Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (31 page)

“Oh.” The queen shifted, to smile down at her son. “Come show me your pretty daisy chain,
herzlieb.
”

Diana gave him a hand so he could toddle over and present the flowers, relieved that the queen’s attention had shifted.

When the queen had praised the flowers and picked him up, however, she said, “Many women would envy you that journey, Lady Arradale. They might feel you had wasted a golden opportunity.”

“To flirt with the marquess, ma’am?” Diana asked, as if the notion had never crossed her mind.

The queen’s mouth tightened, and she turned her attention back to her babbling son. With a sigh of relief, Diana began to edge backward, but the royal eyes fixed her again. “So, Countess, would the idea of the marquess as husband be an equal surprise?”

“A complete one, ma’am,” Diana said, sure she was showing all the appropriate shock, but it was shock at having it stated so bluntly. What was she to do now?

“Put your mind to the matter, and perhaps it will cease to be so startling. My husband the king thinks it would be an excellent idea.”

“But the madness, ma’am!”

“Doubtless a brain fever or such. In all other respects he is a desirable husband, yes? You cannot claim that he is unpleasing to women, or has any lack in manly parts.”

“No, but—”

The queen cut her off with a gesture and waved her away, and Diana escaped before she said something disastrous. As she backed into the next section of the garden, however, panic made her want to clamber over the iron railings and flee.

She’d come here to persuade the king that she was no danger to his country. Then she’d thought she had to escape numerous unnamed suitors. She’d never expected to have to fight a determined attempt to push her into the arms of the man she loved.

Despite hating having to tell Bey what a mess she was making, she desperately needed to see him and hear his advice. She needed to warn him, too.

She thought briefly of sending him a message, but it was impossible to say anything to the point even in code without
creating a connection between them that must be avoided.

Even when he came to court, she thought with a hiss of annoyance, they would have no time in private. She would have to use the code. Pretend she’d received a letter from Rosa …

Coming up with the best innocent phrases, she stroked a lovely, full-blown rose.

At her touch, it disintegrated.

She stared in shock at the carpet of creamy pink, remnants of beauty destroyed by her touch.

Nothing—not even a Malloren—could put that rose back together again. She gathered some of the fallen petals as if she might find some way to stick them back on the stem, then held them to her nose, inhaling the sweet perfume. Warm from the sun, they were like soft skin.

Like his skin, which in places was smooth and soft.

And in places hard.

Swept back to the White Goose, she knew their consummation had been as foolish as it had been wonderful. Despite their efforts, it would leave her in anxiety until her courses came. Even if she escaped that disaster, she would be left in bitter longings all her life unless she could find a way to change his mind.

To change a noble purpose fixed years ago and for good reason.

She opened her hands and let the petals float back to the ground. Her intent was
not
destructive. She would not think that. It offered hope of true happiness.

This plan of the king and queen’s did not, however, even though she saw that it came out of good intentions. He could not be forced.

She returned to planning the right words to warn him.

R
othgar was finishing the hasty meal and being merciful by looking at Ingram’s designs for new liveries—which seemed to him little different than the ones in use now—when Sir George Ufton was announced. The stocky man hurried in, looking strangely pale. “My lord, thank the heavens you are here!”

“Sir George. What has happened?”

“Georgie! My son George. He’s been taken up as a horse thief!”

Rothgar guided the man to a chair and poured brandy for him. “Now, Sir George, tell me exactly what has happened.”

Uncharacteristically disordered in the telling, the story was quite simple. Young George had been passing the time at market day in Dingham by gaming at an inn—something his father would have words with him about. He’d lost to a horse trader, and agreed to pay part of his debt by delivering a horse to the next village.

The horse trader had then cried thief, and the local magistrate, Sir Hadley Commons—no great friend to the Uftons—was planning to hear the case within the hour.

As Sir George mopped his head, and drank his brandy, Rothgar considered the extraordinary situation. He was certain the young man was innocent, so this must be mischief. With what purpose? He couldn’t imagine Sir George having cunning enemies …

But he had.

The Uftons had been in London recently, had been presented by him. That made a connection …

D’Eon again. It had to be. Another attempt to draw him away from court. Another intolerable use of his innocent connections.

But this time, he thought with sudden interest, he was on the spot and might be able to catch D’Eon’s minion with red hands. It would be very useful to have someone in the enemy camp.

He rose. “I will go with you, Sir George, and help you sort this out. It cannot hold water.”

Sir George stood and wrung his hand, tears glimmering in his eyes. “Thank you, thank you, my lord. Thank heaven you were here today!”

“A blessing, indeed,” said Rothgar, guiding the anxious man out to the horses.

His horse and his two mounted grooms stood ready to take him on the first stage back to London. He hesitated for a moment. This mission killed all chance of that, unless he wanted to ride across Hownslow in the dark, which would be folly.

Return to London today had been folly anyway, and if matters were as he suspected, he could best serve Lady Arradale here.

They entered Dingham against a stream of people, carts, and animals. Market day was winding down and people were heading home.

The small town still bustled, however, for a fair number of people were topping off the day in the inns and taverns. Market day always ended that way, and with the magistrates tidying up the day’s misbehavior at the Anchor.

After leaving their horses with the grooms, they entered the inn past a woman receiving a summary whipping for thievery, watched by a cheering crowd. A glum-looking man stood under guard nearby, waiting his turn. Sir Hadley liked to keep the peace very firmly.

People made way immediately for the Marquess of Rothgar, and a whisper ran around the crowded room. Sir Hadley looked up sharply from where he sat in the middle of his bench of magistrates and frowned. But then he ignored them
and went on with the questioning of an elderly man. The three magistrates conferred, then Commons pounded his gavel. “Guilty of giving short measure. Fine of three shillings or twenty lashes.”

Grumbling, the old man pulled some coins out of a purse, paid his fine, and hurried away.

George Ufton was called next. “You will see, Sir George,” said Sir Hadley, “that I held back your son’s case until your return, as requested.”

Though it was not said pleasantly, Sir George nodded. “Obliged, Commons.”

The magistrate inclined his head to Rothgar. “My lord marquess. You have an interest in this case?”

“I always have an interest in justice, Sir Hadley. Proceed.”

Rothgar knew ways to take command of a place, and he used them now, though he stayed to one side of the room, observing. The accuser, the horse trader, was the most likely villain, but D’Eon was subtle, and whoever had set this up must have been lingering in the area waiting for a chance. It could be a local man. Whoever it was, he would have him soon.

For my lady, he thought, wryly amused at his inability to keep his mind from drifting to her. This was the evening of her first day at court. He wondered how she was surviving, and whether the king had questioned her yet …

He realized that young George had been brought out, and shook his head.
You will be no use to your lady
, he told his foolish half,
if you cannot observe, plan, and be logical.

The young man looked rumpled and frightened, though he was making an admirable attempt to be dignified. His hair ribbon had gone so his hair tangled loose, and somewhere he’d fought, for his nose had been bloodied and his lip split. When he saw his father a touching mix of shame and relief shone in him.

Seventeen, and despite his predicament, a son to be proud of.

Sons. Sons like the drummer boy, with Diana’s clear eyes and stubborn chin. Daughters with lopsided ribbons—

He pushed such thoughts away and paid attention. The accusation
had been stated, and the accuser was explaining his complaint. Stringle, the horse trader.

Rothgar assessed the man. Not local but not obviously suspicious, either. A good, solid Englishman, but then D’Eon would hardly use a Frenchman for this.

Middling height, middling build, square face, and wearing decent but well-worn clothes. He told his story simply, and with a suitable sorrow at being caught up in such events.

If he was the villain, he was good. Very good.

Three other men stepped forward to attest to the truth about the card game—that young Georgie Ufton had played, and lost. These were local men, and not happy to be telling their incriminating tale, though two of them he judged to be lazy troublemakers. Could one of them be a hired liar? And yet they all told the same tale.

Georgie and his father had turned pale, for this hung together well, and horse stealing was a hanging matter. Rothgar had no doubt that in the end he could save the young man from the worst of his folly, if even only by force of rank. He wanted more, however. He wanted one of D’Eon’s men wriggling on a hook.

When the magistrates had questioned the witnesses, Georgie was given the chance to speak.

“I didn’t do it, good sirs,” he protested. “I lost the money, yes, which was stupid, but I didn’t steal the horse. This Stringle asked me to take the horse to Cobcott as part of the debt.”

Sir Hadley addressed the room. “Did anyone else hear about this?”

Silence.

“We were in the stables, sir,” Georgie said.

“In the stables? But Mr. Grigson said that you begged for time to pay, and Mr. Stringle refused on the basis that he must travel on to the next town. You then left, promising to return soon with the money. Mr. Stringle was never in the stables.”

“Yes, he was,” Georgie protested.

The magistrate turned to the group of men who’d testified, but they all agreed that Stringle had remained at the table.

Rothgar watched the interplay, and made up his mind. It had to be Stringle, and it was time to take a hand. “With your permission, Sir Hadley.”

“Honored, my lord!” said the magistrate, looking smugly certain of the case.

Rothgar looked at Stringle, and saw the little shift in the eyes when the man recognized possible danger. Rothgar almost smiled. It was pleasant to have his suspicions confirmed. Now to hook the man.

He turned to Georgie. “Mr. Ufton, when you went to the stables, was your horse ready?”

Georgie frowned at that. “How could it be, my lord? I hadn’t ordered it.”

“So you saddled it yourself?”

“Yes, my lord. There was no one there just then.”

“That wouldn’t have taken long, though.”

“No, my lord, though someone had moved the blanket and tossed it with some others, so I had to find it.”

“And how ready were you when Mr. Stringle found you?”

“I was just about to mount, my lord.”

Rothgar nodded and turned to the honest witnesses.

“Gentlemen, if you would be so kind, perhaps we can go over the last part of the incident again. You were all playing at cards?”

One of the younger men said nervously, “Nat and me were, milord.” He indicated the man by his side. “The others were just watching.”

“And how much did you lose?”

“A few shillings, milord. The play ran pretty even. Or I wouldn’t have stayed in. I know my limit.”

Rothgar asked the other man and received a similar answer. “Play didn’t seem even for young Mr. Ufton, did it?” he observed. “Was he wild in his play?”

“A little, milord,” said the first man. “But just sunk in bad luck.”

Rothgar turned to gaze at Stringle. “Very persistent bad luck.”

A murmur went through the room at the implication that the play hadn’t been entirely fair. He saw Stringle’s eyes
shift. He was the stranger here, and it wouldn’t go well with him if he was thought to be a cheat. The first prick of the hook.

Rothgar turned back to the witnesses. “Now, when Mr. Ufton left the table, Mr. Stringle stayed behind, yes?”

They chorused agreement.

“For how long?”

That brought an attack of puzzlement, and the five men looked at each other.

“He stayed a while,” said one.

“Still there later when my daughter came to find me. Waiting for Mr. Ufton.”

“Didn’t move, milord.”

“What was he drinking?” Rothgar asked.

“Ale, milord.”

“How many pints, would you say?”

Again they looked at each other as if shared wisdom might be better, but then one of the men who’d watched the game said, “At least three pints, milord. And I see where you’re heading. Stap me, if he didn’t go to take a leak now and then.”

“Did he do so after Mr. Ufton left?”

“I think he did, milord. Just for a moment.”

Slowly, the other men nodded and agreed.

“And he went out of sight.”

“Oh aye, milord,” said one of the card players. “Mistress Wilkins don’t have pissing in the tavern.”

Rothgar turned back to Stringle, suppressing a contented smile. “Do you dispute this, sir?”

“No, milord,” the man said stoically. He was good. “I went outside to relieve myself a time or two, but not to the stables.”

“But out of sight.”

“I’m a decent man, milord,” Stringle said, meeting his eyes.

Rothgar quirked a brow at him, and turned to the magistrates. “I submit to you, sirs, that it was possible for Mr. Stringle to have spoken to Mr. Ufton in the stables.”