The Shadow of Albion (16 page)

and to Wessex’s secret relief, Sarah smiled back. Straightening from his bow and

sheathing his saber, Koscuisko dismounted from his horse and began to tie the

assassin’s hands behind him. The man’s eyes glittered ferally, but he made no move

to resist.

„Koscuisko’s by way of being a friend of mine. Harmless, I assure you,“ Wessex

added.

Sarah made a quick face of disagreement before looking back in the direction of

the house. The orchestra’s music could still be heard faintly in the distance, and the

more adventurous sparks of the company were already in the gardens searching for

the lone gunman. It was only a matter of minutes before they traced him and the

others here.

„We must get him out of here,“ she said.

„Precisely our dearest ambition,“ Wessex said.

„His horse is back there in the spinney,“ Koscuisko added. „He’s no Hirondel,

but he should serve to get us away.“

„Good.“

Koscuisko tossed Wessex a bundled-up greatcape from the back of his saddle

and Wessex swirled it about himself, covering his garish costume. He pushed

Gambit roughly ahead of him; Koscuisko swung up onto his horse again, and in a

moment the three figures had vanished into the night as if they’d never been there at

all.

Well, really, Sarah thought inadequately, staring after them. She was not entirely

certain of what she should feel; certainly arresting Saint-Lazarre’s would-be murderer

was the most important thing, but did Wessex constantly have to treat her as if she

were an annoying encumbrance to be shed as quickly as possible? If not for her, the

assassin would have succeeded, and Saint-Lazarre would be dead….

As she brooded, staring at the oak, Sarah realized she was not alone. There was

someone right in front of her, standing with his back pressed against the trunk, so

still that Sarah could nearly believe that he had been there all along and she had just

missed seeing him. For one brief final instant she tried to convince herself that the

newcomer was one of the party-goers, and men, helplessly, surrendered to belief in

the evidence of her eyes.

For the man was as small as a child – Sarah, no giantess, was fully a head taller

than he. He was dressed in a sort of short deerskin toga, and his skin was stained

dark in a dappled pattern that almost exactly matched the pattern of the moonlight

through the trees. Around his throat he wore a torque of pure gold, with terminals of

amber carved in the shape of acorns. His hair-was long, and had leaves carefully

braided into it, giving him a foliate mane that added to the camouflage effect He was

barefoot, and carried no weapons that Sarah could see. But his eyes alone were

enough to make anyone wary of him. They were as brilliant as open water in

moonlight, and beneath their compelling gaze Sarah found herself completely

incapable of moving.

„Sarah.—-“ His voice was like the rustling of the wind through trees. „You do not

belong here. Why have you come?“

Sarah could not have answered that question even if she had been able to speak.

Suddenly she felt strongly that i she did not belong at Mooncoign at all – but if she

did not belong here, where else could she possibly belong?

As she struggled with that question, the stranger stepped closer, and laid his cool

fingers upon Sarah’s brow. Even in the chill of an April night she could smell a

strange green scent wafting from his skin, bitter and sweet together.

„A summoning, that you may take the place of one who can no longer aid us,“ the

fairylord decided. „You have come in her place to aid the land, though you will draw

no health from it until you truly bind yourself to this realm’s destiny. Beware,

Mooncoign’s lady!“

The creature’s words had filled her with a thousand questions, but how, as Sarah

filled her lungs to ask them, she had the odd feeling of rousing from a dream, though

she had been fully conscious the entire time.

And the fairylord was gone.

The Fair Folk… she had heard them spoken of so casually this evening, though

the very thought of them seemed strange to her. Was that what she had seen? And if

so, why?

You do not belong here, he had said.

And Sarah had the terrible feeling he was right.

Chapter 8

The Gilded Vixen

(Cornwall, April 1805)

Elsewhere in England, a few hours before His Grace of Wessex got his man and

the Marchioness of Roxbury received such distressing intelligence, an interview of

some importance was taking place.

At least, it was a matter of importance to one of the parties involved. The other

seemed to be giving it very little of her attention.

„Now see here, my girl – “ As if sensing that his tone was too martial, the Earl of

Ripon broke off and summoned his rather meager resources of charm.

Richard Highclere was the Earl of Ripon, seventeenth in his line, and had

succeeded to the honors and dignities of the earldom some twenty-four months

before, following the death of his widowed elder brother, Guildford, on the hunting

field. That brother Guildford’s late wife had seen fit to present to the world only one

chit of a girl accounted for Richard’s sudden rise to consequence, and it might

naturally be supposed that he would enfold the unwitting agent of this rise in an

embrace of philoprogenitive loving kindness.

This was, however, not the case. For the new Earl of Ripon, having risen so high,

looked to rise higher still… if the proper sort of marriage could be made by the

proper person.

„Meriel,“ he said, cozeningly. Like his father and elder brother, Ripon was dark

and heavy-featured, with something of a mastiff look about him. Though he had

married to his family’s best advantage some dozen years ago, Ripon and his

Countess had no children. The girl he was now addressing was the family’s current

white hope for its future.

Meriel Jehanne Greye Bulleyn Highclere regarded her uncle and guardian with a

steady blue gaze. She was seventeen years of age, and had the portrait-perfect match

to her late mother’s cream-and-midnight coloring. Though her father had been in his

grave these two years and more, Meriel still wore the black of deep mourning, as

much through the new Earl’s indifference to her wardrobe as through any wish of

her own.

„Now, child, don’t take on so. You will like London – yes, and you will like Jamie

as well. The two of you will make a famous match – “

„And there will be dresses, and sweetmeats, and places for your uncles at Court,“

a mocking voice sang out behind them.

The Highclere family had been a numerous one: in addition to the present Earl,

there were four more brothers: two at present serving with the Peninsular Army, and

the youngest in holy orders in the north of England. The remaining Highclere brother

– next in age to the Earl himself – lounged in the doorway.

Despite his riding clothes, Geoffrey Highclere looked much as if he had just

stepped from a pattern-card at a Bond Street haberdashers. Only a claret-colored

vest marred the monochromatic perfection of his black-and-white garb, and though

his posture was the very image of indolence, he tapped a silver-handled riding whip

against his boot with every evidence of irritated impatience.

Geoffrey was as blond as Ripon was dark, and spent his days gambling away his

small allowance and running up a shocking array of bills with any tradesman foolish

enough to extend him credit. Despite his elder brother’s constant insinuations that an

army commission would be an unparalleled opportunity to gain both renown and

loot, Geoffrey remained stubbornly uninterested… and oddly in funds.

It was perhaps this quality of resiliency that had caused the Earl of Ripon to

include his younger brother in his plans once those bright dreams had begun to

blossom into something darker. A plot needed plotters, and Geoffrey Highclere had

Prince Jamie’s ear.

„Geoffrey,“ Ripon greeted his younger brother. Geoffrey sketched a mocking

bow. „I thought the Court had returned to London.“

„The court, yes, but me young prince remains in Scotland. For some reason he is

not pleased with this Danish betrothal – “ here Geoffrey shrugged, indicating his

own incuriosity about the prince’s objections „ – and still less pleased that the

wedding is being put forward to the fall. And how fares our little Madonna?“

„Don’t blaspheme,“ Ripon said absently, then: „I had not thought the Prince’s

wedding would be so soon.“

„Our glorious King desires Danish harbors for his Fleet, and Danish troops for

the Alliance. A Danish princess for the Heir, then, follows naturally – if he does not

marry into Denmark, after all, there are few enough royal houses who would have a

Protestant prince – “

„A heretic prince,“ Ripon. corrected, adding as if by rote, „heir to a realm of

pagans, apostates, and worse.“

„ – and the King will not indulge his sister’s whims by marrying his house into the

German states again this generation,“ Geoffrey finished. „So, once the treaty – I

mean, the match – is made, it is best to seal the matter as soon as possible, before

Bonaparte redraws the map of Europe once again.“

He shoved himself away from the doorframe and sauntered into Ripon’s study,

drawing off his black riding gloves as he did so. Wimout asking his brother’s leave,

Geoffrey crossed to the table beneath the window and poured himself a large

whiskey from the decanter standing mere. The gelid gunmetal light of a Cornish

spring shone full upon his face, turning his ethereal beauty from that of an archangel

to that of Lucifer.

„At any rate, Jamie is at Holyrood, and so you find me here until such time as he

deigns to grace Buck House and Town with his so-charming presence. We are not

on such terms, he and I, to allow me to command him for my own comfort – he

pays more attention to that damned valet Brummell of his!“ Geoffrey added.

„You will have to try harder to gain his confidence,“ Ripon said quietly. His

words were for Geoffrey, but his gaze was fixed unwinkingly on his niece.

The year might be 1805, but the memory of me great families of the realm was

long… and those who had not changed their religion at the eighth King Henry’s

behest had found themselves in the minority in me acquiescent England that Charles

II created upon his Restoration. England was now a tolerant kingdom, though a

Protestant one, and the power that the Catholic lords had briefly wielded in Bloody

Mary Tudor’s day had been on the wane ever since. „Prince James is not a

strong-minded young man,“ Ripon said, staring at Meriel. „He is simple to manage –

“

„If you say so, brother dear,“ Geoffrey murmured, addressing himself to his

whiskey.

Determinedly ignoring his brother, Ripon continued to address his silent niece in a

voice of portentous meaning, „And when the Prince takes a bride, she will be sure

that her control extends throughout his household, eliminating undesirable influences

– and returning England to the rule of the Old Religion of Holy Mother Church.“

Meriel did her best to meet her Uncle Richard’s gaze» but after a moment her

own faltered, and she looked down, staring at her entwined fingers. She had known

her uncle schemed – he had dropped enough hints during the past twelvemonth that

something dramatic was afoot – but never in all her seventeen years had it entered

her head that she might be made a pawn in an intrigue of this magnitude! The

Highcleres had always been intolerant of practitioners of the New learning, as the

Protestant sects had been called when they first sprang up, and Meriel had been

taught to despise heretics and pagans just as she had been taught her Latin, her

Greek, and her catechism.

But in the Old Earl’s time, this enmity had been tacitly understood to be a private

matter, not to be paraded upon the public stage. In the normal way of things, Meriel

would have married into one of the other Catholic families of England and occupied

her life with scholarship and childbearing.

But when her father had died and Uncle Richard had become the Earl of Ripon

and head of the family, he was not so sanguine about the earldom’s eclipse as

Meriel’s own papa had been. Now Meriel’s beauty – which as a proper young lady

she had been taught to modestly disregard, for vanity was a grievous sin – was

suddenly a matter of great importance, for it was the lure by which the Earl of Ripon

expected to entangle a prince.

„You will not fail me, child – will you?“ Ripon was demanding of her now. „Once