The Unintended Bride (26 page)

"Are you happy?" There was too much intensity in his gaze when he asked.

"Very," she said sharply, belatedly aware that there was not a scrap of sincerity in her tone.

"I — " The look in his eye was too hopeful.

She interrupted him to add, "Arthur is a wonderful husband. I can ask for no more than what I have been given. And I do not appreciate any insinuation otherwise." This time, she managed to infuse her statement with the truth, for he backed away from her, and the intensity of his gaze disappeared.

"I assure you I did not mean — " He broke off. With a faint tinge of color in his cheeks, he said quickly, "I hope you don't think I've been following you."

She remembered now why she had liked Gabriel Digby in the first place. He was an exceedingly honest man. She met his honesty with her own, hoping she would not have cause to regret doing so. "I had wondered."

"No. I came to the inn by chance only. I had no notion that you and Arthur would be there. I had received an" — he hesitated over the word — "an invitation from Mr. Delagrace to join him here for a week or so."

"Why would Fenwell Delagrace wish to call you from London at this particular time?" The memory of how convincingly Arthur had lied to his grandmother, and to Digby himself, gave her a touch of caution. It occurred to her, though she loathed the idea, that he could be Arthur's mysterious note sender.

"His decision is key in who will be the next head of the Round Table Society. He wished to discuss the matter with me in privacy, and he had been called home unexpectedly, so he invited me to join him."

"And you agreed."

He shook his head, and again her instinct was to believe him. "Actually, no. I told him I would follow him in a few days. And that is when Mrs. Watterly kindly invited me here, so that it would not look as though I had allowed Fenwell Delagrace to buy me the position — if I were so fortunate as to attain it."

"Indeed?" Hero had not known that fact. Delagrace had been outspoken at the society meeting in London, but he was just a member like any other, wasn't he? But no. She thought back and realized that many members had deferred to his opinion. She wondered if Arthur knew. He could be unobservant as to others' motives. But one so critical to him? No, he must know what the lack of support could mean.

Certainly his grandmother knew. And she was not one to keep such a thing a secret. Perhaps that was why he was so hesitant to be around Gwen and her father? He suspected that their hasty marriage had dashed his chance to become head of the society. Perhaps he felt that nothing he did could overturn that insult to their family.

Noticing that Digby was again gazing at her a bit too avidly for her comfort, she said quickly, "How kind of him to invite you out for a personal interview, especially since he has known Arthur forever." When he showed no reaction, she added, "Shouldn't you be involved in meeting your challenges though?" A part of her hoped he would agree with her so strongly that he would leave Camelot at once. Another part of her wished he would stay just long enough for her to confirm or deny whether he was the one playing the game at Arthur's expense.

"Yes." He nodded without hesitation. "But Mr. Delagrace has offered to help me find just the right task to meet a challenge."

"Is that necessary?"

"Yes, just the right challenge is essential." He watched her carefully as he added, "After all, I am vying with your husband. You would agree that he is stiff competition?"

"Arthur is a great scholar as well as a wonderful man." And it was certainly not his fault that he had been saddled with a wife likely to ruin his chances.

"I agree." He leaned forward earnestly and she leaned back in her chair. "That is where Fenwell Delagrace believes he can help — to find the perfect challenge for me to meet that will win it for me."

There was less enthusiasm in his expression than she would have expected for such an offer. She heard something more beneath his words and, after a moment's thought, realized what it was. "And you do not want to insult him by refusing, I take it."

"Indeed." He smiled ruefully. "I cannot afford to make an enemy of Fenwell Delagrace."

"I can understand that." Unfortunately, all too well, she thought, since she was the one who had managed to put Arthur on the other side of Fenwell's good wishes.

He put his hand on hers as it lay on the arm of her chair. "There is no need to be frantic, I assure you."

She removed her hand to her lap, certain he would not pursue it there. "What do you mean?"

"That Arthur will be unfairly bested. After all, Fenwell will offer me only advice on the best challenges to pursue. And Arthur has his grandmother — as well as you — to help him."

"That does seem to make it even, then, doesn't it?" she said in agreement. But Digby, bless his steadfast heart, was not aware that Hero was a liability to Arthur rather than a boon.

"Of course, Arthur and I both need to be watching for challenges. Most especially Valor." His eyes contained the almost childlike optimism she remembered well from his courtship of her.

She smiled. "You worry over Valor?" She found it impossible to think of him as a schemer, a puzzlemaster, or a gamester. No. If she had said she was unhappy, she had no doubt that he would have happily acted as her knight in shining armor and run away with her to the Continent.

"I consider it to be the most difficult challenge, yes."

"I would wish you well, if simply for the sake of our past friendship" — she would not categorize it as more — "but I am afraid all my support must go to my husband now. I can only hope you meet all three of your challenges well, and that Arthur wins in the end."

"Of course." He looked unhappy at her words even as he struggled to be hopeful. "We have both met at least one of the challenges already, and in that the difficulty of the competition is clear."

"Which challenge have you both met?" She would scratch his eyes out if he dared mention the fire to her, she vowed.

"We have both met the Honor challenge."

"How?" Certainly Arthur did not seem to agree. Otherwise he would not be so downcast that there had been no more notes from their mysterious friend with Malory's manuscript.

He said with certainty, "I, for the set of Arthurian stanzas I uncovered in a monastery in France last year. Arthur, for his translation of a rare French copy of a tale of Launcelot that must date back to fourteen hundred."

"Around about the time of
Le Morte d'Arthur
, then?" she asked with as innocent a lilt in her voice as she could manage, but her gaze was avid. She did not want to credit it, but cowardice should not blind her to the truth. If he was the one tormenting Arthur, she was determined to find him out.

Unfortunately, if Digby flinched, he did so so faintly that she could not observe it. "That is my favorite of the Arthurian books, you know," she pressed on, determined to elicit some reaction.

"Mine, as well." He smiled, but his expression remained devoid of guilty starts or ruinous blushes. "I am especially fond of the Launcelot and Guinevere tales of late. It was a tragedy that they could not be together because of her marriage to Arthur."

"Yes, well, I've never understood those tales myself," Hero said sharply. "Arthur was a perfectly good husband and Guinevere was a fool to betray him with another man."

"They were in love. Even Arthur understood the purity of their love. If Mordred had not forced his hand — "

"They were still fools," she interrupted him, feeling as if the conversation were going to a place she might regret tomorrow morning.

"Perhaps I simply feel an affinity to Arthur's finest knight," he said mildly, allowing her to win the skirmish, though she had no doubt he had not changed his mind. "Have I ever mentioned to you that my middle name is Launcelot?"

Hero was left speechless at that for a moment, and then she grabbed up the first book she could reach and hastily excused herself, convinced that Gabriel Digby — Gabriel Launcelot Digby, was a madman — an amiable madman, but a madman all the same.

The dinner that Gwen's father called intimate, Hero called oppressive. Thirty people — laughing, chatting, curious people who knew Arthur well and Hero not at all. Half of the guests were Round Table Society members, the other half people Arthur had known for a lifetime. Neighbors, who were all of them partial to Gwen since she arrived, a small blond angel, in their midst.

Unfortunately for Hero, aside from the staid Round Table Society gentlemen, not a one of the guests ever heard Hero's name spoken aloud until she appeared at the table and Arthur introduced her around. She had spent enough time in London to know that the quick glances exchanged among the guests did not suggest they approved of Arthur's choice of bride.

She felt like a hothouse flower brought out to be admired but found to be too dangerous to come near. They smiled at her as if she were a rare creature, totally untamed, around whom they must be on their best manners as well as on their guard from. And they spoke to her in short declarative sentences, a trifle loudly, as if she might be deaf, or simple.

Worst of all was the false, solicitous kindnesses they offered. The gentleman seated to Hero's left had made more than one remark about Arthur being a "good boy," discussed his need to "pull his head out of his books now and again," and admitted candidly that he "had thought Gwen would bring him around sooner or later." She wanted to scream. Or, more truthfully, to cry.

More pressing than her need to scream was her desire to run away, to find privacy and solitude and deal with the wounded feelings she could not contain. But that was not to be. She had spent enough time at Camelot to know the consequences of her actions. Where in London, her retreat would be seen with humor, spiteful or not, to leave this dinner party would be so much more. It would mean that she had conceded defeat to Gwen's father.

For herself she did not mind. She had never been truly accepted by society. She loved her books and her scholarly pursuits too much for that. She would not miss the social invitations, nor care too much for the social snubs she was certain to incur. But for Arthur, as badly as he wanted — deserved — to be head of the Round Table Society, she did not dare. She had already been the cause of so much difficulty for him.

No. She must face the music like a grown woman. She thought of her older sister, who had shown tremendous courage with seeming ease. What would Miranda do in a situation like this? No doubt she would charm Fenwell Delagrace into backing Arthur once more, and give her altered versions of classic fairy tales to convince everyone in the room that Arthur had made a well-fated marriage. But Hero was not Miranda.

If only she could pull one of the decorative swords from the wall and run it through the guests. Not all of them, of course, only those who would make unkind comments in the quietest way, and with the sweetest smiles, so that at first she thought her ears deceived her.

"They were such boon companions in their early age," reminisced one elderly matron.

Hero wondered at the veracity of the memories. She could not imagine a twelve-year-old boy finding much of interest in a toddling child. But such was her insecurity, that she could almost believe the two had been inseparable since birth. She reminded herself of the look in Gwen's eye when she spoke about the perfect man. She did not speak in the abstract, Hero was certain. Perhaps it was her own experience with her sisters, but she trusted her instinct. Gwen Delagrace was not in love with a shadow hero, but with a real flesh-and-blood man.

Restlessly, only pretending to be listening to the conversations about her, Hero let her mind wander over the possibilities. So who was the man Gwen loved? Was he here tonight? She quickly scanned the table but saw no one whose gaze lingered on Gwen, lovelorn or otherwise.

Perhaps he did not yet know of her feelings? Then she must not expect him to give her a clue, but Gwen. Unfortunately, Gwen herself was looking only at her plate.

Hero endured her torture, sat silently nodding and smiling as the memories flowed forth without encouragement from her. Arthur as a small child, destined for great things. Arthur saving Gwen from the lake, Arthur bringing Gwen the sweetest berries as they ripened, so that she should not be scratched by the brambles. Arthur, coming up just a tad short at everything he tried as he grew older.

Would this night ever end? she wondered, smiling at a woman who had just called Arthur a "trembling milkweed" in the sweetest of voices.

And then the next note came, from where she could not say, though she looked about the room as discreetly as possible as soon as she realized what had happened. One moment she was pretending with all her skill to listen to the conversation. The next thing she knew she looked down to her lap as she idly smoothed her skirt, and there was a note.

She stared at it in disbelief for a moment. How could — She blinked, thinking she had conjured it from her own boredom. But no. The small white square of paper was in her lap, and she had no idea how it had gotten there. She snatched it up into her fingers and looked around to see if anyone was watching.

No.

She read the note.
A good book can unlock any mystery, if one knows how to read
. Again, it was so cryptic as to mean almost nothing. It puzzled her. But the handwriting was familiar. She looked at Arthur, down the length of the table, seated beside Gwen's father and across from Gwen herself.

He was too far away for her to discreetly make a gesture to catch his attention, especially since he had taken off his spectacles at his grandmother's request. She thought the outward sign of weak eyesight made him look less than leadership material. Hero found it distinctly annoying because it made him unable to see her.

Fine, she would take care of the matter by herself. Though she might not be able to run a household like Camelot without mishap, surely she could make her way to the library of Gwen's home, as the note directed.

But first she had to wait until the gentlemen retired to their brandy and cigars. As the women began to gather for conversation, she saw one flinty-eyed matron bearing down upon her. Hastily, she left a message with the footman, in the event she had not returned before Arthur and the gentlemen rejoined them, and exited the room quickly, before she could be snared. She hoped that the other women would assume she was simply freshening up and her absence would not be questioned. Or, better yet, that no one would come to seek her out.