"But, Ivor, you are not my papa!"
Julia gave him a peck on the cheek and left him to scowl in solitude.
CHAPTER I
The light gray traveling coach threaded its way through the busy London thoroughfare and eased to a halt in front of a hotel. A servant in maroon and silver livery sprang down and held open the door whilst his fellow started to pull baggage from the roof. Porters came scurrying out.
Roderick Anhurst cast an astonished eye over the facade of the bow-windowed building. "The Pulteney? What maggot got in your respected papa’s head, Cy? Pretty much for a lowly attaché!"
He grinned. "Better than the reception I expected!"
His companion spoke with a low sultry voice. "Are you still brooding about a few silly setbacks. You were not even in Montreal. The war is over now. No blame attaches to you, Roddie!"
"So you say. But they recalled the Governor-General. It has been my observation that when a man goes down, his minions do not prosper."
"Minions! For shame! I shall tell papa you are a hopeless case."
"In truth, I enjoy my work. I liked the country. I would rather not be forced to relinquish my career."
"You are too foolish. Papa has everything well in hand."
"Even when he uses you as his courier?"
She chuckled. "You are a prude, my dear. You always were."
"And you are outrageous, and always will be."
He gave her one last appreciative look as he thrust his portfolio under one arm and took hat in hand. The twilight served to mystify rather than to shadow her dark blue eyes, and long lashes spiked down over a delicately molded cheek. Smooth lips curved into provocative lines. The fates had been generous to Lady Cytherea FitzWarren, bestowing both wealth and beauty.
As he alighted from the coach, the new gaslighting, recently installed in Piccadilly caught glints of gold in his fair unruly hair and threw his well-knit figure into relief. Any woman would consider his pleasant, well-bred countenance attractive.
Lady Cytherea moved across to the near window, putting her hand on his sleeve to detain him. "You will think me a goose. In my vast excitement at seeing you again, I forgot! I am postman as well as courier." She handed him a package. "These letters were at papa’s office awaiting your return."
Roderick took the package, and touched his lips to the tips of her fingers, eyes looking up suspiciously at the innocent expression on her face.
As he watched the carriage proceed along Piccadilly, he was conscious of a feeling of relief. Why should he feel that way, he wondered.
It had been a very strange day! She must have boarded the frigate standing in the searoads off Deal from the pilot’s galley. She had arrived in his quarters bearing a document urgently requesting his presence at the Colonial Office. However, since he was returning to England following the same orders delivered in Upper Canada, he was puzzled by the need for Lord FitzWarren to send his daughter on a courier’s mission, and sans chaperon, at that! He suspected her of running some rig on her father, especially as she had just now ‘remembered’ to give this new package of correspondence.
She had flung herself into his arms and kissed him with all the passionate abandon he remembered so well. Three years ago, when he had stayed at Lord FitzWarren’s country seat, he had become besotted with his daughter, and events had got out of control. Yet, when passion and a sense of obligation spurred him to apply for permission to marry the fashionable Lady Cytherea FitzWarren, she had, in great despair, warned him that her father would have none of him. Although his career prospects were bright and he was, in addition, possessed of a moderate private income, his wealth would not be considered sufficient to win her hand. It had seemed no coincidence to him that within the week he had peremptorily been dispatched on assignment to Quebec - and that without having an actual interview with Lord FitzWarren. There had been a heart wrenching leave-taking between Lady Cytherea and himself in which neither had laid any obligation upon the other, and he had sailed across the Atlantic feeling that his heart would never be whole again. Thus he had learned the danger of going beyond the mark with an unmarried female of his own class.
He grieved for a year. Then, a lively widow in Montreal turned the direction of his thoughts. This affair had finished when the widow sailed out of his life to Paris. They had parted friends, this time undisturbed by any feelings of guilt on either part.
He had thought Lady Cytherea FitzWarren would be wed to some young lord by now. (It had been three years.) This speculation, when occasionally entertained, had given him no pangs at all! He smiled and shrugged as he turned towards the entrance.
The staff of the Pulteney were extraordinarily accommodating - ‘my lord’ this and ‘your honor’ that. He found himself suddenly homesick for the modest pension he had inhabited in Montreal.
He shrugged off his coat as soon as he was settled in his room, and sat at a desk. After opening the package of letters, he put aside one large, official-looking document and one other screw of paper with no writing on the outside, and slit open the wafer on a familiarly scented missive. His mother’s letter, dated in March, dwelt humorously enough with her indifferent health and made spicy observations about the many valetudinarians resident near Harrogate Spa - Anne, his sister, was to marry a gentleman from Surrey in April, all the details to follow - Cousin Alicia wrote that she was expecting another little Basil, God help her if it were a little Alicia again.
Roderick grinned. The Earl of Selchurch was still intent on getting an heir. For his money he would have preferred Maurice, the brother next in line, in the upper house. There was a line squeezed along one edge of the paper, as a post script, obviously scrawled in haste and tapering into illegibility. He could make out, "Cousin Basil dead after fall from horse. You are new Earl of Selchurch."
* * *
SHADOW IN STARLIGHT
by
Shannah Biondine
This book is dedicated to the dear friends who listened or read,
who endured, and challenged me to make it better.
Who shared of their own patience & faith when mine ran in short supply.
Thanks to: Linda, Marilyn, Ann, Larimee, Kassia, Dayna, Trish, Connie.
And always, with loving appreciation to Bob.
Bless you.
Chapter 1
"Forsooth, a wry misadventure," King Cronel declared with a heavy sigh. "Your father will be sorely missed. He was one of my most valued advisors."
Wry misadventure?
Moreya Fa Yune tore her gaze from the beringed hand her sovereign waved as he droned on about how Anthaal Fa had averted war more than once with his polished speeches and calm demeanor. How well Lord Fa had acquitted himself in the peace negotiations following the great battle in Tuleskeff, how well liked the royal emissary had been here at court.
By everyone but the royal cook, whose body sagged on a pikestaff at the castle gates. The king decreed swift and lethal punishment for the man who'd prepared the sumptuous meal Moreya's father had fatally choked upon. The cook was executed even before Moreya arrived under guard at the royal castle, mere days after her father's unexpected demise.
A wry misadventure, indeed, she reflected darkly. Her father had spent years traveling at the king's behest, visiting both near and distant realms. Anthaal had eaten roasted yak and caribou, boiled serpent, pickled vermin; he'd boasted of dauntless digestion and unwavering good fortune. Other reeves had been struck by lances or arrows upon occasion. Anthaal suffered not so much as a scratch. He convinced warriors to lay aside their weapons, arranged vital trade pacts and defense alliances. He boldly strode unarmed into many a war camp and lived to stride out again.
Only to return to his native Glacia, and strangle on a chunk of roast boar in the palace hall. Leaving Moreya bereft and confused.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," she mumbled, when Cronel finally stopped praising his dead ambassador and reached for a cup of wine. A serving girl rushed forward to mop at the king's sweaty brow wi
th a silken cloth. Moreya focused upon his damp forehead and kept her eyes averted from the king's flashing rings and pudgy fingers.
"Your sire had just returned from Greensward," Cronel announced, pinning Moreya with his sharp gaze. "He sought my permission to arrange a betrothal for you, Lady Fa."
A betrothal? Her father had said nothing of this, not one word about marriage or setting up a contract. Moreya's stomach tightened into a knot. This was the true reason she'd been summoned by guards storming Anthaal Fa's home. She'd known, of course, that she and her father occupied the ambassador's sprawling manor as part of the king's largesse. Upon learning of her father's death, she'd assumed the king would expect her to find lodgings elsewhere.
Her sense of impending dread warned she was about to discover precisely where now.
"You are to wed the prince regent of Greensward," King Cronel proclaimed.
Moreya stood at the base of a flight of steps leading to a broad dais and Cronel's throne. The throne room was a massive chamber of polished marble. High-backed wooden chairs aligned against the outer walls. Massive entry doors were perpetually flanked by guards and castle pages. She'd been granted a personal audience, but she was far from alone in the room.
At the king's bold announcement, a collective gasp echoed off the marble walls.
Moreya had absolutely no idea how to respond. Her father had been a royal advisor for many years—indeed, during the last decade had served as a high privy council member—but still and all, was merely aide to the king. The Fa line boasted no royal blood. Anthaal had been a petty noble, considered by most to have been more than fortunate in his own match with a Yune woman of gentle birth. Moreya's mother had been a distant cousin to a sovereign of the far realms. Moreya couldn't imagine that any royal family would have agreed to a match between a future king and herself—a woman of little consequence.
"Surely there is some misunderstanding, Your Highness," she said softly. She did not want to antagonize him. Her gaze swept up from the steps to where Cronel sat, to the heavy crown resting on rumpled white locks framing a florid, piggish face.
She had been to court before, of course, to be formally presented to the monarch. She had been a child the first time, and foolishly spoke her mind.
"Why does the king have so many fingers, Father? I count six on each hand!"
Courtiers and ladies in waiting had coughed and tittered, locking their eyes on Cronel to see how he'd react to being so baldly insulted. Cronel had laughed and pronounced Anthaal Fa's daughter a most clever girl. Then he'd explained that was why he was king. He was born with excess digits. He was, he told her with pride, a polydact. A person with more than the usual number of fingers and toes. The excess proved he was superior, meant to rule. Everyone accepted the fact.
She had been tempted to reply that it seemed to her everyone had made a silly mistake, then. She had once owned a kitten with too many toes its front paws. It had been a troublesome animal, and no better hunter than its littermates. But her father squeezed her shoulder in warning, so she'd kept silent. As she grew in years and understanding, she learned the politics of the throne . . . that Cronel was a bastard who'd risen to rule after viciously slaughtering anyone who stood between him and power.
Allowing this fat bastard to order everyone about merely because he was a polydact seemed preposterous still, but Moreya would keep silent on that point. He did, after all, hold her very life in the twelve fingers of his fat hands. But she would not hold her tongue about the Prince of Greensward.
This gallows humor was too cruel to ignore. "There is a mistake, surely."
"No mistake, my dear. Nay. Indeed, the betrothal pact was the cause for our celebration—er, that is, I regarded it as quite an accomplishment, even for your renowned father. He spent nearly a fortnight with Queen Vela. All is in readiness. You will leave on the morrow for Greensward, where you shall be wed within the month."
"But Your Majesty, I—"
The chamber doors flew open. Moreya glanced back over her shoulder and quickly ducked to one side. A knot of grappling men whooshed past her to the foot of the dais steps. She realized they were castle guards wrestling with a prisoner. His arms were pinioned behind him. Moreya could see little but black and gray disheveled waves on the back of his head.
A trio of royal guardsmen came forward. Each guard tensed at the knife or sword pressed against his throat, held at the ready by common soldiers. The men who'd overtaken the guards wore no colored surcoats or distinctive blazons. Who were these creatures, motley outlaws and vagrants?
She debated whether to remain where she stood or dash to safety behind a sturdy chair. Would anyplace be safe, or was the castle itself under siege? These knaves dared mock royal guards at bladepoint! Yet surely, had the royal palace been overrun, there would be more troops swarming about, she reasoned. A great many, bound for this very chamber.
A deep voice spoke up. "Damn it, Cronel, do you have naught better to do than keep signing those fool warrants? What's the sot accused of this time? Wiping his ass with royal bed linens? Tupping a prize ewe? Mistaking your belly for an ale keg?"
Something black loomed at the edge of Moreya's vision. Big and black and somehow producing the words they'd all heard quite audibly. Dangerous, sarcastic, treacherous words.
Which had been spoken, she now saw, by a tall, imposing figure who stood just a few feet from her. His head and face were completely obscured by an oversized dark cowl. He offered a mocking bow toward the dais. Moreya swallowed and inched back slightly, but felt her skirt hitch.
The stranger's broadsword had snagged the hem of her kirtle!
Fighting a vision of herself being bodily dragged before the high executioner, her garments still entangled with the blade of this brash rebel, she tugged. The cloth tore with a slight rending sound . . . which might have gone unnoticed, had every soul in the throne room not been straining in hushed anticipation for what might happen next.
The cowl pivoted in Moreya's direction. "I hope your skirts haven't dulled the keen edge of my broadsword, madam. 'Twould be a shame to have to skewer the king on my best eating dagger."
Appalled, she responded without thinking. "Could you not find some less flamboyant way to die, sir? A wild animal in the forest, a joust, a bold leap off one of the nearby mountain peaks. Your blade may be keen, but the like cannot be said of your wits!"
"Bested by a maid!" The king let out a roaring guffaw and laughter exploded in the room. Cronel slowly descended the dais steps, pausing to release another loud chortle. "So, the Warmonger cometh, at last. Did you answer my page's summons, like any other knight of the realm, I'd not have to resort to warrants against your men. Release Sir Graeme."
The guards let go of the rumpled fellow in their midst, who smoothed a hand over stained garments. He hiccuped as he tossed a baleful look toward the stranger in the cowl. "I'd drunk only a cupful, I swear it, Preece."
Preece. Warmonger.
Oh, Good Creator, what had she done?
Moreya nearly fainted at the realization that the man she'd just insulted was none other than the legendary dark knight. Subject of murmured tales her father had shared with Drix, the captain of their home guard, or male visitors. Anthaal had never spoken to Moreya directly of the cowled-one's escapades, but she'd overheard enough to know she definitely stood before her sovereign at the wrong time. Next to a ruthless warrior who had abundant reason to mark her continued presence. Ill fortune, indeed.
She'd assumed the craven stranger wore a cowl to hide his face as he led some brash, final assault against their sovereign.
But Sir Preece was reputed to wear a dark cowl at all times. To obscure a hideously deformed face and head, so rumor had it. He rarely appeared at court, and was allowed open belligerence and hostility only because he'd proven himself an incredibly lethal henchman for Cronel. So effective that some called him the Royal Blade.
The ebon cowl turned toward her again and Moreya instinctively flinched. She could feel the stra
nger's unwelcome eyes on her person like an icy draft. She could only imagine this was how a poor rabbit must feel under the scrutiny of a black wolf. She couldn't run, couldn't speak, couldn't think. Beyond ascertaining that he stood much too close to her . . . and she had no business with whatever business brought him before the king.
She stepped back one pace, yet another, then was pulled up short as her skirts snagged once more.
She glanced down and discovered the knight's sword nailed her gown to the leg of a nearby chair. She glanced up into the empty blackness of his cowl and felt a prickle of hot temper. Her father had died, she'd been summoned here to court with no time to prepare or adequately pack her belongings. She'd been told a preposterous lie about some betrothal to royalty in another realm, and now found herself the brunt of a jest with this hooded knave!
"Your weapon appears in dire need of a scabbard," she seethed. "Would you please pull it out so that I might—"
"Ah, as I long suspected, Preece," Cronel sneered. "The lady asks that you pull it out."
This brought snickers from the male assembly and even more unwelcome heat to Moreya's cheeks. She knew she must be blushing like a springtime rose. The knight made no move to unpin her skirts, curse his soul. It must already be blackened as his awful cowl.
"But I assure you, Lady Fa," the king went on, "This is the first time I've ever known Preece to put his sword into a damsel's skirts. Which is why I decree he's the knight who shall escort you to Greensward." The king took another drink from his jewel-encrusted cup, then turned to gaze at the forbidding figure.
"Take your besotted friend and however many knights you require. Lady Fa has a personal maid and both have baggage. I shall provide a coach and pack animals. You shall name your usual outrageously ridiculous fee, and I shall agree to half that sum. You depart on the morrow, Warmonger."
"She doesn't leave this chamber until you sign a pardon for Dugan," came the low response.
The Quest for Gillian’s Heart Page 26