Bedazzled

by Bertrice Small

  Deverall Leigh, somewhat amazed by the efficiency of the Kiras, took out the inventory slip that he had prepared in Naples and checked it over. “Everything is here,” he said finally. “The gold is on deposit, I take it, Master Kira.”

  “It is, my lord,” said the banker with a smile. “Now, then, you will need a private audience with King Charles, will you not?”

  “I will,” he had replied.

  “It will be arranged. The duke of Buckingham’s family does business with this house.” He looked into the still-opened jewel chest and plucked a large, round diamond forth. “Set in gold, a nice gift for the king, don’t you think?” he said. “And a crucifix of gold, rubies, and pearls for the queen, I believe will be quite suitable.”

  “I shall leave it all in your obviously capable hands,” Deverall Leigh replied. “Where am I to stay, Master Kira, and how long must I remain in London? As you can imagine, I am anxious to see my father.”

  “It will take a few days, my lord, to arrange an audience with the king for you. It would be better if you remained here as my guest. I do not want you out wandering the streets where you might be seen until you have been pardoned by the king and are free to do so without danger of arrest.”

  He had been grateful to the Kiras, and gladly accepted their hospitality. He was well treated. Several days later, he was presented with a new suit of black velvet, the doublet of which had an exquisite fallen lace collar. Each leg of his knee breeches had a wide silver ribbon garter with a black-and-silver bow. His doublet was trimmed with silver buttons, and the fine cambric of his shirt shone through the slashes on the puffed sleeves. White silk stockings were worn below where his breeches ended, and his black leather shoes sported silver rosettes. He had silver lace trimming his white leather gloves. His hair was short, and contrary to the fashion, he wore no beard or mustache. One side of his face was perfect in profile, but the scar running from his eye to his mouth on the left side of his visage gave him a menacing yet tragic appearance.

  He rode to Whitehall Palace in a coach provided him by his hosts. He was met by a gentleman of the court in debt to the Kiras, a member of the duke of Buckingham’s family, who took him to a private apartment. He was told to wait. Shortly afterward the king arrived. He listened to Deverall Leigh’s tale, and accepted the confession that Adrian Leigh had dictated before his death. Charles Stuart read the parchment, and then he arose, requesting that his guest remain until he returned. There was wine, and there were biscuits to be had.

  Deverall Leigh waited. He poured himself a half a goblet of wine, but ignored the biscuits. He paced back and forth for a time, and finally sat by the fire wondering what the king’s decision would be. Would he accept Adrian’s confession, or would he hang Deverall Leigh? It had begun to rain outside. He watched the droplets running down the leaded pane windows as the fire crackled noisily. Finally the door to the privy chamber opened, and the king reappeared. Deverall Leigh jumped to his feet, bowing low.

  Charles Stuart’s mouth twitched, but his mouth was serious when he spoke. “I have spoken with my counselors, Viscount,” he began. “We are agreed that the confession you have brought us is genuine. Given your stepmother’s reputation, it is entirely possible that it happened just as your unfortunate younger brother has dictated. We regret his death, of course. It has also been noted that while you might have been considered an impetuous youth, you were never known to be violent. Nor were you considered dull-witted, and given Lady Clinton’s notoriety, it is considered unthinkable that you would have killed another man for her favors, which were so readily available to all. We understand your fright at the incident, and your belief that it was necessary to flee England given the fact that the alleged murder weapon belonged to you. Ground glass and hair. It is an interesting choice.”

  “It is a method that was developed in Naples,” Deverall Leigh said.

  “Ahhh, yes,” the king replied. “And, of course, your stepmother comes from Naples. It would have never been considered, my lord. Perhaps you were wise, indeed, to flee England; and you have certainly had your share of adventures. I imagine you will find life in Glocestershire quite dull after all you have been through. You will want to marry, of course.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, if I am pardoned,” Deverall Leigh responded.

  “If you are pardoned? God’s blood! Did I not say it? No! I did not say it, or you would not have asked. Aye! You are fully pardoned, Viscount Twyford. My secretary is even now drawing up the papers for you so you will have no difficulty with the local sheriff. Now, is there some pretty lady who has been awaiting you all these years?”

  “No, my lord. In my youth, I fear, I was far too interested in sowing wild oats than seeking out a respectable woman to wed. Now, however, I must begin my search. When I was at court years ago, I saw a pretty little maid who would, of course, be grown and of an age to wed, if she has not already wed. Her name is Lady India Anne Lindley.”

  “You aim high, my lord,” the king said. “Lady Lindley is my nephew’s half-sister, and a considerable heiress. Still, it is my recollection that she was quite flighty, and could not decide upon a husband. I believe her family took her back to Scotland. I have not heard, however, that she is married. My nephew would have said so if she were. He lives here at court with us now. She must be at least twenty. I would seek a younger wife if I were you.”

  “I will take Your Majesty’s advice under consideration,” Deverall said in a noncommittal tone. Then he reached into his doublet, and drew forth two velvet bags. “I have brought this for Your Majesty,” he said, proffering the royal purple velvet bag, “and this for Her Majesty.” He handed the second bag, this one of white velvet, to the king.

  Charles Stuart plucked the round diamond which had been set in gold with three carved gold plumes behind it, and designed as a pin, from its bag. He held it up, admiring it, and then pinned it to his doublet. “A fine piece, my lord,” he approved. Then he drew forth the queen’s gift, and a small chuckle escaped him. “For a man who has been away from England for a time, you understand my wife better than I do, sir. She will indeed esteem your gift.” He slid the pearl-and-ruby crucifix on its gold chain back into the white velvet bag.

  The king’s secretary had come in then with his pardon. He was given the rolled parchment with its royal seals and dismissed.

  “You are free to go home now, my lord. Godspeed,” were the king’s last words to him.

  He left London that day, and a week later, beheld Oxton Court for the first time in eleven years. His father wept upon seeing him and learning of his pardon for the crime he had not committed. His stepmother wept upon learning of Adrian’s death, but afterward she came to his room and attempted to seduce him as she had of old. He spurned her, telling her what he had not told his father. That the king knew the truth of Lord Jeffers’s murder, and if anything happened to him, she would be hung. MariElena Leigh was not a particularly intelligent woman. This man was not the easily gulled boy she remembered. This man was a dangerous creature, and she was afraid for the first time in her life. From that moment on, she went out of her way to avoid him, and when their paths did cross, she was deferential toward him.

  His father died a month later, worn out but content that his favorite son was free to assume the duties of the next earl of Oxton. His stepmother was now terrified as to what would happen to her. She learned her fate in short order. A royal messenger arrived with an edict of banishment. MariElena di Carlo Leigh would be sent back to her family in Naples, and never allowed to set foot in England again.

  “You will have a yearly allowance, madame, paid to the banking house of Benjamino Kira, upon which you may draw. The deposits will be made quarterly,” Deverall Leigh told his stepmother coldly. “Be glad I have not killed you for what you have done to my family. My father might have lived many more years, and my unfortunate brother, too, had it not been for your behavior. You may take your clothing, and any jewelry that my father gave you, but not family pieces.” An
d he had searched her luggage prior to her departure with her wizened one-eyed servant woman who had originally come with her from Naples. Because she was dishonest by nature, he had removed not only several valuable family pieces from amid her possessions but also a pair of silver-and-gold candlesticks given his family by King Henry VIII. Sophia, the serving woman, had muttered curses at him under her breath. He then sent the two on their way to London, where they were put on a vessel bound for Naples by an escort from the Kira bank, who personally watched as the ship sailed down the Thames with the dowager countess of Oxton aboard.

  Now it was Deverall Leigh turned his attention to the matter of that faithless bitch, India Lindley. He approached her father by his intermediaries, and was quite surprised to have his offer of marriage quickly accepted. In turn, he easily agreed to their conditions that India’s wealth remain in India’s hands, and she continue to manage it as she saw fit. The dowry was twice what he expected, and just to see how far he might push his future in-laws, he had requested a breeding stallion and eleven mares from their horse farms in either Ireland or Queen’s Malvern. His request was accepted, the contracts signed, the dowry delivered, and the proxy marriage celebrated. His bride had left her home in Scotland several weeks ago, and was expected any time at Oxton Court.

  Deverall Leigh rode into his stableyard, and dismounted his horse. Soon he would have her in his power again, and she would regret that she ever played him false. Of course she would not recognize him, for Deverall Leigh, smooth-shaven and scarred, with his clipped English accent, was not Caynan Reis, with his elegant beard and soft French accent. No. She would not know him, for he was an entirely different man now. A man who knew better than to trust, or love any woman. He would not be patient this time. He would bring Lady India Anne Lindley to heel like any bitch in his kennels. And he would never again give her the opportunity to betray him. He would kill her first. After he learned what she had done with their child.

  Chapter 20

  When India’s train reached the designated spot on the Scots and English border where they were to meet the earl of Oxton’s men, they found twenty men-at-arms. The earl’s captain took one look at the bride’s party, and shook his head.

  “I can’t be responsible for such a great muck,” he said frankly. His eye scanned the baggage carts. “Fifteen! What the hell is the lass bringing to Oxton Court?”

  “Watch yer mouth,” Red Hugh, the duke’s captain, warned the Englishman. “Her ladyship is a great heiress, and nae some wee creature of little worth. Yer master’s a lucky man to hae our mistress as his countess. I expect like most men he dinna realize a bride coming to her husband packs everything she owns, and my mistress owns a great deal, as ye can see,” he finished with a small chuckle.

  “And horses, too!” the earl’s man said.

  “How safe is the road to Oxton?” Red Hugh demanded.

  “Safe as any nowadays,” the Englishman replied.

  Red Hugh grunted thoughtfully. Finally he said, “We canna allow ye to attempt to take her ladyship to Oxton wi so small a force. I’ll send some of my men home, and the rest of us will go wi ye as far as Queen’s Malvern in Worcester, where her ladyship means to rest a few days before greeting her new husband.”

  “I’d be damned grateful for your company,” the earl’s man said, relieved. “Fifteen baggage carts, and all those horses is far more than I was expecting. I thought a coach, and perhaps one cart.”

  Red Hugh, Diarmid’s uncle, sent twenty of the Glenkirk men back home to the duke, explaining the dilemma faced by the English escort. He knew that James Leslie would have expected him to do just what he did. The bridal party moved down into England, traveling at a good pace, but not so quickly that the carts could not keep up with the riders.

  When they had at last reached Queen’s Malvern, India sent the baggage carts and horses on to Oxton, but stopped in her brother’s house to rest from her journey. She was delighted to find her sixteen-year-old sibling, the duke of Lundy, in residence. Brother and sister greeted each other warmly, hugging.

  “Why aren’t you at court?” India asked.

  Charles Frederick Stuart rolled his eyes dramatically. “I couldn’t take a moment more of it, India. The queen and Buckingham squabble over the king’s attention and favor like two children. I don’t know which of them is worse. I asked my uncle’s permission to come home to Queen’s Malvern to see my estates, although there is really nothing to see. They are all well taken care of, and I have nothing to do but hunt with Henry, and visit with him over at Cadby. Still, it is a pleasant change from court, where I am stalked constantly by ambitious mamas, forever thrusting their nubile daughters at me. I am too young to marry, as I keep telling them, but all those damned women see is my royal connections, my dukedom, and my fortune. It is really quite annoying, sister. When the right time comes, I shall pick my own bride.”

  India laughed, and, seating herself in a chair next to the fire, stretched her legs out. “How tragic for you to be so handsome, rich, and sought after, Charlie.”

  “Am I handsome, do y’think?” he asked her ingenuously.

  “Very handsome,” she replied.

  “They say I look like my sire,” he told her proudly.

  India looked closely at her younger brother. “Aye, you do,” she agreed. “I remember Prince Henry well. He was always so kind to us. It was sad when he died shortly after you were born.”

  “I would have liked to know him, but of course if he had lived, he couldn’t have married Mama anyway, being old King James’s heir, and Mama’s bloodline not quite up to royal snuff.”

  “Mama was a royal Mughal princess,” India said defensively. “Her father’s family is just as old, and their blood as blue as that of the Royal Stuarts.”

  “Aye,” Charlie responded affably, “but the Mughal Empire ain’t England.”

  His sister laughed. “Aye, you’re right,” she told him.

  He poured them goblets of wine, and they sat together for a time. “Tell me about this earl you’ve married?” he said.

  “I know nothing about him really,” India said. “He made an offer, and the duke of Glenkirk snapped at it like a hungry trout to a fly. He was quite eager to rid himself of me, Charlie.”

  “Tell me what happened?” the duke of Lundy asked his sister. “You disappeared for a time, and while Mama said you were first here and then there, I think it not the truth. And you are angry at Papa. Why, India? You were always his especial pet. What has happened to change all that? Tell me. I will keep your secrets, sister.”

  She told him everything in detail. Her attempted elopement. Her capture. Her resistance to Caynan Reis that grew slowly into a deep love for the dey of El Sinut. How their cousin had kidnapped her, and how she had learned of her husband’s untimely death. She told of her return home, and the duke’s decision to hide her away at A-Cuil, and his taking her son from her after Rowan was born. “I will never forgive him, Charlie. Considering the history of this family, how could he have done such a thing?”

  “And then he jumped at the earl of Oxton’s marriage offer,” the young duke said. He shook his head. “I wish I could tell you something of the man, India, but other than the gossip surrounding Deverall Leigh’s flight from England, and sudden return last year, I know nothing. He keeps to himself.”

  “It doesn’t really matter,” India said. “He is now my husband. The only way I could escape Glenkirk was to marry, and this man seemed as good a choice as any. His reputation is lightly tarnished, and so certainly he cannot mind if mine is, too.”

  “You may remain at Queen’s Malvern as long as you like,” her brother said to her. “I am happy for your company.”

  “Just a few days so I am well rested and able to cope with whatever I must face at Oxton,” India told him.

  Henry Lindley, the nineteen-year-old marquis of Westleigh, arrived the following morning. “I’ve come to stay until we escort India to her new husband at Oxton,” he announced, kissing his
sister soundly on both cheeks. “You’ve grown thin, lovey. Tell me what has happened.”

  They sat together in the family hall at Queen’s Malvern eating baked apples and clotted cream while India told Henry what she had told Charlie the evening before. Her brother listened, his handsome face impassive but for his eyes, which mirrored his emotions.

  “You’ve had a hard time of it,” he said when she had finally concluded her tale. “I agree that our stepfather was harsh, but I can also understand his fear that you not be considered marriageable after such an adventure. Times have changed since our great-grandmother and her contemporaries’ day. The Puritans are gaining power. They would call you a fallen woman, and make your life and your son’s a misery, India,” he concluded with a small smile. He was a very handsome young man with his father’s tawny hair matching his Van Dyke mustache, and their mother’s turquoise blue eyes.

  “I might have known you would take his side,” India said, half angry.

  Henry Lindley shook his head. “I take no one’s side, sister. As a man, however, I understand the duke’s difficulty. If the truth had been known, both you and the child would have been ostracized. Your son ain’t no royal Stuart, after all, and Mama barely got away with it herself, but that Prince Henry’s parents were soft-hearted.” Reaching out, he patted her hand. “Set your mind to making a new start, lovey, and mayhap you will get your child back if this husband you’ve taken falls in love with you, which he is bound to do if you will but smile and half try.”

  “And just when do you plan to take a wife, brother dear?” India cooed at him.

  The marquis of Westleigh rolled his eyes. “God’s blood, lovey. I ain’t ready to settle down yet. Charlie and I have a few more oats to sow,” he chuckled.

  “You’ve been to court?” India was surprised.

  “The winters are dull at Cadby,” the marquis pronounced. “Aye, I spent the winter at court, and what a time of it it was. The parliament and the king constantly fighting over the muck-up that’s been made in the war with Spain, and the fact that parliament don’t think enough has been done to help the French Protestants. I sat in Lords a few times, and what I’ve heard was enough to keep me down here in the country in the future. Charles Stuart is a good man, but a terrible king, I regret to say.”