Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (43 page)

Numerous pictures hung on the walls, but she went closer to one. A young child still in skirts sat on a chair in the sprawled way of the toddler, while a boy of about five leaned on the back. Both were dark haired, but while the younger one was chubby and dimpled, the older was slender and sober, and could be said to be hovering protectively.

Bey and Bryght, she was sure of it. She’d never thought how it must have been for him when his first half-brother was born. Had he perhaps hovered, guarding? Or had he avoided?

She looked at that serious child, and he looked back at her, very different to the drummer boy which was a representation of herself at a similar age. As she looked, however, the face seemed to come alive for her, and she saw the hint of a smile and the steady, fierce intelligence, already observing, assessing, remembering.

She wondered if he’d intimidated this portrait painter as much as he’d done the later one. She wished she’d known him then, but that was nonsense. She’d not even been born.

She dragged herself away and stood in front of the mirror to put on the open blue skirt, and the striped bodice. “A good choice, Clara. Becoming, but not frivolous.”

“Thank you, milady.” The maid fastened the hooks down the front, but then looked up anxiously. “Are you ruined, milady?”

Clara was asking a specific question, but Diana said, “I hope not. However, it’s probably time to face the music. Do you know where the marquess is?”

“I believe he’s gone to the king, milady. Lady Walgrave’s here, milady, and hoping to take breakfast with you if you will.”

Elf. A bit of the tension lifted. “Tidy my hair, then bring breakfast and tell Lady Walgrave I will be pleased to see her.”

Perhaps Elf would have some notion how to break through her brother’s final barrier.

And what dangers lurked in doing so.

Rothgar was ushered into the king’s presence where George was working at a desk, reading and signing documents. Apart from a brief nod to acknowledge his arrival, the king ignored him until all the papers were dealt with. It was not a snub. George was thorough about these matters, and took his duties seriously. At last he waved his secretary away and stood. “Shocking matters, my lord.”

“Deeply so, sire.”

“Is Lady Arradale all right?”

“Distressed, sire, but recovering.”

“Your note was not very informative, my lord. I’ll have the complete story, if you please, including why Lady Arradale was not returned here immediately.”

Rothgar had expected displeasure. “The latter is simplest to relate, sire. The countess was distressed and in disorder, and I thought the queen should not be disturbed. Lord and Lady Bryght arrived at my house last night, so she was chaperoned.”

“Is she harmed?”

“We were in time.”

“Thank God, thank God. Damnable business. Damnable. Lord Randolph must be mad!”

“As for that, sire, he was to some extent incited into folly.” Rothgar produced the letter. “He received this.”

The king frowned at the seal, then opened the letter. He turned puce. “By Jupiter, who dared to do such a thing? My signature. My seal. The royal seal. On
this
!”

“Indeed, sire.” Rothgar rescued the letter from the royal fist. “And the letter that persuaded Lady Arradale out into the night was equally skillful. Somerton doesn’t know where the letter came from, but he was assisted by a Frenchman whom the countess recognized as Monsieur de Couriac. The same de Couriac we encountered in Ferry Bridge.”

The king stared. “What? Why? Even if that maniac is after you, why help Somerton abduct the countess? What? What?”

Rothgar shrugged. “It is known that the countess is to some extent under my protection, so I would be bound to take action at her injury. I suspect the entire plan was a trap for me. Though it is possible,” he suggested, “the French seek any and all ways to stir discord.”

“We are at peace, my lord.”

“Yet some of your subjects still resent the peace, sire. It is possible some of the French do too.”

“But what is the point?” the king demanded. “Am I likely to go to war over a woman’s abduction?”

It was time, unfortunately, to be blunt. “I believe the point, sire, is to remove me. Clearly some in the French government do not believe that you are firm against French expansion and aggression. They must think that my advice is crucial to your policies. An error, of course. They could be misinformed—by the Chevalier D’Eon, perhaps?”

The king had been pacing, but now he stopped. Rothgar wished he knew what the king was thinking, but his supernatural powers stopped short of that.

The king suddenly turned to glare at the letter in Rothgar’s hand. “What am I to do about that? My hand and my seal, and the content is vile!”

“If we find the forger, we could punish him, sire, but we would have to reveal the nature of it. I have hopes we can keep Lady Arradale’s misadventure from public knowledge.”

“Indeed, indeed. But I want de Couriac hanged. Somerton too!”

“That, too, risks stirring scurrilous talk, sire.”

The king glared. “I am to do
nothing
about such an affront? I will not see Somerton at court again. Even if he was a dupe of the French, he is a blackguard.”

“I believe the Duke of Carlyle would be happy to see him tied to his properties in Virginia. I could arrange that, if Your Majesty would speak to the duke about it.”

“Good riddance,” the king muttered. “But what of the true villains?”

“I would be honored if you would leave that to me, sire. I will arrange their punishment.”

After a moment the king nodded. “Inform me when it is done, my lord.” But then he added, “And what of poor Lady Arradale? She has lost a suitor.”

“Indeed, sire. Perhaps it would be wisest to put aside this matter of her marriage for some time. It can only distress her.”

The king’s eyes narrowed, and there was a suspicion of a pout, but he said, “Very well. Very well. You may tell her she may return north if she wishes, but I hope she will attend your masquerade before she leaves. It would be a shame to miss it, especially living in the house.”

“I think so, sire. But with that event in mind, I must return.”

The king nodded, but when Rothgar was at the door he said, “I hope you came here well guarded, my lord.”

Rothgar smiled ruefully. “In a coach with armed outriders, sire. A folly that seemed wise.”

“Good, good. We would not want to lose you.”

B
ryght Malloren was looking for his brother. After checking the obvious places, he tapped on the door of his mother’s old boudoir. Inside, however, he found only Elf and the countess, and no useful information.

“You are concerned about him, Lord Bryght?” the countess asked, looking somewhat anxious. He wished he could ask her directly what had happened here last night.

“Yes.”

“Why, Bryght?” asked Elf. “Did something go amiss with the king?”

“I don’t know since he’s gone into hiding.”

“Hiding?” Elf echoed. “Bey?”

The countess didn’t scoff. She half rose, but then sat again. A woman of intelligence and self-control. “Might he be involved in the final details of the masquerade?” she asked.

“No one has seen him, and there are some details still to be settled.”

“Oh dear.” Elf did rise at that. “I must go and see if I can help. This is very strange. Diana, do you wish to come with me?”

The countess disappeared into thought, then said, “No. I must stay here.” To Bryght, she said, “I believe there is an automaton here, my lord. Your brother might be attending to it.”

Bryght stared at her. “Of course. He finds them soothing. Any idea, Lady Arradale, why he might need to be soothed?”

Her gaze was steady, strong, and clear. “He has devils to fight. And angels. The angels are doubtless the most difficult.”

Bryght nodded, and left the room with Elf. As soon as the door was shut, Elf whispered, “Will he? At last?”

“With God’s help and ours. I wish to hell Brand were here, but as it is, I’ll have to play second in the unholy battle with the angels.”

He left her and went swiftly along the corridor, down stairs, to the small room at the back. Beyond the plain door, he heard birdsong and a drum. He entered without knocking, not knowing what he’d find, just as song and drumming stopped.

Rothgar, still in court dress, was sitting at the workbench. He wasn’t using the tools there, however, merely gazing at an automaton. It was the figure of a boy in a blue suit with a drum hung around his neck and drumsticks in his hands. Rothgar’s eyes flicked immediately to Bryght. “Is something wrong?”

“You’re hiding.”

“Is that so wicked?”

“It worries those of us who are unused to it. But we’ll learn to survive.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Where else would I be when you are fighting angels?”

“Fighting angels?” Bey asked quizzically.

Bryght sat in a simple chair near the automaton, feeling as if he was indeed going into battle. “That’s how Lady Arradale described it. You should marry her.”

Bey’s eyes moved to the automaton. “Behold Lady Arradale as a child, transmuted to male. A loving gift turned unconsciously into a weapon aimed straight at the heart of a man’s wife and beloved daughter.”

Bryght looked at the child’s winsome face and saw a hint of the countess’s stubborn chin and clear gaze. He could see immediately what Bey meant, but was floundering in the other layers. Dammit, he loved the complexity of numbers, but had no gift for these human labyrinths.

He kept it simple. “After last night, I can see a hundred
reasons for you to marry Lady Arradale. Give me one why you shouldn’t. And forget the madness in your blood.”

Bey’s eyes moved back to his. “Convenient if possible.”

“That’s your angel, Bey. You think it’s a holy angel, but it’s Lucifer in all his proud glory.”

His brother leaned back. “Or you are. ‘And the devil taketh him up into an exceedingly high mountain, and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them, and saith unto him, All these things will I give thee … ’Wanting is no excuse for taking, Bryght.”

“She loves you. Have you thought what this does to her?”

“Constantly.”

“Have you made love to her?” Rothgar didn’t answer, of course, but that was answer in a way. “Then you cannot walk away from her.”

“We have an understanding about these things.”

“Understanding doesn’t heal a broken heart.” God help him, he didn’t have words to penetrate his brother’s damnably guarded and complex mind. He leaped to his feet.

“You are not a machine, dammit! Nor are other people. Nor is the world.” He leaned forward on the workbench across from Bey’s startled eyes. “Infallibility is not possible. Security is not possible. Life is risk. I died a thousand deaths when Portia was having the baby. Hours and hours, and sometimes I heard her cry out. I promised there’d be no more. She laughed.”

He turned away, but went on with what he had to say. “I held out for a while, doing my best not to get her with child, but she said what I’m saying to you. Life is risk.”

He turned back, but his brother was looking down now, trying to escape. Was he having some effect?

“In fact, the risk isn’t too great for her. Despite her size, she gave birth easily with no damage. It wasn’t even a long travail, though it seemed days to me. The horror was in my mind. And the arrogance, thinking I could play God and avoid life. She wants more children. I want more children, and more than that, I want to give her what she wants.”

Bey suddenly covered his face with his hands, but Bryght went on. “Yes, your mother went mad, but would you feel
this way if she’d gone quietly mad and sat in a secluded room talking to the walls?” He leaned forward over the workbench and gripped one of his brother’s rigid wrists. “You’re still running from the murder, Bey. Trying to make it not be true.”

He didn’t know if that was complete nonsense. It had come from somewhere deep inside without thought at all.

Bey’s knuckles went white as he clutched at his head. “You are offering me what I want.” He relaxed his hands and looked up. “What you want, in fact.”

“You won’t get out of it that way. Yes, I want you to marry and have children. But I want life for you. Because, Bey, I love you.” It was something he’d never said before, and he sat suddenly on the chair on his side of the bench.

“We all know what you’ve done for us,” he said, “and what it’s cost you at times. We all want life for you now.”

Suddenly other strange words popped into his head and he threw them down before he lost the nerve. “We want you to have your just reward. All your life you’ve paid the debt to little Edith, but she joins us in wanting you to be happy. In knowing you deserve happiness.”

He felt himself blushing under his brother’s astonished gaze. What a load of sentimental blabber!

But Bey stood and turned away. “I need to think, Bryght.”

“You do too much thinking!”

When his brother made no response, he knew he’d gone as far as he could. With one last worried look, he left the room. He closed the door, and stood there, wondering if there was more he could say or do, whether he should go back.

Then a bird began to sing, and a drum began to beat.

He was playing with the damned automaton again.

By evening, Diana had still not seen Bey, but she wasn’t alone in that. Elf hadn’t either, and she complained—imperfectly hiding concern—of all the last-minute details she’d had to settle for the masquerade.

She’d arrived in Diana’s room, already in a delightful wasp costume. “There’s even a troop from the King’s Theater who are to perform a masque under Mr. Bach. They seem to know
what they are supposed to do, so I left them to rehearse.” She looked at the costume laid across the bed. “Diana? How perfect.”

“Where
is
he?” Diana asked. At the moment she was only in her shift. If he wasn’t going to attend the masquerade, neither was she. “Does he often do this?”

“Never,” admitted Elf with a shrug. “But that’s hopeful. If he was his usual impervious self I wouldn’t be at all sanguine.”