would not want him to suffer for it, but he must know that too. At heart, it was his mother who chained him. She turned and walked briskly back to her room, resolved to find a way to break those chains.

  She paused at the head of the stairs for another look at the previous marquess and marchioness who must want happiness for all their family. All now had it, at least in part because of Bey’s loving care. Only he was left alone.

  Help me, she mouthed silently. Then she hurried on her way.

  Two hours later, Diana surveyed herself in her mirror and declared herself satisfied. Formal court events required wide panniers instead of the narrow ones or hoops of everyday. The panniers, however, served to spread the fabric of the skirt and show off precious materials, encouraging a blatant declaration of wealth.

  Her cream silk did that perfectly, rioting with embroidered spring flowers and leaves. The same material formed the ruched border around the skirt and up the parted front to her waist, trimmed down the middle with glittering gold braid. Her petticoat was figured cream silk, and she wore shoes to match. The rich stomacher was formed of silk ribbon and gold lace, and a small bunch of the silk flowers nestled in the lace by her breasts.

  Breath caught as she thought of last night.

  Would the flowers remind him?

  She hoped so.

  She knew he would be working hard now to avoid, to block, to rebuild defenses, but she would do everything she could to break them down.

  Then she recalled that her purpose at the moment was not to break Bey’s will, but to convince the king that she was a safe, conventional lady.

  She looked the part. She would be expected to be grand as suited her station, and court fashion required face paint which allowed her to pretend a delicate pallor. She protected her complexion so it was honestly pale, but now the healthy glow in her cheeks was hidden as well. She’d not darkened her brows and lashes, and that too made her seem more faded, less strong, especially with powdered hair.

  Her eyes traveled to the flowers again, and she realized that her bodice was very low. Not unsuitable for court, but here was a chance to seem particularly modest.

  “My fichu,” she ordered. “The embroidered muslin one.”

  After a flurried return to the boxes, it was found and draped around her neck, the ends tucked between her breasts behind the flowers.

  Better. Sickeningly demure.

  With that in mind, she chose simple jewelry. She had left off her rings after the bath, even though they were her armor. They were too much of an idiosyncrasy to wear for this performance. Now she chose one small ruby and a modest pearl. Around her neck and in her ears she wore a seed pearl and ruby set she’d been given when sixteen. Paltry stuff.

  She took a last look and nodded. Rich but slightly mousy. No challenge to anyone.

  Would Bey approve? She took up her ivory fan and went to find out, foolish heart already trembling at the thought of seeing him again.

  After such a long time apart.

  A footman was stationed in the corridor to escort her. To her surprise, he took her downstairs and toward the back of the house which would usually be the household offices. With a tap on the door, he opened it and announced her.

  Diana went in and found herself in a very businesslike study. Most of the walls were covered with bookshelves and drawers. A map drawer stood open with a map on display. The huge desk in the center of the room was a masterpiece of marquetry and gilding, but it was still a desk, and Bey had been sitting there dealing with large amounts of paperwork before rising as she came in.

  He worked too hard, trying to hold the world together.

  All the same, she smiled at his beauty in rich red silk and elegant powder.

  Then she saw the picture on the wall to one side of him.

  A young woman with coiled dark hair, in a loose gown of flaming red, sat apparently at her ease, but with an arrogant or perhaps challenging turn to her body. At first glance she seemed strong, her smile confident and sure, her eyes direct, but almost immediately Diana sensed fear.

  Would she have even thought it if she hadn’t known what was to come? For this surely must be Bey’s mother. His father’s dark hair and eyes suggested a degree of likeness that wasn’t there. Bey had his mother’s exact features in stronger form—the high brow, the classic bones, the square chin, the straight, sculptured nose with flaring nostrils.

  Was that why he felt so threatened by her mental instability?

  Was that why he kept this picture here to remind him?

  Diana knew that he had brought her here to see this. He had even dressed in red to make the likeness clear.

  Undeclared, the war was on, and this was his defensive attack. The picture was to remind her of the facts, and to convince her that he had sound reasons to walk away from what they could have and be.

  Commanding her racing heart to calm, Diana moved closer to the picture, her stiff silks rustling in the quiet room. “She looks frightened. Did she not want to marry your father?”

  He stared, as if surprised. “She made no objection that I’ve heard, but it was somewhat of an arranged affair, yes. Arranged by loving parents on both sides. Her mother—my grandmother—is still alive, and still convinced that my father drove her daughter mad.”

  This was the discussion she’d wanted, but not now when they had so little time. She was pressingly aware that clocks had chimed the half hour as she came downstairs. Deliberate. She knew it was deliberate, so they could speak of this, but only briefly.

  Damn him.

  She was at war with an expert, ruthless strategist, and must not forget that.

  “You were a young child when she died,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Perhaps your grandmother is right and your father was not kind to her.”

  “My father was very like Brand. Can you imagine Brand distressing any woman into madness? And besides, what unkindness, what cruelty even, could drive a sane woman to strangle her own newborn child?”

  Diana gasped. “Strangle.”

  “Would some other manner of murder be more to your liking?”

  It was the Dark Marquess speaking, the one she had feared when they first met. She recognized, however, that this again was defense, frighteningly similar to his mother’s angled head and fierce smile.

  “That was a silly reaction,” she agreed calmly. “And no, nothing external can explain her actions. But madness can come from many causes, some of which die with the sufferer.” She looked back at the picture. “Was it done before or after the wedding?”

  “Just before.”

  “Then her mother doubtless sought an explanation to her liking, for the seeds were already there.”

  “In the blood.”

  She winced, realizing her words had reinforced his thinking instead of fighting it. How to fight the evidence of this picture, however? His mother had not been entirely normal.

  “It was in her at a young age,” she argued. “There were warnings. It didn’t appear like a shooting star.” She looked at him again, looked him in the eye. “Have you ever detected a trace of it in yourself?”

  “Perhaps not,” he said calmly, “but her blood runs in me, and through me. A child of mine could look like that.”

  She felt frozen. How to fight that?

  The clock chimed the quarter, and his eyes traveled over her. “Ah, I see the pallor is not a result of my sordid family affairs. You will do very well. You look suitably overturned by your experiences. We must leave.”

  With one last, frustrated glance at the portrait, she flicked open her fan and sank into a deep court curtsy. “As you will, my lord.”

  He held out his hand to raise her, but she rose smoothly by herself.

  Instead of applause, he said, “Don’t do that at court. Let me assist you.”

  “Devil take it.” Then she grimaced. “I know. Don’t do that, either.”

  “Precisely.” He took her hand and kissed it, eyes dark on hers. “For both our sakes
, Diana, make no mistakes.”

  He was telling her what she already knew—that a marriage of rescue would be worse than no marriage at all.

  She cast one last look at the dreadful portrait, then allowed him to lead her out to the waiting coach. A light town vehicle, painted and gilded, with liveried footmen up behind.

  A small crowd had gathered and some pressed forward. Immediately she tensed, remembering that de Couriac was loose, and longing for her pistols.

  She steadied herself. One did not show fear, or even concern, in public. These were the petitioners one would expect at a great man’s door in London. Such people would know when he would emerge to attend a levee or Drawing Room.

  All the same, it would be too easy for an assassin to lurk among them, and she searched the crowd for de Couriac. She didn’t see him, but he could appear later, tomorrow, the next day, and she would not always be here to guard.

  Oh yes, Bey had his armed servants around him, but she wanted to be there too, an extra pair of eyes, and an extra pair of pistols.

  Damn the king. Damn the court.

  He was accepting petitions, showing no sign of caution, so she threw him a warning. “I do hope these people are all well-intentioned, my lord. I am going to be extremely annoyed if I end up in the dirt in this outfit.”

  A smile tugged at his lips, but he said, “None of us can live under glass, my lady, like wax flowers.”

  He passed a handful of petitions to a servant behind, and moved on to a woman who fell to her knees before him, begging for help. Diana wanted to listen to her story now, and help her now. There was no time, however, and Bey only raised her to her feet, took her paper and passed it on, promising to read it as soon as possible.

  Even from that, the woman looked eased a little, and dabbed at her tears. A child or husband in prison, perhaps? Now the woman had faith that the great marquess would help her, but he had another burden on his shoulders, another demand on his exhausted time.

  She received petitions herself, but rarely in person, and never like this. And this, she suspected, happened every time he left his house for a formal occasion.

  She suddenly wanted to shoo them all away, to protect him, but knew he’d be offended at the thought. This was part of the duties of his rank, and duty came before all.

  As with his duty to keep his line free of taint.

  She counted twelve petitions taken before they were clear to walk toward the coach. Twelve souls depending upon him for something dear to them.

  This, surely, hadn’t been planned as part of their war, but it reminded her of who he was. Merely by rank he was one of the great, a source of hope for the desperate. As l’éminence noire he was known to have the ear of the king.

  Most of England stood in awe of him.

  Could she really break this man’s will?

  She glanced at him again, and again their eyes spoke, and she knew, because of what he was, especially because of the chilly eminence upon which he lived, that she had to try.

  More than that. She had to win.

  Then they both looked forward and walked toward the coach, the Countess of Arradale and the Marquess of Rothgar, on stage.

  Chapter 19

  As they approached St. James’s Palace, the press of vehicles and avidity of the watching crowds broke Diana out in a sweat. These fashionable parades and the unfashionable pointing mob weren’t her challenge. The king was. All the same, she had to work hard not to flinch from a thousand eyes.

  And she’d thought her life confined and under scrutiny in Yorkshire!

  “Drawing Rooms are popular with the people,” he remarked in a bored tone she knew was designed to steady her.

  “So I see. Do they gather for the levees as well?”

  “Not to so great an extent. Ladies are generally more decoratively entertaining than gentlemen.”

  She glanced at his finery. “It is not apparent. And anyway, in the animal world the male has the gorgeous plumage.”

  “And if we follow Monsieur Rousseau, we must, above all, be natural.” As the coach drew to a halt, he said, “I will suggest that the king command all ladies to attend in sackcloth and drab.”

  A footman swung open the door, and Bey climbed down, turning to offer her a beautiful, jeweled hand in plumage of lace and brocade.

  “You do like to stir enemies,” she commented as she descended and smoothed her glorious skirts.

  “Alas, without enemies life might become dull. Speaking of which, let me present you to the Chevalier D’Eon.”

  Snapping to the alert, Diana went with him toward a slight man in rich brown with the striking red ribbon of an order across his chest, the medallion glittering. Bey himself wore the Order of the Bath on a red sash, and an imaginative mind might see the two red slashes as a bloody challenge.

  The Frenchman saw them and stepped forward with the quick elegance of a good fencer despite his high heels. “Monsieur le marquis,” he said in rapid French. “I am distressed, outraged—” Then he seemed to catch himself, and bowed, addressing Diana in English. “My lady, I beg your pardon for speaking in French. And here I am again,” he added, with a rather arch flutter of embarrassment, “speaking to you without introduction—”

  “Lady Arradale,” said Bey, sounding amused, “may I present the Chevalier D’Eon, the most honorable Ministre Plénipotentiare de France.”

  Diana held out her hand and greeted the Frenchman in English. Bey’s meaningful look had not been necessary. She could see that being thought unable to understand the language might be an advantage one day.

  Of course, de Couriac knew differently …

  Monsieur D’Eon bowed over her hand with exquisite grace, pursing his lips a delicate distance above her skin. “London is made glorious by your beauty, Lady Arradale,” he said, but then his expression turned tragic. “And I am devastated that you have apparently been distressed upon your journey by some rascally compatriots of mine.”

  “It certainly was terrifying, monsieur. But,” she added, sliding her hand free of his ardent grasp, “any country can produce rogues. We escaped with our property and lives intact.” She turned adoringly to Bey. “All due to Lord Rothgar’s formidable courage and skill.”

  His eyes flashed a humorous warning before he said to D’Eon, “It happened too fast for skill. I regret the deaths of your countrymen, however.”

  “As do I, my lord. I would like to have the questioning of them.”

  “Quite.”

  It was like a slither of blades.

  “They were apparently associates of a Monsieur de Couriac,” Bey remarked, “whom we encountered in Ferry Bridge. Do you know him, Chevalier?”

  “De Couriac?” D’Eon said vaguely as they all turned to join the people flowing into the palace. “He presented papers to me some weeks ago upon arrival. I know nothing more. Petite noblesse from Normandy, if I remember.”

  “Ah, then perhaps the Comte de Broglie may know the family. He resides in Normandy, does he not?”

  One sharp glance from D’Eon told Diana that Bey had scored a hit.

  “I doubt it, my lord,” D’Eon said. “Monsieur de Broglie lives very quietly now he is out of power.” He turned to Diana. “Be assured, my lady, that I will attempt to get to the bottom of this terrible affair.”

  He bowed and left to greet someone else. Escaped, one might say.

  “Who is de Broglie?” Diana murmured as they filed up the stairs.

  “D’Eon’s secret superior,” Bey said in a voice so muted she could scarcely hear it, and with a look that told her not to pursue it here.

  Lud! What tangle was hinted at in that? D’Eon’s only master should be the King of France. Is it wise, she wanted to ask, to tell him that you know?

  With a flash of irritation, she recognized that Bey had just thrown down a challenge to the Frenchman. She could understand that constantly waiting for these sneaky attacks would test the patience of a marble statue, but she wished he hadn’t. Especially now when she wa
s going to have to leave him unguarded.

  Especially when he had probably done it to ensure she was not caught in any further attacks.

  Ah, but she was going to hate being put in this gilded cage.

  As they made their way through the crowded corridors, Diana could at least be grateful that the king refused to live here in St. James’s Palace. These dark and ancient passageways had seen their share of wretches heading for disaster, torture, and execution, and the memories seemed to linger in the walls. Some of the victims had been His Majesty’s ancestors. Some of them had been hers.

  Her pulse started a nervous beat again as she approached the drawing room—as if a headsman might appear, ax in hand.

  She could see ahead now to where the king and queen sat in magnificent garments and jewels, ladies- and gentlemen-in-waiting standing behind. Most of those attending the Drawing Room merely approached to curtsy or bow and exchange a word or two, but those being presented were given a little more time.

  After greeting Their Majesties, people moved around the room chatting, taking care never to turn their backs to the royal couple, though some seemed to leave quite quickly. She wished she had that option.

  When their turn came, Bey led her forward, and she sank into her curtsy, head bowed. The queen gestured for her to rise and Diana remembered to allow Bey to assist her. It was clearly an excellent point. The royal couple looked as if they were searching for monstrous aspects.

  “We welcome you to London, Lady Arradale,” said the very pregnant queen with a strong German accent. She was as plain as reported, with a rather monkeyish face and bulbous eyes.

  “You are most kind to have invited me, Your Majesty.”

  Diana had forgotten how young the queen was. Only nineteen. Not that age counted here. The king was a year younger than herself, but that did not lessen the dangers.

  The queen frowned. “I understand you have inherited your father’s property and title, Lady Arradale. I find that a very strange thing.”

  “It is unusual in England too, Your Majesty.”

  “A cruel burden to put upon a woman’s shoulders.”