“There are certain occupational hazards with which one must simply come to terms.”
“What is your occupation precisely?” demanded Henrietta.
“Right now? Seeing you into my carriage.”
Charlotte left them to their bickering. At least, Henrietta was bickering. The Frenchman was baiting. Whatever one chose to call it, it was keeping him nicely occupied. No one was paying the least bit of attention to her, including her own guard, who marched her along with the nonchalance of a groom with a particularly placid old mare. He was undoubtedly thinking about something else, like a warm fire or hot ale or whatever it was that ruffians thought about when they weren’t being ruffianly. His grip had gone decidedly slack.
Knowing she only had one chance, Charlotte stomped down hard on his foot and drove an elbow into his stomach.
His boots were considerably harder than her heel. Surprise more than pain was her ally. In a reflex reaction, he loosed his hold on her wrists. Pulling away, Charlotte flung herself to the ground, rolling beneath his grasping hands. Above her, she could hear shouting and feet slipping on the wet grasses.
Charlotte kept rolling, clawing inelegantly at her skirts as she went, fumbling for the pistol snagged in her garter. Already sagging, the garter snapped, sending her stocking sagging down and releasing the pistol into her grasp. Scooting back on her behind, one arm braced behind her, Charlotte hefted the gun, angling it at the men rushing towards her. They abruptly stopped rushing. Pointing the gun first at one, then another, Charlotte levered herself slowly to her feet, never allowing the point of the pistol to drop, even though the muscles in her forearm and shoulder burned at the strain. Her right stocking flopped around her ankle. It seemed like such a small annoyance under the circumstances, and such a very odd thing of which to be so aware.
There would be no pulling it up now, though. Charlotte picked her target, pointing her pistol in the direction of the man holding the King. “Give me the King,” she said.
The Frenchman regarded her with something very like fraternal annoyance. “Really, Lady Charlotte, must you? Put down the gun.”
“Put down the King,” Charlotte countered, keeping her gaze firmly on her target. “Then I’ll put down the gun.”
The man’s eyes flickered to his master in silent question. He looked as though he would have liked nothing better than to drop his sovereign and run.
That, thought Charlotte giddily, was what you got when you hired help on the cheap.
She gentled her voice, speaking directly to the man with the King, as she might have to an animal in the gardens of Girdings. “If you put down the King, you won’t get hurt.”
“He won’t get hurt, in any event.” The Frenchman’s voice was as urbane as ever, but there was a tinge of annoyance under it. “That gun isn’t loaded.”
Charlotte drew herself up proudly. “Would you be willing to wager a man’s life on that?”
The Frenchman looked her up and down. He smiled with disarming humor. “Frankly, yes.” He had a dimple in his left cheek. Who had ever heard of a spy with a dimple? Charlotte disapproved. “If it is loaded—which I very much doubt—you wouldn’t fire it. You would never risk hitting the King. Unless you are, much to my surprise, a crack shot, you run a very good chance of doing so.”
“I was raised in the country,” said Charlotte defiantly. He didn’t need to know that her version of country pursuits had been sitting in the garden with a book.
Or perhaps he did know. It might be the way the gun was making her hands tremble, or the fact that she was holding it a full foot away from her body.
The Frenchman sighed. “Put the gun down, Lady Charlotte, and come along like a good girl. Peter?”
That was the outer end of enough. Unfortunately, Charlotte didn’t quite know what to do with a gun. She knew that there was something called priming that had to be accomplished before the weapon could be fired, and she believed it involved powder, but whether that powder was already there or needed to be added remained a mystery to her. And there was no time to find out. Obedient to his master, Peter lunged for her arm. So Charlotte did the only thing she could do. She threw the gun at the Frenchman’s head.
Her throw went wild, of course.
So did Charlotte’s foot. The force of the motion sent her skidding on the wet grass, flinging her backwards into her would-be captor, who went sprawling backwards beneath her onto the ground, all tangled up with Charlotte’s skirts. He broke the fall rather nicely.
Over the steady cursing of her unwilling human mattress, Charlotte could hear Robert’s voice, shouting, “There! That way! Follow the noise!”
Charlotte scrambled off her assailant, kicking him as he grabbed at her. In the confusion, Henrietta had also broken free of her captor. She dealt him a blow to his nose with the flat of her hand that sent him reeling backwards into the trunk of a tree.
Even in the dark, the Frenchman’s distorted face was a glorious thing to behold. Ha! He had never expected that, had he? To be fair, neither had she. She had been aiming at the Frenchman’s head. Instead, the gun had landed on his foot. Apparently, a falling gun could hurt rather a lot. Hopping on one foot, he was cursing far more inventively than the other men, in a selection of modern and classical languages.
Into the midst of it all charged Robert, Miles, and Lieutenant Fluellen. Nothing had ever sounded more welcome to Charlotte’s ears than the thunder of feet as the cavalry charged down the hill, hooting and yelling and not really saying anything in particular but making a great deal of very martial-sounding noise. They were literally steaming in the cold night air, like a whole troupe of fire-breathing dragons, steam rising off their skin and their breath showing in ragged puffs. Two of the Frenchman’s band broke and fled at the sight. At least, they tried to flee. Like a terrier on the scent, Miles set out in hot pursuit. Tommy dispatched Henrietta’s staggering assailant with a swift punch that sent him reeling into a tree.
Robert charged towards Charlotte, breathing fire at the man who was trying, rather halfheartedly, to grab her arms. Charlotte suspected the Frenchman hadn’t paid him terribly well. At the sight of Robert, he gave up altogether, breaking and running in the direction of the woods.
“The King!” Charlotte shouted, jumping and pointing. “Robert, the King!”
He didn’t need to be told twice. Neither did the man holding the King. Making a quick assessment of his options, he shoved the King at Robert. Robert’s arms closed around the bundle in a reflex reaction.
“Take him! He’s yours!” the man gabbled, and scrabbled off into the woods, following his fleeing colleagues.
“What in the—?” began Robert.
“Hired help,” explained Charlotte breathlessly. “The real culprit is—oh, drat.”
While they were otherwise occupied, the Frenchman had made his own somewhat lopsided run for it, hitching and hopping his way towards his carriage at a surprisingly impressive speed for a man who appeared to have the use of only one foot. Charlotte wondered if she had broken his toe. With an arrogant wave, the Frenchman swung himself through the open door, snapping his fingers at his coachman. The coachman cracked the reins even before the door was fully closed. Charlotte could see the Frenchman’s disembodied arm sticking out of the compartment, yanking the swaying door closed as the carriage lurched into movement.
Robert took two long strides forward, remembered he was holding the King, and skittered to a halt, looking miffed. Miles dropped the man he was punching and gave chase, but it was too late; the horses were picking up speed.
As the carriage drew away, the Frenchman leaned head and shoulders through the window. In the light of the carriage lamps, Charlotte could see the white of his teeth as he grinned at them, a rogue’s grin, unrepentant and entirely infectious. Despite herself, Charlotte could feel herself grinning back. And why not? Even if he had escaped, they had won. They had the King.
“I wish you joy of your King!” he called through the window. His voice whistled
back on the wind, rich with amusement. “I never really wanted him, anyway.”
Charlotte couldn’t be quite sure, but she thought he winked at them.
“Of all the cheek!” Henrietta exclaimed furiously. “Next time, take the Prince of Wales!” she shouted, but the Frenchman was already out of range, the sound of his horses’ hooves fading.
“Really, Hen,” remonstrated Miles, but his arm was tight around her shoulders as he said it and his voice was muffled from being buried in her hair.
The others all melted into insignificance as Robert approached Charlotte, bearing the King in his arms like Sir Walter Raleigh gifting Queen Elizabeth with foreign treasure.
“I brought you something,” he said, and there was something in his expression that hurt to view. “Not quite a dragon’s head, but . . .”
Charlotte dropped her eyes from the expression in his. It was safer to concentrate on the King, to ignore whatever else it was that Robert was offering along with the bundle in his arms. She was a coward, she knew. But what was cowardice but another term for prudence? What she didn’t acknowledge couldn’t hurt her. At least, not too much.
Evading the question, Charlotte dropped to her knees beside the King. “Your Majesty?” she whispered, reaching out to the wasted figure in Robert’s arms. She could be constant to her King, even if she couldn’t trust Robert to be constant to her. “Your Majesty?”
The rheumy eyes opened, trying pitifully to find a focus. His fingers tightened feebly around hers, like those of a child who hadn’t yet quite learned the use of his limbs. “Emily?” he croaked.
Chapter Thirty
“Do come in, Lady Charlotte,” commanded the King. Charlotte stood in the door of the Queen’s crimson drawing room, dazzled by far more than the double branches of candles that created patches of brilliance amid the late afternoon dusk.
It was a far cry from her last sight of the room, that very morning in the dark before dawn, when they had borne the unconscious King through the door. There had been flurry and excitement and torches flaming and the Queen with her gray hair hanging all down her back and a robe flung hastily over her nightdress. Charlotte could still see the flashes of flame behind her eyes, the billowing white nightgowns, the pale, distorted faces of the Princesses as their father was carried before them into the Queen’s chambers.
A mere twelve hours later, it all had the quality of a dream, everything colored in shades of gray, faces blurry, voices muted. Standing behind their parents, the Princesses were exquisitely gowned and coiffed, bearing no resemblance at all to the desperate, disheveled creatures who had flocked about like the chorus of a Greek tragedy the night before.
The King was himself again; clean and shaven, he had traded his straight waistcoat for his scarlet coat with gold facings. The Order of the Garter once more glittered boldly on his breast. Beside him, diamonds glimmered in the Queen’s turban, on her twisted fingers, in the folds of her fichu. Charlotte’s grandmother had ranged herself by the Queen’s side, claiming a prerogative that was not hers by right, and the jewels of Dovedale glared just as fiercely from her wrists and neck, as if in competition with the Queen. But all of them faded into insignificance against the man who stood by her grandmother’s right hand, lace at his wrists and throat, his hair gold as a Viking’s treasure in the glare of the candles.
“Majesty.” Charlotte sank deep into a curtsy, wishing she had worn proper Court dress, feeling plain and drab and painfully aware that her hair hadn’t been washed for two days. There had been no time to bathe when the royal summons came, only a scrabble to drag herself yawning from bed and into a dress, fuzzy-headed and stupid from sleeping in the middle of the day.
“Come in, come in.” The King gestured her imperiously forwards, and if his hand trembled, it was nothing worth being too worried about. “You, as well,” he added, to her companions, as Miles and Henrietta made their obeisance behind her.
Robert must have received a like summons. She belatedly noticed that his friend, Lieutenant Fluellen, stood beside him. His regimentals were brighter than Robert’s plum coat, his hair just as well brushed, his buttons and buckles polished to a royal sheen, but he still faded into insignificance next to his friend. When Robert was there, he tended to blot out other men, like the sun eclipsing the moon. Charlotte did not need an astrologer’s chart to know that it was a planetary conjunction that boded ill for her heart.
Gesturing to Robert and Lieutenant Fluellen, the King had them fall in line with the others so that the five adventurers stood ranged before him, all in a row. Sandwiched between Miles and Lieutenant Fluellen, Charlotte couldn’t see Robert at all. Masculine shoulders blocked her view to either side.
“We owe you a deep debt of gratitude,” began the King, the formality of his words a deep contrast with the relative informality of the setting.
It was a very odd sort of award ceremony, in the room in the Queen’s House with only the royal daughters as witness. It was, Charlotte realized, as much a bribe for their silence as a gift for services rendered. It would be very embarrassing for the King should the truth ever come out. It would be more than embarrassing, in fact. Should the Prince of Wales ever get hold of the truth, he might use it to sow rumors that the King wasn’t the King at all, but an actor, replacing the still kidnapped King. It might be untrue, but doubt could cause its own dangers. Detachedly, she appreciated the cleverness of the King’s choice, rewarding and containing all at the same time.
There might be no fanfare, no public presentation of honors, but royal favor flowed like honey through the King’s lips, as he promised a captain’s commission for Lieutenant Fluellen, honorary posts as gentlemen of the bedchamber for Robert and Miles. He made them gifts of royal miniatures, enamel portraits of himself set into stickpins for the gentlemen, bracelets for the ladies.
Charlotte kept her head modestly lowered and concentrated on the pattern of the floorboards. She could see the tips of Robert’s shoes out of the corner of her eye. The polished black leather moved back and forth like the hooves of a horse at the starting gate, fidgeting with impatience.
“And now,” said the King, when the last stickpin had been fastened, the last honor bestowed, “I understand my Lord of Dovedale craves a special boon.”
A rustle of interest quivered through the room as the King leaned back in his chair, beaming benevolently at Robert. From her position in the middle of the line, Charlotte could only hear the swish of Robert’s coat as he swept into a bow and catch a fleeting glimpse of gold as his head bent in obeisance to the King. That something was about to happen, Charlotte was quite sure—but what? Miles was as confused as she was, staring with frank interest, but the Queen exuded patient kindness and the Dowager burned with a fierce and inexplicable triumph, incandescent as a Roman candle.
Robert’s voice rang out clear and strong. “With Your Majesties’ pleasure, the boon I ask of you is the hand of Lady Charlotte Lansdowne.”
Charlotte’s ears rang as though she had been holding her breath for too long underwater in the bath.
Tactfully—or by prearrangement—the others fell back. Charlotte found herself standing adrift and conspicuous in a sea of empty parquet as Robert smiled a victor’s smile and extended his hand to her.
Behind their mother’s throne, the Princesses were all crying and whispering; the Queen inclined her head at Charlotte in unspoken encouragement; and the King beamed with paternal pleasure as though he personally had arranged the match. As Charlotte stood there, frozen, Henrietta gave Charlotte a light push, propelling her forwards into the line of Robert’s outstretched hand.
“A most economical outcome, eh, what?” chuckled the King. “To reward you both in one gift. What say you, Lady Charlotte?”
Charlotte stared at Robert as though she had never seen him before. The delighted cries and whispers of the others clamored at her ears like the caws of jackdaws; the jewels and smiles and candles all blurred together in nightmare shapes like carnival masks, too bright, to
o gaudy, too much. She watched expectation flicker to confusion on Robert’s face as he held out his hand, more imperiously now.
She should take it, she knew. That was how the story was supposed to end. She was supposed to take his hand and then the bells would ring and the people would cheer and throughout the kingdom the very birds would fly into the air with rejoicing.
“Charlotte?” Robert wriggled his fingers.
Everyone was watching, waiting. Charlotte saw her grandmother’s face harden in unspoken warning. She knew what she was expected to do, she who had always done everything that was expected of her. Until now.
Charlotte took a stumbling step back, bumping right into Henrietta, who let out a startled oof. The homely sound broke the spell, shattering the fairy tale into egg-shell fine slivers.
“No,” Charlotte croaked, never taking her eyes from Robert’s face. “With your pardon, Majesties, I—no.”
Her grandmother stalked forwards like a malevolent fairy, proving she could move swiftly enough when the spirit moved her. At the moment, that spirit was pure rage. “No?” the Dowager growled. “No?”
The King waved the Dowager to silence. “A lady wants some wooing, what?” he said sympathetically, and his words had all the force of a royal command. “Dovedale—”
Charlotte felt a hysterical urge to laugh well up in her throat. So she was to be the subject of a royally mandated wooing, was she? She wondered if court etiquette set certain time bounds to the activity. Was she meant to succumb after five minutes, or might one successfully resist for ten without exciting the King’s anger?
His face carefully bland, Robert swept another bow. “With pleasure, Your Majesty. Lady Charlotte?”
Rather than create another scene, Charlotte took the arm offered her. Robert’s muscles told a different story than his mouth; beneath her fingers, his body was quivering with tension. Anger? Perhaps that, too. He had a right to it, having just been refused in front of not only his friends, but his monarch.
Pink Carnation 05 - The Temptation of the Night Jasmine Page 40