Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor

by Regina Jeffers

  Jamot glanced to the cowering Satiné. “The others chose wisely, but you have accepted the weak one. A weak woman brings no glory to a man.”

  “You change the subject, Jamot.” The testing mood between them had vanished. The truth was close; John could almost taste it. “Someone had to save Ashmita, but not you. She rejected you–rejected your gift–chose to escape with a pasty-faced Englishman–accept the Englishman as her husband. Who did you mean to punish by hiding the emerald: Ashmita, for turning from you, or Fowler, for proving himself superior?”

  “Neither!” Jamot hissed. The whites of the Baloch’s eyes shown brightly in the dimly lit room. He raised the gun higher, but John was quicker. The smoke hung upon the air, but John pushed through it to chase the retreating form of the Baloch.

  “Swenton!” Satiné called, but John refused to look back at her. Her constant vulnerability pulled at his sense of honor, tempting him to remain as her protector, but Jamot’s capture took precedence. Securing the Baloch would earn his return to the Realm. From below, John could hear his household come to life. He thought of Isolde and how he had hoped to one day to return to her: The idea slowed his step just long enough to provide Jamot an advantage. Reaching a cross vent window, the Baloch sat upon the sill and swung his legs through the opening to propel himself into the night’s darkness. John rushed to the window, meaning to follow, but below him, as he looked upon the groomed lawn, the Baloch scrambled to his feet. If John had had his long gun, he would have taken the shot, but it would be foolish to follow a seasoned warrior into the woods without a weapon.

  “My Lord!” Mr. Fenton called breathlessly. “Are you injured, Sir? We heard a gunshot.”

  John turned from the window. “An intruder. Set men about the house. I must see to Lady Swenton.”

  “Should we have the hounds follow?”

  John’s personal preference was to track, Jamot, but his men were not trained to go against a man of Jamot’s talents. “In the morning, Mr. Fenton. Perhaps our thief will save us the trouble and step into one of Mr. Lattimore’s game traps. It would be ironic to capture a slimy snake in a trap meant for a wily fox.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You remain,” her father said weakly.

  Isolde shifted closer to his bed to speak privately. She braced him so he might sip more of the chamomile mixture. “I intend to be as such every time you open your eyes,” she assured.

  He had several sips of the sweet wine mixed with the infusium. “You will become ill also.”

  Isolde shook her head in the negative. “All within these walls are better. Lord Swenton has paid Doctor Timmons’s expenses. You will have the best of care. Clean clothes and sustenance.” Earlier, she had told him of being in Vienna, having taken a position as a lady’s companion to earn enough money to finance another search for him.

  Her father’s eyes closed, and Isolde had thought he had returned to sleep, but then he said, “Your voice softened…when you spoke of…this English lord.” He sucked in a deep breath. “What else…should I know…of Lord Swenton, Izzy?”

  “Nothing, Papa.” She bathed his fevered brow with a cooling cloth. “He is…I mean, he was my employer. His Lordship used his influence with the British government to discover your whereabouts."

  “Does he think…you will repay him?” Her father emphasized the word “repay,” and Isolde fought to keep the blush from her cheeks. “Some Englishmen think…themselves above…the Irish.”

  Isolde gently smoothed the gray strands from his brow. She wondered when the blond-gray had entered his hairline. When had her father grown weary and older? She had always seen him as the virile young man who had been the love of Maebh Neville’s life. “The baron is not of an ill nature. He is a powerful man, but Lord Swenton is also the most honorable man of my acquaintance. Our debts are even.” The next words choked her, but Isolde made herself say them for then they would be real. “His Lordship has returned to his estate and his responsibilities. I expect never to be in his presence again.”

  *

  John had had but three hours sleep, and he was in no mood for the announced call of Prince Henrí, who had arrived promptly at eleven of the clock. “Escort His Royal Highness to my study, Mr. Fenton, and send someone for the baroness. Instruct my wife to attend me here.”

  “Yes, Sir.” From Fenton’s expression, John’s butler did not approve of the chaos, which had invaded Marwood Manor since John had spoken his vows to Satiné Aldridge. In truth, John wished for the power to turn back the clock to a time when he was free to make a choice of wives. More than once of late, he had chastised himself for not simply escorting Miss Aldridge to Cheshire, depositing her in Ashton’s care, and claiming Miss Neville as his own.

  When he had returned to Satiné’s chambers after Jamot’s escape, they had had another rout. “I could have been killed,” she had charged. “But I suppose that is what you wish: to be rid of me.” She had thrown a vase containing roses at him. “Did you plan for your henchman to slit my throat?”

  During her tirade, he had sat silently on the end of her bed, his shirt damp from the vase’s water. “What man would hire a murderer and then interrupt the deed? It would be ill advised to do so.” John had learned quickly not to antagonize his wife with tones laced with his like rage, but the bit of logic had escaped nonetheless. His antagonism caused Satiné to carry on longer, and in truth, the continual turmoil exhausted him.

  “Did you kill him” She had stormed away toward the hearth. Before he had the opportunity to respond, she had countered, “Why did I bother to ask? Of course you did not for you have not the stomach for killing!”

  John felt the full impact of her taunt. His wife knew exactly how to cut a man to the bone. “I have not the stomach to kill a man without cause.”

  She said sarcastically, “Has not the Baloch presented you just cause to seek his demise?”

  John stood slowly. “I mean to protect you, Baroness, with my life. On that you can be assured.” He had left her then, but it was not the end. His wife had followed him through their adjoining sitting rooms, and even when he had locked the door to his chambers behind him, Satiné had pounded upon the door relentlessly for well over an hour. He expected her hands would be bloody and torn from the efforts. John’s baroness had called him the customary vile names, part of her repertoire of late. He assumed his staff’s tongues had been busy on this new day, repeating what they had heard and seen. Soon the entire neighborhood would be speaking of Lord John Swenton’s shameful marriage.

  The sound of approaching footsteps brought him from his musings. Within seconds, Prince Henrí strode confidently into the room. John quickly excused Fenton and gestured the prince to a nearby chair. “It is a bit early, but would you care for a glass of wine, Your Highness?”

  “I am satisfied for the conversation, Lord Swenton.”

  John noted the prince’s assessing eye; Prince Henrí displayed no contempt for John’s more classic tastes in décor, and somehow John found that particular fact reassuring. John sat with feigned casualness. “I pray you do not object, Your Highness, but I have asked the baroness to join us. My wife should have knowledge of our negotiations regarding her son.”

  The prince’s eyebrow rose in bemusement. “Englishmen provide their wives too much say, but I have anticipated Lady Swenton’s presence today and have steeled my resolve appropriately.”

  John nodded aristocratically. “My baroness has a certain brass when things do not proceed as she wishes. I expect we will both be recipients of several of her barbs today.”

  “I would imagine the accuracy of your words, my Lord.”

  No more had the prince spoken than Satiné appeared at the door. From the look of eagerness upon her countenance, John suspected one of his servants had informed her of the prince’s appearance in York. “You sent for me, my Lord?” she said sweetly.

  John stood painfully slow to greet her. The energy had suddenly been drained from his body. He realized he was to
tally unprepared for another confrontation. “Prince Henrí has called,” he said without emotion. “Please close the door and join us. The prince has a matter of some import of which he wishes to speak to us.” John gestured to the chair between him and the prince. Today, Satiné would choose to whom she would extend her loyalty. When she was properly seated, John said, “Prince Henrí, perhaps you might explain your reasons for calling upon my household.”

  The prince spoke in his heavily accented English. “As you are aware, Lord Swenton, your baroness and I held an acquaintance while we were both in Calais.”

  John’s muscles tightened; he had thought Satiné and Prince Henrí had met in Vienna. Evidently, their relationship had been of a longer standing than he knew. Was the prince the one with whom Ashton had objected: The one Satiné had refused to relinquish when her favorite uncle had threatened to return to England? “Go on,” he said through tight lips.

  “Later,” the prince continued, “we renewed our acquaintance in Vienna.”

  John said perversely, “At my mother’s villa?”

  “I was unaware of your connection to Lady Fiona until Auersperg informed me of it,” Prince Henrí admitted. After a short pause, the prince added, “I should make excuses for my behavior, but that is not of my nature. Although I developed an affection for Lady Fiona, I was infatuated with Miss Aldridge, an act of which I possessed no right. I was married to the woman my father chose for me–a woman some fifteen years my junior. A woman I had never seen before the day we spoke our vows. I know my duty, and I soon brought Princess Matild to child. Unfortunately, neither my wife nor my child survived the delivery.”

  Pure disgust filled John’s chest; however, he ignored Prince Henrí’s supposed sorrow; instead, John studied his baroness. Satiné hung on the prince’s every word. John held no doubt if Prince Henrí offered to take her away, his wife would choose to go. It bothered him Satiné felt on fidelity to him, but in some ways, he would welcome her departure. If Satiné departed with the prince, he would seek an annulment. Miss Neville could refuse him if he petitioned Parliament for a divorce, but if the Church agreed to dissolve his union to Satiné, the lady’s objections could be softened.

  Prince Henrí cleared his throat. “After Miss Aldridge’s departure from Vienna, I learned your baroness had borne my son.” He dropped his head in grief. “My father has taken quite ill; I expect to come to the throne soon, and I will require an heir.”

  John taunted, “So you mean to claim my wife’s son? Why do you not simply remarry and bring your new princess to child?”

  Satiné’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You came for the boy?”

  Prince Henrí ignored Satiné’s anxiousness, but John did not. Each of her furtive glances to the prince stabbed John’s pride as surely as if they were sharpened arrows. “I have been informed by the royal family’s personal physician I may never sire another,” the prince explained to John, while overlooking Satiné’s question.

  “Only the boy?” Satiné rasped. “You came only for your son?”

  As he had expected his wife to object to Prince Henrí’s request, this time it was John who overlooked his wife. “What would lead your physician to pronounce such a dire possibility? Did you suffer some sort of injury?”

  The prince blushed. “Nothing so dramatic. I contracted measles. I was quite ill–out of my head–for more than a fortnight. My father’s physician has suggested that one of the lingering effects of the disease in grown men is a decrease in his ability to sire a child. Moreover, I approach my fortieth birthday. The combination could spell disaster for the principality.”

  John said bitterly. “What a coincidence! Lady Swenton also succumbed to measles shortly after we departed the Austrian coast.” He felt the knife of duplicity being inserted into his gut, and John was certain Satine’s response would be the turn, which ripped him in two. “I do not suppose you met with the baroness before the lady and I spoke our vows?”

  Prince Henrí said honestly, “I did not seek out Miss Aldridge. We had parted in less than acrimonious circumstances, and I was too ill to consider holding a conversation of such importance. However, my manservant has informed me Miss Aldridge called upon me at my suite of rooms. According to Mr. Gregor, Miss Aldridge insisted upon seeing me and then she left a lengthy letter explaining her intentions to marry you and where she would be if I so wished to interrupt your joining and claim her and my child.”

  Something painfully acute crossed John’s countenance. His wife had betrayed him from the beginning. “When did you call upon the prince, Satiné? Miss Neville has stated previously that you had not left your quarters for many weeks,” he accused. “Was it the day I called upon your rooms, and you were not at home?” He had been such a fool!

  “Yes!” she said defiantly. “I learned of Princess Matild’s demise, and I swallowed my pride and sought out Henrí. I did not wish for Rupert to be known as your by-blow. He is the son of a prince.”

  John hissed, “You have never displayed one moment of maternal pride or an interest in the boy’s welfare. If you called upon Prince Henrí, it was because you thought to replace his dead princess with a ready-made family. It was your attempt to place yourself in a position of importance. My title was never grand enough for you!” He felt as if his heart had been unseated. John did not think he could bear another scandal. Another rejection.

  “What woman would not prefer a prince to a mere baron?” Satiné vehemently countered. She was on her feet and pacing. “Do you not see?” she attempted to reason with Prince Henrí. “We could have married: Princess Matild had passed. It would not have been the best of situations, but we could have stared down any gossip. You would have had your heir and me!” Her voice rose shrilly. “You called me your Little Blackbird. Look upon me,” she demanded. “I have done everything for you.”

  Prince Henrí shook his head in denial. “I explained my father’s objections to our engagement, mon Cher. I am a Catholic. You are a Protestant,” he reasoned.

  “I will convert,” Satiné argued.

  Scowling, the prince expelled a breath of disbelief. “You are a married woman,” he insisted. “Until death, you must not part. I cannot marry a woman who has known a divorce. I have spoken to England’s Prince George, and he has assured me my claim to the boy shall be sufficient to bring Rupert under my care. I will present the child to my father as the rightful heir.”

  A nameless emotion kindled in his wife’s eyes, and John knew the full impact of her loss had arrived. “You think to tell the court Princess Matild delivered a child before she passed? You would use my son against me? After all I have practiced in Love’s name?”

  Consternation puckered John’s brow. “What manipulation have you practiced in Love’s name, Baroness?” Satiné’s expression was that of a trapped animal–eyes darting wildly from him to the prince. She jammed her fist into her mouth to prevent her cry of pain. Sinking to her knees, she rocked her misery to and fro.

  John knew he should go to her–to comfort his wife, but he was too fatigued by the drama she had brought to his life to act. Instead, he rose to pour himself a stiff drink. Swallowing the American whiskey he had kept stocked for Pennington, John savored the heat burning his throat. From behind him, he could hear Satiné’s sobs muffled against what he knew was Prince Henrí’s chest. John wished to rage against the world. To cry out against the injustice of having no one who had ever loved him. To bleed inside when he had attempted to cauterize all he had felt.

  “Tell us what you did, mon Cher,” the prince coaxed, but John still refused to look upon the scene. He knew if he did he would exact revenge on the woman who had ripped his soul to shreds.

  Satiné’s voice was weak, but he could hear enough to know the truth of her deceit. “I sent the cleric away…hired Leon Taafe to play the role…Lord Swenton and I…are not married.” John knew elation and rage in conflicting realizations. “I have saved myself…for you, Henrí.”

  In hindsight, it was all so cle
ar. John had never met the Protestant clergyman Auersperg had suggested for the service, and he had trustingly placed the final arrangements in Satiné’s false-hearted hands. In her letter, she had told Prince Henrí of her destination–the true reason Satiné wished to remain in London. She had feared if she left Town, the prince would abandon his search for her and Rupert. Foolishly, John had thought her interested in a tryst with Lord Morse when, in reality, she had kept them all at arm’s length.

  He turned to see Prince Henrí set Satiné from him. “No, mon Cher. You never saved your innocence. Lady Fiona spoke of your shame. Of how the Scot had exacted a revenge upon your person.”

  “That witch!” Satiné clawed at the prince’s arm as he stood to straighten his jacket. “The former baroness was jealous of what she saw in your eyes when you looked upon my countenance.” John’s wife wrapped her arms about the prince’s leg. “You loved me,” she pleaded. “You said as much.” Prince Henrí bent to pry her hands from his breeches. Boot black had smeared Satiné’s cheek and gown, but she ignored the prince’s slight. “Please, Henrí. I will do anything you ask.”

  “There is nothing for you to do, Satiné,” he said firmly. “My father has spoken his objections, and I cannot go against his wishes. He is the ruler of Rintoul and has absolute power.”

  She scrambled to her feet. “Then you cannot have Rupert,” she declared baldly.

  Prince Henrí attempted to reason with her. “One word from me, and Prince George will order his men to remove the child. I do not wish to bring more scandal to Lord Swenton’s door, but I mean to have my son. Have you not punished the baron enough with your deceit? It is time for you to act honorably. If you are not legally married to Lord Swenton, the baron can no longer protect the child with his name and his title. You will be labeled my whore, a word you do not wish to know. All of Society will turn from you. Give me the child. You have powerful friends and relatives, who will see that you can begin again in a new place–somewhere no one knows of your past. It is for the best, mon Cher. You said it earlier: Your child will be the future ruler of my country. Rupert will have every opportunity my wealth can provide. You wish that for your son, do you not, Satiné?”