Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (33 page)

“To my kissing your palm? Why, we would have indulged in dalliance, my lady.”

“Dalliance?”
she’d asked.

“One step beyond flirtation, but one step below seduction.”

“I know nothing of dalliance then.”

“Would you care to learn?”

Thinking back, he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d intended then, what he would have done if she’d taken him up on the
cynical offer. It had been the unrecognized beginning, however, and he had eventually taught her. At Bay Green.

Catching a surprised look from Walpole, he knew he’d missed something.

“I was merely pondering one of life’s mysteries,” he remarked. “That momentous developments sometimes start with careless impulses.”

“Like the war of Jenkin’s ear, my lord,” said Walpole.

“Precisely.” Rothgar followed that line into war and international relations, which was what he should be concentrating on anyway. Paying attention to the conversation this time, he inserted delicate warnings about France, and about the Chevalier D’Eon’s finances and motives. Some of the men present were ministers of the crown, so they were fertile ground.

All the men were wealthy, so he also managed some personal business and gained their support for Elf’s latest charity for the support of war widows and orphans.

However, despite politics and benevolence, he was aware that the passing hours were just that—time to pass before he could travel to the Queen’s House for the evening.

Fred Stringle left his horse at the stable attached to the French embassy, and walked up to the back door to knock. He gave his name, and asked to speak to Monsieur D’Eon.

“Why should he speak to the likes of you?” asked the tired maid. “Anyway, he’s off to court at any moment.”

Stringle pushed in past her. “Just send the message, luv.”

In minutes he was being led to a room on the ground floor. A simple reception room, but on the right side of the house, the gentlemen’s side.

The little Frenchman came in, stepping crisply, frowning, all a-glitter with satin, lace, jewels and fancy orders. “What are you doing here? What has happened?”

“Trouble, sir. That’s what’s happened.”

“Trouble? What trouble? You have not entangled young Ufton in something?”

“Oh, aye, I entangled him all right. Horse thievery. A hanging matter if it really stuck.”

The man’s eyes fixed on him. “So? What trouble?”

“All would have been well if a bloody marquess hadn’t thrown his weight around.”

The little man sucked in a breath. “Rothgar? But he is in London.”

“Yesterday, he was in Dingham Magna rescuing young Georgie Ufton from his fate.”

The sharp eyes narrowed. “And you came here? Why? You are nothing to do with me, nothing.”

“I wasn’t followed, sir, if that’s what you’re worried about.” It amused him to add, “No one knows I’m here except those who already know. But things got a bit hot in Dingham, you see. Perjury and the like. I thought it’d be wise to disappear for a while, and where else but here?”

This was the tricky part, because he wouldn’t put it past this fire-eating little Frog to stab him where he stood.

But D’Eon only hissed between his teeth. “Very well. In fact, you could be useful to me. Developments have made it difficult for me to use my countrymen at the moment.” He looked at Stringle. “The marquess is a very astute man. He must have realized you were causing difficulties.”

Another tricky spot. “Aye, and he tried to find out who set me up to it, but I slipped away.”

The Frenchman smiled. “He will guess, I think. It is no bad thing to know that we are at war.”

Stringle would rather have the damned marquess ignorant of his very existence, but he risked a question. He thought of himself as a man without allegiance, but the marquess’s comment about patriotism had stung. He’d entangle a naive lad for money, but he didn’t like the thought of serving the king’s enemies. “War over what, sir?” he asked.

“Over power, of course. What else is war ever about?” With an airy gesture, the Frenchman said, “Find yourself a room here and keep out of the way. I will tell you when I think you can be useful.”

Stringle left, glad now to be working for the marquess to thwart the enemy.

*    *    *.

The Chevalier D’Eon left the room disappointed, but only mildly so. He had set a number of traps to make distracting trouble for the Marquess of Rothgar, and hadn’t expected all to succeed. He could sigh for Stringle’s plan, however. A young neighbor in danger of hanging would have taken Rothgar away for days, now, adding to the void created by his sentimental absence in the north. To leave the center of power for a mere wedding! D’Eon felt close, so close, to his goal, to persuading the English king to countermand the order to destroy Dunkirk.

The plan with de Couriac would have been even better if the fool hadn’t bungled it. The thought of the marquess bedridden with a wound, perhaps for weeks, far away in the north, was enough to make him weep.

All would then have been easy, he thought as he headed for the front of the house. He would become ambassador, doubtless with a title to go with it. His life would be as smooth and glorious as the reflection pools at Versailles …

It still would be. He had served his king faithfully for over ten years, refusing nothing, putting his life on the line again and again. This was his, this place, this position, and everything that came with it.

He would—

A man stepped in front of him.

He leaped back, hand flying to his sword, then halting. “De Couriac?”

The man, a bloodstained bandage around his head, bowed but without great respect. “Monsieur D’Eon.”

D’Eon seized his arm and dragged him into the nearest room, his office. “What are you doing here? All England seeks you!”

“Then where else could I come?”

“You could take ship back to France.”

“You don’t think the ports will be watched?”

The man’s tone was disrespectful, perhaps even hostile. D’Eon considered his next words.

After the debacle with Curry, he’d sent to Paris for an expert swordsman who could do what Curry had failed to do—put the Marquess of Rothgar out of play with a serious but
not fatal wound. De Couriac had appeared to fit the part perfectly, and it had seemed simple enough to set up.

Lord Rothgar was going north with his family, but returning south alone. He had rooms engaged at Ferry Bridge. Simple to have de Couriac wait there to intercept him with the tempting bait of an actress from the King’s Theater as his wife.

How it had gone wrong, he did not yet know, but the next step had told him that de Couriac had other plans.

That attack on the road had not been planned to wound. It had been planned to kill. Doubtless under orders from Paris that he had not been aware of. Dangerous, very dangerous.

“How did matters go awry in Ferry Bridge?” he asked.

“Interference. By a certain Countess of Arradale, the arrogant bitch.”

D’Eon twitched at such crudeness, but ignored it for now. “Ah. And what of the disaster on the road? What were you thinking!”

“Death. How does it matter how he dies so long as he dies?”

“But I did not order his death.”

“The king did.”

D’Eon stilled. Was it possible that the king had sent an order not through him? Did the king no longer trust and support him? There had been indications, warnings even from friends in Paris, and from de Broglie.

But then there were the private letters he received …

No choice but to appear the master. “How dare you outrun your orders like that? How dare you recruit other French agents to your ridiculous plan?”

De Couriac reddened with anger. “I have the authority. Direct from Paris. Direct from Versailles.”

“You think you outrank me?” D’Eon said softly. “Perhaps you even think you can defeat me with the sword?” He let his hand rest on the beribboned hilt.

The other man stiffened, his own hand grasping his sword. D’Eon knew de Couriac must think himself almost unbeatable. But the almost was important, and his own reputation was equally formidable.

After a long moment, de Couriac took his hand away. “Of course not, monsieur. I apologize if I have offended you.”

D’Eon let some extra seconds run before nodding and taking his hand from his own sword. “So,” he said, “what orders do you have from Paris?”

“To remove the marquess.”

“From play, not from life.”

“That was not specified.”

“It is, now, by me. And it must be subtle. You understand?”

After a moment, de Couriac nodded.

“Very well. I am for court and cannot dally. Let me make it clear that we cannot afford any more incidents connected to this embassy! I have another plan stirring, and two possible English tools. You encountered Lady Arradale, you said?”

“Oh yes.” The man’s lip curled. “I have a score to settle with her.” He put his hand to his bloody head. “She spoiled the plan, then gave me this.”

“She hit you?” The pale and simpering Countess of Arradale? “With what? Her fan?”

“With a pistol ball, down in the dirt, steady as you please. She probably fired the last shot that killed Roger and Guy.”

Though he was having to reevaluate many things, D’Eon waved that aside. “Do not let personal concerns get in the way. The countess is now at the queen’s court, and cannot easily be touched. However, there is also a stupid Englishman who has hopes of Lady Arradale’s body and her wealth. He can be used. I will work on a plan. We are in accord?”

“As long as I can have my revenge on Milord Rothgar and the countess. They caused the death of Susette.”

“The actress?” D’Eon queried. “How did she become involved in violence?”

“She was a violent woman,” de Couriac said rather blankly. “She stabbed me.”

A laugh escaped D’Eon.

“And of course I had to kill her,” de Couriac continued. “She knew too much by then. But we were old friends, and they must pay for it.”

D’Eon lost all impulse to laugh. The man was deranged.
He thought for a moment of killing him here and now, but it would not be easy and he was already late for the soirée. It was also possible that King Louis might disapprove.

What would the madman do next, however? He must be given something to do.

“You may stay here,” he said. “If you can disguise yourself, try to strike up an acquaintance with a young man called Lord Randolph Somerton. He likes to gamble, and is often found in a hell called Lucifer’s. But do nothing without my approval. Nothing.”

“I am a master of disguise. I have even worked in the theater now and then.”

“Excellent. We are in accord, then.”

“Completely, monsieur,” said de Couriac, with all the sincerity of a snake.

D’Eon hurried away, already planning another letter to Paris demanding that de Couriac be recalled, and devising a few possible ways to dispose of the man without suspicion.

He was beginning to feel entangled in mysterious coils, however. His debts were alarming, and for some reason he sensed that his favorite moneylenders were drawing back from him. He had access to the ambassador’s funds here, but that was risky.

He entered his coach and ordered all speed. He could not possibly be losing King Louis’s favor, but the prospect sent a chill through him. Then he remembered that he had just received another reassuring letter, and leaned back against the satin squabs.

All would be well. De Couriac was mad, or bluffing, or both. Or he could be a tool of his enemies in France. That mattered nothing as long as his king smiled on him.

But he still had to sway the English king, which meant he must at least distract the Marquess of Rothgar.

To that, he sensed, Lady Arradale might be key.

Lady Arradale, who apparently was not at all as she appeared.

W
hen Rothgar arrived at the Queen’s House, he found the event surprisingly crowded. The king and queen rarely held large parties in what they considered their private home. Part of the crowd was in honor of the gift, no doubt, but he realized the invitation list had been expanded to provide Lady Arradale with suitors. Among other eligible men, he saw Somerton, Crumleigh, and Scrope.

Over my dead body
, he said to them, then summoned every scrap of devilish cool and moved forward to play his part.

He went first to pay his respects to the king and queen in the grand salon, where a shrouded shape sat on a central table. On a table to one side, the shepherd and shepherdess he’d given to Their Majesties last year was unconcealed.

D’Eon would have seen that piece, and Rothgar had no doubt that the French king’s gift would be more spectacular. He wished the Chinese pagoda still existed, for it would eclipse most other machines. Or that the drummer boy was ready for display.

Ridiculous to be staging a war by automata, but that’s how it seemed to be. His mind played whimsically with the idea of two swordsmen—one French designed, one English—and an actual duel.

Collecting his wits, he greeted the royal couple. The queen obligingly pointed out Lady Arradale, standing to one side with a chatting group. There was no need. He had seen her as soon as he entered the room—or perhaps sensed her was more accurate.

Without looking again, he knew she wore moss green and gold. That she had been smiling, but looked pale. That, however, could just be her clever paint. He needed to find out, but not yet.

“We are very pleased with Lady Arradale,” the king said. “A charming young woman. Quite as she ought to be. Make some man an excellent wife, what?”

“Yes, sire,” Rothgar said, thinking that she must be playing her part extremely well. Truth was, she’d make an impossible wife for most men.

“Excellent company for the queen,” the king went on. “Fond of children. A fine looking woman, what? We’ll be dancing at her wedding in weeks.”

He bowed and expressed delight at the thought.

The king shot him a look, and he abruptly realized that something else was going on.

Then the king said, “Lady Arradale has agreed that if she cannot make up her mind, we will choose her husband.”