Darling Jasmine

by Bertrice Small

  Two days later, before the dawn had even begun to tint the eastern skies, Thistlewood, the de Marisco coachman, climbed up onto the box of his mistress’s great traveling coach where his assistant already waited. “Well, me boy,” he said, his breath coming in icy little puffs, “we’re off for France we are. At least this day appears to be coming on fair, but Jesu, ’tis cold!” He settled himself and, turning, asked the younger man, “Are ye ready then?” And at his companion’s nod, Thistlewood cracked his whip over the horses’ heads. The coach lurched forward, moving slowly down the drive of Queen’s Malvern toward the main road and southeast toward the coast.

  In London the earl of Lynmouth found his friend, the earl of Glenkirk, at Whitehall Palace. “Are you in the mood to bring a wily vixen to heel, Jemmie?” he asked, a wicked smile upon his lips.

  “You know where she is?” James Leslie replied, his tone cold.

  “No, but if you are quick, I know how you may find her,” Robin Southwood replied. Then he went on to explain that his stepfather had died, and Skye had said she would go to France to tell Jasmine.

  “In the spring?” James Leslie said. “Then there is time.”

  “My mother said in the spring, but she is guileful as always. I would wager she’ll be on the road now, racing for the coast, because she knows full well that on my way home I have come to London to tell you. I set two riders on my brother Murrough, who did not go straight home as he said, but rather has headed for Harwich according to information I received today. Mama will cross to Calais from there. You must get to Dover so you may intercept her and follow her to wherever my niece has hidden herself.”

  The earl of Glenkirk’s green eyes narrowed in contemplation. Thanks to Robin Southwood, he was finally to catch up with the recalcitrant dowager marchioness of Westleigh, Jasmine de Marisco Lindley. A woman he had once believed himself in love with, but whom he had learned to hate these past twenty-one months since she had made him the laughingstock of the court by jilting him in the face of King James’s order that they marry. Worse, she had taken the king’s grandson, the late Prince Henry’s infant, their child, with her. Yet the king had appointed Glenkirk the boy’s legal guardian. But now for the first time in almost two years he had a serious chance of catching Jasmine, and this time, he instinctively knew he would catch her.

  He had known she was in France all along, but the three times he had crossed the Channel to entrap her she was always gone, and her French relations always claimed no knowledge of her, shrugging in that particularly irritating Gallic way the French had. Yet his informants were his own relations who had married into France. They had played a very crafty cat and mouse game these many months, but somehow Jasmine always knew when he was coming, and was gone, with her children, before he could reach her. This time it would be different because no one knew he was coming. Because he would follow the old countess of Lundy right to Jasmine’s door. And then. He smiled wolfishly.

  “I take it,” Robin Southwood said, “that you are pleased with my information, my lord.”

  “Aye,” Glenkirk said.

  “One thing, my lord,” the earl of Lynmouth spoke in quiet, yet serious tones. “Charles Frederick Stuart is now the duke of Lundy, but Queen’s Malvern is my mother’s home, and has been for decades. You may take whatever vengeance you wish on my niece, Jasmine, but you will treat my mother with the dignity and respect to which she is entitled, and you will not dispossess her. If you render her any discourtesy, you will not have just me to contend with, my lord. Remember that BrocCairn is her son-in-law, and related to the king. And BrocCairn is Jasmine’s stepfather as well. And do not forget Alcester, Kempe, and Lord Burke. They would be most unhappy should mama be discommoded in any way.”

  The earl of Glenkirk gave his friend a frosty smile. “I am more than well aware of Madame Skye’s familial connections, Robin. I have no quarrel with your mother although I suspect she is more behind this than either of us knows. Besides, did you not know that Queen’s Malvern belongs to her outright. It is not entailed upon the title.”

  “Of course!” Robin said. “She and Adam bought it years ago from the queen. Bess was always short of money. While it was a royal property she loaned it to them. The old queen sold it to my mother and stepfather when she couldn’t pay her bills and needed the ready coin.”

  “So you need have to worry that your mother will come to live with you,” Glenkirk mocked his friend.

  “Live with me?” The earl of Lynmouth laughed. “My sister suggested to Mama that a widow of her many years should not live alone and insisted Mama come to live with her. Need I tell you the outcome of that altercation, Jemmie? My mother has done what pleased her since birth and will continue to do so until the day she dies, but between us I am not certain that God above wants her back too soon.”

  Glenkirk laughed loudly. “You may be right,” he said.

  Robin Southwood took his leave of James Leslie and continued on with his family to his home at Lynmouth in Devon. There he found his man but an hour ahead of him.

  “You was right, my lord,” the servant said. “Cardiff Rose was docked at Harwich, and was scheduled to put out today with the tide for France. Yer mother was expected aboard her. I passed her coach two days ago on the road as I left, but they wouldn’t recognize me now.”

  “Do you think James Leslie will find Jasmine this time?” Angel, the countess of Lynmouth, asked her husband.

  “If he didn’t dawdle he could have gotten to Dover and be in Calais before Mama,” the earl considered. “Even with a fair wind it will take her at least overnight from Harwich. The Dover crossing is far shorter, my love.” He patted her pretty hand.

  “Why did Madame Skye not take that route then, Robin?” she inquired, curious.

  “Because Mama would not want to come anywhere near London for fear of being recognized by someone, although there are few now at court who would know her. Still, she would not take the chance. She would risk the sea before she would risk being found out in her little deception. This time, however, she is doomed to failure.”

  “But surely Jemmie will not reveal himself to her until she is safely with Jasmine,” Angel said.

  “Nay, he will not,” Robin agreed. “Actually, I am not certain what he will do, but I believe my niece has made an enemy of the man who is to be her husband. She will have to work hard to win him back.”

  “I think,” Angel said, “that it is James Leslie who must put aside his pride and work hard to woo Jasmine, else their life together be a misery. Neither of them is easy.”

  Robin laughed. “You are a wise woman, sweetheart,” he told her. “And, you are beginning to sound like my mother.”

  “Why, Robin, what a lovely compliment,” Angel Southwood said, her eyes twinkling, her pretty mouth turned up in a smile.

  He chuckled. “With any other woman I might believe her to be sarcastic, but not you, my love. You actually are pleased I have said you remind me of Mama.”

  Angel nodded. “She is a grand woman, Robin!”

  “Aye,” the earl of Lynmouth agreed. “She is a grand woman, but dear heaven she is no less troublesome in her old age than she was as a girl.” He chortled again. “James Leslie is going to have his hands full with those two! I do not envy him his journey.”

  Chapter 2

  James Leslie had left London with his servant, Fergus More, almost immediately. They had embarked from Dover as the earl of Lynmouth had suggested and were waiting upon the docks when Cardiff Rose put into Calais. Standing in the shadows they watched as the vessel was made fast, its gangway run up, the unloading done. Skye’s great traveling coach had made the short journey lashed to the deck of the ship. Now it was carefully rolled off onto the land to the doors of a large warehouse. Immediately the doors were opened and sturdy horses brought forth to be harnessed to the vehicle. The activity in and about the coach held little interest for the earl of Glenkirk once it had begun. He watched the gangway, and eventually Madame Skye came forth, the
captain of her ship escorting her to her coach, her servants following.

  But only when she was settled in the conveyance, and her two coachmen up on their box, did the earl say quietly to his companion, “Time to mount up, Fergus. We dare not lose the old lady.”

  “There’s only one way off the docks, my lord,” Fergus replied. “Best we wait for her at the entry. Ye don’t want anyone seeing us following her, and there’s too many of her people here.”

  James Leslie nodded, and the two men discreetly led their mounts from the shadows and off the docks. Shortly afterward the coach rolled onto the street of the town, and the earl began his secret pursuit. From Calais they followed the road to Amiens, and then on to Paris. James Leslie was surprised at how intrepid a traveler his quarry was, considering her age. She lingered but a night at any inn, even in Paris, where he almost lost her, for she did not overnight at a public place, but rather at the home of one of her late husband’s relations. Taking the chance that she would not depart before her usual hour the following day, he found a nearby inn where he and Fergus might get a hot meal and a bed.

  “You was right,” Fergus said the next morning as they again picked up the chase.

  “She’s no fool,” the earl replied. “She’s anxious to get there, but she knows she needs her rest, and so do her horses. There’s no real need for haste although she’s certainly not dallying.”

  From Paris to Fontainebleau to Montargis to Orléans to Blois.

  “She is headed for Archambault,” the earl said.

  “We’ve been there before, and yer lady ain’t been there,” Fergus More noted. “Ye don’t think the old lady knows she’s being followed?”

  “We’ve been too careful,” James Leslie decided aloud.

  But they passed by the gates to Archambault, and through the château’s village. Finally, several miles from Archambault, the coach turned off on a narrow side road. James Leslie drew his horse to a stop. A light drizzle was falling, as it had been for the past few days. Silently he signaled with his hand for Fergus More to move forward carefully, so that their mounts were close together.

  “This road can only go one place,” he said softly. “To some sort of dwelling. We will wait and give Madame Skye time to reach her destination.” He drew his cloak about him. It was damnably chilly.

  “I saw a small inn back in the village,” Fergus said hopefully.

  The earl of Glenkirk shook his head. “Nay, I want no word of foreign strangers reaching this place until I have learned what is at the end of this little road. We’ll wait here.”

  Fergus sighed.

  They waited, and after a half an hour the earl deemed it safe for them to move down the narrow track. Several minutes later they rounded a bend, and before them was a small lake. Artfully set upon the shore so that it was surrounded by water on three sides was an exquisite little château. Built of flattened, rough-hewn blocks of reddish gray schist, the château had four polygonal towers crowned with dark slate roofs resembling witches’ caps, one at each corner of the building. Access could only be gained through a tall, well-fortified chatelet, which was flanked by rounded corbeled towers that rose on each side of the entry arch. The earl stopped, enchanted by the beauty before him. He could see a garden on the fourth side of the chateau with low stone walls keeping out the forest that lay beyond. Even in deepest winter it was absolutely lovely.

  “M’lord?” Fergus More spoke low.

  James Leslie signaled silently for them to move forward. The horses’ hooves echoed as they crossed the drawbridge and entered the courtyard, where the great traveling coach was now being unloaded. The servants looked curiously at the two travelers, but two stablelads hurried forward to take their horses, and the earl entered the building, his man behind him.

  “Jesu!” Thistlewood, coming out of the stables where he and his assistant had been seeing to their own horses, said. “That looks like the earl of Glenkirk!”

  “I thought we was being followed once or twice,” said his companion, then staggered with the blow the coachman gave him.

  “Ye daft lad! Why did ye not say something to me then?”

  “I wasn’t certain of it,” the younger man replied, rubbing his head. “It wasn’t until we left Paris, and this is a strange country.”

  Thistlewood shook his head wearily. Well, it wasn’t his business anyway. His old mistress would take care of any trouble that came their way. She always had, and age hadn’t slowed her down like it had the rest of them, he thought ruefully. “Let’s go to the kitchens and get something warm to drink and some food,” he told his assistant.

  Adali saw James Leslie first as he stood in the hallway of the château directing the servants with the luggage. His smooth face indicated immediate surprise, which he quickly masked, but not before the earl had seen it.

  James Leslie smiled wolfishly. “Tell your mistress I am here, Adali,” he ordered the man. “Wait! On second thought take me to your lady. I cannot take the chance that she will evaporate before I have even seen her.”

  “Follow me, my lord,” Jasmine’s most trusted servant said.

  The château had a small hall, to which Adali led the earl and his servant. It was a warm and cheerful room. Madame Skye was seated in a high-backed chair by one of the fireplaces, her boots by her side, a silver goblet in her hand, her stockinged feet to the blaze. Next to her Jasmine sat upon a stool, looking almost girlish, although she was now twenty-five, and the mother of four children. She was wearing her dark hair in a manner he could not remember seeing before. It was braided into a thick plait and twined with red ribbon. His gaze softened a moment, but then hardened with his resolve.

  “The earl of Glenkirk, my princess,” Adali said clearly.

  Jasmine, dowager marchioness of Westleigh, jumped to her feet, turning to face him.

  “You!” she spat angrily.

  “Aye, madame, ’tis I,” James Leslie said with understatement. “You have led me a fine chase, but ’tis over now.”

  “Get out of my house!” Jasmine shouted at him. “You have absolutely no jurisdiction over me. This is France, not England!”

  “I beg to differ, madame. The king of England ordered our marriage two years ago, and the king currently treats with King Louis in the matter of a marriage between Prince Charles and the king’s sister.”

  “King James seeks a Spanish match with the infanta, Doña Maria,” Jasmine snapped. “Even here in my backwater I know that!”

  “Would you like to argue the point with me, madame?” Glenkirk said. “You are the wife chosen for me by King James, and you will wed with me, madame. Remember, I am your children’s guardian.”

  “You are Charles Frederick Stuart’s guardian,” Jasmine replied, “although I do not know why the king felt he needed a guardian at all.”

  “Nay, madame, I am guardian of all your children now,” the earl said with devastating effect. “Your foolish and unruly behavior convinced the king that you were not fit to guide your bairns. I hold the future of not just Charles Frederick Stuart in my hands, but that of young Westleigh, Lady India, and Lady Fortune Lindley as well.”

  “You bastard!” Jasmine said furiously.

  “Nay, madame,” he replied mockingly. “My parents were betrothed for some months, and wed at least ten minutes before my birth.”

  Jasmine turned to her grandmother. “Madame, how could you bring him here? Is this why you have come? I shall never forgive you!”

  “I did not bring him, my dearest girl,” Skye said quietly.

  “I followed your grandmother from the moment she arrived in Calais,” the earl said.

  “Robin?” Skye asked him.

  He nodded. “He suspected you would not wait until spring,” James Leslie said. “He sent two servants to follow Captain O’Flaherty’s carriage, certain he would not go home but to Harwich instead.”

  Skye nodded, a small smile upon her lips. “Robert Southwood is indeed my son.” She chuckled. “And he has his father’s
guile.”

  “If you did not bring him here to Belle Fleurs, Grandmama, then why have you come?” Jasmine inquired.

  “Your grandfather is dead,” came the immediate reply.

  Jasmine gasped, and her eyes immediately filled with tears that flowed down her smooth cheeks. “Oh, Grandpapa,” she half whispered. Then she turned on the earl of Glenkirk. “This is all your fault!” she cried. “If you had not hounded me from England, I should have had these last few months with him! Now, I shall never see him again, and it is all because of you, James Leslie! I hate you! I hate you!”

  “Nay, madame,” he said in icy tones. “Whatever you have lost is your fault, not mine. You did not have to disobey the king and run from me almost two years ago. A marriage was arranged between us. I loved you. I was willing to give you all the time you needed to mourn Prince Henry Stuart’s death. I was not dragging you by force to the altar, Jasmine. You, however, took it upon yourself to gather up your children, and in direct defiance of King James’s order, decamp from England. I knew you were in France. Three times I came, but I could not find you, for your relations hid you well. Now, however, the game is up. We will return to England, where you will wed me in a large and public ceremony, standing before that same court who have found such amusement in the April Fool you made of me those many months back.”

  “I will not!” she said angrily.