by Devilish
Perhaps she could claim to have changed her mind.
No, that would never work.
Perhaps she could appear to be truly seeking a man to love. Delay at least.
She grimaced as she played. She was going to have to tell Bey about this, and he’d be justifiably disappointed in her.
Plague take it all. She’d keep her wits about her from now on, but she feared that she’d made a serious mistake, and at first test. He’d been correct in thinking that she wasn’t equipped to face this world, though she knew it would have been a great deal easier if she’d been as indifferent to him as she’d once pretended to be.
When would she have to tell him? Though she hated that thought, she longed to see him again.
Where was he? Was he thinking of her as much as she was thinking of him? Or were his defenses so strong he could block all awareness of what they had?
Hard riding could keep a mind focused and off impossible treasures. After three hours, and three changes of horses, Rothgar arrived at his estate. He went first to break the news to Ella Miller’s mother and sister, then took them with him when he went to tell Ella of her husband’s death. Then he went on to give the news to Miller’s parents and return with them to the widow.
Eventually he could leave the grieving family comforted a little by the fact that Thomas had died bravely and quickly. They also knew that Ella and her children would always have the cottage and a comfortable income. Not much substitute for a man, but all a mortal could give.
Proof if he needed it, that he was not God, and not in control of the machine. With a Malloren, all things were not possible, or Miller would be with his wife and family now.
He rode his horse around to the stables, then walked up past the kitchen gardens and into the formal grounds, suddenly aware of the emptiness of the huge, magnificent building before him.
What was he to do with himself here for the rest of his life? Collect Anglo-Saxon fragments and sort through petitions? Live mostly in London, trying to improve and correct the chaotic political machine, every effort subject to the whim of a young monarch?
Looking at the ranks of windows, glinting gold and empty in the sun, he knew what he wanted. He wanted to spend most of his time here, and fill this house again with a family, a happy family.
No.
This yearning would pass, and the chaotic political machine would keep him very busy.
His unexpected arrival at the Abbey caused a flurry, and as always there were matters to be taken care of. Doctor Marshall, curator of the Anglo-Saxon artifacts, wanted to discuss new acquisitions. His land steward wished to review matters previously dealt with in letters. His house steward tried to present designs for a slightly different livery. Rothgar sent the latter off with a sharp comment and briefly regretted it, but only briefly. Petty timewasting. Elf had managed such things and he was feeling the loss of her more and more.
The truth was, he thought wryly, he needed a wife. Since he would not marry, he needed someone to act as his chatelaine and hostess. On sudden impulse he wrote a brief list of the spinsters and widows among his relatives, women who might be pleased to take the position. It was the practical solution and affirmed his course.
Despite will, however, it brought Lady Arradale back to his mind, along with thought of the king’s determination to marry her off. Logic told him she wouldn’t be being dragged to the altar at this very moment, but it was suddenly intolerable not to be close at hand.
He had planned to spend the night here, but now he glanced out of the window. The sun was already kissing the treetops, and the idea of more hours in the saddle made him groan, but it was possible.
He ordered fresh horses and a light meal, produced quickly, but recognized a wavering of his will. She was in no danger. He just wanted to breathe the same air …
He rose abruptly and went upstairs. He did not go to his suite of rooms, but up another flight to the children’s floor. Ten years now since these rooms had gone to sleep, when Cyn and Elf had moved to the lower floor to take their places in the adult world.
He walked into the nursery, unused for even longer, waiting like a dormant plant for the next generation of babies. A generation that would not come. Bryght’s children would be born and raised at Candleford, and unless he himself was careless enough to die too soon, come here only as adults.
He set one ornate cradle rocking, the crunch of the rockers eerie in the deserted room. In fact, Brand’s Jenny had slept in it a month or so ago. This floor had blossomed briefly to life then, with Bryght’s Francis, and Hilda’s children.
He set the other cradle rocking—an extra one had been made when the twins were born—remembering how much larger everything had seemed when he’d been a three-year-old, hovering fascinated over his new baby sister. She’d been tiny and wondrous, with delicate fingers and those huge, intent eyes which had seemed to look at him and recognize him.
Brother.
Mine.
People had always said he couldn’t remember, but he remembered enough.
He remembered his mother, coming up from her bed that day instead of having the baby brought to her, still in her scarlet bedgown, her dark hair loose down her back. Dismissing the servants, but letting him stay. He’d always wondered why. But then, he didn’t think she’d planned to do what she did. He’d give a great deal to know what she had planned when she came upstairs.
She’d picked up little Edith and walked with her, murmuring words he hadn’t been able to hear. They hadn’t sounded comforting. Not like the nurse’s soothing, loving murmurs.
He remembered being worried.
Perhaps the baby had felt that way too, or perhaps his mother had held her too tightly. Edith had begun to cry, and it had rapidly built into the wavering squawk of the angry, frightened newborn. Ever since, that uniquely desperate sound had struck panic into him—a desperate need to act, to do something.
His mother had sat with the screaming, red-faced baby and quite calmly—he’d never forget the calm—closed her hand around little Edith’s throat. The silence had been shocking.
He’d run over, crying, “No!” He’d tried to drag his mother’s hand away. She’d looked at him blankly and buffeted him across the room with the full strength of her free hand.
He’d crawled to the door, blindly terrified, quiet as a mouse, then run screaming, hurtling past gawking servants, with only one thought. To get to his father, who could surely put all this right.
If he’d stopped, if he’d been in control of himself and explained to the nearby servants exactly what was going on, would they have acted sooner? Would they have been in time … ?
He came back to the present with a shudder, sweat cold down his back. The cradle still moved slightly from the rocking he’d started.
If he’d done the right thing, Edith would be a grown woman now, with husband and children of her own. Perhaps with a special smile for her brother. And he might be a different person. One able to—
Enough.
He looked around the room one last time, then left, closing the door. It had been a pilgrimage of sorts, and had served its purpose. There was no possibility of marriage for him. Ever. He must extricate the Countess of Arradale from her predicament, and despite her challenge, send her safely home.
Already he felt the pain of it. More than that, he knew her pain would be as great.
That was almost more than he could bear, but not quite.
He must never risk putting children in those empty cradles.
“It is a miracle to have a child, Lady Arradale,” the queen said. “You do not want to miss it.”
They were in the queen’s gardens, the little one-year-old prince the center of attention for all the ladies. In sunshine, and helping the prince to make a daisy chain—making it for him, really—Diana was almost enjoying herself.
“I would like to have children, Your Majesty,” she agreed, silently adding, but only Bey’s.
“Lord Rothgar distresses my hu
sband by his refusal to marry and sire children.”
Diana looked up sharply, wondering if she’d spoken her thought out loud, but then she knew she had not. The connection was completely in the queen’s mind. Was it possible that the king and queen would choose Bey for her?
Though she wanted nothing more, that had to stop. A forced marriage would be torture.
“I understand his mother was … afflicted, Your Majesty.”
“She murdered her second babe,” said the queen bluntly. “A terrible thing which has surely sent her to hell. It need not concern him, however.”
A parent in hell might concern anyone, Diana thought, but said, “Perhaps he fears to carry the problem in his blood, ma’am.”
“He has not spoken of it to you?”
Under the queen’s scrutiny, Diana worked to appear cool and rather bored by the topic. “We know each other very little, ma’am. A few days last year, a few days this, and the journey.”
“Oh.” The queen shifted, to smile down at her son. “Come show me your pretty daisy chain, herzlieb.”
Diana gave him a hand so he could toddle over and present the flowers, relieved that the queen’s attention had shifted.
When the queen had praised the flowers and picked him up, however, she said, “Many women would envy you that journey, Lady Arradale. They might feel you had wasted a golden opportunity.”
“To flirt with the marquess, ma’am?” Diana asked, as if the notion had never crossed her mind.
The queen’s mouth tightened, and she turned her attention back to her babbling son. With a sigh of relief, Diana began to edge backward, but the royal eyes fixed her again. “So, Countess, would the idea of the marquess as husband be an equal surprise?”
“A complete one, ma’am,” Diana said, sure she was showing all the appropriate shock, but it was shock at having it stated so bluntly. What was she to do now?
“Put your mind to the matter, and perhaps it will cease to be so startling. My husband the king thinks it would be an excellent idea.”
“But the madness, ma’am!”
“Doubtless a brain fever or such. In all other respects he is a desirable husband, yes? You cannot claim that he is unpleasing to women, or has any lack in manly parts.”
“No, but—”
The queen cut her off with a gesture and waved her away, and Diana escaped before she said something disastrous. As she backed into the next section of the garden, however, panic made her want to clamber over the iron railings and flee.
She’d come here to persuade the king that she was no danger to his country. Then she’d thought she had to escape numerous unnamed suitors. She’d never expected to have to fight a determined attempt to push her into the arms of the man she loved.
Despite hating having to tell Bey what a mess she was making, she desperately needed to see him and hear his advice. She needed to warn him, too.
She thought briefly of sending him a message, but it was impossible to say anything to the point even in code without creating a connection between them that must be avoided.
Even when he came to court, she thought with a hiss of annoyance, they would have no time in private. She would have to use the code. Pretend she’d received a letter from Rosa …
Coming up with the best innocent phrases, she stroked a lovely, full-blown rose.
At her touch, it disintegrated.
She stared in shock at the carpet of creamy pink, remnants of beauty destroyed by her touch.
Nothing—not even a Malloren—could put that rose back together again. She gathered some of the fallen petals as if she might find some way to stick them back on the stem, then held them to her nose, inhaling the sweet perfume. Warm from the sun, they were like soft skin.
Like his skin, which in places was smooth and soft.
And in places hard.
Swept back to the White Goose, she knew their consummation had been as foolish as it had been wonderful. Despite their efforts, it would leave her in anxiety until her courses came. Even if she escaped that disaster, she would be left in bitter longings all her life unless she could find a way to change his mind.
To change a noble purpose fixed years ago and for good reason.
She opened her hands and let the petals float back to the ground. Her intent was not destructive. She would not think that. It offered hope of true happiness.
This plan of the king and queen’s did not, however, even though she saw that it came out of good intentions. He could not be forced.
She returned to planning the right words to warn him.
Chapter 22
Rothgar was finishing the hasty meal and being merciful by looking at Ingram’s designs for new liveries—which seemed to him little different than the ones in use now—when Sir George Ufton was announced. The stocky man hurried in, looking strangely pale. “My lord, thank the heavens you are here!”
“Sir George. What has happened?”
“Georgie! My son George. He’s been taken up as a horse thief!”
Rothgar guided the man to a chair and poured brandy for him. “Now, Sir George, tell me exactly what has happened.”
Uncharacteristically disordered in the telling, the story was quite simple. Young George had been passing the time at market day in Dingham by gaming at an inn—something his father would have words with him about. He’d lost to a horse trader, and agreed to pay part of his debt by delivering a horse to the next village.
The horse trader had then cried thief, and the local magistrate, Sir Hadley Commons—no great friend to the Uftons—was planning to hear the case within the hour.
As Sir George mopped his head, and drank his brandy, Rothgar considered the extraordinary situation. He was certain the young man was innocent, so this must be mischief. With what purpose? He couldn’t imagine Sir George having cunning enemies …
But he had.
The Uftons had been in London recently, had been presented by him. That made a connection …
D’Eon again. It had to be. Another attempt to draw him away from court. Another intolerable use of his innocent connections.
But this time, he thought with sudden interest, he was on the spot and might be able to catch D’Eon’s minion with red hands. It would be very useful to have someone in the enemy camp.
He rose. “I will go with you, Sir George, and help you sort this out. It cannot hold water.”
Sir George stood and wrung his hand, tears glimmering in his eyes. “Thank you, thank you, my lord. Thank heaven you were here today!”
“A blessing, indeed,” said Rothgar, guiding the anxious man out to the horses.
His horse and his two mounted grooms stood ready to take him on the first stage back to London. He hesitated for a moment. This mission killed all chance of that, unless he wanted to ride across Hownslow in the dark, which would be folly.
Return to London today had been folly anyway, and if matters were as he suspected, he could best serve Lady Arradale here.
They entered Dingham against a stream of people, carts, and animals. Market day was winding down and people were heading home.
The small town still bustled, however, for a fair number of people were topping off the day in the inns and taverns. Market day always ended that way, and with the magistrates tidying up the day’s misbehavior at the Anchor.
After leaving their horses with the grooms, they entered the inn past a woman receiving a summary whipping for thievery, watched by a cheering crowd. A glum-looking man stood under guard nearby, waiting his turn. Sir Hadley liked to keep the peace very firmly.
People made way immediately for the Marquess of Rothgar, and a whisper ran around the crowded room. Sir Hadley looked up sharply from where he sat in the middle of his bench of magistrates and frowned. But then he ignored them and went on with the questioning of an elderly man. The three magistrates conferred, then Commons pounded his gavel. “Guilty of giving short measure. Fine of three shillings or twenty lashes.”
Grumbling, the o
ld man pulled some coins out of a purse, paid his fine, and hurried away.
George Ufton was called next. “You will see, Sir George,” said Sir Hadley, “that I held back your son’s case until your return, as requested.”
Though it was not said pleasantly, Sir George nodded. “Obliged, Commons.”
The magistrate inclined his head to Rothgar. “My lord marquess. You have an interest in this case?”
“I always have an interest in justice, Sir Hadley. Proceed.”
Rothgar knew ways to take command of a place, and he used them now, though he stayed to one side of the room, observing. The accuser, the horse trader, was the most likely villain, but D’Eon was subtle, and whoever had set this up must have been lingering in the area waiting for a chance. It could be a local man. Whoever it was, he would have him soon.
For my lady, he thought, wryly amused at his inability to keep his mind from drifting to her. This was the evening of her first day at court. He wondered how she was surviving, and whether the king had questioned her yet …
He realized that young George had been brought out, and shook his head. You will be no use to your lady, he told his foolish half, if you cannot observe, plan, and be logical.
The young man looked rumpled and frightened, though he was making an admirable attempt to be dignified. His hair ribbon had gone so his hair tangled loose, and somewhere he’d fought, for his nose had been bloodied and his lip split. When he saw his father a touching mix of shame and relief shone in him.
Seventeen, and despite his predicament, a son to be proud of.
Sons. Sons like the drummer boy, with Diana’s clear eyes and stubborn chin. Daughters with lopsided ribbons—
He pushed such thoughts away and paid attention. The accusation had been stated, and the accuser was explaining his complaint. Stringle, the horse trader.
Rothgar assessed the man. Not local but not obviously suspicious, either. A good, solid Englishman, but then D’Eon would hardly use a Frenchman for this.
Middling height, middling build, square face, and wearing decent but well-worn clothes. He told his story simply, and with a suitable sorrow at being caught up in such events.