Vivian Roycroft

by Mischief on Albemarle

  And perhaps she'd stammered some of her thoughts, made some sort of outcry. For Fitz's face lifted and turned, meeting her gaze over Tricksey's lazing head (dear Tricksey, never, I promise you), his gentling hand stroking still. Understanding and compassion aged his lively face, flashed between them, and again his soothing comfort reached her through the pain.

  "Then why don't I buy you, good old lad that you are, and give you a home in a sweet country pasture where you can live out your days, may they be many and kind." Stroke. Stroke. Stroke; the one ear gently twitching. "And then your hard-working master and drover can find a young, stout beast to haul the heavy loads about, so they can, and sweet Beryl can cease her fretting."

  Germaine's hand froze on Tricksey's reins below the bit, and the mare angled her head away from the pressure, shifting sideways. Again Fitz glanced up, somberly, as if awaiting her judgment. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.

  And his gaze met hers. Held her immobile, frozen in place atop Tricksey.

  If the tension she'd felt in the sitting room had caused her to run for shelter out into the rain, it was nothing compared to the crashing, confusing emotions surging through her now. Gratitude, yes, encroaching on the oceans of anguish and compassion. Love, certainly, and only to be expected. But also a slowly growing awareness, creeping into the forefront of her mind. This was the man Fitz had grown into and denied with his childish whims: strong and responsible, caring and gentle. In this moment, stroking the old horse's neck and planning a future for him, Fitz embodied the man she'd yearned for, the one populating all of her fantastic dreams. This was the man she'd wanted him to be.

  And along with the understanding came guilt.

  For despite his teasing, the playful bantering she'd outgrown and he hadn't, he'd never deserved her temper's lash.

  Then old Pigeon sighed, deep and prolonged, as if he'd just surrendered all the cares of the world. For a moment terror held Beryl in place; it sounded like a death-sigh. But the greying head turned, nuzzled Fitz's knee, rested atop his thigh rather than the sodden pavement, and Pigeon's liquid eyes met Fitz's gaze with trust and abandon. Fitz laughed and rubbed the forehead above those eyes.

  "After all, it's the least we can do, with all those Fitzwilliam pastures and byres dotted over so many counties, England, Ireland, here, there, and everywhere. Some sweet beast is going to eat that grass, my loyal lad, so it might as well be you." Another glance up, this time not at her. "Germaine, man, let Paul see to Miss Beryl and Tricksey, and fetch some straw to scatter about this slick pavement. That will give this elderly workman a chance to get his legs beneath him without slipping again. You, lad, will you run to my groom—"

  "Done that once, me lord," a piping voice said from the crowd, buried behind the wall of arms, coats, and hats. "And I was supposed to have a guinea for it, too."

  "Two guineas it shall be," said Fitz, "if you run to my groom, tell him to make up the large box stall for a new resident, and bring Peter in harness to draw this fine drover's cart wherever he needs it to go. And tell him to send the undergroom to go with Peter. Not intending any insult," this to the drover, "but my father would have my hide if I allowed anyone but one of our grooms to manage his favorite horse."

  The drover grunted. "None taken, sir. I'm grateful for your help."

  Done; it was as good as done. Fitz had taken charge, with a calm authority that sent the boy running and the drover nodding. All that remained for her was to catch his gaze a final time, give him her thanks with the glance, and turn Tricksey toward the mews entry. Paul's cob clattered behind.

  And the remembered image of Fitz, sprawled on the wet pavement atop his shattered, flattened hat, rain drizzling down his neck, curls plastered to his beautiful forehead, wet as a happy duck, with an old horse's chin resting in his lap, stayed blissfully within her thoughts as she rode away.

  ****

  His Grace whistled, a single soft note, as the boy galumphed past his hiding place in the alley between Albemarle and Dover. The bare feet stopped their headlong run and dirty dark hair — impossible to ascertain its true color through the grime-turned-mud — fell over his equally dark, indeterminate eyes as he peered into the shop's recessed doorway.

  "Here, I promised you a guinea."

  The urchin accepted it gladly enough, but his eyes were thoughtful, his movements slow, and his lips rolled into a moue then grimaced. "I was promised two," he said, reluctant honesty dragged from him by a generous heart, "and the gentleman buying the old horse already gave me both. This makes three."

  "And I'm certain your family can find a better use for it than either the Fitzwilliam scion or myself. Your honesty does you credit, boy, but take it and run your errand. Go!"

  A surprised flash of glee, then the bare feet leapt into willing motion and the child was gone.

  So was the lovely Miss Beryl, on her elegant chestnut mare, her groom and his unflappable cob behind them. A bystander held the liver hunter's reins, and suddenly, with a scrabble and scattered cheer from the sympathetic onlookers, the old cart horse's head reared up among the throng. Young Fitzwilliam had coaxed him to his feet. Good. Just as every young lady deserved for her dreams to come true, old horses and dogs and other furry things deserved a quiet retirement and peaceful conclusion to their lives, on their own terms.

  And the surge of satisfaction, when he'd seen the final, loving, grateful glance exchanged between his targets. Another game almost complete.

  Another young woman's life set on its hoped-for track.

  Someday, his would follow. Surely.

  He could safely return home for a peaceful evening and leave them to think their final thoughts in private. The messenger would arrive after dark.

  ****

  Papa met her at the stable door, still in his slippers; doubtless Benson had described the disaster with old Pigeon in great detail. Not to mention her bedraggled appearance, wearing Fitz's cloak in the middle of Albemarle and a watching crowd, even if she'd not been down amongst them. A sort of desperation stiffened Papa's face, as if he'd looked into an infernal pit and withdrawn from the brittle edge, determined to recover the beloved one he'd lost in the looking. Poor Papa, worried and sad. She owed him a kiss, if not an apology.

  As soon as she was warm. And dry, blessedly dry.

  Rising pressure in her throat, a prickling in her eyes, pounded against her self-control.

  "My girl." He reached up, gripped her arm in gentle fingers, ensuring she really was there. "My girl." To Paul, "Where the devil is Germaine? For what do I pay the man?"

  Unperturbed, Paul dismounted, letting the undergroom take the cob, and reached past Papa. "Germaine's occupied, sir. But here's Miss Beryl, safe and sound."

  She'd forgotten to dismount in her distraction. Really, there had been too much to the day, too much confusion and too many bewildering emotions. Beryl dropped the reins and let Paul help her down. Tricksey stood with her neck slacked, rainwater dripping to the brick floor with tiny splats.

  "I'm sorry, Papa." Her voice quavered.

  His arms swept about her, tightened, warm and loving and unfortunately no longer dry. "Dear girl, dear sweet Beryl. We must talk. You must tell me what's disturbing you so."

  And the tears refused to wait a moment longer, whether she was warm and dry or otherwise. Sobs tore at her and she buried her face in Papa's chest.

  ****

  With another huge sigh, Pigeon again collapsed. But this time he fell into a bed of thick straw, folding his doctored knees out of the way, and a manger stuffed full of clover hay tempted him into snaking out his muzzle for a ripping mouthful. The stable block behind his father's Dover Street townhome filled with the contented munching of a good horse's jaws.

  And the discontented stamping and blowing of the other good horses, who had to await their usual dinnertime.

  Well, he might have planned that bit better. But overall, Fitz could feel nothing but satisfaction with his purchase. Oh, it was true the horse should never work again — and wou
ldn't, with the saints' blessings — and his allowance would now need to stretch not only to cover Rounder's costs but also Pigeon's. But once he found the fine old beast a spot in a country pasture, as he'd promised, the cost of that support would fall to almost nothing. And if Beryl wished, she could go visit the horse, carrot in hand, and spend some time in his company with a curry comb.

  Beryl…

  How he'd wronged her.

  He'd only considered it teasing, the playful banter of old schoolmates, much like his verbal contretemps with Caird, Crompton, and Ponsonby, he of the overactive mouth. But her escape from the sitting room, from the presence of three men she supposedly loved, at least in a friendship-and-family sort of way — well, that called for a bit of thought. Whatever other lessons he ultimately drew from that experience, he couldn't deny that she'd found it necessary to run.

  From his presence.

  And it was a fact that he'd shown more courtesy, more consideration, more raw kindness, for an unknown drover and a broken-down nag than he ever had for—

  —for the woman he loved.

  A spasm of guilt coursed through him. A churl; he'd been naught but a churl. Not only that; he'd been a prize churl. An award-winner, second to none.

  So long as he could be Beryl's churl, he'd not care a whit.

  It ripped too great a wound to wonder if he'd ever earn that chance again. Fitz drew a deep breath, filling all the corners of his lungs, as Pigeon plucked out another mouthful of hay. The best he could do, to again draw Beryl's affections to him, was to finish the task requested, the promise he'd made to her and the old horse.

  Tomorrow he'd ride to the country, to the closest Fitzwilliam estate, and find Pigeon a forever home.

  Chapter Nine

  Wednesday, March 17, 1813 continued

  "Your grace."

  He glanced up from the book in his lap. No need to mark his place; his eyes hadn't moved for at least an hour. All his concentration had been focused upon the tight little knot of homesick yearning that tripped his thoughts and claimed his attention for itself, with never an opportunity for the book, whatever it was, to take hold of him. His Grace snapped the useless tome closed and set it aside. His butler stood in the doorway.

  "Yes, Godric?"

  The butler twitched, as if yearning to bow. But long ago His Grace had made it clear how little store he set by such trappings, especially with his future and standing so much in doubt. They were no longer at home; his position in England was not what it had been there, not what it might be again, should the Corsican's rule fail. While they remained in English exile, undemanding as it had proven to be, his servants should behave as the English did.

  "A messenger to see you," Godric said.

  His pulse quickened. He'd had to wait while the messenger delivered other, more important missives, to the military intelligence services, to the War Office, perhaps even to the Regent; His Grace didn't know and nor would he ask. His patience had been exercised, despite the delightful distraction of Miss Beryl and his game, but finally the wait was over.

  "Show him in."

  As well as his various reports, the messenger had also disposed of the green cravat, that perfect hue from the Kingdom of Saxony's flag, and now was dressed in sober tones, indistinguishable from any other gentleman out for entertainment on the town. He'd rested, too, and the blue-stained shadows beneath his eyes, the lines of tension about his mouth, had vanished, leaving behind a young face and fit body that together screamed his more usual vocation. An officer and doubtless a highly trusted one, since he'd been designated an undercover diplomatic courier, carrying written and sealed secrets across nations occupied by the enemy while pretending to be their friend. And no one had warned him; two steps into the library, he dipped into a courtly bow.

  "Your Highness."

  No use getting angry at the man; he clearly had no idea he'd offended. But His Grace couldn't entirely suppress the surge of annoyance, nor strip its remnants from his voice. "None of that, man. Here I'm no more than a duke, and not even a royal one." He rose and strode past the shelves of leather-bound books, the carefully aligned spines, brown, black, green, red, and blue. Gilt lettering flashed red sparks in the firelight and the candles' discreet flames. "You have a message for me?"

  The young officer straightened, astonishment widening his eyes, clear blue-grey in a square, wind-roughened face topped with sandy hair. Then he seemed to shake himself. "Yes, your — your grace." Still the slight verbal stumble, but he'd recovered his poise sufficiently to catch himself before offending again. A steady man for his tender years, and quick on the uptake. He produced a letter, folded and sealed, and handed it over.

  Thick cream-colored laid paper; glorious green wax, impressed with the crossed swords of the old Electorate, gone seven years now. His pulse quickened; it could only be from his brother. Wilhelm had promised to keep in touch and every year he wrote a missive, but occasionally there had been messages from his father, or an advisor, once even from a friend at court. A true friend indeed; none other would dare risk being caught, with the Germanic states floundering beneath the Corsican's boot and the consequences that would result should disaster occur.

  "How is he?"

  Only a slight pause, then understanding rose in the officer's eyes. Yes, quick and clever; doubtless the reason he'd been chosen for the journey. "He's well, your grace. And the best swordsman at court. He trounces all of us during training sessions."

  Satisfied, His Grace broke the seal. "That will make life interesting when I return home." He nodded toward the cut glass decanters on the little table, well away from the gently crackling fire, and snapped the folds open. "Help yourself while I read."

  Words, mere words, ink scratchings on expensive paper; but a touch from home, and its modesty could not detract from its welcome despite the ugliness of its message. Wilhelm's handwriting had smoothed its curves, emphasized both its upper and lower loops, and the letter coursed from margin to margin in even, precise rows. Maturity, it seemed, had claimed even little Willi; of course, he'd be twenty-three now, well out of the schoolroom and quite possibly taller than his elder brother.

  He stilled the homesick ache and read.

  "Pour one for me, would you?"

  A clink. "Of course, your grace."

  He downed the proffered brandy in two swallows, barely tasted, and waved the letter. "Do you know what's in here?"

  The young officer had taken the time to refill his glass, as well. Oh, yes, a clever man, and not one to miss an opportunity. He nursed his more closely, lowering the glass from a shallow sip and shaking his head. "No, your grace. I'm only the messenger."

  "But you understand the situation at home, surely. Has Willi exaggerated?"

  A pause; another sip. "I don't see how he could. Prussia declared against the Emperor Napoleon — officially, I mean — in late February, and the Prussian and Russian armies have advanced through Poland. No one should expect the Emperor to cede the German states to them without a fight."

  "Meaning the war has well and truly come home to Saxony." A cold chill shivered down His Grace's spine. Bad enough after Auerstedt and Jena, with skirmishers and deserters crossing the border, the collapse of the Holy Roman Empire, holy no longer, and in the end, Father bowing beneath the cold-blooded pressure, finally joining the Emperor's Confederation of the Rhine. Months before, cornered by events and his own behavior, His Grace had fled to England, leaving behind everyone and everything he cherished, angry and close to despair.

  Because the alternative had been to die, and possibly to take his family, friends, and citizens down with him.

  "And now," the officer continued, "it's whispered His Serene Majesty the king — your father, your grace — is pursuing an alliance with Austria. He was in Regensburg when I left Dresden."

  "Better Austria than Prussia, after Jena and Auerstedt." Where Prussia had abandoned Saxony without a backward glance, exposing his homeland to the Corsican's rule in the first place. Not that
it really mattered; the Grande Armée would have plowed through them whether the Prussian commanders had run or stayed. His Grace crossed to the table and refilled his glass, but his gesture toward the officer received a polite negative. Not only clever, but unwilling to compromise his abilities, even to please a high-ranking host. Hopefully Willi realized what a jewel he had in this young man.

  The officer shifted in place. "But it's dicey, negotiating with the great powers while trying to keep the Emperor blind and deaf to your actions." A pause, then the expected, hurried evasion. "If, of course, that's what's actually happening. These are only rumors, your grace, and probably shouldn't be given too much credence."

  Of course not. And Father at his best as an administrator and justiciar, a sober, honest, honorable, dedicated homebody, not as a military man nor as a negotiating statesman. The remaining brandy burned like fire and slid down his throat in a convulsive, stormy swallow.

  Another pause, then the officer set his glass upon the side table. For the first time, his calm assurance melted away to uncertainty. "There's one more thing, your grace."

  One more thing that he clearly wasn't certain how to handle. Astonishing, considering how well he'd performed his mission to date. "Just say it." The messenger's unexpected caution slipped past His Grace's usual self-control, coloring the words with a rough edge. Regrettable, that.

  And that edge drew blood, or at least a twinge of red across the officer's clean-shaven cheeks. Without another word, he withdrew from his pocket and handed over—

  —a drooping, pale flutter of cloth.

  Fire took root inside him, flaring heat from his inside to his own face, and His Grace took his new prize to beneath the candelabra. A lady's handkerchief, the lace edging rubbed and threadbare, a small stain faded to gentle purple from repeated washings, the once-fine linen softer than cambric. A heart-wrenching ecstasy gripped him, swept him deep into memories.