The Beloved One

by Danelle Harmon

  "Kind?" Juliet raised her brows. "He must be up to something, then."

  "Yes — the Restoration of Charles, as he called it."

  "I rather suspect he's up to far more than that," Juliet said, cryptically.

  "Such as?"

  "Oh, never mind. It's only a thought, and not worth voicing."

  "Well, he was a bit intimidating."

  "A bit?" Juliet laughed. "We're talking about a man who conceals a rapier in his walking stick, who appears to be as omniscient as God, who faithfully practices his duelling skills every week, and who loves nothing more than to move and manipulate those around him as he might the pieces in a game of chess. Add to that the fact he is one of the most powerful — and dangerous — men in England, and I fear that intimidating doesn't even begin to describe him! But he loves and is very protective of his family, I'll give him that. If you could have seen him when he found out that Gareth had taken up pugilism for a living . . ."

  Humming to herald her imminent arrival, Nerissa reappeared, all smiles.

  "Well, well, I see that you two Yankee Doodles have found something to talk about!"

  "Yes, your infamous brother," Juliet said wryly.

  "Lucien? He wasn't unkind to you, was he, Amy?"

  Amy nearly laughed. "I don't understand why everyone thinks he's such a monster!"

  The other two exchanged knowing glances. "You will," they chorused.

  "Is he that difficult to work for?"

  Nerissa stared at her. "What do you mean?"

  "Amy came here looking for work," Juliet supplied, with a glance at Nerissa that spoke volumes.

  "Work? Why, that's preposterous. She's not going to work, Charles would never allow it and neither will Lucien. I've never heard of anything so silly in all my life."

  "Well, of course I have to work," Amy said, greatly confused and a little chagrined. "After all, I do have to eat. . . ."

  But Nerissa was studying her jacket and petticoats, both faded to the color of beach sand; her impossibly long fall of sleek dark hair, her shoes, her work-roughened hands. "You don't need work, you need a maid."

  "No, you don't understand, I came to England expecting to be someone else's maid —"

  Nerissa gave an airy wave of her hand. "Nonsense. You must have a maid. You must have new clothes. And you must have a ball gown, which is why you're going to London with me this afternoon so we can visit my dressmaker."

  "London? A ball gown?" Amy couldn't help her burst of laughter. "That's the last thing I need!"

  "On the contrary," said Nerissa. "Lucien is throwing a ball next Friday in honor of Charles's homecoming, and he wants you to be there."

  "Wants?"

  Juliet drawled, "Demands is more like it."

  "It's his way of thanking you for all you've done for Charles," Nerissa added. "He wants to give you a magical, Cinderella night-at-the-ball as his way of expressing his gratitude for saving Charles's life."

  "But — but I can't attend, I — I don't even know how to dance!"

  "Then you will learn," said Nerissa, blithely.

  "And . . . I don't know the correct things to say to people, or how to address them properly . . . or — or . . . anything!"

  "We will teach you."

  "And I can't afford fancy new clothes, let alone a ball gown!"

  "Ah, but I can, and I would be very offended if you do not accept them as a small token of my appreciation for saving my brother's life," intoned a smoothly urbane, aristocratic voice. Gasping, Amy whirled to see the duke of Blackheath standing in the doorway, an amused little smile playing about his otherwise severe face.

  Amy sank in a curtsey. "Your Grace!"

  "My dear girl. Are you giving my sister trouble?"

  "No, but I really can't go to a ball, I'll look the fool and I've got no business being there anyhow and —"

  "Do you want to go to the ball?"

  "Well of course, it'll be magical, wondrous, but I'll feel like a chicken amongst a flock of peacocks!"

  The duke folded his arms and leaned negligently against the door jamb, his black eyes holding her captive. "Do you remember the conversation we had last night . . . about helping Charles?"

  That soft, suave tone was enough to make Amy's heart still. "Well yes, but I don't see how this has anything to do with him . . ."

  "Of course you don't. And so I will tell you. Nerissa wants a new gown for the ball. As a lady's maid, you will want some new clothes. And I —" he gave a silky smile — "I will want Charles to ride alongside your coach to provide safe escort to and from London." He smiled, but the gesture was just a little bit sinister. "It would benefit him greatly to feel . . . useful, don't you think?"

  And Amy, standing there feeling nervous and dry-mouthed and very, very intimidated indeed, suddenly understood. By sending the girls off to London and asking Charles to go along as protection, Lucien was setting things up so that Charles would have opportunity to regain some of his feelings of self-worth.

  She only hoped he wasn't lining up a highwayman to rob them, as well!

  She returned the duke's smile, suddenly feeling like a co-conspirator instead of a scared ninny. "Yes, your Grace. I quite understand."

  "Good. I knew that you would." And then, with a furtive exchange of glances with Nerissa, he bowed deeply to the three women and continued on his way.

  ~~~~

  Charles returned from his race with Gareth, flushed and in higher spirits than he'd been in a donkey's age. It had been just like old times, the two of them pushing their eager horses to the limit, leaving the cares of the world behind and rebuilding the deep friendship they'd always had. They had galloped all the way down to Ravenscombe and back, slowing their mounts a half-mile away from the stables to give them a chance to cool down.

  "Damn good run you gave me, Charles," said Gareth, patting Crusader's neck before dismounting and handing him into the care of a waiting groom. "You might've beat me today, but by God, I'll have my revenge tomorrow!"

  "Is that a challenge?"

  "It is indeed!"

  "Very well then, I accept it." Charles grinned and also dismounted, and watched as the groom led both animals away. His brother was still standing beside him, his cheeks a bit flushed from the winter wind, his eyes bright.

  A silence fell between them as they headed toward the house.

  They'd taken only a few steps when Charles paused and reaching out, caught Gareth by the shoulder. "Gareth, I . . . I just want to say thank you."

  "For what?"

  Charles thought for a moment. "For being yourself," he finally said.

  Gareth grinned. And then he looked hard at Charles, and his blue eyes began to twinkle. "And thank you too, Charles — for being yourself," he said cryptically.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Never mind," Gareth said, his eyes warm with brotherly love. "Come on, let's go inside. It's cold out here!"

  They were just approaching the front entrance when the great iron-banded door opened and Lucien came out. He had his walking stick in his hand, and his two dogs circling his heels, eager to be off on their morning run.

  "Ah, Gareth," he said. "I do believe your daughter is crying for you. Why don't you go see to her?"

  Gareth opened his mouth to protest, but something in Lucien's eyes made him suddenly think better of it. Making his excuses, he left his brothers standing together on the drive.

  Something clenched in Charles's gut as he remembered his deplorable behavior of last night.

  Thankfully, Lucien chose to ignore it.

  "My dear Charles," he said, expansively. "I wonder if I might ask a favor of you?"

  "What would you like?"

  "Nerissa and Amy wish to go to London, and I simply don't have time to accompany them. You wouldn't mind going instead, just to ensure that they come to no harm, would you?"

  "What do they need to go to London for?"

  Lucien gave a dramatically heavy sigh. "Oh, female pursuits, of course. Shopping, goss
ip, maybe a visit to that infernal French dressmaker of Nerissa's. You know how your sister just has to have the latest fashions from the Continent." He raised his brows as Charles eyed him narrowly. "But of course, if you don't feel . . . up to it, I suppose I could always send Andrew instead."

  "What do you mean, if I don't feel up to it?"

  "Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about our little conversation last night. The one where you made it quite obvious that you are no longer, shall we say, capable of the things you once were. But never mind. I'm sure that Andrew will be delighted to lend his protection to the girls, instead. He has become quite a handsome young lad, don't you think?" His black eyes gleamed. "I do wonder what your little friend will think of him . . ." He whistled for the dogs and raised his walking stick to Charles in mock salute. "Good day, Charles. I will see you at teatime, I hope."

  And then he moved off, leaving Charles staring after him in rising fury, his hands balled into fists and a little muscle ticking in his jaw.

  What the devil was that all about?!

  Well, one thing was for sure. Andrew was not going to be the one escorting the girls into London! Charles marched into the house, striding as though he was still a captain in the King's Own. He went straight across the Great Hall, through the length of the castle, out into a far wing, up a flight of stairs, and found the youngest de Montforte brother right where he expected to find him: in the great chamber above the ballroom that Andrew had long since adopted as his laboratory.

  Charles's anger cooled the moment he stepped into the room.

  The last time he'd been here, there'd been a dazzling array of bottles containing an even more dazzling array of chemicals and solutions filling the tables, the shelves, even the window sills. There had been open books and scholarly papers strewn about on both floor and tables; notes and mathematical equations that Charles didn't even try to begin to understand scrawled across the blackboard; weights, scales, and measures, evil looking concoctions simmering in various tubes and beakers; and Andrew, commanding this chaos like some mad scientist. All of those things were still here.

  As well as —

  "What in God's name is that?" Charles expostulated, staring at the strange contraption that dominated the wooden floor. Shaped like a giant arrowhead, it appeared to be constructed of a bamboo frame filled in with yards of tautly stretched red silk. Beneath it, Charles could just see Andrew's stockings and shoes protruding; the rest of his brother was somewhere beneath —

  "My flying machine," said Andrew, sliding out from beneath the thing in question on a wooden dolly. Lying on his back, he cocked a grin up at Charles, obviously quite pleased with himself. "Or rather, the Contraption, as they mostly call it round here." He got to his feet and brushed himself off. "What do you think?"

  Charles, shaking his head in amazement and disbelief, walked a slow circle around Andrew's latest invention. He had no doubts about Andrew's brilliance, but a flying machine? It was . . . impossible!

  "It looks like a giant kite," he finally said, hoping Andrew did not see the doubt in his eyes.

  "But it's not." Andrew pushed the dolly out of the way and clapped a hand behind Charles's shoulders. "I say, Charles, I'm devilish glad you're home, because there are a few things I need some advice on. I'll need to form a company to produce these things . . . I'll need to attract investors . . . and I want to consider whether there's a military application, which you're obviously the best person to advise me on."

  "Why is everyone coming to me for advice?"

  "Are they?"

  "Yes," said Charles, frowning. "Gareth wants to bend my ear about some of the problems he's having with his estate, and now you . . ."

  "Well, I don't see anything unusual about it," Andrew said, shrugging. "We always came to you for advice before you went away, so why not now?"

  "Because . . . oh, never mind." He shook his head.

  "That reminds me, what are you doing about your Army career? Isn't there a war going on?"

  "I'm on an extended leave of absence, which was rather necessary considering that someone else had already been promoted into my place as company commander. I'll probably end up resigning my commission, anyhow."

  Andrew screwed up his face. "Whatever for?"

  "Because — oh, forget it, it's not important." What was he supposed to say, because I lost my nerve, my confidence, and am no longer capable of leading men? He forced a smile. "Come, I wish to know more about your invention. Will it really fly?"

  "Damned if I know. Haven't tested it yet, and I won't, until that bastard Lucien conveniently decides to go off to London or something." Already, Andrew's eyes were beginning to flash. "For six months he's been insulting me, taunting me, and quite confidently declaring that I'd never succeed in building it, let alone getting it to work. I'll tell you, Charles, there's nothing that would bring me more pleasure than to make him eat his words, every last damned one of them!"

  So, Lucien and The Defiant One were still at odds; some things never changed.

  "I'm sure that day will come," Charles said, reaching out to touch one silk-clad wing, then bending and peering underneath, where there was a crude leather harness attached to the frame at the center. "How does it work?"

  Andrew, eager to discuss his creation, promptly forgot about his enmity with Lucien. Brightening, he pushed back a stray bit of dark auburn hair that had come loose over his forehead and squatted down beside Charles. "Well, that there is the harness that will keep me strapped in. These are the wings — I've spent all summer and autumn studying the shape of bird's wings, and the ratio of length to weight so I could get it just right — and these extra supports here are for strength."

  "I see. And how do you intend to steer it?"

  "I'm still working on that bit."

  "Hmmm."

  "It's meant to ride on air, much as a boat rides on water, but I haven't yet worked out the best way to get it airborne. It's all a matter of finding enough speed to give it lift, which rather limits my choices. I have two, as far as I can determine."

  "Oh?"

  "I've been thinking that the least dangerous way of doing it would be to hitch a carriage to our two fastest horses, squat atop it with the Contraption on my back, and then make the horses gallop as fast as they can go. When there's enough speed, the craft should lift and voila, I shall up and fly like a bird!"

  "Uh . . . yes," Charles said, dubiously. He rubbed his chin. "And the other method of getting it airborne?"

  Andrew grinned. "A catapult."

  "Good God, man!"

  "Want to see it?"

  Charles blinked. "Well, I —"

  Andrew seized his arm. "Come on, I've got it set up on the roof."

  His face alight with excitement, Andrew led Charles out of the laboratory, up the stairs, and onto the roof. Up here the wind was gusty and fierce, the view spectacular, the moat below sparkling in the sun. Andrew was oblivious to all of it. He swept his hand forward — and sure enough, there it was.

  A giant catapult.

  Charles felt his mouth go dry. "Uh, Andrew . . . this is a little high, isn't it?" he asked, a sudden nervousness on behalf of his brother's safety making his palms go damp and a sick feeling to settle in the pit of his stomach. Andrew was not foolhardy; either he had more than enough faith in his creation, or his desire to prove something to Lucien was making him reckless.

  "Not as high as the tower," Andrew said cheerfully. "This is perfect, really. And if things go wrong, I've taken into account both the force of the catapult and the weight of me and the machine, and I've calculated it so that I'd land in the moat. It's perfectly safe, I can assure you."

  "I'm glad you won't be testing your invention anytime soon."

  "Well, I was going to wait until Lucien's gone, but, you know something, Charles? I'm so confident that this thing is going to make history, so confident that it's going to make me famous, and so confident that I'm finally going to be able to rub Lucien's nose in my brilliance, that I'm going
to hold a demonstration at the end of next week."

  "Next week?" Charles asked, faintly.

  "Yes. And everyone will be there. You do know about the little party that Lucien's throwing to celebrate your return, don't you? Not only is he inviting everyone for miles around, he's sent off a special invitation to the king himself."

  "The king?!"

  "Yes, the king." Andrew's eyes gleamed. "Just think, Charles, what it will mean to have him there to endorse my entrance into the history books! His Majesty will grant me royal patronage! I'll be rich beyond my wildest dreams!" Hands on his hips, he gazed out over the downs, his expression already triumphant. "And Lucien will rue the day he ever mocked me!"

  Charles was still staring at him, trying to digest all he'd just been told. A demonstration? A little party? An invitation to the king?

  Andrew grabbed his arm. "I say, it's bloody cold up here. Let's go back inside so you can help me figure out how to start this company of mine!"

  Chapter 25

  After meeting Amy Leighton, Juliet walked slowly back down the corridor toward Gareth's old apartments, which she and her husband were sharing during this sudden Christmastide visit to Blackheath Castle.

  Her heart was heavy. Troubled. Though Lucien had prepared them all for Charles's imminent arrival after receiving the startling news that he was actually alive and coming home, it had still been a dreadful shock to see him in the flesh. It had been an even more dreadful shock to see what he had become in the nearly two years since she had known him. Juliet had not lied to Gareth about her feelings for Charles, and she would not trade Gareth for the world — or for Charles, for that matter — but she was mature and honest enough with herself to accept that old memories died hard. Seeing Charles again had reactivated a score of them. He had been her first love — and her first lover. You couldn't make a baby with a man and accept his offer of marriage, grieve his death for months, and then cast him out of your heart just like that.

  Even if there was someone else you loved a hundred times better.

  She paused at a window which looked down on the lawn and the graveled drive below. Lucien's coach, polished until it shone like jet, was already being brought round, the clouds floating across the bright blue sky reflected in its glossy paintwork. She was glad that her pregnancy gave her an excuse not to go to London with the others. Already, liveried footmen awaited Nerissa's and Amy's arrival, and in a few moments, a groom would bring Contender out — the magnificent animal she'd first seen Charles mounted on, so many months ago, so many miles away, on Boston Common.