DEVILISH

by Devilish (lit)

  She blinked at him. “I hadn’t thought of it quite like that.” After a moment she grinned. “Consider me a gossip, then. I’m sure conventional ladies are expected to gossip.”

  He covered his face with his hand in mock despair.

  “And,” she added brightly, loving this moment for its sparkling self, “it would be much more to the point to be a well-informed gossip than one with no idea of what is going on.”

  “You are irrepressible, Lady Arradale.”

  “I do hope so, Lord Rothgar.”

  Smile faded into something much more dangerous. His hand lowered and moved as if he would touch her, but was controlled.

  “Very well,” he said, cool once more. “But bear in mind that what I am about to tell you is known to very few, and the French do not know we know. It must stay so.”

  They were already passing out of the narrow streets around Saint James’s and into the greenery of the parks. Perhaps ten minutes left. “I can be discreet.”

  “If I didn’t think so, I would tell you nothing. King Louis of France is, in effect, running two separate governments, especially with regard to foreign affairs. The open, official one, and a secret one known only to the few.”

  This was startling enough to distract her from other matters. “Why?”

  “Because kings are surprisingly hemmed in. By traditions, by favorites, by formality. King George often uses me as his private intelligence. King Louis is constrained by the much more rigid world of Versailles. He finds it particularly difficult to escape his ministers or La Pompadour.”

  “I thought she was old and retired.”

  “But still has her influence, and anyway this all dates back to the years of her prime. Don’t interrupt. We don’t have much time.”

  Indeed, they were completely surrounded by parkland now.

  “Years ago, Louis set up a secret chain of command running parallel to his official government. It was to pursue his own aims and policies when they conflicted with official ones. It also feeds him independent information, something all monarchs need. The Comte de Broglie is officially out of favor, but he is the head of this alternate government, and the Chevalier D’Eon is a key player. He has direct contact with the king.”

  “And the new ambassador who is awaited?” Diana asked.

  “Guerchy. The choice of official circles.”

  She frowned over it. “If D’Eon is King Louis’ man, why isn’t he ambassador? Surely the king could appoint whomever he wished.”

  “D’Eon’s come far, but he’s an adventurer. He doesn’t have the rank or fortune for such a position. More importantly, a suggestion of such unusual royal favor would raise suspicions. A secret agent must stay in the shadows.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I’m not a secret agent. I employ some, however. They are decidedly shadowy.”

  Diana blew out a little breath. “How extraordinary. And exciting. I begin to see the appeal of a life close to the center of the world. So, if King Louis’ secret ministry differs from the official one, what do they plan?”

  “What we spoke of last night. Revenge. The French government wishes to lick its wounds, but Louis wants to go to war again as soon as he thinks he can win. Above all, he wishes to invade us.”

  For a moment, she was tempted to take the conversation back to last night, but she knew there was nothing more to be said on that just now, and she needed this information to be useful to him. “Does the king not know about Monsieur D’Eon? I mean, King George?”

  “He knows none of this.”

  “Can’t you enlighten him?”

  “Not yet. The king lost his father at a young age and is inclined to seek another. He will grow out of it, but at the moment he would like to think ”dear cousin Louis’ a worthy mentor.“

  “The king of an enemy nation?”

  “We are at peace, and Louis has been king for many years. He has experience. With D’Eon as blushing handmaiden, Louis is making great efforts to be everything George could wish.”

  “I still think you should tell him. You must have evidence.”

  “Shadowy evidence. Ambiguous phrases and coded messages. If I made any impression at all, he would confront D’Eon with it. That would reveal that we know. One of the perils,” he said with a meaningful look, “of dealing with youth.”

  “I would never do anything so foolish.”

  His eyes rested on her. “I don’t suppose you would. Young women are often a great deal wiser than young men. Why do you think wise men marry younger women? It is in the faint hope of an equal match.”

  “Ah!” she said, but then suppressed the rest of her thought.

  “As I said,” he murmured, “very wise.”

  Wise? To push away this gift they were offered? She’d thought she knew the treasure within grasp, but these few minutes in the coach, talking as equals, as friends for the first time, had increased it tenfold. She wanted this as she wanted sunlight and breath.

  She looked away for a moment to gather strength. Strength not to beg. Begging would only hurt him. He knew how precious it was as much as she did, and he had excellent reasons for sacrifice. Before her blurring eyes, railings passed. They must be at the Queen’s House already!

  Mere minutes left.

  “Pay attention, Diana,” he said as if he did not guess her emotions.

  Blinking to clear her eyes, she turned back.

  “Proof of Louis’ secret government is sketchy,” he said, looking away, as if judging the time left before they arrived at the brick house. She knew he was deliberately not looking at her moist eyes.

  “Everything I have”—he carried on—“appears harmless unless one believes the code, and I cannot risk giving the code to the king. Having it will cease to be useful if the French find out.”

  “My,” said Diana, putting all the calm and control into her voice that she could muster, “wheels, within wheels, within wheels. You act alone?”

  “There are people in our government aware of my work.”

  “Rather shadowy after all.”

  “Only from certain angles.” He turned to look at her, shadowy indeed, but from other causes, she knew.

  “So,” she asked. “What can I do?”

  “Observe and listen, especially if D’Eon is with the queen, and gossip to me later. But be very, very careful.”

  “So I will see you?”

  He became very still. “Did you think I would abandon you?”

  “No, but… daily?”

  “Most days. I have the entree here. A mild interest in your progress will not be unseemly.”

  The coach was turning in front of the house. Almost the end! “Will we be able to speak privately?”

  “Probably not.”

  They halted. But, she saw, they were not yet at the doors, for the king’s coach preceded theirs. “How will I give you reports then?”

  After a thoughtful moment, he said, “A code. The queen can be Rosa, and the king Brand.”

  “Clever. What of D’Eon, then? I know,” she said with a smile, “he can be Samuel, Rosa’s prize ram.”

  And he laughed. Fully, looking years younger. “Scurrilous wench, and in D’Eon’s case, probably inappropriate.”

  “Why?” she asked, smile wide enough to be painful.

  “That’s another long story,” he said, laughter simmering to smile, but still smiling. “Who will be the French King?”

  As the coach jerked forward again, she said, “Dirk, her Flemish stallion. Believe me, to describe Rosa in avid conversation about horse and sheep breeding is not at all contrived.”

  His lips twitched, but he was recovering control. “Very well. But be careful.”

  As the coach moved in front of the doors she clutched the plan to herself. It was a thread linking them, and perhaps that was why he had created it.

  And he had laughed.

  “Is that all I can do?” she asked. “No stealing letters? No breaking codes?”

  He gripp
ed her hand, down on the seat, where the approaching footman would not see. “This is not a game, Diana. Be wise.”

  She looked ahead, trying to appear uninvolved, but trembling at his touch. “It is not easy to be wise.”

  His hand surrendered to tenderness. “No. But it is possible.”

  Rebellion flaring, she looked him in the eye. “With a Malloren, all things are possible?” she queried.

  “Exactly.”

  A footman opened the door.

  Their hands slid apart.

  He stepped down and turned to help her.

  As she descended the steps, she said softly, “Then prove it so, Bey.”

  His hand tightened on hers, and he looked almost shocked.

  She’d shocked herself. She’d never thought to challenge him directly like that, but, by Jupiter, that was his motto, and a life together must be possible. The moon would weep at the waste of them living apart.

  “Despite that motto,” he said when she was by his side, “I am not God. Some things are beyond me.”

  “Which things?”

  “I cannot fly, for one,” he said shortly.

  This was not how she wanted them to part, but she must persist. He had laughed. She could give him that. She could give him laughter and life.

  It had to be possible.

  She fussed with her skirts to steal a moment more. “Perhaps you accept false limits. Daedalus flew on waxen wings, and I have heard you described as Daedalian.”

  “In connection with his skill in building clever labyrinths, not faulty wings.” He cut the moment short by taking her hand and leading her toward the door through which the king and queen were already disappearing. “I seem to have constructed a damnable labyrinth for us.”

  “This is not all your doing,” she stated, eyes forward. “And Daedalus did fly.”

  “And persuaded his beloved son to fly. Then Icarus flew too close to the sun, so his wings melted and he fell to his death.”

  She halted, forcing him to stop and face her. “They both flew to escape an intolerable prison. Perhaps Icarus thought it worthwhile, even as he fell.”

  He seemed suddenly the man she had first met, the Dark Marquess. “You are going to fight me on this?”

  She raised her chin and met his eyes. “Hasn’t it always been clear that a duel lay between us?”

  After a silent moment, he turned once more toward the door. “Pray not to the death.”

  She let him lead her into her gilded prison, quivering, but not in nervousness at this confinement. What had she done? What wild flight had she started, on fragile waxen wings? She would be Daedalus, however, to his Icarus, and she would somehow construct wings with which they could escape. Not her confinement at court, but the dark tower in which he had walled himself for life.

  Not now, however. Now she must act her part, here within these elegant, conventional walls.

  The Queen’s House had been built by the Duke of Buckingham, and only recently sold to the king for his new queen. It was grand, but more of a noble’s house than a royal palace. She suspected that this house’s appeal for the young couple was its simplicity. That and the fact that it was modern and set in parkland.

  It was less daunting than she’d feared, and less infused with dark history than St. James’s Palace. All the same, she didn’t expect to enjoy living here, especially when her time with Bey was likely to be brief and closely chaperoned.

  The royal party were waiting at the base of the stairs. The king said, “My lord, attend me,” and stalked off toward an open, waiting door.

  With only a brief farewell, Bey followed him.

  Thus, abruptly, he was gone. Though it felt like tearing flesh, Diana made herself not stare after him. Instead, she looked as placidly as possible at the queen and her attendants.

  “Come,” the queen ordered, turning toward the stairs. “Attend me as I change, Lady Arradale.”

  Chapter 20

  Diana would have liked to change out of her awkward costume herself, but she was virtually a servant now and followed meekly upstairs to the queen’s suite of rooms. Charlotte’s two German keepers of the robes fussed and clucked her out of her stiff garments, and indeed, she looked tired.

  “I am glad you are not averse to a husband, Lady Arradale,” the queen said. “It will please His Majesty. And you are sensible to want to marry a man with whom you can live in accord. A bad marriage can be a miserable thing. You think a suitable man hard to find?”

  “Yorkshire does not present a great selection of my age and station, Your Majesty.”

  The queen nodded. “London has many such men. The king and I live quietly, but we hold small parties now and then. We will invite suitable men, and soon you will find one to your taste.”

  It sounded ominously like a command, but Diana dropped a curtsy. “It would be a blessing, Your Majesty.” It was the truth, for there was only one man to her taste.

  “And if not,” the queen said, sliding her arms into the sleeves of a light robe, “we will choose for you. His Majesty and I did not meet before our wedding, but the choice was carefully made by others, and is to our delight.”

  Diana swallowed alarm, but she drew on Bey’s grueling practice and merely said, “You are very kind, Your Majesty.”

  The queen nodded approval, and walked into another room, lively with crimson hangings, paintings, and bowls of flowers. She sat with a weary sigh, resting swollen ankles on a velvet footstool.

  Diana followed, trying to assess this arrogant purpose about her marriage, and decide how to deal with it. But then she was hit by the heavy scent of a large arrangement of sweet peas.

  “You like flowers, Lady Arradale?” the queen asked.

  “Very much, ma’am,” said Diana, wondering if she was blushing. Last night. Only last night…

  “Good, good. We have pleasant gardens here, and you are free to enjoy them. You will not find your duties difficult, I think. You will read to me sometimes, and let me practice my English with you. Do you play an instrument?”

  “The harpsichord, ma’am, and the flute.”

  “There is a harpsichord in the next room. Play for us.”

  As the queen began to chatter to her attendants in German, Diana obeyed the command, even managing the tricky business of backing out of the royal presence without tripping over her skirts.

  She seethed with resentment at being ordered to entertain, but she reminded herself that she must be the perfect, conventional lady. It wasn’t as if this was a burden of her sex. If she’d been the Earl of Arradale ordered to amuse the queen, she would be bound by duty to oblige, as the Marquess of Rothgar obeyed the king’s commands.

  Where was he now?

  When would she see him again?

  She pushed such thoughts aside. She’d end up mad herself if she sank into that kind of thing.

  Grateful to at least be out of sight, she sat to play a piece by memory. This was an excellent opportunity to assess the new twists in her situation.

  The queen sounded a great deal more determined on marriage than she’d expected, and she was clearly spokeswoman for the king. Diana could end up fighting two challenges rather than one. A battle with the king and queen to avoid their choice, and a battle with Bey to convince him that marriage was a risk worth taking despite uncertainty.

  Lud! She still couldn’t believe she’d thrown that gauntlet down. She meant it, however. It was her whole life and his. She would not let it slip away. Life was uncertain. Not to accept that was to freeze like a stone statue.

  She let her fingers wander by themselves through the simple piece, and wondered again when next they’d meet. After all, it was central to her purpose. She could hardly change his mind if he avoided her completely.

  He’d promised to see her frequently, however, and she knew he would keep that promise, through duty if nothing else.

  Again today, though?

  Or would she have to wait until tomorrow?

  When tomorrow?

>   She suppressed a rueful laugh. This was insanity, but it was the common insanity called love. She didn’t mind if they fought or kissed, so long as they met.

  Well, she did mind, but she’d take any meeting over none. Even simply being in the same room would be some solace.

  She realized her fingers had stopped. She pulled out of her wistful thoughts and changed to a lively and demanding tune. She would somehow find a way to change Bey’s mind. In the meantime, she must also charm the queen and avoid attempts to force her into marriage. She’d heard that the queen was very fond of music and an excellent performer herself. This might be one way to mellow her.

  In a little while one of the German attendants came to inform her she could leave to change out of court dress. She found her room small but adequate, and at least it was private. Clara was just finishing putting things away, bubbling with excitement to be in a royal household and greatly impressed by the servants she had already met.

  Diana was pleased someone was happy here. She stripped out of court dress, and changed into a more comfortable gown. When she checked her appearance in the mirror, she realized it was the pale yellow and cream which she’d worn to welcome the Dark Marquess to Arradale.

  A different world. A world where she had, as he’d pointed out, been playing games.

  How could the world change so utterly in a few short days?

  With a sigh, she sat at the elegant desk to write to her mother and Rosa. She had to give some account of the attack on the road before word reached them, and assure them she was well.

  The letter to her mother was easy, but the second troubled her. Rosa had been her confidante for most of her life, her dearest friend, her companion in mischief, and guardian of secrets. Rosa had a different personality, too, and her practical opinions had often been useful. She longed to relate everything and hope for wisdom in return, but she wouldn’t put it past the king and queen to read her letters.

  She imagined what she would say if Rosa was here. “I’m determined to marry Bey, to make it possible for him to marry me.”

  “How?”

  Trust Rosa to move straight to the point. “I don’t know. That’s for later. For now, I have to prevent the king and queen trying to arrange my marriage. What should I do if they pick a husband for me?”