Royal Renegade (37 page)

"Terrible things, I've no doubt. But I'll stand up for you, Michael, I will. I'll stand in front of you, in fact, because one of them is bound to decide to rearrange your happy wedding face with a well-aimed fist. Just an hour, and I'll give you protection for life." Tregier's begging was jocular, but the veins stood out blue and tense on the back of the hand gripping his sword hilt.

"Well—" Devlyn's hesitation was eloquent enough, and Tregier was out the door in a flash.

"Till tomorrow then! I'll bring the best champagne money can buy!"

Wishing that Tatiana had witnessed this latest departure from rectitude, Devlyn ordered lunch. The porter had hardly brought in his wine when, as Devlyn expected, Richard Wellesley arrived. The foreign secretary loomed like a punctilious thundercloud above him until Devlyn asked, "Join me for lunch, Wellesley?"

With unprecedented agitation, Wellesley started wearing a path in the carpet across from Devlyn's chair. "I've just come from Carlton House. After all I've been through with that damned princess this last week, the prince tells me the royal wedding is off. But he won't tell me why. He only says, ask Devlyn. So I'm here to ask you. What did you do to scotch the wedding?"

Devlyn took a slice of rare roast beef, hesitated, then took another. He'd be sharing his troopers' saltback soon enough; for today he would enjoy himself without guilt. With even greater enjoyment, he let Wellesley pace another mile or so before he replied, "I just made the prince aware of some salient facts about the princess."

"What salient facts?" Wellesley asked with trepidation, knowing from Prinny's own bride just how many things could be wrong with a princess.

Devlyn hesitated, then decided that it would be in Wellesley's self-interest to keep this close to his chest. "That she was rather closely connected to the assassination of the previous tsar."

Wellesley absorbed this information, his eyes narrowing then widening as he calculated. "But that was 1800, 1801. She would have been just a child!"

"Unfortunately, her father was one of the main conspirators. Do sit down, Wellesley, and have a drink. Hasn't your physician warned you about the dangers of apoplexy?"

Wellesley finally dropped into a chair across from Devlyn. "Her father?"

"Nicholas Denisov. The present tsar's cousin. Such a shame—he was exiled to Siberia and died there with his wife." Devlyn's hand tightened on his knife, then he released it to clatter against the plate. "Alexander's a religious chap, you know. I daresay he was quite overcome with guilt over the whole matter. I thought you would have known. After all, I hear that our own ambassador was implicated."

"Before my time," Wellesley interposed. He leaned forward impatiently, propping his elbow on the table. "An unfortunate coincidence, certainly, but why must that end the betrothal?"

"The prince was less than pleased. Such a volatile mix, you see, Cumberland and the daughter of a participant to regicide. The thought of it provoked no little anxiety in the regent. What if the princess inherited her father's proclivities? What if her children did, or worse, inherited Cumberland's?" Idly, Devlyn straightened the tablecloth, hoping the princess's children would not, in fact, inherit either grandfather's wild blood. He resolved, at least, to name his first son anything but Nicholas.

"I hardly think that sort of tendency is passed down in the blood," Wellesley said with some asperity.

"But the prince is a Hanover, and with the sort of blood that's already being passed on in that house, I think he preferred not to take the chance."

Wellesley didn't blink at this treasonous sentiment, but after a long cogitation he raised angry, puzzled eyes to Devlyn. "But you were working for me!"

Devlyn returned a bland smile and poured himself another glass of wine. It was truly a pleasure, to get a little of his own back from the Wellesley family for a change. "Not anymore, not once I delivered her safe and sound. And I can't think why you're so angry. This marriage was Prinny's idea, not yours."

Wellesley rubbed at his forehead with his fist. "I never thought this marriage a great diplomatic coup, but once it has been in motion, the canceling of it will be a diplomatic disaster! Alexander—"

"Will not raise a fuss, once he is acquainted with the prince's reasons. In fact, I imagine he will be pleased just to let the matter drop, just as you should. It was rather shabby of him, don't you think, to rid himself of the reminder of his guilt by sending her here?"

The marquess slowly relaxed into his chair, imagining the cold, correct letter he would send his Russian counterpart. Then he returned his gaze to Devlyn. "But why did you take it upon yourself to inform the prince of this unfortunate past of hers?"

Devlyn hadn't time to answer, for Tregier dashed into the room, his golden hair glistening with snow, his fashionable greatcoat flowing behind him. He was too excited to do more than nod at Devlyn's exalted companion. "Go ahead and announce your great good news, my boy. Didn't take me an hour after all. So many fools were ready to take my bet I had only to go to Brooks! I owe you my life, or at least a year's pay, but don't try to collect till I pay my other debts."

"Consider us even, Jordy," Devlyn said with grave courtesy. "It's payment enough to know you won't cut me now that I've made such a terrible mesalliance."

Struck by a thought, Tregier lingered with his hand on the door. "So when you have a son, will he be in line for the throne? What a thought—Tsar Devlyn!"

"I don't think so," Devlyn said with a show of regret. "Tatiana's line is a bar sinister—illegitimate, you know. I suppose he might be pretender to the lost throne of Saraya Kalin, if you insist on such matters."

"Tsar Devlyn?" Wellesley echoed when Tregier was gone. "You don't mean the princess—you—" For a moment he looked close to explosion, then he slumped back into his chair with a tired laugh. "I see now. Finally I see. And I thought you were a sensible fellow. Else I should never let her travel in close quarters with you." Wellesley sighed and picked up a glass, examining it for water spots before pouring himself a drink. "I suppose I must be getting old. I've forgotten what it is like to be so swept away so that matters of global diplomacy pale in significance."

Devlyn took another sip of wine, summoning an inner strength to resist uttering the name "Moll." Apparently that mistress did not burn quite so bright in Wellesley's memory, for he added, "But you—my mistake was imagining that you were like my brother, for Wellington's not got a romantic bone in his body. I never pegged you as that sort, but there you are." The foreign secretary's thin mouth quirked on one side. "Couldn't help yourself, could you? Just like Lancelot escorting Guinevere to her wedding." He raised his glass in grudging salute. "I realize you think I should thank you for preventing the sort of grief King Arthur faced after marrying Guinevere."

"You should, you know. Imagine the diplomatic repercussions if the princess had been sent home in disgrace afterward. I did have my country's best interest in the forefront, my lord, as always. I'm even sacrificing my freedom for Brittania," he finished virtuously.

But Wellesley was not so credulous as his regent. "Balderdash." After a gloomy moment, he added, "I know you've decided not to be a general. But have you ever considered putting your not-inconsiderable strategic talents to work in politics? I always have need for a clever aide."

Devlyn accepted this apology or absolution or whatever it was meant to be, but couldn't resist a last dig. "I had considered politics, but I thought I'd enter at a rather higher position than the one you suggest. Prinny offered me the post of war minister."

Wellesley choked on his wine. When he could speak again, he croaked, "He wasn't serious, was he? You— you did refuse?"

Regretfully Devlyn nodded. "I was tempted, imagining Wellington's reaction. But no, I won't be displacing Palmerston. I'd rather face the French in battle than you. And as for your own offer, I mean no offense, but once this war is done I hope I won't have to work for any more Wellesleys. Ever again."

Wellesley receded, taking this as a compliment, although it was not precisely meant as one. "So Prinny took news of your impending marriage well? I daresay he saw it as an elegant solution."

"Offered us his chapel for the ceremony. He's giving the bride away, in fact." At the consternation that passed over Wellesley's face, Devlyn inquired lightly, "Oh, were you hoping for that honor? Never mind, you may give me away instead. For if it weren't for your threatening me with exile, court-martial, and cashiering—"

"I did no such thing." Wellesley pushed his chair back from the table in dignified affront.

"If you hadn't, I'd never have met the princess."

"Now you thank me. I expect you're going to blame me in a year or two," Wellesley said grimly. "She'll run you a merry chase, I'll be bound."

"We'll see what my brother has to say to that. He's rather too pleased with you of late to let you go without a fight." As he got up to leave, Wellesley inquired hesitantly, "Will I receive an invitation to the wedding?"

"But of course. Wouldn't have come about without you, after all. And all of my fellow miscreants sent home by Wellington will be there, I imagine. My smuggler friend will be standing up for me." Devlyn added, "Cumberland won't be coming, however."

"Most diplomatic of you. Well, I wish you happy, lad, though you hardly deserve it after all you've put me through today." He shook his head and departed, muttering, "War minister! Wait till Liverpool hears about this!"

The porter who opened the door for Wellesley continued in, holding out a silver tray with a calling card. "Your art dealer is waiting in the foyer," the porter said without much interest. "He said you asked him here."

Art dealer. Devlyn puzzled on that for a moment, then gave up and looked at the card. "Send him in."

Just for once, Devlyn tried to see his old friend as a stranger might. But his first thought was, my God, he looks more like my father than I do. A stranger would indeed suppose John Dryden to be the son of a lord rather than an apothecary. He was dressed with a muted, expensive taste that made him seem very much at home in this gentlemen's club. As he ordered brandy, his low, modulated voice betrayed none of the broad accents of the county of his birth. In fact, he didn't even sound precisely English any longer, as if all the languages he spoke and countries he frequented had made him an international man, belonging everywhere and nowhere.

He is as controlled as I am—or used to be, Devlyn concluded, and was sorry. They had not been so alike as children, but as they grew apparently their common alienation—or their common blood—had given them each a need for self-mastery. But now that Devlyn knew how triumphant the occasional surrender could be, he wished for his friend a similar capitulation.

Eyebrow quirked with disdain, Dryden surveyed the worn leather furnishings, the threadbare rug, and the undistinguished hunting prints that decorated the walls. "You actually pay membership dues to belong to this shabby place?"

"Food's mediocre, too," Devlyn admitted. He couldn't really find it in him to defend the club, especially now that he noticed the spiderweb in the corner. "We pay for the company, I suppose, although that's also mediocre. Art dealer, are you now?"

John sprawled carelessly into a chair and accepted the brandy Devlyn offered. "Your sterling character has had a salutary effect on me. I intend to tread the straight and narrow path—at least officially."

"Why only officially?" the major couldn't help asking.

"Don't push, Vicar. The dangers of blockade running are too great to risk for merely legitimate profits. Besides, even if I obey the English law, I'll still be breaking the French, and it never pays to go only halfway. Felicitations, by the way. How did you manage it?"

Devlyn shrugged. "No halfway measures for me, either. You will be happy to know that my corruption is well and truly accomplished." He glanced up to see Dryden's congratulatory smile. "Yes, I started with falsehoods and slander and quickly ascended to extortion, forgery, and arm-twisting." Pensively he poured a bit of pepper on the white tablecloth. "Crime does pay, I learned, just as you always told me. I lived my life in unrecognized virtue for twenty-eight years, toiling away in the vinyard and earning only scorn. And it's only when I began lawbreaking that princesses started to love me and princes offered me cabinet positions. And even you have decided I might make an adequate smuggler after all, haven't you?"

Dryden laughed, his odd silver eyes reflecting the wan sunlight. "Well, I must say I didn't know you had such potential, Mike. Back when we were stealing horses from your old estate—your own horses, close enough—well, I knew you used to ask for absolution in the confessional afterward."

"No such thing!" But some remnant of his former honesty compelled him to add, "Only because I feared the vicar would recognize my voice."

"Well, you can confess to me. You know I'll only think the better of you for it. How did you manage this betrothal?"

Surrendering to his guilty pride, Devlyn outlined his scheme, sure that John would be both admiring and discreet. In fact, Dryden was truly impressed. "Wellesley's coming to the wedding too? So you got even that smooth-talking snake on your side?"

"You are speaking of a cabinet member, Captain. And your former employer."

"Future employer, too, it turns out." Dryden took a sip of the brandy, made a face, and put his glass aside. "Remind me to bring you a case of my cognac, old man. This stuff will blind you."

"Future employer?"

John's winged brows drew together in a frown. "Ah, yes. Wellesley didn't tell you, I take it. Yes, that's why I'm officially reforming. Haven't any choice. I'm to become Wellesley's very own private privateer."