Dilemma in Yellow Silk

by Lynne Connolly

  Another insult at this stage would not concern Marcus too much. In fact, he was looking forward to the ride in the park they could fit in before dinner if the man was to do so.

  But he did not. He let them in to the hall and took the cards. “It is the duke we have come to see,” Marcus said.

  “The dowager duchess is holding a salon today. I will enquire as to whether the duke is in, my lord.”

  He was in. The butler returned within five minutes. “If you would come this way, my lord, my lady.”

  They followed him upstairs to a small but elegant salon next to the closed double doors of the main drawing room. The buzz of conversation filtered through the doors as they opened and someone came out.

  The Earl of Alconbury, Northwich’s oldest son and his heir glared at them down his blade of a nose. His lean olive-skinned features rarely reflected his mood, which was generally one of sour displeasure. Today was no exception. He said nothing, but bowed his head to Viola and followed them to the room.

  Polished mahogany furniture upholstered in dark blue gave a masculine air to the room, but it was still one a woman could enjoy. Not that either he or Viola were in any mood to enjoy décor. Resentment that such bitter enemies had such a pleasant way of living filled him, when he considered the unhappiness the Dankworth family had brought to so many.

  Northwich rose to greet them, an urbane smile creasing his face, one that did not reach his eyes. He bowed to Viola but pointedly did not salute Marcus. Marcus remained upright and waited until Viola rose from her curtsey.

  “I had not realized we would be on your list of bride-visits, else I would have called,” the duke said. His dark gaze flicked over Viola. “Although I have not seen you so close before. I would most assuredly have paid a call, had I believed we would be received. Please, do sit down.” He gestured to two chairs set a little apart.

  Divide and rule. Marcus led his wife to the sofa and helped her to sit.

  Alconbury took one of the spurned chairs, draping arms over the elaborate carving in the pose of a king. His father retook the chair he had vacated when they entered the room. “I take it you do not intend to drop in on my mother today. Her literary salon has almost ended, in any case. Would you like me to send you an invitation?”

  “You can send one,” Viola said. She stared at Alconbury. She had never met him before, of course, not even at the few social events they had attended recently.

  Most hostesses knew not to invite both families to any but the largest events, and with the young ladies all launched, large balls were rare.

  Alconbury watched with his customary concentration. Marcus had not had much direct communication with the man, for obvious reasons, but he had never underestimated the man’s sharp intelligence.

  “We could exchange pleasantries all afternoon,” Alconbury remarked. “But your time is probably as limited as ours. If you have business with us, we will listen.”

  “Yes, you will,” Marcus replied, not in the least disconcerted by his abruptness. He was cut from a similar cloth, preferring to get to the point, unlike his cousin Julius, who delighted in the obfuscatory remark. “You have caused my wife considerable distress. I will take your insults no longer. I’m here to ask you in a civilized tone to leave her alone. Or I will ensure you do.”

  Alconbury spoke first. “And how do you propose to do that?”

  “Any way I can.”

  Northwich smiled, cool as a cat in a patch of sun. “I doubt it. You are known as a man of utter integrity. Would you dare to break that reputation?”

  Marcus reached out and took Viola’s hand. “For my wife, yes. Without a doubt.”

  The duke raised a dark brow. “Indeed. I heard it was a love match. I would not have credited it had I not seen for myself.”

  Marcus swallowed. “It is a matter of caring for my own. Had you attacked my sisters, I would have acted in the same way.”

  “Attacked?” Alconbury said sharply.

  “Do not presume ignorance.” Contempt filled him when he swung his gaze to the man. “You wish to deny what you have done?”

  Viola squeezed his hand. He assumed from distress until he looked at her. But his wife was furious. By now he knew the signs—the blazing eyes, her luscious mouth tightened into a hard line.

  “How dare you, sir? You had my father killed, and you can sit there and deny it?”

  Alconbury shrugged and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. Feigned, of course. “I take part in so many attacks I cannot imagine which one you mean. You will have to remind us.”

  Marcus growled low in his throat. “The attacks on my wife, one of which proved fatal to my father-in-law.”

  Silence reigned for the time it took a conductor to bring down his baton. “I was under the impression that was a sad accident.” Northwich flicked a glance at his son. Was he asking him if he had taken the initiative, or warning him?

  “You were?” Marcus let his cynicism show in his voice. “I understood you had spies everywhere. Could it be we fooled you for the last twenty-six years?” Ah, damnation, what had he said?

  The light of understanding flashed in the duke’s eyes. He turned his full attention on Viola. “Yes.” He drew the one word out longer than necessary. “I understand now.”

  While Marcus called himself fifty kinds of fool, the duke examined Viola closely. Had he really not known until that moment?

  She did not react by fidgeting or any other ill-bred action. She behaved like the woman she was, sitting up straighter and staring back.

  “An insolent child,” the duke remarked casually.

  “I could say the same thing,” she said. “Considering my birth is superior to yours.”

  Oh, yes! As a Stuart princess, she would be revered in this house.

  The duke sighed heavily. “Sadly you have made yourself useless to me.”

  “Not as much as you would like me to believe,” she answered. “If you dispose of my husband, you may have another shot.” She gazed at first the duke, and then his son. Alconbury had his head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowed as he examined her with no attempt at good manners.

  If she took offense, she didn’t show it, only stared down her nose at the duke. “If any harm comes to him, I will burn the papers in my possession. That will make me useless to you.”

  “My dear, I appreciate the effort.” The duke paused, stared again. “It really is a remarkable resemblance. Have you met your father?”

  “I shared the same house with him for many years,” she said. “He died recently.”

  If he had not been sitting so close, Marcus wouldn’t have seen the slight tremble of her fingers, controlled almost immediately. His heart burst with pride for her.

  “Don’t try to tell me you had no idea,” he said. “Are your spies slipping?”

  “I don’t have as many as you seem to think.” The duke kept his attention on Viola.

  Not what Marcus wanted. He would have tried another provocative remark, but the duke spoke first.

  “I’m surprised not to see your cousin Julius Caesar here.”

  Marcus had suffered so many taunts on his own name, the sneering way the duke said his cousin’s name barely registered. Was the duke trying to make him storm out? Or was this his usual nature? “Viola is my wife, not his. And before you concern yourself, my name is Marcus Aurelius. I do not appreciate the familiarity to myself or to my cousin so I would prefer you did not use it.”

  “I daresay.” The duke waved his concern away with a careless wave of his hand. “You, however, came to see me. While I will offer you the courtesy of entrance to my house, any other consideration is mine to give.” He smiled, a thin curve of his mouth, the fleeting expression soon gone. “Feel free to leave at any time.”

  “We will,” Marcus assured him. “We only came to show you what you cannot have. Or would it have been your son who had the honors?”

  Alconbury glanced at Viola, but said nothing. He returned his attention to Marcus. “Th
at hardly matters, does it? You seem to be accusing us of attacking your father-in-law.”

  Yes, of course. Had he lived, Gates would have been so. But had he lived, Marcus wouldn’t have married Viola. He would have taken one of the society maidens his mother had been throwing his way. He’d almost settled on Lady Myra, a cold but beautiful woman who knew her business well. She would have made a perfect marchioness. But Marcus had never wanted perfection. He’d just thought he did.

  “If not you, who?”

  “You know the answer to that,” the duke said softly.

  “Then I suggest you ask him if it is of his doing. Otherwise, I will be forced to hold you responsible.”

  “And that is supposed to—what, put the fear of God into me?” the duke asked. The smile returned. “Better men than you have tried. However I am, as you see, unmoved. My dear…” In one smooth change of tone, his voice turned low and caressing as he turned to Viola. “At any time you may come to me. If you need help claiming your birthright, I will help you. I wish you had sought my help before you considered such a drastic step as marrying an Emperor.” He made a scornful sound at the back of his throat. “Emperors of nothing. But he may be your consort one day.”

  She laughed, such a joyous sound in this grim atmosphere. “I’m only the daughter of a estate manager, sir, as half of London will tell you. All of it by now, I suppose.”

  “And reputation is all, is it not?” He sounded so gentle now. This man had such a seductive, persuasive tone. That was why he had escaped the fate of so many others of his kind. The rebels in the forty-five had lost their land, their titles, and their good names. But not this man.

  “Sometimes it can be.”

  “Unless one has evidence to the contrary,” Northwich continued.

  Ah. Did he have evidence? Had he somehow found one of the documents, the copies of the birth certificates, or the marriage certificate? The latter would be the most devastating paper for him to have found. But not the original. In some quarters only that would be accepted. Certainly if he wanted to persuade the House of Lords to his side.

  That alone led Marcus to believe he did not have the all-important paper. If he had—but he needed a child, too. One of the legitimate children of James Stuart, to press the claim. Preferably a presentable one. Preferably a son, but a girl would serve.

  Not this girl. Never this one. Marcus did not ask the question the duke had all but invited. He had never concerned himself with getting too close to this man before. He’d been content to avoid him, while the problem of the children did not belong to him. He would support his cousins, but at a distance.

  No more. He would die rather than allow this man to gain control over Viola. He would break her and then discard her. The man took wiliness to a new level of competence.

  The duke leaned back, resting his hand on his cheek. “Tell me why you are so opposed to legal attempts to restore the succession. Nobody is discussing illegal moves any longer. Obviously, war is not possible. But can you not see the family has a claim?”

  “You wish to usurp the throne?”

  “No.”

  “Then perhaps you wish to conquer?” Marcus said icily.

  “No. Merely restore the rights of those who were usurped in their turn. I believe the Stuarts would agree to make peace, so long as they are acknowledged.”

  Viola added her mite. “So that they can force the royal family into exile?”

  “The Hanover king is ailing, his son is dead, and his grandson but a child,” the duke said. “Britain is headed for another war. Added to which, I have heard young George is only of moderate intelligence. If that.”

  “He’s far from an imbecile,” Marcus put in. “He will cope with kingship very well. The first of the Hanovers to be born here and to speak English as well as he does German, if not better. Is that what concerns you? That he will prove the most popular of monarchs?”

  “Or the most compliant,” Alconbury added. “Do you really want King Bute to run the country?”

  Bute was the Princess of Wales’s trusted advisor, and rumor had it, her lover. He was a Scot and a Tory, and most of the House of Lords opposed him. And a great number of the House of Commons, too. “He’s a Stuart,” Marcus said. “I would have thought he was an agent for the disgraced royal family.”

  Northwich sneered, his upper lip lifting slightly. “He has not enough intelligence nor the strength of character. There are many Stuarts in Scotland. Not all of them are loyal.” He did not say to what.

  They made treason sound reasonable. Marcus had had enough.

  “You obviously have no intention of answering my questions.” He stood and extended his hand to Viola, drawing her up to join him. “Our business is done. Come after me or anyone under my protection, and I will make you very sorry for it.”

  “Do you think I am unaware of that? Or your father has not made the same threats in his time?”

  “Not a threat, but a promise.” With his wife’s hand tucked in his, Marcus took his last look at this man. He would destroy everything that made the country stable to gain power for himself. “As you might discern, I have a more personal stake in this matter. I will not hesitate, and I will not necessarily use the law to achieve my ends.” He turned to lead Viola from the room.

  “Devil take it, what a bloodthirsty youth!” were the duke’s parting words. “I wish you were mine, and I never thought I would say such a thing of any Emperor!”

  Marcus did not stop to address the parting shot, but strode from the room. He was eager to put this house behind him, for good, if he was lucky.

  “A word.” He had been so intent in leaving, he had not noticed Alconbury had followed them out.

  Sighing in exasperation, Marcus released Viola’s hand and turned around.

  Alconbury regarded him from under heavy-lids, a characteristic he had seen before somewhere, although the similarity eluded him.

  Marcus resisted the urge to push Viola behind him, but gripped her hand tightly.

  “I understand you frequent Domenici’s,” Alconbury said.

  He met the man’s stare. “I am a member, yes.”

  “So am I. I merely wanted to inform you I plan to go there tomorrow afternoon. You might want to remember that.” He glanced back at the door to the room from which they had just emerged. It was closed. He lowered his voice. “Although if you do go, I’d appreciate testing your mettle.”

  He sketched a bow and walked away before they could respond.

  Viola held her peace until they were inside the carriage and on their way home. “What did he mean?”

  Marcus sighed. “I have no idea. But I will go.”

  “Not alone.”

  “No, not alone.”

  Chapter 17

  Accordingly, the next day, having ensured Viola was fully engaged on a round of visits with his mother, Marcus made his way to Domenici’s. He had not thought to grace the establishment so soon, having decided to allow the furor to die down. But if he wanted to know what was going on, he would have to go. He prevailed on Darius to accompany him, as a witness, and because Darius was less of a rattle-pate than his brother. Not Julius. Julius and Alconbury hated each other. Even had they not been from feuding families, they would have hated each other. If there was more history there, Marcus had no idea what it was, and he had a strong feeling he did not wish to know.

  The hush in the conversation going on when they entered the academy told its own story. Nobody had forgotten the sparring or Marcus’s unusual behavior. They could hardly have done so, when town was not teeming with new scandals. He was stepping into the building for the second time in a week.

  Conversation started up again. Someone called, “I expected you to arrive with your new sparring partner, Malton!”

  Marcus chose to ignore the sentiment.

  Someone else did not. Alconbury, already in shirtsleeves, stepped forward. “Malton has a new opponent today.”

  Without warning, he tossed a sword across the space
between them. Not a small sword. A saber. “Do you use daggers, Malton?”

  “I have been known to. I thought that was your weapon of choice?”

  “Sometimes.” Alconbury served him the same trick with a dagger. Marcus showed his teeth, baring them in a simulacrum of a smile.

  He handed the weapons to a silent white-faced Darius, while he stripped off his coat and waistcoat. They were too fashionably tight to help him in this fight. Alconbury tilted his head to the padded jackets on the wall. He was not wearing one.

  Impatiently, Marcus shook his head. “The day is too warm for one to be of use.”

  If Alconbury tried to kill him now, he would do it with half society watching and bearing witness. Was this his intent, to push a duel on to him? Marcus determined to defend himself, and no more. Alconbury would not find him rising to the challenge.

  Alconbury performed the salute, his saber slicing through the air with a lethal hiss. Cold-faced, Marcus returned the favor.

  At least the tips of the swords were blunted. If they had not been, Marcus would have chosen the vest, because a “fencing accident” could clearly prove fatal and have no serious consequences. With his father, Alconbury could probably get away with murder. But not from a man whose father was the Marquess of Strenshall. Marcus’s father would not rest until he had justice for his son.

  Alconbury must know that.

  With a gleam in his eyes, Alconbury tested him, struck his sword away, and went in for an easy dagger thrust. Marcus fended him off with no trouble. Marcus took his turn, trying a sideways sweep. Alconbury laughed as he slid his dagger down Marcus’s, with a swirl that threatened to push Marcus off-target.

  “I brought a message,” Alconbury said, “But I could not resist the challenge.” He lunged.

  Marcus retreated, only to advance when he reversed the attack with a twist of his wrist.

  Neither man was out of breath.

  Around them, the spectators shouted the odds and laid bets, the normal practice in this place when two adversaries engaged. “A messenger boy?” Marcus taunted him.