by Lauren Royal
"I need to beg a favor from you, Greystone."
"Anything, Charles. You know you need only to ask. What is it?"
His Majesty eyed the busy passage. "Wait till we're in the laboratory; it's the only chamber in all of Whitehall where I'm afforded privacy." Frowning, he paused on the threshold to the Royal Bedchamber. "Od's fish, how did they get here before me?"
With a sigh, he shouldered his way through the cluster of courtiers who gathered there day and night, competing shamelessly to do him the smallest personal favors.
"Would you like your slippers, sire?"
"A warming brick for your bed?"
"A cup of chocolate?"
"No. No, thank you. No." He beckoned Colin after him, the spaniels darting in their wake. "Quick, into the laboratory before someone offers to hold my chamber pot for me."
Colin laughed as they shut the door behind them, the clamoring courtiers and barking dogs safely on the other side. "And why not? I hear tell the French court obliges Louis so."
"Louis the Fourteenth I'm not," Charles said dryly. "I can wipe my own arse, thank you."
After the confusion of the public areas, the laboratory seemed eerily quiet. Colin's gaze swept over the profusion of paraphernalia. "Ford would have the time of his life in here," he said, making a mental note to secure him an invitation.
King Charles only nodded distractedly. The ill-synchronized chiming of his clock collection accentuated the expectant silence. Colin leaned back against a counter, nearly knocking over a telescope in the process. As he whirled to right it, Charles drew a deep breath.
"I'm certain you've heard about our embarrassment at the hands of the Dutch."
"I've been out in the country, not out of the country," Colin replied in an attempt at wry humor.
The king seemed so very serious.
Just two days earlier, the Dutch War had escalated, with disastrous results. Aided by a lack of defense funding and interest from the English government, the Dutch had cruised right up the River Thames, burned three of the largest vessels of the Royal Navy, and sailed back out to sea with the pride of the English fleet, the flagship the Royal Charles, towed behind them as a prize. It was, so far, the most humiliating moment of Charles's reign.
Yesterday, Charles and his brother James had been on the scene, supervising the sinking of ships in the Thames and its creeks to block a second attack. But it had been too little, too late.
Nobody commented upon Charles's hard work in defense of the Thames. To the contrary, the talk in London was about how he'd spent the night of the catastrophe dining with his son Monmouth, in the company of his mistress Castlemaine, where they all passed a merry evening hunting a moth around the chamber. He was suffering mightily for his exaggerated reputation of pursuing pleasure over responsibility. The Dutch War must come to a conclusion, and soon.
"The first step toward peace is to detach Louis from the Dutch," Charles explained, revealing his plan. "With the French as our ally, the Dutch will be forced to negotiate a treaty."
"Why should Louis want to side with us?" Colin asked. "Because he's your cousin?"
"One cannot rely on family relationships in foreign policy. At present, Louis covets their territory more than he desires our colonies." Charles picked at some lint on his velvet surcoat. "He has no real quarrel with England. Indeed, my reign has seen only one battle between us, and Louis emerged such a clear victor that he must be inclined toward cooperation now."
Colin frowned, confused. "I've heard of no fighting with France," he ventured cautiously. He walked around the chamber, skimming a hand over microscopes, magnets, and air pumps.
"It was a social battle," Charles conceded with a sigh. He began pacing. "Since the fire, I've grown weary of the complicated fripperies we adorn ourselves with here at court. Plumes, periwigs, lace, ruffles, ribbons, chains…it's all quite ridiculous, don't you agree?"
Colin couldn't have agreed more, as evidenced by his pared-down version of court apparel. Still, as Charles himself had brought the dandified fashions from the Continent, a prudent man wouldn't be too quick to assent. "One could look at it that way," he said guardedly.
"Last October, I designed for myself a more reserved costume. A long black coat, slashed here and there to show a white shirt, with a close-fitting waistcoat to match. Quite practical, I thought."
"And?" Colin failed to see what this had to do with the Dutch War, or a supposed French War, or any war at all.
"Well, Louis heard about it and promptly dressed all his footmen in my new uniform. I'm afraid the new style was blown out of existence by a gale of laughter," Charles lamented. He stopped pacing and turned to Colin. "A surprise attack, and a clean victory."
Colin had to choke back laughter. Louis XIV, the so-called "Sun King," had pulled off a practical joke of such unmitigated virtuosity, it turned Colin green with envy.
What a coup!
"I suppose it's just as well," Charles said mournfully. "Even though the court, naturally, followed my lead, I heard later that they all felt like damned penguins."
They both shared a laugh over that, which was a relief to Colin, since he was about to explode anyway.
When the last chuckles had died away and the king's face had settled back into worried lines, Colin asked carefully, "And what is it that I can do for you?"
Charles took a step closer. "I need you to carry a letter to my mother in Paris. I cannot correspond with Louis directly; it would raise suspicion."
The last thing Colin wanted to do was leave Amy, pregnant and vulnerable, to travel to France, a place full of sad childhood memories. He hated France. And there was the debt—what would happen to the estate's productivity without him there to oversee it?
He took a slow, deep breath and looked up from the pendulum he was playing with. "Why me? Why not Buckingham, or Arlington or Lauderdale? Such missions are part of their positions. I'm not involved in royal intelligence."
"Exactly. If I sent any of them to the Continent, they'd be followed. It's imperative these negotiations remain secret—if the Dutch suspect my designs, they'll present counterarguments to Louis before he even considers my plan."
"But there must be someone else. Someone with a lower government appointment, whom no one would notice."
"Why so reluctant?" Charles flashed a teasing grin. "The Chases have never hesitated to do my bidding before." Serious now, he put a hand on Colin's arm. "I'm sorry, but I've considered this carefully, and you're the perfect candidate. No one will question your visit to my mother; you were always close to Henrietta Maria, almost like a foster son. And no one will question when she visits Louis, her favorite nephew, afterward."
The plan was flawless, except that Colin wanted no part of it. He swallowed hard and moved away, rearranging some bottles of chemicals. "This is a bad time to leave Amy."
She'd seemed so melancholy of late, but she always claimed everything was fine.
"Ah, I see," Charles responded with the sort of genuine sympathy that was an integral part of his charm. "You needn't stay long; no one would expect it, with a child due soon. Just across the Channel, a short visit, and back. Three weeks—a month at the most."
Colin lifted a bottle of cloudy green fluid. A month. A month of the precious time he had left before he'd be forced to fail Amy…before everything would fall apart.
"Amy will be fine," Charles said. "I'll send her to Greystone with a royal escort. I want you to leave tomorrow."
The bottle clinked to the counter as Colin's head shot up. "Tomorrow?"
"This is very important," Charles said gravely.
"What about Jason?" Colin asked wildly, casting about for any possible replacement.
"Jason would never holiday in France without taking the twins. Everyone knows he takes them everywhere—trying to be the father they never had, I suppose. To leave them home would be out of character, and to bring them along, too visible."
"Ford, then."
"Ford was a child at the Restoration. My mother wo
uldn't even recognize him after all these years."
"Don't you think people will find my leaving Amy at this time a mite suspicious?"
"No one who'd be watching knows you well. You must admit: for a courtier, you keep a low profile. Your reluctance surely took me by surprise. A happy marriage is the exception these days, after all."
Colin was silent. Defeated. His family had always been there when the Stuarts had needed them, and vice versa. When Colin had asked him, King Charles had granted Lord Hobbs's license without so much as a blink of his royal eye.
But he was torn apart inside. He couldn't take Amy on a sea journey, seven months pregnant, and he couldn't leave her home…he just couldn't…
Charles put a hand on his shoulder and said quietly, "I'm asking you, Colin, as your monarch and as your friend, to do this thing for me."
He had no choice.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Benchley looked down his beak nose at Amy standing at the edge of Greystone's quarry.
"My lady, do you not think you've seen enough?"
She scanned the site once more, smiling at the view of the quarrymen dotting the stepped-down ledges. The blows of their hammers rang through the air as they toiled in the hot sun. She watched a huge slab of dimension stone begin to crack away from the face, mentally adding its value to Greystone's ledgers.
"It's doing well," she murmured, satisfied. Treading carefully on the uneven ground, she made her way down the rise and back to the two-seater caleche.
Benchley trailed behind. "In your condition, I cannot imagine why you insist on dragging yourself all over the estate. I shall take you home now."
"Nonsense—I'm pregnant, not ill. I haven't yet inspected the sheep."
She tried to hoist herself onto the seat, then convulsed in laughter, holding out a hand for his help. "God in heaven, I think my girth has doubled in the three weeks since Colin left for France. I've been wondering if he'll recognize me upon his return." At Benchley's wide-eyed look, she couldn't resist shocking him more. "I've also been wondering how a babe this size can possibly fit out of me, but Lydia assures me it will work."
The tips of Benchley's ears turned red. He picked up the reins and clucked at the horse.
"I try not to think about it too much," Amy added brightly.
"Excellent plan," he choked out, staring straight ahead.
During the thirty-minute drive from the quarry perched on one side of Greystone to the grazing fields bordering the other end, Amy digested what she'd seen. Though but a small portion of Greystone's income, the tiny quarry it was named for was producing well. Sky-high stacks of newly cut wood from the estate's abundant forests waited to be sold. The crops were coming in nicely, though she was glad Colin would be home for the harvest—she hadn't a clue what to do about that.
She'd brought the ledgers up to date, delighted to discover that Greystone had become self-supporting and then some. There looked to be a small profit due in the fall. She wondered why Colin had seemed so worried; did he not realize that?
She could hardly wait for him to come home so she could tell him. She missed him fiercely, his reassuring smile and the heavenly feel of his arms around her, especially when she lay alone at night in their big bed. She missed him more than she missed working with gold and diamonds.
God in heaven, she loved him. When he came home, she'd tell him so—a million times. Maybe he would have missed her, too. Maybe he'd be truly happy then.
The caleche rolled to a halt. While Benchley went off to hail a shepherd, Amy lowered her ungainly body to the ground. She perched carefully on the low fence and swung her legs over.
As she ambled through the pasture, the long summer grasses seemed to undulate on the rolling hills. Their fresh scent tickled her nose. It was quiet out here, the silence only broken by the occasional bleat of the sheep. When a lamb came toddling up and butted his head against her skirts, she reached down to let him lick her hand.
"Lady Greystone?"
"Yes." She turned and smiled at the shepherd; no apple-cheeked nursery rhyme boy, but a grown man much taller than she. "I trust the sheep are doing well?"
"I…" Lifting one weathered hand, he removed his cap and rubbed his bald head. "Do you know anything of sheep, my lady?"
"No. No, I don't. But—"
"That youngster there has bluetongue." He kicked a pebble and pulled the cap back over his brow. "I'm sorry, my lady."
"Sorry?" She looked down at the fluffy animal nuzzling her hand. "Bluetongue?"
"An illness. Swelling of the nose and lips, bleeding in the mouth, and—"
"Mucous," she finished for him, wiping her palm on her skirt.
"My lady!" Benchley rushed to unearth a handkerchief and thrust it into her hands.
The shepherd knelt to pry open the lamb's mouth. "See?"
"Bluetongue." Amy took a deep breath and wadded up the sticky handkerchief. "Or bluish-tongue, anyway. What does it mean?" She ran her fingers through the animal's thick wool. "Are they all ill? Surely we can still shear them come time?"
The man rose slowly. "Those that still live." With a sad smile, he patted the lamb on the head. "More than half of the ill ones have died already, and more fall sick every day."
"What?" Amy's heart sank. The profit she'd calculated depended on projected income from the wool. She'd assumed the production would be consistent with last year's. "Can't you make them get better?"
"I know of no treatment." He shifted on his feet, took the cap off and replaced it again. "Lord Greystone, he keeps up with the newest ideas, but he hied himself off to London and has yet to return."
"Did he know of this?" Perhaps this was why Colin had seemed so melancholy.
"No. He left before it started. It spreads very quickly."
"Oh," Amy said blankly. "Thank you."
"My lady." The shepherd bowed and touched his cap. She would never get used to that deference, she thought vaguely as she watched him walk away, the lamb following at his heels.
"God in heaven," she breathed, making her way back to the caleche. "Colin will really be unhappy now."
"Pardon, my lady?" Benchley raised a hand to help her up.
"Nothing, Benchley. Just talking to myself."
Her stomach felt leaden at the thought of Colin's homecoming. Now instead of greeting him with good news, she'd be reporting a sure loss of income and the need to replace expensive livestock.
She couldn't stand it, she thought as she plopped onto the seat. She really couldn't stand it. After all the years he'd worked this land, now to be saddled with her and a baby on the way, plus unexpected monetary problems…well, it just wasn't fair.
Colin deserved better than this. After all he'd done for her, was there nothing she could do for him?
She folded her hands over the mound of her stomach.
Damned if there wasn't.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Colin looked again at the crumpled paper, then up at the street sign. Quai de la Tournelle. And there was the shop, Talbot Joaillerie.
For people driven out of England, the Talbots had certainly managed to land in a luxurious location. A plaque with Louis XIV's warrant was prominently displayed in the window.
"This is it," he said, stuffing the paper back into his pocket. At the cabbie's blank look, he uttered a quick "Merci" and thrust a few coins into his hand.
He pushed on the door, but the shop was locked. Was it past six o'clock already? Colin absently patted his surcoat, looking for his pocket watch, then froze as he remembered.
The blasted highwaymen had taken it. What a journey this had been—one disaster after another. He should never have returned to this loathsome country.
He plucked the sleeve of a passing pedestrian. "Excusez-moi, monsieur. Avez-vous l'heure exacte?"
The man walked past as though he hadn't seen him. Damn Parisians literally wouldn't give you the time of day. Colin couldn't wait to get home. No matter if the crossing were as rough on the return as it had been on
the way here—he could puke his guts out and be happy for it.
He pounded on the door. And pounded. And pounded. Five minutes passed before a petite, attractive middle-aged woman pressed her nose against the window.
"Il est six heures et quart, Monsieur," she scolded, pointing to the sign that listed their business hours.
"I wish to speak with you," Colin called through the glass.
"By God, you're English!" she exclaimed, moving to unlock the door. She ushered him inside. "Come in, come in! I've nothing on display, but—"
"It's you I wish to see, not jewelry, madame. You're Elizabeth Talbot, I presume?" She nodded her dark head, clearly puzzled. "I'm Colin Chase—"
"Earl of Greystone and my Amy's husband," she finished for him. Delight lit her blue eyes. "I should have guessed. She described you in her letters as devastatingly handsome."
Colin felt his face heat. "Madame Talbot—"
"You must call me Aunt Elizabeth," she said, wrapping him into an embrace.
Following an awkward moment, Colin hugged her back, feeling a personal connection for the first time in weeks.
She smiled when she pulled away. "Will you come upstairs and have a cup of tea?"
"Tea?"
"Oh, I know it's a frightfully expensive delicacy, but a stuffy Marquise gifted me with a supply after we designed a diamond collar for his poodle. These French!" she added with a giggle as he followed her up the staircase.
"I'm so glad you saw fit to call on me," Elizabeth said after she'd hung a kettle of water over the fire. "But you didn't bring my Amy, did you?" She said it with mock disapproval, craning her neck as though he might have hidden her niece behind his back. "No, I can see you did not. I shall have to make do with you." She collected two porcelain cups, studying him with a sidelong glance as she set them on a tray. "My, but you're nice to look at. I think you'll do fine, after all."
Colin laughed, favoring her with one of his grins. He would swear she was flirting.
"Come into the sitting room, will you?" She handed him the tray, sailing past him with a swish of her skirts. A soft jasmine scent swirled after her. "You're here on king's business?"
