Jo Beverley - [Malloren] Page 19

  She prayed with deep sincerity that she not conceive. It would be terrible for her, but intolerable for him. No wonder he’d been so emphatic that they could not make love again.

  She decided at that moment that if she did conceive a child, he would never know. She would find a way to hide the pregnancy and then foster the child out to someone on her estates. She would be able to keep an eye on it, though it would break her heart not to be able to claim it, love it, as her own. For his sake, however, she would do it.

  Tears stung, and she fought them down, but they welled again. Wealth, power, love, and two strong wills, and what did it bring them? Two lives lived in separate, bleak landscapes, when a garden of sunlight and laughter lay in sight, almost in reach.

  She thought of the automaton, traveling swaddled like a babe only inches behind her. For a mad moment it seemed that their unborn—pray God never to be born—son lay in the boot of the coach, crying for release.

  Her fighting spirit rebelled. There had to be a way!

  What, though? A marriage without children? Though the idea pained her, she would do it. However, Elf’s helpful leaflet on preventing pregnancy made it clear that there was no way to be completely safe, even if he always spilled his seed outside her. The aim was only to space out children to make life easier for the woman and her family.

  Lud, but if medicine offered a way for her to be rendered infertile, she’d accept the knife as the price, even though she’d weep for the children—their children—who would not be born.

  She risked another quick glance at his somber, classical features. Of all the precious parts he might bring to a child, only one tiny part was suspect.

  As if touched, he turned to her, asking silent questions. What distresses you? Can I help?

  Muted by the servants, she replied with a slight shake of the head, and turned again to the safety of the window. Market gardens now, worked over like worker bees by people gathering vegetables for the crowded city. Their coach had slowed because of the crush of traffic moving into London, coaches, carts, and people on foot.

  If only they could stop, freeze here, where at least they were together.

  In London they must part, and a king awaited to be pacified, to be escaped unwed. For she knew now she could not marry another, even to escape an insane asylum.

  You or no other.

  The busy road slowed them, even though vehicles made way for the crested carriage. People in the street turned to watch the grand coach and outriders pass by, and her attention was caught by one couple.

  A small child stood between them, hands in theirs like a link in a chain. The little girl pulled her hands free and obviously demanded to be picked up. The father did so, smiling. Her arm went confidently around his neck as she pointed to the coach, chattering.

  They were close now, and Diana couldn’t help but smile and wave at the little girl. She saw her own handful of rings flash in the sunlight, and the child’s eyes and smile widen with delight as she waved back.

  The coach moved on, leaving the family behind. Doubtless they thought they’d just seen the most fortunate of people, those who lived blessed and golden lives, when instead she felt like a beggar at their table.

  Hard to imagine herself and Bey strolling down a street as a family like ordinary people, but easy to imagine him carrying a cherished child. As with little Arthur, he would be loving with his own children. As with his brothers and sisters, he would be a rock around which they could build fulfilling lives.

  Being a rock must be so cold and hard.

  The sudden shift was like the cracking of a dark wall, letting in the light. This was wrong. It was all wrong, and there must be a way to set it right, not just for her own sake, but for his. Especially for his. He deserved more of life, this magnificently generous man, than the cold land to which he had exiled himself.

  He needed, in fact, to be rescued.

  As simple streets became fashionable, she hunted for a way. She failed, but did not give up. They were two wealthy, clever, and powerful people. There had to be a way.

  Fashionable streets and fashionable people intruded however, and she had to break the silence. “My lord, surely I cannot go to court like this.” She touched her stained gown.

  “Of course not,” he said, but as if he truly hadn’t thought of it until then. A victory of sorts, she supposed, to have distracted that controlled and logical mind.

  “The baggage carts should have arrived,” he said. “If not … Elf has left some clothes at Malloren House.”

  Diana had to fight a giggle. She and Elf were of a different build and height.

  A rueful reflection of her humor warmed his eyes, but instantly, they cooled. “If your baggage has not arrived, we will send your excuses to the queen.”

  Excuses meant more time. More time with him. More time to discover the way. Perhaps, despite promises and willpower, another night.

  “We’re entering Marlborough Square,” he said as the coach turned between rows of modern houses and into an open space.

  She looked out at tall brick houses with dark railings in front, and lines of trees. There was even a pretty garden in the center, complete with duck pond. “It’s lovely. I didn’t expect so much greenery.”

  “There are many parks in London, too.”

  What banal conversation, and yet it was the best they could manage.

  “This is Malloren House,” he said as the coach turned into a courtyard in front of a mansion set apart from the terraces to either side.

  She took refuge in teasing. “Only to be expected that you would have the largest house in the square, my lord.”

  “But of course. I own it all. No credit to me, however. My grandfather took a dislike to living in the crowded older parts of London and bought the land. As he planned his country estate, the fashion for these squares started and he decided to build it. My father completed the work.”

  The coach halted in front of the handsome portico and servants poured out to assist them.

  “Why not Malloren Square, then?” she asked.

  “My grandfather was a friend and admirer of the Duke of Marlborough.” He stepped down from the coach and turned to assist her.

  Journey over. And what a journey it had been.

  As they entered the house it became clear that a message had been sent ahead to tell of the delay and the cause. Of course it had. They had been expected last night. Clearly, despite the attack and the death of his servant, Bey had dealt with a great deal of business before settling down with that decanter of port.

  She still didn’t really grasp the man he was, and so she looked around at his London home, wondering what it could tell her.

  The entrance hall was oak paneled, and more in the style of the country house his grandfather had planned than the modern town house it had become. The oak was not yet painted in the modern fashion, but the room was saved from gloom by four long windows at the top of the sweeping staircase.

  Pictures, furniture, and ornaments were all around, and all of finest quality, but unlike most fashionable houses, the effect was not of careful display, just the accumulation of the years. This great house managed to feel like a home, and she couldn’t help thinking how wonderful it would be to be arriving as his bride.

  It had to be possible! Two lives could not be wasted in this way. No family was free of physical and mental taint, and even people who seemed unflawed could have children with problems. She turned to speak to him, but he was giving crisp orders to various servants, organizing the machine again.

  With a sigh, she strolled closer to one large painting. Bey in his robes and coronet looking haughtily down on lesser mortals. He looked remarkably chilly and intimidating. Just as she’d imagined him once.

  She sensed him come to stand beside her and gave him a quizzical glance.

  His lips twitched. “I deliberately chose an artist who was terrified of me. Don’t you think it sets the right tone?”

  “If you wish everyone to
quake in their shoes.”

  “But of course.”

  She rejoiced that some trace of lightness remained between them. “You must give me the artist’s name. I need a similar portrait just inside the door.”

  “You wouldn’t terrify him. Which means he’s a fool.” He turned to speak to someone, then said, “The baggage carts arrived safely last night, and your boxes await you upstairs.”

  He looked unaffected by the news, but Diana could easily have screamed. She masked disappointment as best she could and allowed herself to be taken away to prepare for court.

  As she climbed the stairs she became aware of another painting on the landing at the top. This one was of a couple in the fashion of a generation ago. Bey’s parents, she assumed. The resemblance between him and the man was clear. Even though the painted features were a little softer, the dark hair and dark eyes were the same. He looked to be a much gentler man than his eldest son, however, though a little sad.

  Then she realized that the russet-haired woman must be his second wife—the resemblance to the “red Mallorens” was clear. So, she thought, pausing beneath the portrait, that tragedy explained the haunted sadness.

  The marquess in the painting was quite young. People tended to think of parents as middle aged or older, but a portrait such as this reminded that even parents at one time were in their twenties, and possibly as confused and uncertain as oneself.

  Despite the waiting servants, she studied the second wife. Golden russet hair and a mouth generous with smiles and kindness. Beauty, too, which she’d passed on particularly to her oldest son, Bryght, melded with the father’s dark coloring. It was the warmth and kindness, however, that shone through most.

  A woman bitterly missed by all. Perhaps, having lost her, her husband had not fought very hard to live.

  You or no other. She sensed it here, too.

  Two halves which when divided left bleeding wounds, or at best, terrible scars.

  There had to be a way!

  She allowed herself to be directed on, to a suite of rooms in which the woodwork had been painted white, and Chinese wallpaper set in the panels. The furnishings were all of the latest style, too, delicately carved and inlaid with decorative woods.

  “Lady Elf’s rooms, milady,” said the housekeeper. “Lady Walgrave now, of course, and with her husband’s house to live in.”

  Long curtains at long windows. Birdsong from nearby trees, and quite close by, children playing. A poignant reminder of the life so many people took for granted.

  Warmth, love, marriage, and children.

  “We haven’t unpacked your boxes, milady,” the housekeeper continued, “since you are to move to the Queen’s House, but if you would be so kind as to say what you require for the Drawing Room, I will have it prepared.”

  Diana put aside longings and focused on her coming challenge. If she failed with the king, Bey would feel obliged to keep his promise and marry her. She wanted it desperately, but only a full marriage. One in name only would be worse than none at all.

  Therefore, she must create the correct first impression before the king and queen, and play her conventional role to perfection. One of the things he’d told her during her training for this was that the king and queen wished to support English trade. Fortunate, then, that her court dress was made from Spitalfields silk.

  She turned to the housekeeper. “Clara knows where my court dress is packed. In the meantime, I would like a bath.”

  “Of course, milady. And tea as you wait?”

  “Perfect.”

  Alone for a brief moment, Diana removed her small hat and rubbed her aching head. It wasn’t really aching. It was tense. Even the bones felt tense.

  Where was he now? Doubtless he too was preparing for court. Was he already naked under Fettler’s unappreciative eye … ?

  Rothgar made sure that everything was in order, and then started up the stairs. He paused, however, seeing Diana studying the portrait of his father and stepmother.

  What did she see?

  Nothing he could offer her.

  To avoid overtaking her, he turned back to go along a corridor to a room at the back of the house. There he supervised the unbundling of the drummer boy and checked for new damage. Thank heavens he’d ordered it carried in the boot of the main coach. It seemed to have survived the adventurous journey safely. He sent a message to John Joseph Merlin to examine it at his earliest convenience, and to make an appointment to speak to him about the repairs.

  The servants bowed out of the room, and he stood alone with the still and silent figure, strangely tempted to wind it and switch it on. To bring the boy to life. He hunkered down so they were eye to eye.

  “You are likely to torment me, you know. Evidence of what might have been. Warning of what might be if the gods are unkind.”

  The eerily realistic glass eyes, fringed by long lashes, gazed back at him. They seemed to say, “Do you truly not want me to be real?”

  He rose sharply and left the room, locking the door behind him.

  Nothing had changed. The logic upon which he had based his life was still sound. This unsteadiness he suffered now was weakness, nothing more.

  He was infinitely practiced at resisting weakness.

  Chapter 18

  Diana distracted herself by exploring the charming boudoir, but found little of interest. The paintings were insignificant, and the few books in a glass-fronted set of shelves unlikely to be Elf’s choices. Elf had moved on to her husband’s house, and these rooms held only ghostly whispers of her.

  A side door opened into a bedchamber, and beyond, Diana found the dressing room. Clara and another servant were carefully extracting her formal court dress along with its awkward panniers, while others filled a huge tub lined with thick linen cloths. A fire already burned in the grate to warm the room for bathing.

  It was not a newly laid fire. This had clearly been thought of ahead of time, too, and this evidence of planning chipped at her hopes. Most of the time, Bey ran his affairs with efficient perfection. Nothing was neglected or done on impulse.

  Clockwork precision, not easily changed.

  That clicked her thoughts to the automaton. Presumably it had been unloaded by now and placed tenderly somewhere in this house. The drummer boy looked as she had as a child. What had Bey looked like at five or six? Was there a picture of him as an even younger child, before his mother’s cruel act? Did later ones show the change, even in childhood features?

  When the housekeeper returned, followed by a footman bearing the tea tray, Diana asked, “Is there a portrait gallery here?”

  “A small one in the corridor outside the ballroom, milady. Most of the family portraits are at the Abbey, of course.”

  “I would like to see the portraits that hang here.”

  The woman was clearly startled, for the tea awaited and the bath would soon be ready, but she curtsied. “Of course, milady. Be so kind as to follow me.”

  She was led past the stairs to the other half of the house where a wider corridor was indeed lined with portraits. Diana thanked the housekeeper and dismissed her, then turned to stroll by the pictures.

  The first were ancient paintings, one small miniature going back perhaps to the early Tudor period. Farther along she found two large portraits of a man and a woman in the opulent dress of the Restoration. Probably Bey’s grandparents, and again she saw a resemblance in the woman’s sculpted lids and the man’s classic bones.

  Nothing here of his parents, however. She wondered if any portraits survived of his mother, and if so, in what secluded corner they hung.

  The end of the corridor contained one moderately sized portrait surrounded by miniatures, rather like the sun and the planets. With a smile, she wondered if he thought of the arrangement that way, too.

  The central portrait had to be Bey as a young man, a youth almost. It was probably the usual one painted in Italy when on the Grand Tour for he leaned against a stone pillar, book in hand, and revealed a glimpse
of some Italian town behind him. She understood that many Italian artists kept a stock of canvasses already painted with background and pillar, so that the English milord could choose the one that suited his fancy, and have his figure painted in. This looked of that sort, but the artist had been skilled in capturing his subject as in life.

  Bey had probably been about seventeen, and showed no sign of childhood shadows. A tribute, that, to his father and stepmother. He looked what he had been then—a young man with the world in his hands, enjoying life to the full. With his brilliant mind, she was sure he had enjoyed his Grand Tour as it was meant to be enjoyed—for learning and exploration of the classical world. The smile and wicked eyes told her he was already enjoying other aspects of foreign travel.

  My, but the Italian ladies must have been mad over him. Devastatingly handsome, with the well-shaped bones already clear but softened by the lingering blush of youth. Those mysterious, guarded eyes were larger, brighter, and full of the joys of life.

  He was handsome now, grown into himself perfectly, but there was something toothsome about such youthful beauty accompanied by lordly confidence.

  She dragged her eyes away to look at the smaller paintings, but they were all of his half-brothers and sisters, also in their teen years. No baby pictures at all, which wasn’t surprising. They were usually kept in less public areas and often done with the mother. Any pictures of Bey with his mother were likely hidden away, or even destroyed.

  What was it like to have a parent whom everyone wanted to forget? No wonder it hovered over him like a shadow.

  She looked back at the central portrait, but it gave no answers except to tell her that the shadows he lived with had not all come from his mother’s dreadful act. The death of his father and stepmother had played a part. Rosa had said they’d died of a fever he’d brought back to his home.