Jo Beverley - [Malloren] Page 11

  Rothgar had sent Fettler off to his bed before visiting the countess. His valet was extremely discreet, but there was no reason to test the poor man beyond bearing.

  He undressed without assistance. Absurd to have servants to do such things for him except that it was expected and provided worthwhile employment. All was image. Sometimes he felt an urge to rebel, but he’d put that sort of rebellion behind him long ago.

  At his father’s graveside, in fact.

  As he untied his cravat and the ribbon tying back his hair, his eyes came to rest on the small portrait of a child that hung above the white marble fireplace, and he strolled over. Reluctantly. He’d spent too much time looking at the picture as it was.

  Though there was no indication of the artist, it was excellently done. It captured a young child in a natural pose, sitting on a grassy bank, holding two restless kittens in plump arms. The dark blond curls were doubtless silky, because the blue ribbon that was supposed to hold them back had slipped to one side. Her simple white dress was rucked up, showing a stockinged leg from the knee down. The stocking had sagged into rumples around her ankle.

  Unconscious or uncaring of disarray, she looked up at the world, rosy with laughter and joy, soft lips parted, blue eyes twinkling. The sort of child anyone would want to pick up and hug.

  He became aware for the first time that he was barred from going closer by a cloth-shrouded shape. He’d forgotten—alarming in itself. After the display of the automaton earlier, he’d had it brought here so he could supervise its packing in the morning.

  He gently removed the cloth and considered both children.

  Identical, though the boy was more solemn. There was even a detail he hadn’t noticed before. At the girl’s shoulder, a bluebird sat on a branch.

  The son who would never be. The daughter who, though perfect in herself, would never be the son so desperately wanted.

  Would the countess have been happier if the boy had been real? Very likely. People were usually happier in conventional situations. With luck she would have married a man who appreciated her spirit and intelligence, and be an adored wife and mother by now. Mother perhaps to another happy little girl, and a solemn, impish little boy.

  Children who would never exist, because of the hard choices she had made.

  Understandable choices.

  Marriage presented tremendous dangers to her. Few men could accept subordinate status to their wife, and if they wished to, society would not permit it. If she married, the men around here would breathe a sigh of relief and deal with the husband, who would legally be her representative as soon as the vows were said. After all, any decisions or administrative actions he objected to would instantly become null.

  “A husband and wife are one person,” the law said, “and that person is the husband.”

  The men would ignore her, and the women would expect her to surrender manly interests and become one of themselves.

  Though marriage settlements could be drawn up so that her property was secure, her husband would have many rights of access to it. If she protested and he beat her, she would have no recourse unless she could prove excessive cruelty.

  These matters did not stop most women from marrying. They had less to lose, and their income and dower property could be well protected by sound marriage settlements. They were an immense barrier to a woman in the countess’s unusual position.

  If she could magically produce a brother now and no longer be the troubled Countess of Arradale, would she?

  Unlikely. It went against nature to retreat from hard-won achievements, even if they were a burden. To do so made nonsense of the pain along the way.

  He touched the lad’s hair, allowing himself to think for a moment of the children he would never have. He had not recognized the sacrifice it was until recently, with tiny Mallorens springing up around him. He was not unsympathetic to Bryght’s position, either. In his situation he’d feel the same protectiveness toward his child, and the same anger if others would not bend.

  He, no more than the countess, could change course, however. His decision was logical, and any wavering was only because of the spate of weddings and births. This, thank heavens, was the last of the weddings.

  Perhaps, he admitted, he also wavered because of the Countess of Arradale. Unique could well describe her, and her unique nature drew him. Bold, clever, direct, daring. And hauntingly vulnerable.

  He remembered what Fettler had said—about her knocking on the door earlier. He thought he knew what she’d had in mind, and it suggested that a marriage in name only would not be easy for either of them.

  So. He flung the cloth back over the automaton and stripped quickly out of the rest of his clothes. Such a marriage must be avoided at all costs. He must see her safe home from London without it.

  Chapter 10

  It was no hardship for Diana to rise early because she’d hardly slept for thoughts of madhouses, the marquess, unfinished tasks, the marquess, kisses, the marquess, coach journeys, the marquess …

  Before the clock struck two she knew she should have decided to travel in her own coach, but it was too late now. At least in part because she didn’t want to. The thought of days by his side sent shivers through her, good and bad.

  And nights at inns. At least two nights at inns. They’d dine together, just the two of them. They’d talk, intimately across a table as in the card game. Surely she’d learn more of him. Perhaps she’d be able to satisfy some of her itching curiosity about his nature, his mind, his view of the world.

  At three she rose to light her candles and write out lists of the instructions bubbling through her mind. She managed to fall asleep then, but woke at first light and gave up. She summoned Clara and put into action the extensive and complicated plans for departure and absence.

  She sent a note up to Wenscote, summoning Rosa and Brand. She hated to bother them so soon after the wedding, but she knew Rosa would never forgive her if she left without a proper farewell.

  With her rooms already a swirl of packing, and Mr. Turcott supervising instructions and plans for a month or so, she sent to ask if her mother was awake yet. When the maid returned to say yes, she hurried off to inform the dowager of her journey to London, wondering how to explain it without worrying her.

  Her mother, however, propped up in bed eating breakfast while Mrs. Turcott read to her from a memoir of some sort, seemed to think a trip to court delightful.

  “How kind of the queen. And how kind of the marquess to escort you. So unpleasant to travel without a gentleman.” Her eyes twinkled with other meanings and hopes.

  “I usually travel without difficulty, Mother. And I expect court to be a dead bore.”

  “Of course,” her mother agreed, startling her. “But there will be opportunity for livelier entertainments, and enjoyment of London.”

  “London will be emptying for the summer.”

  That did daunt her mother a little, but then she smiled. “I’m sure you’ll find some excitement, dear. You always do. And I’m sure the marquess will want to keep an eye on you. After all, you’re almost family to him now, aren’t you?”

  That was too close to the point. In the night Diana had realized that no matter what happened, there would always be a connection through Rosa. She’d never be able to put the marquess completely out of her life.

  She gave up trying to explain things, and hurried on her way. A footman brought the news that Rosa was here, so after a pause in the estate office to deal with a few more matters of business, she went to the drawing room, finding all her guests there.

  Aware of looks both curious and speculative, she joined Brand and Rosa, taking Rosa’s hands. “You look radiant.”

  “Well of course.” Rosa smiled at Brand by her side, but then turned back to Diana. “What is all this about London? I thought you never wanted to go there again.”

  “I’m given little choice. The queen—”

  “Diana!” She was swept into Elf’s arms. “Oh, you poor th
ing!”

  What had the marquess said? Diana didn’t want to tell anyone about the threat of the madhouse.

  “Court!” Elf exclaimed. “You’ll expire of tedium! Especially now the queen is so near her time.”

  “At least that means it will only be for a few weeks,” Diana said.

  “That will seem like an eon, I promise you. I told Bey we’d return to London with him, but he thinks not.”

  Diana glanced over to where he was chatting to Lord Bryght and Lord Steen, wondering if there was some dark motive in that. But to Elf she said, “Of course not. You have things you want to do up here.”

  “But we will return speedily. Fort agrees.” With a grin, she added, “Cutting short an exploration of cloth manufacturies is no great hardship to him.”

  Diana felt a tension ease. “I confess, having you nearby would be a relief.”

  Elf smiled, but her eyes flickered to the marquess. “Will you mind traveling south with my brother?”

  “No more than he will mind traveling south with me,” Diana replied, striving for a note of boredom. “I plan to take a number of books I have been wishing to read.”

  “His coach is very comfortable, at least. Just remember, don’t play cards with him for anything but love!” Then she seemed to rethink her words and flush, but the Steens broke the moment by declaring that they were ready to leave.

  Their children were already restless, eager to get on with the journey, so Diana went over to say farewell. Lady Steen smiled. “I don’t envy you your weeks at court, Lady Arradale, but my brother will take care of you.”

  Lord Steen kissed her hand and thanked her for her hospitality. “If Rothgar tries to order you about, Lady Arradale, tell him to go to the devil.”

  Everyone went out to wave them on their way. Soon Lord and Lady Bryght with offspring, and Elf and her husband, were climbing into one carriage for the journey into Lancashire. Only a few days ago Diana had felt invaded, but now she felt bereft, as if this were her own family departing.

  Now just Rosa, Brand, and the marquess were left, and in the stable courtyard her chosen belongings were being loaded into carriages and carts for the journey south.

  “I don’t want to go,” she said, but then shook her head. “That’s folly.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Rosa said. “Neither did I. But as with me, it’s just for a little while. You’ll be home before the leaves turn color. Come, let me help you with the final packing.”

  Rothgar watched the two women hurry away, arms around each other, and turned to his brother, prepared for questions.

  “Is this truly necessary, Bey?” Brand asked as they strolled back inside the house.

  “The king’s command?”

  “You can usually get the king to do as you wish.”

  “You overestimate my powers. You know of Lady Arradale’s obsession with the earldom’s seat in the House of Lords?”

  Brand grimaced. “Rosa mentioned it. For a clever woman, she can be foolish—the countess, I mean.”

  “If even you cannot see any justice in it—”

  Brand glanced over. “Are you saying you support her cause?”

  “I support the essential logic of it.”

  “As well say an eldest daughter should inherit a title when there are sons.”

  “Why not?” Rothgar couldn’t resist asking. Levelheaded Brand could rarely be stirred like this.

  “’Struth! But then the whole thing would go through her husband to another family.”

  “The property would continue in her family. Rather more reliably than through a man.”

  Brand frowned at him. “You’re not serious, are you?”

  “Consider a world in which inheritance is by age, and if the inheritor is a female, her husband takes her name. Why not?”

  Brand shook his head. “Bey, if you go around preaching that idea, you’ll end up in Bedlam.”

  Rothgar laughed. “That, my dear, is precisely my point. However, it has nothing to say about the justice of the countess’s cause. Now,” he said, as they sat in the drawing room to wait for the countess to be ready to leave, “I want you to keep alert in this region for the unruly French.”

  “Here?” Brand asked.

  “Anywhere in the north. I know you plan to live quietly, but news travels, especially of foreigners. With peace, some French are visiting England, and some, alas, are spies. Invasion through Ireland is still a threat, and you might hear of matters on the Lancashire coast. If you hear anything suspicious, send word.”

  “Does it never stop? I suppose Bryght and Elf have orders, too, on their trip to Liverpool.”

  “Of course, though I have my own people there. King Louis has a burning desire to be avenged for defeat in the past war.”

  Brand sat up straight. “The devil you say. He’d be mad to restart hostilities.”

  “Not if he waits for the right moment. One of his acting ambassador’s duties is to find, perhaps create, that moment. The Chevalier D’Eon is not to be underestimated.”

  “A notable swordsman too, according to Bryght. A man who doubtless knows others of that type. Did he have anything to do with that duel with Curry?”

  Rothgar didn’t want to get into these matters, especially with Brand, who should be enjoying a carefree marriage. A mistake to have asked his help. Too many mistakes these days. Anyone might think that he was distracted.

  “The chevalier and I are on extremely cordial terms,” he said.

  Brand frowned, undeceived. “Be careful, Bey. From what I hear, that duel was a close-run thing.”

  Noises in the hall indicated that it was time to depart. Rothgar rose. “All the interesting adventures in life are.” He embraced Brand. “Ignore French spies. Grow turnips and babies, and be happy.”

  “I wish I could give you the same command. But I have one. Don’t harm the countess. She’s more vulnerable than she appears.”

  “She’d shoot you for saying it. I intend her no harm, Brand. Only good.”

  Brand looked at him. “That’s what I worry about.”

  Rothgar laughed and left to set out on a challenging journey south.

  * * *.

  By the time they stopped for the night at the Swan in the bustling coaching town of Ferry Bridge, Diana was exhausted. They were expected, a whole floor already claimed and prepared for them, but rather than comforting her, this strained her even more. She was accustomed to traveling in state, but not in quite such grand state as this.

  It was the long day’s journey which had worn her down, however—that and the marquess’s complete lack of interest in her. As planned, she’d provided herself with a number of interesting books, but she’d also hoped to talk to him. The presence of the servants would make it completely safe, and she longed to learn more of his mind.

  He, however, had spent the whole time working through what appeared to be important documents. These had even been increased in the mid-afternoon by a courier who had intercepted them and delivered a thick sealed package.

  During each break to change horses, he had courteously strolled with her, making effortless small talk about the countryside, or the lighter aspects of national affairs. Even when they stopped to eat it had been the same.

  She’d recognized that these were skillfully woven barriers and felt mortified. Clearly Fettler had told him of her visit to his rooms and he’d guessed the reason.

  Damn him!

  Two more days of this, she thought with a sigh as Clara tidied her for a supper that would doubtless involve more of that deflective small talk. She was tempted to eat in her room, but she’d go down and somehow make it clear to him that she had no designs on his body!

  When she entered their private dining room, however, she was surprised to find two strangers with the marquess.

  He turned to her. “Ah, Lady Arradale, may I present to you Monsieur de Couriac and his lady?”

  The young couple bowed and curtsied, and Diana inclined her head, concealing astoni
shment. French? Here? But then she remembered that they were now at peace. Officially, at least.

  Then her cheeks heated. He was not depending on small talk. He’d gathered distraction and chaperons! Diana smiled brightly at the wretched people, and declared herself delighted.

  Madame de Couriac was not so much pretty as intriguing, with pointed chin and bright dark eyes. “Lady Arradale,” she declared with a marked accent, “we are enjoying your so beautiful country!”

  Her tall, square-jawed husband, added, “It has been a sadness not to be able to visit England for so many years.”

  His English was very good, but he didn’t sound as if he meant what he said. Diana wasn’t surprised. The French rarely pined for English food and landscapes.

  She switched to her excellent French. “War is always a sadness, is it not? You are to dine with us, madame, monsieur? How delightful. You must tell me the latest news from Paris.”

  The soup was brought in and they took their places, but Monsieur de Couriac said, “Alas, my lady, we live quietly in Normandy and have not recently been to Paris.”

  Soup passed in talk of travels, but when the fish was served, Diana caught an intent glance the Frenchman cast his wife. Diana had been talking almost exclusively to de Couriac, but now she followed the look. Madame de Couriac had placed her hand on the marquess’s arm and was leaning toward him as if fascinated.

  That raised an even more unwelcome reason for the French couple being at dinner. Was Lord Rothgar attempting seduction of the pretty young wife? Despite a pang of hurt, Diana turned brightly to the husband and asked his opinion of London.

  Lud, but the marquess must be mad. They were in danger of having a duel on their hands!

  Could such a clever man really be so foolish? She contrived to observe him while trying to hold the husband’s attention. Soon she knew she wasn’t imagining it.

  She’d never seen anyone eat a meal with the blatant sensuality that Madame de Couriac displayed. The woman ate little, but that was because she made such a performance of it. She bit slowly into food, and chewed slowly, often licking her red lips. Once or twice, she even licked her fingers, gazing into the marquess’s eyes.