Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (4 page)

Then he turned, and flourishing the handkerchief in fashionable style, bowed with perfect grace.

Beauty and threat, precisely blended.

Bryght clapped, and his brother’s lips twitched. Though Rothgar could play his role on this stage to the hilt, unlike many he did not get lost in the artifice. As he’d frequently pointed out to his family, their world was a costume ball, but a ball at which momentous matters were decided.

They left the room and a subtle perfume traveled with them. Rothgar had put a touch of it on his handkerchief, and the contrast with that popinjay’s cheap drenching stuff was almost worthy of tears.

As was the fact that Bryght had let a golden opportunity slip away. “About Francis,” he said, knowing it wasn’t a good moment.

“Yes?”

The single word was cold as steel, but Bryght persisted. “You’ll get to know him better, during the journey to Brand’s wedding.”

“I tremble in delight.” But Rothgar glanced over and smiled. “He is a charming child, Bryght. Do you think Brand’s plans of living in the north will work?”

“Probably. He’s never had a taste for fashionable life.” Bryght was aware, however, of being deflected. More gently this time, but just as firmly.

“He won’t be able to avoid it entirely,” Rothgar said as they entered the landing at the top of the sweeping main stairs. “His bride’s cousin holds a grand estate there. Her home rivals Rothgar Abbey.”

“The Countess of Arradale? Bey—”

“A formidable northern warrior maid, with weapons of curls, bright eyes, silk, and pistols. And skillful with all of them.”

“Bey—”

“Did Brand tell you she nearly killed him? And, of course, she ran me and my men off with her own small army.”

Idle chat as a defensive weapon, wielded like a rapier so Bryght couldn’t quite see how to say what he needed to say.

“A countess in her own right,” his brother was saying as they began to descend the stairs to the spacious hall. “She holds considerable power, and intends to keep it.”

Aha! “Not everyone likes power,” Bryght interjected firmly. “Bey, I don’t want Francis burdened with being your heir.”

It was as if an icy mist lowered around them. “Then assure him, when he is old enough, that I will do my best to outlive him.”

“I wish you would marry, Bey.”

“Even for you, Bryght, no.”

“There’s no other insanity in your mother’s family. Perhaps it was a disease, a freak!”

“Everything has to start somewhere. I prefer not to take the risk.”

“Do my concerns carry no weight at all?”

They’d reached the base of the stairs and Rothgar turned to him. “I embrace all my family’s concerns. One solution would be to give me the child to raise as my heir.” Bryght had not found words to respond to that when Rothgar carried on, “The other is for me to die soon. Then you would be marquess and Francis could grow up secure in his future role. Shall I let the assassins do their work?”

Plague take him for a heartless devil. Beneath love and friendship this always lingered—a rivalry and opposition that came from their roles, their natures, and their history.

Though Bryght feared it was pointless, he persisted. “You could marry. Take the risk.”

Rothgar’s brows rose. “Risk-tainted generations merely to spare you some concern, and your son some uncertainty? I think not. Raise Francis to accept whatever burdens fall on his shoulders. It is the only way. For coddle him as you will, those burdens will fall. That, at least, I have learned.”

He turned and accepted cloak and hat from a hovering footman then walked out of the tall double doors to enter his painted and gilded sedan chair for the short journey to St. James’s Palace. For once, he ignored the petitioners hovering
in hope of a moment of the great marquess’s time, for a scrap of his power and influence directed to their cause.

The liveried chairmen picked up the poles and set off, armed footmen walking at either side.

The Marquess of Rothgar was once more on stage.

Bryght turned away, shaken by anger and sheer nervous tension. There were times when he’d like to skewer his brother himself if only he were able.

Harrogate, Yorkshire

“Blast your eyes!” The Countess of Arradale stepped back from the tip of the foil that would have threatened her heart if the point hadn’t been buttoned, and she hadn’t been wearing a padded chest protector.

Her fencing master pulled the shield from his craggy face. “You don’t practice enough, my lady.”

Diana pulled off her own face mask, passing it to her hovering maid. “How can I, Carr, when you won’t come to Arradale to practice with me?” Clara hung up the mask and hurried back to untie the laces holding the chest guard in place.

William Carr shrugged out of his own protective equipment. “You know I adore you, my lady, but I will not let you eat me whole.”

Diana cast a look at the handsome Irishman, with his dark curly hair and twinkling blue eyes. She had thought once or twice of letting him flirt with her, but she knew by instinct that he was too dangerous to be a plaything. He, like most men, would love to possess her, her power and wealth, to turn her into a mere wife.

“At least you won’t find my shooting inferior,” she said as she went to a mirror and tidied her chestnut hair.

“It won’t bring such a fine blush to your cheek either, alas.”

“Will it not? It will make my heart beat faster.”

“That’s power, my lady,” he said with a lazy smile. “It’s a devil you are for power, and yes, it makes you a beautiful woman. But dangerous. Very dangerous.”

She cast him a quelling look, though he always knew the right thing to say. Dangerous. She liked the thought of being dangerous.

The glass told her he spoke the truth about her looks; exertion flushed her cheeks and made her eyes sparkle. A shame it was all for nothing. Yes, she was the sort of woman who could attract men, even without rank, wealth, and power. It was her tragedy that rank, wealth, and power barred her from encouraging them.

She turned back. “Come, let me show you just how dangerous I have become. With a pistol, I don’t need a partner, so I do practice. Daily.”

“I believe you,” he said, opening the door for her into a sunlit courtyard. “You like to win.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re still furious with yourself for missing that shot last year, even though you were firing at a man you wouldn’t want dead.”

“Of course I’m glad I didn’t kill Lord Brand, Carr, but I shouldn’t have fired wildly. It was a weakness.” She turned to face him. “You must teach me how to avoid that. How to make a steady shot in an emergency.”

They’d arrived at the door to his pistol gallery, and he paused. “Sure, and how would such an emergency happen to a grand lady like you?”

“It happened once,” she retorted. “If it happens again, I must be ready. If circumstances had been the way I thought, I could have lost my life, and so could Rosa! Why else do I work so hard at this?”

“For the pure, devilish challenge of it, Lady Arradale.”

At that dry comment, she laughed aloud. “True. You know me too well, Carr. But it’s also because I
will
be ready to defend me and mine if the time ever comes. Teach me. Teach me as if I were a man.”

He unlocked the door, but said, “Who threatens you, my lady? I’d be honored to kill him for you.”

“No one,” she said, walking into the long room, where lingering smells of gunpowder and smoke sang to her senses. It was true that she loved the power of the pistol.

It was also true that she was not threatened—physically, at least. Her life flowed calm and smooth, except for the awareness of a certain marquess.

She took her custom-made weapons out of their case to prepare them, something she always did for herself. As she poured powder down the barrel of the first, she acknowledged that it was the marquess who had brought her here today. She hadn’t visited Carr for months, but the news that Dark Marquess would soon come north had driven her here to hone her skills.

As she wrapped the ball in cloth and rammed it down the barrel, she remembered their last encounter. It had been at pistol point. She’d defeated him, and he wasn’t a man to forget a defeat.

She put that pistol aside and began the other one. That violent encounter wasn’t the only cause of the warning prickle of her nerves.

Oh no—she rammed the next ball down—it was memory of him, of the effect he had on her, that lurked. Last year, when he’d been in the north and visited her home, they’d challenged constantly, mostly with words. Verbal fencing, however, had drifted into a contest of flirtation.

She opened the pan to put in the fine powder, but halted, thinking.

One unforgettable night he had offered seduction. He hadn’t really meant it—it had been part of their ongoing battle, and he’d been testing her—but the moment had nibbled away at common sense and reason ever since.

After her refusal, he’d said, “
If you ever change your mind, Lady Arradale….
”

Those were the words that lingered by day, and haunted by night, and there had been many lunatic times when she’d wished she’d accepted that cynical offer.

She shook her head and carefully poured the powder into the priming pan. The marquess wasn’t a physical threat, no, but even so, over the past year, she’d practiced her pistol shooting harder than ever before.

Now she practiced daily, and had taken time from her busy schedule to come here especially to see Carr. For the marquess
was coming north again, returning to disturb her land, and her peace of mind.

She closed the pan cover, then filled the pan of the other. Then she set the lock of the first pistol to full-cock, ready to fire. “If anyone threatens me, Carr, I can deal with them myself.”

But as she took her stance in front of the targets—rough silhouettes with a red heart pinned to each—she knew that a pistol ball, even to the heart, was no defense against the threat she faced.

N
oon approached and people streamed through the gatehouse off Pall Mall into the warren of old buildings known as St. James’s Palace. Ministers of the Crown were present, along with military officers, jaded courtiers, and country gentlemen wishing a once-in-a-lifetime audience with the king. All wore full court dress—elegant clothes, small sword, and powdered hair—for otherwise they would not be admitted.

Those accustomed to going through this two or three times a week wandered across the courtyard chatting, or with minds clearly on other things. The gentlemen up from the country, on the other hand, looked around wide-eyed, shining with expectation. To see the king so close. To be acknowledged. To speak a word or two with him!

The marquess’s chairmen carried him through the gatehouse and into the Great Court, where he emerged adjusting the frothing lace at his wrists. He acknowledged various greetings, assessing the mood. Curiosity, and some excited anticipation of him ending up in the Tower. It might happen. The young king was unpredictable, and burdened by a strong sense of his position as moral leader of his realm.

He spotted his secretary, and strolled over to join him and two of the wide-eyed countrymen. Before Carruthers could introduce them, the older man, tall and hearty, though clearly ill-at-ease in his grand clothes, stepped forward to bow. “My lord marquess! We are infinitely obliged.”

Rothgar bowed in turn. “Not at all, Sir George. I am delighted to see you in London. This must be your son …”
As he spoke, his eyes flickered to his secretary who mouthed “George.” Suppressing a smile, he added, “George.”

The handsome, dazed youth, also bowed, hand sensibly on his small sword. They were notoriously tricky to handle and had tripped up many, and even poked ladies in unfortunate places on occasion. Young George looked likely to grow up to be as sound a man as his father.

The marquess indicated that they should proceed into the building. “I hope my people have made your visit to London everything you could wish, Sir George.”

“Indeed they have, my lord!” Sir George declared, and related all the wonders as they progressed toward the presence chamber. As they approached the chamber, however, he began to falter with nervousness and excitement. “Upon my soul, my lord, I don’t know what I should say.”

“Follow His Majesty’s lead, Sir George, but do talk to him. His greatest complaint of these events is that people stare and say, ‘Yes, sire,’ ‘No, sire.’”

“Indeed, my lord!” Sir George looked as if he was swallowing hard. “Well, by Gemini, I will do my best then. But you, Georgie,” he said to his son, trailing behind and staring at the array of weapons on the paneled walls, “you’d best keep to yes sire and no sire. You hear?”

“Yes, Father!”

Rothgar hid a smile. Levees were a boring obligation, so he quite enjoyed presenting his country neighbors. Seen through their eyes, this took on some freshness and flavor, and reminded him that it was central to English government that good men have access to the monarch. He regretted not putting off the duel a day. He’d make sure the Uftons weren’t caught in any unpleasantness, but if the king decided to make as issue of dueling and death, it would mar their enjoyment.

They entered the presence chamber, magnificent with tapestries and paintings, but bare of furniture, and took a place in the circle forming against the wall. Rothgar chose a spot near some other country people and soon the Uftons were chatting comfortably to their own kind. Meanwhile, a
number of men came over to talk to him. None of these men disapproved of the duel, but a number were clearly unsure of the outcome. He also noted those who seemed to be suddenly blind to his existence.

When the king finally entered, there was no way to tell his mood. Only twenty-five, George III was tall and of pleasing appearance, with a fresh complexion and large blue eyes. Because he took his duties seriously, he moved slowly around the room, pausing to speak to each man. Even if his mind was on Rothgar, he would not let his attention wander. As he progressed down the room, however, the attention of everyone else shifted.

The king spoke briefly to the Earl of Marlbury beside Rothgar, and then his eyes moved on, sober and thoughtful. Rothgar could feel the room hold its breath, wondering if they were to witness an event worthy of recording for their descendants.