Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor (24 page)

The young maid frowned. “No, Ma’am. The McClentons be most generous. They provided me a pallet and lets me sleep in the hall outside yer dur. I would know if’n you had any callers. Other than when I break me fast, I be watchin’ fer you to wake.”

It was Satiné’s turn to scowl. “I wish to go out. Please fetch some water so I might wash and then you may assist me with my dress.” As the girl scurried away to do her biding, Satiné’s gaze returned to the afternoon scene. “Henrí did not come,” she told the empty room. “But why?” Desperation filled her lungs. “Did Prinny demand Henrí’s company? Or was Henrí’s promise to call upon me another of his lies?”

Wiping the tears from her eye’s corner, Satiné forced her fears into a quiet place. She must have an answer before she could act. In her estimations, Lord Swenton would arrive at the earliest at the end of this very day, but more likely some time tomorrow. “I must send word to Henrí. It is imperative we speak today. Tomorrow may be too late.”

Within three quarters of an hour, Satiné wove her way through the crowded streets frequented by those who meant to see and to be seen. She searched the countenance of each passer-by, hoping to discover the acquaintance of someone who had attended Prince George’s entertainment the previous evening. Finally, she spotted Viscount Setcliffe crossing the street toward a shop selling cigars, cheroots, and snuff.

Quickening her steps, Satiné darted between riders to be in the viscount’s way when he reached the shop’s door. When he stepped upon the elevated walkway, she curtsied in anticipation of his greeting. “Viscount Setcliffe,” she trilled. “It is pleasant to greet you again, Sir.”

His thin lips turned up in a smile. “Baroness Swenton.” He bowed stiffly. “The pleasure is mine as well.” The viscount waited for a couple to pass before he joined her. “Do you have an errand, my Lady, for which I might serve as your escort?”

Satiné presented him her most engaging smile. “None of great importance, my Lord. I simply wished to enjoy the milder weather and the sea air. In truth, I would be happy to claim your arm if you also have no pressing business on this glorious afternoon.”

“It would be my honor, Baroness.” He extended his arm, and Satiné slid her hand about his elbow. They set off at a leisurely pace. “I was sorry for your early departure last evening,” he said softly. “I had hoped to claim a set on your dance card.”

She glanced up at him. The viscount was an excessively kind man, and Satiné knew she should be sorry for so blatantly deceiving him; however, she was willing to risk more of the
ton’s
censure to claim Henrí’s affections. “In truth, I was quite exhausted. My journey had been delayed by poor weather. I had but a few mere hours between my arrival in Brighton and the prince’s entertainment.” She squeezed the viscount’s arm. “I fear I would not have been the best of company, my Lord.”

The viscount directed their steps toward a bench in a small courtyard at the end of the walkway. Once he seated her, the conversation continued. “We were all quite jealous, Baroness, as Prince Henrí was the only one to claim your hand. You dance very well.”

As she had done the previous evening, Satiné used her fan to stroke the viscount’s arm. “I would not have accepted Prince Henrí’s hand if he were anyone less than our future monarch’s guest. I do not approve of Rintoul’s engagement to Miss Callender as the prince, obviously, means only to claim the girl’s fortune. Prince Henrí is old enough to be Miss Callender’s father. It is shameful.”

The viscount chuckled ironically. “It is the way of the world, Baroness. Men search for brides who are strong enough to produce the necessary heirs. That being said, I am certain Miss Callender’s father has added sugar to his daughter’s dowry in the form of several properties. In retrospect, it does my old heart well to know even a principality can be purchased with enough money.”

It pained Satiné to think Henrí was no better than many Englishmen, who settled for an arranged marriage to settle their debts. She wondered if Henrí had succumbed to the gaming halls again. It was rumored Rintoul’s prince had honored her by avoiding the evils of which Satiné so strongly disapproved. “Perhaps Prince Henrí has accumulated debts. After all, much of Europe suffers. Napoleon left a swatch of despair upon the land, and the recent famine has complicated the situation.”

Viscount Setcliffe smirked. “I am certain Rintoul has his debts, but I doubt they come as part of the political drama.” He looked off in the direction of the docks. “Of course, speculation is no longer necessary. Whatever the source of Prince Henrí’s financial strife, he will soon know relief. Rintoul’s ship set sail early this morning with the Callender miss and her family aboard. I imagine they should be in Calais by now.”

A shaft of ice speared Satiné’s heart. Had she misheard? Even though every instinct prompted her rage, she warily asked, “Do you mean Prince Henrí has set a course for France? And so soon after accepting Prince George’s hospitality?”

“Did you not realize? Last evening’s entertainment was designed as a leave taking. Prince Henrí’s staff had planned an early departure.”

The viscount’s words left Satiné teetering on the brink of madness. She stood quickly. “I must apologize, my Lord.” She repeated the words from well-rehearsed politeness, but she could not recall what came next. “I must go.” Without more of an explanation, Satiné darted away: She could not believe Henrí had departed England without her, but she could think of no reason for Viscount Setcliffe to exaggerate the facts he had repeated.

She raced along the walkway toward the inn, recognizing nothing but her own misery. Without her knowledge, tears streamed down her cheeks, but Satiné had no care for the sympathetic looks on the countenances of strangers. Logic and common sense had abandoned her. From somewhere behind her a person caught at her elbow, but Satiné did not pause her steps. She heard a male voice call her name and another instruct the stranger to give way; yet, Satiné rushed forward, never turning her head to assess the commotion, simply assuming Lord Setcliffe had given chase. However, only her despair called to her as she raced along the busy walkways.

Finally reaching the inn, she half staggered and half ran up the stairs to the second storey room she had let. Thankfully, the girl had waited for her return for Satiné did not think she could have seen to the key and lock. “What is amiss, my Lady?” the maid asked anxiously, but Satiné shoved her way past the girl to throw herself upon the bed. Curling into a tight ball, she sobbed openly–the pain so great she could no longer hide it. Henrí had made a fool of her again, and to make matters worse, she had ruined the civil treaty she had assumed with Lord Swenton. The baron would never forgive this latest betrayal. “You foolish, foolish girl,” she wailed. “You deserve His Lordship’s disdain.”

“Shall I fetch a doctor, Miss?” the maid asked with caution.

However, Satiné took little notice. All she wanted was to disappear–never to know the looks of pity easily found on the countenances of those who supposedly loved her. “I require something for the pain,” she told the girl. “I suffer greatly.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Again, the girl rushed to do her bidding, but Satiné was beyond being impressed. Stifling her sobs, she rose to blindly search her bags to find the drops, which would remove the pain in her stomach, always there, and the pain in the heart, never far from her thoughts. Finding the vial she had had Pauline purchase for her on their journey, with trembling hands, Satiné uncorked it. “Please God, assist me to make this right,” she whispered. “Assist me to discover a means to stop Henrí’s plans to marry Miss Callender. I must think.” She paced the room with the open vial held tight in her grasp.

“Do I have enough funds to purchase passage to France?” With a resounding “Yes,” Satiné touched the vial to her lips. “And if not, you still have Lady Fiona’s necklace and even your wedding ring.” The realization pleased her, and she sipped a second time. A plan hatched as she paced the floor and sipped the mixture. Soon, she had recovered much of her composure. “I cannot return to York. Lord Swenton will turn his back on me forever. I have no other choice but to know success with Henrí.”

She had returned to her bed long before the girl appeared with a physician in tow. “Where is the pain, Lady Swenton?” the man asked as he touched her forehead, searching for a fever.

As she had paced and planned, Satiné had finished the vial of laudanum, but the “drops” had not completely removed her reason. “I recently lost a child,” she told the physician. “The pain comes from the lack of success following my lying in.” She thought her speech sounded slurred, but the doctor did not appear to notice.

“How far along were you?” He pressed firmly upon her abdomen, and Satiné grimaced.

“Some seven months, she lied. “My husband thought a holiday would assist in my healing–to keep my mind from my loss.”

The doctor asked suspiciously. “Where is the baron?”

Satiné could feel the numbness sinking into her brain and her body. She concentrated hard to articulate an appropriate response. “The baron will arrive tomorrow. Business has delayed his journey. I would be sorry for my husband to find me poorly. Is it possible to ease the pain?” She thought it would be good to have the medicine in her possession when she made her crossing to France. Tomorrow Satiné meant to book passage to Calais.

“I wish to speak to your husband tomorrow.” The physician dug in his bag for a small bottle of the medicinal and set it upon a side table. “It is not common for a lady to suffer so. You must send the girl for me again if the laudanum does not ease the pain within a few hours.”

“Yes, Sir. If you will hand me my reticule, I shall see to your fee.”

The doctor patted the back of her hand. “You should rest. I will ask Mr. McClenton to add my fee to your husband’s bill of service.” Then he was gone.

Satiné accepted the dose of laudanum the maid added to a bit of wine and then she waved the girl away, rejecting the maid’s suggestion that she change from her day gown before taking to her bed. “I would prefer to rest. Please return later,” she instructed as her eyes closed to the perfect delirium.

*

He had thought his eyes had betrayed him, but Jamot had easily recognized Lord Swenton’s wife as the woman rushing along the busy commercial street. He had reached for her, meaning to delay the baroness’s steps, but an older man, obviously of the aristocracy, had brought his cane down hard upon Jamot’s forearm with a warning, and so Jamot had stepped back, eyes averted, and apologized. However, he had not permitted the woman’s retreat to escape his gaze.

After cowing to the well-dressed gentleman, Jamot had darted into an open-ended alley to emerge on a side street where he could follow Lord Swenton’s baroness at a distance. He could not imagine the baron would permit his wife out without a proper escort or at a minimum a maid in attendance, but Lady Swenton sported neither. “Most peculiar,” Jamot murmured as he crossed a busy street to parallel the baroness’s steps.

He had come to Brighton because of Lord Swenton. The baron’s accusations regarding Ashmita still angered Jamot, his blame in her death eating at Jamot’s conscience. Moreover, he still nursed the wound from which a Yorkshire surgeon had dug a bullet from Jamot’s shoulder.

When he had escaped Lord Swenton’s assault, he had not immediately left the area. Originally, he had taken refuge in the cottage upon Lord Swenton’s land long enough to tend his wound. Afterwards, Jamot had taken up a position where he could spy upon the comings and goings at Marwood Manor. Imagine his surprise to find a dark stranger calling upon the household the following morning and leaving with a child and the babe’s wet nurse–the same child Jamot had observed in the estate nursery and reportedly Lord Swenton’s illegitimate son. It had not taken much sleuth to discover the stranger had been Prince Henrí of Rintoul.

Thinking it a grand revenge to kidnap the baron’s child, Jamot had followed the prince to await his opportunity to steal the boy from the doting nurse; however, he quickly had abandoned his plan when he discovered Prince Henrí was a personal guest of England’s Prince George. Reaching the man and the boy would be difficult at Carlton House, and the situation had been all so odd. Therefore, Jamot meant to discover what was what. He could not imagine Lord Swenton would give a child away, even an illegitimate one, and so Jamot had followed the Rintoul prince to London and then to Brighton. In his experience, the Realm were rarely far from Prince George’s side, and he imagined Lord Swenton would soon follow the child, for Lord Worthing served in a political capacity to Prince George, and Sir Carter called at Carlton House regularly.

Lady Swenton’s appearance provided proof Jamot’s observations were not coincidences. Lord Swenton’s child was in Rintoul’s care, and the baroness had arrived, likely to reclaim the boy. Jamot thought it important to determine whether Baron Swenton had accompanied his wife and what part Prince Henrí played in the scenario. If he could discover some sort of scandal, Jamot could use the information to convince the baron to give him the emerald set once belonging to Lord Swenton’s mother.

“An inn?” Jamot drew up when Lady Swenton entered the establishment. “Interesting!” He waited to see if the baroness exited again, but after an hour, he followed. Entering the darkened foyer, Jamot made his way to the common room and ordered a drink. The innkeeper and several others eyed him suspiciously, but he had become accustomed to such censure. He knew his skin color announced he was a foreigner. “Have not seen you before,” the innkeeper remarked suspiciously.