Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor (16 page)

John shook his head in denial. “It is of no import. I have served on my last mission. Now, if you will pardon me, I mean to escort Lady Swenton home.” He bent to assist Satiné to her feet, but from behind him a clatter of poorly hushed whispers and the silencing of the orchestra announced Prince George had arrived. John instinctively braced Satiné into a curtsy, his head bent to the oncoming entourage. “Your Highness,” he murmured as Kerrington joined John in reverence.

“See, Vinzens, I told you Baron Swenton would never miss such a spectacular event,” Prinny declared. John straightened to look upon his country’s future monarch and their hostess, the Duchess of Falkenberry. Over Prince George’s right shoulder was the familiar countenance of Auersperg.

John nodded an acknowledgement. “It is truly a grand celebration, Your Highness. My sincere compliments, Duchess,” he said dutifully.

“Vinzens tells me you have taken a wife, Swenton. In Vienna.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” John tightened his hold on Satiné. “May I present Lady Swenton, the daughter of Viscount Averette and niece to Baron Ashton?” He nudged Satiné to respond and realized Lady Eleanor stood upon his baroness’s left, one hand on her cousin’s elbow. With the viscountess’s assistance, he led his wife through a proper curtsy.

Lady Eleanor added quickly when Satiné wobbled. “Lady Swenton is my cousin, Your Highness, as well as the sister to the Duchess of Thornhill and the Countess of Berwick.” John was glad for the distraction for it provided Satiné a moment to clear her vision and to concentrate on the royal party.

“I am honored by your notice, Your Highness,” she murmured.

“Your wife is of a milder temperament than her sisters,” Prinny declared.

John knew differently, but he did not argue with Prince George. “I am certain Lady Swenton is simply anxious for our journey to York on the morrow. It will be my lady’s first view of her new home, Your Highness.”

Prinny gestured with a multi-ringed hand. “I must journey soon to York for the hunting season,” the prince said majestically.

“My home is yours, Your Highness.” John did not mean the words and neither did the prince. It was a game of amiability, one which John had been slow to learn.

Distracted by two ladies, Prinny moved on, and John breathed easier. Vinzens tarried, however. “You appear tired, Swenton,” his friend said quietly. “I prayed your return to England would bring you peace. You had such high hopes when last I saw you.”

John released Satiné into Lady Eleanor’s tender care. “My wife is ill,” he explained lamely. “Lady Swenton made the attempt at geniality because she knew it important not to displease Prince George.” He gestured to where Kerrington hovered over their wives. “I know on this journey, you meant to carry on our talks, but my duty lies with my wife. However, you may trust Lord Worthing in your negotiations. I served under him for some six years, and I have never known him to act dishonestly.”

Vinzens nodded his understanding. “I have more pressing matters; there is something of import you should know. I discovered after your departure that a major riff existed between Lady Fiona and your bride. Word has it, they argued over a man, and your mother banished Miss Aldridge from her sight.”

John’s heart flopped into his stomach. “Do we know the man’s identity?” He did not wish to think upon how he had shown himself disloyal to his mother’s memory by choosing a woman Lady Fiona disliked nor was the prospect of another lie from Satiné welcoming.

“Prince Henrí D’Anton.” John closed his eyes to the anguish coursing through him. The dreaded name of
Henrí
filled his head.

“Was Prince Henrí the lover of both?” he rasped.

Vinzens’ countenance turned seriously grim. “Rumors say he was.” He hesitated before adding, “I did not know, Swenton. You must not think poorly of me: I would have disclosed this secret if it had been more commonplace.”

“I believe you.” He shot a glance at his ailing wife. “I have erred in my judgment, but I must see this through.”

Vinzens leaned closer. “I have one more caution, Swenton. Prince Henrí is also a guest of Prince George. You are not likely to avoid Henrí’s presence in England.”

John knew he should have been more appalled, but he had come to the Duchess of Falkenberry’s fete to define his future. It seemed Miss Neville’s premonition would prove accurate. “I appreciate your concern, Auersperg. You have been a most excellent friend, but I must weather these trials alone. Now, please pardon my early exit.”

He bowed to Auersperg, said his farewells to the Worthings, and then lifted Satiné to her feet. Bracing her more familiarly than acceptable in good Society, John coaxed his wife’s steps. If it would not have created a scene, he would have lifted her into his arms and have carried her from Falkenberry’s home. It was ironic his wife had argued so vehemently to be part of this evening’s festivities; yet, he doubted she would possess any memory of its splendor.

John had requested his coach and waited impatiently for Peter to return with the carriage driven by Mr. Hawkins, but his speedy exit was not meant to be. A man dressed all in black except for a pristine white shirt and a red sash across his chest appeared before him. His hair was as black as Satiné’s, and John knew the man’s identity immediately. He had observed the stranger’s expression upon Rupert’s countenance.

“Baron Swenton.” The man said with a thick accent. “Pardon my presumptive actions, but I thought it best if we speak in private. I am Prince Henrí. I believe we have business together.”

John responded coldly, “I am aware of your identity, Prince Henrí, but I know of no business we possess in common.”

Despite her semi-conscious state, Satiné must have recognized the prince’s voice. His wife raised her head from John’s shoulder. “Henrí? Is it you? Truly you?” she rasped. “I knew you would come.”

The prince’s expression hardened. “You have kept secrets, Satiné.”

John interrupted, “Please do not speak so familiarly with my wife, Sir. You are a guest of England’s prince, but that position does not provide you free rein to approach our womenfolk.”

The prince met John’s gaze with one of resolve. “I mean to have my son returned to me, Baron Swenton,” he hissed. “We may negotiate privately, or I can make this matter a State issue. Which do you choose?”

Satiné had collapsed against John again. She had brought so much distress to his door, but he could not turn from her. Their fates were intertwined. “As anyone can easily observe, Lady Swenton is not well. I mean to escort my wife to York on the morrow. If it would not be too much of an inconvenience, you could call on us there at week’s end.”

The prince glanced toward the crowded ballroom. “I hold obligations to Prince George through this week, but I would be pleased to inform your prince I mean to spend time with old acquaintances over the weekend. I will arrive on Saturday next, Baron. Do not think I may choose to withdraw until this is settled between us.”

“Saturday next,” John repeated. Then he lifted Satiné to him. To hell with the scandal which would mark his familiarity! He was already drowning in more disesteem than he thought possible for one family to endure.

She had repaired the tat where the material had torn in one of the gowns presented to her by Lady Lowery. It was a beautiful royal blue confection, and Isolde had been anxious to wear it. Her cousins would think she had taken on airs, but she would enjoy their jealousy. It was like no gown she had ever thought to wear for she was essentially of a very practical nature. In truth, she would prefer to wear it for Lord Swenton’s eyes only, but those dreams would never know fruition. Tomorrow, the baron meant to remove his household to York, and soon after, Isolde would depart for Ireland. She would never return to England, and most certainly would never see London again. She would accept the intentions of one of her countrymen, marry, and bear the man a half dozen children. Yet, she would always remember her time with Lord Swenton. “Your days are numbered,” she warned her foolish heart. “No dancing a jig in celebration of your marriage. No wearing a gown which would set His Lordship’s heart a reeling.” A wistful sigh escaped before Isolde could swallow it. “Best to wear the drab cloths of a lady’s companion,” she chastised her whims. “It is my armor against temptation.”

The sound of a ruckus below interrupted her thoughts. She rushed from her rooms to encounter the man over whom she had spent too many hours in daydreams. Lord Swenton carried his wife towards the lady’s quarters. Lady Swenton’s limp form announced the baroness had discovered a new supply of laudanum.

“My Goodness!” she rasped and then raced ahead of the baron to open the connecting doors. She jerked the counterpane free of the bed to permit him to deposit Lady Swenton upon the mattress. “What happened?” Isolde asked as she undressed her mistress.

“Did you know?” the baron asked in accusatory tones. He stood beside his wife’s bed, his hands fisting and unfisting, arms akimbo.

Isolde’s fingers released the clasp of the baroness’s necklace and turned her mistress to her stomach so she could unlace Lady Swenton’s gown. Out of breath, she asked testily, “Did I know what?”

Lord Swenton’s voice had turned cold. “When you convinced me to escort my mother’s remains to York, did you know Lady Swenton meant to remain in London to meet her lover? Or was it your purpose for me to encounter Prince Henrí tonight? You did say this evening would be a monumental event.”

Isolde’s fingers froze in their task. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Her hands wildly brushed away his allegations. “I have been nothing but loyal to you. Other than Lord Morse, I am ignorant of a potential lover, and I have never heard of Prince Henrí.”

“What of a heated spat between your mistress and Lady Fiona?” he accused.

“Nothing!” Isolde said defiantly. “When I came to Miss Aldridge’s service, the baroness was some four months with child. She withdrew from her social engagements shortly after my taking the position. I never held the pleasure of an acquaintance with the former baroness.” With a huff of exasperation, Isolde returned to Lady Swenton’s unconscious state. “If you will pardon me, I must attend to your wife.” Despite her best efforts, a soft sob escaped. He had never spoken to her harshly.

Within a heartbeat, the baron had circled the bed and had caught her to him. He drove Isolde backward until her spine was pressed against the interior door and his hard body plastered her front. “Forgive me,” he whispered roughly against her temple. “I never meant to harm you. Please Isolde, I have acted a fool.”

Some dark, inexplicable passion rushed through her, and Isolde instinctively pressed her center to his manhood. The white-flare of need ripped the breath from her chest, and she buried her face into the crook of his neck. “We should not…”

“Should not what?” His voice sounded as breathy as did hers. “Should not claim one moment of happiness?”

Isolde could not dismiss how aware she was of this man’s masculinity. “One moment would never be enough.” She could taste the salt upon his skin, and Isolde ran her tongue along the crease of his neck. A groan of desire rewarded her efforts.

A rush of silence followed before Lord Swenton placed his hands against the wall on either side of her head and lifted his body from hers. Immediately, she experienced the bleakness of his withdrawal. “Some way,” he rasped as he gently cuffed her cheek. “I mean to finish this. For now, please assist me with Lady Swenton. I cannot fathom what the future holds, but please know somehow my soul will find its way to you.”

*

After they had undressed Satiné, they had tucked his baroness into her bed to sleep away the effects of the medicinal. Then by silent consent, he had escorted Miss Neville into his sitting room to discuss what had happened earlier. “Evidently, my wife has discovered someone within my household to keep her confidences,” he disclosed when he had seated Miss Neville across from him and had poured her a small sherry and him a well-deserved brandy.

“No doubt Sally,” she asserted. “The girl has ambitions, but has not yet learned subtlety.”

Deep in thought, John nodded his agreement. “I will return the girl to Thornhill tomorrow. The duke has sent Mrs. Tailor and the boy ahead to Marwood Manor. I will see Sally returned to him.”

Miss Neville sat straighter. “Might you inform me of what occurred this evening?”

John closed his eyes to the shame racing to his heart. He dealt better with chaos when he could keep busy; this “rush” to wait endlessly vexed him greatly. “Lady Swenton could barely speak or move. If not for Lady Worthing’s assistance, the prince and much of the
ton
would have learned of Satiné’s dependency on laudanum. The only saving grace was my wife will likely not recall the appearance of Prince Henrí.”

“Is this prince Rupert’s father?” she asked quietly.

“In appearance, it would seem so. The boy has the countenance of the Prince of Rintoul. However, Prince Henrí claimed no previous knowledge of Rupert. He accused Lady Swenton of keeping secrets.” John recalled the familiar way the prince had spoken to Satiné, and fury rushed to his mind again.

“What does the prince mean to do?”

John attempted to place the tumult of his soul aside. “I have convinced Prince Henrí to call upon my household in a week. I did not think it wise for him to be seen entering Swenton Hall, but the prince made it clear he means to claim Rupert.”

“What will you do?” she whispered into the familiar silence that rested between them. John required these moments or he would run mad into the streets. The lady held no idea how important she had become to his sanity.

“What will I do?” he repeated. Every emotion within John rushed into the dark void of helplessness. “The question is what will my baroness do when her former lover and the father of her child makes an appearance on my threshold?”

*

His wife had slept throughout the day. In some ways, John had wished to shake her awake and to demand answers to the multitude of questions, which bombarded his most logical mind. However, a part of him did not want to know the truth. Did not want to discover how his wife had misled him. To discover how his baroness had provided the gossips new fodder to disparage his family.

“I knew you would come,” his wife had declared in her one lucid moment after Prince Henrí’s appearance. But what had Satiné meant? Was the possibility of the prince’s arrival the reason Lady Swenton had fought to remain in London? Had his baroness sent word to Prince Henrí to follow her to England’s shores? Had she planned to run off with the prince and to embarrass John for his kindness? Was he destined to relive his father’s shame?

John watched as she rocked forth and back on the bench seat. Late in the night he had decided not to mention to his baroness of Prince Henrí’s upcoming call. He had reasoned if he approached Satiné before the prince’s appearance, John would spend a week in guarding against her every deceitful move, as well as a week embroiled in numerous heated confrontations. In truth, he was exhausted by the constant arguments. Even worse than his personal discomfiture, if his wife knew Prince Henrí meant to claim Rupert, she might consider doing the boy harm. Satiné had never shown a maternal interest in the child.

Instead, John had decided to spend the week by assisting Lady Swenton to some form of moderation. It would not be easy to convince his baroness to abandon her repeated use of the numbing medicinal, nor to restore her appetite. Coyle would arrive at the estate by Tuesday, and John would follow the learned man’s suggestions. Some way, he would find a means to reinstate his wife to some form of normalcy.

*

Unfortunately, his wife did not recognize her actions as unreasonable. The last one hundred miles of their journey had been the longest hours of John’s life. Satiné had napped constantly over the first two days, but the third one had been pure hell. As the laudanum had worn off, nothing pleased Lady Swenton. “This road is horrendous. When did we leave the London Road?” and “The weather is so damp, I shall likely die of consumption.” as well as “No one in his right mind would choose to live in Yorkshire.” If he handed her a lap rug to keep her warm, she complained it would soil her traveling dress. If he did not hand her one, Satiné had chastised him for his lack of sympathy.

Yet, never once in all those hours had his wife mentioned Prince Henrí, or even the Duchess of Falkenberry’s party. John supposed if she held memories of their encounter with the three princes, Satiné considered those memories as part of a dream. He did not know whether to be grateful for the memory loss or saddened by the thought she dreamed of another man. He was so thankful when his carriage rolled to a halt before Marwood Manor he had come close to kneeling and kissing the ground.

“Welcome to your new home, Baroness.” He lifted Satiné to the ground, but it was Miss Neville’s expression, which had enchanted him. John would never act upon his newfound desire for the woman, but he could not relinquish the ideal she had set for all other women of his acquaintance. Whereas his wife snarled her nose in disgust of the grey bricked manor house, Miss Neville’s eyes widened with what appeared to be delight. She sighed in contentment, while Lady Swenton rolled her eyes in disbelief.

“It is not as large as I had hoped,” Satiné had said testily.

John led her through the main door, which his butler held in reverence for them. “Then in time we will add more rooms.” He was determined not to argue with her.

Unfortunately, by Tuesday his mood had changed, for he had bit his tongue more times than he cared to count. His wife cried constantly begging him to provide her some of the “drops”; however, John had steadfastly refused. By the time Coyle had arrived in mid-morning, John was at his wits’ end. “Thank God, you have come at last. This has been much harder than I ever could have conceived.”

Coyle handed off his hat and gloves to John’s butler. “Come. Tell me what has transpired.”

John led the man to his study to summarize what had occurred since he and the physician had last met.

“And how will Lady Swenton react to my intervention?” Coyle asked with a vested interest.

John sat heavily behind his desk. “What if we tell the baroness Prince Henrí means to call on her in five days and you have arrived as part of the prince’s advanced party? I am certain that bit of information would piqued my baroness’s interest.” He hated the stab of jealousy that pierced his chest. John no longer fooled himself with the idea Satiné might learn to love him; yet, it ate at his soul his wife might respond to a man who had deserted her, when she would not give John credit for all he had sacrificed in her name.

“Perhaps it is best if I make that particular decision after I become acquainted with your wife,” Coyle assessed.”

*

Surprisingly, Lady Swenton had accepted Coyle’s presence without much fuss. Perhaps she considered the good doctor another conquest, but John celebrated the few moments of quiet by drifting to the window to watch Mrs. Tailor and Miss Neville. The women had taken the boy outside for some air. He noticed how Miss Neville had included several of the estate children in the outing. The lady had organized the young ones into teams for a rousing game of cricket. It was quite telling for her to instruct his estate’s dependents in a gentleman’s game. Her actions spoke of Miss Neville’s benevolence. She cheered for each child and chased after the runners between the sticks. The lady’s wild abandon brought life to the afternoon, and John simply enjoyed watching her: the wild curls of fire caressing her neck as she bounced up and down and the flush of color upon her cheeks.

“Pardon, Lord Swenton,” Mr. Fenton said from the open door. He extended a silver salver. “You have an express post from Sir Carter.”

John bit back his retort. His butler possessed no knowledge of how the baronet and the Realm had found fault with John. Accepting the missive, he returned to the window. Distractedly breaking the wax seal, John unfolded the page to read what he secretly hoped was an apology. He despised being on the outs with his former companions, especially with Carter Lowery, who had become one of his closest associates. However, it was not an apology; rather, it was the end of an investigation. “Mr. Fenton!” he called with urgency.

“Yes, Sir.” The butler appeared immediately.

“Fetch Miss Neville. I must speak to the lady without delay.”

In less than a minute, Miss Neville rushed into the room. Out of breath, she begged, “I hope all is well, Sir. Has something occurred with the baroness?”

John could not hide the smile she brought to his lips. It was as if the sun and spring followed her about. “Nothing dire,” he assured. “Instead, I have news of import. I have just this minute received word of your father from Sir Carter.” He handed her the letter before organizing the papers and ledgers upon the desk.