Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor

by Regina Jeffers

  With the baron’s withdrawal, she had spent an inordinate amount of time before her mirror studying her body. Over the past three weeks she had become more convinced she carried the baron’s child. Each day since her initial cry of alarm, Satiné had taken a length of ribbon and had wrapped it about her hips and abdomen and marked the closure with a pin. This morning she had moved the pin a bit more to the right, not much, perhaps less than a half inch, but still…

  Occasionally, when she permitted her moments of whimsy to override her reason Satiné planned a royal wedding in her mind–she in a gown of purest silk and Henrí with a sash of deepest purple across his chest. However, if she carried Lord Swenton’s child all would be lost. “Please God,” she murmured under her breath. “Do not permit the dream to die so soon.”

  “A post from His Lordship, Lady Swenton.” The butler placed the salver beside Satiné’s place setting.”

  She nodded her gratitude and reached for the single folded sheet. Satiné had hoped for a response from Mr. Coyle soon. Although she had written to him daily, the gentleman had yet to answer, and it had been well over a fortnight since she had heard from the gentleman directly. She had received a letter from Coyle’s wife, informing Satiné that Coyle had suffered from a heart condition, and although the man read Satiné’s letters, Coyle was not in a position to respond. Mrs. Coyle had assured Satiné that Coyle was very intent on keeping their correspondence, and if he did not recover the use of his hand soon, Mrs. Coyle would become her husband’s scribe.

  Using her knife to break the wax seal, Satiné unfolded the paper to read…

  My dearest,

  I have good news. McAdam has agreed to my proposal, but he wishes for me to have the acquaintance of several of his business associates; therefore, my time at Cockell House will continue a bit longer than I originally anticipated. A sennight rather than a week is likely. However, know I will rush my return to Marwood as quickly as this business is complete. I pray all is well with you, and you have found amusement in my absence. Your devoted husband…

  JS

  Satiné sighed heavily. She never thought she would miss Lord Swenton’s company, but she did. He was always tending to her needs, and Satiné discovered she yearned for those little touches: a rose upon her dressing table or a glass of her favorite wine. “An extra three days,” she whispered. “What shall I do to entertain myself? Definitely not plan an afternoon tea.” She did not believe she could tolerate the questioning gazes of His Lordship’s neighbors. “I wish Isolde had remained in York.” Satiné thought that odd. Only a few days prior she had accused Lord Swenton of possessing a tendre for her former companion. “Why did I act so foolish?”

  “Pardon, my Lady? Did you require my service?”

  Satiné looked up to see one of Lord Swenton’s footmen looking upon her with concern. “No. No. I am well. Thank you.” She placed her serviette upon the table and hurried from the room. Unaware of what else to do with her day, Satiné returned to her quarters to write her daily letter to Coyle, but she entered her sitting room to find the maid His Lordship had assigned to her.

  “Pardon, Lady Swenton.” The girl dropped a quick curtsy. “I brought the papers, but Mr. Fenton says I am to return them to him when you finish. Lord Swenton will wish to read them upon his return to Marwood.”

  “Thank you, Pauline.” The servant scurried away, and Satiné sat to peruse the pages. At least, the news would provide her a respite from the boredom. Opening the folded sheets, she read of London. The Season had ended, and the majority of the beau monde had retreated to their country estates. In fact, there was a line which indicated Lord Morse had joined the Viscount and Viscountess Kelley, along with several other of Morse’s crowd at the Kelley’s estate in Dorset. Satiné’s finger traced the names she recognized among those listed. For a few brief moments, she had been part of the sect. “If I had not agreed to marry Lord Swenton, I could be among those enjoying Verity’s entertainments.”

  Had it really been less than three months? she wondered. “Those days seem a lifetime prior.” Again, she sighed with regret. “Silly girl. It was a lifetime. You shall never know such freedom again. The baron does not go abroad or entertain those of quality.”

  Already feeling the lack of Society and her former spontaneity, when her eyes fell upon the brief mention of the Prince Regent’s entourage, the news ripped through Satiné’s heart: Among the Regent’s guests are Prince Henrí of Rintoul and the prince’s fiancée, Miss Iris Callender.

  “Miss Callender!” Satiné was on her feet immediately. “Miss Callender,” she repeated in disbelief. “That pale-faced snippet of a girl! Henrí proposed to Miss Callender! How is that so? The only thing the girl could offer a man of Henrí’s sophistication is a reported dowry of forty thousand pounds! She possesses no noble connections!” Fury ruled Satiné’s thoughts. “Could Henrí require funds so desperately to align his court with a no-named chit from the north of England? My God, Miss Callender’s father is a factory owner in Manchester! If Henrí wished an English woman as his wife, should he not choose the mother of his son?”

  She stormed toward the window and jerked the drapes open. “I shall not tolerate Henrí’s snub,” she growled through tight lips. “The prince will find I am not one to be ignored.”

  *

  “Pardon, Baron Swenton.” McAdam’s butler had interrupted the negotiations between John, McAdam, and Archibald Cochrane, the Ninth Earl of Dundonald, with whom McAdam held a previous connection. John had not welcomed Dundonald into the negotiations for the earl held a reputation for failed dealings with the British admiralty, but John had withheld his objections until he had more completely understood McAdam’s allegiance to the man.

  He had been in Penrith for seven days, and John was anxious to have McAdam’s signature before he returned to York. John worried for his wife’s composure: Satiné had displayed her acceptance of the pact they had made, but he was never fully certain of his baroness’s thoughts. In addition, he still hoped for word of Satiné’s eventual lying in. John had been disappointed to discover Coyle’s illness for he feared without her connection to the physician, Satiné could slip into her previous ways.

  “Yes, Mr. Bartwaithe.” McAdam did not appear pleased by the interruption.

  “The baron’s servant from York has arrived, Sir. The man insists upon speaking to his master.”

  John was on his feet immediately. “Where is he?”

  “In the front sitting room, my Lord.”

  John made his excuses to the room before rushing through Cockell House’s passageways. He closed the door behind him to assure privacy as he entered the sitting room. Peter, covered in road dirt, stood by the unlit hearth. “What is amiss?” John demanded. “Is it the baroness?” His first thought had been she had lost the child of which she had meant him to know nothing.

  “Mr. Fenton sent me to find you, Sir.” Peter extended his hand to present John a letter.

  He snatched it from the footman’s hand before turning his back on the man. He tore the wax seal from the page to read the words, which ripped the breath from his lungs: His baroness had commandeered John’s small coach. Although Satiné had originally indicated she was to spend the day with her modiste in Durham and return to Marwood the following day, from all indications she had set a course for Brighton. “What else can you tell me of Lady Swenton’s intentions?” He studied his butler’s missive again. John hated to add to the servants’ gossip lines, but he required information on why Mr. Fenton thought Satiné had chosen Brighton.

  “Pauline shared below stairs how Her Ladyship became quite agitated after reading the London papers, Sir. The baroness ordered Pauline to pack her small trunk, and then the two set out for what we all thought to be Durham. When Lady Swenton’s coach did not return, Mr. Fenton sent out riders. Olde Sapp returned with the information that the baroness’s coach was seen traveling south on the London Road.”

  John worked hard to maintain his composure. “How are w
e to know Lady Swenton did not return to the Capital?” He could not understand what his wife had hoped to accomplish by leaving Marwood. Had she confirmed her condition and meant to do something drastic to end her pregnancy? If Satiné did something so foolish, John would never forgive her.

  Peter fished inside his jacket to retrieve the folded over newsprint. “Mr. Fenton says there are names in the Society notes, which you will recognize.”

  John reluctantly accepted the single sheet and spread it upon a nearby table so he might study it. Using his finger to trace down the column of London on-dits, his eyes and finger stopped at the mention of Lord Morse and the Kelleys’ presence in Dorset, but John quickly rejected the idea Satiné would risk their marriage for a country entertainment. By its own volition, his finger took up the list again to discover a mention, which confirmed Mr. Fenton’s suspicions: Prince Henrí had announced his engagement to a woman John had seen but once–a girl from the nouveau riche, who would claim the title of princess Satiné had coveted. He groaned in defeat. His baroness would again drag his family name through the muck. He refolded the newsprint. “How many days ahead is Lady Swenton?” John held no choice but to give chase.

  “This would be day four, Sir.” Peter waited for John’s reprimand, but he possessed no complaint for how his staff had performed.

  If the weather had held, his wife would arrive in Brighton on the morrow–perhaps even late this very day. “Call in at the stables and ask them to saddle Kratos. I will see to my belongings. Then I want you to return to Marwood. Ask Mr. Fenton to stifle the tale. I do not want the neighborhood to know of Lady Swenton’s impetuous actions.”

  *

  Her husband’s carriage arrived in Brighton mid-morning of the fifth day of her journey. “I should have arrived last evening,” she grumbled. However, her maid had taken ill, and Satiné had sent the girl home on the mail coach. She suspected Pauline had simply feared Lord Swenton’s ire and had feigned her complaints of the movement of the coach making the girl’s stomach queasy. “I have no need of one whose loyalty is in question.”

  Mr. Lyster and the one footman she had requested had thankfully kept their thoughts to themselves. She had taken a comfortably well-established room at a fashionable inn and had hired a local girl to tend to her dresses and hair. When she had chosen several of her new gowns for the journey, Satiné had also brought the diamond and emerald jewelry, which had reminded her of the funds she had received for the brooch. Lord Swenton had not asked for its return, and Satiné meant to use it to entice Prince Henrí to her. She had reasoned Henrí had looked upon Miss Callender as a means to a small fortune. “Henrí was always one to look upon a woman as an asset,” she told the empty room. “He admitted as much when I asked him why he had chosen to associate with Lady Fiona. Only I appealed to his desire for a woman of merit. Only I can fill that need in him.”

  She chose the gown she would ask the girl to press upon her return. Satiné had sent the maid to learn of the time set for the Prince Regent’s entertainment on this evening. “I mean to make an entrance, which shall capture Henrí’s attention and send Miss Callender crying into her father’s shoulder. I have perhaps two, possibly three, days before Lord Swenton arrives. I must reclaim Henrí’s heart and demand we leave for the Continent prior to either man knowing what has transpired.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  She looked about the crowded assembly room, but her heart rejected such gaiety. Isolde had returned to her beloved home some two months prior, but not for one day had she forgotten Lord Swenton. The baron’s image haunted her day and night. “You will save your papa a dance, Izzy.” Her father patted the hand she had rested upon his arm.

  “Of course, Papa,” she said with a well-practiced smile.

  Even so, her father frowned. “I would wish my only daughter would leave her time in England behind and find happiness with those who know her best.”

  Isolde was not certain anyone knew her as well as Baron Swenton, but she did not argue. “I am happy in Ireland, Papa,” she insisted. “I simply expended so much energy searching for you, I forgot to tend to my own needs. I am still a bit exhausted, but I promise soon to be my old self. Just a little more time.”

  *

  Although his madness told him to press on, John’s body had demanded surcease, and so he had reluctantly called at Lexington Arms. “Kratos is too valuable for me to run the horse into the ground. The stallion has served me well for some five years,” he told Viscount Lexford in excuse.

  “I will gladly lend you one of my newest acquisitions,” Lexford assured. “I have a new Arabian, which should prove a fine ride.” Lady Lexford had judiciously excused herself from the conversation, and except for the few minutes his friend had called upon John to admire the viscount’s first child, the eight-month-old Thomas Kimbolt, John had been glad he had stopped in Cheshire. He had thought the child remarkably handsome, but he had felt the depredation of never knowing such pleasure. In the ride from Penrith to Lexington Arms, John had carefully analyzed the chances he would ever hold his child, and each time he had determined the possibility extremely slim.

  “You have no idea how fortunate you are to have escaped Satiné’s madness,” he admitted. “Charters did you a service by removing any memory of my Lady from your mind.”

  Lexford had studied John closely. The viscount sipped his brandy while considering his response. It was always Aidan Kimbolt’s way–first into the fray, but not before careful planning–however, thoughtful musing had become more prominent since Lexford had suffered a memory loss. It was as if the viscount no longer trusted his initial judgments. Perhaps John should learn to emulate his friend. God only knew John’s judgments had failed him soundly. “Hearing you speak so of Miss Aldridge grieves me. I have been blessed by Lady Lexford’s presence in my life, but as your friend I cannot rest easy knowing you suffer. I fear I do not understand Lady Swenton’s many obsessions.”

  “Mr. Coyle has assured me repeatedly my wife’s manipulations are a matter of exercising control in her life, but when I suggested she assume the duties of my household, Satiné retreated further into renunciations. One would think she would seek control wherever she found it. Instead, Satine’s illness has manifested itself in her desire for perfection. We at one time made light of the duchess’s desire for storybook endings, but, in reality, it was Satiné, who has sought the fairytale story.”

  Lexford folded his arms across his chest, and wariness crossed the viscount’s expression. “You think Lady Swenton still means to convince Prince Henrí she should be the man’s princess? Even after the prince’s rejection?” John had swallowed his pride and had divulged what had occurred with the prince’s claiming of Rupert.

  John scrubbed his face with his dry hands to drive away his exhaustion. “I had assumed Satiné and I had come to a compromise, but with my leaving her unattended for a week, she has abandoned her position.”

  He and Lexford shared the raw bitterness of John’s “reality.” John knew enough of the viscount to expect nothing less than indignation from his friend. “You should simply petition Parliament for a divorce and damn the scandal! You deserve better than this turmoil.”

  A grieving ferocity lapped at John’s control. “You do not understand,” he said through tight lips. “There is the possibility Lady Swenton carries my child. I have no choice but to return her to Marwood and pray she experiences a healthy delivery. After that, I can take action against my wife’s latest betrayal.”

  *

  It had taken several well-placed bribes for her to gain entry into Prince George’s pavilion, but Satiné had entered the grand dining hall on the arm of an elderly viscount, along with, at least, a hundred other members of the beau monde. She had skipped the receiving line; yet, she had quickly latched onto the unsuspecting aristocrat, and he easily succumbed to the bating of her lashes and the fine art of the language of Satiné’s fan.

  “And where is the baron?” Viscount Setcliffe asked as he seate
d her beside him. She noted how the prince’s staff scrambled to add another seat to the long table. Satiné thought it amusing she had so easily found access to the prince’s private party.

  “Lord Swenton had business in the North.” She noted how Setcliffe peeked at her décolletage as he assumed his seat.

  “Then there is no reason we should not enjoy each other’s company,” the viscount declared good-naturedly.

  She thought of the letter of farewell she had written to her husband. If she were successful on this evening, Lord Swenton would discover it upon his arrival in Brighton. If not, she would burn it. The baron would never know for certain the extremes to which she had gone in the name of love. “No reason at all.” Satiné sipped the wine while her eyes searched the room for Henrí. “I am thrilled to be one of Prince George’s guests. I have not long been in England, and I know few among our future monarch’s company.”

  “Then I shall have the pleasure of making you acquainted with many in the room,” Setcliffe said with self-importance.

  Satiné lightly touched the viscount’s arm in encouragement. “I would be much obliged, my Lord, for any kindness you might show me.”

  The meal was well into its second course before she located Henrí, who kept company with the dastardly Miss Callender. She might have spotted him earlier if not for the multiple plumes her tablemate wore. Lady Charles had taken the latest fashion to an extreme, with three feathers sprouting from her headdress. The display reminded Satiné of drawings she had seen in one of her uncle’s history books about the natives in America who met the early Pilgrims.