DEVILISH

by Devilish (lit)

  All would then have been easy, he thought as he headed for the front of the house. He would become ambassador, doubtless with a title to go with it. His life would be as smooth and glorious as the reflection pools at Versailles…

  It still would be. He had served his king faithfully for over ten years, refusing nothing, putting his life on the line again and again. This was his, this place, this position, and everything that came with it.

  He would—

  A man stepped in front of him.

  He leaped back, hand flying to his sword, then halting. “De Couriac?”

  The man, a bloodstained bandage around his head, bowed but without great respect. “Monsieur D’Eon.”

  D’Eon seized his arm and dragged him into the nearest room, his office. “What are you doing here? All England seeks you!”

  “Then where else could I come?”

  “You could take ship back to France.”

  “You don’t think the ports will be watched?”

  The man’s tone was disrespectful, perhaps even hostile. D’Eon considered his next words.

  After the debacle with Curry, he’d sent to Paris for an expert swordsman who could do what Curry had failed to do— put the Marquess of Rothgar out of play with a serious but not fatal wound. De Couriac had appeared to fit the part perfectly, and it had seemed simple enough to set up.

  Lord Rothgar was going north with his family, but returning south alone. He had rooms engaged at Ferry Bridge. Simple to have de Couriac wait there to intercept him with the tempting bait of an actress from the King’s Theater as his wife.

  How it had gone wrong, he did not yet know, but the next step had told him that de Couriac had other plans.

  That attack on the road had not been planned to wound. It had been planned to kill. Doubtless under orders from Paris that he had not been aware of. Dangerous, very dangerous.

  “How did matters go awry in Ferry Bridge?” he asked.

  “Interference. By a certain Countess of Arradale, the arrogant bitch.”

  D’Eon twitched at such crudeness, but ignored it for now. “Ah. And what of the disaster on the road? What were you thinking!”

  “Death. How does it matter how he dies so long as he dies?”

  “But I did not order his death.”

  “The king did.”

  D’Eon stilled. Was it possible that the king had sent an order not through him? Did the king no longer trust and support him? There had been indications, warnings even from friends in Paris, and from de Broglie.

  But then there were the private letters he received…

  No choice but to appear the master. “How dare you outrun your orders like that? How dare you recruit other French agents to your ridiculous plan?”

  De Couriac reddened with anger. “I have the authority. Direct from Paris. Direct from Versailles.”

  “You think you outrank me?” D’Eon said softly. “Perhaps you even think you can defeat me with the sword?” He let his hand rest on the beribboned hilt.

  The other man stiffened, his own hand grasping his sword. D’Eon knew de Couriac must think himself almost unbeatable. But the almost was important, and his own reputation was equally formidable.

  After a long moment, de Couriac took his hand away. “Of course not, monsieur. I apologize if I have offended you.”

  D’Eon let some extra seconds run before nodding and taking his hand from his own sword. “So,” he said, “what orders do you have from Paris?”

  “To remove the marquess.”

  “From play, not from life.”

  “That was not specified.”

  “It is, now, by me. And it must be subtle. You understand?”

  After a moment, de Couriac nodded.

  “Very well. I am for court and cannot dally. Let me make it clear that we cannot afford any more incidents connected to this embassy! I have another plan stirring, and two possible English tools. You encountered Lady Arradale, you said?”

  “Oh yes.” The man’s lip curled. “I have a score to settle with her.” He put his hand to his bloody head. “She spoiled the plan, then gave me this.”

  “She hit you?” The pale and simpering Countess of Arradale? “With what? Her fan?”

  “With a pistol ball, down in the dirt, steady as you please. She probably fired the last shot that killed Roger and Guy.”

  Though he was having to reevaluate many things, D’Eon waved that aside. “Do not let personal concerns get in the way. The countess is now at the queen’s court, and cannot easily be touched. However, there is also a stupid Englishman who has hopes of Lady Arradale’s body and her wealth. He can be used. I will work on a plan. We are in accord?”

  “As long as I can have my revenge on Milord Rothgar and the countess. They caused the death of Susette.”

  “The actress?” D’Eon queried. “How did she become involved in violence?”

  “She was a violent woman,” de Couriac said rather blankly. “She stabbed me.”

  A laugh escaped D’Eon.

  “And of course I had to kill her,” de Couriac continued. “She knew too much by then. But we were old friends, and they must pay for it.”

  D’Eon lost all impulse to laugh. The man was deranged. He thought for a moment of killing him here and now, but it would not be easy and he was already late for the soiree. It was also possible that King Louis might disapprove.

  What would the madman do next, however? He must be given something to do.

  “You may stay here,” he said. “If you can disguise yourself, try to strike up an acquaintance with a young man called Lord Randolph Somerton. He likes to gamble, and is often found in a hell called Lucifer’s. But do nothing without my approval. Nothing.”

  “I am a master of disguise. I have even worked in the theater now and then.”

  “Excellent. We are in accord, then.”

  “Completely, monsieur,” said de Couriac, with all the sincerity of a snake.

  D’Eon hurried away, already planning another letter to Paris demanding that de Couriac be recalled, and devising a few possible ways to dispose of the man without suspicion.

  He was beginning to feel entangled in mysterious coils, however. His debts were alarming, and for some reason he sensed that his favorite moneylenders were drawing back from him. He had access to the ambassador’s funds here, but that was risky.

  He entered his coach and ordered all speed. He could not possibly be losing King Louis’s favor, but the prospect sent a chill through him. Then he remembered that he had just received another reassuring letter, and leaned back against the satin squabs.

  All would be well. De Couriac was mad, or bluffing, or both. Or he could be a tool of his enemies in France. That mattered nothing as long as his king smiled on him.

  But he still had to sway the English king, which meant he must at least distract the Marquess of Rothgar.

  To that, he sensed, Lady Arradale might be key.

  Lady Arradale, who apparently was not at all as she appeared.

  Chapter 24

  When Rothgar arrived at the Queen’s House, he found the event surprisingly crowded. The king and queen rarely held large parties in what they considered their private home. Part of the crowd was in honor of the gift, no doubt, but he realized the invitation list had been expanded to provide Lady Arradale with suitors. Among other eligible men, he saw Somerton, Crumleigh, and Scrope.

  Over my dead body, he said to them, then summoned every scrap of devilish cool and moved forward to play his part.

  He went first to pay his respects to the king and queen in the grand salon, where a shrouded shape sat on a central table. On a table to one side, the shepherd and shepherdess he’d given to Their Majesties last year was unconcealed.

  D’Eon would have seen that piece, and Rothgar had no doubt that the French king’s gift would be more spectacular. He wished the Chinese pagoda still existed, for it would eclipse most other machines. Or that the drummer boy was ready for display.


  Ridiculous to be staging a war by automata, but that’s how it seemed to be. His mind played whimsically with the idea of two swordsmen—one French designed, one English—and an actual duel.

  Collecting his wits, he greeted the royal couple. The queen obligingly pointed out Lady Arradale, standing to one side with a chatting group. There was no need. He had seen her as soon as he entered the room—or perhaps sensed her was more accurate.

  Without looking again, he knew she wore moss green and gold. That she had been smiling, but looked pale. That, however, could just be her clever paint. He needed to find out, but not yet.

  “We are very pleased with Lady Arradale,” the king said. “A charming young woman. Quite as she ought to be. Make some man an excellent wife, what?”

  “Yes, sire,” Rothgar said, thinking that she must be playing her part extremely well. Truth was, she’d make an impossible wife for most men.

  “Excellent company for the queen,” the king went on. “Fond of children. A fine looking woman, what? We’ll be dancing at her wedding in weeks.”

  He bowed and expressed delight at the thought.

  The king shot him a look, and he abruptly realized that something else was going on.

  Then the king said, “Lady Arradale has agreed that if she cannot make up her mind, we will choose her husband.”

  It took all his skill not to react to that. Why, short of torture?

  “Better for her to make her own choice, though, what?” the king was saying. “Difficult here, with the queen and I living quietly. The lady should have the chance to meet many gentlemen, what? Get to know them. Dance, that sort of thing.”

  “I think so, sire.” Rothgar was still trying to assess the extent of this problem.

  “A grand entertainment, what?”

  Rothgar actually echoed him. “What? An entertainment here, sire?”

  “No, no. Not with the queen so near her time. Anything you could do, my lord?”

  He suddenly understood.

  Arrange her courtship ball? It was as good as a command, however, and he was known for unusual and magnificent balls and masquerades. “A masqued ball perhaps, sire? Such things are romantic.”

  The king nodded, a gleam in his eye, and Rothgar knew he’d attend in disguise. “Capital, capital! How soon can it be done?”

  “Perhaps two weeks, sire?” If the fates were kind, the queen would take to her bed early, and he could extricate Lady Arradale then.

  But the king frowned. “Two weeks, my lord? No, no. Sooner than that. And anyway, in two weeks there will be no moon. Monday is the full moon. Why not then?”

  Rothgar raised his brows. “That is very soon, sire.”

  “It cannot be done? You have worked such miracles before, my lord.” The king’s sly look warned of what was to come. “Don’t you say, ”With a Malloren all things are possible,“ what?”

  There was no escape. “It can be done, sire, if you will accept the use of features you have seen before.”

  “Of course, of course. It will all be novel for the lady. And give a chance for one of her admirers to win her heart, what?”

  Other guests awaited, so Rothgar stepped back from the royal couple wishing he knew exactly what the king had in mind. He wished to go immediately to Lady Arradale, but that would be too revealing. Instead, he strolled casually into the anteroom where the musicians played.

  There he found Mr. Bach, the queen’s latest protege. Rothgar had commissioned some music from him, and also arranged the copying of his collection of keyboard music written by his father. That music had great elegance and clarity, and he asked Bach to play a piece of it during the evening.

  He was in great need of clarity.

  “Of course, my lord,” Bach said, continuing to conduct the small orchestra. “The queen is graciously appreciative of my father’s music, too.”

  “How does the Diana piece progress?” Rothgar asked, an idea stirring. Before going north, he had commissioned Bach to write music for the Rousseau cantata. “I am holding a masqued ball on Monday, and have it in mind to make it into a true one in the old style.”

  “To stage a masque, my lord?”

  “Exactly.”

  The man’s eyes brightened with interest. “The music is done, my lord, and performers could be found at the King’s Theater.”

  Rothgar settled the details then moved on, wondering if he’d regret that impulse. Ordering music for the Diana cantata had been a whim, intended only as a teasing gift to an intriguing lady. Now it would make her the focus of his ball.

  She would be the focus anyway, with the court knowing she was available for marriage. A reminder of the powers and folly of love seemed in order. For both her and himself.

  When he judged the moment right, he allowed himself to follow the pull he’d resisted, the pull toward the countess. Her chestnut hair glinted in the candlelight and even beneath her powder, her skin glowed like a pearl. Despite corset and hoops he could see the curve of her lovely body and painfully, he longed to gather her into his arms.

  Just that. To hold her.

  What a strange path they had followed to be so intimate without ever enjoying simple embraces.

  He forced such thoughts away and approached, noting Lord Randolph Somerton hovering beside her.

  Like a vulture over a juicy meal.

  An ill-dressed vulture. Somerton should not wear violet.

  Devil take it. It would be the final idiocy to descend to petty, spiteful jealousy.

  Somerton was blond and handsome in a broad-shouldered, strong-boned way, and popular with ladies. Any number of young hopefuls had tried to catch his eye, but it was well known that he needed an heiress. As a duke’s son, he should be able to find one, but he’d not seemed to apply himself until now.

  Diana’s wealth and power must be too tempting to let slip away, particularly as rumor said his father was tired of his gaming debts. At the moment, however, no one would guess that he was an idle wastrel.

  D’Eon was also of the group, but with his lively hands and wide smile, he seemed as harmless as a lovebird.

  Masques indeed, with everyone playing a part.

  The countess did not pretend to be unaware of him, wise woman, and turned as he approached, with a nicely judged cool smile. “Lord Rothgar, how lovely to see you again so soon.”

  He kissed her hand, assessing, seeing no sign of desperation. “London being London, dear lady, we are likely to intercept quite often.” He greeted the others and was immediately asked by one young lady about the attack on the road.

  “Do satisfy Miss Hestrop’s curiosity, my lord,” Diana said, fluttering her gold lace fan as if nervous. “I have done my best, but alas, I was too overset to notice anything except the awful noise.”

  “You admirably refrained from shrieking or clutching my pistol arm, Lady Arradale. I am sure I owe you my life.”

  Half-hidden by her fan, she gave him a brief, scathing look, and he abandoned unwise teasing to tell the story yet again.

  “How terrifying, Lord Rothgar!” exclaimed the young lady. “I fear to travel at all!”

  “I’m sure it was an isolated incident, Miss Hestrop.”

  “And you fought the villains off single-handed? How brave.”

  “Hardly that—”

  “Mon dieu, my lord!” exclaimed D’Eon. “You are too modest. Three enemies slain, and you with only two pistols. Come now, you must tell us how you achieved this magic.”

  “Luck,” Rothgar said, but detecting a suspicious edge to D’Eon’s comments. “Which might amount to the same thing as magic.”

  “Luck is delightful in all aspects of life, my lord. But please, explain this good fortune.”

  “My outrider fired once, and alas, died himself as a result. My first shot took the other assailant inside the coach. My second accounted for the other two by a freak, but in far too gruesome a manner to describe before the ladies.”

  Did D’Eon’s sharp eyes look disbelieving?

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nbsp; Miss Hestrop, however, was protesting, and demanding the full story.

  The countess raised her hand—a strangely naked hand without her extravagance of baubles. “My lord, please do not speak of it!” she said in a rather overdramatic tone. “My head still rings with the explosion. And the screams…” She swayed toward him. “Oh dear.”

  He put his arm around her, and for a brief moment let himself hold her close. But then he had to lead her toward a sofa.

  It was but a moment in his arms, but Diana felt as if those raw edges joined, then ripped apart again as he settled her on the seat and moved away. Leaning back, eyes closed, she gave thanks for her pretense of upset, because it allowed her a moment to recover from shocking pain.

  Why hadn’t she known how immediate and physical her response would be?

  And for him? She slowly opened her eyes and glanced into his concerned eyes.

  “My dear countess, a million pardons for distressing you.”

  It carried layers of meaning, and she said, “This is not your fault, my lord. Please don’t distress yourself.”

  “But I must.” He turned away then, however, to command wine for her.

  She wanted to argue, but they were not alone. The group she’d been with had flocked with her and hovered, hungry for more details of bloodshed and violence. Hungry too, she was sure, for any morsel of scandal.

  “A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes; At every word a reputation dies.”

  She shuddered, desperate to order them away. She tried not to stare at Bey as her hope of survival, but even so, when he turned back, glass in hand, she felt as if she could take her first real breath.

  But then an equerry came over with the king’s inquiries about the incident, and about Lady Arradale’s welfare. She summoned control, sipped the wine, then rose to assure the man that she was perfectly well now.

  Some around her tried to revive the subject of the attack, but in moments, the king commanded attention for the display of the new automaton. When D’Eon stepped forward to make a pretty speech about peace, harmony, and eternal brotherhood, Diana took a relieved breath. She’d never imagined what it would be like to have to be with Bey under a hundred avid eyes.