Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (37 page)

At least she didn’t have to speak to any of her suitors again that day. The queen demanded a complete description of
Diana’s purchases, and a viewing of those she had brought back. Later, after dinner, some members of the King’s Theater came to give the royal household a private recital. In Diana’s honor, it was to consist of selections from Mr. Bach’s popular opera,
Orione
, which featured the goddess Diana.

Diana tried to use the time to think of ways to escape one man and capture another, and within the week, but the lovely music swept away clear thought. She could welcome the release from worry, but it also carried away her defenses.

Since she spoke Italian, she could easily understand the story. Orion wanted to marry the sweet maid, Candiope, but the goddess wanted him for herself. It was based on a classical myth, and in that myth the goddess Diana eventually killed the man she desired.

For the first time, she wondered if her battle of wills with Bey could lead to such disaster. Listening to the singers, however, she saw herself and Bey more in Orion and his beloved Candiope, with the king and queen as the angry god.

But then, the king
wanted
her to marry Bey, and was likely to wreak havoc if she didn’t! Lord Randolph was the jealous, grasping lover, but he had no godlike properties at all.

As usual in this mad time of her life, no one was playing their correct role.

Then Candiope sang:
“We must obey the will of the gods and never see each other again. But alas! without thee my days must be spent in sorrow.”

Orion replied: “
Cruel parting that tears from me all I treasure, yet does not put an end to a wretched existence!
”

The words cut too close to reality, and coupled with the swell of lovely music, they brought tears to Diana’s eyes. The end of Orion’s aria on lost love, found her swallowing in a desperate attempt to hide them.

“Now, now, Lady Arradale,” said the king, coming over to her afterward, and even offering his own handkerchief, “we cannot have you unhappy, what?”

She blew her nose. “The music was just so lovely, sire.”

“Very fine, is it not? But I think your tears come from your unsettled situation, what? Like all women, you find it hard to make up your mind, and you are making yourself miserable over it. Time to make your choice, what?”

Cloaking panic, Diana gazed up at the king. “It is such a hard choice, sire. So many kind men, all with their virtues.”

“And thus all suitable, what? Come, come, we can’t have you falling into a melancholy, and the uncertainty is distressing to the queen. You must make up your mind.”

“In a few weeks, sire …”

“No, no! You are overset. I could swear you have grown paler since you came here. A person could sicken, even go mad, under this indecision …”

Diana stared at him, sure that that mention of madness had not been accidental. “But, sire,” she said desperately, “you said I should have the masquerade to help me decide!”

“After the masquerade, then,” the king said firmly, patting her hand. “Your suitors may have that final opportunity to win your heart. But if you still cannot decide, we will settle your mind.”

There was nothing to say but, “Thank you, sire.”

He retired with the queen then, and Diana could flee to her room. Oh, but she needed to speak to Bey. Had there been any way to avoid this latest twist? If so, she couldn’t see it. The king was determined, and his choice would be Bey.

This left her with only two days, however. Two days to change Bey’s mind, one of them Sunday, when the court was quiet. The prospect of disaster hovered.

No, with a descendant of Ironhand, too, all things were possible. She would find a way.

Lord Randolph was at Lucifer’s losing at hazard when the Frenchman joined the table. A Monsieur Dionne, with an old-fashioned beard and no particular distinction as far as he could see, but a gentleman with money to lose.

However, it was himself who continued to lose. Damned dice. He had no idea what his tally was, but his father would cut up stiff about it again.

No he wouldn’t, he thought with a private smile, because
any day now flighty Lady Arradale would make up her mind, and she’d as good as said he was her choice.

Idiot woman with her chatter of eastern potentates. That was no problem, however. He’d keep her at home and pregnant, and she’d be no trouble. If she was, she’d soon learn better.

All that lovely money. Shame he couldn’t have the title, too …

“My lord?” It was the Frenchman offering him the box.

He shook, and missed the mark again, devil take it.

“Luck is a wanton bitch, is she not, my lord?” said Dionne, offering his snuff box.

Lord Randolph took a pinch and found it excellent quality. Perhaps Dionne, despite appearances, was good for a temporary loan.

The man smiled at him. “Not that you need to worry about these minor losses. All London says you are likely to win the hand of a wealthy lady.”

“It is as good as settled,” he agreed, preening.

“My felicitations, my lord.” Dionne turned to watch the play. “Though I have heard some speculation that the lady will go to the great marquess.”

Lord Randolph felt a chill on his neck. “Rothgar? Nonsense. Everyone knows he will not marry. His mother was a raving lunatic.”

The Frenchman shrugged. “Men change their minds. I understand Lady Arradale is a very rich woman, and a beauty besides.”

“Dammit—” But Lord Randolph collected himself. “Mere gossip,” he said coolly, rolling the dice again, losing again. “And if he harbors hopes, he is bound to be disappointed. The lady as good as promised me her hand this very day. It is to be announced on Tuesday.”

Dionne seemed genuinely delighted for him. “That is excellent news, my lord.” He raised his glass of wine. “I toast your good fortune.”

Lord Randolph returned the toast and the congratulations of the men around the table, but inside he was pricked by doubt.

Rothgar? The woman didn’t even like him. She’d commented on how chilly he’d been during the journey south, how he’d spent all his time on papers, hardly even speaking to her.

All the same, he was a man of power. What would happen if he decided to have her anyway?

An hour later, de Couriac slipped back into the French embassy, the warm glow of the perfect plan burning inside. Never mind D’Eon. He would have it all.

He had come to London with orders from the foreign minister to achieve two things—the death of the Marquess of Rothgar, and the disgrace of the Chevalier D’Eon. His plan would achieve both, and also avenge his poor Susette.

Yes, suffering for the countess, and then death for the marquess. He would need some help. He began to consider who in the embassy would be most useful, and most willing to keep their mouths shut.

A
s Diana had expected, Sunday provided no opportunity for intimate conversations. She went to chapel with the royal household, and attended the less formal Drawing Room that followed. Bey was there but it was impossible to do more than exchange a few commonplace remarks. Lord Randolph was inclined to hover possessively, but she deliberately behaved coolly to him.

She did manage to slip in something to Bey about Brand being impatient for a decision, and that by the morning after the masquerade, everything would have changed. At that, however, others around began to demand details of the theme and decorations for the event, which he teasingly refused to give.

It became clear that he was involved in the planning, which surprised her. But then, perhaps not. He was Daedalus, and enjoyed automata and machines. A complex entertainment could be like a machine, manipulating those who attended.

How on earth, though, did he find time? Did he sleep at all?

Had he slept at all that night in Bay Green?

Was it her imagination that he looked tired?

If she had the care of him, he would sleep. Long hours of peaceful sleep within the compass of her care.

Diana returned to the Queen’s House even more determined. Time was short, and she must cease flitting around the emotional edges and attack the primary enemy—his
mother’s madness. Thus, she needed the library, no matter how poorly it fit with her persona.

She bluntly asked for permission to find something new to read, and it was given without question.

When she entered the big room, many books tempted her, but she searched only for the ones that might tell her about Bey’s mother’s family. Soon she had established that the family appeared to be normal, with only the usual number of untimely deaths.

To check, she consulted different volumes in search of obituaries of his two uncles and an aunt who hadn’t lived to a great age. All three obituaries were brief, showing no sign of the brilliance that burned in Bey, but they indicated normal lives and natural deaths. His aunt, mother of six children, had died of smallpox; one uncle of some internal rupture and infection; and the other after eating bad shellfish.

An investigation of two previous generations threw up Mad Randolph Prease, but further research showed that he’d been a hero on the king’s side during the civil war, known for his death-defying feats of bravery.

She replaced the last book, sure in her mind that there was no particular hazard in Bey having children, but also knowing she hadn’t changed anything. Bey must know his family history. He would have carried out this investigation himself, perhaps more than once. His character, his course in life, was to strive for absolutes. For perfection. Why risk children at all when there was the slightest chance of passing on insanity?

Sitting quietly at a library table, Diana wondered how that could be changed. She had to persuade him to accept fallibility, to accept risk of imperfection. Somehow he had to let go of his belief that the world would falter and fall if he missed one tiny step.

Could any person change that much?

She almost despaired, but then she remembered the kiss. The kiss she’d stolen from him in the shadows the day before. A week ago, he would have stopped her and escaped, but yesterday he had submitted and accepted.

At the White Goose, he had not intended their joining, but
it had happened, the first break in his control. That had been
in extremis
, however. The kiss had not. Though troubled, he’d had his wits and strength, and still he had accepted it. In the end, she had been the one to step apart. The thought gave her blessed hope. Perhaps he could allow himself the gift of human fallibility.

She rose and looked around at the walls filled with books, containing the wisdom of the ages. Ironic that in the end it came down to human will and action, imperfect though it was.

She was determined, however. At the masquerade she would be Diana. Pray God her hunt did not end in tragedy.

To account for her time in the library she picked two books, one of poetry and one of travels in Virginia. When she returned to the queen she was commanded to read from the latter, and it proved to be entertaining, passing the time.

When she eventually retired for the evening, Diana planned a focused analysis of her situation, and the drawing up of a strategy for the masquerade. However, she found that the Diana costume had arrived, and had to try it on. She stripped down to her shift then put it on top.

“No stays, milady?” Clara asked, scandalized.

“They would be ridiculous under this.” All the same, Diana was a little taken aback by the revealing nature of the gown.

The fine linen was opaque and the artless folds were constructed over a sturdy lining. All the same, it left one shoulder naked, and seemed to cling to her figure. Her hips and bottom, normally hidden beneath hoops and skirt, were clear beneath the drape of cloth. Her breasts, normally confined and kept still, protruded and … moved! She took a few dancing steps, and they definitely
moved
. What was worse, in moments, her nipples pushed forward at the fabric.

“Stays,” said Clara firmly. “Or at least a binding, milady.”

It was tempting, but it would ruin the effect. This gown was supposed to be worn like this. And anyway, she remembered Bey’s reaction to her breasts, the way he’d looked at them, touched them, tasted them …

Her nipples poked forward shamelessly, and she knew her cheeks were turning red. Oh, she couldn’t—

When her whole life lay in the balance?

Of course she could. She’d seduce him at the ball if she judged it would achieve her purpose.

“Nonsense,” she said, shrugging to try to rearrange the folds at the front. “It’s a masquerade, not a formal ball. Give me the accessories.”

Dour-faced, Clara helped put on a silver belt and armband, then a headband that was part of the mask. The mask itself was a marvel in silver and pearl, covering both eyes but curving down the left side of her face above and below to make a crescent moon. The goddess Diana’s symbol was actually the full moon, but the design was too clever and beautiful to quibble at.

With a smile of excitement, Diana slipped into silver Grecian slippers, and slung the quiver of silver arrows across her back. Then she picked up the white bow.

“Gemini!” Diana exclaimed. “It’s real!”

“What is, milady?”

“The bow. When I said I wanted things to be authentic, Mrs. Mannerly took me literally.”

Diana had amused herself with archery now and then, and she knew the feel of a good bow. Carefully, she drew this one, and it flexed perfectly. She took out an arrow and found it real, too, painted silver. She nocked it, aiming at a rather sorrowful hermit in a painting on the wall.

“My lady!” Clara screeched.

“Hush! You’ll have the household in on us.”

“Well, don’t you be firing that thing—”

Twang!
Diana released the arrow, and it thudded right into the spot she’d aimed for, a branch near the hermit’s head. “A very good bow, even though twelve feet is not much of a challenge.” She nocked another one, and turned toward the open window. “Perhaps I should fire into the garden to see how far it can shoot.”

“My lady!” Clara protested.

Teasing, Diana walked to the window and took aim at the
railings, but when Clara pursued, hissing protests, she lowered her weapon.