by Devilish
“My lady!” Clara screeched.
“Hush! You’ll have the household in on us.”
“Well, don’t you be firing that thing—”
Twang! Diana released the arrow, and it thudded right into the spot she’d aimed for, a branch near the hermit’s head. “A very good bow, even though twelve feet is not much of a challenge.” She nocked another one, and turned toward the open window. “Perhaps I should fire into the garden to see how far it can shoot.”
“My lady!” Clara protested.
Teasing, Diana walked to the window and took aim at the railings, but when Clara pursued, hissing protests, she lowered her weapon.
“Oh, but that was fun,” she said. “Like stepping back into comfortable shoes. I tell you, Clara, the shoes are beginning to pinch unendurably.”
“Which shoes, milady?” asked the unimaginative maid, snatching bow and arrow from her. “The yellow ones?”
Diana laughed. “Not real shoes. I’m being metaphorical. Ignore me.”
As Clara put the weapon in a drawer, the cloudy sky shifted, and the full moon sailed out. Diana looked up at her true symbol, ruling the dark sky, washing the world with pure, pale light. The moon was the place where all things wasted on earth were stored. Misspent time, and squandered wealth. Broken vows, and missed opportunities. Above all, wasted, lost, and squandered love.
No wonder it glowed so brightly tonight, and swelled so huge.
As the clock in the hall of Malloren House struck a quarter to ten, Bryght Malloren sent Portia, carrying the sleeping Francis, up to a hastily prepared bed. He cast a glance at Rothgar, who had greeted their unannounced arrival with mild surprise and complete imperturbability.
“Elf insisted that we make our explorations of the north brief and hurtle back here,” Bryght said, indicating to the servants which items needed to go up to their rooms immediately. He looked again at his brother. “Is she right? Is something amiss?”
“Nothing at all,” Rothgar said. “I am holding a masquerade tomorrow, however, so your presence is welcome. I assume Elf and Fort went on to Walgrave House.”
“He managed to persuade her not to come here at this time of night, but she’ll be over first thing in the morning to ferret out your secrets.”
“I have no secrets,” Rothgar said blandly.
Bryght gave him a look. “Then she’ll be delighted to run an entertainment for you again.”
“It is already run, but if it amuses her …” Rothgar indicated the corridor that led to his study. “Would you care for a nightcap?”
Bryght organized the last of the luggage and accepted the offer. His brother seemed calm, but that didn’t mean a damn thing. He’d be calm if he’d just drunk poison. As soon as the door was shut and he had the wine in hand, he probed with a direct question, “How is Lady Arradale managing at court?”
“Ah,” said Rothgar, seeming amused, “I wondered if that was Elf’s concern. I believe the court will survive the experience.”
Bryght laughed, but said, “She’s avoided marriage?”
“Thus far. It has only been four days.”
Bryght sipped from his glass and decided to be blunt. “Elf’s right. The hair on the back of my neck is stirring. What’s going on, Bey?”
His brother didn’t so much as twitch. “At present Lady Arradale appears to favor Lord Randolph Somerton, Carlyle’s second.”
“I don’t know him. Will they suit?”
“A charming young man whose father would dearly like to see him provided for.”
“Sounds like a slimy wastrel. She can do better than that.”
Rothgar, however, had turned, sipping wine, to look out of the window.
After a moment, Bryght said, “Bey?”
His brother turned from the window, through which the full moon glowed. “‘Some thought it mounted on the lunar sphere/Since all things lost on earth are treasured there.’ Pope. Our weaknesses and follies stored on the moon, beyond reach of mortal man. Or even of Daedalus and his waxen wings.” He smiled at Bryght. “However, what you have lost on earth is likely a fine for traveling on Sunday. Don’t expect me to fly to the moon to find the money for you.” He drained his glass and put it down. “I have other matters to take care of. Good night.”
Bryght stared at the door clicking firmly shut behind his brother. ‘Struth, Elf had been right. This was all damned peculiar, but also hopeful. They’d speculated that Lady Arradale might have cracked their brother’s resolution, and something was certainly cracked!
He went to the window and toasted the huge, pearly moon. “All hail, Diana!” he said softly. “May you triumph over the forces of darkness. I’ll certainly help in any way I can.”
Diana took off the costume, and Clara laid it carefully in the armoire, then tidied away the box and wrappings. “There’s a paper here, milady.”
Diana turned, pulling on a loose wrap. “The bill?”
“It’s sealed, milady.”
Diana took it and studied the seal. It was just a lump of wax without imprint so she snapped it open to read the contents.
Not a bill. A message.
Lady Arradale, we must speak of private matters. You will understand. If you can, contrive to meet me by the gazebo in the queen’s garden tonight at ten. A small door at the beginning of the east wing will provide an exit. R
She stared at it, excitement and panic beginning to beat. A clandestine meeting! An appalling risk to her and especially to him. If they were caught, the king and queen would insist on immediate marriage, and there would be no rational objection.
Clearly there must be a powerful reason. Bey was not so weakened as to ask for this meeting out of need.
Or, she thought, stilling, it could be a trick.
She hurried to her writing case and took out the note he had sent before. She compared again and again, but it was definitely his writing. Gemini! She’d have to go, but she suddenly shivered. She didn’t like to think herself a coward, but creeping around deserted gardens at night did not appeal. She looked out at the full moon. It would light the way, but the garden would still be an eerie place. And what if she were caught?
At the best, it would be horribly embarrassing.
Still, she must go, and the clock said ten to the hour. “Clara, no questions. Find my dark brown traveling dress.”
“What—”
“No questions!”
“Stays, my lady?” the maid ventured.
“No, no. The dress, and quickly.”
The wide-eyed maid began to dig through the lowest drawer in the armoire, and Diana sat to load one of her pistols.
Just one.
Not the out-and-out panic of two, but the caution of one.
Chapter 27
The ground floor of the east wing seemed to be storage rooms, and deserted, and Diana found the unlocked door without trouble. It opened with well-oiled ease, and she suspected that servants used it frequently to slip out in the evenings. There were guards at the official gates, but there must be other ways out of the grounds. If needs be, the railings were climbable.
A path led toward the gardens at the rear, and she followed it, making herself walk calmly along rather than creeping like a thief. If she encountered anyone, she would just say she wanted some fresh summer air. In a while, pretense became reality, and her fears eased. No one was out here to harm her, and it truly was a beautiful summer night, drifting with subtle perfumes from rose, stock, and mignonette. To add cream to the dish, she was about to have a clandestine meeting with Bey.
Whatever his purpose, this surely was a golden moment for hers.
She came to an arch through the tall hedge around the queen’s garden and paused, listening for any sound. She was no longer afraid, but she wished Bey would show himself. The silence was eerie. She told herself that she was early, and made her way across the lawn and around bushes toward the gazebo near the wall.
When it came in sight, shining pale in the moonlight, she could see no o
ne inside.
“Hello?” she called softly, caution creeping up her neck. She slipped her hand into her pocket to the reassurance of the pistol as she stepped cautiously through another arch in a hedge.
A hand grabbed her arm. Before she thought to scream, another covered her mouth. She tried to pull her pistol free, but a second man passed some sort of bond around her, cinching her arms to her body. She kicked and her hard shoe connected with the man’s kneecap.
“Sapristi!” he hissed, and slapped her head so she saw stars.
“None of that,” said the man still covering her mouth. “Get her legs tied and she’ll be helpless.”
Still cursing, the Frenchman wound something else around and around her legs, then he stood and growled in French, “Not a sound, milady, or any more tricks or I’ll knock you out. Understand?”
De Couriac!
Despite a small beard, she’d swear it was him, and who else here knew she spoke French?
Fool! she berated herself. Fool! She should have guessed. If Bey could produce convincing forgeries, so could anyone else! But what was the purpose of this? What did the French want with her?
De Couriac thrust his face close to hers. “Comprenez vous?”
It was him, and fear poured through her. She nodded, trying desperately to decide whether it would be worth screaming anyway as soon as she could.
The Englishman took his hand away from her mouth, saying, “Don’t make any trouble, milady, and you’ll be all right.” He sounded uncomfortable with what he was doing, and even as if he was promising safety.
Before she could decide what to do, de Couriac picked her up and hurried toward the wall at the back of the grounds. The Englishman climbed to sit astride the top, then she was hoisted up and lowered helpless into other arms.
She gaped when she saw who it was. Lord Randolph Somerton!
“What are you doing?” she said in a furious whisper. “The king will see you hang for this!”
“Not a bit of it, my dear,” he said with a smug smile that made her long to have her pistol free and shoot him.
He carried her to a waiting coach and deposited her quite carefully onto the seat. Then, with a lordly air, he dismissed her captors.
“Are you sure you can manage?” asked de Couriac. “She’s a hellcat.”
“Respect your betters,” Lord Randolph snapped. “Begone!”
“Frogs,” he muttered, then moved out of Diana’s sight to give some directions to the man on the box. She cursed the fact that she couldn’t hear them, though what use they’d be, she couldn’t imagine. She was wrapped tight as a swaddled baby and could find no way to escape.
She noted that these bindings were unlikely to hurt her, and hoped that meant that Lord Randolph was up to mischief not wickedness.
He climbed in to sit opposite her.
“What is all this about?” she asked as calmly as she could.
“Isn’t it obvious? We are eloping.”
“You’re mad!”
“Still thinking I’ll hang, my lady?” He produced an enameled snuff box and took a pinch. “Put your anxieties to rest. The king will not be offended. Quite the opposite, in fact. He is to reward me handsomely. With an earldom, in fact.
“Yes,” he added, as she sat there, dumbfounded, “I’m to be not just your husband, but full earl, with all the privileges, powers, and properties attached.”
“The king would never support an abduction!”
“You think not?”
His glossy confidence made her waver. Would the king endorse this, perhaps to get rid of the blight on his kingdom she represented?
But surely the king wanted her to marry Bey.
Or, she suddenly wondered, had his behavior in the queen’s garden turned the royal couple completely against him? She tried desperately to remember any sour nuances earlier at the Drawing Room. She didn’t think there’d been any …
“The king told you this?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“In person?”
He looked down his nose at her. “The king has many demands on his time, Lady Arradale. I received his instructions by letter.”
Lud! She’d been tricked by an excellent forgery, so she couldn’t look down on him for suffering the same fate. But why? The French …
Time for that later, now she must convince him to return her before any of this came out.
“But Lord Randolph,” she said, trying to keep to her foolish persona while making her point, “how can you be sure that the letter you received from the king wasn’t a forgery?”
“A forgery? You little widgeon”—oh, how she hated that smug, superior smile—“the letter carried the king’s seal.”
She opened her mouth to point out how easy that was, then shut it, appalled. Forgery of the king’s seal was treason!
“I see you understand at last,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll be as good a husband as you allow me to be. Give me no trouble, and I’ll be kind.”
Diana suppressed a growl, and strove for silliness. “But what if your letter was a forgery? I don’t want to be married to a man in the Tower for treason.”
A flicker of uncertainty did cross his face, but then smoothed away. “Don’t be foolish. Of course the king wants you and your property in a man’s hands, and who else but mine?” He leaned forward and tapped her nose. “I have to thank you, my pet. Without your little games I’d have had to make do with being a countess’s consort. Now I’ll have it all. What’s more, until my father dies, I’ll outrank my damned elder brother.”
“What games?” she asked, wishing she’d dared bite that finger.
“Why, your will-she, won’t-she at the shops yesterday, and your making sheep’s eyes at Lord Rothgar at the Drawing Room today, just to make me jealous.”
“I did not!” she protested, truly offended by the description.
“‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’” he said with a chuckle. “After all, you ran out eagerly enough in response to a letter from me, didn’t you?”
R for Randolph? She almost let out that she’d thought the R was for Rothgar. In fact, her mind was scurrying around the fact that the letter had been in Bey’s handwriting. A forgery to deceive them both! Clearly Lord Randolph was someone’s dupe.
And de Couriac had been part of it.
This was a French attack on Bey.
Oh Hades, she was bait! He was to come after her, and be killed somewhere in the secret dark where it could be blamed on footpads.
“It was that which alarmed the king, you know,” the fool was saying, lounging at his ease. “You showing interest in Rothgar. Running after him in the garden was just too much, my dear. The last thing the king wants is more power in that man’s hands.”
What should she do?
What could she do?
She had to get the dolt to untie her.
“The marquess will not marry,” she said. “Everyone knows that. I was just having a little fun with him.” She wriggled. “Please, Lord Randolph, won’t you untie me? I’m getting pins and needles.”
He glanced out of the window. “Not long now. Then I’ll untie you, my pretty, never fear.”
At the look in his eyes, she went cold. “You’re not to do anything until we’re married!”
“Am I not?” All humor left him, and he seized her chin. “Let us start as we mean to go on, Diana. I tell you what to do. You do not tell me.”
Striving to hide pure rage, Diana forced a weak smile. “I’m sorry, my lord. But please. It wouldn’t be right. Why can’t we be married properly with a big wedding? I’ve always wanted a big wedding.”
“Too late, my dear. But when we return from Scotland, you can have a grand wedding if you wish. I will allow you anything within reason as long as you’re a good, dutiful wife.”
He sat back again, confident lord of his world.
Diana had never before been aware of swelling with rage. It made the bindings constrict around her, and her
head pound. She closed her eyes, hoping to hide it. Oh, she’d kill him. He couldn’t keep her tied up forever, and as soon as she was free, she’d kill him.
Even though he was a stupid, arrogant dupe, and the Chevalier D’Eon was the true villain.
The coach slowed and turned and her eyes flew open.
They’d arrived somewhere and Lord Randolph intended to rape her. If there was any hope of rescue, it would come from Bey, and he’d be riding to his death. She fought down panic. She’d have her chance as soon as he untied her, and then he’d see about dutiful wives!
The moon showed a country lane between hedges. Someone must have the job of telling Bey where to come, for this spot would not be easily found. Would he be wary?
What about Clara? Would she have raised the alarm? Though it would all be horribly embarrassing, she’d welcome the king rousing the army to find her.
No, plague take it. She’d trained the maid too well not to kick up a fuss over her occasional adventures, and now she reaped the bitter harvest. It might be morning before anyone at the Queen’s House knew she was missing.
The coach stopped in front of a simple cottage where faint candlelight gleamed behind two windows. There were no other buildings nearby.
An ideal spot for murder.
An ideal spot for rape.
Panic started to dance inside. She tested her bonds again. No slack at all. She tried to tell herself that she wasn’t helpless. She couldn’t be! But she felt it.
Lord Randolph opened the door, stepped out and spoke briefly to the man on the box, then he reached in to gather her into his arms. She stiffened, trying to keep from touching him, but then made herself relax. The more compliant she seemed, the more likely she was to have a chance.
In fact, she relaxed inside. He couldn’t rape her tied up like this, so her chance would come.
Soon.
The carriage rolled off, carrying on down the lane, and he carried her through the door into an unused kitchen. This was clearly a two-room cottage, with perhaps a loft overhead. Was she alone with him here?
She shivered, but really, one against one was better odds.
