DEVILISH

by Devilish (lit)

  “A miracle then,” he said, sliding the ring onto her finger. “And thus impossible. Like a perpetual motion machine. Or flight.”

  She looked at an enormous multifaceted diamond, surely the largest, most sparkling gem he could find in a ring. She laughed with sudden, soaring delight. “You know what I love most about you, Bey?”

  “Tell me.” Though she’d seen him mellow a time or two, she’d never seen him glow like this.

  “You like me as I am. You do, don’t you?”

  “I adore you as you are. I adored you from the moment you pressed a pistol into my back.”

  “A rough wooing. I want a promise.”

  “Anything.”

  “Don’t try to change for me. I love you as you are, too.”

  He took her hand, thumb rubbing on the ring. “I thought you’d been fighting to change me.”

  “Do you feel changed?”

  “Utterly.”

  “Then this is wrong.”

  “Diana,” he protested.

  “The essential you mustn’t change,” she said fiercely, praying she wasn’t throwing away the moon and the stars. “I want you only to have changed as we all change, moving forward in life, in tune with our natures.”

  He stood in thought for a moment, thumb still rubbing gently on the ring he’d placed on her finger. “Yes, I see. You’re quite correct. You’ll have to put up with omniscience, omnipotence, protectiveness, and a devilishly strong will. Can you bear it?”

  “I adore it,” she said, and spotting a certain sapphire on his right hand, she moved it to his left, and kissed it there. She longed to drag him off to a bedroom and ravish him, but as he’d said, they had duties here.

  And, now she thought of it, she had her courses.

  She turned to leave the ballroom with him, hand in hand. “What are we going to do about the king?”

  “If he chooses to be offended, so be it. My allegiance above all is to you.” The smile he sent her was astonishing in its warmth. “I hope to have my own small world to cherish soon, so England can go hang.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “No one can change that much. I was thinking—you might appease him by giving him the drummer boy.”

  He raised their linked hands and kissed them. “We are in accord as always. You won’t mind?”

  She shook her head. “It’s a lovely piece, but carries too much pain. Perhaps we’ll make a little drummer boy of our own.”

  “Ah,” he said lightly, leading her back through the entrance labyrinth, “but will it end up Lord Arradale or Lord Rothgar? Or both, poor mite? Our problems are never ending.”

  It was a practical concern, for she still wanted to preserve her earldom’s independence, but she wouldn’t let it shadow the moment. As they emerged into the brighter corridor, she said, “Our problems are nothing, as long as we’re together. Together, we can rule the world.”

  “Don’t say that in front of the king. Come on.” He tugged her to run lightly down the stairs. “Let’s face the lions. You’re right, alas. I can’t let England go hang just yet, at least not while it’s at supper in my house.”

  They found excited masqueraders eating, drinking, and reliving the event of the year. Bey and Diana progressed through the four rooms generating even more excitement by formally announcing their betrothal.

  More than one man said something like, “You’ll not want to be getting on the wrong side of a wife like that, eh, Rothgar?”

  Diana decided it was good to be reminded of the real world. Most of the men here would be frightened by her skills and powers, and would try to mute her in some way in case she eclipsed him. She had found one of the few men strong enough and fair enough to let her fly free.

  As Bey had said, sometimes the gods were kind.

  A frown from the king, however, reminded her that he was one of the traditional men. Abruptly, he beckoned her over, and a hint of fear flickered. He couldn’t prevent their marriage, but if he’d turned against them, he could make things difficult.

  A glance showed that Bey looked unalarmed, but that, she suspected, meant nothing at all. He led her to the king, formally, hand in hand. She curtsied, but Bey raised her immediately.

  “Lady Arradale,” the king said, in the suddenly quietening room, “you are a very unusual woman.”

  “I fear so, Your Majesty.”

  “I spoke to you once on the dangers of women seeking manly skills.”

  “You did, sire.”

  He frowned, and she began to wonder if he could indeed throw her in the Tower for some reason. Firing a weapon in the royal presence? It might be a crime.

  “At that time,” he said, “you remarked to me that a woman is to be admired for defending her children, and I agreed.” After a moment, he said, “The same thing could be said of a woman defending her husband, what?”

  She let out her held breath. A peace offering, and not easy for him. Diana curtsied again. “I think so, sire.”

  He nodded, but as she rose, he said, “I pray, madam, that you have two sons.”

  Bey spoke then. “You will permit us to keep the titles separate, sire? We thank you. But what if we have only one son?”

  Diana tightened her hand on his. He was asking the king to agree to the possibility of another countess in her own right at Arradale, pushing the king’s tolerance, here in public.

  Eventually the king nodded, but coldly. “If it is God’s will.”

  Bey bowed deeply. “You have our most sincere thanks, Your Majesty. May I repay you with a gift?”

  “A gift?” said the king, brightening.

  “Lady Arradale owned an automaton based on herself as a child, but it was broken, so she gave it into my care. Now, we would like to give it to you, sire, as a sign of our eternal devotion and loyalty. If you would be so kind as to step into the hall, it can be demonstrated there where all can see.”

  The king rose enthusiastically, and the word spread so everyone packed into the hall, up the staircase, and around the landings above.

  The drummer boy was wheeled out. “‘Pon my soul, Lord Rothgar,” the king exclaimed, “this is a fine piece! Let’s see it work, what?”

  Bey switched it on, and the drummer boy went through his paces perfectly, charming the king and everyone there. After three windings and repeats, people still clamored for more, but the king ordered it taken on its way, promising a further display at the Queen’s House soon.

  Diana was pleased to see it go. Not only was it a reminder of her family’s hurts, but now to her it seemed trapped, like a child of her own forced to perform in a limited way, as she had been threatened by so many limitations.

  That seemed morbid. Perhaps she was just tired. Bey left her to escort the king out of the house, and the other guests began to leave, clearly happy with the event even though it had been cut short.

  She was tempted to seek her room—to explore her happiness and relive the dangers and death, but she longed for Bey too, so she waited, but out of the way, not wanting more avid speculation. Alas, after this she would probably always be an object of curiosity, but she could bear it.

  With Bey at her side.

  But one guest did approach her—a woman in a beautiful shell-pink gown who had made little effort to disguise herself, for she wore only a narrow black mask.

  Before she could speak, Bey appeared and took Diana’s hand. “You must have had a sorry evening, Monsieur D’Eon.”

  Chapter 34

  Diana stared, fascinated by D’Eon’s illusion of femininity. Paint and powder could achieve a great deal, but he had the mannerisms and gestures down perfectly. And above his low bodice, breasts swelled!

  Perhaps he was just plump, she thought, as tension swept away idle thoughts. Here was the master hand behind the attacks.

  D’Eon waved his lacy fan. “It would have been a sorrier one, my lord, had that madman achieved his end.”

  “You disown him?”

  D’Eon shuddered. “Emphatically.”

/>   Bey’s brows rose. “You expect me to believe you are innocent of the various attacks on my life?”

  D’Eon was an astonishing image of outraged innocence. “I have never sought your life, Lord Rothgar. Never.”

  “What of Curry?”

  The fan wafted again. “A wound, no more.”

  Diana almost spoke her opinion of that, but she decided to be a fascinated observer of this verbal fencing.

  “De Couriac’s orders in the north were the same,” D’Eon said. “I did not realize he was so unbalanced.”

  “Or that he was under other orders, perhaps?” Bey said.

  D’Eon’s red lips tightened. “Or that, my lord.”

  “You expect me to accept these attempts to wound me without affront?”

  “C’est la guerre, monsieur le marquis.”

  “Then perhaps you are a prisoner of war, Chevalier.”

  The little man stiffened. “You cannot touch the ambassador of France.”

  “Acting ambassador,” Bey gently reminded him. “Soon Monsieur de Guerchy will come, and your cloak of protection will be removed.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not.” D’Eon’s eyes were steady. “Like you, my lord, I serve my king, and serve him well.”

  “Kings are not always faithful to their servants. In time, Chevalier, you will die for involving Lady Arradale.”

  D’Eon glanced at her, seeming genuinely puzzled. “My lord? An irritation, perhaps, but aimed to take you in the end precisely where you now so happily stand. You would risk all in a duel over that?”

  “You have a very strange notion of what is irritating.”

  At the icy tone, D’Eon stared. “What has happened? All I have done is to encourage the king to seek to match you up. In view of your declared intention not to marry, it seemed likely to distract you from other matters. I admit, I hoped it might bring about a falling out for a while. But this is not of what you speak?”

  Bey studied him for a moment.

  D’Eon swore in French. “De Couriac! And the offense was great?” He looked at Diana. “You are all right, my lady?”

  “I was rescued,” Diana said, guessing that Bey did not want details revealed.

  D’Eon stood a fraction straighten “This was nothing to do with me, my lord. But I admit a fault. I did not kill de Couriac when I saw him for the rabid dog he was. He came with orders from Paris. It was difficult. I should have realized, however, when he claimed you were to blame for the death of the woman who played his wife.”

  “She was found strangled, but it was nothing to do with me.”

  “Oh no, he killed her. He said as much. A rabid dog, as I said. But a French dog. For the honor of France, monsieur le marquis, I will meet you.”

  No, thought Diana. I will not allow this now! Not when I have everything my heart desires.

  But D’Eon said, “Do not interfere, Lady Arradale. Sometimes a man has a need to fight.”

  Despite that, Diana tried to find words, but he had already turned to Bey. “Not, I think, to the inconvenient, undiplomatic death, but to the blood? First blood. You will not find that easy.”

  Diana bit her lip. She’d remembered Bey’s words about her ordering him to be safe. She was not to do that unless she was willing to be controlled that way by him.

  Fear fluttered, though, and she began to think this night would be too much for her after all.

  Where were Bryght or Elf who might be able to deflect this danger?

  Bey said, “You are correct about my need to fight, monsieur. But I could hardly duel with you in skirts.”

  “I can arrange matters. It must be now, I think, that we cauterize this wound. Come, where do we do it? I will defend the honor of France!”

  Bey looked at Diana, and she saw that he was thinking of her, and ready to step back to save her from concern. D’Eon had been right, however. Bey needed this.

  She had no idea whether D’Eon was acting with good intent or ill, but against all instincts, she said, “To minor wounds only. Please.”

  D’Eon executed an elegant, flowery bow that wasn’t ridiculous despite his feminine dress. “I will not kill him, Countess. Or even damage him badly enough to affect your pleasure. My word on it.” He turned to smile at Bey. “I must tell you, my lord, that I have never been beaten.”

  Bey smiled back. “In a serious contest, neither have I. Come, let us return to the ballroom.”

  He led the way by back stairs, so any hope Diana had that they would bump into Bryght or Fort faded. As they went, however, instinct told her that this was right.

  She still prayed. Accidents could happen, and though she thought D’Eon was honest in this, it was still possible that he intended death, and was coming at it in a subtle way.

  They detoured to Bey’s rooms for rapiers, then walked into the silent, deserted, black-shrouded ballroom. The moon and stars still glowed, giving a certain amount of light.

  D’Eon stepped out of his heeled shoes, then discarded his overskirt and petticoat, showing that he wore satin breeches underneath. Peculiarly female on top and male below, he chose a sword and balanced it for a moment in his hands. Then he nodded and began making some passes with it.

  Diana could tell immediately that he had not boasted about his skill.

  Bey took off shoes and shed his robe, and he too was wearing breeches and shirt. He took off all his rings except the sapphire, and gave them to Diana.

  “Is this wise?” she had to ask. “What if he does plan murder?”

  “He still has to make the hit.” He turned to D’Eon. “Monsieur, what of your corset? It must hamper you.”

  The Frenchman flexed his shoulders. “Not at all, my lord. I indulge in vanity, but not to that extent. You are ready?”

  Bey bowed. “I am completely at your service.”

  He walked toward D’Eon, but Diana made a sudden resolve, and spoke. “Monsieur D’Eon,” she said, and the man turned to face her, painted brows high. “I still have my bow, and a number of arrows. If there is any foul play here, I will kill you.”

  After a still moment he smiled, and blew her an extravagant kiss. “Magnifique! You are indeed worthy of the great marquess, and if de Couriac was not already dead, I would kill him for you.”

  “No you wouldn’t,” said Bey. “En garde, monsieur.”

  With shocking suddenness, the blades clicked together, and the two men became intent only on each other. It should have been a ridiculous mismatch simply because of height and reach, but Bey had never thought so, and he’d been right.

  D’Eon was, quite simply, brilliant. His agility was astonishing, his balance perfect, and the blade, even though it was strange to him, seemed a smooth extension of his body.

  It took a moment for Diana to realize that Bey was almost as good, but only almost. It was the height and reach that leveled it, but it was level.

  Too level? The blades seem to hiss close to flesh with every daring move.

  The fight burned with energy, nothing at all like the bouts she had with Carr. Did Carr fight like this sometimes with skilled men, moving at fierce speed around a huge room, taking terrible chances with vicious speed and strength that could so easily kill?

  They swirled close, and she had to quickly back out of the way to be sure of not distracting them. No chance of that. Neither had eyes for anyone or anything but each other.

  Almost, she thought, like a deadly minuet.

  As the fight went on, she could hardly believe that neither of those wicked, flashing blades had drawn blood. She found that she was sucking in air as they must be.

  D’Eon’s powdered wig had gone, and his hair straggled. Bey’s hair had been loose to begin with, but now tangled with sweat.

  “What the devil’s happening?”

  She started at the low murmur in her ear, and glanced once at Bryght who had appeared at her side, Fort nearby. She looked back quickly, however, feeling that her attention alone stood between this and disaster.

  “A friendly fig
ht, of sorts.”

  “Friendly…” Bryght muttered, but at that moment D’Eon moved quickly out of pattern, lowering his sword, and Bey checked a thrust.

  It stopped.

  The Frenchman sucked in deep breaths. “We will kill each other out of exhaustion, my lord… You are satisfied?”

  Bey lowered his sword, too, and when he had his breath, said, “Perhaps. You were right. You are extremely good. A little better than I am.”

  D’Eon bowed, and did not dispute it. “So, the record is swept clean?”

  Bey replaced his sword in the case. “You say you have no plans to kill me, monsieur, but what of your masters in France? Someone instructed de Couriac.”

  D’Eon shrugged. “I will try to convince them that it would be extremely impolitic now for a Frenchman to create more havoc in England. You will always have enemies there, however.”

  “I am glad of them. The passion of one’s enemies should mark the stature of one’s triumphs. But was there any true attempt to kill the king?”

  “No, I am sure not. King Louis would have no wish for it. No king is happy with the idea of regicide. I think that was merely to draw you out for attack. Your protective instincts are very well known.”

  “How dismaying to be so predictable.”

  “So now?” asked D’Eon. “You have a beautiful lady as your bride, my lord, and happiness ahead of you. We can put this all behind us?”

  Bey turned to face him. “Not quite, monsieur. You did, after all, attempt to wound me. I have arranged some discomforts for you in return.” With a smile he added, “C’est la guerre, non?”

  The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed.

  Bey continued. “However, I will offer a friendly warning. You have enemies in France, and have not perhaps always received accurate information. Take care.”

  D’Eon’s features pinched, but he merely said, “We shall see, my lord.” He passed over his sword and picked up his clothes. “Good night, my lady, my lords.”

  “What discomforts?” Bryght asked as the Frenchman left the room.

  Bey pushed hair off his face, and replaced D’Eon’s sword in the case. “His influence is already undermined with King Louis, along with his master’s, de Broglie. Guerchy comes soon, only too keen to put him in his place. What’s more, D’Eon has been encouraged to keep copies of all materials relating to his dealings with the king. Insurance of sorts, but a keg of gunpowder beneath him.”