The Shadow of Albion (21 page)

„Then I shall be glad to be your friend, Lady Roxbury.“

„Oh, please!“ Sarah said impulsively. „If we are to be friends, you must call me

‘Sarah,’ and I will call you ‘Meriel.’ A pretty name, and most unusual.“

„It is a Cornish name,“ Miss Bulleyn said, with some reluctance. But her

reluctance vanished in the next moment and she smiled. „And now, do let us go

away, if you are quite finished with your investigation of the new offendings – for if

we stay much longer, I cannot answer for what more I may buy.“

„I wish we might go for a drive in the Park,“ said Sarah, whose open carriage had

followed her upon her expedition to Hatchard’s and now stood waiting at the corner.

„But I am promised to Madame Francine, who is fitting my presentation gown. I am

to be presented at Court in two weeks, you see, and I am told that the proper sort of

gown is of me highest importance.“ Sarah linked her arm through Meriel’s, and the

two ladies strolled along the sidewalk, their maids, with respective bundles, following

behind.

A flicker of envy crossed Miss Bulleyn’s features at Sarah’s words. „It must be a

splendid thing to have such a beautiful gown! I was to be presented at Court; but

then Papa died, and my uncle and the rest of the family did not approve of such a

frivolous expenditure,“ Miss Bulleyn said, her voice kept neutral with an obvious

effort.

„How perfectly dreadful!“ Sarah said instantly. „Everyone knows that a Court

presentation is the surest way to gain the congé in the very best circles – and I am

told that is of the first importance for a young lady. Perhaps your uncle will

reconsider.“

„No,“ said Miss Bulleyn with sad finality. „Uncle Richard has other plans for me.

But I should so like to see the dresses….“ She sighed.

„Well, you shall see mine at least – if you wish it,“ Sarah decided. „For I see no

reason that you should not come with me to Madame Francine’s – your uncle can

hardly forbid you to have any friends in Town, can he?“

„No,“ Miss Bulleyn said, brightening instantly. She smiled, revealing perfect white

teem and an enchanting dimple. „My uncle could hardly object to my knowing you.“

Madame Francine had been born plain Sarah Franks in a small Midlands village,

and had, by dint of industry, talent, determination, and the generosity of a noble

lover, become one of the leading dressmakers to ladies of the ton. In the few weeks

Sarah had been visiting her – having found, to her faint mystification, that the

Marchioness of Roxbury had always patronized an establishment of which Sarah

had no conscious memory – she had discovered that Madame Francine not only

knew all the gossip about everyone in the Polite World, high and low, but that her

fashionable designs came straight from Paris, having paid as, little heed to borders

and tariffs as had her on-dits. Madame Francine had done as much as anyone to

make Sarah feel comfortable in Town, and when Sarah entered with her new friend,

the modiste called for tea and cakes and exerted her exotic charm to the utmost.

Miss Bulleyn was easy to confide in, and long before Sarah’s fitting was ended

the two young women were fast friends, and Meriel was in possession of an

invitation to call upon Lady Roxbury at any time. Wary both of male fortune

t

hunters and the threat of marriage to the Duke of Wessex, it did not occur to Sarah

that there might be any clandestine reason for a female to seek out Lady Roxbury’s

acquaintanceship, nor to consider the uses that might be made of such

acquaintanceship.

On that same May day that was the scene of so many other interesting meetings, a

visitor came to Wessex’s Albany rooms.

The young Duke had kept a low profile since the occasion upon which he had

been summoned into his grandmother’s presence, both to avoid the endless social

engagements which he found wearying and to give himself some time to consider the

thorny problem his dearest grandmama had set him.

The trouble was, he could not think of any good reason not to marry the

Marchioness of Roxbury – at least, no good reason that his grandmother would

accept. He and Roxbury had been betrothed for years, after all; she was suitable –

from all he knew of her, Roxbury was not the sort to require a husband dancing

attendance on her with loverlike devotion. He could go his way and she could go

hers, and so long as she refrained from presenting the dukedom with any cuckoo’s

eggs, he would account himself one who had got off lighdy, no matter what her

conduct.

But in spite of his hopeful self-encouragement, Wessex did not wish to marry at

all. Wessex knew his way of life to be too uncertain, the compromise of his honor in

service of king and country too great, to make him a decent husband for any decent

lady. He suspected a taint in the Dyer blood; why else would two dukes in

succession have succumbed to the dark lure of the Shadow Game? In black

midnight moments, Wessex swore the dukedom would end with him.

But it was impossible to offer those most excellent reasons to his loving

grandmother.

And if I did wish to take a wife, it would most certainly not be a woman as

disturbing as Roxbury….

Disturbing. Wessex was about to trace this interesting thought back to its

wellspring when there was a tapping upon the door.

„Mr. Koscuisko, Your Grace,“ Atheling said. Illya Koscuisko did not choose to

bedeck himself in his full uniformed splendor on most of his sojourns about Town,

for to do so – in addition to imperilling every fan-tod in Piccadilly – would merely

call attention to the fact that though he had chosen to absent himself from it, his

regiment had chosen to serve England’s sworn foe.

A faint air of disapproval hung about the valet like the ghost of London fog; he

did not approve of the mercurial foreign fellow who called upon his master at all

hours and led Wessex into escapades that were a trial to his wardrobe.

„Send him in.“ Wessex shoved the litter of bills and cartes de invitation into his

desk, and waited expectantly.

He was hot long disappointed. Illya Koscuisko, resplendent in the latest of

London mufti, insinuated himself into Wessex’s sitting room as languorously as his

volatile nature would permit, retaining his hat, gloves, and stick against Atheling’s

half-hearted attempts to possess them. Even in civilian clothing, Koscuisko’s taste

was far from the sober and quiet idea of London’s bon ton. On this particular

occasion, Mr. Koscuisko had outfitted himself in primrose-yellow pantaloons whose

xanthic hue precisely matched that of his glazed kid gloves. His Hussar’s braids

were bound in matching ribbon, and dangled upon the bosom of a silver-buttoned

embroidered violet velvet waistcoat that was a wonder and a delight to all who

observed it. Over this amazing garment he wore a dashing coat in coquelicot

brocade, and crowned his sartorial confection with a curly-brimmed beaver brushed

to glistening perfection. A diamond pin to secure his lace-trimmed cravat; an

assortment of fobs and seals to begem his waistcoat; an enamel-headed sword-stick

to brandish in martial fashion; and an earring in one ear completed the dashing and

wholly awe-inspiring picture he presented.

„Good God,“ Wessex said mildly.

Koscuisko beamed. „Colorful, is it not? I daresay I shall look quite the exotic

foreigner at Lady Jersey’s party this afternoon.“

„No one,“ said Wessex with stark honesty, „could possibly mistake you for

anything else. But what brings you here? Not, of course, that I am not happy to see

you – “

„But if we are much seen together in London someone will begin to wonder what

business Captain His Grace the Duke of Wessex has with a lowly layabout expatriate

with a taste for flash company,“ Koscuisko said equably. Without waiting for an

invitation, he sprawled upon the battered leather couch beside Wessex’s desk and

picked up an unloaded pistol Wessex had been using as a paperweight.

„Half of a Judas pair, is it?“ he asked with interest, peering into the barrel. Though

the pistol looked precisely like its ordinary mate, it was designed to fire backward,

not forward – killing the duelist instead of the person at whom he aimed.

„I took it off Warltawk’s man in Calais last spring,“ Wessex said. „Malhythe’s

false flag operation nearly did for the Underground cell there, as you’ll recall.“

„At least it encouraged the Home Office to stay out of the White Tower’s

business,“ Koscuisko said pacifically. „Since while they do what they do very well,

half me time it isn’t worth doing in the first place. But I’ve spent the morning with

Lord Misbourne getting my orders, and I’m perishing for a drink.“

„You know where it is,“ Wessex said unfeelingly, and Koscuisko abandoned the

rigged dueling pistol and went in search of revivification. A quick search revealed the

decanter – half buried beneath the litter of bachelor living – and once the volatile

Pole was in possession of a large glass of brandy he returned to the couch to regard

Wessex mournfully out of velvet-brown eyes.

„I may as well give you all the gossip, since you will undoubtedly hear it anyway,

though not from me – I am to take ship for Copenhagen on Friday.“

Koscuisko announced this as though his destination were Antarctica, instead of

Denmark. „I am to go and amuse England’s future Queen until she sails – and

afterward, I suppose.“

Wessex frowned. It had been settled – before he’d gone to France that last time,

and gotten himself entangled in l’affaire deMorrissey – that he was to be a member

of Princess Stephanie’s escort. „And when did you learn this?“

„It’s common knowledge,“ Koscuisko said mendaciously. „You’d know it, too,

if you’d trouble to read your mail.“

Extracting a folded billet from his jacket, Koscuisko flipped the. packet to

Wessex, who snatched it out of the air. The paper was heavy with the weight of a

sprawling wax seal, which Wessex deciphered without difficulty as King Henry’s

own private signet. The missive did not appear to have been opened.

Breaking the wax, Wessex read the few brief lines written in the King’s clear

careful hand. It was precise yet uninformative: as the King wished most particularly

for Wessex’s presence in London for the next two months, he was withdrawing the

invitation he had extended to Wessex that he should make up part of the Danish

envoy.

Wessex carefully lit the paper at the candle upon his desk; when the paper was

burning well he shied it at the grate, where it struck in a shower of sparks and ash.

„No need to ask if Misbourne’s read this,“ Wessex said crossly. He had been

counting on the Danish envoy to remove him from the influence of his

grandmother’s machinations; he wondered now whether she had extended her

influence to the Palace itself to keep Wessex in Town as she attempted to make this

match she was so set upon.

„Read it?“ Koscuisko asked with a laugh. „For all either of us knows, the man

wrote it; it would amuse him to force me to play the common seaman for the next

two months; tell me it would not! But to be fair, he’s set you a pretty puzzle to keep

you amused while I’m enjoying a life of luxury and debauchery at foreign courts:

Saint-Lazarre has disappeared.“

„Vanished?“ Wessex came fully alert. „Not dead?“

„Dead if you like,“ Koscuisko said agreeably, „but four days ago he was alive and

taking a moonlight flit with some obliging gentlemen down Norfolk way. Our man

there had no orders to keep Saint-Lazarre in the bosom of Mother England, so he let

him go….“

„But it’s a damned smoky thing for the man to be doing,“ Wessex agreed, „and

on a smuggler as likely to dump a passenger in the middle of the Channel as land him

on the other side. The Admiralty would have put him over for the asking.“

Providing, of course, that the Admiralty had also thought Saint-Lazarre’s mission

worth pursuing.

„So we must assume that our Victor did not ask,“ Koscuisko finished. „But why

not? Bosom companions, natural allies… England has every reason to wish to help

Saint-Lazarre at his hobbies.“

„I don’t suppose that M’sieur Corday had any light to shed upon the subject?“

Wessex asked politely.

Koscuisko grimaced. „We have been most explicit in our requests, but our friend

Gambit does not seem to be forthcoming with his answers.“ He shrugged. „I

supposed Lord Misbourne will have to ask Talleyrand if he wants the fellow back –

that, or send him back to the colonies. which will only keep him out of the way for

as long as it takes him to reach Louisiana. The colony is Royalist, of course, and His