DEVILISH

by Devilish (lit)

  “Refuse?”

  “It’s not that easy, Rosa. It would give great offense. And there is the threat of the madhouse. I’d have to accept Bey’s rescue, then.”

  “Marry him? In name only? I don’t think you can do that, Diana.”

  “I know, I know. But if it came to that point, what else could I do? Marry some oaf picked out by the king? I think not, and Bey would never allow it. Anyway, would it be so terrible? We’d at least have each other’s company.”

  “You’d live the rest of your life like a starving woman at a forbidden feast!”

  “There would be many dishes I could taste. His company, his conversation, our shared interests. Oh, Rosa. I know what you meant about Brand, now. I thought you demented to put such weight on the fact that you could talk about farming with him, but it is wonderful to have shared interests. To really talk. The time in the coach was magical and we hardly touched.”

  “But the forbidden would be always there, desperately desirable but never to be tasted. It would drive you mad.”

  “You say that because you have the feast in full. Without him I will starve. Starve to death.”

  “Too extreme, Diana.”

  “I feel extreme. I rage against the barriers that stand between us!”

  “And what are those barriers?”

  Diana sighed. “His will. His purpose,” she admitted.

  “You want to break his will? Turn him from his well-considered purpose?”

  Yes, thought Diana, unable to put that confession into even imaginary words. It was a terrible thing to contemplate.

  To the imaginary Rosa, she argued, “It is the only way.”

  “It could destroy you both.”

  Diana looked down and realized that while running that imaginary conversation through her head, she’d dipped her pen and written “Bey,” a half dozen times, then ornamented the cluster of words with ruffled sweet peas.

  Love. She’d always thought of love as hearts and flowers, as spring blossoms and blushing smiles. Not this spiny, starving hunger, this feeling of being stranded in rags on a bleak winter moor, and being willing to do anything, anything, to return to the sun.

  She dipped the pen and scribbled all over her betraying marks. She was clear in her purpose now at least—to shatter the iron will of the man she loved.

  May God have mercy on them both.

  Rothgar accompanied the king to his rooms, almost stunned by Diana’s last comments. He had faced seemingly impossible tasks before and proved his motto correct. He’d even taken the notorious Chastity Ware and restored her virtue so she could be received at court and marry Cyn without problem. There was always a way.

  But here he faced no external barrier, only his own resolve. To alter that with honor was as impossible as flight, ancient Daedalus be damned. Such flight was impossible, anyway. He’d witnessed an attempt to recreate Daedalus’s achievement, and it had been clear that no man had the strength to flap wings large enough to carry him.

  Some things were impossible despite all human effort.

  As the king was disrobed by his attendants, Rothgar tried to find his familiar cool mind, but awareness of Diana’s needs and pain rocked him. He could starve himself, but he had not prepared for the agony of starving her—

  “My lord.”

  Rothgar found the king staring at him. “So lost in thought, my lord?” George said as a valet assisted him into a loose robe. “Thoughts of mortality, what?”

  “Your pardon, sire?”

  “The bloodthirsty attack.”

  Rothgar suppressed the words, Oh that, which would make him seem ready for Bedlam. Had it really been less than a day ago?

  The king indicated a chair, and they both sat.

  “Now,” the king said, “give me the entire story.”

  He obliged, downplaying any outstanding bravery except that of his dead outrider.

  “Brave man, brave man,” said the king, his youthful face earnest. “Does he leave a family? What?”

  “A wife and three young children, sire. Of course they will be well taken care of.”

  The king nodded, but said, “I will send them a letter of thanks.”

  “You are most generous, sire.” Nothing, he knew, would soften Ella Miller’s loss just now, but perhaps in the future she and her children would value the king’s special mark of respect.

  But then the king wished to speculate. He had clearly sent for and read Sir Eresby’s report.

  “This de Couriac. You suspect him of contriving the attack?”

  “I can’t say, sire. I believe I recognized him there.”

  “But why would he do such a thing?”

  Since it did not suit him to point to official French involvement, Rothgar mentioned the unfortunate events in Ferry Bridge.

  The king shook his head. “Mad indeed! And one innocent life lost because of it, what? I commanded Monsieur D’Eon here as soon as I heard.”

  “The chevalier seems quite overset. May I ask what explanation he had for you, Your Majesty?”

  “He too speculates that it might be a crime of passion. Apparently the wife was of that type.” He frowned. “A mistake to dally there, my lord. What?”

  Rothgar’s unruly mind tried to wander to memories of Diana coming to rescue him. Of rubbing her feet. Of wanting—

  No.

  “I did not dally at all, sire. I merely assisted the lady when her husband was taken ill. Lady Arradale was present most of the time.”

  “Ah yes. The countess. Not what we expected. What do you make of her?”

  Rothgar wondered if he was actually blushing. “Your Majesty will have assessed her for yourself by now.”

  The king nodded. “A pretty woman, and she seems to think as she ought. Will she resist marriage?”

  “Quite the contrary, sire,” Rothgar said dryly. “In fact, she could be said to be set on it.”

  “Capital, capital! The queen and I have talked of this. Lord Randolph Somerton, what? Second son. Needs a good property. Charming. Sound. What?”

  Rothgar was startled by this firm choice, and what a choice! An arrogant popinjay with wastrel ways and a demanding father in the Duke of Carlyle. “Would that not concentrate a great deal of northern power in one family?” he suggested carefully.

  The king frowned. “But she must marry in the north, mustn’t she? So her lands will not be neglected?”

  “The roads are much improved, sire. Lady Arradale and I would have spent only two nights on our journey if not for the unfortunate incident.”

  The king pursed his lips. “Sir Harry Crumleigh then? His estate is in Derbyshire. Capital fellow. Or Lord Scrope, since she’s the quiet type. Shropshire, and he’s looking for a second wife.”

  Thought of Diana as “the quiet type” almost caused a laugh, but the list of candidates was not at all amusing. Sir Harry was a favorite of the king’s because he was an inexhaustible rider, but if he’d ever read a book, he’d done it in secret. Lord Scrope was so amiably inoffensive he’d bore Diana to tears in days, and he was still mourning his first wife. Where the devil had all this purposeful planning come from?

  “If I might suggest patience, sire? The countess has only just arrived in London, and suffered a terrifying incident en route. It would be kind to give her opportunity to rest and settle before presenting her with suitors.”

  After a frowning moment the king nodded. “Very well, but I’ll see her married before she returns north, my lord. Now,” he added in a change of tone, “this will interest you! The King of France has sent me an automaton as a peace gift.”

  “Indeed, sire?” Rothgar said, mind still caught on the king’s unexpected resolve.

  “Chevalier D’Eon is to present and demonstrate it to us tomorrow evening. You will attend?”

  D’Eon? “With pleasure, Your Majesty.”

  “We will, of course, also show the one you gave us last year.”

  “I am honored it finds favor still.”

  “It
does,” the king said, standing. “You serve us well, Lord Rothgar, in all things, and we thank you. We wish you well in all things in return.”

  “Your Majesty is generous, as always,” Rothgar said and took his leave.

  He walked down the corridor, resisting the temptation to seek Diana out, to make sure that she was safe. He knew no harm could have come to her, but in view of the gathering host of suitors, he felt an absurd romantic urge to race to her rescue, like a knight errant saving his lady from a dragon.

  It could not be. That interlude in the coach had been unwise, and had led to that challenge. And anyway, he had other responsibilities. Ella Miller should hear of her husband’s death from him, so he must ride to the Abbey today before the news reached her.

  Where the corridor and stairs met, he made himself take the stairs that would lead him out of the house, away from her.

  Still, their parting had been abrupt, and she was under his care and protection. On unconquerable impulse, he entered a reception room and wrote a short note.

  My dear Lady Arradale,

  I trust you are now comfortable in the queen’s care, and that all your possessions have arrived safely. If I can be of any further assistance to you, I will do all that is possible. Consider me always,

  Your most humble servant,

  Rothgar.

  A suitable note in correct phrases, but with underlying meanings. She would note, he hoped, the reference to what was possible. He folded it and sealed it with his ruby signet, then left it in the hands of the footman. As he climbed into his coach and commanded all speed home, he made himself turn his mind from the impossible to think about matters that could be more neatly managed.

  The choice of an automaton as the French king’s gift was not extraordinary, especially as some of the masters of the craft were French and King George’s pleasure in such things was known. It was equally well known, however, that automata were an interest of his own. He had given the king his first one—the Chinese pagoda which had unfortunately been used in an attempted assassination.

  Rothgar was pleased that the villain who’d caused its destruction had been killed, for it had been an exquisite work of art. Last Christmas he had replaced it with a simpler piece—a shepherd and shepherdess which the king and queen enjoyed.

  Now a similar gift had arrived from the King of France.

  Considering the duel with Curry and the strange machinations of Monsieur de Couriac, it did seem as though D’Eon was subtly attacking him on many sides.

  Why?

  And, he suddenly wondered, was D’Eon responsible for the king’s determination about Diana’s marriage? Someone must have been stoking the fire beneath that pot to bring it to such a boil, and D’Eon had the ear of the king and queen.

  Yet, what concern could Diana’s marriage be to the French?

  None.

  To D’Eon personally?

  He would certainly love to marry a fortune, but he must know that the king would never permit her marriage to a Frenchman. Besides, as he’d hinted to Diana, D’Eon’s sexuality was a matter for conjecture. He flirted, but he’d never been known to take a mistress.

  What’s more, in his adventures, he’d spent time at the Court of Russia impersonating a woman and living as one of the late tsarina’s ladies. Many doubted the story, but Rothgar knew it to be true. D’Eon had been spying for his king, but had been extremely convincing from all accounts.

  Male, female, or hermaphrodite, D’Eon was ambitious. But not, surely, for marriage to a great English heiress. However…

  As Rothgar left the coach and entered his house, he thought he’d found the pattern. He’d have seen it days ago if his brain hadn’t been tangled by an alarmingly attractive woman.

  As he’d told Diana, D’Eon needed a coup to be made ambassador. The obvious coup would be persuading King George to rescind the order to destroy Dunkirk, and D’Eon had openly been working hard at that.

  Why hadn’t he seen that D’Eon would think himself his greatest barrier? The king sought his advice, and he had been firmly in favor of weakening France and preventing another war. Above all, he had argued for the destruction of the military installations at Dunkirk.

  So, he thought, as he entered his office, perhaps D’Eon had become desperate and decided to remove the obstacle in his way.

  First the duel with Curry. When that failed, another attempt, doubtless with a more skillful swordsman—de Couriac.

  The attack on the road, though? It seemed too crude, too hastily planned, for D’Eon. Possibly de Couriac had lost his head and acted without instructions. Perhaps the reward offered had been too great to lose, or perhaps he feared the consequences of failure.

  And de Couriac was still at large. Diana had been right in warning of the danger of crowds, but as he’d said, he could not live like a wax flower under glass.

  It was an interesting pattern, however, and needed to be considered. If D’Eon had recognized that Diana was under his protection, and was meddling in her affairs to distract him, what else might he try? Intolerable to have innocents dragged into this.

  She was safe for the moment, however, so he put that aside and picked up the petitions. His other work could wait, but sometimes these matters were urgent.

  As he unfolded the letter from the distraught woman, however, he couldn’t help but smile at D’Eon’s genuine fury over de Couriac’s attack on the road.

  His death in a duel with an Englishman posed no risk to the French. Even a duel with a Frenchman over an unfaithful wife could be unsuspicious. An open attack on the king’s highway by four Frenchmen was another matter entirely. D’Eon was hobbled now, and must know it. He couldn’t afford any more attacks that could be traced back to the French.

  It would be a few days at least before D’Eon could come with some new device.

  He read the scrawled and tearstained letter.

  Mistress Tulliver’s only son and chief support had certainly been unwise, and was condemned to transportation, but his offense was only the theft of some gentleman’s clothing in an attempt to cut a fine figure. She claimed it was his first crime. He could at least look into that and perhaps find a way to seek mercy for him.

  He made a note and looked through the other petitions. A few were requests for small amounts of money, and he approved all but one. The others required more thought, so he put them aside. It was nearly three and he had a long ride ahead of him.

  All the same, he could not leave without taking some steps to control D’Eon. The man was blocked from direct attack on him, but that might lead him to meddle even more in Diana’s affairs.

  As official representative of France, he was untouchable, but there were other ways.

  He sent for Joseph Grainger.

  Grainger, a young and serious man, was both his lawyer and steward of his business affairs. He was also manager of his more secret activities. He gave the man a string of orders.

  “… and get a list of D’Eon’s debts and creditors,” he concluded.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Rothgar took pity on the impassive, but surely curious, man. “His finances must be a mess. He’s living in state as a full ambassador without the ambassador’s emoluments or any private income. I have indications he’s already dipped into the money waiting for Guerchy, but he must be borrowing, too.”

  “You will buy up his debts, my lord?”

  “Precisely.” Rothgar rose. “Have the word spread that he’s not a good risk.”

  Grainger closed his notebook, frowning. “Is he a bad risk?”

  “A terrible one. Yes, I’m likely to end up with a bunch of bad debts and that offends your tidy soul. Consider it an extravagant expense.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Grainger replied, still with a subtle tone of disapproval. Rothgar didn’t mind. It was Grainger’s job to disapprove of financial losses.

  “And double the watch on him. I want to know everything he does, everyone he speaks to, in and out of the embassy. That’s all f
or now, but send Rowcup to wait for me here.”

  Twenty minutes later, in plain riding clothes, he returned to his study and found his resident forger waiting for him.

  Rowcup was a fat little man who pleasantly combined passion and skill in his illegal calling with total loyalty. Rothgar had saved him from hanging for his crimes because it was clear that forgery for Rowcup was not a means of making a living, but a gift he could not put aside.

  He employed him openly to make exact copies of manuscripts and records that threatened to disintegrate, but sometimes he used him for more dangerous matters.

  Today they constructed a letter in the style of the secret ones D’Eon received from the King of France. In it, Louis praised D’Eon’s work, and encouraged his illusion of untouchability. Finally, the king hinted that he understood the need to put forward a glorious presence in London, and that even if he was forced to let Guerchy take up his post as ambassador, all D’Eon’s expenses would be covered.

  As Rowcup completed his work with a perfect seal, he shone like an angel with pride. The letter was sent to be woven into the secret communication stream between France and England, and Rothgar quickly reviewed the steps taken.

  That was enough for now. With the supply of borrowed money tightened, D’Eon should have less time for thinking up trouble for others. With luck, he’d start dipping deeper into the ambassador’s moneys, which would really put his head on the chopping block.

  He was about to leave when Carruthers appeared with a folded paper. “Mr. Merlin’s report on the automaton, my lord.”

  Rothgar glanced quickly through it and saw immediately that the machine could not be completely repaired in time for tomorrow, so he put aside the thought of eclipsing the French automaton. He sent orders for the work to be started immediately anyway. If there was to be a war of automata, he might need his little drummer boy.

  He headed for the door, but turned at the last minute to look at the portrait of his mother. What had Diana seen? Madness, apparently, in the intense eyes and tense body, but madness there before the birth of children.

  He had no memory of his mother other than the dreadful one, and had never asked. But he had often wondered. Had she ever held him tenderly? Sang songs to him, played games to make him laugh? All the things he had seen his stepmother do with his half-brothers and sisters.