Royal Regard

by Mariana Gabrielle

  Preoccupied by the weight of his own history, he managed to sit comfortably in the fauteuil chair behind the desk, one ankle crossed over his knee. His riding attire was immaculate, not a stitch out of place, from the Trone d’Amour knot in his black silk cravat to the shine on his Hoby boots.

  Were this unpleasant business complete, he could take one of his two remaining riding horses to the hidden cave in the cliffs at the back of his lifeless formal garden, the spot with the best view of Calais. He had sat there so many times that he could see and hear the docks in his mind, even if the city were obscured by fog, as it would be today.

  He tapped his riding crop on the heel of his boot as he observed, “You look shabby, Michelle. Did you leave your bourgeois husband and the money he stole by guillotine?”

  She flinched as if slapped. “Non, Monseigneur, he died many years ago and his money with him. I am untidy because it has been a long journey, and I came directly from the harbor.” She glanced at the bag just inside the door. “I did not even stop to arrange lodging, for I knew you would want to hear my news without delay.”

  “You look like you serviced a boat filled with sailors to pay for the crossing,” he sneered. “Did you plan to service me to secure your bed for the night?” When her head ducked away from his vicious tone, he added, “Perhaps if you go down on your knees for my stableboy, he will share his haystack.”

  Her face flushed, but she only said, “I have important information, Monseigneur.”

  “It must be vital,” he said with a mordant jeer, “to bring you all the way from Épinal. What will your information cost me this time? I have no more family for your fiancé to ransom.”

  “Monseigneur, as always, I wish only to serve your interests.” She failed to keep the reproof from her tone when she said, “You recall it was I who told you of the duchess’s betrayal, and I who aided in your escape, at great danger to myself. I have been loyal to you since we were children, Monseigneur, and always a friend to your sisters before the—” Her voice broke. “I had hoped my long devotion to la famille Fouret would serve to assure you of my intent.”

  His face and voice remained cold, but he asked, for the first time without derision, “What has brought you so far from home?”

  “It is about the duchesse, Monseigneur.”

  He sat up swiftly, his knuckles white on the edge of his desk. “Amelia?” His lips were drawn in a thin line, eyebrows a dark slash in a face suddenly drained of color. “What information can there be about her?”

  “There was a man asking questions, seeking out servants from the château. Of course, very few remain in Épinal, but he was quite determined to discover the circumstances of her death.”

  “La maréchaussée?”

  “Non, Monseigneur, not the constabulary, nor the king’s men. Un Anglais. He said he knew her as a child.”

  He sat back to consider what Englishman might be asking questions after thirty years. Amelia’s family was long dead, and once he had disposed of the peasant with whom, according to Michelle, his wife had betrayed him, she’d had no friends to make inquiries. He had never taken her to Court, nor made his marriage known there, and she had never been allowed the freedom to become known in Épinal. Aside from the few servants who had attended her at the château, most also now dead, he couldn’t think of one person in England or France who would even remember his wife’s name.

  “Who is he?”

  “I do not know, Monseigneur,” she winced, turning her face away as though expecting a blow. “He paid well to ensure no one spoke his name, and did not find me before he returned to Paris.” Implied in her tone: of all his servants, she was the only one who had kept her silence about him, though he knew that was probably why no one gave her the man’s name.

  “From what I have been able to learn, he left only with suspicions. You recall, I am sure, not so many of us know the whole truth.”

  His nostrils flared, “Do you mean to threaten me, Michelle?”

  “Non, Monseigneur, non,” she pleaded. “Of course not, my lord. Only to say I do not know what the man might have heard elsewhere. No one knows Pierre Bouchard’s direction, and he is the only other who—” His sharp look nearly stopped her breath. “It is said he worked as a spy for the usurper, but no one in the Vosges has seen him since the Revolution. He might be anywhere; he was only ever a legionnaire.”

  Malbourne slammed his fist down. “Merde!” She jumped when his hand hit the desk. “After all this time! That stupid, lying slut is still a stone under my heel after all this time.”

  As he yelled, her breathing quickened, and she shuffled back and forth on the balls of her feet, stepping closer as if drawn by a cord. He reined in his temper with the discipline of a lifelong equestrian, although his breathing remained fast and shallow. Standing, walking around the desk, he placed himself directly in front of her, tipping her chin up with his riding crop, turning her face right and left to take in the ravages of time and circumstance, watching her eyes avoid him as he slowed his pulse.

  “It does not escape me you have come a very long way to inform me of this, Michelle, when there are many other ways you might have sent word. Perhaps you have another reason for your voyage?” She swallowed hard, but didn’t answer.

  His expression remained cold and inflexible but he allowed the slightest bit of warmth to enter his voice as he asked, “Have you troubles to flee in Épinal, ma chère? Do you seek my protection from some danger?”

  Her chin evaded him. She dropped her gaze to his chest until he crossed his arms and sat back onto the surface of the desk, deceptively calm. The hint of tenderness was lost as he used his voice like a lash. “Answer me, girl! Now. Or get out.” He ground his teeth waiting for her response.

  Her fingertip touched a button on his waistcoat before she pulled her hand away, as from a glowing ember. Her voice lost forty years in the space of one breath, suddenly reminding him of his first fumbling sexual encounters with her in the servants’ hallways of the château.

  “It has been a very long time, Dofi.” He sucked in a breath at the diminutive he hadn’t heard in decades. “I only thought we might… renew our friendship.”

  He drew away sharply and slapped her face with the back of his hand, using all of his considerable strength. “Putain! You forget your place!” She was left reeling, thrown to the floor.

  The fear in her eyes turned to anticipation as she regained her balance and touched the rising welt, finally looking him directly in the eye. She crawled on her hands and knees to his feet, still holding his gaze, hand moving with confidence to the fall of his trousers as he reached to tangle his fingers in her tousled red hair.

  “Non, Monseigneur,” she said as she opened his buttons, “I have not forgotten. You will find I remember my place very well.”

  Chapter 10

  “Your Ladyship, Mr. Watts says there is a gentleman to see you.”

  Bella turned from the desk where she was adding up the household accounts, staring blankly at Peggy Wilson, the nursery-maid-with-aspirations-to-lady’s-maid Charlotte had loaned from her house against Bella’s objections. If Bella had ever really learned how to manage British servants, instead of being trained by her aunt to become one, she might have recourse, but to her dismay, Charlotte was both helpful and unbearable about it. Thankfully, Myron’s previous butler, Watts, had been located and agreed to return as steward and valet, so there was finally a sensible man running things who could be counted on to do Bella’s bidding, unlike Mrs. Jemison, who now preferred to take orders from Charlotte.

  Nevertheless, her home life was smoothing out: enough proper staff to manage the house and garden with minimal input from her; an adventurous cook who agreed to use Bella’s recipe box when designing Myron’s menus; workmen finishing one room after another, with less commotion every day; a set schedule for meals, paying and receiving occasional calls, and attending functions to represent Seventh Sea Shipping. Outside her compulsory engagements, though, Bella had seemin
gly endless free time, most of which she spent with Charlotte and the Marloughe children.

  The only thing not falling easily into place in this new life was her marriage.

  During the earliest years of their union, Bella had been tasked by her husband—and the king—to smooth the rough edges of a perpetual sailor, giving him the polish of a gentleman with ties to the nobility. The resultant shipboard lessons in genteel manners and proper deportment, and his support for her as she learned to speak up for herself and become more daring, had created an uncommon closeness between them.

  As well as acceptance of each other’s strengths and weaknesses, close quarters on the frigate made for self-imposed intimacy, strengthened by the emotion of an oft-thwarted desire for an heir. They had never been in love, but they had been true, equal partners in pursuit of their business and diplomatic success, and had shared equally the pain of the loss of many children.

  “Shall I attend you during the gentleman’s call, my lady?”

  “Of course,” Bella agreed. There was no way she would be caught alone with a man, even in her own home. It would cause Myron such pain for anyone to suspect her of wrongdoing. It might even contribute to the situation she found so difficult to understand: after years of such caring friendship, why her husband had drawn so far away.

  More often than not, he sent her to parties with Charlotte and Alexander, staying home in his study, doing business he kept from her, so late into the night he often slept on the chaise longue he had requested she install there. She enticed him to the occasional evening playing backgammon, but he didn’t speak overly much, rather spending the games cogitating, thoughtlessly letting her win by both hairpins and tiles. She could see the troubles on his face, but knew better than to try to pierce his thoughts. When she tried to discuss her concerns, he waved them off with, “Whatever you think best, my dear.”

  Perhaps it was the fact of his work, so different now—more political than mercantile. More people with whom to speak, all of whom were more important, more meetings to be had, and no shipboard proximity and restlessness between destinations. Perhaps he was withdrawing so she might become accustomed to being without him, but she wished he would draw her closer to be a comfort, as they had been for each other so many times before.

  This latest excuse to take him away from home—at least a fortnight traveling among his shipyards along the coast—had caused her to question everything about her marriage, including whether she had somehow furthered his inattention. If, perhaps, he had noticed the excessive regard of the Dukes of Malbourne and Wellbridge, and thought she meant to encourage them.

  “What gentleman can possibly be here to see me? It isn’t my at-home. Are you certain he isn’t here for Lord Huntleigh?”

  “Mr. Watts says the gentleman asked for you, my lady. The Duke of Wellbridge.”

  Bella could feel the color rising in her face. The two men Myron had explicitly forbidden were the two who would not stay away. Somehow, she doubted the coincidence. She wasn’t sure what she could say to the duke to encourage him to go, but she was sure she should say something.

  “He says he has an appointment. Shall I say you aren’t receiving?”

  She lied outright. “No, Wilson. He is quite correct. I must have forgotten. Please have Watts show him into Lord Huntleigh’s study, and tell him I will be there in a quarter-hour. Then come right back to help me change my gown. It is nearly time for tea, and I am still in my morning dress.”

  “The study, Your Ladyship? But he is already in your drawing room.”

  The fact he had been shown that far into the house without her leave was a bother to be corrected as soon as he left.

  “Yes, Wilson, the study.” Thankfully, among the rooms in which the decoration had been finished. With her husband on board the frigate, Bella wanted as many reminders of him in plain sight as she could manage. Especially while defying his express instruction.

  “I’m sure Watts can find a reason to move him to another room.”

  If Myron weren’t a full day and a half away, she would never even consider this, which was reason enough to question her own motives. And the peculiar sense of anticipation.

  “Please hurry. We mustn’t keep the duke waiting any longer than necessary.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Bella’s hands shook as she took her messy hair down and brushed it smooth. No matter how skilled Wilson was at arranging hair, there was no chance Bella’s fine tresses would stay in place all day. She set out the pomade and curling papers, then stepped over to the armoire to find an appropriate frock.

  Something modest, she decided, but still eye-catching. Nothing with a low décolletage, nor anything sheer, and nothing that required she tighten her corset strings. None of the gowns she had were at all the thing, only premade and quickly altered to replace those stolen at the inn, since Charlotte’s modiste hadn’t yet delivered the dresses they had ordered. She wanted to wear the Saxon green gown with the salmon trim and rose-point lace. She flipped through her entirely inadequate wardrobe until she wanted to scream, unnerved at how quickly she had fallen into the silly fashions of the aristocracy, changing her dress three or four times each day.

  Wilson returned and took over the search, finally locating a blue-green muslin Empire frock, shot with silver threads. It was a bit fancier—and far more revealing—than called for at half past three in the afternoon, but could be made decent with a white silk underdress and a shawl. It didn’t fit perfectly, and the slippers wouldn’t match, but it would have to do.

  Once half-clothed in the underdress, Bella sat at the dressing table while Wilson covered her shoulders with the combing-out cape and re-dressed her hair in tight ringlets draped over her right shoulder. Informal enough for the afternoon—she wouldn’t look like she had done anything special to impress him—but at least one part of her prettier than usual. She really should have had a lady’s maid all these years, but she would never say so to Charlotte.

  She turned her head from side to side, inspecting the arrangement in the mirror, then told Wilson to make certain Cook sent up tea in another fifteen minutes. Any sooner and the duke would have no reason to stay longer than a polite call. Not that it mattered to Bella how long he stayed.

  She tried for a stern, too-busy-for-company look as she entered the study, but when she saw the back of his jacket perfectly smooth across his broad shoulders, short tails emphasizing his thighs in tight buckskins, she felt her lips drop open. Her nostrils quivered at the alluring masculine scent wafting from his person: witch hazel, citrus, leather, and the horse he must have ridden to come here. As he turned away from Myron’s collection of first-edition military biographies, she saw his blond hair had fallen loose across his forehead from his queue, just like Charlotte had described again and again, and her mouth watered.

  Perhaps she was to blame for Myron’s distance.

  She forcibly closed her lips before she started drooling on herself, tightening them into a thin line to avoid saying anything silly that would give her away. When she saw Wilson mending a chemise in the corner of the room, she thought the embarrassment might bring on the first swoon of her entire life. She could only hope he wouldn’t notice.

  “Your Grace,” She curtsied quickly, then felt ridiculous, like a schoolgirl meeting a friend of her father’s. “I mean Duke… Sir. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  He cast her a devastating grin, glancing briefly toward Wilson, seated in one of the hard chairs Myron kept at the drop-leaf table where he now ate most of his meals. The maid stared studiously at her needlework as Wellbridge caressed the undergarment with his eyes, then Bella’s low-cut dress, and answered, “I believe you dropped your glove at the Estemore’s ball, and I wished to return it to you.”

  Staring into her transfixed eyes, he bowed over her hand and kissed her bare fingertips, sending a shock up her arm and into parts of her body better left unspoken. She yanked her hand back as fast as she could, well aware of the rudeness provoked b
y her sudden fear, and sat suddenly on one of the visitor’s chairs in front of her husband’s desk before her knees buckled underneath her.

  “If I may say, Lady Huntleigh, that color is remarkably fetching. The blue-green is very nearly a perfect match to your eyes.”

  “Thank you, Sir. How very kind of you to say,” she responded politely, turning her face away so he would have no further reason to comment on her eyes, sure he was feigning continued interest for some undefined purpose that had nothing to do with her. It was not unusual for a colleague of her husband to attempt to gain Myron’s favor through her. They just usually had more sense than to do it by seduction.

  “Please, will you not be seated?” She indicated the other chair two feet from Myron’s desk. “There will be tea in a few minutes, if you would like to stay.”

  “Tea would be delightful. And you must call me Wellbridge, as your husband and I are now such close associates.”

  She stared at the walls papered in a navy-and-grey pinstripe, backdrop for the nautical motif she had chosen for her husband and his lifetime of mementos. The ship’s wheel from the first vessel Myron had bought himself was far more interesting to her in this moment than it had ever been before.

  Wellbridge sat in the armchair, right next to her in front of Myron’s desk. Scooting it slightly closer, he regained her attention by handing over the arm-length glove, letting it slide through his fingers as she tugged it away. She had to swallow hard before she could speak again.

  “Thank you for the courtesy, Sir. I had wondered where it had gone, since it has no legs to walk away from me at a party.” She tried to tease, but she couldn’t seem to help her apprehensive delivery.

  He showed nothing more than good nature when he replied, “No trouble at all, Lady Huntleigh. I was distraught when I found it had followed me home, certain you might call out a constable when you found it missing.” Good nature turned diabolical, however, when he added, “I should so hate to be thought an abductor of ladies’ clothing.” She gulped and looked over at Wilson, her eyes wide, but apart from a faint façade of inappropriate interest in the duke’s person, the useless woman acted like she had no ears.