“I see you have taken note of Prinny’s prized guest,” Setcliffe whispered conspiratorially.
Satiné blushed at her obvious lack of sleuth. “I did not realize Prince Henrí was in England. In the wilds of Yorkshire such points of Society are inconsequential.”
“You recognize the future ruler of the principality of Rintoul?” he asked suspiciously.
She schooled her countenance and her tone. “Prince Henrí was a guest at one of my mother-in-marriage’s many evening entertainments in Vienna.”
“Yes, I have heard rumors regarding Lady Fiona’s infamous parties. Were they as free as one hears?”
Satiné thought at first to acknowledge the truth regarding the former baroness, but then a twinge of guilt froze her tongue. Lord Swenton would suffer enough by her actions this evening. She giggled softly. “No proper English woman would ever exercise such depravity, my Lord. The rumors are highly exaggerated.”
After the meal, Satiné permitted Lord Setcliffe to lead her about the room. Despite the luscious offerings, she had limited her consumption to five mouthfuls of food and one glass of wine–the first she had eaten since leaving Marwood five days prior. Silly as it would sound to others, the food had frightened her more than the possibility of facing her husband’s ire.
“Shall we renew your acquaintance with the prince, my Dear?” Setcliffe whispered close to her ear.
Satiné’s pulse quickened, but she managed to say mildly, “If you insist, my Lord.”
It provided her a sense of satisfaction when Henrí looked up to note her approach. Her former lover blanched–the color draining from his countenance. They offered the obligatory bows before Henrí said smoothly, “I was not aware, Baroness, you were in Brighton.”
“I chose to enjoy the sea air while Lord Swenton saw to estate business. The baron thought Brighton would do me well.” She paused to permit Henrí to understand she was alone.
Henrí lifted an eyebrow in awareness. “I am sorry for the lack of Lord Swenton’s company. Please give the baron my regard.” With that, he excused himself to join Prince George’s other guests, but Satiné knew he would return to her side before the evening ended.
And as she predicted when the music began, Henrí appeared. “Lady Swenton.” He bowed formally. “May I request the honor of the next set?”
She acknowledged Setcliffe’s company before placing her hand in Henrí’s. As he led her to the floor, she whispered, “Does Miss Callender realize I am Rupert’s mother?” She meant the remark as a clandestine threat.
“Iris is aware we held a previous acquaintance in Vienna,” he explained. He turned her into his embrace. “Tell me, Satiné, why you have come to Brighton?”
She placed one hand on his shoulder and the other in the palm of his right hand. “Is it not obvious.” She kept her expression neutral for many watched their interactions.
“You appear to assume we have much to discuss.” Henrí set their steps in motion.
Satiné smiled knowingly. “This reminds me of the night we first met at the masquerade. Everyone watched us then, as they do now.”
Henrí said with a hitch of awareness in his voice. “I held no idea. I only had eyes for you. You were quite stunning.”
He maneuvered her around several couples before she spoke again. “Ours was a shooting star.”
Again, they were silent, both considering what to say next. “What do you wish of me, Satiné?”
“I thought we should speak privately,” she suggested.
Henrí glanced about the room. “I have commitments to Prince George this evening. After all, I am his guest.”
“The party cannot last all night. Brighton does not possess the life of London,” she assured. “Come to my rooms at the Blue Fox when all have retired.”
A look of consternation crossed Henrí’s countenance. “I should not. Miss Callender’s father would not be pleased if I am seen.”
“Then be discreet,” she argued. “There are things to be said, and I would prefer to say them in private.” Satiné’s tone held a cold warning. “However, you must realize, Henrí, I possess no qualms in saying them before an audience. The Callenders would certainly not approve of our true connections.”
Henrí hissed, “A man does not appreciate threats, mon Cher.”
She countered, “Neither does a woman, Your Royal Highness.”
*
Satiné had departed shortly after their conversation. She had made her excuses to Viscount Setcliffe before returning to her rooms. She entered on a cloud of anticipation. It was the first time she had been hopeful since learning of Rupert’s existence. “Henrí chose me as his partner before he asked Miss Callender to dance.”
In reality, Satiné had departed prior to the musical interlude of the following set. She did not wish to observe Henrí’s attentions to the other ladies. In Calais and Vienna, he had remained dutifully by her side, but England held stricter guidelines for acceptable behavior. She permitted the maid to unlace the gown and assist her into a satin nightgown and robe before she excused the girl for the evening.
She held no idea how long she might have to wait for Henrí, but Satiné assumed the wait would prove the prince’s attraction to her. She took the time to thoroughly brush her hair and to add drops of scented oil to key points upon her body. Finally, she set the door to permit Henrí’s entrance and then crawled into bed. It would likely be several hours before the prince made an appearance. “Meanwhile, I shall practice what I wish to say to him. It is important I convince Henrí to abandon Miss Callender.”
Satiné refused to consider the possibility he might reject her again. She also would not dwell upon how she might find a means from her hasty marriage to Lord Swenton and the displacement of her possible pregnancy. “If I can entice Henrí to my bed, I can claim the baron’s child belong to my prince. After all, no one questioned Rupert’s likeness to the baron. Both Henrí and Lord Swenton possess similar appearances. All I must do is not increase too quickly and then later claim the child has arrived earlier than expected.”
It pleased her to have come so quickly to a solution to the child. “Now what should I do in the matter of my marriage vows?” Satiné’s countenance screwed up in heavy concentration. “It would be ironic simply to ignore my vows, as had Lady Fiona with the previous Baron Swenton. Of course, Lady Fiona never chose to remarry. Unfortunately, Henrí cannot abandon his obligation to marry: His father and his reign require it.”
*
“You are awake?” The maid she had hired edged closer to the bed. “Should I ask Mrs. McClenton for a tray?”
Satiné rolled to her back and stretched leisurely, but then realization had arrived. She glanced toward the window. “What is the time?” She sat up abruptly.
The girl appeared confused. “Well past one, Ma’am.”
Satiné flung the coverlet aside. “One in the afternoon?” she said incredulously. “How can that be?” She stood and reached for the satin robe she had discarded during the night. Rushing to the window, Satiné drew the drape aside to look upon the early afternoon sun. Something was amiss: Henrí had not come. Or had he? Turning to the girl she asked, “Did I have no visitors? Could the McClentons have sent my expected guests away?”
The young maid frowned. “No, Ma’am. The McClentons be most generous. They provided me a pallet and lets me sleep in the hall outside yer dur. I would know if’n you had any callers. Other than when I break me fast, I be watchin’ fer you to wake.”
It was Satiné’s turn to scowl. “I wish to go out. Please fetch some water so I might wash and then you may assist me with my dress.” As the girl scurried away to do her biding, Satiné’s gaze returned to the afternoon scene. “Henrí did not come,” she told the empty room. “But why?” Desperation filled her lungs. “Did Prinny demand Henrí’s company? Or was Henrí’s promise to call upon me another of his lies?”
Wiping the tears from her eye’s corner, Satiné forced her fears into a quiet place. She
must have an answer before she could act. In her estimations, Lord Swenton would arrive at the earliest at the end of this very day, but more likely some time tomorrow. “I must send word to Henrí. It is imperative we speak today. Tomorrow may be too late.”
Within three quarters of an hour, Satiné wove her way through the crowded streets frequented by those who meant to see and to be seen. She searched the countenance of each passer-by, hoping to discover the acquaintance of someone who had attended Prince George’s entertainment the previous evening. Finally, she spotted Viscount Setcliffe crossing the street toward a shop selling cigars, cheroots, and snuff.
Quickening her steps, Satiné darted between riders to be in the viscount’s way when he reached the shop’s door. When he stepped upon the elevated walkway, she curtsied in anticipation of his greeting. “Viscount Setcliffe,” she trilled. “It is pleasant to greet you again, Sir.”
His thin lips turned up in a smile. “Baroness Swenton.” He bowed stiffly. “The pleasure is mine as well.” The viscount waited for a couple to pass before he joined her. “Do you have an errand, my Lady, for which I might serve as your escort?”
Satiné presented him her most engaging smile. “None of great importance, my Lord. I simply wished to enjoy the milder weather and the sea air. In truth, I would be happy to claim your arm if you also have no pressing business on this glorious afternoon.”
“It would be my honor, Baroness.” He extended his arm, and Satiné slid her hand about his elbow. They set off at a leisurely pace. “I was sorry for your early departure last evening,” he said softly. “I had hoped to claim a set on your dance card.”
She glanced up at him. The viscount was an excessively kind man, and Satiné knew she should be sorry for so blatantly deceiving him; however, she was willing to risk more of the ton’s censure to claim Henrí’s affections. “In truth, I was quite exhausted. My journey had been delayed by poor weather. I had but a few mere hours between my arrival in Brighton and the prince’s entertainment.” She squeezed the viscount’s arm. “I fear I would not have been the best of company, my Lord.”
The viscount directed their steps toward a bench in a small courtyard at the end of the walkway. Once he seated her, the conversation continued. “We were all quite jealous, Baroness, as Prince Henrí was the only one to claim your hand. You dance very well.”
As she had done the previous evening, Satiné used her fan to stroke the viscount’s arm. “I would not have accepted Prince Henrí’s hand if he were anyone less than our future monarch’s guest. I do not approve of Rintoul’s engagement to Miss Callender as the prince, obviously, means only to claim the girl’s fortune. Prince Henrí is old enough to be Miss Callender’s father. It is shameful.”
The viscount chuckled ironically. “It is the way of the world, Baroness. Men search for brides who are strong enough to produce the necessary heirs. That being said, I am certain Miss Callender’s father has added sugar to his daughter’s dowry in the form of several properties. In retrospect, it does my old heart well to know even a principality can be purchased with enough money.”
It pained Satiné to think Henrí was no better than many Englishmen, who settled for an arranged marriage to settle their debts. She wondered if Henrí had succumbed to the gaming halls again. It was rumored Rintoul’s prince had honored her by avoiding the evils of which Satiné so strongly disapproved. “Perhaps Prince Henrí has accumulated debts. After all, much of Europe suffers. Napoleon left a swatch of despair upon the land, and the recent famine has complicated the situation.”
Viscount Setcliffe smirked. “I am certain Rintoul has his debts, but I doubt they come as part of the political drama.” He looked off in the direction of the docks. “Of course, speculation is no longer necessary. Whatever the source of Prince Henrí’s financial strife, he will soon know relief. Rintoul’s ship set sail early this morning with the Callender miss and her family aboard. I imagine they should be in Calais by now.”
A shaft of ice speared Satiné’s heart. Had she misheard? Even though every instinct prompted her rage, she warily asked, “Do you mean Prince Henrí has set a course for France? And so soon after accepting Prince George’s hospitality?”
“Did you not realize? Last evening’s entertainment was designed as a leave taking. Prince Henrí’s staff had planned an early departure.”
The viscount’s words left Satiné teetering on the brink of madness. She stood quickly. “I must apologize, my Lord.” She repeated the words from well-rehearsed politeness, but she could not recall what came next. “I must go.” Without more of an explanation, Satiné darted away: She could not believe Henrí had departed England without her, but she could think of no reason for Viscount Setcliffe to exaggerate the facts he had repeated.
She raced along the walkway toward the inn, recognizing nothing but her own misery. Without her knowledge, tears streamed down her cheeks, but Satiné had no care for the sympathetic looks on the countenances of strangers. Logic and common sense had abandoned her. From somewhere behind her a person caught at her elbow, but Satiné did not pause her steps. She heard a male voice call her name and another instruct the stranger to give way; yet, Satiné rushed forward, never turning her head to assess the commotion, simply assuming Lord Setcliffe had given chase. However, only her despair called to her as she raced along the busy walkways.
Finally reaching the inn, she half staggered and half ran up the stairs to the second storey room she had let. Thankfully, the girl had waited for her return for Satiné did not think she could have seen to the key and lock. “What is amiss, my Lady?” the maid asked anxiously, but Satiné shoved her way past the girl to throw herself upon the bed. Curling into a tight ball, she sobbed openly–the pain so great she could no longer hide it. Henrí had made a fool of her again, and to make matters worse, she had ruined the civil treaty she had assumed with Lord Swenton. The baron would never forgive this latest betrayal. “You foolish, foolish girl,” she wailed. “You deserve His Lordship’s disdain.”
“Shall I fetch a doctor, Miss?” the maid asked with caution.
However, Satiné took little notice. All she wanted was to disappear–never to know the looks of pity easily found on the countenances of those who supposedly loved her. “I require something for the pain,” she told the girl. “I suffer greatly.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Again, the girl rushed to do her bidding, but Satiné was beyond being impressed. Stifling her sobs, she rose to blindly search her bags to find the drops, which would remove the pain in her stomach, always there, and the pain in the heart, never far from her thoughts. Finding the vial she had had Pauline purchase for her on their journey, with trembling hands, Satiné uncorked it. “Please God, assist me to make this right,” she whispered. “Assist me to discover a means to stop Henrí’s plans to marry Miss Callender. I must think.” She paced the room with the open vial held tight in her grasp.
“Do I have enough funds to purchase passage to France?” With a resounding “Yes,” Satiné touched the vial to her lips. “And if not, you still have Lady Fiona’s necklace and even your wedding ring.” The realization pleased her, and she sipped a second time. A plan hatched as she paced the floor and sipped the mixture. Soon, she had recovered much of her composure. “I cannot return to York. Lord Swenton will turn his back on me forever. I have no other choice but to know success with Henrí.”
She had returned to her bed long before the girl appeared with a physician in tow. “Where is the pain, Lady Swenton?” the man asked as he touched her forehead, searching for a fever.
As she had paced and planned, Satiné had finished the vial of laudanum, but the “drops” had not completely removed her reason. “I recently lost a child,” she told the physician. “The pain comes from the lack of success following my lying in.” She thought her speech sounded slurred, but the doctor did not appear to notice.
“How far along were you?” He pressed firmly upon her abdomen, and Satiné grimaced.
“Some seven mo
nths, she lied. “My husband thought a holiday would assist in my healing–to keep my mind from my loss.”
The doctor asked suspiciously. “Where is the baron?”
Satiné could feel the numbness sinking into her brain and her body. She concentrated hard to articulate an appropriate response. “The baron will arrive tomorrow. Business has delayed his journey. I would be sorry for my husband to find me poorly. Is it possible to ease the pain?” She thought it would be good to have the medicine in her possession when she made her crossing to France. Tomorrow Satiné meant to book passage to Calais.
“I wish to speak to your husband tomorrow.” The physician dug in his bag for a small bottle of the medicinal and set it upon a side table. “It is not common for a lady to suffer so. You must send the girl for me again if the laudanum does not ease the pain within a few hours.”
“Yes, Sir. If you will hand me my reticule, I shall see to your fee.”
The doctor patted the back of her hand. “You should rest. I will ask Mr. McClenton to add my fee to your husband’s bill of service.” Then he was gone.
Satiné accepted the dose of laudanum the maid added to a bit of wine and then she waved the girl away, rejecting the maid’s suggestion that she change from her day gown before taking to her bed. “I would prefer to rest. Please return later,” she instructed as her eyes closed to the perfect delirium.
*
He had thought his eyes had betrayed him, but Jamot had easily recognized Lord Swenton’s wife as the woman rushing along the busy commercial street. He had reached for her, meaning to delay the baroness’s steps, but an older man, obviously of the aristocracy, had brought his cane down hard upon Jamot’s forearm with a warning, and so Jamot had stepped back, eyes averted, and apologized. However, he had not permitted the woman’s retreat to escape his gaze.
Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor Page 32