‘Who is he?’ she asked.
‘That,’ came the ominous reply, ‘is Simon Deveril – Alex’s cousin. And they hate each other’s guts.’
‘Oh.’ Chloë felt rather cheated. Matthew had prepared her for a species of villain but, beside Alex, this exquisite gentleman was no more than an over-dressed mammet. ‘I’m disappointed. What do you suppose they’re talking about?’
‘I’d rather not know,’ said Danny. ‘Look – there’s Lady Julia.’ And, having steered her purposefully over to her ladyship’ side, he made good his escape.
Resplendent in cherry taffeta, Julia eyed Chloë with approval.
‘Very nice. Rather stylish, in fact.’ She examined the marigold chain. ‘That’s pretty. From Alex?’ And, when Chloë nodded, ‘Good. Does he approve of your new sophistication?’
‘It’s a little hard to tell. I think so.’
Julia sighed. ‘Tiresome, isn’t he? And annoying, since he knows very well he should stay at your side tonight and not go trying to provoke Cousin Simon. Oh yes – I saw him – and whatever he was up to, it had nothing to do with family affection or even common civility. It never does. But never mind.’ She smiled and gestured with her fan. ‘I’ll present you to Barbara Castlemaine.’
‘Over my dead body, Julia,’ stated Mr Deveril crisply from behind them.
Startled, her ladyship turned swiftly, saying, ‘For heaven’s sake – lower your voice. She’s the King’s mistress! Haven’t you any tact?’
‘Not much,’ replied Alex carelessly. He laid Chloë’s hand on his arm. ‘You’ll have to be content with meeting his Majesty. His influence may be a thought less blatant but his manners are infinitely better.’ And with a coolly dismissive smile for his sister, he led Chloë away.
‘Why,’ she asked mildly, ‘don’t you like Lady Castlemaine?’
‘For a number of reasons,’ came the unhelpful reply, ‘which will soon become apparent, I imagine.’
Chloë glanced at the flaunting redhead whose low-cut gown made her own appear positively decorous.
‘It’s apparent already,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And I’d have thought she was just your style.’ Which was how it came about that the first time the King saw Mr Deveril with his bride, the blue eyes were brimming with suppressed laughter.
Alex bowed and presented Chloë in the correct manner. She sank into her best curtsy and wondered if His Majesty intended to chide her for her earlier lapse in etiquette.
She need not have worried. Charles Stuart was a cynic and an inveterate womaniser but he was also extremely good-natured. Taking her hands, he raised her easily from the reverence and favoured her with his lazy smile.
‘We are pleased to welcome you to Court, Mistress,’ he said in a voice every bit as beautiful as Mr Deveril’s, though much deeper, ‘and hope you are pleased to approve us.’
Looking up, Chloë met the mischief in his eyes and found it impossible not to respond.
‘Thank you, sire. But if Your Majesty is gracious enough to show approval to one who, by birth, is half French, how could she fail to grant hers to you?’
‘My dear, if all the French were like you, I believe we would not be at war.’ The King turned to Alex. ‘I see why you have been keeping her such a secret and I sympathise – but I’m afraid it won’t do. We shall expect to see her frequently at Court in the future.’
Mr Deveril smiled. ‘A command, sire?’
‘Not at all,’ responded Charles promptly. ‘A mere request which you will be pleased to grant since it comes from your sovereign. And now you may remove yourself for a few minutes. Your lady wife will not miss you – and neither shall I.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said Alex resignedly. He bowed and left them.
Chloë was left looking up at her King. He offered his arm and said with uncanny intuitiveness, ‘You did not wish to come. I wonder why? Something to do with the ambivalence of your position, perhaps?’
She spread expressive hands. ‘Something like that.’
He nodded. ‘Alex informs me that he is making enquiries into the possibility of having your marriage annulled. I don’t imagine that he’s done so without your knowledge and consent. Am I correct?’
‘Perfectly correct, sire.’ Wondering if he was about to tell her the thing was done, her insides lurched unpleasantly.
‘I see.’ The dark eyes examined her thoughtfully. ‘You realise it is quite likely that the final decision may well rest with me? And that being so, I have just one question I desire you to answer.’ The harsh lines of his face dissolved into another magnetic smile. ‘I need hardly say, I hope, that this entire conversation will remain wholly confidential.’
Chloë eyed him with hypnotic interest. ‘All of it?’
‘All of it,’ Charles assured her. ‘You may therefore speak quite freely. Are you in any particular hurry to be set free?’
She thought for a moment, debating how deliberate his choice of phrasing might be. ‘Why no, Your Majesty. I do not believe so. Is there some difficulty?’
The wide mouth curled with perceptive amusement.
‘Merely that I am not entirely convinced of the unsuitability of your marriage. I’ve a suspicion it may be rendering Alex a trifle less … erratic. But I should be sorry to inconvenience a lady and since I fear it may be some time before I can come to a conclusion, I wished to discover if such a delay would be … displeasing to you.’
Chloë drew a long unsteady breath. She thought again of the house, of her ship on its voyage to Tangier; she thought of Matt and Danny, Giles and Julia. And though she knew the where the danger lay and how great it was, she resolutely ignored it.
‘N-no, sire. It wouldn’t displease me at all.’
‘Ah,’ said Charles gravely. ‘I hoped that might be the case. But enough – I will exert myself and present you to the Court. Whom would you most like to meet?’
There was only one answer to that. Chloë looked at the small, wistful-eyed lady sitting almost alone at the end of the room.
‘If it is not an impertinence, sire, I would very much like to meet the Queen.’
~ * * * ~
THREE
In the latter half of the month, Chloë made four visits to Whitehall but mercifully none of them were marked by the nerve-blasting occurrences of the first. Catherine of Braganza, after a rather distrait beginning, proved both sweet-natured and shy. Chloë promptly disregarded her royal status and set out to befriend her.
Of Giles she saw very little but his manner remained one of friendly aloofness and so, together with Matthew, Danny continued to be her closest companion. They danced, laughed, talked and pored over endless charts and works of geography, all of which resulted in a close friendship and a rapport of unusual proportions. Chloë found how much more there was to Daniel than high-spirits and a sunny disposition and Danny understood a good deal more about Chloë than she was ever to realise.
Towards the end of the month Queen Catherine fell ill and, after twice failing to get in to see her, Chloë had to content herself with sending little posies of early flowers – products of the unseasonably mild weather and so far unspoilt by the lack of rain. On Easter Sunday she attended Whitehall chapel with Lady Julia to hear a sermon of more than ordinary length and dullness preached by the Bishop of London; and on Easter Monday, having no engagements, she dressed simply, left her hair loose and planned to devote herself to household matters.
Finding herself deserted save for Naomi and Mistress Jackson, she decided to inspect the linen and make a preliminary assault on the mending. Alone in the linen-cupboard, she spared the odd thought for Mr Deveril and Danny who, having challenged each other to some highly suspect activity referred to as ‘shooting the bridge’, had set off with Mr Beckwith in tow as a reluctant witness. Chloë concluded that it was as well she didn’t know what they were doing since she had better things to do than spend her time wondering which of them would come back with a broken bone or cracked head this time.
/> Downstairs in the parlour she sat, chin in hand, contemplating the fruits of her mission and trying to summon up some enthusiasm. It wasn’t easy. She sighed, threaded her needle and impaled the first of a pile of napkins with a savage stab. Then she was saved by the bell. A gentleman to see her, said Naomi, agog with curiosity. A Mr Simon Deveril. After a long pause, Chloë shut her mouth and told Naomi to admit him and bring refreshments.
Exquisite as ever, Simon Deveril entered the room and crossed, gently effervescing, to her side. ‘My dear Cousin – I am delighted to meet you at last! And you will not mind if I call you Cousin? It’s what you are, after all.’ He took her hands and saluted each of them with impeccable artistry.
Chloë smiled politely and reflected that this Mr Deveril plainly had all the graces. Her hands were retained and he stepped back to survey her.
‘I’m afraid I grew positively weary of waiting for someone to introduce us. It is not often that one acquires such a charming new relative – and so unexpectedly. But dear Alexander is always so precipitate … I tremble for him often, I promise you … though in this case one cannot blame him. Nor even for wilfully keeping us apart as he has been doing.’ He released her hands in order to shrug elegantly. ‘The poor fellow does not like me, you know. I grieve to say it – but so it is.’
Fascinated by his verbosity and wondering if he could not outshine even Captain Pierce, Chloë achieved a sympathetic smile. ‘What a shame. Why ever not?’
‘He believes – quite mistakenly, you understand – that I wronged him,’ replied Simon plaintively. ‘Indeed, he has become utterly obsessed with the idea and I can only hope you will help him to outgrow it.’
‘Then aren’t you running the risk,’ said Chloë, unable to resist the temptation, ‘that poor Alex may throw you down the steps?’
He shuddered delicately. ‘I sincerely trust not. I do so dislike violence.’ And then, ‘I take it that he is not, at the moment, at home?’
Chloë smiled, indicated a chair, and watched him sit with due deference to his lilac velvet. ‘No. But I expect him back quite soon.’
‘Really?’ he replied languidly. ‘I shall not pretend to be sorry to have missed him – and must congratulate myself on the aptness of my timing.’
As Naomi bore in a tray of wine and small cakes, a sudden suspicion darkened Chloë’s mind. ‘Shooting the bridge’ they had said. There was only one bridge and Simon had either crossed it or passed by it on his way to Southwark. If Alex was there and Simon had seen him, then he had known she was alone. She supposed that, under the circumstances, that might be considered reasonable; she, however, found it decidedly underhand and resolved to make it plain to Cousin Simon exactly where her loyalties lay.
‘You are under a misconception, Cousin,’ she said rather more acidly than she intended as the door closed again behind the maid. ‘You will stand a much better chance of effecting a reconciliation with Alex if you visit his house when he is in it. And I must own that I feel it would be more appropriate.’
Simon raised his brows. ‘Dear me! Are you asking me to leave?’
‘Not at all. But you should understand that there can be no question of my discussing my husband with you.’
He sipped his wine and surveyed her over the rim of his glass.
‘I see. How delightfully wifely of you. Alex is fortunate to have … won so fair a prize. I do so admire women of principle – and the Court, as I feel sure you’ve noticed, is full of ladies renowned for their lack of them. Which reminds me.’ He paused slightly and then went on, ‘Sarah is dreadfully worried about poor Alex. It is quite absurd, of course, but it seems she feels his rather sudden marriage is a tragic mistake and all her fault.’
The brown eyes became quite blank. ‘Oh?’
‘Yes.’ Simon looked a little anxious. ‘How difficult this is … one hardly knows what to say.’
‘Then perhaps it’s best to say nothing,’ she suggested. ‘Have a cake.’
He sighed. ‘My dear, please believe that I have no wish to distress you but equally I should like to set Sarah’s mind at rest – and my own. Also, and not to put too fine a point on it, if she is likely to confide in others, you might prefer to be aware of what she is saying.’
Again, it sounded reasonable enough – except when you considered what you knew of Lady Sarah or admitted that you were starting to dislike Cousin Simon. Chloë maintained her remote expression and said distastefully, ‘Very well. Say what you came to say.’
Simon drained his glass and set it carefully down.
‘Not so very long ago, Sarah and Alex were … close friends. I understand that they only quarrelled when Sarah announced her intention to wed Sir Graham in preference to Alex himself. Of course, she did her very best to soften the blow …’
‘I’ll bet she did,’ thought Chloë savagely.
‘ … and she also, very sensibly in my opinion, advised him to make a wealthy marriage of his own. But she says that what he in fact did was to become so violently drunk that he – forgive me – accepted you as a stake in a game of dice and, having won, proceeded to marry you whilst in the same condition. It’s utter nonsense, of course. Even Alex wouldn’t behave so foolishly. But the poor, dear girl thinks he did all this in a flood of despair – for which she can’t forgive herself.’
He was watching Chloë closely and she knew it. After taking the time to mentally apply a pleasingly vulgar epithet to Lady Sarah, she met his gaze and smiled brightly.
‘I’m inclined to agree with you. It is nonsense. And if Lady Sarah really cares about Mr Deveril, it’s not a tale she will repeat. You can assure her that, as always, he knows exactly what he’s doing and I am possessed of a wealth of sympathy and understanding. In fact, I suggest she confines her concern to her own husband.’
He smiled back, gently incredulous. ‘So there’s no truth in it?’
Chloë sat very still and kept her eyes on his to avoid any impression of mendacity.
‘Only that my brother did insist Mr Deveril play him at dice before he would give him my hand in marriage. But that,’ she explained with nonchalant finality, ‘is just an old family custom. Have a cake.’
Simon accepted the plate she offered and, with it, a change of subject. Chloë asked if the Queen was yet well enough to be told of her mother’s death and he replied with easy suavity and a description of Court mourning.
Soon after that he left and she was very glad to see him go. She sat down again and picked up her sewing, a tiny preoccupied frown creasing her brow, but it was a long time before she set a stitch. She was just laying down her second napkin when the sound of the bell heralded the arrival of another visitor. Chloë sat back and waited. This time Naomi looked both flushed and flustered.
‘Another gentleman, Madam,’ she said in breathless but congratulatory accents. ‘He says he’s the Duke of Cumberland.’
‘Does he? Then I expect he is. You’d better show him in.’
Naomi took a deep breath, opened her mouth and then changed her mind.
‘Yes’m.’ She bobbed a curtsy and withdrew.
Puzzled, Chloë grinned at her retreating back and, smoothing her hair with one perfunctory hand, rose to meet her second unexpected visitor of the morning.
The door opened and a man came in. Exactly what Chloë had expected, she was not sure but nothing had prepared for the reality. He was the tallest man she had ever seen and of magnificent physique, with all the aura one imagined in a hero of romance. His dark wig was elaborately curled and his garments richly sombre but, more than these, it was his face that commanded her attention.
The gentleman was not young and his face was one of decision and character, proud and beautifully sculpted, broad of brow and cleft of chin with a long straight nose from which harsh lines ran to a full-lipped mouth. The eyes, set beneath strongly-marked brows were large, heavy-lidded and dark - not unlike the King’s, thought Chloë. Especially when they glinted with lurking amusement as they were beginning to do now.<
br />
Suddenly recollecting herself, Chloë flushed and curtsied.
‘Your Grace … I am so sorry … I wasn’t expecting … ‘ And stopped helplessly.
The gentleman swept the floor with the plumes of his hat in a swift, deep bow and the smile in his eyes grew teasing.
‘Six feet four inches,’ he supplied helpfully in a deep voice which, like her own, was faintly accented. ‘Two inches taller than the King.’
For a second she stared at him and then, with a grin, recovered her voice.
‘Thank you, sir. I was wondering.’ She hesitated and then said, ‘We haven’t met so I imagine you were hoping to see Mr Deveril. I’m afraid he is out at present – Naomi should have told you.’
‘I believe she may have been trying,’ replied the Duke regretfully, ‘but I think she was a little over-awed. I sometimes do that to people.’
Chloë laughed. ‘So I’ve noticed.’ She wondered if it was a condition he could inspire in Mr Deveril, then came to the sad conclusion that it was unlikely.
‘I did call to see Alexander,’ the gentleman went on, ‘and it is a matter of some importance. Perhaps you can tell me where I might find him?’
‘Not exactly. He went out some time ago with Mr Beckwith and Mr Fawsley to ‘shoot the bridge’ – if that makes any sense to you?’
His Grace threw back his head in a deep, full-throated laugh.
‘Then I imagine you can expect him back soon in need of a change of clothes.’
Chloë raised enquiring brows. ‘Oh?’
‘It’s ebb-tide, ‘ he told her, ‘and a small boat sailing under the bridge gets sucked through like a cork and spat out on the other side. They call it ‘shooting the bridge’ – and usually end up taking a swim.’
‘Or splattered against one of the archways?’ suggested Chloë.
Marigold Chain Page 12
