Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (34 page)

It took all his skill not to react to that. Why, short of torture?

“Better for her to make her own choice, though, what?” the king was saying. “Difficult here, with the queen and I living quietly. The lady should have the chance to meet many gentlemen, what? Get to know them. Dance, that sort of thing.”

“I think so, sire.” Rothgar was still trying to assess the extent of this problem.

“A grand entertainment, what?”

Rothgar actually echoed him. “What? An entertainment here, sire?”

“No, no. Not with the queen so near her time. Anything you could do, my lord?”

He suddenly understood.

Arrange her courtship ball? It was as good as a command, however, and he was known for unusual and magnificent balls and masquerades. “A masqued ball perhaps, sire? Such things are romantic.”

The king nodded, a gleam in his eye, and Rothgar knew
he’d attend in disguise. “Capital, capital! How soon can it be done?”

“Perhaps two weeks, sire?” If the fates were kind, the queen would take to her bed early, and he could extricate Lady Arradale then.

But the king frowned. “Two weeks, my lord? No, no. Sooner than that. And anyway, in two weeks there will be no moon. Monday is the full moon. Why not then?”

Rothgar raised his brows. “That is very soon, sire.”

“It cannot be done? You have worked such miracles before, my lord.” The king’s sly look warned of what was to come. “Don’t you say, ‘With a Malloren all things are possible,’ what?”

There was no escape. “It can be done, sire, if you will accept the use of features you have seen before.”

“Of course, of course. It will all be novel for the lady. And give a chance for one of her admirers to win her heart, what?”

Other guests awaited, so Rothgar stepped back from the royal couple wishing he knew exactly what the king had in mind. He wished to go immediately to Lady Arradale, but that would be too revealing. Instead, he strolled casually into the anteroom where the musicians played.

There he found Mr. Bach, the queen’s latest protégé. Rothgar had commissioned some music from him, and also arranged the copying of his collection of keyboard music written by his father. That music had great elegance and clarity, and he asked Bach to play a piece of it during the evening.

He was in great need of clarity.

“Of course, my lord,” Bach said, continuing to conduct the small orchestra. “The queen is graciously appreciative of my father’s music, too.”

“How does the Diana piece progress?” Rothgar asked, an idea stirring. Before going north, he had commissioned Bach to write music for the Rousseau cantata. “I am holding a masqued ball on Monday, and have it in mind to make it into a true one in the old style.”

“To stage a masque, my lord?”

“Exactly.”

The man’s eyes brightened with interest. “The music is done, my lord, and performers could be found at the King’s Theater.”

Rothgar settled the details then moved on, wondering if he’d regret that impulse. Ordering music for the Diana cantata had been a whim, intended only as a teasing gift to an intriguing lady. Now it would make her the focus of his ball.

She would be the focus anyway, with the court knowing she was available for marriage. A reminder of the powers and folly of love seemed in order. For both her and himself.

When he judged the moment right, he allowed himself to follow the pull he’d resisted, the pull toward the countess. Her chestnut hair glinted in the candlelight and even beneath her powder, her skin glowed like a pearl. Despite corset and hoops he could see the curve of her lovely body and painfully, he longed to gather her into his arms.

Just that. To hold her.

What a strange path they had followed to be so intimate without ever enjoying simple embraces.

He forced such thoughts away and approached, noting Lord Randolph Somerton hovering beside her.

Like a vulture over a juicy meal.

An ill-dressed vulture. Somerton should not wear violet.

Devil take it. It would be the final idiocy to descend to petty, spiteful jealousy.

Somerton was blond and handsome in a broad-shouldered, strong-boned way, and popular with ladies. Any number of young hopefuls had tried to catch his eye, but it was well known that he needed an heiress. As a duke’s son, he should be able to find one, but he’d not seemed to apply himself until now.

Diana’s wealth and power must be too tempting to let slip away, particularly as rumor said his father was tired of his gaming debts. At the moment, however, no one would guess that he was an idle wastrel.

D’Eon was also of the group, but with his lively hands and wide smile, he seemed as harmless as a lovebird.

Masques indeed, with everyone playing a part.

The countess did not pretend to be unaware of him, wise woman, and turned as he approached, with a nicely judged cool smile. “Lord Rothgar, how lovely to see you again so soon.”

He kissed her hand, assessing, seeing no sign of desperation. “London being London, dear lady, we are likely to intercept quite often.” He greeted the others and was immediately asked by one young lady about the attack on the road.

“Do satisfy Miss Hestrop’s curiosity, my lord,” Diana said, fluttering her gold lace fan as if nervous. “I have done my best, but alas, I was too overset to notice anything except the awful noise.”

“You admirably refrained from shrieking or clutching my pistol arm, Lady Arradale. I am sure I owe you my life.”

Half-hidden by her fan, she gave him a brief, scathing look, and he abandoned unwise teasing to tell the story yet again.

“How terrifying, Lord Rothgar!” exclaimed the young lady. “I fear to travel at all!”

“I’m sure it was an isolated incident, Miss Hestrop.”

“And you fought the villains off single-handed? How brave.”

“Hardly that—”

“
Mon dieu
, my lord!” exclaimed D’Eon. “You are too modest. Three enemies slain, and you with only two pistols. Come now, you must tell us how you achieved this magic.”

“Luck,” Rothgar said, but detecting a suspicious edge to D’Eon’s comments. “Which might amount to the same thing as magic.”

“Luck is delightful in all aspects of life, my lord. But please, explain this good fortune.”

“My outrider fired once, and alas, died himself as a result. My first shot took the other assailant inside the coach. My second accounted for the other two by a freak, but in far too gruesome a manner to describe before the ladies.”

Did D’Eon’s sharp eyes look disbelieving?

Miss Hestrop, however, was protesting, and demanding the full story.

The countess raised her hand—a strangely naked hand without her extravagance of baubles. “My lord, please do not speak of it!” she said in a rather overdramatic tone. “My head still rings with the explosion. And the screams …” She swayed toward him. “Oh dear.”

He put his arm around her, and for a brief moment let himself hold her close. But then he had to lead her toward a sofa.

It was but a moment in his arms, but Diana felt as if those raw edges joined, then ripped apart again as he settled her on the seat and moved away. Leaning back, eyes closed, she gave thanks for her pretense of upset, because it allowed her a moment to recover from shocking pain.

Why hadn’t she known how immediate and physical her response would be?

And for him? She slowly opened her eyes and glanced into his concerned eyes.

“My dear countess, a million pardons for distressing you.”

It carried layers of meaning, and she said, “This is not your fault, my lord. Please don’t distress yourself.”

“But I must.” He turned away then, however, to command wine for her.

She wanted to argue, but they were not alone. The group she’d been with had flocked with her and hovered, hungry for more details of bloodshed and violence. Hungry too, she was sure, for any morsel of scandal.

She shuddered, desperate to order them away. She tried not to stare at Bey as her hope of survival, but even so, when he turned back, glass in hand, she felt as if she could take her first real breath.

But then an equerry came over with the king’s inquiries about the incident, and about Lady Arradale’s welfare. She
summoned control, sipped the wine, then rose to assure the man that she was perfectly well now.

Some around her tried to revive the subject of the attack, but in moments, the king commanded attention for the display of the new automaton. When D’Eon stepped forward to make a pretty speech about peace, harmony, and eternal brotherhood, Diana took a relieved breath. She’d never imagined what it would be like to have to be with Bey under a hundred avid eyes.

Since all attention seemed to be on D’Eon, she risked a glance at Bey. His eyes moved to hers, and she saw all his deep concern.

She smiled slightly and answered an unspoken question.
I am all right.
With subtle use of the language of the fan, she added her message.
I love you.

He turned sharply away to look at the shrouded machine and D’Eon still orating. Diana wafted her fan. She would protect him from the king’s scheme. She would try not to burden him with her own pain. But she would never deny the truth of what they had.

D’Eon ended his speech, and with a grand flourish, uncovered the gift. “The dove of peace!”

Candlelight danced on mother-of-pearl feathers edged with silver and marcasite, and flashed from tiny diamonds at the end of each feather tip. Gasps of admiration ran through the room, but Diana shot a quizzical look at Bey, and it was returned. They both saw that the automaton’s action must be quite simple to require such an excess of glittering ostentation.

D’Eon moved the lever and the whir of machinery began.

Rothgar concentrated on the machine, warning himself not to look at the countess again. These speaking looks only increased pain, and could betray them.

The shimmering bird turned its head this way and that, flexing its neck a little—mechanically, very simple—then it lowered its head and seized an olive branch off the ground. With a very audible click the branch notched into some connection, so that when the bird straightened its head the twig
was in its beak. Then it spread its wings to reveal words picked out in gold underneath.

Peace.
Paix
.

Everyone applauded again and gathered around. In control of himself now, Rothgar held out his hand to the countess. “Would you care to inspect the toy, my lady?”

She smiled slightly at the word
toy
, and put her hand in his—a brush of soft fingers that spoke of other matters entirely.

“I would rather see the other machine operate now, my lord. I understand you commissioned it for Their Majesties.”

“A romantic trifle.” He listened to himself to be sure his voice spoke only of polite interest. “But if you are curious, my lady, it must certainly be played.”

He turned toward the king, but she said, “A moment, my lord.”

Wary, he asked, “Yes?”

Wafting her fan, she said, “I thought you would wish to know that I received news of Brand and Rosa.”

Their code. He assessed who could hear, and decided it was safe. She should have thought, however, that some people here would know exactly what letters and messages she received.

“They are well?” he asked.

“It appears so, but I’m surprised by how much time Rosa is spending with Samuel, her best ram.” She smiled and nodded to a passing couple. “She seems to find him fascinating.”

He found himself struggling not to laugh at the image, though the real message, that D’Eon was frequently with the queen, was not humorous.

“More fascinating than her husband?” he asked.

“Brand is so very busy, you see. I cannot think it wise, even though Rosa doubtless tells him all about matters among the sheep. It all seems somewhat dangerous. To me.”

“Male animals can be dangerous,” he answered, catching
the deliberate ambiguity of the last phrase. She felt threatened by this? Perhaps that was why she had slipped up.

“You are nervous around rams, Lady Arradale?” he asked.

“It is not that—”

But Somerton joined them then, with a rather proprietal air and Miss Hestrop ignored on his arm.

Rothgar noted the countess’s lips tighten, but she immediately smiled again and continued, “Rosa takes great interest in my marriage, my lord.” As an aside to the other couple, she said, “I speak of my dear cousin. She is concerned for my happiness, she and her husband.”

“Only natural for them to care about your choice, my lady,” Somerton said. “Doubtless they’d be pleased if you married a man of the north.”

She gazed up at him like a perfect ninny. “You might think so, my lord, but their recommendations are so strange. One is a shallow popinjay, and another an eastern potentate. Is that not absurd?”

“Ridiculous,” declared Somerton, looking justifiably puzzled, and completely unaware that he’d just been called a popinjay. Lord save him, Rothgar thought, but the woman would have him in open laughter soon.

Again, however, the message was startling. The king and queen were pushing her into marriage with himself? Foolish not to have anticipated that, but he’d thought that he’d convinced the king long since that he would never marry.

“Why do they take such an interest in the matter?” he asked to give an opening for more information.

“Alas,” she said, “I might, in a distracted moment, have given Brand the impression that I want them to make the choice.”

Confirmation of the king’s words. It disappointed, but this clever use of their code made him want to smile.

“Then you must correct that, Lady Arradale,” Somerton said sharply. “It must be your decision alone.”

She smiled at him. “Oh, thank you, my lord. I do think so.”

“I think an eastern potentate sounds exciting,” said Miss Hestrop with a giggle. “Silks, jewels, and elephants.”

“In Yorkshire?” the countess asked with a blank look.

Miss Hestrop gave a pitying look, and Rothgar intervened. “Silks would certainly be chilly in the northern winter, and the elephants would catch cold. But jewels are welcome anywhere, especially large, glittering ones. Would you not agree, Countess?”