The Shadow of Albion (17 page)

the ring is upon your finger, we can call an end to this useless war with France. The

King is old, and his only son a useless fribble, ripe for rule by his betters. A Catholic

England is no threat to Imperial France, but her natural ally – “

„Anyone would think the chit understood what you were saying – are you so

desperate for an audience as all that, dear brother?“ Geoffrey sneered. „You might

as well talk to a parrot as to a girl – she cannot possibly have any interest in your

plans. Can you, niece?“ he asked sweetly.

„No, Uncle Geoffrey,“ Meriel whispered to her clenched hands.

„But you’ll do your part?“ Ripon insisted. „If I am to take you to London and put

you in the Prince’s way, I will not have your mouse-hearted missishness spoiling

everything I have worked so long to bring about.“

„Oh, she’ll do what she’s told,“ Geoffrey said, turning away from the window

and slapping his crop against his high black riding boot. He glanced once at Meriel,

and smiled. „I shall see to it.“

In the spring, no one but the foolish and the desperate ventured forth upon the

highways of England with any expectation of arriving anywhere at all, for the

surfaces of even the main roads were neady divided between axle-breaking stones

and horse-crippling mud, rendering anything more than the passage of a rider on

horseback a matter extremely problematical.

But possible… with patience, planning, and several good heavy coaches.

Jocasta Sybella Honoria Masham Dyer, Dowager Duchess of Wessex and

grandmother of the present Duke, had no interest in the beauties of the English

countryside. When her son Andrew was alive, she had endured the country for his

sake, but when Andrew’ had vanished in France thirteen years ago, she had closed

Wessex Court and begun to divide her time between London and Bath.

The practice of many years had enabled the Dowager Duchess to determine the

earliest moment in the spring that the roads might be practicably navigated, and as

soon as her lady-companion had returned from her errand in Wiltshire, Her Grace of

Wessex had set forth for London. A week’s hard traveling had seen the Dowager

Duchess settled into the family’s cramped and ancient townhouse that stood on

Knightrider Street, within the shadow of St. Paul’s and the sound of the Thames.

Although the word „Tenebrae“ was picked out in letters of age-blackened silver

above the lintel, the house’s name was Dyer House; it had belonged to the Dyer

family long before the dukedom had. Through the years, fashionable addresses had

changed; Dyer House was almost within the City, and very far from Oxford Street

and the western expansion that had made the open fields between Soho and Tyburn

into the new resort of Society. But Dyer House had belonged to the family since time

out of mind, and the Dyers were slow to change customs that suited them. Though

the late Duke – Wessex’s father, Andrew – had been a provident enough

businessman that his son was now landlord to much of Piccadilly, the Dowager

Duchess had resisted all blandishments to have a London residence built for her

upon one of the spacious new squares. And so, though it lacked a fewjdays of May,

the Holland covers had been removed from the formidable Jacobean furnishings and

the brightly polished knocker had been hung upon the door; the Dowager Duchess

of Wessex was officially in residence.

* * *

„Where is the boy?“ the Dowager demanded of her companion.

Dame Alecto Kennet smiled fondly at her mistress. Alecto had served as the

Dowager’s eyes and ears ever since Her Grace of Wessex had retired from the

world – as well as performing those tasks from which the Dowager’s rank barred her

– and she was quite used to the older woman’s moods.

„I’m certain he’ll be here as soon as he feels himself presentable,“ Dame Alecto

chided gently. „He must call upon the Horse Guards, after all, as well as speaking

with those other gentlemen he thinks you to be in ignorance of.“

The Dowager Duchess of Wessex laughed sharply. „Between the Horse Guards

and the White Tower, I wonder that I shall see Wessex any day before the Season is

over. Still, we must put the best face we can upon the thing, and it would be a

kindness to let him know of our plans. Alecto, you have spent time with the girl –

will she do?“

„I could not spend so much time with her as I should like,“ Dame Alecto

responded slowly, gathering her thoughts, „for when Wessex arrived, I did not like

him to see me, lest he wonder wfiat I did there.“

„Yes. It would have caused questions,“ the Dowager agreed dryly. „My grandson

asks too many questions, and this one may still arise, if the matter of your visit

comes up in conversation….“

„Or if Dr. Falconer pursues his suspicions about Lady Roxbury’s so-convenient

recovery. The disobliging man attended Roxbury – the knew she was dying,“ Dame

Alecto said. „Now Dr. Falconer suspects Roxbury made an unnatural bargain to

save her life.“

„As any might, who had the connections to do so,“ the Dowager said. „Dr.

Falconer can do nothing to hinder us, for he cannot possibly suspect the truth – that

the Roxbury he knew is indeed dead.“

The Dowager sighed, and pushed away the letter she was composing at the tiny

chinoiserie writing desk that occupied one corner of her cluttered sitting-room. The

Dowager was something of a jackdaw, and the room was crammed with exotic

mementos of friends’ trips abroad.

„Poor child. She was my goddaughter, and I must admit that I did not do my

duty there. But we do not have time to grieve over what cannot be changed,“ she

added briskly. „The Marchioness of Roxbury is needed, and England will have her,

by fair means or foul.“

„I think it will be only a matter of time until the girl forgets her qld life in the world

from which we took her,“ Dame Alecto said slowly. „The cordial I have concocted

for her will suppress her old memories, and every day she will be prompted with the

details of Roxbury’s life. Soon she will know its every detail as though it had always

been her own.“

„And she will have Wessex, and continue the line,“ the Dowager finished. Though

her face was serene, there was a faint note of worry in her voice. „He must not

oppose me in this – our families have planned this marriage since the girl was both;

the Gonynghams have always had close ties to the Stuarts, and King Henry will want

Roxbury to support him when Princess Stephanie arrives – he will want Roxbury to

help the Princess make her way in society, and Roxbury cannot be Princess

Stephanie’s chaperone unless she is, herself, married.“

„So the Duke of Wessex must marry his Duchess – and soon,“ Dame Alecto

said. „And pray that the Oldest People will forgive the substitution of one Roxbury

for another.“

„They must,“ the Dowager Duchess of Wessex said.

„We had no choice – not if the Throne is to be preserved.“

They ought to take pity on a poor man, Wessex thought groggily, and not let the

sun off its leash so early in the morning. He might, in fact, have successfully

rejoined my lord Morpheus, had Atheling not chosen that moment to

ever-so-discreetly make his presence known.

Atheling was His Grace’s most superior and long-suffering manservant, who kept

His Grace’s Albany rooms precisely as they should be kept, and His Grace’s

wardrobe perfectly fit to embrace any occasion from a Royal Drawing Room to a

night spent steeplejacking across the roofs of London Town.

In addition to those undeniable proficiencies, Atheling also rejoiced in a singularly

remarkable absence of curiosity.

But despite such a sterling and acquiescent disposition, Atheling knew his duty

when he saw it. And so, surveying his master in his master’s disordered bed,

Atheling coughed.

Rather than movement, there was a cessation of movement beneath the thick

woolen blankets. Encouraged, Atheling essayed a slight clearing of the throat.

„Very well, Atheling,“ the mounded counterpane announced. „I’m awake.“ There

was a creak of the bedstead, and his grace made his delinquent appearance.

The night had been long and the play had been deep; he and Koscuisko had

returned to Town with the assassin known as Gambit – revealed, when all was said

and done, to be a man called Charles Corday, born in the French colony of

Louisiana, who despite his ragamuffin appearance was a confidential agent high in

Talleyrand’s councils. The partners had left Corday to Misbourne’s tender mercies

and decided to celebrate their success; weeks of sleeping in ditches and sheltering

beneath hedgerows were still vivid enough in Wessex’s mind to make the hells and

fleshpots of Town a powerfully seductive lure.

Wessex ran a hand through his hair, restoring it to as much order as the current

mode called for. He gazed down at the bosom of his impeccable linen nightshirt as if

he could not precisely recall to mind the occasion upon which he had donned such a

garment, and then turned his regard upon his valet with a levelness that was in itself

accusatory.

„Will Your Grace take tea or chocolate this morning?“ Atheling asked austerely.

Wessex winced.

„My Grace will take an explanation of the crise de coeur that causes you, my

good Atheling, to cry the view halloo through my bedchamber before two of the

afternoon.“ An unpleasant possibility took strong possession of his grace. „I was

not promised to anyone this morning, was I?“

„Indeed not, Your Grace; as Your Grace has often instructed me, I am to take

measures to restrain Your Grace from engaging himself to any party commencing

before the late afternoon. I shall heat the shaving water at once, as Your Grace will

wish to peruse the morning’s post before breakfast;“

His objective achieved, Atheling retreated from the. chamber. Unsatisfied

curiosity finished the task of bringing the young Duke to full wakefulness. Now what

could have come in the post to warrant this display of amateur theatrics on

Atheling’s part? Wessex wondered.

Before he could arrive at any particular conclusion, Atheling returned to the room

with a basin and a can of hot water, the case containing his grace’s razors tucked

beneath one arm. Wessex swung his long legs out of bed and reached for the

dressing-gown laid ready to hand upon the chair. He shrugged himself into it.

Through the open door to the dressing-room, a pier-glass caught slivered and angled

impressions of the tall blond man with the swordblade face.

Atheling set the basin down upon the battered oak sideboard and placed the can

beside it. He ladled a stoup of the water into a small bowl ready to hand, then

labored soap and brush until the bowl was filled with stiff lather. When that was

ready, Atheling poured the contents of me can into the waiting basin. Steam began to

rise in opaque spirals, covering the mirror behind in a brief mist.

„If Your Grace will – “

„My Grace will not, Atheling. As you know.“ Wessex opened the case and

picked up the razors.

It was an ongoing affront to Atheling’s sense of fitness that his charge continued

to insist upon shaving himself. All Atheling’s pleas upon the subject were in vain,

merely causing his grace to assure Atheling that Wessex dared not become used to

Atheling’s ministrations, lest he lose the barbering knack entirely and be thus forced

to present himself at foreign courts unshaven.

Atheling believed none of this patent nonsense. He believed, merely, that his grace

was obstinate, as his grace’s father had been before him. On the other hand, such

obstinacy was a character trait in which Atheling took secret pride, as only a most

superior manservant could manage such a stubborn man.

When at last Wessex presented to his mirror and me world a clean-shaven

countenance, he entered his dressing-room, where Atheling stood ready to assist him

with such sartorial details as the rigging-out of a gentleman of fashion required.

The morning post, as yet, was nowhere to be seen. That, Wessex knew, would

come with breakfast, and God help any man who attempted to remove things from

what Atheling conceived to be their proper order.

So be it. His grace turned to matters of dress.

Contemplating an afternoon trot through Green Park, Wessex approved white

doeskin inexpressibles and high-top oxblood Hessians with bullion tassels, the latter

an exquisite product of Hoby’s workroom. A shirt of dazzling white lawn,

moderately pleated and ruffled, was eclipsed by a waistcoat of pale yellow Egyptian

linen ornamented with buttons of Russian enamelwork that glimmered russet and