by Mary Daheim
The servant had pursed his lips, but before he could respond, an exquisite young woman with raven-black hair and a perfect cupid’s bow mouth floated down the spiral staircase in a haze of silken ruffles and foamy lace. She stopped upon seeing Eden. “Who are you?” she asked in a lilting voice. Her lovely green eyes held a spark of curiosity that skewered both newcomers on the spot.
For all her newly acquired finery and artful coiffure, Eden felt indecently inadequate next to this cool, confident creature. “I’m Mistress Eden Berenger,” she repeated. “I’ve come to speak to you about a matter concerning … politics, Lady Harriet.” She chose the word carefully, not wanting this worldly noblewoman to think she would come calling on any lesser pretext.
“Politics?” The thick black lashes fluttered in apparent bewilderment, though at the subject or the speaker, Eden was not certain. She dismissed the servant with a languorous wave. “Surely you mean to see my brother, Sir Edward Villiers?”
“Edward?” It occurred to Eden that the branches on the Villiers family tree must look like the Berenger orchard at harvesttime. “Actually, I’ve come on behalf of Milord Marlborough. I live in Clarges Street with Prince Maximilian of Nassau-Dillenburg.”
If Eden had said she was the bride of Satan, she could not have wrought a more radical change in Lady Harriet. The green eyes narrowed, the cupid’s bow twisted into a snarl, and the length of her lithe body seemed to coil up like a snake. “You what?” Harriet demanded, leaning toward Eden with a menacing attitude.
Eden sensed Elsa’s sudden consternation but didn’t understand it. “I live in Clarges Street,” Eden repeated, wondering if she hadn’t made herself clear. “Prince Maximilian is Flemish, and he—”
“Get out!” Harriet’s arm lashed at the door. “Get out! How dare you come here with your gutter talk!” She whirled, scanning the hallway for any sign of a servant. “Armbruster!” she shouted, and her voice was suddenly shrill, a far cry from the melodious lilt she had affected only moments earlier. The serving man appeared from one of several doors along the corridor. “Throw this baggage and her whoring maid out of here! At once!”
“Just a moment,” interposed Eden as Armbruster made for the two unwelcome guests. “I came here asking for help, Lady Harriet.” She put up a hand to allay any show of force on the servant’s part. “I meant no insult.”
Lady Harriet’s wide green eyes flared at Eden. “Such drivel! You came to flaunt yourself!” She gestured with clawlike hands at Eden’s fur trim. “Look at you, no doubt wearing finery paid for with credit from my dowry! How should I react to a strumpet who declares she’s living with my betrothed?” Harriet spun on Armbruster. “You heard me! Away with them both!”
Harriet’s words had rooted Eden to the spot. Captain Craswell’s murder receded into the background in the face of this startling revelation. Surely Max couldn’t be affianced to this shrieking virago! But she was very beautiful—and apparently rich as well. She was also a Villiers, and therefore part of a powerful family alliance that spanned the Channel. What better match for an impoverished foreign prince?
Eden didn’t need to be thrown out. Brushing aside the somewhat befuddled Armbruster and shooting Harriet Villiers a scathing glance, she yanked Elsa across the threshold. She left Lady Harriet standing in the doorway, shaking a fist and shouting vile imprecations.
“I hate her,” Eden muttered as they turned into Piccadilly. “I don’t even know her and I hate her.”
But of course Elsa didn’t hear a word her mistress said.
Depression settled over Eden like a black shroud. She had failed to find help for Marlborough, and she was appalled at the prospect of Max marrying Lady Harriet. She could not understand why he hadn’t told her he was betrothed. The simplest answer was that it was none of Eden’s business and that Max was a man who kept his private affairs to himself. But that explanation comforted her not a jot. She was convinced that Max had made a bad match. Lady Harriet might be rich and beautiful, but she was also a bad-tempered witch who would make his life miserable. Had she been otherwise, Eden would not have been so upset. Or so she told herself.
Despite the fullness of her days, Eden found the time dragging. Max had been gone for almost a month, and if Eden had known him longer or better, she would have sworn she was desolate without him. That was nonsense, of course. More likely she was homesick, if not for the Berengers, at least for the rolling green fields of Kent. For the first time in her life, Eden’s natural exuberance deserted her.
Still, Elsa’s companionship was a comfort, and Vrouw de Koch had warmed considerably. The housekeeper, in fact, had taught Eden to play cards. It had begun one dreary evening when the fog was so thick that Eden swore she could taste it inside the house. Grumbling that such was probably the case, and that the air in Amsterdam was as pure as a baby’s breath, Vrouw de Koch had suggested they pass the time with a game of two-handed ombre. Eden had discovered a knack for cards and had quickly picked up the game.
On the Monday after Easter, as Eden was trying to sort out her lessons so that she might find time to visit Marlborough again, Max came home. His manner was as casual as his worn shirt and tan riding breeches. When he encountered Eden at the end of another of her interminable fittings, he addressed her as if he were picking up some conversation they had just dropped in midsentence.
“I’m growing accustomed to Master Clavell’s artistry with your hair,” he said, casting an appraising eye in Eden’s direction. He was sitting in a chair of Spanish leather with one long leg slung over the sturdy oak arm. “Have you learned to powder and decorate your face yet?”
“Have you?” Eden shot back. Inexplicably, she was rankled by his casual attitude. “It’s as much the fashion for men as for women, you know.”
Max shrugged and picked an apple from a bowl that sat on a white marble pedestal. “I’m not much for beautifying myself. And I’m too damned tall to go about posing like a statue, as so many fine fellows think they must.” He took an impressive bite of apple and chewed thoughtfully. “Craswell’s dead, I hear.”
Eden was taken aback by the unexpected remark. Obliquely she studied Max’s face—the chiseled features, the high, gaunt cheekbones, the not quite straight nose, the strong, lean jaw. Despite the shadows behind those sharp hazel eyes, Eden perceived that this was a face that invited trust. It was also, she realized with a sudden sense of giddiness, a face that asked much more. Exactly what, she wasn’t sure—or at least didn’t want to know. Not yet.
“Some soldiers fished him out of the Thames,” she said. “I was there. With Elsa. It was quite awful.” She shivered in spite of the mild April day. “I think he’d been in the river a long time.”
The heavy brows drew together as Max paused, the apple midway to his mouth. “You were there? Why?”
As concisely as possible, Eden explained her visit to Marlborough. “Elsa and I just happened along. It was a coincidence.” She heard the defensive note in her voice and was annoyed with herself. “I’ faith, I wish I’d not seen any of it.”
Max reduced the apple to a scrawny core and flung it across the room into an empty porcelain bowl. “Pendergrass remains abroad. I doubt he’ll risk his hide to return and exonerate Jack.” Max rubbed thoughtfully at his long chin. “Are you prepared to meet the King?”
Eden stiffened, but forced her voice to sound lighthearted. “I can dance my feet off and make gay repartee. What more could any man want?”
Max’s gaze was fleetingly cynical, then enigmatic. “What indeed? In William’s case, I expect he wants companionship. Someone who will listen, as Betty Villiers did. But it’s all too rare a quality in most women.”
“I listen to you,” Eden replied with a lift of her chin. “And speaking of the Villiers tribe, I met your fiancée the other day. She wouldn’t listen to me at all.”
Somehow, Eden had hoped Max would deny any knowledge of a fiancée. Ridiculous, of course, but reason couldn’t conquer feelings. With raised eyebrows Max listene
d to her brief recital of how she had gone to the Villiers mansion in Piccadilly. When she came to a faltering stop, he frowned.
“I prefer keeping Harriet out of these intrigues. She’s a delicate creature, given to—”
“Temper fits!” exploded Eden, leaning on the edge of her chair. “She tried to have me thrown out of the house! She called Elsa a whore! You call that delicate?”
Dumbfounded by Eden’s reaction, Max frowned again. “She did? That’s odd. Perhaps she had a fever.”
Eden shot out of the chair. “Then it’s chronic, if you ask me! I went for help about Craswell and she carried on as if I’d come to kidnap her!”
The entire episode sounded strange to Max. Yet it might explain why Harriet hadn’t been in when he’d called on her that morning. He could have sworn that the Villiers coach was in place behind the yew hedge, and Harriet seldom went anywhere without it. He’d insist on seeing her tomorrow and try to sort out this misunderstanding. By nature, women often shaped the facts to suit themselves; Max had a feeling Eden was doing precisely that.
Eden was standing with her arms folded across her breast, glaring at the fruit bowl. She tried to envision how Lady Harriet would look roasted, with an apple in her mouth. “When,” she asked archly, “do you plan to wed?”
“I’m not sure. Autumn, maybe, or at Christmastide. It depends on how events proceed.”
Eden moved her head just enough to catch Max’s expression. He seemed quite unruffled, even bemused. “What events?” she inquired breathlessly.
Max unwound himself from the chair and stretched his long legs. “Many things, here and abroad. It’s complicated, but I don’t want to come to Harriet empty-handed.”
Why would it matter, Eden wondered fleetingly. Harriet must love him, and she had money of her own, so what difference would it make if Max were as poor as a parson?
For one brief irrational moment, Eden hoped that Max would never find the fortune he was seeking—or trying to regain. “Why didn’t you tell me about Harriet?” she blurted, turning to face him.
Max looked genuinely surprised. “To what point? My marriage plans in no way infringe on your pursuit of the King. Jack knows I’m betrothed to Harriet. He sees no conflict of interest. It should be an ideal match, since Harriet has both English and Dutch connections.”
His recital sounded so dispassionate that Eden was momentarily assuaged. But it occurred to her that Max viewed her campaign to win the King with equal detachment. To Eden, that viewpoint was askew. She could not so easily set aside her personal feelings. Nor could she put her sentiments into words. A silence fell between them like a sad old song. Max was retreating into himself, while Eden moved around the room, toying with a vase of daffodils, sampling an orange, fidgeting with the clasp on a strand of the newly fashionable artificial pearls at her neck.
It was Max who finally spoke, and his words were unexpected. “I hear you’re quite a cardplayer.”
Eden smirked, though her reply was couched in modesty. “I’m passable. Would you like to play? Any game, you name it,” she added magnanimously.
Max studied the frayed cuff of his leather riding boot and considered. “Why not? How about basset?”
“I’ faith, that’s a great favorite of mine,” Eden exclaimed, hurrying to remove the cards from their ivory case. The deck, which was already worn, featured various crowned heads of Europe as well as famous battle scenes. Eden pulled up the little Oriental table and offered the cards to Max. “You deal first.” She regarded him with pleasure and confidence, which caused Max to smile in spite of himself.
“What shall we play for?” he asked, shuffling the deck with practiced mastery.
Eden frowned, chewing on the end of her finger. “I have no money. What about pins?”
Max lifted his eyebrows. “Pins? That’s a pitiful stake, even for a pauper prince and a country wench.” He saw Eden start to bridle and grinned at her, “Don’t be so touchy, you don’t look like you’re from the country anymore.” Indeed, as she relaxed in her chair and concentrated on her cards, Eden could have passed for a wellborn young lady who lived in the precincts of St. James’s. Not, Max noted with an inner grimace, that she didn’t possess her own unique style and quirks. But on the other hand, they only added to her unusual allure. The heavy brows were drawn together, the full mouth was pulled down, the cluster of claret-colored curls trailed over her silk-clad shoulders, the ebony eyes were candid, yet so deep that they concealed her most private thoughts … If she had any, he reminded himself. He realized how little he knew of this lass from Kent with her ingenuous air. It was imperative to keep Eden in perspective. Max must think of her not as a person but as an instrument to liberate Marlborough. As the man entrusted to watch over that instrument, Max must see to her well-being, but remember to what purpose she was being honed.
“Treats,” exclaimed Eden, jolting Max from his reverie. “If I lose, I shall bake you something tasty. If I win,” she went on, looking supremely smug, “you must escort me to the chophouse of my choosing.”
To Max, the suggestion sounded fair—and safe—enough. The game seesawed for half an hour, then began to tilt toward Max. Eden’s aplomb was shaken but not destroyed. Scooting to the edge of her chair, she willed Max to play a diamond. He did, and Eden took it neatly with her trump, then gathered in the next trick as well and waited triumphantly for Max’s last card. To her horror, it was also the last trump. He flipped the cards into his pile and leaned back, hands entwined behind his head. “Well? What shall I demand? A cheese tart? A ginger trifle? A perfect rice pudding?”
Chagrined, Eden stared at Max. “You may ask for anything, but I do apples best.” She was quite serious, but still couldn’t believe she’d lost. “You didn’t cheat did you? No, you’re not that sort.” Pensively, she chewed her finger. Outside, the afternoon sun had broken through the morning fog, and a halo of golden light bathed the room. A carriage rolled by, the coachman calling for a stray dog to get out of the way. A woman’s laughter floated up to them, followed by a deep muffled voice. Max unfolded himself from the chair and went to the window.
“Holy St. Hubert,” he muttered, peering between the draperies, “it’s Harriet!”
Eden got up, too, but didn’t move from her place by the little table. “I don’t suppose Lady Harriet has come to apologize.”
Max didn’t seem to hear her. He was moving uneasily around the room, pushing at the full sleeves of his lawn shirt until they almost reached his elbows. “Women,” he groaned, and came to a sudden stop in front of Eden as he caught the sound of approaching footsteps. Eyeing the door as if he expected it to be splintered at any moment by a battering ram, Max motioned for Eden to keep quiet. “We won’t answer,” he whispered, as Master Van de Weghe called from the corridor.
Observing Max’s big motionless form, Eden had to bite her lips to keep from beaming at his deception. At last, when the hofmeester’s tread had faded away, she erupted into a giggle. “Oh, won’t she be vexed! You’re very brave, Max!”
Max made a face. “I’m craven, to let that woman cow me.” He gave Eden a sheepish look. “I don’t know why, but I didn’t feel like facing Harriet just now.”
Eden’s glee evaporated at the recognition of Max’s helplessness. It struck her as strange, even incomprehensible, that a man who had fought in some of the fiercest battles of the past decade should be intimidated by his fiancée. “No doubt,” she said without thinking, “you didn’t want Harriet to know we were playing cards.”
Max scowled at Eden. “Rot. Why should Harriet care about that?”
To Eden, the answer seemed obvious. Max’s denial stung. Did he really not consider her a worthy rival to Harriet Villiers? But why should he? Harriet was wealthy, aristocratic, beautiful and admired. As for Eden, though her bloodlines might be as exalted as Harriet’s, she was still a bastard from Kent. Max didn’t take her seriously, and it hurt.
“You find me negligible, don’t you?”
Max looked g
enuinely puzzled. “No. How could I, and still promote your cause with the King?”
What had begun as a pout spilled over into anger. “Oh! That’s cruel! Must you think of me only as some sort of pawn, as ammunition for your political arsenal? What about me—Eden? I’m a person, not just the product of lessons and coaching and pretty clothes!”
Taken aback by her outburst, Max put out a placating hand. “I know that,” he soothed, trying to rein in his impatience. “Eden, you must cease harping about my regard for you. It’s my commitment to Jack that counts. Were he not in the Tower, he would be supervising your preparations. By chance, the responsibility has fallen to me, and I’m doing everything I can to help.” Watching her unhappy face, Max knew he wasn’t explaining himself very well. Yet every word he spoke was the truth. Why couldn’t Eden understand the awkward position he’d been put in by her father’s arrest? Some men would have forsaken her from the start. Others would have taken advantage of her helplessness. But he was doing his best not to, despite the temptation to do otherwise. “If you’re angry because I went abroad, that couldn’t be prevented. It wasn’t just because of Craswell, but on orders of the King. I was destroying a French arsenal at Givet.”
Eden brushed aside his military adventures with a careless hand. “I’m not talking about what you do when you’re not here,” she cried, “but what you do when you are! You worry so about Harriet’s precious feelings and give not a dandiprat for mine! Or do you think because I’m a country bumpkin that I don’t have any?”
Max was torn between exasperation and repentance. She was right, in her way. He had behaved rather highhandedly. Fearing that she might cry, Max put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a little hug. “I’ve had many distractions,” he admitted, and was surprised when Eden made no attempt to pull away. “The war on the Continent, searching for Craswell, the charges against your father, some plaguing family quarrels over property—” He was speaking much more rapidly, and freely, than usual. Suddenly he stopped, his chin resting on the top of Eden’s head.