Marigold Chain (17 page)

The wide mouth
curled with perceptive amusement.

‘
Merely
that I am not entirely convinced of the unsuitability of your
marriage. I’ve a suspicion it may be rendering Alex a trifle less …
erratic. But I should be sorry to inconvenience a lady and since I
fear it may be some time before I can come to a conclusion, I
wished to discover if such a delay would be … displeasing to
you.’

Chloë drew a
long unsteady breath. She thought again of the house, of her ship
on its voyage to Tangier; she thought of Matt and Danny, Giles and
Julia. And though she knew the where the danger lay and how great
it was, she resolutely ignored it.

‘
N-no,
sire. It wouldn’t displease me at all.’

‘
Ah,’
said Charles gravely. ‘I hoped that might be the case. But enough –
I will exert myself and present you to the Court. Whom would you
most like to meet?’

There was only
one answer to that. Chloë looked at the small, wistful-eyed lady
sitting almost alone at the end of the room.

‘
If it is
not an impertinence, sire, I would very much like to meet the
Queen.’

~ * * * ~

In the latter
half of the month, Chloë made four visits to Whitehall but
mercifully none of them were marked by the nerve-blasting
occurrences of the first. Catherine of Braganza, after a rather
distrait beginning, proved both sweet-natured and shy. Chloë
promptly disregarded her royal status and set out to befriend
her.

Of Giles she
saw very little but his manner remained one of friendly aloofness
and so, together with Matthew, Danny continued to be her closest
companion. They danced, laughed, talked and pored over endless
charts and works of geography, all of which resulted in a close
friendship and a rapport of unusual proportions. Chloë found how
much more there was to Daniel than high-spirits and a sunny
disposition and Danny understood a good deal more about Chloë than
she was ever to realise.

Towards the end
of the month Queen Catherine fell ill and, after twice failing to
get in to see her, Chloë had to content herself with sending little
posies of early flowers – products of the unseasonably mild weather
and so far unspoilt by the lack of rain. On Easter Sunday she
attended Whitehall chapel with Lady Julia to hear a sermon of more
than ordinary length and dullness preached by the Bishop of London;
and on Easter Monday, having no engagements, she dressed simply,
left her hair loose and planned to devote herself to household
matters.

Finding herself
deserted save for Naomi and Mistress Jackson, she decided to
inspect the linen and make a preliminary assault on the mending.
Alone in the linen-cupboard, she spared the odd thought for Mr
Deveril and Danny who, having challenged each other to some highly
suspect activity referred to as ‘shooting the bridge’, had set off
with Mr Beckwith in tow as a reluctant witness. Chloë concluded
that it was as well she didn’t know what they were doing since she
had better things to do than spend her time wondering which of them
would come back with a broken bone or cracked head this time.

Downstairs in the parlour she sat, chin in hand,
contemplating the fruits of her mission and trying to summon up
some enthusiasm. It wasn’t easy. She sighed, threaded her needle
and impaled the first of a pile of napkins with a savage stab. Then
she was saved by the bell. A gentleman to see her, said Naomi, agog
with curiosity. A Mr
Simon
Deveril. After a long pause, Chloë shut her mouth and told
Naomi to admit him and bring refreshments.

Exquisite as
ever, Simon Deveril entered the room and crossed, gently
effervescing, to her side. ‘My dear Cousin – I am delighted to meet
you at last! And you will not mind if I call you Cousin? It’s what
you are, after all.’ He took her hands and saluted each of them
with impeccable artistry.

Chloë smiled
politely and reflected that this Mr Deveril plainly had all the
graces. Her hands were retained and he stepped back to survey
her.

‘
I’m
afraid I grew positively weary of waiting for someone to introduce
us. It is not often that one acquires such a charming new relative
– and so unexpectedly. But dear Alexander is always so precipitate
… I tremble for him often, I promise you … though in this case one
cannot blame him. Nor even for wilfully keeping us apart as he has
been doing.’ He released her hands in order to shrug elegantly.
‘The poor fellow does not like me, you know. I grieve to say it –
but so it is.’

Fascinated by
his verbosity and wondering if he could not outshine even Captain
Pierce, Chloë achieved a sympathetic smile. ‘What a shame. Why ever
not?’

‘
He
believes – quite mistakenly, you understand – that I wronged him,’
replied Simon plaintively. ‘Indeed, he has become utterly
obsessed
with the idea and I can
only hope you will help him to outgrow it.’

‘
Then
aren’t you running the risk,’ said Chloë, unable to resist the
temptation, ‘that poor Alex may throw you down the
steps?’

He shuddered
delicately. ‘I sincerely trust not. I do so dislike violence.’ And
then, ‘I take it that he is not, at the moment, at home?’

Chloë smiled,
indicated a chair, and watched him sit with due deference to his
lilac velvet. ‘No. But I expect him back quite soon.’

‘
Really?’
he replied languidly. ‘I shall not pretend to be sorry to have
missed him – and must congratulate myself on the aptness of my
timing.’

As Naomi
bore in a tray of wine and small cakes, a sudden suspicion darkened
Chloë’s mind. ‘
Shooting the bridge’
they had said. There was only one bridge and Simon had either
crossed it or passed by it on his way to Southwark. If Alex was
there and Simon had seen him, then he had known she was alone. She
supposed that, under the circumstances, that might be considered
reasonable; she, however, found it decidedly underhand and resolved
to make it plain to Cousin Simon exactly where her loyalties
lay.

‘
You are
under a misconception, Cousin,’ she said rather more acidly than
she intended as the door closed again behind the maid. ‘You will
stand a much better chance of effecting a reconciliation with Alex
if you visit his house when he is in it. And I must own that I feel
it would be more appropriate.’

Simon raised
his brows. ‘Dear me! Are you asking me to leave?’

‘
Not at
all. But you should understand that there can be no question of my
discussing my husband with you.’

He sipped his
wine and surveyed her over the rim of his glass.

‘
I see.
How delightfully
wifely
of
you. Alex is fortunate to have … won so fair a prize. I do so
admire women of principle – and the Court, as I feel sure you’ve
noticed, is full of ladies renowned for their lack of them. Which
reminds me.’ He paused slightly and then went on, ‘Sarah is
dreadfully worried about poor Alex. It is quite absurd, of course,
but it seems she feels his rather sudden marriage is a tragic
mistake and all her fault.’

The brown eyes
became quite blank. ‘Oh?’

‘
Yes.’
Simon looked a little anxious. ‘How difficult this is … one hardly
knows what to say.’

‘
Then
perhaps it’s best to say nothing,’ she suggested. ‘Have a
cake.’

He sighed. ‘My
dear, please believe that I have no wish to distress you but
equally I should like to set Sarah’s mind at rest – and my own.
Also, and not to put too fine a point on it, if she is likely to
confide in others, you might prefer to be aware of what she is
saying.’

Again, it
sounded reasonable enough – except when you considered what you
knew of Lady Sarah or admitted that you were starting to dislike
Cousin Simon. Chloë maintained her remote expression and said
distastefully, ‘Very well. Say what you came to say.’

Simon drained
his glass and set it carefully down.

‘
Not so
very long ago, Sarah and Alex were … close friends. I understand
that they only quarrelled when Sarah announced her intention to wed
Sir Graham in preference to Alex himself. Of course, she did her
very best to soften the blow …’

‘
I’ll bet she did
,’ thought Chloë
savagely.

‘ …
and
she also, very sensibly in my opinion, advised him to make a
wealthy marriage of his own. But she says that what he in fact did
was to become so violently drunk that he – forgive me – accepted
you as a stake in a game of dice and, having won, proceeded to
marry you whilst in the same condition. It’s utter nonsense, of
course. Even Alex wouldn’t behave so foolishly. But the poor, dear
girl thinks he did all this in a flood of despair – for which she
can’t forgive herself.’

He was watching
Chloë closely and she knew it. After taking the time to mentally
apply a pleasingly vulgar epithet to Lady Sarah, she met his gaze
and smiled brightly.

‘
I’m
inclined to agree with you. It
is
nonsense. And if Lady Sarah really cares about Mr Deveril,
it’s not a tale she will repeat. You can assure her that, as
always, he knows exactly what he’s doing and I am possessed of a
wealth of sympathy and understanding. In fact, I suggest she
confines her concern to her own husband.’

He smiled back,
gently incredulous. ‘So there’s no truth in it?’

Chloë sat very
still and kept her eyes on his to avoid any impression of
mendacity.

‘
Only
that my brother
did
insist Mr
Deveril play him at dice before he would give him my hand in
marriage. But that,’ she explained with nonchalant finality, ‘is
just an old family custom. Have a cake.’

Simon accepted
the plate she offered and, with it, a change of subject. Chloë
asked if the Queen was yet well enough to be told of her mother’s
death and he replied with easy suavity and a description of Court
mourning.

Soon after that
he left and she was very glad to see him go. She sat down again and
picked up her sewing, a tiny preoccupied frown creasing her brow,
but it was a long time before she set a stitch. She was just laying
down her second napkin when the sound of the bell heralded the
arrival of another visitor. Chloë sat back and waited. This time
Naomi looked both flushed and flustered.

‘
Another
gentleman, Madam,’ she said in breathless but congratulatory
accents. ‘He says he’s the Duke of Cumberland.’

‘
Does he?
Then I expect he is. You’d better show him in.’

Naomi took a
deep breath, opened her mouth and then changed her mind.

‘
Yes’m.’
She bobbed a curtsy and withdrew.

Puzzled, Chloë
grinned at her retreating back and, smoothing her hair with one
perfunctory hand, rose to meet her second unexpected visitor of the
morning.

The door opened
and a man came in. Exactly what Chloë had expected, she was not
sure but nothing had prepared for the reality. He was the tallest
man she had ever seen and of magnificent physique, with all the
aura one imagined in a hero of romance. His dark wig was
elaborately curled and his garments richly sombre but, more than
these, it was his face that commanded her attention.

The gentleman
was not young and his face was one of decision and character, proud
and beautifully sculpted, broad of brow and cleft of chin with a
long straight nose from which harsh lines ran to a full-lipped
mouth. The eyes, set beneath strongly-marked brows were large,
heavy-lidded and dark - not unlike the King’s, thought Chloë.
Especially when they glinted with lurking amusement as they were
beginning to do now.

Suddenly
recollecting herself, Chloë flushed and curtsied.

‘
Your
Grace … I am so sorry … I wasn’t expecting … ‘ And stopped
helplessly.

The gentleman
swept the floor with the plumes of his hat in a swift, deep bow and
the smile in his eyes grew teasing.

‘
Six feet
four inches,’ he supplied helpfully in a deep voice which, like her
own, was faintly accented. ‘Two inches taller than the
King.’

For a second
she stared at him and then, with a grin, recovered her voice.

‘
Thank
you, sir. I was wondering.’ She hesitated and then said, ‘We
haven’t met so I imagine you were hoping to see Mr Deveril. I’m
afraid he is out at present – Naomi should have told
you.’

‘
I
believe she may have been trying,’ replied the Duke regretfully,
‘but I think she was a little over-awed. I sometimes do that to
people.’

Chloë laughed.
‘So I’ve noticed.’ She wondered if it was a condition he could
inspire in Mr Deveril, then came to the sad conclusion that it was
unlikely.

‘
I did
call to see Alexander,’ the gentleman went on, ‘and it is a matter
of some importance. Perhaps you can tell me where I might find
him?’

‘
Not
exactly. He went out some time ago with Mr Beckwith and Mr Fawsley
to ‘shoot the bridge’ – if that makes any sense to you?’

His Grace threw
back his head in a deep, full-throated laugh.

‘
Then I
imagine you can expect him back soon in need of a change of
clothes.’

Chloë raised
enquiring brows. ‘Oh?’

‘
It’s
ebb-tide, ‘ he told her, ‘and a small boat sailing under the bridge
gets sucked through like a cork and spat out on the other side.
They call it ‘shooting the bridge’ – and usually end up taking a
swim.’