Jo Beverley - [Malloren]

by Devilish

  “I am glad you are not averse to a husband, Lady Arradale,” the queen said. “It will please His Majesty. And you are sensible to want to marry a man with whom you can live in accord. A bad marriage can be a miserable thing. You think a suitable man hard to find?”

  “Yorkshire does not present a great selection of my age and station, Your Majesty.”

  The queen nodded. “London has many such men. The king and I live quietly, but we hold small parties now and then. We will invite suitable men, and soon you will find one to your taste.”

  It sounded ominously like a command, but Diana dropped a curtsy. “It would be a blessing, Your Majesty.” It was the truth, for there was only one man to her taste.

  “And if not,” the queen said, sliding her arms into the sleeves of a light robe, “we will choose for you. His Majesty and I did not meet before our wedding, but the choice was carefully made by others, and is to our delight.”

  Diana swallowed alarm, but she drew on Bey’s grueling practice and merely said, “You are very kind, Your Majesty.”

  The queen nodded approval, and walked into another room, lively with crimson hangings, paintings, and bowls of flowers. She sat with a weary sigh, resting swollen ankles on a velvet footstool.

  Diana followed, trying to assess this arrogant purpose about her marriage, and decide how to deal with it. But then she was hit by the heavy scent of a large arrangement of sweet peas.

  “You like flowers, Lady Arradale?” the queen asked.

  “Very much, ma’am,” said Diana, wondering if she was blushing. Last night. Only last night …

  “Good, good. We have pleasant gardens here, and you are free to enjoy them. You will not find your duties difficult, I think. You will read to me sometimes, and let me practice my English with you. Do you play an instrument?”

  “The harpsichord, ma’am, and the flute.”

  “There is a harpsichord in the next room. Play for us.”

  As the queen began to chatter to her attendants in German, Diana obeyed the command, even managing the tricky business of backing out of the royal presence without tripping over her skirts.

  She seethed with resentment at being ordered to entertain, but she reminded herself that she must be the perfect, conventional lady. It wasn’t as if this was a burden of her sex. If she’d been the Earl of Arradale ordered to amuse the queen, she would be bound by duty to oblige, as the Marquess of Rothgar obeyed the king’s commands.

  Where was he now?

  When would she see him again?

  She pushed such thoughts aside. She’d end up mad herself if she sank into that kind of thing.

  Grateful to at least be out of sight, she sat to play a piece by memory. This was an excellent opportunity to assess the new twists in her situation.

  The queen sounded a great deal more determined on marriage than she’d expected, and she was clearly spokeswoman for the king. Diana could end up fighting two challenges rather than one. A battle with the king and queen to avoid their choice, and a battle with Bey to convince him that marriage was a risk worth taking despite uncertainty.

  Lud! She still couldn’t believe she’d thrown that gauntlet down. She meant it, however. It was her whole life and his. She would not let it slip away. Life was uncertain. Not to accept that was to freeze like a stone statue.

  She let her fingers wander by themselves through the simple piece, and wondered again when next they’d meet. After all, it was central to her purpose. She could hardly change his mind if he avoided her completely.

  He’d promised to see her frequently, however, and she knew he would keep that promise, through duty if nothing else.

  Again today, though?

  Or would she have to wait until tomorrow?

  When tomorrow?

  She suppressed a rueful laugh. This was insanity, but it was the common insanity called love. She didn’t mind if they fought or kissed, so long as they met.

  Well, she did mind, but she’d take any meeting over none. Even simply being in the same room would be some solace.

  She realized her fingers had stopped. She pulled out of her wistful thoughts and changed to a lively and demanding tune. She would somehow find a way to change Bey’s mind. In the meantime, she must also charm the queen and avoid attempts to force her into marriage. She’d heard that the queen was very fond of music and an excellent performer herself. This might be one way to mellow her.

  In a little while one of the German attendants came to inform her she could leave to change out of court dress. She found her room small but adequate, and at least it was private. Clara was just finishing putting things away, bubbling with excitement to be in a royal household and greatly impressed by the servants she had already met.

  Diana was pleased someone was happy here. She stripped out of court dress, and changed into a more comfortable gown. When she checked her appearance in the mirror, she realized it was the pale yellow and cream which she’d worn to welcome the Dark Marquess to Arradale.

  A different world. A world where she had, as he’d pointed out, been playing games.

  How could the world change so utterly in a few short days?

  With a sigh, she sat at the elegant desk to write to her mother and Rosa. She had to give some account of the attack on the road before word reached them, and assure them she was well.

  The letter to her mother was easy, but the second troubled her. Rosa had been her confidante for most of her life, her dearest friend, her companion in mischief, and guardian of secrets. Rosa had a different personality, too, and her practical opinions had often been useful. She longed to relate everything and hope for wisdom in return, but she wouldn’t put it past the king and queen to read her letters.

  She imagined what she would say if Rosa was here. “I’m determined to marry Bey, to make it possible for him to marry me.”

  “How?”

  Trust Rosa to move straight to the point. “I don’t know. That’s for later. For now, I have to prevent the king and queen trying to arrange my marriage. What should I do if they pick a husband for me?”

  “Refuse?”

  “It’s not that easy, Rosa. It would give great offense. And there is the threat of the madhouse. I’d have to accept Bey’s rescue, then.”

  “Marry him? In name only? I don’t think you can do that, Diana.”

  “I know, I know. But if it came to that point, what else could I do? Marry some oaf picked out by the king? I think not, and Bey would never allow it. Anyway, would it be so terrible? We’d at least have each other’s company.”

  “You’d live the rest of your life like a starving woman at a forbidden feast!”

  “There would be many dishes I could taste. His company, his conversation, our shared interests. Oh, Rosa. I know what you meant about Brand, now. I thought you demented to put such weight on the fact that you could talk about farming with him, but it is wonderful to have shared interests. To really talk. The time in the coach was magical and we hardly touched.”

  “But the forbidden would be always there, desperately desirable but never to be tasted. It would drive you mad.”

  “You say that because you have the feast in full. Without him I will starve. Starve to death.”

  “Too extreme, Diana.”

  “I feel extreme. I rage against the barriers that stand between us!”

  “And what are those barriers?”

  Diana sighed. “His will. His purpose,” she admitted.

  “You want to break his will? Turn him from his well-considered purpose?”

  Yes, thought Diana, unable to put that confession into even imaginary words. It was a terrible thing to contemplate.

  To the imaginary Rosa, she argued, “It is the only way.”

  “It could destroy you both.”

  Diana looked down and realized that while running that imaginary conversation through her head, she’d dipped her pen and written “Bey,” a half dozen times, then ornamented the cluster of words with ruffled sweet peas.


  Love. She’d always thought of love as hearts and flowers, as spring blossoms and blushing smiles. Not this spiny, starving hunger, this feeling of being stranded in rags on a bleak winter moor, and being willing to do anything, anything, to return to the sun.

  She dipped the pen and scribbled all over her betraying marks. She was clear in her purpose now at least—to shatter the iron will of the man she loved.

  May God have mercy on them both.

  Rothgar accompanied the king to his rooms, almost stunned by Diana’s last comments. He had faced seemingly impossible tasks before and proved his motto correct. He’d even taken the notorious Chastity Ware and restored her virtue so she could be received at court and marry Cyn without problem. There was always a way.

  But here he faced no external barrier, only his own resolve. To alter that with honor was as impossible as flight, ancient Daedalus be damned. Such flight was impossible, anyway. He’d witnessed an attempt to recreate Daedalus’s achievement, and it had been clear that no man had the strength to flap wings large enough to carry him.

  Some things were impossible despite all human effort.

  As the king was disrobed by his attendants, Rothgar tried to find his familiar cool mind, but awareness of Diana’s needs and pain rocked him. He could starve himself, but he had not prepared for the agony of starving her—

  “My lord.”

  Rothgar found the king staring at him. “So lost in thought, my lord?” George said as a valet assisted him into a loose robe. “Thoughts of mortality, what?”

  “Your pardon, sire?”

  “The bloodthirsty attack.”

  Rothgar suppressed the words, Oh that, which would make him seem ready for Bedlam. Had it really been less than a day ago?

  The king indicated a chair, and they both sat.

  “Now,” the king said, “give me the entire story.”

  He obliged, downplaying any outstanding bravery except that of his dead outrider.

  “Brave man, brave man,” said the king, his youthful face earnest. “Does he leave a family? What?”

  “A wife and three young children, sire. Of course they will be well taken care of.”

  The king nodded, but said, “I will send them a letter of thanks.”

  “You are most generous, sire.” Nothing, he knew, would soften Ella Miller’s loss just now, but perhaps in the future she and her children would value the king’s special mark of respect.

  But then the king wished to speculate. He had clearly sent for and read Sir Eresby’s report.

  “This de Couriac. You suspect him of contriving the attack?”

  “I can’t say, sire. I believe I recognized him there.”

  “But why would he do such a thing?”

  Since it did not suit him to point to official French involvement, Rothgar mentioned the unfortunate events in Ferry Bridge.

  The king shook his head. “Mad indeed! And one innocent life lost because of it, what? I commanded Monsieur D’Eon here as soon as I heard.”

  “The chevalier seems quite overset. May I ask what explanation he had for you, Your Majesty?”

  “He too speculates that it might be a crime of passion. Apparently the wife was of that type.” He frowned. “A mistake to dally there, my lord. What?”

  Rothgar’s unruly mind tried to wander to memories of Diana coming to rescue him. Of rubbing her feet. Of wanting—

  No.

  “I did not dally at all, sire. I merely assisted the lady when her husband was taken ill. Lady Arradale was present most of the time.”

  “Ah yes. The countess. Not what we expected. What do you make of her?”

  Rothgar wondered if he was actually blushing. “Your Majesty will have assessed her for yourself by now.”

  The king nodded. “A pretty woman, and she seems to think as she ought. Will she resist marriage?”

  “Quite the contrary, sire,” Rothgar said dryly. “In fact, she could be said to be set on it.”

  “Capital, capital! The queen and I have talked of this. Lord Randolph Somerton, what? Second son. Needs a good property. Charming. Sound. What?”

  Rothgar was startled by this firm choice, and what a choice! An arrogant popinjay with wastrel ways and a demanding father in the Duke of Carlyle. “Would that not concentrate a great deal of northern power in one family?” he suggested carefully.

  The king frowned. “But she must marry in the north, mustn’t she? So her lands will not be neglected?”

  “The roads are much improved, sire. Lady Arradale and I would have spent only two nights on our journey if not for the unfortunate incident.”

  The king pursed his lips. “Sir Harry Crumleigh then? His estate is in Derbyshire. Capital fellow. Or Lord Scrope, since she’s the quiet type. Shropshire, and he’s looking for a second wife.”

  Thought of Diana as “the quiet type” almost caused a laugh, but the list of candidates was not at all amusing. Sir Harry was a favorite of the king’s because he was an inexhaustible rider, but if he’d ever read a book, he’d done it in secret. Lord Scrope was so amiably inoffensive he’d bore Diana to tears in days, and he was still mourning his first wife. Where the devil had all this purposeful planning come from?

  “If I might suggest patience, sire? The countess has only just arrived in London, and suffered a terrifying incident en route. It would be kind to give her opportunity to rest and settle before presenting her with suitors.”

  After a frowning moment the king nodded. “Very well, but I’ll see her married before she returns north, my lord. Now,” he added in a change of tone, “this will interest you! The King of France has sent me an automaton as a peace gift.”

  “Indeed, sire?” Rothgar said, mind still caught on the king’s unexpected resolve.

  “Chevalier D’Eon is to present and demonstrate it to us tomorrow evening. You will attend?”

  D’Eon? “With pleasure, Your Majesty.”

  “We will, of course, also show the one you gave us last year.”

  “I am honored it finds favor still.”

  “It does,” the king said, standing. “You serve us well, Lord Rothgar, in all things, and we thank you. We wish you well in all things in return.”

  “Your Majesty is generous, as always,” Rothgar said and took his leave.

  He walked down the corridor, resisting the temptation to seek Diana out, to make sure that she was safe. He knew no harm could have come to her, but in view of the gathering host of suitors, he felt an absurd romantic urge to race to her rescue, like a knight errant saving his lady from a dragon.

  It could not be. That interlude in the coach had been unwise, and had led to that challenge. And anyway, he had other responsibilities. Ella Miller should hear of her husband’s death from him, so he must ride to the Abbey today before the news reached her.

  Where the corridor and stairs met, he made himself take the stairs that would lead him out of the house, away from her.

  Still, their parting had been abrupt, and she was under his care and protection. On unconquerable impulse, he entered a reception room and wrote a short note.

  My dear Lady Arradale,

  I trust you are now comfortable in the queen’s care, and that all your possessions have arrived safely. If I can be of any further assistance to you, I will do all that is possible. Consider me always,

  Your most humble servant,

  Rothgar.

  A suitable note in correct phrases, but with underlying meanings. She would note, he hoped, the reference to what was possible. He folded it and sealed it with his ruby signet, then left it in the hands of the footman. As he climbed into his coach and commanded all speed home, he made himself turn his mind from the impossible to think about matters that could be more neatly managed.

  The choice of an automaton as the French king’s gift was not extraordinary, especially as some of the masters of the craft were French and King George’s pleasure in such things was known. It was equally well known, however, that automata w
ere an interest of his own. He had given the king his first one—the Chinese pagoda which had unfortunately been used in an attempted assassination.

  Rothgar was pleased that the villain who’d caused its destruction had been killed, for it had been an exquisite work of art. Last Christmas he had replaced it with a simpler piece—a shepherd and shepherdess which the king and queen enjoyed.

  Now a similar gift had arrived from the King of France.

  Considering the duel with Curry and the strange machinations of Monsieur de Couriac, it did seem as though D’Eon was subtly attacking him on many sides.

  Why?

  And, he suddenly wondered, was D’Eon responsible for the king’s determination about Diana’s marriage? Someone must have been stoking the fire beneath that pot to bring it to such a boil, and D’Eon had the ear of the king and queen.

  Yet, what concern could Diana’s marriage be to the French?

  None.

  To D’Eon personally?

  He would certainly love to marry a fortune, but he must know that the king would never permit her marriage to a Frenchman. Besides, as he’d hinted to Diana, D’Eon’s sexuality was a matter for conjecture. He flirted, but he’d never been known to take a mistress.

  What’s more, in his adventures, he’d spent time at the Court of Russia impersonating a woman and living as one of the late tsarina’s ladies. Many doubted the story, but Rothgar knew it to be true. D’Eon had been spying for his king, but had been extremely convincing from all accounts.

  Male, female, or hermaphrodite, D’Eon was ambitious. But not, surely, for marriage to a great English heiress. However …

  As Rothgar left the coach and entered his house, he thought he’d found the pattern. He’d have seen it days ago if his brain hadn’t been tangled by an alarmingly attractive woman.

  As he’d told Diana, D’Eon needed a coup to be made ambassador. The obvious coup would be persuading King George to rescind the order to destroy Dunkirk, and D’Eon had openly been working hard at that.