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 thing!”
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.
“ ”Strath! 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 astonishment. 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.
Right under her husband’s nose!
Despite Diana’s efforts, de Couriac was clearly aware, so why was he doing nothing about it? Perhaps he thought a Frenchman here was powerless against an Englishman, especially a marquess. The French aristocracy had far more sweeping powers than the English.
Whatever the reason, he must surely take action sooner or later. Having failed to distract him, Diana turned her attention to Madame de Couriac and engaged her in conversation about fashion.
The woman was clearly not pleased, but had to oblige. For the rest of the meal, Diana relentlessly held her attention with talk of hairstyles, slippers, lotions for the complexion, and means of polishing the nails. She had never talked so long about such matters before in her life.
By the time the meal ended, Madame de Couriac had— despite efforts—managed only the occasional aside to Lord Rothgar. Diana couldn’t tell how the marquess felt about it. If anything, he seemed amused. She resisted with difficulty an urge to glower at the man. Couldn’t he sense the fiery tension coming from Monsieur de Couriac?
Thoroughly disgusted, she did finally flash a dark look at him and found him at his most enigmatic. He did not, however, look at all put out. Of course not. All her efforts had only delayed the inevitable. A tendency to burst into tears about it was her own problem entirely. Even though he was a reckless philanderer, she’d still do her best to protect him from himself.
She rose from the table, smiling at the French couple. “I’m sure you will want to retire early, so as to make a good start on your journey tomorrow.”
“On the contrary,” said Madame de Couriac with a smug smile. “We are spending some days here.”
“Well we must continue on tomorrow,” Diana said.
“And thus we must retire, dear lady?” the marquess asked, making it sound wicked.
She glared at him, but had to abandon the struggle. If he was determined on folly, there was nothing she could do. “I must,” she said frostily, and inclined her head to them all. “Good night.”
They all rose, but as she left she was sure they would immediately sit again, though she couldn’t imagine why Monsieur de Couriac wouldn’t take the excuse to drag his wife away. Perhaps, she suddenly thought, they planned one of those menage a trois events she had read about. Bizarre, but what did she really know of such matters?
Closing the door of her room with a sharp snap, she acknowledged that a good part of her ill-feeling was jealousy. She was jealous of Madame de Couriac for the pleasures of the coming night, but also of her freedom to seduce a man who took her fancy.
Oh, what folly, she thought, unpinning her cap and pulling out the pins that confined her curls. The lady had a husband, and therefore should not be free at all.
Thoroughly disgruntled, she went to the window to look down on the street. It was quiet now that the sun was setting, except for the occasional rattle of a late coach seeking a change before pushing on to York or Doncaster. She was tempted to go out to enjoy some fresh air and exercise, but she would only be an object of curiosity. Everyone here must know that the Countess of Arradale was resting at the Swan, and with the great Marquess of Rothgar, no less!
She remembered her few hours of freedom last year when she’d played the part of Rosa’s spotty serving maid. There had been heady pleasure in being ignored and unremarkable. That maid could be out there now, chatting to other servants, eating a bun with sticky fingers, perhaps even flirting a bit…
She eyed Clara, who was much of a size, but then put the idea aside. It wouldn’t do. Without the face paint, servant’s clothes were pointless.
The marquess could go out, of course. He’d be recognized, but he wouldn’t care. She couldn’t put her finger on why it was different for a lady but she knew it was.
There was the simple danger o
f abduction. The new laws made abduction into marriage less likely, but the laws that gave a husband control over his wife’s property meant it was always a risk. Of course, any man who tried that with her would regret it, but how to show that so a fortune hunter would never even consider it?
She was a woman, and therefore—the world assumed— weak and vulnerable. With a wry smile she contemplated walking around with a pistol strapped to her waist. And a knife or two…
She might even have done it except that now she couldn’t afford extra notoriety. She had to be a perfect, vulnerable lady or risk being clapped into a madhouse.
Oh God. She rested her face in her hands. During her recent inquiries she’d visited the asylum in York. It was a well-run place, but hell on earth, with screams and cries, inmates with blank faces or manic laughter, and others who appeared normal until they started to speak.
What if the woman who’d earnestly whispered that she was a foreign princess—
No, no. Of course she wasn’t. She spoke broad Yorkshire. All the same, Diana could imagine herself, bedraggled by merely being there, trying to convince a stranger that she was a grand lady, unfairly imprisoned.
She straightened, fighting back from panic. One thing she knew. The marquess would never permit that. She’d spoken truly when she said that she resented needing his protection, but she was grateful for it, too. Grateful especially for his promise to marry her as ultimate security.
Then her eyes narrowed as she imagined having to be a complaisant wife as he sought the beds of women like Madame de Couriac. And the exotic Sappho. Perdition, that was certainly another reason to avoid that extreme. She’d end up shooting someone!
She leaned at the open window, elbows on the sill, wondering if he and the damnable Frenchwoman were already tangled in his sheets. Then she heard a patter of rapid French below.
Well, she thought, spirits lifting, at least they weren’t tangled yet. Madame de Couriac and her husband were below in the street, talking rapidly and quietly.
Arguing? Perhaps he’d finally put his foot down.
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