Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (11 page)

When they reached twenty she told them to stand clear and then pushed down the lever that started it.

The wheeze of the machinery was audible, but it still startled when the child turned his curly head to look at them, blink, and bow in greeting.

One child whispered, “Oh.”

He turned then, eyes first then head, toward a bird sitting on the rock behind him. The bird came to life, spreading its wings for a moment, then raising its head to start a trilling song. The boy turned forward again and began to beat time on his drum, toe tapping, body moving a little in time with the music. Sometimes his eyes moved from drum to audience as if gauging their appreciation.

Then, with a
twang
one hand went limp while the other tapped on.

“Oh!” It was all three children at once.

Diana leaped to switch it off. Silence settled with the figure caught eerily looking at her as if in reproach. “Oh dear,” she said.

“Oh dear, indeed,” said a voice behind and she turned to see the marquess in the doorway. “Unwise to play such an instrument without carefully checking it over, Lady Arradale.”

He came over and touched the curly hair. “
Pauvre enfant.
”
He traced the arm that had stopped, running fingers down the blue suit of clothes, then raising the jacket. “If you will permit,
mon brave
.”

One of the children giggled, but they all pressed close to look at the complicated rods and wheels that disappeared into the rock where the principal mechanism lay.

One rod hung loose.

“Not too serious a problem,” he said, looking up—at the children, not at her. “But it shouldn’t be played again until it has been thoroughly checked.”

He rose smoothly and spoke to Diana. “A very fine object, my lady. Made by Vaucanson, perhaps?”

“I don’t know. My father gave it to me for my sixth birthday. I didn’t know it was still here.” She turned to Eleanor. “I think you should pick another toy to unwrap, dear.”

In moments, Eleanor had uncovered a small theater complete with puppets and the three children were engaged in devising a play. Diana turned back to the marquess, regretting—though only for a moment—her sober dress. Begone, folly! “You wished to speak to me, my lord?”

“I came up to visit the children.”

Diana gave thanks for her unenticing dress.

He turned back to the automaton. “I am curious about this. You must know how precious it is. Why is it up here, neglected?”

“I have no idea. I enjoyed it, but something about it made me uncomfortable, so when it disappeared, I suppose I didn’t ask. Looking back,” she added, “I think my mother did not like it.”

“I see why.”

She stepped up beside him to share his view of the figure, but saw nothing unusual. “Why?”

He looked down at her. “It is a boy child.”

Diana stared at the innocent thing. “My father would never have meant that,” she said, but she could see how it might have seemed to her mother. She’d been wife—and a rather unworthy one, too, being merely the daughter of a local gentleman—to a man of great title and long heritage.
In ten years of marriage, she had produced only one child, and that a girl.

Had her father meant this subtle reproach? Diana had always been aware, despite loving parents, of the fierce hope for a son. It had only been when she was about twelve that her education for future responsibilities had begun. That had marked the point of abandoned hope.

The marquess gently raised the drummer boy’s chin. Because of the mechanisms, she supposed, it moved hesitantly, rather as a shy child’s head might. The wide blue eyes ending up looking into his. “A pretty infant,” he said, “with a marked resemblance to the portrait of you as a child that hangs in the countess’s bedchamber.”

With a breath, Diana went closer. Indeed, with shorter hair it did. “He had it made from the picture … ?” How much worse that was. It must have looked to her mother exactly like the son she had not produced.

“He likely thought it only a pleasant whim,” the marquess said.

“With part of his mind.”

Those dark eyes looked down at her, understanding a great deal too much. “Yes, we do sometimes act from more secret places, do we not?” He studied the child again. “A pretty infant,” he repeated, “with spirit and willfulness already established, but showing warmth and great charm. I have thought so of the portrait, too.”

Oh no, don’t do this now. I’m too shaken by the automaton to know what to do, what to say.

He carefully let the chin lower and turned to her. “If you don’t know anyone able to mend and tend it, I can take it to London and give it into the hands of a Mr. Merlin. It is an interest of mine.”

“So I gather,” Diana said, striving for a cool tone. “I confess to being surprised. Toys, my lord?”

“Machines, Lady Arradale. Ones that, when well made, do complex things precisely to order. A pleasing notion, is it not?”

“With a touch of magic? Merlin?”

“It really is his name. And the Duke of Bridgewater builds canals and aqueducts that go over rivers.”

“And Byrd wrote choral music to rival birdsong?”

The corners of his lips deepened with humor. “It makes one wonder, does it not, about the power of names.”

“Arradale carries no particular meaning other than the dale of the Arra. Rothgar, however, does suggest wrath, my lord. And Bey, which I gather your family call you, an eastern potentate.”

“And Diana is the huntress. What, I wonder, do you hunt?” Before she could think of a clever reply, he said, “I understand that you have a shooting gallery here. I confess to being curious about your skill with a pistol.”

Uncomfortably reminded of the events of last year, Diana seized on the children as an excuse and turned to them. “Come. You must return to the nursery. I will have these objects and some of the boxes taken there for you.” She shepherded them out and made the arrangements, then turned to find the marquess behind her, still politely waiting.

“Are you suggesting a shooting contest, my lord?”

“Why not? The men will doubtless enjoy it, and Elf is quite skilled. And I wish to see you shoot.”

As hostess, she could hardly refuse, but as she led the way downstairs, she said, “Why this interest in my abilities, my lord? Last year I had a pistol pressed to your back. I could hardly have missed.”

“You missed Brand.”

“I was flustered and he was moving too fast.”

“You would rather have hit him?”

“Of course not, but it irritates to have made that mistake. What if he’d been a villain about to shoot me?”

“You would, I fear, be dead.”

She cast him a quick look. “Quite. I do not intend to be flustered the next time.”

Rothgar watched with amusement as the countess organized the shooting contest. She set herself high standards, and was used to meeting them. Most interesting. Unfortunately, everything about the Countess of Arradale was interesting, and much of it was dangerous.

He had no doubt that in the past year she had been working not just on aim but on the mind. However, he did not believe any skill stayed within bounds. There was a reason to train a boy in weapons and Greek, and in this world, reason not to so train a girl. Perhaps if he’d not let Cyn and Elf grow up together, Elf would not have thrown herself into such wild adventures. It had turned out well, but could have been a tragedy.

The countess carried the same fizz of frustration and boldness. In some ways, she would make an excellent man, but she was not one. Nor was she the type of woman able to drive out her femininity and live in manly ways. This made her a dangerous, disturbing woman—to him, to others, and to herself. And now he had the king’s commands regarding her.

Lady Arradale had apparently petitioned the king to be allowed to take her earldom’s seat in the House of Lords. It was, of course, out of the question. Parliament was for men only. Rothgar could see why she would want the tradition changed, but he was sure the king could not. George was very conventional about such things.

George was so conventional that he’d flown into a rage at the thought. It didn’t help that he’d suddenly become aware that a young, unmarried woman wielded a great deal of power in his realm. That was intolerable, too. The letter commanded Rothgar to study this unnatural creature and report back to him about what could be done to restrain her.

On second thoughts, this shooting match had perhaps not been a wise suggestion. The last thing needed was for the king to learn she was skilled in such a manly sport. He followed the countess’s straight back down a corridor, disturbed to have been so thoughtless, and aware that it might be symptom of worse.

He’d have to warn the others not to speak of it.

By the time they arrived at the long chamber lit by high windows, servants already had four pairs of pistols out and loaded. The targets, he noted, were of human figures, two men and two women with heart shaped “bulls” pinned to their chests.

“’Pon my soul,” Steen said. “We’re to shoot at women?”

“Women,” Rothgar pointed out, “are not always harmless.”

“We most certainly are not,” the countess agreed without a trace of womanly modesty or gentility. “If a woman was firing at you, Lord Steen, it would be folly to hesitate to fire back.”

“Firing at me?” echoed Steen, clearly at a loss.

“Portia fired at me,” said Bryght.

“Elf just threw a knife at me,” said Fort.

“I did not,” Elf objected. “I aimed at the paper you were holding, and hit exactly where I aimed!”

“A foolish trick, all the same,” said Rothgar. He turned to the countess. “How will this be arranged?”

“Closest to the center of the heart wins.”

Rothgar looked at the pistols. “Are those yours, Lady Arradale?” he asked, indicating a slightly smaller pair.

“Yes. Elf can use them, too, if she wishes.”

“But in that case, the gentlemen should use their own, don’t you think?”

“You have dueling pistols with you?” she asked, clearly startled at the thought. It was oddly pleasant to shock her.

“One never knows …” he murmured. But then he admitted, “No, but I have my own custom-made traveling pistols.”

He looked at the other men, and Bryght, as he’d expected, admitted to having his own, too. His brothers were well trained. With a shrug, Elf confessed to having her own pair with her, making Fort roll his eyes, but humorously. That match was turning out surprisingly well without Elf having to try to hide what she was. A Malloren, through and through.

Servants were sent to bring the familiar weapons, and as they waited, Rothgar asked, “And the prize, Countess?”

She turned to him, suddenly guarded. “What would you suggest, my lord? I think none of us here would care about a purse of money.”

“For love, then,” he said deliberately to disconcert her. “We are family, after all.”

“I am not.”

“By connection. Do we draw for who shoots first?”

Her color blossomed interestingly before she turned to pick up a dice box. “We roll for it.”

He gestured and she rolled the dice, getting eight. He rolled ones so when his pistols arrived and he had loaded them, he went first. He made no attempt not to put a pistol ball in the dead center of two hearts, one male, one female.

If it came to a contest, he wanted her to know what she faced.

Among congratulations, he looked at her and saw the spark of true competitiveness in her eyes.
Ah, my lady, it is not wise to care so much about mere games.

Elf, Fort, and Bryght were next in order. Elf took unashamed pleasure in doing a little better than her husband, and Bryght, like Rothgar, made two bulls. Then Lady Arradale stepped up to the mark, back straight, chin set. She might as well have declared her intention to win. Each ball went straight to the center and she turned to meet his eyes as if it were a personal challenge.

He was not surprised, but was perhaps a little shocked by that degree of skill. Even, in the most subtle sense, aroused. He delighted in excellence.

Steen was no great shot and amiably waived his turn.

“What now?” Rothgar asked. “We fire again to settle it?”

“Into the same targets,” she said, “with white paper behind. We try to make exactly the same hole.”

“Good lord,” said Steen, and even Bryght looked startled.

Rothgar, however, picked up his first pistol. “A most intriguing test, Lady Arradale, though such accuracy can serve no purpose in a real situation. A pistol ball in the heart will do the job. In fact, a pistol ball anywhere in the torso is usually effective.”

“But this is perfection for perfection’s sake, is it not, my lord? As with machines?”

“Ah. Then by all means let us see who is the most perfect machine.”

When the white paper had been pinned behind the red
heart, he sighted. An interesting challenge, which appealed to his sense of absolutes, of precision. His first shot went very slightly off, he thought, though it was hard to tell at a distance. The second, too. When the papers were brought to him, everyone gathered to study them.

“The exact mark!” Steen exclaimed. Rothgar was fond of Steen but the man did not think in terms of absolute perfection.

“No, a trace of white shows,” he said. “Bryght, your turn.”

Bryght shook his head. “I see no point in this. What good does it do?”

“You disappoint me. Think of it in mathematical terms. There is right and there is not right.”

“With figures I grant you, but not with this. I bow out.”

“Elf?”

Elf shook her head, too. “I know I cannot do it.”

Rothgar turned to the countess. “I trust you will not disappoint me, my lady.”

She already had her first pistol in hand. “Of course not. It was my suggestion.”

She again took that purposeful stance. He wondered who her weapons master was, for the man was good. At the same time, he couldn’t help wishing he had the training of her. She needed to go a little further into the mind, into the soul, to achieve the level she sought.

But then again, perhaps not. He watched as both pistol balls hit the dead spot. Among cheers the papers were retrieved and studied.