Jo Beverley - [Malloren]

by Devilish

  Why hadn’t he seen that D’Eon would think himself his greatest barrier? The king sought his advice, and he had been firmly in favor of weakening France and preventing another war. Above all, he had argued for the destruction of the military installations at Dunkirk.

  So, he thought, as he entered his office, perhaps D’Eon had become desperate and decided to remove the obstacle in his way.

  First the duel with Curry. When that failed, another attempt, doubtless with a more skillful swordsman—de Couriac.

  The attack on the road, though? It seemed too crude, too hastily planned, for D’Eon. Possibly de Couriac had lost his head and acted without instructions. Perhaps the reward offered had been too great to lose, or perhaps he feared the consequences of failure.

  And de Couriac was still at large. Diana had been right in warning of the danger of crowds, but as he’d said, he could not live like a wax flower under glass.

  It was an interesting pattern, however, and needed to be considered. If D’Eon had recognized that Diana was under his protection, and was meddling in her affairs to distract him, what else might he try? Intolerable to have innocents dragged into this.

  She was safe for the moment, however, so he put that aside and picked up the petitions. His other work could wait, but sometimes these matters were urgent.

  As he unfolded the letter from the distraught woman, however, he couldn’t help but smile at D’Eon’s genuine fury over de Couriac’s attack on the road.

  His death in a duel with an Englishman posed no risk to the French. Even a duel with a Frenchman over an unfaithful wife could be unsuspicious. An open attack on the king’s highway by four Frenchmen was another matter entirely. D’Eon was hobbled now, and must know it. He couldn’t afford any more attacks that could be traced back to the French.

  It would be a few days at least before D’Eon could come with some new device.

  He read the scrawled and tearstained letter.

  Mistress Tulliver’s only son and chief support had certainly been unwise, and was condemned to transportation, but his offense was only the theft of some gentleman’s clothing in an attempt to cut a fine figure. She claimed it was his first crime. He could at least look into that and perhaps find a way to seek mercy for him.

  He made a note and looked through the other petitions. A few were requests for small amounts of money, and he approved all but one. The others required more thought, so he put them aside. It was nearly three and he had a long ride ahead of him.

  All the same, he could not leave without taking some steps to control D’Eon. The man was blocked from direct attack on him, but that might lead him to meddle even more in Diana’s affairs.

  As official representative of France, he was untouchable, but there were other ways.

  He sent for Joseph Grainger.

  Grainger, a young and serious man, was both his lawyer and steward of his business affairs. He was also manager of his more secret activities. He gave the man a string of orders.

  “… and get a list of D’Eon’s debts and creditors,” he concluded.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Rothgar took pity on the impassive, but surely curious, man. “His finances must be a mess. He’s living in state as a full ambassador without the ambassador’s emoluments or any private income. I have indications he’s already dipped into the money waiting for Guerchy, but he must be borrowing, too.”

  “You will buy up his debts, my lord?”

  “Precisely.” Rothgar rose. “Have the word spread that he’s not a good risk.”

  Grainger closed his notebook, frowning. “Is he a bad risk?”

  “A terrible one. Yes, I’m likely to end up with a bunch of bad debts and that offends your tidy soul. Consider it an extravagant expense.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Grainger replied, still with a subtle tone of disapproval. Rothgar didn’t mind. It was Grainger’s job to disapprove of financial losses.

  “And double the watch on him. I want to know everything he does, everyone he speaks to, in and out of the embassy. That’s all for now, but send Rowcup to wait for me here.”

  Twenty minutes later, in plain riding clothes, he returned to his study and found his resident forger waiting for him.

  Rowcup was a fat little man who pleasantly combined passion and skill in his illegal calling with total loyalty. Rothgar had saved him from hanging for his crimes because it was clear that forgery for Rowcup was not a means of making a living, but a gift he could not put aside.

  He employed him openly to make exact copies of manuscripts and records that threatened to disintegrate, but sometimes he used him for more dangerous matters.

  Today they constructed a letter in the style of the secret ones D’Eon received from the King of France. In it, Louis praised D’Eon’s work, and encouraged his illusion of untouchability. Finally, the king hinted that he understood the need to put forward a glorious presence in London, and that even if he was forced to let Guerchy take up his post as ambassador, all D’Eon’s expenses would be covered.

  As Rowcup completed his work with a perfect seal, he shone like an angel with pride. The letter was sent to be woven into the secret communication stream between France and England, and Rothgar quickly reviewed the steps taken.

  That was enough for now. With the supply of borrowed money tightened, D’Eon should have less time for thinking up trouble for others. With luck, he’d start dipping deeper into the ambassador’s moneys, which would really put his head on the chopping block.

  He was about to leave when Carruthers appeared with a folded paper. “Mr. Merlin’s report on the automaton, my lord.”

  Rothgar glanced quickly through it and saw immediately that the machine could not be completely repaired in time for tomorrow, so he put aside the thought of eclipsing the French automaton. He sent orders for the work to be started immediately anyway. If there was to be a war of automata, he might need his little drummer boy.

  He headed for the door, but turned at the last minute to look at the portrait of his mother. What had Diana seen? Madness, apparently, in the intense eyes and tense body, but madness there before the birth of children.

  He had no memory of his mother other than the dreadful one, and had never asked. But he had often wondered. Had she ever held him tenderly? Sang songs to him, played games to make him laugh? All the things he had seen his stepmother do with his half-brothers and -sisters.

  Had she loved him? Or had she felt the same hatred she’d felt for little Edith?

  The main question, however, had always been, how like her was he?

  He left, closing the door, but thoughts would not be shut away.

  For years he’d convinced himself that he was cold, as perhaps she had been cold. He’d thought he lacked the ability to bond closely and warmly, and had no need of it. It seemed strange now, but he’d seen himself as taking care of his family out of logic and duty.

  Cyn’s sickness had shattered that illusion.

  Walking briskly toward the front of the house, he felt again that shocking pain, remembered the furious rebellion against fate. He’d fought death—with a Malloren all things were possible—and against all odds, he’d won. He, doctors, nurses, and Cyn’s robust constitution, had defeated death.

  Never after, however, had he thought he was of a cold, unloving nature.

  He’d felt some of the same rage last year when he’d found Brand unconscious, when he’d feared a brain fever or some other fatal condition. On realizing the truth, that rage had turned to the people who had drugged him.

  Rosa and Diana.

  He felt anger at neither now, but his longing for Diana burned as fiercely. Death, however, was an easier opponent than honor. Despite Diana’s challenge, her battle was already lost, defeated by the madness in his mother’s fierce eyes. No trick of fate had turned her mad. She had been born that way. Honor said that blood must end with him, despite Diana’s grief.

  He took his hat, gloves, and crop from Fettler, waiting by the door
. He must not think of her as Diana. Opponents in a duel, after all, should never be on first-name terms.

  Lady Arradale. To be protected, but never to be loved.

  He strode briskly out of the house, mounted his horse, and attended by two armed grooms, rode out of London.

  Chapter 21

  Diana sat in contemplation of the simple letter from Bey. Idiotic to feel touched almost to tears by it, but it was the first personal letter between them, and it was something tangible of his. She was only just realizing that though she had given him a ring, he had given her no keepsake, no symbol of connection.

  It was doubtless deliberate. A symbol, in fact, of his intent to keep them apart. She smiled therefore at the note, which must be a sign that he was vulnerable after all.

  And he had laughed in the coach, laughed in free amusement he must rarely allow himself.

  It was tempting to hide the note away as a secret treasure, but it was carefully unrevealing, so she left it, folded, on the small escritoire in her room. There, she could see it at a glance whenever she pleased.

  It was precious, but it also contained that guarded remark about the possible. He’d intended it as a warning that their marriage was not possible, but it made a useful reminder of her purpose. With her also, she resolved, all things were possible. She just had to find the way.

  One thing she must do was investigate the matter of madness in his family. If his mother’s family was full of the odd and the lunatic, then she might have to give up her purpose. She had a duty to her own line, after all, and introducing insanity into it would be wicked. Her opportunities for investigation were limited at the moment, but there must be libraries here. Once she understood the ways of court, she would find a way to spend some time in them.

  For the moment, however, she must be completely conventional and definitely not clever, so she picked up one of the light books she had brought with her. One of the ones hardly glanced at on the journey because of Bey’s presence beside her.

  She sighed at that, thinking back to her state of mind at the beginning of the journey, when she’d merely been attracted and curious. How strange to have been blind to the powerful fire that burned between them.

  He, apparently, had recognized it sooner—

  Oh, enough! She must not let herself think about him night and day. She settled to reading Pope, trying not to let eyes and mind keep slipping away to the folded paper and all it represented.

  The Rape of the Lock was engaging, and did distract her with its sharp commentary on London and courtly ways. She smiled at one passage about life at court, for though it was a description of the court of Queen Anne fifty years ago, she suspected the same was true today.

  Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort,

  To taste awhile the pleasures of a court;

  In various talk th’instructive hours they past,

  Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last;

  One speaks the glory of the British Queen,

  And one describes a charming Indian screen;

  A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes;

  At every word a reputation dies.

  She paused, a finger in the page. That was a warning, if she needed it, that she must pursue her aims under a hundred eyes, many of them willing to harm her—and Bey—for amusement.

  She was suddenly assailed by longing for the north. People there were not always kind, and sometimes there were enemies, but at least there was a rough kind of honesty.

  And here she was, in love with a southerner. Even if she managed to break his will, how were they to manage their vast responsibilities? What would happen to the inheritance? She did not want her title swallowed up in his.

  Her mind bounced fruitlessly around her problems, so she was quite relieved when a page came to tell her she was commanded to the queen’s drawing room. No mention of the purpose, but she sensed that she faced a battle of some sort.

  She touched up her pallor with extra powder, and reminded herself of her chief purpose. She must convince the king and queen of her safe, conventional nature, and avoid any attempt to coerce her into marriage.

  She entered the drawing room to find that the king was sitting beside the queen. She’d been right. Her inquisition was to begin. She took a steadying breath and went forward to curtsy.

  “Are you comfortable here, Lady Arradale?” the king asked.

  “Perfectly, Your Majesty,” Diana lied.

  “Good, good. Your situation is one of unusual privilege,” he stated, “but it does not alter the fact that you are, and always will be, a woman. What?”

  “Yes, sire,” Diana said, perilously tempted to say “no” and see what he made of that.

  “A woman’s mind is different,” he continued. “It cannot understand the subjects and subtleties which engage the minds of men.”

  After a stunned pause, Diana hastily said, “Indeed, sire.”

  She was not to be questioned, but lectured. Then he pulled some papers out of his pocket and consulted them. By the stars, he’d brought notes!

  He looked up at her, earnest and young. “It is well known that women cannot learn Latin or Greek, Lady Arradale, and if they try it damages their brains. Those subjects, however, shape the logical mind. Therefore, women cannot decide great matters, for they would act on emotion not logic. For that reason, it is against God’s law for women to speak on matters of importance. Consider Corinthians: ‘It is a shocking thing that a woman should address the congregation.’ What?”

  Diana fought a temptation to spout excellent Greek and tried to look pious. “I see, sire.”

  He nodded. “So you also see, I am sure, that your notion of attending Parliament like a man was folly.”

  “Yes, sire,” she said, for indeed it had been. Bey had been correct in seeing it as a childish thing. She couldn’t help thinking that without it, however, she would not have come south, would not have spent that journey with him, would not have been there to protect him, would not—

  She hastily pulled her attention back, for the king was continuing. Remember your purpose here, Diana.

  “… women are blessed with the natural kindness and gentleness suited to their role as wife and mother,” he said. “This, however, deprives them of the harshness, resolution, and physical strength necessary for their safety, meaning that they must be under the protection of men. Did not the great doctor Hippocrates write: ‘Women by nature are less courageous and weaker than men’?”

  Diana almost fell into the surely unintentional trap of saying that indeed he did—of showing that she knew classical literature. She impulsively decided that a minor argument might make her meekness more believable. “If you will permit, Your Majesty,” she said demurely, “women are generally physically weak, but I would argue that they can be courageous when defending their children.”

  It worked. He nodded sharply with approval. “You show a true womanly wisdom, Countess. Care of her offspring must be a woman’s first concern. But this is part of the whole, what? If a woman is too physically active, if she seeks to develop manly strength, she will die in childbed, or bear monsters. What? What?”

  Diana longed to ask: How is it then that peasant women labor in the fields, carry huge loads, and work dawn till dusk, and still bear children as well or perhaps better than languishing ladies?

  She kept her eyes down, and the words inside.

  At least her meekness was having the desired effect. From abrasive, the king’s tone became positively mellow as he continued, “If a woman has concerns outside the home, clearly she must neglect her proper duties to her family. Xenophon wrote: ‘The gods created woman for the domestic functions, the man for all others.’ You see, Lady Arradale,” he said, looking at her with well-meaning earnestness, “these truths were established even in ancient times, never to be altered.”

  She suddenly burned to make a passionate declaration of women’s rights and abilities—in four languages besides English! Or to demand a pistol and show j
ust how helpless she was. She could even point out that these were pagan beliefs, not Christian, but she remembered her lessons and said, “It does seem so, Your Majesty.”

  He beamed. “Good, good. Women are happiest in their natural setting—enjoying the gentle and domestic arts, ministering to their husband, and caring for their children. As my dear queen does.” He patted the beaming queen’s hand. “We wish only to see you so blessed, Lady Arradale.”

  “I thank you, sire.”

  And thank heavens for the rigorous training Bey had given her in the coach. It had not quite covered this, for he too must have expected an inquisition rather than a lecture, but it made it possible for her to mouth the correct inanities.

  And had ended with that kiss.

  With that night …

  “… you will soon be a wife, and happier for it, Lady Arradale, what?”

  With a jerk, Diana tried to capture what she’d missed. Still thinking of that night at the White Goose, she said, “I pray for it most earnestly, Your Majesty.”

  He stared a little at her fervor, but then nodded. “Excellent, excellent! We are most pleased that you will submit to our choice.”

  Her heart thumped, then galloped. She’d just agreed to that?

  “Now,” he continued, all smiles, “I understand that you play well. A lady who excels at such a suitable talent is clearly not the unnatural creature we thought. Will you oblige us with more music?”

  Diana escaped to the keyboard, close to fainting with panic. Stupid, stupid, stupid, to have slid into distraction! Sentimental mushy-mindedness when she’d needed to be all cool reason.

  And now, disaster! She’d failed them both.

  She was tempted to pour out her fury at herself on the poor keyboard, but she played instead a very calm, conventional piece, seeking calm and clear thought.

  How to get out of this?

  Having agreed to accept the king’s choice, it would be even harder to escape without giving grave offense.