“That was a silly reaction,” she agreed calmly. “And no, nothing external can explain her actions. But madness can come from many causes, some of which die with the sufferer.” She looked back at the picture. “Was it done before or after the wedding?”
“Just before.”
“Then her mother doubtless sought an explanation to her liking, for the seeds were already there.”
“In the blood.”
She winced, realizing her words had reinforced his thinking instead of fighting it. How to fight the evidence of this picture, however? His mother had not been entirely normal.
“It was in her at a young age,” she argued. “There were warnings. It didn’t appear like a shooting star.” She looked at him again, looked him in the eye. “Have you ever detected a trace of it in yourself?”
“Perhaps not,” he said calmly, “but her blood runs in me, and through me. A child of mine could look like that.”
She felt frozen. How to fight that?
The clock chimed the quarter, and his eyes traveled over her. “Ah, I see the pallor is not a result of my sordid family affairs. You will do very well. You look suitably overturned by your experiences. We must leave.”
With one last, frustrated glance at the portrait, she flicked open her fan and sank into a deep court curtsy. “As you will, my lord.”
He held out his hand to raise her, but she rose smoothly by herself.
Instead of applause, he said, “Don’t do that at court. Let me assist you.”
“Devil take it.” Then she grimaced. “I know. Don’t do that, either.”
“Precisely.” He took her hand and kissed it, eyes dark on hers. “For both our sakes, Diana, make no mistakes.”
He was telling her what she already knew—that a marriage of rescue would be worse than no marriage at all.
She cast one last look at the dreadful portrait, then allowed him to lead her out to the waiting coach. A light town vehicle, painted and gilded, with liveried footmen up behind.
A small crowd had gathered and some pressed forward.
Immediately she tensed, remembering that de Couriac was loose, and longing for her pistols.
She steadied herself. One did not show fear, or even concern, in public. These were the petitioners one would expect at a great man’s door in London. Such people would know when he would emerge to attend a levee or Drawing Room.
All the same, it would be too easy for an assassin to lurk among them, and she searched the crowd for de Couriac. She didn’t see him, but he could appear later, tomorrow, the next day, and she would not always be here to guard.
Oh yes, Bey had his armed servants around him, but she wanted to be there too, an extra pair of eyes, and an extra pair of pistols.
Damn the king. Damn the court.
He was accepting petitions, showing no sign of caution, so she threw him a warning. “I do hope these people are all well-intentioned, my lord. I am going to be extremely annoyed if I end up in the dirt in this outfit.”
A smile tugged at his lips, but he said, “None of us can live under glass, my lady, like wax flowers.”
He passed a handful of petitions to a servant behind, and moved on to a woman who fell to her knees before him, begging for help. Diana wanted to listen to her story now, and help her now. There was no time, however, and Bey only raised her to her feet, took her paper and passed it on, promising to read it as soon as possible.
Even from that, the woman looked eased a little, and dabbed at her tears. A child or husband in prison, perhaps? Now the woman had faith that the great marquess would help her, but he had another burden on his shoulders, another demand on his exhausted time.
She received petitions herself, but rarely in person, and never like this. And this, she suspected, happened every time he left his house for a formal occasion.
She suddenly wanted to shoo them all away, to protect him, but knew he’d be offended at the thought. This was part of the duties of his rank, and duty came before all.
As with his duty to keep his line free of taint.
She counted twelve petitions taken before they were clear to walk toward the coach. Twelve souls depending upon him for something dear to them.
This, surely, hadn’t been planned as part of their war, but it reminded her of who he was. Merely by rank he was one of the great, a source of hope for the desperate. As Veminence noire he was known to have the ear of the king.
Most of England stood in awe of him.
Could she really break this man’s will?
She glanced at him again, and again their eyes spoke, and she knew, because of what he was, especially because of the chilly eminence upon which he lived, that she had to try.
More than that. She had to win.
Then they both looked forward and walked toward the coach, the Countess of Arradale and the Marquess of Rothgar, on stage.
Chapter 19
As they approached St. James’s Palace, the press of vehicles and avidity of the watching crowds broke Diana out in a sweat. These fashionable parades and the unfashionable pointing mob weren’t her challenge. The king was. All the same, she had to work hard not to flinch from a thousand eyes.
And she’d thought her life confined and under scrutiny in Yorkshire!
“Drawing Rooms are popular with the people,” he remarked in a bored tone she knew was designed to steady her.
“So I see. Do they gather for the levees as well?”
“Not to so great an extent. Ladies are generally more decoratively entertaining than gentlemen.”
She glanced at his finery. “It is not apparent. And anyway, in the animal world the male has the gorgeous plumage.”
“And if we follow Monsieur Rousseau, we must, above all, be natural.” As the coach drew to a halt, he said, “I will suggest that the king command all ladies to attend in sackcloth and drab.”
A footman swung open the door, and Bey climbed down, turning to offer her a beautiful, jeweled hand in plumage of lace and brocade.
“You do like to stir enemies,” she commented as she descended and smoothed her glorious skirts.
“Alas, without enemies life might become dull. Speaking of which, let me present you to the Chevalier D’Eon.”
Snapping to the alert, Diana went with him toward a slight man in rich brown with the striking red ribbon of an order across his chest, the medallion glittering. Bey himself wore the Order of the Bath on a red sash, and an imaginative mind might see the two red slashes as a bloody challenge.
The Frenchman saw them and stepped forward with the quick elegance of a good fencer despite his high heels. “Monsieur le marquis,” he said in rapid French. “I am distressed, outraged—” Then he seemed to catch himself, and bowed, addressing Diana in English. “My lady, I beg your pardon for speaking in French. And here I am again,” he added, with a rather arch flutter of embarrassment, “speaking to you without introduction—”
“Lady Arradale,” said Bey, sounding amused, “may I present the Chevalier D’Eon, the most honorable Ministre Plenipotentiare de France?
Diana held out her hand and greeted the Frenchman in English. Bey’s meaningful look had not been necessary. She could see that being thought unable to understand the language might be an advantage one day.
Of course, de Couriac knew differently…
Monsieur D’Eon bowed over her hand with exquisite grace, pursing his lips a delicate distance above her skin. “London is made glorious by your beauty, Lady Arradale,” he said, but then his expression turned tragic. “And I am devastated that you have apparently been distressed upon your journey by some rascally compatriots of mine.”
“It certainly was terrifying, monsieur. But,” she added, sliding her hand free of his ardent grasp, “any country can produce rogues. We escaped with our property and lives intact.” She turned adoringly to Bey. “All due to Lord Rothgar’s formidable courage and skill.”
His eyes flashed a humorous warning before he said to D’Eon, “It happ
ened too fast for skill. I regret the deaths of your countrymen, however.”
“As do I, my lord. I would like to have the questioning of them.”
“Quite.”
It was like a slither of blades.
“They were apparently associates of a Monsieur de Couriac,” Bey remarked, “whom we encountered in Ferry Bridge. Do you know him, Chevalier?”
“De Couriac?” D’Eon said vaguely as they all turned to join the people flowing into the palace. “He presented papers to me some weeks ago upon arrival. I know nothing more. Petite noblesse from Normandy, if I remember.”
“Ah, then perhaps the Comte de Broglie may know the family. He resides in Normandy, does he not?”
One sharp glance from D’Eon told Diana that Bey had scored a hit.
“I doubt it, my lord,” D’Eon said. “Monsieur de Broglie lives very quietly now he is out of power.” He turned to Diana. “Be assured, my lady, that I will attempt to get to the bottom of this terrible affair.”
He bowed and left to greet someone else. Escaped, one might say.
“Who is de Broglie?” Diana murmured as they filed up the stairs.
“D’Eon’s secret superior,” Bey said in a voice so muted she could scarcely hear it, and with a look that told her not to pursue it here.
Lud! What tangle was hinted at in that? D’Eon’s only master should be the King of France. Is it wise, she wanted to ask, to tell him that you know?
With a flash of irritation, she recognized that Bey had just thrown down a challenge to the Frenchman. She could understand that constantly waiting for these sneaky attacks would test the patience of a marble statue, but she wished he hadn’t. Especially now when she was going to have to leave him unguarded.
Especially when he had probably done it to ensure she was not caught in any further attacks.
Ah, but she was going to hate being put in this gilded cage.
As they made their way through the crowded corridors, Diana could at least be grateful that the king refused to live here in St. James’s Palace. These dark and ancient passageways had seen their share of wretches heading for disaster, torture, and execution, and the memories seemed to linger in the walls. Some of the victims had been His Majesty’s ancestors. Some of them had been hers.
Her pulse started a nervous beat again as she approached the drawing room—as if a headsman might appear, ax in hand.
She could see ahead now to where the king and queen sat in magnificent garments and jewels, ladies-and gentlemen-in-waiting standing behind. Most of those attending the Drawing Room merely approached to curtsy or bow and exchange a word or two, but those being presented were given a little more time.
After greeting Their Majesties, people moved around the room chatting, taking care never to turn their backs to the royal couple, though some seemed to leave quite quickly. She wished she had that option.
When their turn came, Bey led her forward, and she sank into her curtsy, head bowed. The queen gestured for her to rise and Diana remembered to allow Bey to assist her. It was clearly an excellent point. The royal couple looked as if they were searching for monstrous aspects.
“We welcome you to London, Lady Arradale,” said the very pregnant queen with a strong German accent. She was as plain as reported, with a rather monkeyish face and bulbous eyes.
“You are most kind to have invited me, Your Majesty.” Diana had forgotten how young the queen was. Only nineteen. Not that age counted here. The king was a year younger than herself, but that did not lessen the dangers.
The queen frowned. “I understand you have inherited your father’s property and title, Lady Arradale. I find that a very strange thing.”
“It is unusual in England too, Your Majesty.”
“A cruel burden to put upon a woman’s shoulders.”
Diana looked down. “Indeed, Your Majesty.”
“Strange, then, that you have not married.” Straight to the attack! Diana hoped she had the right expression as she met the queen’s eyes.
“Alas, Your Majesty, but I have delayed in search of a man I could truly love.”
Queen Charlotte’s eyes did warm slightly. “Das ist gut. But you must not delay too long, my lady, or you will lose your bloom. We will talk of this later. You will stay with me as one of my ladies for a while.”
This had been arranged, but now was given the royal affirmation.
“You do me great honor, Your Majesty.” Diana curtsied again to king and queen, and could move to one side. First engagement over.
However the king rose and stepped aside with them. “What is this I hear, Lord Rothgar? Brigands on our highway? What? In daylight? French brigands? What?”
“An unfortunate incident, sire.”
“Unfortunate!” The king’s fresh face reddened. “Intolerable. I have dispatched Colonel Allenby to look into the matter. I will not have such things, especially within ten miles of London! You are unharmed?”
“Completely, sire.”
“And Lady Arradale?” The king looked at her, but Diana judged that she was not expected to actually speak for herself.
“Unharmed also, Your Majesty, though distressed, of course.”
Diana blessed her pale powder and tried to look distressed.
“It would be unwomanly not to be,” the king stated. “But three brigands dead, my lord? What? I know you to be a formidable man, but how did that come about?” Then he gave an irritated shake of the head. “Not now. You must return to the Queen’s House and relate the whole story.”
Bey bowed. “With pleasure, sire. If you wish, I could convey Lady Arradale there in my coach.”
The king nodded and returned to his duties.
Diana looked up at Bey. More time together? Irresistible, but it only extended the pain. Had he perhaps just given in to a moment of weak temptation?
There was no way to tell from his manner. He led her around the room introducing her to ladies and gentlemen who seemed grateful to see a new face. Especially, she soon realized, a face attached to such an unusual creature as a peeress in her own right and a very wealthy woman. Everyone seemed to have a perfectly wonderful son, brother, or nephew.
This sort of heiress hunting was the least of their problems, however. She didn’t like the queen’s plan to find her a husband, but otherwise she thought it had gone well.
Perhaps Their Majesties had expected her to clump in here in breeches, brandishing a weapon. That was another unfair aspect of the way the world regarded women. It was assumed that they could not be strong without attempting to dress and act like men. That a woman who liked pretty clothes and jewels, and cared about her complexion must be a simpering ninny.
It was the sort of thing she would love to discuss with Bey, but certainly not here. When next would they have a chance to talk in private? That precious cup, their conversation, had only been sipped, and she thirsted for more.
The company thinned out, but they, of necessity, lingered on. Literally “in waiting.” Diana sighed. This was likely to be her life for the next few weeks.
“Tired?” he asked.
There were no chairs, of course. She’d been trained for this, too—to stand, poised and still for as long as necessary, and even to suppress a sneeze if one crept up—but they were not skills she practiced much. He doubtless had it perfected, for he seemed completely at ease and inexhaustible.
“Impatient,” she admitted.
“Yet patience is the best remedy for every trouble.”
“Plautus.” She rolled her eyes. “I had to write that out, in Latin, a hundred times once.”
His lips twitched. “And I am falling into the role of teacher again. It seems safer. You are young.”
She looked into his eyes. “I am not too young. That, at least, does not stand between us.”
He nodded. “No, it does not.”
She actually thought of pursuing the matter here, which showed how foolish this all was making her. Instead, she looked idly around, fanning herself
. “This life will be hard.”
“I fear there is nothing I can say in response to that which will not sound like a lecture.”
She flicked him a glance and saw a smile in his eyes. “Then I will lecture myself. Marcus Aurelius: Think not this is misfortune, but that it is good fortune to be given the opportunity to bear it well.”
His lips twitched. “Something else your tutor set you to writing as a penance?”
“Indeed. In English and the original Greek. In response, as I remember, to my anger at being confined to the house for a week in summer. Something to do with Mistress Hucken’s chickens… I was fortunate, though. He never guessed how much more I would have hated having to sew words into samplers.”
“Alas, the queen likes her ladies’ hands to be occupied with useful work. In particular, needlework.”
Diana groaned, then realized they were smiling at each other. Doubtless in a most revealing manner.
A quick glance assured her that no one seemed to be observing them, but she hastily moved over to study a picture on the wall. It was an eminently safe picture of a country house in a tidy, geometric garden. Not a lot of scope for discussion there, but they managed until the king and queen were finally ready to take their leave.
Soon now, soon, the parting.
She had forgotten that she was to travel with him. A reprieve, but one of perhaps only a quarter of an hour. Still, she thought as they settled into the coach, she would not waste it. No time to discuss the complex issues that separated them, but time to satisfy her curiosity.
“Now,” she said as they rolled off, “tell me more about the Comte de Broglie.”
“Ah. I hoped you had forgotten.” He turned toward her. “I doubt the information would be of use to you.”
“No? I am going to be very bored in the next weeks. A little skillful observation would pass the time. I noticed that you did not want Monsieur D’Eon to know that I speak excellent French. I might hear something useful to you?”
“Diana, being a spy within the royal household is a dangerous thing.”
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