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The Shadow of Albion

Carolus Rex 01

Andre Norton

Rosemary Edghill

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

EPILOGUE

NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen

property. It was reported as „unsold and destroyed“ to the publisher, and neither the author nor the

publisher has received any payment for this „stripped book.“

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the

author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE SHADOW OF ALBION: Carolus Rex: Book I

Copyright © 1999 by Andre Norton, Ltd. & Rosemary Edghill

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

Edited by James Frenkel

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10.010

www.tor.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

ISBN: 0-812-54.539-7

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-43.790

First edition: April 1999

First mass market edition: February 2000

Printed in the United States of America

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to thank Sherwood Smith for help and quick answers to tough research

questions involving the France of 1805; Andrew Sigel for settling thorny questions

of proper address; the rest of the SFRT1 gang (of fond memory, alas) for the usual

hijinks (hi, Esther! hi, Lois!); Jennara, for putting up with the usual fuss; Jane

Emerson, for Lt. Stephen Price of the Royal Engineers; and (of course) The Lady

herself, Andre Norton, for her endless patience and graciousness during the long,

drawn-out, and sometimes downright baffling process of writing a collaboration. It’s

been a privilege to work with her and learn from her.

– Rosemary Edghill

Hence, horrible shadow!

Unreal mockery, hence!

– Macbeth

AUTHOR’S FOREWORD:

A Regency That Never Was

The „If Theory“ of history is that oftentimes in world history distinct and radical

changes rest upon a single event or person. From that particular point two worlds

then come into existence, one in which the matter goes one way and one wherein it

goes the other.

The point of divergence here is the affair of the Duke of Monmouth in the days of

Charles II. The majority of the English people at that time were bitterly opposed to

the return of a Catholic ruler. Unfortunately, Charles II had not been able to produce

a living heir by his Portuguese wife, though he had a number of illegitimate children

by various mistresses, upon whom he settled dukedoms and other major honors.

Charles’s brother and heir presumptive, James, was a Catholic and was

narrow-mindedly determined to return England to the Catholic fold. James was a

severe, arrogant man, unlike Charles, who had all the Stuart charm in rare abundance.

There has always been a rumor that the Duke of Monmouth, the eldest known of

Charles’s by-blows, was actually legitimate – that Charles, while in exile, did marry

Mistress Waters, the Duke’s mother.

Monmouth had much of his father’s charm and was strongly Protestant in his

religious views. In the real world, following Charles’s death Monmouth led an

uprising against his uncle, King James II, failed, and was beheaded.

In this „If-World,“ Charles II, during his protracted dying, realizes that James’s

inheritance of the throne would mean trouble for all, and finally admits to a selected

body of his strongest council that the rumor was true, that he had in fact made a

marriage (there was no Royal Marriage Act in those days!) with Mistress Waters and

thus the Duke of Monmouth was the legitimate heir of his body. Thus, upon Charles

H’s death, the Duke of Monmouth is crowned Charles III.

The new king has difficulties with a diehard group of strong Catholic lords, and

with James, his uncle, who believes the throne of England should be his. This will

have a bearing on the events of later years – even centuries – but immediate events

are similar to those in the real world. The strongly Whig-Protestant English fight

against France. The Duke of Marlborough comes to center stage as a military leader

– he is also a bosom friend of the Duke of Clarence, the late king’s illegitimate

second son and Charles His half-brother. (The Stuarts continue their merry custom

of producing bastards and granting them tides so the highest grades of the English

peerage are frequently expanded.)

After the reign of three more Stuart kings (Charles IV, James II, and Charles V)

we reach the 1800s, and a world like – and unlike – our own. The English

government is strongly Whig and the King depends on that party for backing.

Without the weak and unpopular Hanovers on the throne, political relations with the

American colonies have never degenerated into warfare; in 1805 America is simply

the westernmost of England’s possessions. Its citizens are English citizens with full

representation in Parliament. It is governed (similarly to Ireland) by a Lord Protector;

in 1805 the Lord Protector of America is Thomas Jefferson, the Earl of Monticello.

Like Irish tides, American tides are considered „second-class“ titles, but many of the

nobility holds both English and American titles, and America is a popular destination

for land-hungry younger sons. The ties between the mother country and her vast

colony are becoming thinner with time, and political theorists predict that someday

America will govern itself practically free of any strong supervision from the

motherland.

One major divergence from history as we know it in this alternate 1805 is that the

Louisiana Purchase does not take place, and the thirteen colonies’ western

expansion is halted in vicinity of Kentucky (or, as it is known in this world,

Transylvania).

The French Revolution pf 1789 – which occurs in both worlds – is a shock to

both England and her New World colony. There were suggestions in our world at

the time that England intervene, which she does not do in either world. In 1795

Napoleon Bonaparte begins his climb to power and France’s ambitions become

imperial. England goes to war once more. Though plagued by civil and religious

unrest at home, it is Britain’s funding that keeps the Triple Alliance – England,

Prussia, and Russia – in the field against Napoleon. The simmering discontent at

home might break out into full-fledged civil war, however, were England suddenly

left without an heir.

Just as in the Real World, many European nations considered making a „separate

peace“ with Napoleon. A key flayer in this political arena is Denmark, which, as a

member of the Baltic League, vacillates between neutrality and a pro-French

position. A French-allied Denmark would cause Russia to withdraw from the Triple

Alliance.

In the Real World, England sent fleets to Denmark in 1801 and 1806 to keep

French sympathies at bay. In our world, the widowed King Henry DC of England

hopes to accomplish the same thing by betrothing his only son, James Charles Henry

David Robert Stuart, Prince of Wales and Duke of Gloucester, to Princess

Stephanie Julianna, granddaughter of the weak and vicious King Christian VII, whose

eldest son, Prince Frederick, is currently his Regent. This marriage, to one of the few

Protestant royal houses in Europe, will link Denmark firmly with the Allied cause.

And our story begins….

– Andre Norton

Chapter 1

A Lady Bought with Magic

(Wiltshire, April 1805)

The house had always been called Mooncoign, though it had passed through

several families before becoming King Charles III’s gift to the first Marchioness of

Roxbury over a century ago. The Roxburys had reigned at Mooncoign for longer

than living memory ran, and to those within their domain, it seemed they always

would.

Even in that bygone generation there had been no one left who could say how the

house had come to be so named – or if there were, they deemed it wiser, in a climate

of uncertain political and theological tolerance, to keep the knowledge to themselves.

For while Charles II, that merry monarch, had often said that the witches of England

should be left in peace, the temper of his son, the once-Earl of Monmouth, was a

chancier – and far more Protestant – thing.

But the time of both merry father and ambitious son was long past now. It was

early in April, on a morning of no particular note in the calendars of alchemists and

philosophers: a day much like any other day on the Wiltshire downs for every

inhabitant of the great house save one.

The room’s furnishings were opulent and old; heavy walnut pieces that might

have occupied this very chamber when Charles Stuart had used it to shelter from his

Roundhead persecutors some one hundred fifty years before. The oak wainscoting

glowed golden with long and loving application of beeswax and turpentine even in

this pallid early spring sunlight, while higher upon those same walls fanciful

plasterwork ornamentation spread its delicate lacelike tracery against the darker

cream of the lime-washed background. The room was oven hot, heated by the

blazing fire of sea-coals upon the hearth and by the tall bronze braziers the doctor

had prescribed.

Now that same physician regarded the luxurious scene with disapproval, although

it was not the elegant Jacobean room itself which had earned his censure. He turned

to the waiting servant and, reluctantly, said what he must say.

„You ought to have called me earlier. Her Ladyship’s condition is very grave. In

fact – “ He hesitated, choosing how best to break the hateful news.

„Speak louder, Dr. Falconer; I cannot quite hear you.“ The mocking young voice

was hoarse with coughing and breathless with its owner’s affliction, but it still held

arresting power.

Dr. Falconer straightened from his colloquy with Lady Roxbury’s

formidably-correct dresser and returned to the ornately-caparisoned bed of state.

Pulling back the bedcurtains with one well-manicured hand, he gazed down at the

bed’s occupant. His patient stared back with brilliant unflinching eyes.

Sarah, Marchioness of Roxbury, had never been a beauty – her eyes (quite her

best feature) were grey, her hair was silk-straight rather than fashionably curled (and

light brown rather than guinea-gold or raven-black or any of the other unlikely hues

so beloved of the romancers), and she was tall and slender – but she had always

carried herself with the arrogance and style of the Conynghams. Now, however, even

the animal vitality that had lent her passable plainness an aura of glamour was gone:

the Marchioness of Roxbury looked exactly like what she was. A plain woman, and

a dying one…

„As bad as that, is it?“ she whispered. „You had best tell me, you know; Knoyle

is a treasure with hair, but she will only cry.“

The Marchioness’s mother, the second Marchioness of Roxbury and illegitimate

daughter of James the Second, the present king’s grandfather, had died in childbed

along with the babe who would, had he lived, have been the two-year-old Sarah’s

younger brother and heir to the Marchionate. Now mother and son slept in the small

family burial ground at Mooncoign, and from the moment of their deaths, Sarah

Marie Eloise Aradia Dowsabelle Gonyngham had become Lady Roxbury,

Marchioness of Roxbury in her own right. And each year, since her presentation to

the Polite World at the early age of sixteen, the young Marchioness of Roxbury had

anticipated the Season with a houseparty at Mooncoign. The entertainment was

lavish and theatrical, and in this year of Our Lord 1805, ten days since, during an

enactment of the Battle of the Nile upon Mooncoign’s ornamental water, her

ladyship’s craft had accidentally been sunk, even though it was meant to represent

Admiral Nelson’s .flagship, the Victory.

She had been rescued by the Vicomte Saint-Lazarre and, though her crew had

deserted to the house to repair their soaked toilettes, Lady Roxbury had remained to

fight the engagement to an English triumph. She had ignored a steadily-worsening

cough to mastermind the entertainment of her guests all the following week; the cost

of that mock sea-battle was something she had not counted until today.

Outside the windows, pale April daffodils pushed up through the rich loam of the

downs. Dr. Falconer studied Lady Roxbury for some moments before he spoke. „It

is a galloping consumption, Your Ladyship. You will not see out the month.“

Lady Roxbury’s mouth tightened and the teasing light vanished from her eyes.

She had suspected as much; only a fool would not, once the blood began to appear

on her lawn kerchiefs.

There was a strangled sob from Knoyle.

„Hush your howling,“ Lady Roxbury rasped hoarsely. „Anyone would think you

were to be turned out without a character! It was only a chill,“ she said to Dr.

Falconer, hating the note of pleading she heard in her voice.

„It has settled on the lungs.“ His voice was gentle, but her ladyship heard me

death sentence in it. Dr. Falconer was no country horse-leech after all, but King

Henry’s own physician, His skill was preeminent; there were few he would, have left

Town for, but the Marchioness of Roxbury was one.

„I… see,“ she said. Each breath was a struggle. A greater struggle was to resist

the feathery unsoundness in her throat and chest that brought the wracking spasms

of bloody coughing. „Thank you for coming, Doctor,“ Lady Roxbury said. She

held out one slender jeweled hand, and Dr. Falconer bent over it with courtly

punctilio.

„Please consider yourself my guest for as long as you care to – and assure my

other guests I will be joining them soon,“ she said.

Dr. Falconer hesitated a moment before replying. „Of course, Your Ladyship. I

shall carry out your wishes to the letter.“ He hesitated over her hand a moment

longer, as if there were something he would say, then turned and left.

Lady Roxbury turned to her abigail.

„Knoyle.“ The one word was all she could manage; the tainted brittleness in her

chest was rising into her throat, choking her. She reached out blindly, grabbing the

abigail’s broad warm hand with chill fingers of surprising strength.

„No one! Tell – no one!“ she gasped. Then the treacherous creature in her chest

woke to willful life and spasm after spasm shook her slender body, until she lay

weak and trembling beneath a coverlet starred with her life’s blood.

It is not fair, she thought to herself some hours later. The pop and hiss of the

burning coals and the measured ticking of the long-case clock in the dressing room

were the loudest sounds in Lady Roxbury’s world. She did not doubt that all was

being done within Mooncoign’s walls just as she would have it done, but she

realized unwillingly that the time was coming when she would no longer be able to

enforce her wishes – when, in fact, she would have no wishes at all.

And then Mooncoign and the Marchionate, which was entailed upon the heirs of

her body, male or female, would revert to the Grown, and someone not of her blood

would walk Mooncoign’s galleries of age-mellowed stone.

It is not fair! Though the side-curtains of the bed were closed, Lady Roxbury had

ordered the curtains at the foot drawn back so that she could see the portrait over

the fire. Within its frame of gilded plaster, the painted visage of Lady Roxbury’s

grandmother Panthea, the first Marchioness, gazed mischievously down at her

descendent, magnificent in satin and lace. Panthea’s bejeweled hands toyed with a

key, a dagger, and a rose, in sly allusion to the Roxbury arms and their motto: „I

open every door.“

Oh, if there were only a door for this, away from the cruel weakness of her body

and the knowledge of duties unfulfilled –!

„A visitor for you, my lady.“ Knoyle’s voice trembled – as well it might, since

she was acting against her mistress’s express orders to admit no one.

Lady Roxbury struggled upright against her pillows, anger deepening the hectic

color in her cheeks. „Who – “ she began, before the inevitable spasm of coughing

took her. As she clutched her handkerchief to her lips, she felt strong cool hands,

against her back, supporting her and pressing the worst of the pain away.

„Who dares?“ she demanded at last, when the paroxysm passed.

„I dare,“ a voice said calmly. „As Your Ladyship knows, there is little I do not.“

Lady Roxbury’s eyes widened fractionally as she caught sight of her visitor for

the first time.

Dame Alecto Kennet had been a great beauty in her day, and was still a woman of

commanding and formidable presence. In her time she had been actress and

confidential agent, mistress to two Kings, and more. In later life she had chosen

obscurity as the companion of the Dowager Duchess of Wessex, herself a woman

who shunned the limelight. Even so, only the veriest of green-heads would hold

Dame Alecto at naught.

„I had thought you in Bath with Her Grace of Wessex,“

Lady Roxbury managed to say. She lay back against the mounded lace-trimmed

pillows, trembling with the effort of showing an untroubled countenance to her

visitor.

„And so I might yet be, did you not need me more,“ Dame Alecto replied. She

unpinned her wide, plume-trimmed scarlet bonnet and set it upon the bench at the

foot of the bed next to a slightly-battered hatbox done up in coarse string. Her hair,

titian in her youth, had faded almost to pink with age, but was still elaborately

dressed beneath its rich lace cap. She studied Lady Roxbury intently through eyes

that Time had washed to silver as she unclasped her wool traveling cape and laid it

beside the bonnet.

Lady Roxbury managed a bleak smile. „I shall soon need nothing at all,“ she said

wryly, „or so my physicians tell me. I wonder who shall have Mooncoign when I am

gone?“

„You would be better employed in wondering who will do that which you ought

to have done, when you are not here to do it,“ Dame Alecto snapped. „Who will

take your place, Lady Roxbury?“

Such plain speaking was not something her ladyship cared for at any time, and

still less at a time like mis. Ignoring the effort it cost her, she forced arch indifference

into her voice as she replied.

„I dare say Wessex will find someone. But you have not come to tease me

because my dying releases your mistress’s grandson from his betrothal?“ – It

suddenly occurred to Lady Roxbury that, though Bath was a. day’s journey away,

she had received her death-sentence from Dr. Falconer only hours before. Even if

the doctor had talked, there was no way that the Dowager Duchess could have

known of it and dispatched her henchwoman hither. Lady Roxbury struggled upright

against her pillows, groping for the tasseled cord that would summon Knoyle to her.

„Your betrothal is a minor matter, beside the Great Work that you have left

undone. Or do you forget who you truly hold these lands of, Lady Roxbury?“ Dame

Alecto’s gaze was silver and ice; a formidable thing to face. But it was a formidable

woman who faced it.

„I hold them of the King. I am Roxbury,“ the bed’s occupant replied. But the

bellpull slipped unrung from her pale jeweled fingers. Whatever was afoot, she

would face it herself, and not spread gossip to the servants’ hall.

„And have you sworn no other oath?“ Dame Alecto demanded, still standing at

the foot of the great bed as if she would summon Lady Roxbury from it.

It was on the tip of her ladyship’s tongue to end this wearisome interview when

sudden images rose up unbidden behind her eyes: Midsummer’s Eve four years ago.

She had been one-and-twenty, and Mooncoign’s steward had summoned her from

Town – had brought her, over her protests, to the Sarcen Stones that lay at the edge

of her land, to show her to the Oldest People, and to take her promise that Roxbury

and Mooncoign would always do what must be done for the People and the Land.

She came back to herself to meet Dame Alecto’s gaze. There in the moonlight she

had promised, but who would take care of her people and her land once she had

gone? For the first time Lady Roxbury regretted her death as more than her own

loss. It was a mystery no longer as to why Dame Alecto was here or how she had

known to come. The Oldest People had avenues of information unknown to the

human world – but even they could not change the appointed time of one’s dying.

„If you can tell me how I may fulfill that oath, I shall be indebted to you,“ Lady

Roxbury said dryly.

„You must summon another to take your place,“ Dame Alecto answered.

She moved from the foot of the bed to its side, to fling back the heavy velvet

coverlet and draw Lady Roxbury from her deathbed. She tottered and would have

fallen without Dame Alecto’s strong support The room spun and reeled about

Mooncoign’s mistress, and the young Marchioness trembled as if in the grip of an

arctic chill. The edges of her vision darkened and curled like the edges of a painting

thrown upon a fire to burn. She barely noticed as Dame Alecto half-led, half-carried

her to a chair before the fire and seated her in it, wrapping her in her heavy winter

chamber-robe, its silk velvet folds still smelling faintly of cedar and lavender from its

months in the clothes press.

„Mooncoign is not in my gift,“ Lady Roxbury protested. Dame Alecto had

poured out a cup of the cordial that Dr. Falconer had left her, now Lady Roxbury

held it to her lips and breathed in the strong scents of brandy and laudanum. She

sipped at it and felt the pain in her chest recede.

„Nevertheless, you may choose your successor – if you dare. Look into the fire,“

Dame Alecto commanded, „and tell me what you see.“

Gypsy foolishness, Lady Roxbury thought scornfully, but spellbound by the force

of the older woman’s personality, made no overt demurral. She stared obediently

into the pale translucent flames on the hearth. At last she was warm, no, more than

warm, hot, burning, a creature of fire –

„Creature of fire, this charge I lay – “ There were others in the room, standing

about them in a circle, chanting, their voices blending into the thin music of the

names –

„Tell me what you see,“ Dame Alecto repeated.

The fire shimmered before Lady Roxbury’s eyes, and to her feverish mind the

flames became a portal, a window, the curtains a stage upon which fire-phantoms

capered –

The tumbrel lurched and swayed, moving slowly through the streets of Paris.

All about the cart the mobile surged, jeering and catcalling, come to see the

Marquise de Rochberré brought low at last. Sarah gazed out at them icily, as if

she wore silks and jewels instead of a filthy calico shift; as if her head were

elegantly dressed with feathers and lace instead of shorn nakedly bare –

„We can do nothing for her, whose pride was greater even than yours. Look

again,“ Dame Alecto commanded.

White Bird Dancing, a warrior of the Cree, gazed down at the pale skin village

from which her father had stolen her as a babe. Around her a dozen of her brother

warriors lay concealed, awaiting the signal that would commence the raid –

„That one has the spirit that we need, but we cannot reach her – nor do I think

she would help us if we could. Again.“

The deck of a ship, the wooden railing salt-harsh and slick beneath her hands.

She was Sarah Cunningham of Maryland, and in a few moments the ship that

bore her would dock in Bristol Harbor. There was no one she could turn to, no

one who could help her –

„That one,“ said Dame Alecto decisively, and the fire-pictures dissolved, leaving

Lady Roxbury blinking dizzily, me jumbled memories of half-a-hundred Sarahs

inhabiting all the worlds of What Might Be capering through her brain.

„What have you done to me?“ she demanded at last. „You have bewitched me!

Pictures in the fire – I do not have time for such shabby hoaxes!“ That former

Sarah’s life lay like a shadow in her brain; the unimaginable childhood in an

independent America that was not a Protectorate of the Crown; the self so like

Sarah’s own and the temperament so different.

„As much a hoax as the oath you swore among the stones,“ Dame Alecto said

imperturbably. „You must summon this other Sarah to you, Lady Roxbury. She

rides not to fortune, but to Death, do we not interfere – and so we may take her

without breaking the Great Law. You, child, will take her death, and she – “

„Will have my life? Her? That Puritan churchmouse?“ Lady Roxbury demanded

indignantly. She gasped for air, choking on the struggle and then surrendering to

another spasm of coughing. It seemed to her that she could feel her life ebbing with

every wracking spasm – and with her life, all the things that she might have done,

ought to have done; the things that needed desperately to be done

„That child? She will never do what I might have done!“ Lady Roxbury cried

breathlessly.

„She will do all that you could have – and more. She will save England – if you

have the courage to bring her to us,“ Dame Alecto said.

Lady Roxbury lay back against the ornate brocade of the chair. Behind her closed

eyes the room seemed to spin; she could feel Grandma Panthea’s painted gaze

upon her, and felt the weakness pulling her on a blood-dimmed tide toward an

eternal starlit ocean. Eternal peace, eternal rest, but not yet, not yet…

She raised her head proudly.

„Say what you want of my life, madame, but never say I lacked courage!“ It was

madness to follow this madwoman, but fate had left her no choice. She was

Roxbury; her death would leave no promises unkept.

Dame Alecto nodded approvingly. „You must go at once, and alone. Take your

fastest chaise and drive like Jehu to that place where you swore your oath. You must

reach it by sunset. Can you find it again?“

Lady Roxbury was a notable whispter, audacious to the point of suicide. Her

cattle were prime blood-and-bone, the best to be had – by money or favor – in all of

Europe.

Yet such a race with the sun as Dame Alecto proposed was a wager even she

would have hesitated to accept. Miles of narrow country lanes separated her from

the Sarcen Stones, and the day was far advanced.

„I could – did I have the strength to hold the ribbons.“ The admission of

weakness was made with bitter reluctance. „If that is what you wish, madame, then

you have come too late.“

„Would you have listened had I come earlier?“ Dame Alecto said.

Lady Roxbury did not answer, but she knew Dame Alecto’s accusation was just;

until Dr. Falconer’s visit this morning she had still believed, deep in her heart, that

some special providence would allow her to escape her death sentence. She watched

as Dame Alecto turned away and undid the strings of the hatbox she had brought

with her. From among its contents Dame Alecto selected a small silver flask. It

glittered in the pale afternoon sunlight.

„This will give you your health again for sufficient time to do what must be done.

There is a price, as for all such tampering; the drink will consume all the hours left to

you and distill them into this brief span. When it is over, there will be nothing left. Do

you understand?“

„Give it to me.“ Lady Roxbury’s voice was steady as she held out her hand. She

closed her fingers about the flask’s fluted body, and seemed to feel the power of

what it contained burning against her palm. She closed her eyes again, fighting the

veils of darkness that danced across her sight.

„I will leave you now. And I trust Your Ladyship will pass a pleasant afternoon.“

Alecto Kennet’s voice was neutral.

Lady Roxbury did not answer. From behind closed eyes she listened to the

sounds of fabric upon fabric as Dame Alecto donned cloak and cape. After a

moment Lady Roxbury heard the door to her room open, then close, as the woman

took her leave. Whatever came next, Dame Alecto had no part in it.

She does not care for me at all. The unexpected revelation gave Lady Roxbury

momentary pause. The Marchioness of Roxbury was not one used to considering

the feelings of others, and never had been in all the brief quarter-century of her life.

But soon she would be Roxbury no longer, and the title would pass, not to her child,

nor even to the Grown, but to a stranger snatched from Might-Have-Been – or so

Dame Alecto said.

And I am fool enough to believe her.

To believe – or simply to snatch at anything that offered escape.

Lady Roxbury lifted the brandy decanter from the side table and splashed a

half-inch of dark amber liquid into the glass in her hand. Before she could change her

mind, she uncapped the flask and upended it, discharging its contents into her glass.

The fluid was dark and syrupy. It swirled slowly through the brandy, turning the

liquor blood-red and faintly iridescent. With only a moment’s hesitation, Lady

Roxbury raised the glass and gulped its contents down.

It was as though she had drunk the flames of the hearth. A hot bright fire beat

through her blood, driving out the heavy giddiness and fever-chill of her illness. She

gasped at the strangeness of it, and then drew a deep breath for the first time in a

fortnight. Her chesj; was clear. Her lungs were whole.

„The drink will consume all the hours left to you and distill them into this brief

span. When it is over, there will be nothing left.“

Lady Roxbury got to her feet, and the half-expected dizziness did not come. So

this much, at least, of Dame Alecto’s promise was true. She wondered if all the rest

was. She glanced out the window and measured the progress of the sun.

If it is true, you will never know.

Lady Roxbury’s lips curved in a reckless smile. To bring that other Sarah to

Mooncoign, she must reach the Sarcen Stones by sunset. If this was her fate, so be

it – and she wished Dame Alecto much joy of her successor.

„Knoyle!“ she shouted, jerking vigorously at the bellpull.

In an instant the abigail appeared, fear and astonishment vying for pride of place

upon her face.

„I wish to go out,“ the Marchioness of Roxbury said to her maid. „Lay out my

driving dressy – and tell Risolm to harness the match bays to my phaeton and bring

it around. Well?“ she added, as Knoyle stood there goggling.

The abigail dropped a stupefied curtsy and fled. Lady Roxbury shrugged off the

now-too-warm chamber robe and let it fall to the floor in a puddle of fur and velvet

She turned back to the fire, and for a moment she seemed to see that other Sarah’s

face within the flames: plain and young, unadorned by paint and jewel….

„Milk-toast-miss!“ Lady Roxbury jeered, turning away.

Chapter 2

Between the Salt Water and the Sea Sand

(The Frigate Lady Bright,

Bristol Channel, April 1805)

Miss Sarah Cunningham, late of Baltimore, Maryland, in the United States of

America, stood at the rail on the foredeck of the good ship Lady Bright, gazing

miserably out to sea. The dawn wind coming over the ocean was a biting coldness

on her face, its constant pressure threatening to unseat the demure dark grey

bombazine narrow-poke bonnet whose strings were knotted firmly beneath her chin.

Tomorrow or the next day, depending on the luck of wind and tide, the ship would

arrive at Bristol Harbor.

Mrs. Kennet had told her that Bristol was a great city, second only to London;

from there Sarah could surely find transport to the metropolis. What reception

awaited her in London – even assuming she could manage to gain an interview with

the Duke of Wessex – Sarah did not know. Why should such a grand man as he

listen to an American interloper with the wildest of tales and the flimsiest of proof? If

only Mrs. Kennet…

The tears dried on her cheeks as fast as they were shed, and her gloved hands

worried a fine cambric handkerchief into a crumpled ball. She looked around blindly,

hoping to distract herself from her bleak thoughts.

Behind and to her left lay the great green bulk of Ireland, and ahead, an indefinite

blur in the early morning light, lay what Captain Challoner assured her was the Welsh

headland: St. David’s, and the Lady Brights first sight of home.

But if England was Captain Challoner’s home, it was not Sarah Cunningham’s. In

the short space of six months her fortunes had tumbled end over end so many times

that she had become quite philosophical about disaster, but this latest bereavement

left Sarah even more forsaken than had the deaths of her parents only a few months

before. Now Sarah Cunningham stood entirely alone in the uncaring world.

In a way, the shattering tragedy of her parents’ deaths had been a dark blessing,

as it left Sarah too numb to care about the blows that followed. The sale of the

house and its furnishings had barely served to pay the bills left by nursing and burial,

and shortly Sarah had found herself resident in the home of a distant cousin of her

mother’s, coming slowly to realize that she served there as the most menial of unpaid

laborers. Not that any brighter prospect had presented itself – not to Alisdair

Cunningham’s daughter….

Sarah Cunningham had been born twenty-five years before, almost simultaneously

with the new Republic, to parents who’d had the best of all reasons to wish an end

to kings and crowns in this new land. She had grown up between two worlds:

bustling, forward-looking, Republican Baltimore, and the timeless woodland peace

of the Maryland hills and forests, where Sarah had learned to hunt and fish, shoot

and track, as well as any of her Indian playfellows. Even as a child she had always

known that someday she would have to give up that Arcadian freedom, but as she

grew older, Sarah saw what the eyes of childhood had not: that two wars had taken

their toll on her father’s health, so that she, not he, must work to keep their family

fed.

And so, at a time when other girls dressed their hair high and lengthened their

skirts, and cast their eyes upon the masculine companions of their childhood with a

new interest, Sarah Cunningham wore beaded buckskin and carried not a delicate fan

but her father’s hunting rifle. The skins and meat she brought home bought other

necessities, and if anyone knew that it was not Alasdair Cunningham, but his

daughter, who provided the furs and skins her father brought for trade, they had kept

that knowledge to themselves.

A husband for Sarah would have solved much, but such luck was hardly to be

expected. Sarah, after all, was plain, and well she knew it. Though her eyes (quite her

best feature) were speaking and grey, her mother’s young students assured her the

fashion was all for eyes of pansy-brown. Worse, her hair was straight rather than

fashionably curled, and light brown rather than guinea-gold or raven-black or any of

the other unlikely hues so beloved of the romancers. Dowry would have

compensated for lack of beauty, but there was no dowry.

Even so, an outgoing charm of manner might have taken its place in this new

young land – but Sarah was quiet and shy, and rather better acquainted with powder

and shot and the best way of dressing a hare for the pot than with dancing-school

graces. There was very little likelihood that the matrimonial offers Sarah Cunningham

would receive were the .sort that Alasdair Cunningham would allow her to accept.

And so the years passed. Sixteen became twenty-one, then twenty-five.

Then disaster. Cholera, and death. And, just when she thought her fortunes had

changed, death again.

A change in the wind lashed her with chilly brine, and Sarah was jerked rudely

back to reality. The pain of past and present tragedy blended into one miserable

ache, and she scrubbed ruthlessly at her eyes with the mangled handkerchief.

„Miss Cunningham?“ The voice at her elbow was low, in deference to her loss.

„The Captain sends his respects, and says they are ready to read out the service

now.“

„The Lord have mercy on this His servant, Missus Alecto Kennet of London,

who sleeps now in expectation of the Glorious Resurrection to come – “ Captain

Challoner’s deep voice intoned the rote words of comfort and promise.

Sarah Cunningham stood in the forefront of the small company of mourners

gathered around the slender, sailcloth-wrapped bundle awaiting its final disposition

and tried not to feel terror at the thought of her future. At last the brief service was

over and the chain-weighted bundle was tipped over the side, to vanish in the Lady

Brights wake. Mrs. Kennet had been the agency by whose aid Sarah had come this

far; to lose her to a sudden fatal fever only days before reaching her goal was a cruel

blow. Now Sarah was alone once more, this time thousands of miles from the only

home she had ever known.

„Miss Cunningham? Are you all right?“ Once again Sarah was summoned back to

the present, this time by Captain Challoner.

She smiled sadly, hoping her face showed the appropriate emotion for the

occasion. Among the Cree, it was considered the height of rudeness to wear your

feelings plainly upon your face, forcing everyone you passed to share them. Joy and

sorrow alike were private things.

But the Cree and her freedom were both long-lost to her, and she must make the

best of her fate.

„The loss of your companion grieves us all deeply,“ Captain Challoner told Sarah

dutifully. „Mrs. Kennet was a gallant lady and her passing is a sad thing.“

„You have been very kind, Captain Challoner,“ Sarah said, wondering where this

conversation might be leading.

„I should not like to think you any more bereft than you must now be, and so I

hope you will forgive my inquisitiveness, Miss Cunningham, if I ask you what

provision has been made for you once we dock?“

„Provision?“ Sarah echoed blankly, while a carefully tutored part of her reminded

her that she sailed to England, the Old World, where even what circumspect mobility

she had been permitted in the last few months of her residence in Baltimore was

considered wanton freedom. In England no young lady of gentle breeding went

anywhere alone; constantly accompanied by maid, chaperone, or family member,

she was watched every moment until the time came to award her in marriage to some

privileged scion of entitlement and perquisite, when matronhood would confer upon

her very little more freedom than she had enjoyed as an unmarried girl.

„You were traveling with Mrs. Kennet, were you not? Who will accompany you

now?“ the Captain pursued, a note of worried concern in his voice.

„I shall – I am being met; pray excuse me,“ Sarah said quickly. Before Captain

Challoner could stop her, she pulled her cloak tightly around her and fled to the

solitude of her tiny cabin.

* * *

Fool – lackwit – cloudhead – Sarah berated herself in the strongest language she

knew, standing trembling in the center of the tiny accommodation she had shared

with her benefactress. Captain Challoner was honesdy concerned for her welfare –

there was no cause to flee him as if he were an entire English press-gang in himself!

Only his concern would mew her up with companions and chaperones, and in

providing so much help he would certainly be entithed to the whole of her story –

and Sarah, who now faced the sickening certainty that she had crossed the ocean

with no more incentive than a bag of moonshine, could not bear the thought of

making the Captain a present of her foolishness.

Calming herself by degrees, Sarah sat down on the hard narrow bunk and pulled

her traveling-case to her. Lining out the topmost tray, she withdrew the stiff packet

of folded vellum sheets and opened them to read them again. As she did so, the faint

sunny odor of orange blossom that still clung to the pages wafted up from them, and

Sarah was borne back through the weeks to the first time she had smelled that

particular fragrance.

The early-morning sun warmed Sarah’s back through the thin calico muslin of her

dress as she stepped carefully across the cobbled Baltimore street, avoiding the

inevitable refuse. The large willow marketing-basket she carried was empty save for a

lengthy list in Cousin Masham’s spidery scrawl of items Sarah was to procure in the

shops. Tedious as the task was, Sarah welcomed it, as the alternative was more of

the endless round of drudgery that had fallen to her lot since she had become – as

she was frequently told – a pensioner upon her cousin Masham’s charity. She had

come to realize that me Mashams held their blood relationship at naught and looked

upon her as just another servant – one whom, due to that same blood tie of kinship,

they fortunately did not have to pay. Sarah was quite without talent for sewing or

spinning, and thus her days were an endless round of kitchen and laundry. There

was little prospect of anything better, the only possible alternative was to hire herself

out as servant in truth. And marriage was even less of a possible escape than it had

been eight years before, for now that her parents’ estate had been settled Sarah’s

entire fortune consisted of a single small trunk of clothes and the few dollars she had

been able to save from the sale of her father’s property.

And the ring.

The ring had belonged to her father, but even when it had come to him it was not

new. Stopping in the doorway of a not-yet-open shop, Sarah had pulled upon the

blue ribbon that held the ring concealed safely beneath her bodice and inspected her

dearest treasure.

It was of massy gold, set with a smooth rectangular black stone, but it was more

as well With practiced fingers, Sarah rotated the stone with the ball of her thumb.

The black stone rose up and out on an armature that had seemed, moments before,

to be the rim of the bezel, and, under Sarah’s control, spun to reveal its obverse. In

precise, exquisite enamerwork, an oak tree in summer foliage glowed against a

silvery field. At the oak’s foot a unicorn slept with head upon the ground, and in the

tree’s branches, a crown in glory burned. Boscobel – the King’s Oak. Sarah did not

know what this ring had meant to her father, only that it had been his greatest

treasure, and so now it was hers.

The clatter of an arriving coach roused Sarah from her contemplation. Hastily

dropping the jewel back into concealment beneath her bodice, she crossed the street

to see who might be arriving.

She reached the post-house in time to see a woman dressed in the first stare of

London elegance descend from the carriage. Though quite as old as Cousin

Masham, there was an air of vitality about the newcomer – with her silvered once-red

hair tucked demurely beneath both elegant traveling cap and a dashing bonnet of

deep green lutestring trimmed with egret plumes – that marked her to be as different

from Sarah’s pallid cousin Masham as night from day.

The newcomer found her footing with the aid of an elegant ebony walking stick

and gazed about herself, though if the stylish stranger held any opinion whatsoever

on the street upon which she found herself, she presented only the blandest of

countenances to the world. Behind her, the coachman scurried to unload her trunks,

and the proprietor of the post-house, sensing custom, came out into the street to

welcome this new guest.

„I am Madame Alecto Kennet of London,“ the woman announced, much as if this

intelligence must have some meaning to the gathering watchers.

„Yes, Your Ladyship; we received your letter,“ the man said.

Sarah saw a faint shadow of distaste cross the woman’s features, as if she

disliked the form of address – which had, if anything, been too formal rather than

too familiar. Sarah’s eyes widened at the size and number of the trunks disgorged by

the traveling carriage, but with all their variety they still seemed to lack a maid or

personal servant to tend them.

„Then perhaps you would be so good as to oblige me with the information I

requested of you, and provide me with the direction of Miss Charlotte Masham of

this city. Of course, it is possible that she has married, and is no longer known by

that name,“ Mrs. Kennet added with grudging reasonableness.

The innkeeper drew breath for a lengthy disquisition when Sarah, quite surprising

even herself, stepped forward.

„I am afraid you have come too late if you wish to speak to my mother, ma’am,

but I am Charlotte Masham’s daughter. I am Sarah Cunningham.“

Mrs. Kennet turned a brilliant silvery gaze upon her, and Sarah felt her own face

go still and watchful. She met the inspection unflinchingly.

„You do have some look of the Mashams about you girl – and if you are indeed

Charlotte Masham’s daughter, then I have a letter for you.“

Soon Sarah had been installed in the Bell and Candle’s best – ’and only – coffee

parlor, awaiting her hostess, who had retired to repair the ravages of travel. Sarah

had no doubt that every word spoken on the curbstone before the post-house had

already made its way to Cousin Masham’s ears, nor that she herself would be called

upon to render up a fuller accounting when she returned home.

Best to have something to account for, in that case. Sarah frowned faintly. She

could not remember any English correspondents among her mother’s infrequent

letters, and Charlotte Masham was the third generation of her family to have been

born in America, so it was hard to believe that any familial ties to the Old World

remained. Sarah sipped at the boiling black coffee before her, and bit into one of the

warm sugary doughnuts from the plate piled high at her elbow. The Innkeeper had

been extremely eager to please. Whoever Madame Alecto Kennet might be, she

certainly had the knack of getting things done in her own way.

As if summoned by thought of her, Mrs. Kennet chose that moment to reappear.

Bonnet and cap had been exchanged for a finer cap of nearly transparent lace

which neatly confined, while doing nothing to conceal, the cinnamon-sugar hair.

Pearl-and-garnet earbobs dangled from the lady’s ears, and a cameo brooch set with

matching stones glowed upon a black velvet ribbon at her throat. The dull green

traveling pelisse was gone, and in its place Mrs. Kennet wore a deep blue dress of

twilled gros de Maples with long narrow sleeves trimmed and edged in blonde lace.

The square neck of the dress was made up high and trimmed in blonde lace as well,

and the long straight skirt was relieved by two courses of black velvet vandyking

appliqued six inches above the hem. A cashmire shawl of deep jewel colors and

fantastical design hung carelessly over one arm, and tiny fanciful slippers of

blue-dyed Turkish leadier, which would not have survived an hour’s use on the

cobbled streets outside, completed a costume of quite stupefying elegance.

Mrs. Kennet drew a quizzing-glass from her sleeve and regarded Sarah, and

suddenly Sarah was bitterly aware of the picture she herself must present: the sturdy

muslin cap concealing her light brown hair, the plain calico fichu pinned close at the

throat of an unadorned blue woolen round gown that had already seen its best days.

Her white cotton apron and plain red wool shawl only served to complete the picture

of Colonial dowdiness, and Sarah tucked her feet behind the rungs of her chair,

knowing that nothing would serve to conceal the sturdy, sensible, and unfashionable

boots upon her feet.

But Mrs. Kennet apparently saw nothing to dislike in me picture before her. She

seated herself carefully in the chair opposite Sarah, a momentary look of unease

crossing her mobile patrician features, as if she suffered some inward pang.

„Is something wrong?“ Sarah asked.

„A touch of indigestion, perhaps – I will not say that travel disagrees with me, but

the victualing that one finds in one’s travels certainly does. But you will wonder, and

rightly so, what business an entire stranger may have with you,“ Mrs. Kennet said

briskly.

Sarah had schooled her features to polite interest, and Mrs. Kennet smiled. „How

rarely one finds such mannerliness in the young!“ she commented. From her sleeve

she withdrew a billet of ivory vellum sealed with a red blotch of wax, and extended it

toward Sarah.

Sarah took it and gazed down at the picture in the wax: a crowned Salamander in

flames, surrounded by a ribbon of Latin motto too blurred to make out „It is the seal

of the Dukes of Wessex – a not inconsiderable power in England,“ her mentor

commented.

„This cannot be for me,“ Sarah said in bewilderment „It is, if you are Cordelia

Herriard’s great-granddaughter. She married a Richard Masham, did she not?“

„Her son was my mother’s grandfather, so I suppose I am. But – “

„Read your letter – and then, if you please, you may tell me what it contains, for

that is one consideration Her Grace never rendered me.“

Sarah broke the seal and scanned the pages of precise elegant script, her

confusion deepening by the moment The writer spoke of an ancient wrong done to

the Herriards by her own family, of betrayal and unlawful attainder, and of a suit

before the Chancery Court that had taken more than a century and the reigns of

half-a-dozen kings to wend its way to completion.

„But this is foolishness!“ Sarah burst out, passing the pages to her companion

half-read. „What can any of this have to do with me?“

Mrs. Kennet glanced over the pages briefly before she replied.

„It is best you know from the first that my patron is the Dowager Duchess of

Wessex, and I have some cause to know that noble family well, for mine has served

theirs since before your unhappy ancestress was exiled to this bitter place. If the St.

Iveses and the Dyers feel that some redress is owed you, then be sure they will find

some way to pay their debt down to the last ha’penny.“

„But what can they owe to me?“ Sarah asked again.

Mrs. Kennet smiled. „Child, that matters not in me face of their determination that

they shall pay. I see from this letter that the Dowager wishes you to come to

England – is there any reason that you may not accompany me when I take ship next

week?“

Sarah had hesitated only momentarily, the certain future here at home weighing

very lightly against a future that held, at least, the allure of difference.

„There is no reason at all, Mrs. Kennet. I shall be delighted to accompany you,“

Sarah said firmly.

In her tiny cabin on the Lady Bright, Sarah refolded the Dowager Duchess of

Wessex’s letter once more. She had withdrawn her promise a thousand times in the

week that had followed, for Cousin Masham was not shy in awarding the rough side

of her tongue to both Sarah Cunningham and the „English adventuress“ who had

beguiled her, but Mrs. Kennet was one who delighted in pitched battle, as well as

one who listened to one’s first words and conveniently ignored the last. Sarah, had

said she would accompany her when me Lady Bright sailed from Baltimore to

England, and nothing Sarah might say afterward would be allowed to alter that

impulsive decision in the slightest. Borne upon the spring tide of Mrs. Kennet’s

formidable will, Sarah had never looked back; Cousin Masham was read such a

jeremiad as must have caused her ears to ring for weeks afterward, and at the end of

that confrontation Sarah and the single trunk containing all her worldly possessions

reposed within Mrs. Kennet’s well-sprung traveling coach and were wheeling smartly

along the road to the harbor.

But what had begun as seeming indigestion had in the end been death for Sarah’s

fiery mentor only a few weeks later, and now Sarah was more alone than ever before.

She was not so certain as she had been in Baltimore that the words written in the

missive Mrs. Kennet had given her constituted a legitimate claim upon the Duke or

Duchess of Wessex – and even less certain, now that Mrs. Kennet was gone, that

the form of payment would be anything that plain Sarah Cunningham of Baltimore,

Maryland, and the United States of America could like.

It is your own fault. You made this choice; you must make the best of it, Sarah

told herself firmly, and began to determine, with utmost practicality, what she might

best do in Bristol to engage transport to London so that she might do what Mrs.

Kennet had so wished her to do.

Chapter 3

Ten Leagues Beyond the Wide World’s End

(April 1805)

It was good to be out in the open again, even if her life could now be measured

only in scant hours. The sharp April air cut at her lungs and the whipping wind

brought roses not of fever, but of frost, to her cheeks, but Lady Roxbury did not

care. Her sleek brown hair was covered by an ermine shako tied with wide grosgrain

ribbons dyed to match the coquelicot velvet of her erminelined driving pelisse.

Wrapped in the garment’s elaborately frogged and gold-laced folds, Lady Roxbury

did not feel the bite of the evening chill as the gentle Wiltshire countryside unreeled

behind her.

The high-perch phaeton shivered and trembled beneath her as she urged the four

match bays to speed and more speed, racing against the Sun itself. It slid inexorably

westward as Lady Roxbury flicked her whipstring out over the ears of her leader,

being rewarded with a marginal increase in speed. She must reach the Stones in time,

or all this would be for naught.

In the distance, the broken outline of the Giant’s Dance appeared on the horizon

of the rolling Wiltshire downs. At the same moment, Lady Roxbury became aware

of her own heartbeat as a thundering in her blood. Suddenly the westering sun flared

dazzlingly bright, burning like the jewel in the skull of the salamander, creature of fire.

Arid then the world changed, and the sun that Lady Roxbury raced toward was

rising, riot setting. The air was chill and damp with morning and blue mist hung upon

the ground. In the distance the Sarcen Stones were still veiled in night as the rising

sun kindled an azure world into color.

And then the picture changed again, blue to fire-scarlet, as the sun hung

spellbound above the evening horizon and all the world was gold. Gold – Blue. And

only Lady Roxbury’s determination pressed her forward, as night flickered into day

until the interlocking worlds danced in time with her heartbeat, fire to ice to fire. A

heaviness, neither cold nor hot but slow as earth, was creeping through her limbs,

stealing toward her heart. Mercilessly Lady Roxbury plied her whip now, cracking it

over the. heads of her team until their bay coats were dark with foam and they were

running flat out. She had passed the kingstone of the Dance and barely noticed, so

caught up was she in the desperate determination to reach her appointed place. The

world was mist-grey and now, at last, Lady Roxbury heard what she ought to have

heard earlier – the earthshaking rumble of an eight-horse coach on the road ahead.

And suddenly the coach was there, filling all the road, and she was desperately

dragging back on the ribbons to save her team, but the reins slipped through her

nerveless fingers and she felt the phaeton lurch wildly, uncontrolled, before she felt

nothing at all.

* * *

Only a stubborn determination to have her own way, and the ability to pass

unobserved that she had gained in the forests of her New World childhood enabled

Sarah to reach her goal in safety.

The conversation of the other passengers, overheard as the Lady Bright sailed

into Bristol harbor, informed her that a coach carrying mail and passengers left the

port city each day at noon, reaching London the following morning. With that

information to guide her, it was a simple matter for Sarah to pack an inconspicuous

bandbox with the most necessary items for her journey, muffle herself to anonymity

in a hooded grey cloak, and slip down the Lady Bright & gangway in the bustle of

departing passengers before Captain Challoner or any other well-meaning good

Samaritan could stop her. Unfamiliar sounds and smells assailed her on every side,

and at any moment Sarah expected to hear Captain Challoner’s voice raised behind

her. She hated to deceive him – even if only by misdirection – but Sarah was quite

certain that if the Lady Bright's captain had known of her plan to travel to London

by the Mail he would not have allowed it.

Fortunately, through the late Mrs. Kennet’s good offices Sarah was provided not

only with a bank-draft which, Mrs. Kennet had assured her, any English bank would

be pleased to honor, but with a small budget of English coin as well, which

contained enough to pay the eleven-shilling coach fare with something left over.

As wary as any wild creature, Sarah walked onward, and soon found that she had

left the Bristol docks behind for a world of imposing brick warehouses whose

construction made even the vast Baltimore wharf from which Sarah had embarked

scant weeks before seem small and shabby. Then the warehouses gave way to a

street of buildings jammed cheek by jowl – a street filled with vehicles of every kind

and people of every description. Sarah pressed her hands to her cheeks in utter

confusion. Though Mrs. Kennet had spoken of Bristol as a great city, never in her

wildest nightmare had Colonial-bred Sarah imagined that a city could be so large, so

noisy, and so filthy. And London, so she understood, was even larger.

For a moment her resolve failed her, and Sarah wished nothing more than to flee

back to the familiarity of the Lady Bright and let Captain Challoner determine her

fate. But that stubborn streak of independence which, more than any other

characteristic, had shaped Sarah Cunningham’s life so far, forbade so craven an

action. Only boldness would serve her purpose now, so bold she would be. Sarah

took her courage firmly in hand and approached one of the street’s inhabitants for

directions.

„If you please, sir, which way is it to the Goat and Compasses?“ she asked.

The man thus hailed possessed a certain air of respectability which, on closer

examination, had a marked taint of illusion to it. He wore a suit of plain brown cloth

elaborately faced with purple velvet, and his sleeves were trimmed with buttons that

resembled nothing so much as a row of large brass sovereigns.

„Well, now, and what would a pretty country miss such as yourself be wanting

with the Goat? I know a place quite near here that can answer all your wants, and a

sweeter snuggery you’ll not find, or my name isn’t Reverend Richard Blaine!“ The

man smiled ingratiatingly and stepped forward to take Sarah’s arm.

„And no more it is!“ rumbled a deep voice from behind Sarah. She spun about to

confront the most enormous coal-black man she had ever seen.

He was at least a handspan over six feet tall, and nearly as wide. He wore no coat,

and his workshirt bulged over a massive barrel chest. On one shoulder he carried an

iron-bound wooden keg of the sort that usually contained spirits.

„You’re no more a Reverend than I am, Dickie Blaine, and your kind isn’t wanted

here,“ the newcomer said meaningfully.

If Sarah had possessed any doubts about the „Reverend’s“ bona fides, they were

substantiated by the speed with which the man took to his heels.

„I suppose I must thank you, sir,“ she said to her rescuer.

He shifted the keg upon one work-shirted shoulder and grinned down at her from

his formidable height, a brilliant white smile upon his smooth ebony face.

„The docks is no place for a mite of a girl like you. Run along back to your nurse

before worse happens to you, little miss,“ he said, not unkindly.

„But I must reach the Goat and Compasses! They said on the – I have heard that

the London Mail leaves .from there, but I don’t know where it is,“ Sarah finished in

a rush.

„The Mail, eh? Skipping out on your articles to become an Abbess, eh?“ The

man’s easy smile was gone, and he regarded her critically.

Sarah gathered her dignity as best she could, though she had understood not one

word of what seemed to be a condemnation of her plan.

„I do not perfectly collect your meaning, sir. I am from Baltimore – and I have an

appointment in London.“

He inspected her for one more critical moment, and then the easy smile returned.

„American, eh? Well, then, best you come along of me. I knows the Goat. Just you

come along of old Cerberus, Missus, and he’ll have you there quick as cat can lick

her ear – aye, and safe aboard the Mail as well.“

With the aid of her Brobdingnagian companion, Sarah reached the Goat and

Compasses without further incident. There Cerberus delivered his keg and Sarah

purchased her ticket. At his advice, she purchased a dish of coffee as well, which

allowed her the use of the common parlor in which to await the coach’s arrival. The

last she saw of her savior was his head and massive shoulders towering over me

press of humanity in the street as he strode in the direction of the docks once more.

Several hours later, Sarah looked back upon that moment as the last one in which

she had enjoyed any degree of physical comfort whatever. Upon the coach’s

summons, she had left the coffee room of the Goat and Compasses to be packed,

with ten other fortunate passengers who had paid the extra shilling to ride „inside,“

into the Mail’s cramped, stuffy, ill-sprung, unpadded interior.

Over the thunder of the horses’ hooves, Sarah could hear the crack of the whip

and the hoarse cries of the driver. Though the horses would receive frequent

changes, the driver would not, and Sarah wondered with some small part of her

mind how he would endeavor to maintain such a performance until they reached

London with tomorrow’s noon.

The vehicle had rattled quite fearfully at first – its entire exterior was covered with

bags and bundles, the possessions of the passengers, and those persons who had

chosen for reasons of economy to ride on the roof – but now everything capable of

making noise had either fallen off or been jammed immobile into some corner of the

coach. Everything, Sarah reflected unhappily, except the passengers, who continued

to be flung back and forth at the whim of rut and road.

The pauses the coach made to take up mail and discharge passengers were the

only respite from the eternal battering of the journey, and none of them, even those

including a change of team, lasted more than a few minutes. Day fell into night and

Sarah dozed fitfully, body numbed at last by the relentless jarring of the coach’s

headlong progress.

She roused to see the faint light of dawn leaking in through the coach’s leather

curtains, and pushed one aside to see where they were.

Beyond the coach window lay a landscape unlike any she had ever known:

treeless and flat, strangely colorless in the grey morning light. To her left she could

see what she thought at first were the stumps of mighty trees, but as the coach

passed closer she saw that the figures were not trees, but vast, rough-hewn pillars of

stone, placed in the middle of this plain by some unknown people for some

unfathomable purpose.

The sudden awareness of danger was a cold thrill along her limbs, and at the very

moment Sarah recognized it and searched for its source, the music of the mail

coach’s thundering progress changed. She heard the driver cry out, the crack of his

whip, the faltering of the horses’ headlong pace. The other passengers began to

rouse, and then the coach slewed violently.

Sarah was half flung through the window with the jolt, and in the split-instant

before disaster she saw the cause – a woman, standing upon the high perch of some

strange spidery chariot, her arm flung back to wield the whip upon her wildly

plunging four-horse team. The woman’s face was pale, intent –

– and suddenly Sarah realized she was staring at her own face, as if she gazed

into an eerie mirror. In the next moment, the coach was struck by some heavy

unseen hand, and Sarah felt herself falling, the image of her own face seen from

without frozen in memory.

* * *

She opened her eyes in a room she had never seen before. Through long

windows to her right, sunlight shone at the slanting angle of late afternoon, and when

she turned toward that light Sarah could see pale blue sky and a line of trees. The

movement of her head was rewarded with the commencement of a dull throbbing

ache in every limb. Now she remembered: there had been a coaching accident – a

hideous crash. She had been there. And now she was here.

Sarah opened her mouth to summon help, and a wave of giddiness threatened to

whirl her back into unconsciousness. She bit her lip, willing the darkness to recede,

and concentrated on her surroundings to distract herself from swooning.

The bed upon which she lay was very fine, with elaborate carven posts and

fringed canopy. Hue velvet curtains, lined in white silk and embroidered in silver,

were drawn back from the sides and looped to each bedpost with a tasseled bullion

cord. A .merry fire crackled in the carved stone fireplace at the foot of the room,

and such of the furnishings as Sarah could see from her supine position rivaled for

elegance any of the engravings in Cousin Masham’s pattern books. Some private

house in the neighborhood of the accident, no doubt – but why was she here?

Sarah clutched at a strap dangling near the head of the bed, and by its aid

managed to pull herself upright, realizing only then that her traveling clothes had been

removed and a nightdress substituted. In a sudden pang of fear Sarah clutched for

her father’s ring, and relaxed as she felt the hard shape of it, still laced on its ribbon

beneath the bosom of the nightdress. She leaned back against the carved maple

headboard, weak with the effort of moving.

„Oh –!“ A gasp of dismay made Sarah turn her head. A maid stood in the

doorway to the right of the bed, regarding Sarah woefully.

„I’d only stepped out for a moment when I heard you ring – Mistress did not

think you’d wake before sundown, my lady.“

Sarah smiled reassuringly, tfiough the effort made her entire face hurt. „There is

no harm done. But tell me – where am I?“

The maid bobbed a nervous curtsy. „Bulford Hall, my lady. Mistress Bulford said

I was to sit with you until you woke. Shall I – “

„Please help me up,“ Sarah said, not meaning to interrupt, but unable to bear lying

helpless a moment longer. The maid came to the side of the bed and helped to turn

back the heavy brocaded coverlet. „What is your name?“ Sarah asked kindly,

hoping to dispel some of the girl’s nervousness.

„Rose, my lady.“

It was the third time since her awakening in this strange place that Sarah had been

addressed by a title that was not hers. Before she could correct Rose, the girl had

turned away, collecting a voluminous woolen shawl from a nearby table and

returning to wrap it about Sarah’s shoulders.

„Mistress says – or she would say if she was here, my lady, how very sorry she is

that you hasn’t your own things to hand, but never you fret, ‘coz Jem has ridden for

Mooncoign and't’will not take him long at all, with the Squire putting him up on the

fastest in all the stables – “

Sarah leaned upon Rose’s arm and stood shakily upon limbs that quivered with

more than the aftermath of the accident. The girl chattered on nervously, to Sarah’s

growing unease. The nightdress that had replaced her plain traveling costume was of

fine Indian lawn, lavished with ribbons and lace and far too fine for the succor of

some nameless accident victim. And surely all the coach’s injured passengers could

not be lodged in this splendor?

Rose settled Sarah in a chair before the fire before running to the clothespress to

return with another shawl to wrap Sarah’s legs. „Is there aught else I can fetch you,

my lady?“

„I’m afraid there must be some mistake,“ Sarah began weakly, wondering how

best to explain that she was not whatever highborn lady Rose mistook her for.

„There you are, Rose. I must say – “ What the speaker must say would remain

forever a mystery. Catching sight of Sarah, she swept a deep curtsy.

„Your Ladyship! How sad that mis dreadful accident should be the cause of your

visit to my humble establishment – which is, nevertheless, honored by your

presence,“ Mistress Bulford amended firmly.

„Where are the coach and the other passengers?“ Sarah asked, but apparently her

hostess misunderstood, for she replied:

„Jem has just ridden back from Mooncoign, my lady. Dr. Falconer is coming,

with your coach to bear you safe away as soon as you are well enough to travel.“

„What is – where is Mooncoign? I am Sarah Gunningham. I am afraid there has

been some sort of mistake.“

To Sarah’s utter bewilderment, mistress and maid exchanged wide-eyed fearful

glances. Mistress Bulford moistened dry lips before responding.

„You must soil be sadly shaken by your ordeal. Perhaps you would like some tea,

Your Ladyship?“

At her mistress’s gesture, Rose dipped another hasty curtsy and fled. With

Rose’s departure, Mistress Bulford seemed to lose all sense of what to do. She

seated herself upon a low stool at Sarah’s side and gazed up at her imploringly –

almost as if Sarah were some sort of public performance, Sarah thought

uncharitably. Her head pounded abominably, and every bruise she had collected on

the so-rudely-interrupted coach ride burned and throbbed.

But even so, the sense that had warned her of danger in the forests of the New

World warned of danger here. This was more than a simple case of mistaken

identity, and – alone and friendless in an alien land – Sarah must walk as softly as

ever she had in the wilderness.

„Tea will be delightful,“ Sarah said cautiously, and was rewarded by a faint

lessening of the inexplicable tension which gripped her hostess.

„So this is Bulford Hall,“ Sarah hazarded next, gripped by a strong sense of me

absurd unreality of her situation. She, who had always been tongue-tied even in the

presence of those she knew, was now compelled to make small-talk with this strange

Englishwoman who stared at her as if she were mad.

„Yes, Your Ladyship.“

„And you, I collect, must be Mistress Bulford?“ Sarah pursued doggedly. She

smiled, to turn me remark into a jest in the all-too-likely possibility that the woman

was someone else entirely.

„That’s right, Your Ladyship,“ the woman said in tones of relief. „Don’t you

remember? When Bulford and I came to wed it was you as sent as handsome a pair

of silver tankards as ever anyone did see, and said as how the Bulfords might always

look to Roxbury.“

Roxbury. Worse and worse. For a moment Sarah entertained me distempered

freak that she might in fact be whoever Mistress Bulford thought she was – and had

simply run mad – but the vision of that other Sarah, glimpsed in an instant before the

crash, robbed me notion of much of its humor. Sarah’s heart beat faster as she

phrased her next question.

„And so of course you know who I am?“ Innocuously as the question had been

put, it had still been the wrong thing to say. Renewed fear showed in Mistress

Bulford’s eyes as she replied, „Why, you are Lady Roxbury – the Marchioness of

Roxbury – Your Ladyship.“

Chapter 4

A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows

(Paris, Germinal, 1805)

The tall man with the dangerous eyes knew that someone was going to die tonight.

Rupert St. Ives Dyer, Captain His Grace the Duke of Wessex, coolly surveyed

the salon from the privileged vantage-coign of the entry-hall. When he had arranged

with the Underground three days ago to meet Avery deMorrissey somewhere here

among these privileged New Men and successful turncoats of the Ancien Regime,

Wessex had been reasonably certain of retaining both his liberty, and his life.

Now he was less so.

A note smuggled up the backstairs of the Hotel des Spheres, Wessex’s residence

on this trip to the City of Light, had tipped him that the Jacquerie – the Red Jacks –

Talleyrand’s secret police – wished very much to have speech of the Chevalier de

Reynard, which nom de guerre was Wessex’s own for the moment. He did not

know if it was the foolish loyalist Reynard, or Rupert, Duke of Wessex, King

Henry’s political agent, who had earned M. Talleyrand’s enmity, and at this moment

it did not matter: the Jacks were only a few minutes behind him.

Wessex had left the Chevalier’s lodgings in the Hotel des Spheres by way of the

roof, but it was only a matter of time before the Jacks took his scent and ran him to

ground. The carte de invitation for this evening’s party had still been on his

dressing-table, after all.

It was foolish to have come – but without him deMorrissey had no chance of

reaching England, De-Morrissey was English, a naval officer who had been interned

at Verdun where he had learned something of interest. Holding this information to be

of more importance than his life, deMorrissey had managed to escape the walled city

and blunder into some members of the Royalist Underground who’d covered his

tracks, at least as far as Paris, But the man hadn’t a word of French, and if the

Royalist Underground had not managed to put him in touch with „Reynard,“

deMorrissey would have been dead long since. And if the Red Jacks had anything to

say about it, he might yet be.

Reynard/Wessex lifted his quizzing-glass and surveyed the room with

maddeningly languid affectation. La Belle Paris was not what she had been in the

days of Wessex’s boyhood, but to the casual observer she had made a phoenixlike

recovery from the bloody events of the „glorious“ ‘93 – at least assuming one had

no memory of her original splendor. In this modern incarnation the appointments

were a little too opulent, the talk a little too loud, and dress and manners veered

self-consciously between Republican and Imperial.

Wessex allowed his quizzing-glass to drop and nicked imaginary grains of snuff

from the lapel of his wasp-waisted celadon silk evening coat as he shook out his

ruffles. He was dressed slightly beyond the cutting edge of fashion, and on a lesser

man the mode might have appeared ridiculous, but not upon my lord Wessex. He

had me height, the carriage, the killdevil black eyes to support any freak of fashion,

and enough cold swords-edge charm to beguile any lady save Madame la

Guillotine herself.

Wessex descended the three shallow steps to the black-and-white tiled floor of

Princesse Eugenie’s drawing room. The Red Jacks were only moments behind him

– and deMorrissey was in the miniature summer house in the Princesse Eugenie’s

garden. Wessex might, just, have enough of a lead to winkle deMorrissey out of the

garden and along the route prepared for him. Just.

A hand fell heavily upon the immaculate brocade of Wessex’s coat. „My dear

Chevalier, how fortunate indeed that I should find you here.“

Wessex turned, and raised his glass to regard the smaller man. So now I know

who it was that gave Talleyrand my scent.

M. Grillot was round, red-faced, and ambitious. He was a frequent visitor to the

shadowy half-world in which Wessex lived his real life, and mis time had managed, it

seemed, to lay his gaff upon quarry of note.

„Fortunate, my dear Grillot? Fortune favors the brave, it is said,“ Wessex

answered idly, in the person of the Chevalier de Reynard.

„And my very dear Chevalier – it was brave of you indeed to venture among us!“

Grillot could not quite repress a smirk at the cleverness of his own double meaning.

Wessex-as-Reynard made an elegant leg, slowly. Almost he reached for his

quizzing-glass again, but not quite.

„No, Monsieur Grillot,“ he said cordially to his betrayer, „it was you who were

the brave, to venture to attend a party with such a potential for dullness. And your

bravery is my good fortune – do let us celebrate it in a glass of wine.“

Wessex’s French was flawless, but then, French had been one of the civilized

accomplishments only a generation ago… in the world that had preceded the

Revolution, before the self-anointed Emperor of France’s bloody conquest of half

the world.

„But of course, my dear Chevalier.“ Grillot was minded to relish his triumph.

„The Princesse keeps an excellent cellar and a dull guest-list, eh?“ He linked arms

with Wessex and the two men strolled away. No one would expect „Reynard“ to

make the bow to his hostess. The license of Eugenie’s gatherings was nearly as

proverbial as their dullness.

Wessex smiled. Certainly Madame la Princesse should thank him – after tonight

no one would ever again call one of her soirees dull.

Grillot and Wessex passed a number of small knots of conversants debating

everything under the sun in fervent obsessed voices. Only a few of them glanced up

from their talk to mark „Reynard“ and Grillot’s passing. The attraction of Eugenie’s

salons – aside from the excellent table she kept – was that one might meet anyone

and talk of anything here. From crop-headed Incroyables and their slovenly damsels

to the properly corseted and bewigged haute bourgeoisie, eyes and tongues burned

with the light of the Idea – the Idea that France had the moral obligation to enslave

half the world.

The two men reached the buffet. Wessex shook back his lace and poured wine

for them both. Grillot gazed with affected distaste at „Reynard’s“ fantastical mode

of dress.

„But my dear sir, what would you have me do?“ Wessex protested blandly,

catching the direction of Grillot’s glance. „All the world knows that Man’s natural

state is to be at war, and yet some of us are not meant for rude martial exercise. We

must each choose our battlefield where we may.“

Grillot snorted and tossed off his wine. Wessex poured him another glass. Above

the buffet the wax candles in their gilded wooden garlands burned with a steady

white light multiplied in the mirrors that hung upon the walls.

„Ah, the battlefield….“ For some reason, Wessex’s choice of words was a

source of particular amusement to M. Grillot. „But there are battlfields and

battlefields, are there not, my dear Chevalier?“

Grillot was not a subtle man. Any person not already awake to his treachery

would surely be alerted by the gloating in his voice now.

„It is entirely as you say.“ Wessex obstinately continued to act the part of the

foolish and oblivious Reynard.

„But you doubt me, my dear Reynard.“ Grillot’s smile grew more feral as he

spoke. „Perhaps you will find a walk in the garden a spur to the intellect?“

If Grillot had expected Wessex to deviate from Reynard’s persona by one iota,

he was to be sadly disappointed.

„Certainly my good Grillot, if such is your desire,“ Wessex said urbanely. But in

his pocket, where no one could see, his fingers tightened upon the butt of a very

small pistol.

The Princesse Eugenie’s little garden was meant to be seen at night. Narrow padis

surfaced in white stone and crushed seashell curved around ornamental plantings

designed to encourage assignations. A high wall concealed the garden from the street

and from the prying eyes of neighboring houses. Grillot stopped just short of the

tiny, ornamental gazebo.

„But you will wonder, my dear Chevalier, that Madame la Princesses garden is

so quiet?“

„Will I?“ asked Wessex politely. He glanced behind him. They were out of sight

of the house. Good.

„The English boy who was here now awaits the Jacquerie in the kitchen – but he

will not be lonely long. Madame la Guillotine’s kiss is one that he will remember for

eternity – thus perish all such enemies of France!“

There was a sudden shout from the house. Grillot fumbled a bulky and obvious

pistol from his pocket, undoubtedly already primed and loaded and carried on the

cock for just this moment. Wessex waited patiently while he did so. The Duke had

no intention of grappling with him for the firearm – not while he was trying to avoid

the attention that pistol-fire would surely draw.

„My dear Grillot, now that you have discovered all, there is one question I should

like to have answered,“ Wessex said – in English and a voice quite unlike „Citoyen

Reynard’s.“

He spoke to cover the soft clicking sound as he pressed down on a hidden button

on the shaft of the quizzing-glass held between his fingers. A snap of the wrist, and

the lens hung free, connected to the ornate golden handle only by a thin cord of

braided silk. It was not meant for the work he was about to put it to, but it would

have to serve.

„Soon you will answer questions, English cochon – not ask them,“ Grillot snarled

theatrically.

There was a crash from the house and the man turned toward it, forgetting, in that

fatal moment, to beware of his companion. As Grillot turned, Wessex flung the

invisible coil of silk about his neck and jerked it tight, pulling the smaller man back

against him and muffling Grillot’s death-struggles with his own long limbs.

„Nevertheless, I shall ask,“ he breathed softly in Grillot’s ear as the Frenchman

died. „Did you actually believe that you might sentence an Englishman to death with

impunity? It is not done, my dear Grillot; you must hold me your preceptor in this.“

Wessex spoke to cover the bitterness in his own soul – clean death on deck or

battlefield might be any man’s fate, but this sneaking soft-handed game of shadows,

fought with weapons that were not even honest steel –!

Grillot went limp, and Wessex lowered Grillot’s dead body to the ground. He

drew the silk cord back into the shaft of his quizzing-glass once more, then dragged

the body into the cover of some of the Princesse’s ornamental shrubbery, stripping

off the gaudy coat and waistcoat of the Chevalier de Reynard once he’d done so.

With a few deft motions he turned the waistcoat inside out, concealing the lurid

vermilion of the embroidered Chinese silk behind a veil of dully respectable ecru

satin.

The outcry from the house was louder now. There was a sound of breaking glass

and a woman’s squeal. The Jacks were quite as crude in their methods as their

predecessors at the height of the Terror had been; their motto one that all the world

knew: Extremism in the defense of Liberty is no vice. Wessex wished their

countrymen much joy of them.

As he listened, Wessex pulled out the whalebone stays that had given his coat its

fantastic shape, tossed them into the bushes, and shrugged himself back into a coat

of dull brown velvet that had only a faint acquaintance with fashion. The five gold

napoleons that were concealed in the heel of each slipper should be enough to see

him through to the inn on the Calais road where new clothes, identification papers,

and a fast horse awaited him – if the Jacks had not discovered the hideout already.

But deMorrissey – if the late M. Grillot could be believed – lay a prisoner in the

house beyond. It might be possible – just – to go in and extract him while the Red

Jacks were smashing the teacups in the parlor.

Without any pause for thought Wessex was running lightly toward the house. He

avoided the pools of light spilling from the open doors and windows of the function

rooms, and skirted the edge of the house until he reached the side door that led

down into the servant’s quarters beneath. One flat-footed thrust at the door gained

him entrance – along with Wessex’s fervent wish that he had been able to wear his

hunting boots upon this expedition, instead of dancing slippers – and then he was

within.

In the midst of such an entertainment as was taking place elsewhere, one would

expect the servants’ quarters to be filled with activity, but the kitchen in which

Wessex found himself was entirely deserted. An overturned bottle of wine, its lees

still dripping slowly into a scarlet puddle spreading on the wooden floor, gave mute

testimony to the abruptness of the evacuation. It seemed that what the Underground

had surmised was true: that if the Red Jacks had spies in every kitchen in France,

every kitchen in France also had advance word of the Jacquerie’s movements.

There was the thunder of proletarian boots upon the stairs. Swiftly Wessex

identified the green baize door that separated the world of service from the elegant

damask of Madame la Princesses drawing rooms. An immense oak dresser was the

nearest article of furniture; Wessex ran to it and shoved, the long muscles of his

elegant lean frame bunching with the sudden exertion.

There was a rattle of dishes as the massive piece began slowly to shift away from

the wall. The oak dresser slid slowly forward, and just as it did so the door to the

kitchen began to swing inward. With one last desperate heave Wessex thrust with all

his might, and the dresser teetered, tipped… and toppled gracefully backward into

the door with a musical breaking of glass. There was a roar of thwarted anger from

the other side of the door – to which Wessex responded, genially, in an even fouler

gutter argot.

Wessex smiled faintly as the faint sound of determined battery came distantly to

him through the barricaded door. Best to hope that the late M. Grillot was to be

believed regarding deMorrissey’s whereabouts, as Wessex had just sealed the

kitchen off from direct communication with the house above.

It seemed, however, that at least in that much Grillot had been truthful. His

Majesty’s Captain Avery Richard Harriman deMorrissey, most recently of Verdun,

lay facedown upon a pallet in the butler’s pantry, trussed like a prize Christmas fowl.

The disheveled state of the Captain’s borrowed clothes gave eloquent witness to the

difficulty of his capture, and when his eye fell upon Wessex his color deepened

alarmingly.

„I pray you, my good man,“ drawled Wessex in the most well-bred of Pall Mall

accents, „that when I release you, you will confine your martial ardor to our mutual

enemies. I am Wessex, and we were to meet this evening under slightly different

circumstances.“

„The King must be told!“ gasped deMorrissey as soon as the gag was removed

from his mouth. „There is a plot!“

„There is always a plot,“ Wessex murmured absently. His fingers were busy on

the knotted cords that bound deMorrissey’s hands and feet. They were bound so

tightly together that he did not dare to use the tiny knife he carried, and the knots

were difficult. And surely it could not be so very long until the Jacks realized that the

kitchen had two entrances.

„Saint-Lazarre is to be killed!“ deMorrissey gasped. „In England – an assassin is

on his way.“

„Who?“ Wessex demanded sharply. Victor Saint-Lazarre, that loyal French

expatriate and able courtier, seemed to be the only man who could hold the

squabbling French Royalist factions together. Without Saint-Lazarre to unite the

various Royalist cabals in support of the English war effort, King Henry’s hopes of

sparking a continental counterrevolution to restore a member of the legitimate

Bourbon line to the throne of France would suffer a fearful blow. The man’s

assassination would be a magnificent coup for the Republicans, as well as touching

off a wildfire of terror throughout the country once it was learned that the Corsican

Beast’s reach stretched to murder in England itself.

„Don’t know. The courier we retrieved knew only that Saint-Lazarre was to be

killed on sixteen Germinal“

„The Gazette places Saint-Lazarre at the Marchioness of Roxbury’s country seat

until Parliament resumes. That is where the assassin will strike. If we are separated,

you must do your utmost to reach England with the news,“ Wessex said quickly.

Sixteen Germinal in the Revolutionary Calendar translated to the twentieth of April

by civilized reckoning. Eight days from now. To reach London in time to warn those

in power would take superhuman luck and inhuman speed.

The last knot came free beneath Wessex’s expert fingers just as the door leading

to the kitchen garden burst inward with a clash. DeMorrissey rolled from the pallet

and stretched cramped limbs; a young John Bull in the flower of his manly strength.

His white teeth gleamed in the half-light as he smiled.

„You may depend upon me, sir.“

And then there was no more time for talk. The first Red Jack through the

doorway took a bullet in the throat from Wessex’s tiny pistol and fell to the floor in

a bloody thrashing of limbs. DeMorrissey seized the Red Jack’s truncheon of office

from the dead man’s hand and used it to great effect upon the jaw of the next,

gaining Wessex not only a truncheon of his own but a matchlock pistol primed and

cocked.

„Who wishes next to die?“ Wessex’s tone seemed to hold genuine curiosity as he

regarded the three men he faced. None of them, it seemed, was willing to give him

his answer.

From the corner of his eye Wessex saw deMorrissey edge around him and out

through the kitchen door. And that was well enough, save that in his disheveled

condition and lacking identity papers, deMorrissey would soon enough be seized by

any of the Citizen’s Safety Committees that roamed the city with vigilante

watchfulness. And deMorrissey, still, did not have a single word of French.

The Jacks’ scarlet caps were dyed even bloodier by the light from the stove, and

with admonitory gestures from his borrowed weapon Wessex herded them

backward until they stood in an untidy clump before it. They shuffled uncertainly,

mesmerized by the darkness at the end of his pistol, but in truth the advantage was

theirs and soon enough they would realize it.

„Come on!“ deMorrissey urged from the doorway in a strangled whisper.

Wessex raised the pistol and fired.

The ball struck none of the three men, but the Red Jacks had not been Wessex’s

target. He had been aiming at an object upon the shelf above the stove, and his ball

had flown true. Oil from the shattered jar his bullet had struck dripped down onto

the hot iron surface of the stove.

Dripped –

Smoked –

Ignited.

With a sizzling flare, the iron surface of the stove burst into bright hot light In their

scramble to evade the flames one of the Jacks was flung into the midst of the fire by

his companions, and another fell to a blow from Wessex’s cudgel. His Grace did

not remain to see the end of the play; he was out the door upon the instant, grabbing

deMorrissey by the shoulder as he passed and running fleet as any fox before the

hounds. Together the two men fled through the moonlight garden and into the street

of what until quite recendy had been a quiet respectable Paris neighborhood.

Wessex knew the city of Paris well; it was his business to know such things.

Soon he and his charge were several streets away, and had, temporarily at least, lost

their pursuers.

„What now?“ deMorrissey panted.

„A fast horse and the Calais road,“ Wessex replied. „It seems I have an

engagement at the Marchioness of Roxbury’s – and I should so hate to disappoint a

lady.“

Chapter 5

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

(April 20th, 1805)

It was April 20th – four days since the crash of the mail coach on its way to

London.

The young woman in the massive four-poster bed tossed fretfully, trying to throw

off the heavy embroidered velvet coverlet that insulated her from the April chill. But

each time she managed to do so, the quiet woman who sat in the chair by the fire

would get to her feet and replace the coverlet over the young woman’s restless

body. Her name was Gardner, and not so many years ago she had been the young

Marchioness of Roxbury’s nurse, just as she had nursed Roxbury’s mother, and her

mother before her.

Gardner’s skin had the frail porcelain color of extreme old age, but her spine was

still poker-straight and her mismatched eyes – one blue, one brown – were bright

and intelligent.

„How does she?“

Dame Alecto’s entry into the room had been as silent as that of any of Sarah

Cunninghams’s Cree companions. The Dowager Duchess of Wessex’s trusted

emissary glanced toward the bed where the woman the world knew as the

Marchioness of Roxbury – a Roxbury mysteriously restored to vibrant health – lay

in laudanum-induced dreams. In her hands, Dame Alecto – this world’s Alecto

Kennet – held a small carved wooden box inlaid with silver long since darkened to

soft black by the passage of uncounted years.

„Well as might any whose soul still wanders Between the Worlds,“ Gardner said,

the Scots burr of her girlhood still evident in her soft voice. „I pray me that the Luck

is with us, and we may lead her back to us again.“

„It wants more than luck,“ Dame Alecto said, as if to herself. Strong magic had.

opened the Veil Between the Worlds, allowing one Sarah to pass away through it

and another to arrive. The woman who had been bom in this house and this bed was

dead in a world now sealed to them, but her world-double was here, and in their

power.

Dame Alecto regarded the figure in the bed with a gaze more critical than any the

false Roxbury’s servants had employed. If one knew what one was looking for, it

was easy to tell this was not the trueborn Marchioness. The weathered skin, the

work-roughened hands, small scars from wounds that Sarah Conyngham, Lady

Roxbury, had never suffered… the differences were patent, if subtle. Even Dr.

Falconer, her ladyship’s personal physician, when called to her side in haste for the

second time in one day, had only taken Sarah for the Marchioness in the heat of the

moment – and in the heat of his fury at finding her breathing strong, the raging

consumption vanished. Falconer had ascribed the Marchioness’s improvement in

health to some other device than the one that Dame Alecto had employed….

„I might have expected this of you,“ he said in a jury to the baffled Sarah.

„Doesn’t Tour Ladyship know that such bargains only come to HI ends?“

Dame Alecto smiled her small cat-smile at the memory of the moment opened to

her in the scrying glass. Let young Falconer think that Roxbury had forged a

forbidden bargain with the Oldest People – it was better he suspect that than guess

me truth. And Dame Alecto would take care to keep him from returning to the chit’s

side until there was nothing about his patient to distinguish her from the woman he

had known from her cradle. The marks of work and weather would fade with time

and soothing lotions, scars could be covered with paint and patch and long satin

skirts.

There was only one difference that the Lotion of the Ladies of Denmark could not

erase, and that was an inward one. This Sarah knew nothing of her double’s life and

obligations, and they dared not count upon her assuming them willingly. To shape

this new Sarah to their plans would require an even more cunning trick than any

Dame Alecto had yet worked, and a ruthless one at that, and Dame Alecto was more

than willing to supply it.

„Do you go on reading to Her ladyship, Gardner,“ Dame Alecto said. „And I will

prepare her cordial.“

(Gardner’s voice took up her reading once more. „‘April 14th, 1798: Mama’s

funeral was held today, a most extraordinary fine turn out. The death-coach was

drawn by six black horses, all in plumes, and King Henry himself sent his warmest

condolences; all the County was there, and I do not know how many Pairs of

Gloves Buckland distributed to them all. Now Mooncoign is mine, and I am the

Marchioness! How strange it all seems: they tell me I must make my bow to Society

this Season instead of waiting until next year, even though of course since I am in

Mourning for Mama everything must be Very Quiet. And there is to be a Court

Presentation as well and I must have a Whole Wardrobe in the First Stare of Fashion

– although it must all be Black; how dull! But perhaps I shall set a new mode, for I

am Roxbuty new, after all – ’ “

Gardner’s quiet voice droned on in the background, reading aloud from Lady

Roxbury’s diary, as Dame Alecto set the small ebony box down on the table beside

the bed. Opening the casket, Dame Alecto lifted out the small crystal flask of Cordial

of Lethe, The liquid gleamed a baleful violet in the dim light of the bedside candle.

A full draught of the cordial – crafted from La Montespan’s own recipe, faithfully

handed down through the centuries – would destroy all memory, leaving its victim as

mindless and unknowing as a newborn babe. But that was not what they wanted for

this new Sarah. This hard-won substitute must take up Lady Roxbury’s place in

Society. She must do their work in Mooncoign’s name against the oppression of the

Corsican tyrant who so ravaged the Continent, and take the place of her world-twin

whose life had been cut so untimely short by her own recklessness and folly.

Carefully Dame Alecto measured a few drops of thick liquid into a silver spoon.

After tipping the cordial into a brilliant cut crystal wineglass, Alecto poured in

enough wine to cover the bowl of the spoon, then stirred until the two liquids were

well mixed.

„Come, Your Ladyship,“ she said to the drowsy girl. „It is time to take your

medicine.“ .

For the past week Wessex had been on the road, the warning he carried too

sensitive to trust even to the heliograph that could communicate between men ashore

and the English ships that patrolled the Channel. It had taken three precious days to

get himself and deMorrissey from Paris to Calais, and another endless day waiting

until a longboat could safely beach to take them off Once they reached Dover their

ways would part, Wessex to London a-horseback, leaving deMorrissey to follow a

little more sedately in what ever transport he could commandeer or hire.

All during the turbulent day-long Channel crossing Wessex had paced and fretted,

drinking only of delivering deMorrisey’s information and saving Saint-Lazarre.

Saint-Lazarre was at Mooncoign. Wessex cudgelled his brains. He had to admit

he did not know Roxbury at all well, even though his grandmama had stood her

godmother and Wessex himself had been formally betrothed to her when she was

sixteen and he was twenty-four. His work for King and Country meant he had not

seen much of the girl in the intervening years – it was, however, impossible not to

have heard of her: the dashing parties, her autocratic behavior, her outrageous

friendships. These scandals had been among the hottest on-dits of the Ton since the

Marchioness had made her bow to Society – but her betrothed had taken little notice

of them. A man playing the Shadow Game possessed little time for the

claustrophobic world of the Upper Ten Thousand. And in fact, no matter how

hideous Roxbury’s behavior, his own was worse.

Rupert St. Ives Dyer, Duke of Wessex, was the third of that noble line – although

his grandfather, before being so exalted, had been heir to the Earldom of Scathach, a

dignity that had been old when William the Conqueror first beached his boats on

Saxon shores. The Dukedom of Wessex, like so many English peerages, was the

whimsical creation of a Stuart King – in this particular case, of King Charles the

Fourth, upon the memorable occasion of Wessex’s grandfather’s birth. As might be

expected from the nature of the creation of the tide, the mark of Stuart kinship was

writ plainly upon Wessex’s long-jawed countenance. Though the pale wheat-gold

hair worn Continentally long marked the Plantagenet strain in the line, the hot black

eyes were purely Stuart, and Wessex was as stubborn and inflexible of purpose, as

feared an enemy and as loyal a friend as were all the descendants of that kingly

lineage.

Though in the eyes of the world, Wessex was merely Captain His Grace the Duke

of Wessex of the Eleventh Hussars - the Cherubims – a regiment currently with

General Wellesley doing what they might to render Napoleon’s possession of

Europe a matter of doubt – his captaincy was almost a formality; a liveried carte

blanche that provided him the congé to some of the circles in which he must move.

Wessex’s war was fought, not on battlefields, but in shadows and in country

houses, in foreign courts and behind enemy lines.

For the organization for which Wessex truly worked was not even remotely

military in nature. Half a club of the most exclusive, half an order of chivalry sprung

full-flowered from a most unlikely century, it was the Order of the White Tower.

The White Tower was named for the earliest stronghold of English Kings. It had

been founded by Charles the Third, and was the descendant of the espionage

network that Lord Walsingham had run in Gloriana’s time. Its badge was gules, a

tower argent, and a brooch with such a device resided somewhere in the back of a

drawer in Wessex’s Albany rooms, unearthed only on those occasions when full

Court dress was required of him.

The White Tower was the English Crown’s official covert organization, and

membership was an honor conferred by the King alone – quietly, without public

display. The White Tower acted under conditions of strictest secrecy, its true

function known only to King Henry and a handful of his most trusted ministers. Ever

since its founding, the White Tower had served to defend the interests of the British

Crown in any corner of the earth where those interests were threatened… and to

gather the information to keep England free of Continental entanglements. For over a

dozen years now, the eyes of the White Tower had been turned to France, and

France’s regicidal and imperial ambitions.

Wessex had been formally granted the Order of the White Tower at a levee held

on his twenty-first birthday, just after he had come down from Oxford. The White

Tower’s members met once a year for a dinner held in the White Tower itself, and

so far as the world knew, that was all there was to the White Tower and its

membership. It would never do to let the truth become common knowledge. In an

age which venerated the Miles Gloriosus and thought of the Exploring Officer and

his even more shadowy kindred as jackals and cowards, the news that the King

himself employed such creatures might be enough to trigger a second English Civil

War. It would surely topple the government.

From the moment his loyalty had been given, Wessex had dreaded the thought of

his family discovering just how he served the Crown. The knowledge that her adored

grandson was a wretched sneaking spy would, Wessex was certain, quite kill his

grandmother – or if it did not, public knowledge of his shameful trade would force

her complete sequestration from Society, a fate nearly as dire. It was out of shame

as much as for any other reason that Wessex had shrunk from taking his fitting place

in Society, but now he regretted his indifference to the traditional amusements of his

class. Was it there chance that Saint-Lazarre had gone to Roxbury’s house in

anticipation of the Season, and that it was to Mooncoign that a French assassin sped

even now? Did Roxbury play a double game, just as he did?

For a moment the very thought made Wessex close his eyes in utter weariness.

Englishwoman or no, betrothed or no, if Roxbury served the enemy, Wessex would

show her no mercy. His masters had set him on; let the hunt fulfill itself without

mercy or weakness.

Less than an hour after the ship had reached Dover, Wessex had claimed the

horse he had left stabled there and was galloping along the post road to London.

The Frisian asked only to run; as soon as his master was in the saddle, Hirondel laid

back his ears and lunged across the stableyard cobbles, clearing the gate at a flat

gallop.

A coach-and-six took nearly a full day to drive from Dover to London; a

specially-built racing phaeton with a pair of twelve-mile-an-hour tits between me

poles could go the distance in six hours. Wessex and Hirondel did the journey in

four. It had still been dark when they’d left Dover; it was ‘ broad day now – the

morning of April 19th – and Hirondel was covered in foam and staggering by the

time the spires of London were in view. Wessex slowed to a walk to spare the

exhausted animal as much as he could, but he could not afford to pause long enough

to leave Hirondel in his home stable under a groom’s expert care. The intelligence

Wessex carried was too urgent to brook even that little delay.

But no one who saw the dark-eyed man as he rode up Bond Street and tossed

Hirondel’s reins to the one-legged man in tattered regimentals who lingered outside

the select tailor’s shop for just that purpose would have thought that Wessex was on

an errand any more urgent than deciding upon the fabric for a new coat Nothing in

his carriage or demeanor gave any hint that it had been many days since Wessex had

seen a bed of any sort His mud-spattered boots and dusty coat hinted at a night of

hard riding, but the Bloods of the Ton were noted for amusements that were nearly

as dangerous as war.

„Walk him,“ Wessex said, tossing a yellow-boy to the veteran. „I will be some

time.“

He crossed the pavement that separated him from his destination, pushed the

door open, and entered.

„My Lord Wessex.“

The man called Flowers – though Wessex had no notion whether Flowers was his

real name, or whether he actually had any hand in the coats Wessex occasionally

ordered from his shop – came forward to greet his noble patron, his mien perfectly

that of a most superior tailor who might pick and choose his customers from among

the Pinks of the Ton. „We had heard you were to rusticate upon the country for

some weeks yet.“

Wessex smiled grimly to himself. The man could hardly say that he thought

Wessex was still in France, now, could he?

„I am afraid I have come upon a most urgent commission, Flowers. The

French-cut velvet turns out to have some unique difficulties.“

„If Your Grace would be so good as to step into the fitting room?“ Flowers said

smoothly. He led Wessex past the cutting room, with its mannequins and

half-finished coats, into a small cubicle at the back of the shop and left him there,

closing the open side of the booth with a brass-ringed, curtain of faintly dusty green

velvet.

Wessex pushed down upon a certain section of the paneling of the back of the

booth and waited a moment until he heard the click of the inside lock being released.

The panel slid back, and Wessex walked through into a foyer that would not have

been out of place in any Piccadilly townhouse.

The impeccably-liveried butler Charteris was standing ready to greet him, and

flanking the entrance Wessex had used were two strapping footmen, whose slightly

archaic staves of office could be turned ta formidable weapons at need.

„I need to see Misbourne,“ Wessex said curtly, his weariness breaking through

his speech at last.

„I shall enquire if my lord is at home,“ Charteris said austerely, just as if this

secret sanctuary were the townhouse it so thoroughly resembled. Wessex repressed

once again the irreverent impulse to send his card up with the perfect butler. „If Your

Grace would care to wait in the Blue Parlor?“

There were four small rooms on the ground floor of the premises; in his years

with the White Tower, Wessex had waited, in all of them at one time or another.

Except for the colors for which they were named – Red, Yellow, Violet, Blue – and

which were carried out in their decoration and appointments, the four rooms were

virtually identical. Wessex had never discovered any rhyme or reason for his

assignment to one room or another. However, the color of the room was a small

matter compared to the selection of well-filled decanters on each room’s sideboard.

After so long without sleep, Wessex bypassed the claret and filled a cut-crystal

tumbler halfway to the brim with smuggled French brandy. The heady kick of me

neat spirit revived his flagging energy, and he made what repairs to his bedraggled

appearance he could in the moments before Charteris returned.

„If you will accompany me, Your Grace,“ the butler said impassively.

Wessex followed Charteris up the curving staircase to me first floor. The door at

the end of the corridor was covered in padded red learner, and Charteris did not

scratch at the door before pushing it open and allowing Wessex to pass through.

From long habit, Wessex stopped just inside the door to give his eyes a chance to

adjust to the dimness. The room was lit by several cobbler’s lanterns; the candle

flames reflected through flasks of spirits, filling the room with a warm, diffuse,

brandy-scented glow. There were no windows in this room, which was otherwise

lined with books and curiosities much as any gentleman’s library might be. The

drawn curtains to his left gave the apartment the look of an ordinary room, but their

folds concealed only a plain brick wall.

Lord Misbourne had been sitting at his desk; he stood when Wessex entered, a

pale and patient spider, waiting for information to drift into his nets.

Jonathan Milon Arioch de la Forthe, third Baron Misbourne, had begun his life in

the shadow of three great disadvantages: he had been born a Catholic, he had been

born an albino, and he had been born a brilliant mathematician. It was this third

defect that was perhaps the greatest of all, for his preoccupation with pure numbers

in the days of his youth had kept him from working to erase the twin stigma of a

suspect foreign faith and a freakish appearance. Instead, he had allowed his

ostracism to push him deeper into his studies, and he used his studies to blot out the

whole of the world beyond.

It was time that had played Lord Misbourne the cruellest trick of all, for

Mathematics, Queen of the Pure Sciences, is a fickle mistress, taking up her lovers

early and leaving them while they are still young. The Baron awoke one day in his

early thirties to discover himself master of an ancient name and a dilapidated estate,

and very little more.

But his time had not been entirely wasted, at least in the eyes of the world. A

byproduct of his interest in numbers had been an interest in codes, a freakish

puzzle-solving ability that had always brought him admirers from among a certain

segment of society. Barred by his albinism from outdoor pursuits – for even the

gentle winter sun of England could dazzle his pale eyes to blindness – and by his

religion from any public office, he could not easily find a new outlet for the energy

that had once been funneled into the fervid pursuit of pure knowledge. But as his

precocious brilliance had faded, an interest in more temporal puzzles had risen in its

place, and guided by the friends he had made in a youth now half-a-century gone,

Misbourne had come to test his theories with men instead of numbers, and play out

his gambits upon the chessboard-of Europe. It was to Misbourne that Wessex

reported, and from Misbourne that Wessex took his orders.

Wessex had never been able to formulate the least idea of the man’s age.

Misbourne had looked much as he did now for as long as Wessex had known him:

his gaunt scarecrow form the despair of his tailor; his brilliant colorless eyes taking

up the color from the cobbler’s lamps and glowing almost coal-crimson in the

dimness.

„Wessex.“ Misbourne’s greeting was understated as always. „We had feared you

lost; our politicals in Paris suspected a trap was being laid for one of our agents

there.“

He gestured toward the deep armchair before his desk; Wessex shook his head

regretfully. „I am too many hours on the road,“ he explained. It would not do to find

himself asleep in his master’s presence. Misbourne reseated himself and gazed at

Wessex expectantly.

„A trap of sorts; I fear that the Chevalier de Reynard is dead,“ Wessex said with

faint regret at abandoning so useful a persona, „and Monsieur Grillot most certainly

is dead. But it was no trap – or if it was, the bait was genuine. DeMorrissey’s

information seems sound enough – and whether it is or no, we dare not refrain from

acting upon it.“

Omitting information Misbourne knew as well as he – the problem of the internally

divided and quarrelsome Royalist factions – Wessex explained that Victor

Saint-Lazarre – who had renounced his aristocratic tides when King Louis XVI had

been executed in 1793, vowing to resume them only at the coronation of the next

Bourbon King – was attending a pre-Season houseparty at the house of the

Marchioness of Roxbury, where an assassin would seek him out in not quite two

days’ time.

„And did our good Captain deMorrissey explain how he had come by this

information?“ Misbourne asked, with pardonable skepticism.

„The assassin boasted of his coup-to-be at a party deMorrissey attended while

interned. They do have a certain amount of society in Verdun.“ Wessex sighed – as

much in exasperation as from weariness. It was not impossible. Who would believe

that a prisoner interned in the heart of Republican France had any hope of

communicating anything he might learn to France’s enemies? Under various names,

Wessex had made a number of clandestine pilgrimages to the walled city where the

French interned foreign nationals, and he knew its ways from personal experience.

„At least,“ Wessex amended, „it passes for society.“

„I see. And was Captain deMorrissey able to provide any sort of description of

this putative assassin?“ Misbourne’s tone was professionally resigned.

Wessex’s mouth quirked in mocking sympathy. „He said the man was short, my

lord. With brown hair – or, as it may have been, a wig. Rather ordinary, in fact.“

„Thus describing half of France and three-fifths of England.“ Misbourne sighed.

„I take it we may not pursue the simpler course of simply whisking Saint-Lazarre to

safety?“

Misbourne was baiting him and at the moment, Wessex’s temper could not

support such stress. „And lose the chance to question one of Talleyrand’s

confidential agents?“ he snapped. „Or to find out who else may be implicated in

such a plot?“

Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord – the butcher with the face of an angel

and the manners of Satan himself – was the head of Bonaparte’s secret police. Even

General Savary reported to him. Talleyrand had been born into the French nobility

half a century before and had been nearly as oppressed by it as any impoverished

peasant. Lamed by a careless wet-nurse, disinherited by callous parents in favor of a

younger brother, and forced into the Church that he loathed, Talleyrand had

championed the Revolution that had freed him from spiritual vows. He had risen high

in the Revolution’s bloody councils, and had managed to persuade the then-First

Consul – Napoleon Bonaparte – to give him even greater power. Now Talleyrand

was the poisoned thorn in the English lion’s paw, his reach was as long as his

ambition was vast.

„Peace, Your Grace.“ Misbourne raised his delicate white hands in capitulation.

„You are quite right: the assassin must be taken, and alive if such a feat can be

managed. The only question remaining is who I may send who will have the congés

such circles. It would not do to twist Roxbury’s tail without need – she is a

connection of yours, if I recall correctly?“

„The Marchioness is my grandmother’s goddaughter, and my betrothed.

suppose I shall marry her someday, if both of us live long enough,“ Wessex said

briefly. He shrugged. Futile to think that Misbourne would not remember that small

fact; the man had the encyclopedic grasp of minutia that had spelled the difference

between defeat and victory in a thousand shadow tourneys. „Let me go to her. I

suppose I must have the right to call upon Roxbury if anyone does.“

„You must be at Roxbury’s by tomorrow night – and today would be better,“

Misbourne pointed out. And Mooncoign was in County Wiltshire, almost a day’s

journey by coach from London.

But the thought that his family name might be compromised – however obliquely

– made Wessex, exhausted as he was, unwilling to leave the completion of this hunt

to others.

„Give me a coach and driver and I can be there by sundown,“ Wessex said. „I

would back myself to be there sooner, but I rode Hirondel from Dover and there is

nothing left in him, poor lad.“

„Someday you will kill yourself, and not just your horses,“ Misbourne said. „Very

well – go to Wiltshire and catch me a Frenchman. And then let us see what other

game we may flush.“

Misfortune had plagued every stage of Wessex’s journey, beginning with a lame

wheeler a dozen miles outside London and ending in a broken axle, and so it was the

morning after and not the night before that saw Wessex’s arrival at Mooncoign – on

a hired horse, and far in advance of his luggage.

He had stopped at the Green Maiden in the village of Moonfleet long enough to

ask directions that he did not really need and collect gossip that he did. There he had

discovered that the Marchioness’s usual spring entertainment went on as usual, with

lavish displays of fireworks and other entertainments of a havey-cavey nature.

Though Lady Roxbury had suffered an illness that had seemed serious for a time,

and not a week past had been involved in a smash-up with the Bristol Mail that had

killed her famous team of match bays, her ladyship was now reported to be in

excellent health. This very night, in fact, her ladyship was hosting a masked ball – an

intelligence that did nothing to relieve his grace’s feelings. Anyone might choose to

appear at a masked ball, and with nearly all the County invited and many guests

arriving from Town, one more interloper would scarcely be remarked, even if he

happened to be a French assassin.

Had this been Roxbury’s plan?

Loyalty to his class rather than any particular feeling for his betrothed kindled

Wessex’s anger. As much as he wished to take the killer in hand, he wished even

more to settle, at least in his own mind, all question of the Marchioness’s guilt or

innocence. He was brooding over that matter as he rode up Mooncoign’s long drive

an hour later.

In the light of early afternoon, Mooncoign’s northern facade, faced all in white

stone, shone with a brilliant light Mooncoign’s roof was edged in crouching stone

figures that – to Wessex’s jaundiced eye – looked ready to take wing and fly. Three

generations of Roxburys had so enlarged the house that its consequence rivaled that

of Blenheim Palace.

He was not, upon his admission to the house, much in a mood to be told that

Lady Roxbury was not receiving visitors.

* * *

Sarah tossed fretfully in her half-sleep, a bitter taste lingering on her tongue.

Bizarre images capered through her dreaming mind: fantastic horses dressed in

plumes; a black-lacquered coach with its dead-lights burning. She was… She was…

She was Sarah.

But disparate images accompanied the naming: a quiet young woman, dressed in

beaded buckskins – a painted lady, dressed in satins and jewels.

Which was she? Which was Sarah?

Sarah groaned and opened her eyes. Above her head stretched an unfamiliar

canopy of embroidered silk with bullion fringe. Memories of the recent past crashed

and collided in her brain, making her whimper aloud with vertigo.

She remembered the crash – yes, the aftermath of it was clear enough now – the

screams of mangled horses and the wails of injured passengers – the sickening pain

in her head. Everything before that was grotesquely clouded, but the aftermath was

relatively clear: Mrs. Bulford, in whose house she’d awakened; a man named

Falconer – whose words had been utterly baffling but whose tone had conveyed

both anger and disappointment; the ride in the coach back to her – her? – home.

This isn’t my home, Sarah thought with chill fear. I don’t belong here. But of

course she did. Of course it was. Everyone had told her so… at least she thought

they had.

Sarah sat up, stretching muscles that protested days of disuse. She rubbed at her

eyes; the voluminous sleeves of sheer muslin that trailed from her arms made her

look down at her gown; the nightdress, of a muslin so fine it was called nun’s

veiling, was elaborately tucked and embroidered, dozens of yards of material going

to make up the costly and etherial gown she wore. Numbly, Sarah stared at the

sleeve as one transfixed. It seemed wrong, somehow: not evil, but out of place, like a

frog in a butterchurn –

Galvanized by her own disquiet, Sarah swung her legs over the side of the bed

and stood, a renewed bout of dizziness making her clutch at the heavy bed curtains

to steady herself. Breathing deeply and carefully, Sarah looked around the deserted

room.

Her gaze was drawn inexorably to the portrait above the mantlepiece, where a

woman in a most indecent gown and a face painted until it was only a white mask

looked down at Sarah with a challenging gaze that Sarah could see in the looking

glass any time she chose. Were they related? The painted woman’s jewel-covered

fingers held a key, a dagger, and a rose, items that held no familiarity for Sarah.

As if of their own volition, her hands flew to her bosom, but the comforting lump

of her father’s ring was not there.

The ring!

Casting aside all other worries, Sarah tore the room apart until she found the ring,

set aside in a drawer by her bedside. Quickly she worked the catch, rotating the

black stone until the enamelled unicorn and the King’s Oak were revealed on its

silvery obverse, and gazed on the image with relief. No matter what else was hidden

from her, this memory was real and true.

The blue ribbon she had worn the ring on was gone; hesitantly Sarah tried the ring

on all her fingers, until she settled it upon the forefinger of her left hand. At least this

treasure was still with her.

But why should she think that? All she owned was with her: this was Mooncoign,

her home.

Sarah raised her hands to rub her throbbing temples. Alien luxury beguiled her

upon every side, but her gaze was drawn longingly to the window, beyond which

Mooncoign’s lavish mock-wilderness was visible, bright emerald in the midday

English sun.

It is not the real woodland, it is false, just as everything else about this…

mummery, Sarah thought sulkily.

Yes, that was it! All this was false, unreal, a playlet all enacted for her benefit in

which none of its actors believed. All these people treating her with outlandish

deference, granting her impossible titles… it was a game.

But who played this game, and why? Sarah stared through the enormous windows

and saw no answer waiting beyond the lavish expanse of glass. Her certainty began

to fade back into troubled confusion, and she became slowly aware that for the last

several minutes she had been hearing a gradually increasing commotion through the

great oak door that led to the world outside.

„To the devil with her headache – I will see the woman!“ a strange male voice

shouted, just as the door flew open.

Sarah stared.

The stranger had the night-black eyes of a fallen angel, and his moon-cream hair

was brushed straight back and held at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon. He

was dressed in a neat coat of blue superfine, white buckskin inexpressibles, and

gleaming tasselled Hessians – riding clothes. He still wore a pair of Cork tan gloves

and carried a silver-headed crop, and as he moved, light flashed from the gemmed

pin in his cravat. Sarah stared at him, enchanted in the oldest sense of the word.

Incredibly, the stranger blushed, staring at her billowing and all-concealing muslin

nightgown and averting his eyes hastily.

„I – Your pardon, Lady Roxbury. I did not – I shall await you – Pray excuse

me.“

While Sarah was still belatedly registering the fact of his arrival, the Duke of

Wessex removed himself to her sitting-room, closing the door swiftly behind him.

Wessex stood in Lady Roxbury’s withdrawing chamber, striving to master the

flush of sheer mortification that stained his cheeks. The manner of the aristocracy

was quite free-and-easy, but there were still well-defined limits. Wessex was aware

he had passed one of those limits by bursting in upon an unmarried female who was

en deshabille, and he did not care for the sense of humiliation it gave him.

And Lady Roxbury’s astonishment had only added to his sense of culpability.

When he had stormed into her chamber, the Marchioness of Roxbury had been

standing clinging to one of the velvet bed curtains, her muslin nightgown sliding

down her narrow shoulders. Her light brown hair spilled about her arms, and her pale

skin was bare of paint. She looked much smaller than he had remembered her as

being, and far more vulnerable.

As he waited impatiently for the Marchioness to emerge - for what else could he

do, after all, having burst in to her private chambers like a man demented? – Wessex

heard the outer door to the withdrawing room open. A fragile old woman – who

nevertheless conveyed the indefinable imperious air of a very superior servant indeed

– appeared.

„What is your business here, sir?“ the woman asked with the fierceness of a

mother hen protecting her only chick. Through the open door behind her, Wessex

could see a brace of stout footmen hovering, obviously hoping their assistance

would be required.

„I have come to pay my respects to your mistress,“ Wessex said. „Pray enquire if

she will receive me,“ he added, as blandly as if he had not just rudely accosted Lady

Roxbury minutes before. „Tell her that her bridegroom has come to pay her a call.“

Wessex disliked trading upon that future affiliation, particularly as he was not

entirely certain he intended to honor the betrothal, but it was imperative that he speak

to the Marchioness. He only hoped that after a singularly inauspicious beginning, the

notoriously touchy Lady Roxbury would condescend to grant him an interview at all.

„I… shall enquire, Your Grace,“ the old woman said reluctantly, and disappeared

into the Marchioness’s bedroom. The door closed behind her with an audible

thump; her appearance of fragile old age was obviously illusion only.

Wessex turned and closed the outer door in the footmen’s faces, then

shamelessly approached the inner door, seeking to eavesdrop on the conversation

within the Marchioness’s bedroom. But it was a fruitless attempt; the door was too

thick for even murmurs to reach him.

Gardner seemed nearly as surprised as Sarah to see her on her feet, though Sarah

clung to one of me bedposts to steady herself.

„My lady,“ Gardner said, and sank automatically into a stiff curtsey. „I shall bring

Dame Alecto.“

The automatic flash of alarm sparked Sarah to feign a vitality she did not feel.

„Why?“ she asked coolly. „I am perfectly recovered. Pray tell me, Nurse, who

was that man?“

„I shall send him away at once,“ Gardner promised. „My lady, you are far from

well. The stress of the accident – “

„That was several days ago,“ Sarah said. The confusion in her mind was as

strong as ever, but so was the need to – not escape, precisely, but to be mistress of

her fate. „And my…“ She hesitated, but the ideas were there when she groped for

them. „My guests will wish to see me, after all. Bring me my clothes.“

„But my lady,“ Gardner protested again. Sarah said nothing, and after a few

moments she saw the old nurse’s indignation soften into defeat.

„Very well, Lady Roxbury. I shall send Knoyle to you so that you may dress.“

A victory, but Sarah did not have the leisure to luxuriate in it. „And tell that man I

will see him, once I have dressed,“ she instructed the nurse. Whoever he was, he

might hold the key to the mystery that surrounded her.

Chapter 6

A Masquerade in Shadows

The Marchioness would receive him the moment she was dressed, Wessex

allowed himself to be conveyed by the house’s butler to a bedchamber in the

bachelor’s wing of the house, where a servant took away his coat and boots to be

brushed and polished, and Wessex made what repairs to his toilette he could with

the time and materials available to him. Fortunately, when he was finished, the figure

gazing back at him from the mirror far more resembled the Duke of Wessex than the

madcap Chevalier de Reynard or any of his spiritual cousins. Thank God he had

worn his signet ring, as befit a man of his station – his betrothed was rumored to be

notoriously high in the instep, insisting on all observances due her exalted rank.

Wessex gazed upon his reflection, drawing upon himself as surely as any role the

trappings of his own life. As some might say, his real life.

Reflexively, his fingers caressed the stone of the massive ring he wore on his left

hand, and he smiled, for Lady Roxbury would never appreciate the true meaning of

this signet.

At his practiced touch, the carnelian cut with the crowned salamander of the

Wessex dukedom lifted up and out on an armature that had seemed, moments

before, to be the rim of the bezel. Under Wessex’s control, the engraved gemstone

spun to reveal a device that only twelve men and one woman in the realm were

privileged to carry.

In precise, exquisite enamelwork, an oak tree in summer foliage glowed against a

silvery field. At its foot, a unicorn slept, its head upon the ground. In the branches, a

crown in glory burned.

Boscobel – the King’s Oak. And a symbol of loyalties that might at any moment

be divided.

The League’s founder had seen his father, Charles the First of England, executed

by those for whom he ruled; had himself spent long years of penurious exile in all the

courts of Europe while his birthright suffered beneath Cromwell’s iron heel. When

Charles Stuart had come into his own again he had been balked at every turn by

Lords and Commons determined that the Crown of England would dance to their

piping, and not they to that of any King.

And so Charles Stuart – King Charles II of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales

– had danced, smiling and bowing and keeping his tongue behind his teeth as he

painstakingly forged the sword to defend England against herself at need. The

Boscobel League: twelve men and one woman, never more and never less – each

new member chosen by his predecessor and approved by the King. Drawn from the

highest and lowest in the land, loyal to King – or Queen – before Country.

It was by the decree of their Royal founder that the League’s numbers should not

be greater – that the League should be funded from the Privy Purse directly – that

each ruler, upon his accession, should be given one chance, and one chance only, to

disband this secret weapon. Five kings had chosen to retain it, but the sword had

always remained sheathed.

So far.

What Wessex had done in France had been done at the behest of his masters in

the Order of the White Tower. But before he had pledged himself to them, Wessex

had pledged himself to the League, and if his King so commanded, Wessex would

betray England at the command of the Crown of England.

Or would he?

For now, the bonds of his oaths did not pull Wessex in opposite directions.

Service to the Nation was still service to the King, and» in his infrequent resorts to

prayer, Wessex hoped that fact would never change.

But the possibility remained. Wessex stood between the Tower and the Oak –

two holy and binding pledges – and lived with the nightmare that at any moment he

might be called to break faim with one of them. When his other problems seemed

too formidable, it was bizarrely soothing to think about this one.

There was a soft scratching at the door.

„The Marchioness will receive you now, Your Grace.“

Dame Alecto had not made her appearance while Sarah’s abigail dressed her

under Gardner’s supervision, but Dr. Falconer had, and bullied Sarah into submitting

to another examination. As he held the listening tube against her chest, Sarah

searched the doctor’s face with as much circumspection as she could muster. This

man was her personal physician. Why did he seem an utter stranger to her?

She did not remember him at all Carefully, Sarah kept her expression neutral.

She was the Marchioness of Roxbury. This was Mooncoign, her home. As if it were

a tale she had heard others tell, she recalled the particulars of her privileged life:

orphaned as a child, she had been an autocrat from the time she learned to ride her

first pony, and sole mistress of her fate by the age of sixteen.

„I find nothing amiss with Your Ladyship,“ Dr. Falconer pronounced with an air

of great reluctance. „You were thrown clear of the wreck, and I have known you to

take worse falls upon the hunting field – though I cannot say that your four days’

sleep settled my mind overmuch.“

He stared at her, his amber gaze fervent with mysterious meaning. „I warn you,

should you regret your bargain, you will not find it as easy to unmake.“

This was the second time he had mentioned a bargain, and Sarah still did not have

the slightest idea of what he meant. She shrugged. „No bargain is easy to unmake,

Doctor.“

„Then on your own head be it,“ Dr. Falconer pronounced, as if he were judge,

not physician. Gathering up his tools into their bag, he walked quickly from the

room.

There. Now I have offended him, and I am sure I do not know how. But it

would be better, perhaps, if he worried over offending me….

The alien thoughts lay on the surface of her mind like smooth stones, and as she

turned them over in her thoughts Sarah slowly became aware that Knoyle, the abigail,

was chattering away, offering Sarah unfamiliar garments for her approval.

Knoyle knew her. And Knoyle was her personal maid Why did she not know

Knoyle?

„ – and I may say, my lady, that the Duke is quite tolerably featured,, for all he do

go on glaring at one so!“

„He quite surprised me,“ Sarah said cautiously.

„Bursting in on Your Ladyship in that savage fashion!“ Knoyle said

disapprovingly. „What would his grandmother – who is your godmother as well –

think of such behavior?“ Apparently Sarah need not make any reply to this, for

Knoyle sniffed critically and went on with her monologue. „And for all that your dear

papa betrothed the two of you when you were born, such license – “

„I am to marry this Duke?“ Sarah blurted, horrified.

„Your Ladyship must marry someone,“ Gardner pointed out imperturbably, „and

the dukedom’s lands march with your own. What could be more suitable?“

A stormy knot of rebellion formed within Sarah’s bosom even as Knoyle pulled

her corset-lacings tight. Though all else seemed oddly vague, she was quite certain

she had never agreed to marry the Duke of Wessex.

But wait… Knoyle had spoken of a childhood betrothal. Perhaps the engagement

was not so irrevocable as it had first sounded?

Knoyle left the room for a moment – Sarah could hear a whispered conversation

with the maid whose job it was to take care of Lady Roxbury’s clothing, and not her

person. She turned to the nurse, who was coming forward with a shawl to place

about Sarah’s shoulders as she stood waiting in her stockings and petticoats, though

with the fire on the hearth the room was already quite unseasonably warm.

„Oh, pray do not cosset me so, Gardner,“ Sarah protested. „I am far too old for

that.“

„You shall never be aught but the veriest babe to me,“ Gardner told her firmly.

„T’was I who took you from the midwife’s arms. Your dear mama would have no

one save me to attend her – though there were some as said I was past my prime,“

she added darkly.

Sarah searched the old woman’s face for veracity, suppressing a pang of despair

when she found it easily. How could all those around her know her so well and she

not know them at all?

„Here you are, my lady. In the first stare of fashion it is, and just such a gown as

will put roses in your cheeks.“

Sarah stared at the primrose-yellow gown of printed muslin that Knoyle held

proudly over one arm. The neckline and the tiny puffed sleeves were threaded with

bits of green ribbon, and knots of tiny floss roses trimmed the flounced hem and

demi-train.

„Oh, how beautiful!“ Sarah said. And beautiful it was, like a bird or a flower;

purely ornamental and not at all for use.

Unresisting, Sarah allowed Knoyle to dress her and arrange her hair in a simple

style, and Gardner to drape the cashmire shawl about her shoulders. When they were

finished, a stranger stared back at Sarah from the cheval-glass, a stranger with

high-piled hair and an immodest expanse of skin exposed by the fashionable gown;

someone Sarah did not know at all.

„And now,“ Knoyle said, „I shall just get the hare’s foot and your jewel-case – “

„Oh, never mind that,“ Sarah said impatiently, turning her treasured ring round

and round upon her finger. Now that her strength had returned, she itched to see the

world beyond this room, and to discover what the Duke of Wessex was doing here,

and how she might escape the clutches of their betrothal. „Where is this Duke?“

* * *

The house was not familiar to her at all, but Knoyle accompanied her as if

expecting Sarah to need a stout arm to bear her up, conducting Sarah along

unfamiliar corridors until she reached the library. Once inside, Knoyle stood beside

the door as though hoping to emulate one of the suits of armor that Sarah had seen

in the corridor, and Sarah gazed about the room with interest, stories that someone –

who? – had told her resonating within her mind.

Family legend swore that, in the time of the martyred King Charles the First,

before ever a Roxbury had walked these halls, this room had been not library but

chapel to the manor’s Catholic folk. Puritan storm and Glorious Restoration had

destroyed most of the evidence of this – if ever there had been any – but what

remained were three magnificent high-crowned windows in the north wall, the center

one surmounted by a small but splendid rose window that had surely never been

meant as any secular ornament. Sarah gazed out through the tiny diamond-shaped

panes of the narrow windows at a world now red, now blue, now greener than grass,

now a strange blank amber.

The room itself was filled with books and curios. There, there are the antiquities

your father gartered in Greece; the Canaletto King Charles gave your

grandfather…. She crossed to the shelves and took a book down at random. More

books than she might read in a lifetime, here for the taking. Why did that astonish her

so?

„Lady Roxbury?“

Sarah turned at the sound of the voice, automatically setting the volume in her

hands aside. She clasped both hands before her, fiddling nervously with her ring.

The Duke of Wessex was just closing the door to the library behind him.

„Your Grace,“ the appropriate tide came to her lips almost automatically. „What

are you doing here?“

„Admirably direct,“ Wessex flicked a glance toward Knoyle, then crossed the

room to where Sarah stood. „Send your maid away.“

„I – I beg your pardon?“ Sarah wondered if she heard him rightly.

- „What I have to say is for your ears alone, Lady Roxbury. I won’t have it

repeated in every kitchen in – in England.“

Sarah glanced toward Knoyle but received no clue there; the loyal abigail’s face

was a mask of righteous indignation that gave no hint whether Wessex’s request

might be reasonable. Sarah looked back at Wessex, trying to judge what sort of man

he might be.

Face like a swordblade, and dark smudges of exhaustion beneath his eyes. His

mouth bore the stamp of both temper and cold calculation, but some instinct

prompted Sarah to grant his request.

„You may go, Knoyle.“

The abigail fairly quivered with silent protest, and Sarah locked eyes with her,

willing Knoyle to obey. After a moment Knoyle dropped her eyes and curtseyed

before exiting the room.

As Knoyle left, Wessex made a cat-footed circuit of the library, lifting curtains to

peer behind them and glancing into the chairs beside the fireplace-as if to assure

himself there was no one else present. Before Sarah could quite frame an objection,

he had returned to her side.

„Victor Saint-Lazarre is one of your guests,“ Wessex said without preamble.

Victor Saint-Lazarre. Die royalist, a ghostly voice prompted Sarah. „I know,“

she said.

„Why did you invite him?“ Wessex pursued.

As Sarah herself had not the slightest notion, the question only increased her

unease. As she wrung her hands, the too-large ring on her finger slipped free and

went bouncing across the Turkey carpet, landing against Wessex’s gleaming boot.

He bent and picked up the precious ring, and to Sarah’s horror, she saw that in its

fall the catch had come loose, and the stone had reversed to show its secret scene.

When he saw me image, the Duke of Wessex stared at the unicorn beneath the oak

as if he had been turned to salt.

She is one of us. An apprehension he had not known he felt lifted from Wessex’s

heart. He need fear no betrayal from Lady Roxbury – as a member of the Boscobel

League, both her honor and her loyalty were above question.

Normally members of the League were unknown to one another – both members

and candidates were masked at their election, and no list of the membership was

kept. Wessex himself did not know who his fellows were. But if their common bond

was not common knowledge, neither was it strictly forbidden for one member to.

reveal himself to another if need arose, and Wessex blessed Lady Roxbury’s

audaciousness in doing so. The revelation was safe enough, for the symbol meant

nothing to anyone outside the League – and everything to those within it.

He glanced up and saw the Marchioness’s wide grey eyes studying him

expressionlessly. She could not know that he was also a member of the Boscobel

league. She must be awaiting some hint of her gambit’s success or failure, but she

showed no evidence of any inner disquiet. Her face was the cool mask of a master

gambler, and Wessex felt his spirits lift. With Roxbury to back his play, they could

save Saint-Lazarre and take his would-be hunter without scathe.

„Your ring, Lady Roxbury. It is a pretty design,“ he added, turning the enamelled

badge inward and clicking the bezel into place. „And it is one I have seen before.;“

„Have you?“ the Marchioness said coolly, as if the matter were of no interest to

her. „Perhaps you will be so good as to tell me what it is you felt you could not say

before my maid.“

His spirits bolstered by the knowledge of her trustworthiness, Wessex was blunt.

„That Victor Saint-Lazarre is to be murdered – here, tonight, in your house – by

agents of the spymaster Talleyrand who are determined that a Royalist coalition shall

not bear fruit.“

„Murdered- – in my house?“ Her ladyship’s tone was still cool, but the ghost of

haughty indignation now informed it.

„Unless we two can prevent him. I do not know who the assassin may be, and if

we are to take him alive we dare not alert him to our knowledge. That is why I came

– because it is easy enough to claim that I have some business with you.“

„Because we are betrothed.“ Now there was open disdain in her voice, and

Wessex repressed an urge to shake the chit until her teeth raided. Had the woman no

sense of timing?

„Yes,“ he said shortly. „Though there is no cause to refine too much upon it, as

we have been promised these past nine years and may go on unwed another sixty for

all of me. But to business. Tonight you give a bal masque, as all the county knows,

and I believe that is when the assassin will strike.“

„He must be stopped,“ Sarah said automatically, then frowned, thinking. „But

how?“

„Leave that to me,“ Wessex said. „All I ask is that you make it known I am your

guest, and I shall contrive the rest.“

* * *

For a moment Sarah stood silent before him, wondering what she should do.

Something deep within her cried out that this was all wrong, all strange, all alien –

but that inner voice was faint, muffled by the assurances of the doctor and the

servants, by the very existence of Mooncoign itself. I am Lady Roxbury, Sarah

repeated to herself, echoing what she had repeatedly been told since she awoke to

find the world new to her. I am mistress of Mooncoign. I am a loyal subject of the

lung. The feeble cry vanished, muted by these pronounced truths. Reassured, Sarah

lifted her head and stared into Wessex’s midnight eyes.

„Tell me what you wish me to do,“ Lady Roxbury said firmly.

Chapter 7

Ill-Met by Moonlight

Wessex gazed sourly down at the articles of punctilious Court dress spread out

before him in the dressing-room of his country house. The elaborate costumes

appropriate to a formal masquerade were commissioned weeks – if not months – in

advance, and naturally Wessex, who had not expected to attend, had not done so.

Formal dress would have to suffire him.

Wessex had spent a few hours mingling informally with Lady Roxbury’s guests

before riding back to his own ducal seat to dress – somehow – for the evening’s

masquerade. Roxbury’s great house was filled to overflowing with guests who had

been arriving for the past three days, swelling the ranks of the original houseparty

and overflowing into the houses around. Even his own house was full. No other

member of the Family was in residence, but Wessex supposed he must have

extended an invitation to someone before he’d left for France – Wessex Court was

well-populated with young bachelors of the ton who had taken advantage of the

opportunity to remove to more spacious quarters than Mooncoign currently

provided.

Wessex glowered in disapproval at the harmless garments. Tonight’s bal masque

was the perfect venue for an assassination – and Wessex had nothing truly suitable

to wear for the occasion. Plain formal dress would be both conspicuous and

unsuitable.

At least he could count on the Marchioness’s support, even though she could not

be quite certain he shared her membership in the League. He ought to enlighten her,

but some strange reluctance held him back. A lifetime’s habit of secrecy was too

strong. But her revelation left him wondering – not for the first time – what secrets

those he thought he knew were keeping as well.

A sudden rustling in the branches of the tree outside his open window made the

hair on the back of Wessex’s neck prickle. He slid his hand into a waistcoat pocket,

easing his fingers around his pocket watch – an item that, in addition to telling time,

could end time for some; it was a single-shot pistol to those who knew its secret.

Moving cat-footed, Wessex backed toward the wall, holding the timepiece in his

right hand.

„I say, Your Grace, you might give a fellow a hand up,“ a familiar voice

complained. Wessex grinned to himself, relaxing, and went to help his partner in

through his dressing-room window.

„What the devil are you doing here?“ Wessex demanded, not unreasonably.

„Bringing your costume,“ Illya Koscuisko answered breathlessly-if-amiably.

His English was idiomatic but accented, though he spoke French, German, and

his native Polish without flaw. He was in uniform, Wessex noted with a certain

resignation – Illya’s bearskin shako was tilted at an angle upon his head, and the

eagle’s wings wired into full extension and stitched to the back of his dark green,

caped, and fur-trimmed, uniform pelisse scraped at the top of the window as he

clambered into the room, Wessex caught the shako as it fell and tossed it into a

corner.

„Traveling incognito, I see,“ Wessex observed.

„Ah, well, this rig-out should serve for a mere fancy-dress party, and if I’m not

needed there I can always use it to terrify children,“ Illya said. His dark eyes flashed

with self-mockery, and he ran his hand through his chestnut hair, most of which was

short-cropped atop his head in the current mode. Longer side-locks were braided

into long, silk-wrapped pigtails in the fashion of the Polish Hussar regiments.

In his native Poland, Illya Koscuisko was an aristocrat, and like the eldest sons of

many aristocratic families, had found a career in the Army, joining the elite cavalry

regiment whose uniform he still wore. Though his country had not truly existed since

before he was born – having been sliced like a rich pie among Russia, Prussia, and

Austria in three separate Acts of Partition – Illya Koscuisko was a fierce nationalist

who longed for the return of Polish sovereignty, though not at any price. Unlike

many of his countrymen – who, after Poland’s final destruction in 1795, fled to

France to seek preferment and promises at the French Court – Koscuisko had come

to believe that salvation would come not from the Corsican Tyrant, but in a Europe

free of him. Koscuisko had not followed his regiment to France, embarking instead

upon a course of intrigue and resistance that had brought him first to Wessex’s

attention, and then to that of the White Tower. For five years now he had been

Wessex’s partner and closest friend.

They were an unlikely pair. Poland was the victim of three powers who were

Britain’s allies, and France, Britain’s enemy, was widely thought to be Poland’s

salvation.

Despite twists of fortune that had delivered his tides and estates into the hands of

others, Koscuisko was gay and outgoing, warm where Wessex was cool, genuine

where Wessex was mannered. But in the end, like his partner, all Illya Koscuisko

asked of life was the chance to play the Shadow Game, and to strike out at the tyrant

who had redrawn the map of Europe more brutally than Czar Alexander ever had.

„My costume,“ Wessex said. „How could you possibly…?“

„We have our little ways,“ Koscuisko said cheerfully. „But I dare swear you will

deal more amiably with the little Roxbury and Talleyrand’s pet if you wear this.“

Warily – he had some experience of his friend’s sense of humor – Wessex

unwrapped the bundle.

There was a golden papier-mâché helmet with a nodding crest of scarlet egret

feathers, a sweeping silken cloak in the same color, a breastplate and back, and

several other light pieces of painted and gilded wood and leather, all cunningly

crafted to mimic armor.

„It’s a grand concealment for a brace of Mantons, any road – you’ll never hide

them in an unexceptional, Duke-about-town coat and knee-breeches,“ Koscuisko

pointed out.

„So I am to be a noble Roman?“ Wessex asked quizzically.

„Ave, Caesar,“ Koscuisko murmured, sweeping him a low bow. Wessex stepped

back quickly out of range of the wings that cut through the air like feathery guillotine

blades. They extended nearly a yard above Koscuisko’s head, and at the gallop the

wind flying through them produced a weird rushing moaning sighing sound that was

quite disheartening to the enemy, or so Wessex had heard.

„I do wish you’d learn how to manage those things,“ Wessex remarked, staring

pointedly at the eagle wings.

Koscuisko regarded him placidly from a pair of pellucid velvet-brown eyes.

„Oh, I manage well enough,“ Koscuisko said cryptically. „I shall even manage to

skulk about Lady Roxbury’s gardens all evening without being taken up by her

gamekeepers.“

„Let us hope that another individual will not be as fortunate,“ Wessex responded.

No one shall be murdered at Mooncoign! That determination provided Sarah

with a certain fortitude during the hours that followed her conversation with Wessex.

Dinner had been set forward an hour to give all the guests time to dress themselves

suitably for the bal masque, and forty-five covers were laid in the Main Hall. Dame

Alecto had returned from her mysterious afternoon absence and reassured Sarah that

all would go well that evening, and indeed it had.

As if strengthened in her role by the expectations of her guests, Lady Roxbury

presided over the table easily, falling as if by long practice into the character of witty

and autocratic Marchioness.

The table-talk turned upon the recent betrothal of the Prince of Wales to Princess

Stephanie Julianna of Denmark, a move that Prince Jamie’s Either hoped would end

Danish neutrality and deny Beast Bonaparte a northern staging area for an invasion of

England and Scotland.

„No nation, however much we value our sovereignty, must be allowed to conduct

wholesale executions of its citizenry – much less behead its king. Still less may one

nation be permitted to make all of Europe its empire, for in the natural checks and

balances of nations and crowns are peace and freedom made,“ Victor Saint-Lazarre

said.

After hearing Wessex’s revelations, Sarah had arranged to seat Saint-Lazarre

upon her right hand at dinner, and had taken the opportunity to study him closely. A

fair-haired, slender gentleman with blue eyes, Saint-Lazarre spoke words of peace

and sense against the bloodbath that threatened to suck all Europe down into

destruction.

„Indeed, sir – and is it true that the Corsican Tyrant is – as some would have him

– an atheist?“ the lady to Saint-Lazarre’s right asked.

„He is worse than that,“ Saint-Lazarre replied. „He is a man who believes that he

is the particular favorite of God, and chooses that there should be no one to gainsay

him. In those lands where he rules he has driven the witches from their circles and

the Fair Folk from their hills. In fact, he has banned the practice of the Art Magickal

entirely.“

There was a murmur of horrified disbelief around the table, and one woman

reached slender fingers to touch the silver star that hung at her throat, as if to

reassure herself that it was still there. But then talk turned easily to other matters, as

foreign politics was not truly a matter of interest to the members of this company,

save perhaps for Saint-Lazarre.

It was hard for Sarah not to warn Saint-Lazarre, or to search the faces of her

guests for the mask of the assassin. But she must trust Wessex, or be willing to chart

her course alone through the fearsome waters and treacherous shoals of this vast sea

of uncertainty that threatened to drown her. At that prospect, even Sarah’s iron

resolve quailed. Anything was better than that. And Wessex had seemed so

confident his plan would work – that the two of them could skulk among the revelers

and take Saint-Lazarre’s hopeful murderer just as hunters would take a fat deer….

With the prospect of action, the fearsome voids in her memory seemed to close,

or at least be covered over with laughter and talk, and Sarah was in high spirits

indeed when she led the ladies from the table upon a general exodus to the dressing

rooms, there to have the elaborate toilette of dinner removed and an even more

outlandish garb substituted.

Sarah Cunningham regarded her reflection critically in «her dressing-room mirror.

Her light brown hair was elaborately dressed on the back of her head, with feathers

and a rope of pearls braided through its strands. Her eyes were kohled and her

cheeks were rouged, and a gilded mask – gaily painted and beaded in the fashion

that the savages adorned their deer skins – waited to provide the finishing touch.

Her costume’s overdress was sewn of thinnest buckskin, with fringe along the

divided overskirt and all along the hem. Long tight sleeves puffed gently at the

shoulders, and a long silk fringe was sewn in a line across the back, giving the effect

of a cape. The petticoat, which showed in the front and at the hem, was of red silk

with gilded passimenterie trim, and her dainty buckskin slippers were embroidered

with colorful beads. A muslin stole, painted with barbaric designs and edged in

squirrel fur, completed her . costume. The modiste, who had come from London to

add the finishing touches to the garment as it draped her illustrious client’s body,

had assured Lady Roxbury that her ladyship looked the very image of a wild Red

Indian.   „Do I?“ Sarah said cryptically, staring at the engraving in Ackerman’s

Fashion Repository that detailed the formal costume of the native race of England’s

far-distant American colony. A native sachem and his lady stood poised in the

hand-colored engraving as though they might at any moment go for a saunter in

Green Park. The Indian lady wore an outfit nearly identical to the one currently

adorning Sarah’s own person.

At heart Sarah suspected there was something wrong with this elegant image,

though she could not fault Madame Francine’s execution of the costume as

portrayed in the engraving. And the famed modiste had been quite correct; the

supple leather gown was indeed a very dramatic costume. Sarah thrust aside the last

of her unease, and was prepared to descend to greet her guests when there was a

tapping at the door to the dressing-room.

„See who it is,“ Sarah said to her abigail. Each time she gave an order it became

easier: she seemed to more fully inhabit the life of the woman whose face she saw

when she looked in the mirror.

A moment later, Dame Alecto Kennet entered.

„Dame Alecto,“ Sarah said, faintly surprised.

„I came to claim a moment of your time, Lady Roxbury,“ Dame Alecto said,

smiling her faint imperturbable cat-smile.?

„You are always welcome,“ Sarah said slowly. „But do you not dress for the

ball? You need not wear a fantastical costume, of course – “

„I would be sadly out of place at such an entertainment,“ Dame Alecto said

self-deprecatingly, „but I thank you for the thought. No, I have come to thank you

for your indulgence of me these past several days and beg you will excuse me: my

duties call, and I have been too long away from Bath. By your leave, I will take

myself off this evening and spare your servants the work of finding room for me any

longer.“

„I am sure that if you desire to stay, it would be no trouble to me to

accommodate you,“ Sarah said automatically. It was certainly odd for a guest to

depart a houseparty in the middle of the night, though – so hints of overheard gossip

among the servants told her – Dame Alecto was known to be eccentric, and it was

true that the Dowager Duchess wintered in Bath and might be supposed to miss her

companion. But why should Dame Alecto leave now rather than tomorrow morning?

„Your manners are very pretty, my dear child, but your godmama would not

thank you for pressing me to stay when she is wishing for my return. I did not wish

to depart without wishing you well, and extending my best wishes for the success of

your evening.“

Was it Sarah’s overheated imagination, or was there a double layer of meaning in

Dame Alecto’s voice?

„I admit I tarried here until I was quite certain you were entirely recovered from

the shock you received in your accident,“ Dame Alecto went on. „And I am vain

enough to ascribe much of your recovery to my own nursing. At any rate, I have left

a batch of my cordial with your abigail, and if you continue to dose yourself with it, I

make no doubt that you will outface the Season’s challenges in the pink of health.“

„I do hope so,“ Sarah said. She had swiftly learned that the Season as

contemplated by the Marchioness of Roxbury was to be a busy one.

„Then we will see one another again soon,“ Dame Alecto said firmly, and on the

heels of Sarah’s automatic assent, took herself from the room.

How odd, Sarah thought – but it was a momentary consideration, swept away

almost at once by the exercise of locating mask and fan and dance card, and

arranging all these objects suitably about her ladyship’s becostumed person. As she

took herself off to Mooncoign’s ballroom, Sarah gave no more thought to Dame

Alecto.

Every window of the great house blazed with light this night; all the ground-floor

rooms had been flung open to the Marchioness’s guests, and rows of flaming

torches warmed and illuminated the gardens as well. Sarah stood overlooking the

ballroom that took up most of the West Wing’s first floor. Curtains of blood-red

velvet were drawn back to reveal windowpanes like a mosaic of black ice: within

their frame the fugitive stars of torches illuminating the garden gleamed. Beeswax

candles, dyed and perfumed, blazed out across the expanse of gilded and painted

Chinese paper that covered what few walls the windows did not The floor was

black-and-white marble, patterned in a swirling knot that seemed to move of its own

and was to overset more than one dancer this evening. Music sweet and fast filled

the air from the velvet-draped dais where the Marchioness’s own private orchestra,

correct and slightly antique in powdered wigs and green-and-silver livery, bowed and

blew like maddened automatons.

And for those who did not dance, there were side rooms open where cards, or

punch, or even more hectic pleasures could be procured.

Will he come? Sarah pondered the question as she awaited the assassin as

ardently as any woman might await a lover. She stood at the edge of a cluster of her

guests; beside her was Saint-Lazarre’s sister Isabelle, dressed as a French

shepherdess. Despite the frivolous nature of her costume, Mademoiselle

Saint-Lazarre was a quiet young woman who traveled with her brother out of

necessity, not inclination, and did not interrupt Sarah’s musings with idle chatter.

The Marchioness of Roxbury’s other guests were arriving; the music-master had

looked to her before he began to play and Sarah realized it would also fall to her to

lead the first figure of the evening.

At the thought, her head began to ache faintly, and she wished for the cordial that

Dame Alecto had concocted for her. To distract herself, Sarah gazed about the

ballroom, admiring the varied costumes her guests had chosen to wear this evening.

Here was a highwayman, deep-cuffed coat, tricom, and pistols – Captain Stephen

Price of the Royal Engineers, who had been her guest at dinner – there a noble of the

Sun King’s court – Saint-Lazarre; she had made sure to know what costume was

his. Pharaohs, princesses, and playing cards; laurel-crowned Greeks and noble

Romans filled her ballroom: this night, the Marchioness of Roxbury played hostess

to the sun, the moon, and the stars.

The dancing was to begin at nine-thirty and it was nearly that now. Soon she must

choose a partner with whom to lead out the first figure, but Sarah kept her eyes

turned toward the staircase that led into the ballroom.

One of the curiosities of the house was that to enter the ballroom one ascended a

staircase that took one halfway up the second story and passed through an archway

to a landing where one appeared high above the ballroom, displayed to any

spectators below as if upon a stage. Descent was accomplished by means of the six

shallow steps that led to the ballroom floor. The whole arrangement guaranteed that

every new arrival would be the center of attention at least once during the evening. A

Roman general descended the stairway at the moment; he wore a scarlet loo-mask

and carried a crested helmet beneath his arm. His crimson cape billowed behind him

as he reached the last step and made his way toward Sarah.

„Wessex!“ Sarah had recognized him only at the last minute. He should have

looked ridiculous in such outlandish garb. but his stern expression saved him from

such a fate. As she spoke his name, he made a leg and sketched her an elaborate

bow.

„As you see, madame. Dare I hope that it is I you will choose for the inestimable

honor of the first dance?“

Preoccupied by the knowledge that a murderer was skulking in the shrubbery,

Sarah had thus far resisted the blandishments of all the precipitous gallants who had

begged to be allowed to write their names in her dance card. The sound of

Wessex’s mannered drawl sparked irritation. The man was far too self-assured. And

while she could not recall ever having wished to marry him, the haste with which he

had reputated their betrothal irked her, as did the ease with which he contemplated

murder——

„Perhaps,“ Sarah snapped, unfurling her Indian-painted fan with a snap. She

wanted to ask him about the assassin, but with so many people around, it wasn’t

possible for them to have any private words.

„I shall live in hope,“ Wessex murmured. „Allow me to felicitate you, Lady

Roxbury, upon the… startling originality of your costume.“

Though the words were spoken in tones of the deepest gravity, there was

something about the set of Wessex’s mouth, the glint of the black eyes behind the

mask….

„I chose it with the greatest of care,“ she announced, though in truth Sarah could

not recall having seen the outfit before this evening, and something in her heart told

her that it was not, despite the modiste’s claims, an accurate representation of the

native dress in the wild Americas. „I am excessively fond of it.“

„And my admiration of it transcends my poor ability to express my feelings,“

Wessex responded. „But your guests, as you see, are ravenous for dancing, so if

you would deign to oblige me – “

And so it was that Sarah, nearly without knowing how she did it, led off her ball

with the Duke of Wessex.

Across the black-and-white floor, Saint-Lazarre was dancing with Lady Elizabeth

Perivale, who was rail-thin and hoydenish. The one good thing about dancing, Sarah

realized, was that the activity granted one a larger measure of privacy than did

standing still. Though there would be waltzing later, for propriety’s sake the ball

began with a country dance, whose elaborate stately figures had not changed much

from the court dances of Charles H.

„Will he be here?“ Sarah demanded.

„Count upon it, ma’am – no assassin can resist a masquerade ball,“ Wessex

replied.

But as the hour crept toward midnight, Sarah found herself almost wishing the

so-far-absent assassin would make his appearance. She could not imagine how it

was that everyone thought these affairs so appealing – for herself, Sarah found it

monstrously flat. Lady Roxbury had attended so many balls since her first Season;

perhaps that was why she found this supposed entertainment so very dull?

No matter; it still would not do for her to retreat to the library with a good book.

But having spent the last two hours dancing with all who had claimed her – Wessex

having made himself not-so-mysteriously absent as soon as the first quadrille had

ended – Sarah was now weary enough to feel that she had earned the right to seek

quieter pursuits. When Saint-Lazarre left the dancers to seek out the relative quiet of

one of the side rooms, Sarah followed stealthily, catching the tail end of the

conversation just as she arrived.

„Though it is true that England is a Christian realm, King Henry turns a blind eye

to white witchcraft in his dominion, following his great-grandfather’s example. The

witches of England worked hard to place Charles II on his rightful throne, and his

descendants have not forgotten,“ a man’s voice said.

„And it is also true that your farms and flocks have prospered since you have

become freer in your covenant with the Oldest People, but how can your prosperity

excuse your blindness to others’ misfortune?“ she heard Saint-Lazarre say.

The salon had been reserved for smoking, and a blue haze hung heavily on the air,

though the windows were open to the gardens beyond. There were half a dozen men

present, including both Captain Price and Saint-Lazarre, their lavish masquerade

costumes lending a freakish air of unreality to the talk. Sarah paused just outside the

doorway to listen.

„You mean that we do not open our borders to every hellgrammite that seeks to

cross them with a tale of woe as his passport?“ a man dressed as Scaramouche said.

„Saint-Lazarre, no man is more sensible to the troubles upon the Continent than I,

but England must look to her own cares first. It is our gold that keeps Prussia and

Austria in the field, do not forget.“

Saint-Lazarre made some reply, but Sarah ceased to listen to him, for she saw

faint movement just beyond the long windows, in the gardens below. And while it

was true that her gardens were open to all this night, there was something furtive

about that movement that set all Sarah’s hunters instincts a-tingle.

It took her only moments to make her way from the house unobserved and to

reach the garden. The garden was another thing she did not seem to remember –

almost automatically Sarah rubbed her head – but the architect’s drawings had been

hung upon the wall in one of the salons and Sarah had studied them, fascinated, for

several minutes as she waited to go in to dinner. She ran quickly down the bank of

lawn and across the apron of white stones, trying to hold in her mind the place in the

garden where she’d spotted the stealthy movement.

Where was Wessex? Sarah felt unreasonably enough that this was his assassin, so

he ought to be here to deal with it. As a party of revelers passed her – a tall redhead,

a blonde woman in a costume that could charitably be described as exiguous, and a

black-haired man with turquoise eyes dressed as a brighter buccaneer – Sarah shrank

back into the shadows, congratulating herself on the fact that her costume was not all

gold gauze and tinsel ribbons. It might look foolish, but it made it easy enough to

blend into the shadows, especially in the dark. As soon as the threesome had passed

around the corner – the lady apparently being possessed of a strong desire to see the

ornamental water, and the gentlemen being nothing loathe to indulge her – Sarah

continued on her way. She was just opposite the first-floor balcony that let out from

the smokers’ room when she heard a small noise behind her – the unmistakable

sound of a trigger being cocked.

It had taken Wessex several hours to satisfy himself that the danger, whenever it

came, would not come from within Mooncoign. Fortunately Saint-Lazarre had been

a hunted man for many years – the price on his head was the. staggering sum of ten

thousand gold napoleons – and knew better than to parade himself as a tempting

target for opportunistic would-be patriots. He had taken care to keep himself in the

midst of crowds all evening, leaving Wessex free to spend his own energies on

searching for the killer.

It was close to midnight: the full moon burned at mid-heaven, turning the sky from

black to deepest blue and bathing the whole garden in misleading silvery light For the

thousandth time, Wessex pondered the possibility that deMorrissey’s information

might have been wrong: mistaken, or planted in such a way that deMorrissey had

become an unwitting dupe. But where was the profit in that? Talleyrand already knew

he had opponents in the Shadow Game; why expend such effort to neutralize one of

King Henry’s secret agents, especially when Talleyrand did not know which would

be sent? No, it was simpler to believe that deMorrissey’s warning was the

unvarnished truth.

Now all Wessex had to do was find the man who had come to kill Saint-Lazarre.

Wessex stood upon the terrace that ran the length of the central wing of the great

house. Saint-Lazarre was in one of the rooms behind him; Wessex wished he’d had

enough forenotice to be able to garb himself in a costume that matched

Saint-Lazarre’s, men shook his head regretfully. There was no use brooding over the

impossible. Better to concentrate on the job at hand: Talleyrand’s political killer.

The ballroom was on the floor above, and through its open windows Wessex

could hear the playing of the orchestra. The curtains fluttered constantly in the

uprush of escaping heat, making the light that poured out over the garden flicker as if

Mooncoign were burning. A scrap of woman’s laughter drifted up to him, some

happy reveler braving the heavy April dews in search of pleasure. He hoped that

Koscuisko didn’t trip over her. Wessex’s partner was out there somewhere with a

brace of pistols, a saber, and an ingenious line of blarney. And the Polish Hussar

was Wessex’s only backup. Foolish to attempt to protect a target with only two

men, but at least they had the advantage of knowing where the assassin must go.

As he stared out over me garden, Wessex saw a flash of movement among the

ornamental box-hedges. Someone was out there, sorneone who was moving much

too fast and deliberately to be one of the party-goers. Without a moment’s thought,

Wessex tossed his Roman helmet aside and flung himself down the steps in hot

pursuit His long cloak fluttered behind him like the wings of a giant bat for a few

„moments before it caught upon some projection and tore free with a wrench.

The grass beneath his feet was slippery with damp, and Wessex gave swift thanks

that his costume had allowed him to wear his riding boots. The convolutions of the

ornamental plantings confounded him; Wessex turned the corner and found a dead

end.

When he went to retrace his steps, the flitting figure was no longer in sight, but he

had seen which way it had gone. Stepping carefully through the flower-beds – lest

the crunch of his boots upon the gravel walk betray him – Wessex began stalking his

quarry. As he moved, he began the process of extracting his pistol from its

concealment behind his breastplate.

Firearms were chancy things; though Wessex would carry a cocked and charged

pistol as readily as he would carry a lighted bombarde, he’d had little choice this

evening but to charge his pistols before he dressed. The clicking sound as he eased

the hammer back was loud in his ears. If the hammer fell now the pistol would

discharge, sending a round lead ball the size of a cherry through the nearest solid

surface with potentially lethal results.

He could see a figure up ahead, standing motionless in the moonlight It was with a

small pang that he recognized her.

Sarah, Marchioness of Roxbury.

Her memories might be temporarily mislaid, but with heart and bone and sinew

Sarah Cunningham knew the deadly sound of a rifle being cocked. She froze where

she was.

"A moment more, mam’selle, to stand where you are, and I will bodder you no

more, me.“ His voice held an unfamiliar accent, as unlike Saint-Lazarre’s cultured

French as black bread was unlike macaroons.

Sarah looked up toward the terrace, and to her horror saw Saint-Lazarre standing

in the doorway of the smoking room, framed in the candlelight. The ice-blue satin of

his costume made him a perfect target in the moonlight. In a moment he would step

out onto the terrace with his companions, and the assassin would fire.

„Please don’t do this,“ Sarah said desperately. Where was Wessex?

„Do no’ worry, mam’selle,“ the assassin said. „It is no’ your jewels nor your

virtue dat I seek. One moment, and I shall be gone from your life, eh?“

„You cannot kill an innocent man,“ Sarah said. The conversation was beginning

to seem slightly surreal to her. Of course the assassin could kill Saint-Lazarre.

Innocent men died every day.

„But I mus’,“ the assassin said simply. „I ‘ave been paid. But I mus’ also ask

myself, how is it dat you know so much of my business, eh?“

Saint-Lazarre hesitated in the doorway, still in shadow. It was not a clear shot, but

perhaps the assassin wouldn’t mind. There was a step on the gravel, and Sarah felt a

hand upon her shoulder.

„Per’aps I mus’ ask you to tell me.“

Sarah turned to face him.

The assassin was a raffish, unshaven, disreputable-looking man in a moleskin

coat, his uncombed chestnut hair falling into his eyes, but in one hand he held a

gleaming Baker rifle by its black-oiled barrel. The Baker was the darling of the

Riflemen and the terror of their enemies; though just as temperamental as Brown

Bess herself, the Baker was accurate at more than three times the standard-issue

Army musket’s range. If the man knew how to use it, there was no possibility he

could miss his shot „You an’ Gambit, ma chen belle, we mus’ ‘ave words.“

Smiling, the assassin laid the barrel of his gun upon her shoulder, staring into

Sarah’s eyes. In a moment he would fire. Sarah gathered herself to stop him.

But something else stopped him first „I daresay that I am not in your league, but I

can shoot the pips out of a playing card at ten yards with one of these, and you are a

deal closer,“ Wessex drawled. Ho speech was accompanied by the unmistakable

sound of a pistol-cock.

Even at that moment, the rifleman tried to make his shot There was a devastating

percussion beside Sarah’s head, but the assassin had not had time to aim and the

hall went wild. She grabbed for the rifle, staggering backward when it came easily

into her hands. An expert could make the Baker fire three rounds a minute, but the

assassin had not had the chance to reload and the rifle was now useless to him.

Sarah staggered under the gun’s awkward length as Wessex dashed past her, a

fantastic figure in crimson and tinsel, following the assassin. She darted a glance up

toward the terrace; it was filled with revelers, all now pointing down into the garden

and shouting.

Sarah flung the rifle down and ran.

The only consolation was that Koscuisko must have heard the shot Wessex did

not know whether Saint-Lazarre had been injured; the killer – Wessex had heard him

name himself Gambit- – had not had time to aim, but Wessex had seen musket-balls

do freakish things in his time. Taking Gambit alive would be what paid for all.

In minutes they had passed beyond the compass of the formal garden and its

torches and into the darkness beyond, and still Gambit ran, though he must know

now that his capture was inevitable. Roxbury would raise the hue and cry – the local

Justice of the Peace was probably her guest tonight – and the whole county would

be out, foot and horse, searching for him. Gambit could not escape.

Unless he had allies in the area willing to hide him.

Wessex was beginning to flag, and Gambit ran on toward the trees, fleet as a

deer, though the distance between them had closed. Wessex still held his pistol in his

hand, though by now all the powder had probably shaken from the pan. He might as

well be carrying a club.

A club.

Wessex stopped. Gambit began to pull away from him. Wessex tossed the pistol

in his hand up into the air, grabbed it by the barrel, and threw it like a belaying pin.

The pistol struck the fleeing assassin between the shoulders, knocking him to his

knees.

As he pulled himself to his feet, scrabbling in his domes for a knife, an apparition

on horseback appeared out of the shadow of an enormous oak. It was towering –

monstrous, with a misshapen form and vast arcing wings that rasped against an

overhanging branch with a sound like skeletal fingers. Gambit screamed.

Illya Koscuisko regarded him with bright interest, his saber drawn and pointing at

the assassin’s throat.

„Where the devil were you?“ Wessex gasped in exasperation. He dropped to his

knees, panting. The ridiculous breastplate and kilt of his centurion costume galled

him everywhere.

„Finding his horse,“ Koscuisko said. His gaze wavered from the man at his

horse’s feet. „And we have company!“ he added gaily.

Wessex staggered to his feet and turned to confront Sarah, who had been running

with her skirts rucked up well past her knees but – seeing the horseman – had

allowed them to drop to a slightly more respectable altitude. Her costume had fared

as badly as Wessex’s had; her high headdress of plumes and pearls had come

askew, shedding its feathers and she’d lost one supper, her fan, and her stole.

„What are you doing here?“ Wessex demanded. „I live here!“ Sarah retorted

ungraciously. „And this man tried to shoot one of my guests!“

„I say we leave him to her,“ Koscuisko suggested. Wessex’s mouth quirked. The

situation was already preposterous, and the chit’s absurd indignation only made

things more laughable. He glanced at Gambit He, at least, seemed to take the

Marchioness’s flash of temper seriously.

„Perhaps we should,“ Wessex said, matching Koscuisko’s tone. „I dare say we

can find a rope here about I somewhere, and find a magistrate who will put the seal

of! approval upon the thing.“

„Oh, now, Captain, you nevair do dat to Gambit,“ Gambit said coaxingly.

Wessex’s eyes narrowed. In some circles he was known as Captain Dyer; was

Gambit’s use of the title pure chance – or had he been the true target of this trap all!

along?

„Who are you?“ Sarah demanded, staring up at the fantastically garbed figure on

horseback. Koscuisko doffed his shako and bowed low over his horse’s withers, his

braids swinging forward at the gesture, for all the world as if he were in a Piccadilly

drawing-room.

„Illya Koscuisko, ma’am, and very much at your service.“ He smiled engagingly,

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

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

scarlet against their demure backdrop. The cravat was a matter of some concern, but

his grace favored a simple style and achieved it upon the first attempt.

Atheling cast an inquiring glance toward the repository of his grace’s coats, only

to be warned off with a small shake of the head. His grace would select his other

accessories first, and with quick decision chose a watch, a fob, a dangling seal, and

a small gold cravat pin, all of which were no more than the mere ornaments they

seemed to be. He then slipped the ducal signet upon his finger and closed the

shallow drawer with finality.

The choosing of a deep-pocketed coat of claret-colored superfine was almost an

anticlimax, and indeed, Wessex regarded it only slightly. His sojourn with the Army

had made him perhaps more cavalier about such matters of tonnish importance than

his fellows.

Wessex turned a bleak eye upon the cabinet with its myriad niches, and for a brief

fervent moment wished he were back with his men – fleas, bad water, chilblains, and

all.

A discreet clearing of Atheling’s throat called his grace back to himself.

„Breakfast, one supposes,“ said Wessex. „And the morning post at last.“

His grace was not, customarily, a strong believer in breakfast, and if he had been

he would certainly have, on this occasion at least, allowed the meal to wait upon the

post.

With a strong cup of bitter chocolate at his elbow, and the prospect of buttered

muffins in the not-too-distant future, his grace turned to the contents of the heaped

silver salver with the keen interest of a hound on the scent.

The topmost letter, on lilac vellum insistently redolent of a lily-scent bordering

upon the funereal, Wessex tossed unopened into the fire of sea-coals burning on the

grate. He felt no compunction about doing this; Ivah only wrote to ask for money,

and Wessex felt he had already subsidized her pleasures liberally enough. God knew

a liaison with a woman of his own class was unthinkable, but there were limits to

how far he would lower himself. Mrs. Archer was a good deal coarser than she had

originally appeared in the social circles where she and Wessex had first met.

Wessex frowned over the matter momentarily, and then dismissed it. A parting

gift, an intimation that the acquaintance would not bear furthering, would end the

connection simply enough. His mind was already elsewhere as he turned to the next

items.

Bills: from Tattersall’s and Weston’s, Asprey’s and Talmadge’s; from his

cellarer, his tobacconist, his glovemaker. Wessex put them all aside, to be settled

punctually at the quarter-day. The Duke of Wessex had an unaristocratic promptness

about settling his accounts. Wessex’s status as a player in the Game of Shadows

meant his existence was at constant risk; he had no wish to burden his current heir –

a scholarly and rather absent-minded cousin – with his debts.

If Wessex died without issue, that heir would inherit neither ducal debts nor ducal

coronet; the ducal creation was entirely explicit that the title of Duke of Wessex

might descend only through the direct line. But the family’s earldom would continue,

and the new Earl of Scathach would hardly mourn the omission of ducal honors; the

earldom was both old and rich. The Scathach family seat, Lymondhythe, was

nestled in the wild and beautiful Cheviot Hills, and his cousin and heir presumptive

was already installed there by Wessex’s own wish, not to be dislodged even if

Wessex did manage in some unthinkable manner to produce an heir for the

dukedom.

Wessex shook his head at the unwonted direction of his thoughts. There was

something about wakening at odd hours that drove a man’s mind to freakish fancies

– that, and the recent unexpected meeting with his quondam betrothed. It was

fortunate that Roxbury apparently had no more desire to lose her freedom than

Wessex did to end it Now what was in this pile of paper that had so maddened

Atheling?

Ruthlessly Wessex drove through the rest of the morning’s post: cards of

invitation to parties certain to be deadly dull; two thick bundles of letter that had

come by hand after faring far in diplomatic pouches –

Ah. This was it. A faint sunny odor of orange blossom clung to the paper, just as

it did to her clothes.

She did not write often, this remarkable woman who had been the center of

Wessex’s whole existence after his mother had died. When his unique gifts had

called him to a wider stage, they had agreed that letters were very nearly pointless; he

could not, for safety’s sake, even hint to her of how he spent his days, and the

circumscribed sphere in which she still moved would seem merely petty to him after

his worldly journeyings. Instead, they chose to hold their feeling for one another a

thing apart: not to buried in exchanges freighted with the minutiae of daily life, but to

be savored on the rare occasions when they could be companionably together, as

they had been before his father had followed his mother into Hades’, chill kingdom.

Wessex paused on the verge of tearing open The letter from his grandmother.

Why should she write him here?

He had not been to Bath to spend Christmas with her; he had, in fact, been

peculiarly elsewhere for Christmas. It was not their custom to announce their

comings and goings to one another; in fact, though the billet had not been franked,

placing her in Town, until this moment he had possessed every reason to suppose

the Dowager Duchess to be residing in Bath, as was her unvarying custom during the

winter months. In turn, it ought to have been impossible for her to direct a letter to.

his Albany rooms with any degree of certainty that he would receive the missive;

Wessex had returned from France less than a week ago, and to his Town residence

only last night.

Interesting. Interesting enough for Atheling to awaken him. Wessex tore open the

packet and read his grandmother’s letter carefully. His faint inquiring frown became

a black glare of puzzlement and then a stare of stupefied horror as he read the brief

missive first once, then twice.

The Dowager required his presence Thursday, at half-past two of the clock, for

tea. There was no explanation for the request, extraordinary in its uniqueness, simply

the unadorned summons.

And the Thursday she required him for was today.

„Atheling!“ A spasm of sheer panic took momentary possession of his grace. He

rose to his feet, all thought of breakfast banished.

The manservant, still swaddled in the apron he donned to perform the more

domestic of his duties, appeared in an instant.

„I have been mistaken,“ his grace said austerely. „This coat will not suit. And I

shall not be riding today.“

Sarah Conyngham, Lady Roxbury – which was to say, she reminded herself,

Marchioness of Roxbury in her own right – gazed in exasperated amusement about

the dressing-room of her London townhouse. Every available inch of me room was

jammed with trunks, some of which hadn’t been out of the Long Attic at Mooncoign

since – so the servants had been happy to inform her – Sarah’s grandmother’s day.

Perhaps, Sarah thought, she had not adequately informed Knoyle of her

destination. Perhaps the abigail had thought she was preparing her mistress for a

journey to Timbucktoo, It had been only three days since the masquerade ball at

Mooncoign, but fortunately Sarah had not been forced to attempt to pack up an

entire great household and shift it fifty miles norm in that time. No, Lady Roxbury’s

annual move to Town had been on the servants’ mind for many weeks, with many

trunks, boxes, bundles, and packages sent forward at the first moment that the roads

would permit.

Thus it had been easy enough on the morning following me ball, as soon as Sarah

discovered that neither Wessex nor his companion Illya Koscuisko had delivered

their prisoner to the County Magistrate nor returned to any house in the vicinity, to

order her coach and depart for London a l’instant.

But the bumpy three-day trip to London in her own heavy coach had given Sarah

time to consider the matter in more depth. Even if she did manage to find Wessex,

what could she say to him? The man Gambit had undoubtedly already vanished into

London’s teeming thousands, no matter what fate Wessex had decreed for him. And

whatever fate that might be, what did it matter to her?

That was the puzzle. Sarah had not been in the least enamored of Wessex upon

their first or subsequent meetings, yet she felt a pressing need to see him again,

though she could not precisely say why. She purely and simply felt an odd

compulsion to be in his presence.

Odd, indeed. She had no fondness for the man, after all – and the Marchioness of

Roxbury had no need to wait upon even the Duke of Wessex’s pleasure!

Her feelings of uncertainty had been nearly banished in the excitement and frights

of the evening of the ball and the bustle of removing to Town. Each day she grew

more comfortable, more confident in her role as Lady Roxbury, and ceased to

wonder at the strange blanks in her memory. Anything that she forgot, one of the

servants happily supplied – as did her guests, each more eager than the last to finish

her sentences for her.

So all was well.

Sarah regarded the toe of one sensible jean boot peeping from beneath the hem of

her sober-colored morning dress. The stout grey-blue gown with its demure broidery

of pimpernels worked upon the bodice was all very well for travel, but would not do

as something in which to present herself before the dazzling flame of London

Society and the glittering rowdiness of King Henry IX’s Stuart Court.

Or even before her godmama.

The missive had been waiting when Sarah had arrived at Herriard House. As new

as Mooncoign was old, Herriard House stood far to the West in Picadilly, facing

Hyde Park across Park Lane with a formidable Palladian frontis faced all in white

marble. Behind it stood Grosvenor Square, and only a few minutes north was High

Holborn, the road that ran between London and Oxford. From here Sarah could

survey all of Society and could reign over that small insular kingdom with imperial

dominion-providing always, of course, that Sarah took care not to alienate those

even more powerful than she.

The Dowager Duchess of Wessex must certainly be counted among those

potentates. Though Sarah’s godmother had retired from Society upon the death of

her son, she was still influential, and if she chose to oppose Sarah –

Oh, don’t be a chudhead, Sarah! The Dowager is your godmama; she has

always been partial to you. Didn’t she send Dame Alecto to you when you tangled

your phaeton with the Bristol coach?

Didn’t she?

But the rallying words failed to achieve their desired effect. Her memory remained

frustratingly blank, and still weary from the rigors of the road – for her coach had

arrived in London only a scant few hours before-– Sarah picked up the billet of

stiff, cream-colored vellum from her writing table and read it over once more.

„The Dowager Duchess of Wessex requests the favor of your presence at tea on

Thursday, the 25 th of April – “

Today.

At the appointed hour Wessex presented himself at Dyer House, alighting with

formidable correctitude from a hired chaise, since his grace kept no carriage and

would not stoop to the unpardonable solecism of presenting himself before his

grandmother in his riding dress. The butler who opened the door to him was old and

frail, a man who had grown old in the family’s service – not as robust a party as the

Duke could have liked to have seen guarding the portals of Dyer House.

Nevertheless, His Grace gifted Langley with his greatcoat and curly-brimmed

high-crowned beaver, flourished his amber-headed walking stick, and ascended to

the first-floor parlor without comment.

Dyer House was dim even at midday. It took his grace a moment to see that there

was someone besides Dame Alecto with the Dowager; another woman.

Then he recognized his grandmother’s guest, and only long years of iron

self-discipline allowed him to maintain a mask of well-bred composure. „Grandanne,

Madame,“ Wessex said, bowing to botfi ladies.

Apparently not caring to conceal her feelings from him, Sarah, Marchioness of

Roxbury, stared back at Wessex in horror.

„Ah,“ said the Dowager, „so here you are at last, Wessex. You are acquainted

with Lady Roxbury, are you not? Yes, of course you are; you’ve been betrothed to

her for – how many years is it now?“ The Dowager paused, but neither Wessex nor

Lady Roxbury found voice to enlighten her.

„Do sit down, Wessex, and I shall ring for Langley to bring us tea.!“ The

Dowager smiled.

Sarah could not refrain from glancing toward Dame Alecto, the Dowager’s

companion, as Dame Alecto sat inconspicuously in the corner of the Dowager’s

parlor. But Dame Alecto was as skilled at effacing herself as she was at being

formidable, and Sarah was forced, willy-nilly, back into the conversation.

„I’m sure we shall all be looking forward to quite the glittering Season,“ the

Dowager was saying with determined obliviousness. „Especially with a Royal

wedding to cap it at Christmastide.“

„Princess Stephanie should sail in a month or so,“ Wessex agreed blandly. „I

believe she lands in Scotland and heads to London by way of York.“

In the half-hour since he had arrived, Sarah had come to dislike Wessex

immensely for the easy facility with which he fielded each of the Dowager’s

conversational sallies; the man never seemed at a loss for words. „Everyone will

wish to entertain her,“ the Dowager said. „Even if Prince Jamie is not reconciled to

the marriage, King Henry is much 61 favor of it, which will carry all. Naturally we

shall invite her to your wedding ball; her attendance will set the seal on the King’s

approval of the match.“

The rhythm of the conversation faltered and stopped dead as the

for-once-nonplussed Duke of Wessex groped for a reply. Sarah, lulled by the

cadence of a conversation she had not been participating in, was slightly slower to

react and when she realized what the Dowager had said, words failed her as well.

„I beg your pardon, Grandanne?“ Wessex finally responded.

„Oh come now!“ the Dowager answered imperturbably. „Nine years’ engagement

should be enough for any man – and you are three-and-thirty; it is high time that you

married. There is just enough time to cry the banns and have you wed in June so that

the celebration may not look too pointedly as if it is given for the Princess.“

Wessex cast an expressionless look toward Sarah, who, oddly enough, found

herself interpreting it as a desperate appeal for aid. But Sarah could not imagine what

assistance she could be to him. Gardner and Knoyle had both spoken of Roxbury’s

betrothal to Wessex as something that was common knowledge, and what weight

could the fact that Sarah found him a cold, unfeeling, hatchet-faced harlequin have in

the face of Society’s expectation?

„I do not choose to marry his grace,“ Sarah heard herself saying, as if from a

great distance.

The remark ought to have pleased him – ungrateful man, he no more wished to

marry than she did – but inexplicably Wessex cast a nettled glance in her direction

and rose to his feet.

„It will not do, Grandanne,“ he said. „A childhood betrothal – who cares for that

these days? Everyone knows that I have not been at pains to fix my interest with the

Marchioness – “

„You were formally betrothed when the girl was sixteen; she was hardly a child

then, or you either,“ hi& grandmother interrupted, adding ironically, „And everyone

knows that you were very much in sight at Mooncoign this past week. I never

thought you would be so behindhand, Wessex – stand up with the girl at Almack’s;

squire her about. There can be no lack of invitations once it is known that you are

willing to accept them.“

She might as well not have been in the room, Sarah realized. It was his

grandmother with whom Wessex argued, not her.

„But I am not willing to accept them, Grandanne. A man in my station – leading

my sort of life – has many things to think about besides becoming leg-shackled – “

„Yes,“ the Dowager riposted. „The getting of an heir to the dukedom, for one.“

Wessex actually blushed, and stared fixedly at a point above Sarah’s head. Sarah

felt her heart beating faster: the two of them were about to carve up her future

between them as if she were no one at all!

„I am not getting married,“ Sarah said again, louder. „To the Duke of Wessex –

or to anyone else.“

„But whyever not, child?“ the Dowager asked mildly, able to hear Sarah when it

suited her purpose to do so.

Such a speciously-reasonable question seemed to turn Sarah’s brain to jelly. She

stared at the Dowager, barely able to keep from goggling.

„Because it would seem most peculiar for a wedding to take place without the

bridegroom in attendance,“ Wessex said brittlely.

„Or the bride,“ Sarah retorted hotly.

„But my dears, I have the guest list for the wedding breakfast already made up,“

the Dowager said, still in those same mild uninvolved tones. This time Wessex did

not answer her, instead sweeping up his gloves and stick from the side table.

„Grandanne, Your Ladyship. I bid both of you a very good day.“ He bowed with

formidable correctness, turning and striding from the room before either of them

could respond.

„Ah,“ said the Dowager, obviously pleased. „I think that went rather well, don’t

you, my dear? Men are like colts; they must be shown the harness and allowed to

bolt from it a time or two before one can safely buckle them.“

Chapter 9

The Prince Commands

The Palace of St. James was located between St. James Park and Green Park, just

south of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament, with Buckingham House to its

east and me sprawling buildings of the Horse Guards on its western side. Its parks

and lakes had been the resort of three centuries of England’s royal house, ever since

King Henry VIII had taken over the site of St. James Hospital to build his new palace

here. St. James’s red brick walls had watched over the martyred Charles I on his last

night on earth, and ever after, the Stuart line had defiantly held court within those

same red walls.

Though time had seen the erection of grander edifices to house the peripatetic

Stuart line, nothing had supplanted St. James’s splendor in the hearts of England’s

monarchs. Swans and peacocks strutted through its grounds, fashionable ladies

paraded, and farmers still drove their catde through its square to the shambles in

London’s West End. The madness upon the Continent did not penetrate here; within

these precincts, it seemed a grave insanity to believe that the people could ever –

again – rise up and butcher their rightful rulers in a senseless self-willed iconoclasm.

But in France, the people had. And the repercussions of that carnage extended

even here, to this stately palace under an English heaven.

In a very grand apartment in the east wing of the Palace of St. James, the heir to

the conjoined kingdoms of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales was dressing for

an audience with his father.

„Oh, not that one, Brummell – Papa does not care for it by half!“

James Charles Henry David Robert Stuart, Prince of Wales and Duke of

Gloucester – Prince Jamie to his friends, who were many – was nineteen years old,

with the chestnut hair and flashing eyes that were evidence of his Stuart and

Plantagenet ancestors. He was the youngest of five children, the heir and only boy,

and the hopes of more than England reposed in him.

Though his father, King Henry, was hale and hardy, and might be expected to

reign for many decades yet, Prince Jamie had ambitions to take his own place upon

the world stage, and make his mark upon the new century. He had the devil’s – or

the Stuarts’ – own charm when he chose to use it, though so far his father had

managed to remain deaf to the pleas and blandishments of his Army-mad son.

„Oh, Brummell – have done,“ Jamie said excitedly to his valet. „The coat is well

enough - I am nearly late for my interview with Papa!“ He seized the coat – which a

moment before had been so excoriated – and began dragging it over his shoulders

willy-nilly. His valet winced, as if in personal pain, and moved to assist him.

„ ‘Well enough’ will not do, Your Highness, especially upon an occasion in

which you wish to persuade His Majesty of something he does not wish to do,“

Jamie’s valet said severely.

His name was George Bryan Brummell, and at six-and-twenty, he was barely

older than the prince he served. Brummell had a florid complexion, curly light brown

hair, and grey eyes, and even at such a young age had garnered a reputation as

autocrat and arbiter elegantarum that was impressive enough to have brought him

into Royal service.

„He will wish it,“ Jamie said, all-but-grumbling. „I do not see why I should be the

only man in the realm not permitted to attend the fighting upon the Peninsula, when

anyone else may go and be given a shilling into the bargain!“

„The price of a coronetcy in a Hussar regiment is more than two thousand

pounds, Your Highness – as I have good reason to know,“ Brummell said austerely.

The valet’s past was something of a mystery – it was rumored that he’d been in the

Army, but had gambled away his commission and had been forced to return to the

family trade. „And Your Highness is far too intelligent not to discern what truly lies

behind His Majesty’s reluctance.“

But Prince Jamie was not to be drawn with appeals to his common sense upon

this particular occasion. Pulling himself free of his valet’s hands and shrugging his

coat rudlessly into place, he strode over to the mantelpiece and caught up a

gold-framed miniature portrait of a young blonde woman in ermine and pearls.

„Oh, bother me creature,“ Jamie said under his bream, glaring at the inoffensive

Court image of Princess Stephanie Julianna, his hopeful betrothed. While he had

known that such a match was proposed – he had been notified, if not precisely

consulted – with the easy confidence of youth Jamie had been certain that Settling

Day was far in the future. But not only had the actual betrothal been put forward, not

two months before his father had informed him that the wedding itself was to be this

September, putting a rude period to Jamie’s carefree bachelor existence. And to

Jamie’s dreams of heroic action against England’s enemies….

He turned back to Brummell, unconsciously brandishing the princess’s portrait

„While a man and a prince must marry, I am not yet twenty – there’s years yet to do

what must be done. Why must Papa insist upon this now? A mere betrothal would

serve Mr. Pitt’s policies just as well and me far better.“

„And should Your Highness stop a bullet upon the battlefield?“ Brummell

inquired with the silky insolence that was both his trademark and his privilege. „If the

crown should fall to your eldest sister’s lot…“

„Oh, bother Maria!“ Jamie said roundly, dismissing his eldest sister (who was

married to a much disliked German princeling) out of hand. „What of me? I cannot

be cabin’d, cribbed, confined – denied every man’s birthright of high adventure!“

„No, indeed,“ said Brummell with a sigh. „One sees that Your Highness cannot.“

He crossed the room in the wake of his volatile charge and plucked at the shoulders

of the coat of bottle-green brocade with matching silk facings, attempting once more

to get it to hang straight upon the Prince’s shoulders.

„You will be late, Your Highness,“ Brummell said quietly. „You had best go and

lay your case before your father once more.“

Jamie strode from the room, every inch a prince. A prince, but still a young one,

and reckless as any of his hard-living ancestors. Unfortunately, this was an age in

which the world had grown small, and recklessness of any sort had grave

consequences indeed. Brummell only hoped that Jamie could learn that lesson… in

time.

„But Papa – I“ Jamie protested.

„Enough,“ King Henry snapped.

Henry had become King of England at thirty, when his father Charles V, a

monarch as merry as Charles II and considerably more reckless, died upon a

battlefield in the Low Countries. With his crown Henry had inherited a web of

alliances that shifted with the wind, political ties to a Europe that seemed, in parts,

scarcely to have exited the Dark Ages, and a brilliant, voracious, implacable

enemy… Napoleon Bonaparte, the Great Beast who haunted Europe.

From First Consul to Emperor, the malignant Corsican genius had won every

battie, moving from strength to strength across the chessboard he’d made of

Europe, claiming countries like playing-squares. Bonaparte meant to have England

too, and Henry meant to deny it to the tyrant, even if he must beggar his kingdom

and sell all his children into slavery to do so.

The Danish alliance was a godsend – it would refuse Bonaparte the

staging-ground for his invasion of Scotland, a country historically closer to France

than to England. Never quite resigned to its union with England when James the sixth

of Scotland had become James the First of England upon the death of the great

Elizabeth, the unruly Scots might welcome a French force not as invaders, but as

allies.

If that happened, Henry would have the Corsican Beast crouched on his northern

border – and the Norm, as his family knew to its everlasting regret, was tinder for

wildfire, ready to rise against the King in London at the slightest spark.

But with Princess Stephanie married to England’s heir and the Danish-English

treaty signed – joining Denmark with Russia, Prussia, and England in the battle

against Bonaparte, and giving English ships free access to Danish harbors – one

more chink in the island nation’s armor would have been sealed, freeing Henry to

make his plans for attack, releasing him from endless defense.

But Tsar Alexander of Russia and Prince Wilhelm of Prussia were not as sanguine

as Henry. Both rulers suspected that the Danish match would be called off at the last

minute, or that the so-far-neutral Danes would somehow twist the match to suit only

their own advantage, and not England’s. If England fell and the Triple Alliance

crumpled, Prussia and Russia would bear the brunt of Bonaparte’s victorious

retaliation.

„But Papa, I – – “Jamie tried again, and King Henry to cut him off.

„I said no, and I do not wish to discuss this matter – “

„I am not asking for a commission,“ his heir said bitterly. „For I know you will

not permit me such a chance to distinguish myself! All I ask is your permission to

journey to observe the fighting – Grandfather often did as much: – “

„Aye, and much good it did him!“ Henry snapped.

The young prince stared at his father in amazement; Henry was not often that

sharp with him.

„I have made my decision, Jamie, and I will not change it. I forbid you to leave

England. Review your regiments here at home all you like – or find something else to

amuse you. But I will not send you to be slaughtered on a foreign battlefield.“

There was a frozen moment of offended silence on the Prince’s part, then he

made a chilly formal bow and walked from the room without speaking.

The King sighed. He could have called Jamie back and demanded an apology, but

he knew too well the restrictions the young man was chafing under. The Tsar and the

Prussian King’s heir – both in the field – daily urged Henry to send his son to take a

place upon the Alliance General Staff. And while such a post would be far from the

fighting, Henry was reluctant to send his son and heir out of the relative safety of

England. French ships patrolled the Channel like hungry sharks, and ashore,

Bonaparte’s methods of prosecuting his war were even less honorable. An even

more overwhelming consideration was the fact that the Denmark Treaty was to be

solemnized upon Jamie’s wedding day – and without the Prince, there was no treaty.

But in comparison to the romance of the battlefield, meetings with his father’s

ministers, no matter how necessary to the government of the realm, held little charm.

A king must know diplomacy; it was the backbone of statescraft.

Unfortunately, all too often a king must know war as well.

But not yet. Oh, God, not yet.

In the last fortnight Sarah had learned a great many things, including how

scandalous all of London thought the Marchioness of Roxbury to be. It did not

seem to her that she had ever noticed this before – certainly she did not feel like

anyone who had spent the past several years weathering scandal – but it was

undeniably a fact. Nice girls did not reside in their own townhouses with only the

most minimal of chaperonage. Nice girls did not keep their own carriages. Nice girls

did not ride out in Green Park at unfashionable hours, with only a lone groom in

attendance.

Nice girls had vouchers for Almack’s, the exclusive waltzing club in Kings Street

And Lady Roxbury did not It was not that she lacked for invitations to parties. Ever

since her arrival in Town, there had not been one day that had not seen Lady

Roxbury engaged to what seemed an excessive number of parties. If not for the

strengthening cordial that Knoyle scrupulously fed her every morning and night,

Sarah was quite certain she could never have managed the endless social round.

But with her senses as finely attuned as those of a woodland hunter, Sarah knew

that these parties, though quite glittering, were not quite the „right“ parties: the ones

to which the most respectable ladies of the ton were invited.

She was not sure she yearned for them – surely even more genteel entertainments

meant even more boredom? – but the Dowager Duchess of Wessex was doing all

she could to improve Sarah’s standing among the guardian dragons of the Ton.

Sarah was to be formally presented to King Henry at a Court Drawing-Room in a

few weeks, and that same evening the Duchess would give a dazzling ball – to be

held at Herriard House, since the Duchess’s own townhouse lacked the necessary

accessory of a ballroom-– subsequent to which most respectable event, vouchers

for Almack’s would surely appear.

Sarah could only admire such dedication and energy – especially since she could

not think of a blessed thing to do to stop it. Obligingly, she had ordered her

presentation gown and her ball-dress, and hoped that something would occur to her

to stop this whirlwind before it was too late.

At least Wessex had not forced his attentions upon her again, although if Sarah

were being honest, she’d have had to admit he never had actually forced his

attentions upon her. It was a most disagreeable thing, she told herself, to suspect the

man of honorable intentions and to still not yet have received a proposal from him

that she could decently refuse.

And she would refuse it, Sarah told herself, because there was not the least reason

she could conceive of for accepting it. Like Wessex, she found it difficult to feel that

a family agreement entered into when the principals involved were there children

carried much weight in the modern world of 1805. Of course, supposedly there had

been a later, formal betrothal; supposedly she had been engaged to marry Wessex

since she was sixteen years old… Then why do I not remember it – or him?

No answer came to enlighten her. Very well, memory or no memory, she would

refuse Wessex, however often his grandmother offered him to her. And then she

would see out the Season, go back to Mooncoign, and…

And what?

Abruptly Sarah felt a chilly sense of peril. The sense that she hesitated at the edge

of a cliff was strong: one misstep would be fatal, and disastrous beyond her

comprehension. But which way did the disaster lie? The memory of the creature she

had seen in the garden on the night of the ball rose up unbidden in her mind: as

certain as she was that such beings did not exist elsewhere, she was also certain that

they did exist… here.

But where is elsewhere? And where is here, if it is not the place where I was

born? Sarah asked herself wildly.

„My lady?“ Knoyle’s voice sounded anxiously at her elbow, and Sarah realized

that she had been standing wool-gathering on a busy London Street. So much for a

morning’s walk clearing her head of last night’s cobwebs!

She was standing before the ornate green and gold double-doors of Hatchard’s

Bookshop in Piccadilly. One of me unalloyed pleasures of her sojourn in London

was the opportunity to spend hours pouring over catalogs and visiting bookstores,

purchasing any new volume her heart fancied. Every Wednesday she came to

Hatchard’s to look over new tides; the hours she spent in the hushed quiet beneath

the bookshop’s massive dome were some of the happiest in her recent memory.

And she was happy. The Duchess of Wessex was no ogre, merely an old woman

who had sadly lost both husband and children before their time, and who meddled

good-heartedly in her grandson’s life perhaps more than she ought. That was all.

Squaring her shoulders, Sarah pushed open the door to the bookshop. Within, all

was cool serenity; me golden light slanting downward from the dome, the circular

counter beneath it, and the rows of books stretching off in every direction all acted

to soothe Sarah’s nerves. Without stopping to see if her parcel had arrived, Sarah

drifted toward the shelves and began perusing the colorful spines of gilt and

Moroccan calf.

She had spent some minutes in that agreeable pursuit when her attention was

summoned insensibly by the presence of a young woman a few feet away. Sarah

glanced up from beneath the brim of her bonnet, wondering what had attracted her

attention to the stranger.

The young woman was dressed with Quakerish plainness; her round gown in

plain lavender muslin the next thing to mourning apparel. But when she glanced up in

pursuit of a volume, Sarah realized that any ornament would be entirely superfluous;

the stranger was the most dazzlingly beautiful girl Sarah had ever seen.

Her flawless skin was the pale clear ivory of country cream, and the glossy hair

that framed her face in smooth waves was so perfectly black that it cast faint blue

shadows on her skin. Her long dark lashes – which owed nothing to artifice or kohl

brush – framed eyes that were as star-tlingly green as if their color had come from a

box of watercolors or a jeweler’s window. In all, the young lady was a piece of

perfection so arresting that for one ungracious instant Sarah thought that anyone that

beautiful couldn’t possibly be respectable. Instantly, Sarah dismissed the notion.

Everything about the young lady – from her demure costume to the hovering

presence of a middle-aged maid – bespoke complete respectability. In fact, Sarah

thought, firmly returning her attention to her own selections, the lady was

undoubtedly far more respectable than Sarah herself.

Which, Sarah reflected, only served her out for all the years the Marchioness of

Roxbury had spent amusing herself at the expense of her responsibilities and

position. For a moment Sarah’s hand hovered over her breast, where her father’s

ring reposed safe beneath layers of silk, muslin, and buckram corseting. An odd

flicker of disquiet disturbed her thoughts, as if some part of her was desperately

attempting to remember something she had only forgotten at her peril. My father’s

ring….

It was while she was caught up in that sense of otherness that Sarah took an

unwary step backward, colliding with the object of her previous scrutiny.

„Oh!“

There was a patter of falling books.

Cheeks flaming, Sarah turned about to behold the fair stranger who had been the

object of her curiosity.

„Oh – I do beg your pardon,“ Sarah gasped, stooping to help retrieve the

scattered volumes. „It was inexcusably clumsy of me.“

„It is nothing,“ the young woman said. „I dare say you were distracted by all the

books – it is a failing of mine, I must admit; my uncle has taxed me with it often.“

„For good or ill my faults are mine to indulge without anyone else’s censure,“

Sarah said frankly. „I am the Marchioness of Roxbury, and I promise you that I do

not always trample my fellow bibliophiles.“

„I am very pleased to make your ladyship’s acquaintance.“ The young woman’s

alleged pleasure sounded actually sincere. „I am Meriel… Bulleyn, of – oh, nowhere

in particular! Stopping for the Season in London – “ Miss Bulleyn seemed about to

say something more, but bit her lip and desisted.

„Then we shall be friends,“ Sarah said, obeying a sudden impulse. By now she

had collected all her new acquaintance’s selections again and handed them over to

her. „I will admit, I should be glad of a friend in London.“

„You, Lady Roxbury?“ Miss Bulleyn said, plainly unconvinced of this possibility.

„I,“ Sarah said with a smile. „No one has so many friends that they may not be

glad of a new one.“ And truth be told, those who had presented themselves at

Herriard House over the past several weeks had not been such persons as Sarah

could bring herself to be easy with. Fast and fashionable without a doubt, and more

or less above reproach, but these glittering ornaments to fashionable life who

comprised the Marchioness of Roxbury’s inner circle were not close friends, and

Sarah yearned for someone in whom she could confide. „I should be glad if you

would be my friend.“

For a moment it seemed as if Miss Bulleyn studied Sarah coldly through those

green cat-eyes. But it must have been a trick of the light, for the moment passed, and

Miss Bulleyn smiled warmly.

„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

Majesty’s Royal Governor would hardly cooperate with one of the sans-culottes,

but young master Qambit isn’t likely to be all that forthcoming about who’s paying

him when he acts the distressed traveler.“

„And the governor is in the unenviable position of being in rebellion against his

soi-disant Emperor but not necessarily upon terms with England,“ Wessex finished

for him. „Still, one supposes there might be a certain amusement to making Gambit

Corday walk all that way.“

„It isn’t up to us,“ Koscuisko reminded him. Wessex could tell from his friend’s

abstracted tone that Koscuisko – like Wessex – was occupied with the pretty puzzle

of what could possibly be important enough to draw Saint-Lazarre back to France,

where every man’s hand was against him and his capture could be a highly profitable

affair. What information could he have gained – and not shared – from among the

Royalist factions with which he was in touch that could possibly have motivated this

clandestine flight?

„But I must be off upon my rounds – I need to tell one lady that I’m leaving her

for another,“ Koscuisko announced provocatively. „And there is packing to see to

and old haunts to, er, haunt before the Endeavour sails.“ He drained his glass and

got to his feet, reclaiming gloves, hat, and stick with easy grace. „At any rate, you

may console yourself with the knowledge that while I suffer along before the mast I

shall be forced to be a very pattern-card of virtue, and nothing at all of interest can

possibly happen.“

„No,“ Wessex agreed, rising to his feet to see his comrade out. „The fun will start

when Princess Stephanie arrives, and King Henry must persuade Jamie to accept his

bride.“

But consideration for a parent’s feelings was very far from Wessex’s mind a

fortnight later when he attended upon King Henry on the evening of the Court

Drawing-Room.

Wessex had managed to put from his mind until that very morning the knowledge

that he was promised to the Dowager Duchess of Wessex’s ball this evening – a ball

thrown at Herriard House to celebrate the Marchioness of Roxbury’s belated

presentation at Court. But once he’d unfortunately remembered that interesting fact –

with the aid of Atheling, who wished to know if his master would wear ball dress or

regimentals for the momentous occasion – it had refused to leave his mind. He’d

spent the morning at his desk in Bond Street (for the members of the White Tower

Group had as many despatches to read as any other political, and Misbourne did not

encourage the removal of such sensitive material from the premises) and his

afternoon at White’s; but as the shadows of evening had drawn nigh he had returned

to his Albany rooms to dress, and then had made his way to St. James Palace.

He’d been ushered into the King’s presence at once, but mis caused no

comment, as it was publicly known that King Henry frequently sought Wessex’s

advice upon matters pertaining to the Army. And so King Henry had; for

three-quarters of an hour the two men, monarch and subject, discussed the

difficulties of supplying an army across a stretch of water over-amply supplied with

eager French men o’war, the delicate awkwardnesses of precedence caused by a

battlefield cluttered with kings, archdukes, and princes, and the notorious

unreliability of the irregular troops that were more harm man help to Lord

Wellesley’s Peninsular Army.

„Your young friend Koscuisko has arrived safely in Copenhagen,“ King Henry

said, „and has found everything much as I expected that he would.“

Of course Koscuisko had not been forced to sail upon the Endeavor as an able

seaman, but neither had he sailed under his own persona, that of Illya Koscuisko,

late of His Polish Majesty’s Household Guard, a charming, scapegrace fellow with a

taste for low company. Such a presentation would not gain him access to Princess

Stephanie’s suite, nor would it be in the least likely that such a raffish fellow would

attend on such an important occasion in the first place. Wessex knew Koscuisko

had adopted any of half a dozen disguises while aboard the warship, to vanish as

soon as she made port and reappear in Denmark in yet another guise.

„And that is, Sir?“ Wessex asked politely, though his innate caution warned him

that His Majesty was making his way slowly toward the reason he had called Wessex

into colloquy this evening.

„Oh, disorganization and delay – the French envoy, that turncoat Saint-Germain,

is naturally doing all he can to sway the Prince Regent from his agreement. But Sir

John is a diplomatist I trust absolutely to talk his way around any obstacle, and so I

imagine the convoy will be on its way here only slightly behind schedule. Which

brings me to the matter I particularly wished to raise with you, Wessex.“

Every sense was sharpened to a fever pitch of alertness, but Wessex did his best

to give the King no sign of his apprehension.

„As you may be aware, Prince Jamie is… perhaps not entirely reconciled to

Princess Stephanie’s arrival,“ King Henry said with odd tentativeness.

Wessex stiffened. While it was common knowledge that Jamie abjured the match,

what was common knowledge was not necessarily a subject for common gossip. „I

am certain that the Princess is all that is amiable,“ Wessex said a bit stiffly.

Henry smiled. „I am glad to hear you say so, but you know that everyone will not

agree. Mr. Fox is already calling for appeasement, and the Prince’s Party cannot like

a move which they will only see as a drawing of new factions into an old war.“

Assuming, of course, that the Danes jump the way we wish, Wessex thought to

himself. Aloud he said: „I am certain that time will persuade them that they are

misinformed. Prince James is of quite an age to marry, and Denmark…“

„Is very far away, and this poor girl will be all alone here among us – and I am

afraid that Society’s view of the suitability of the match will be very much informed

by whether or not the ton approves of the Princess… which is why I wished to

speak to you privately this evening.“

Unconsciously, Wessex braced himself for the blow.

„I mean to appoint the Marchioness of Roxbury to the position of Mistress of

Robes – “

Now Wessex could see where this was going, and cursed himself for not having

had the foresight to stow away upon the Endeavour, or visit the Cannibal Islands, or

shoot himself. The position of Mistress of the Robes was a high-ranking one in the

Royal Household… but it could not be held by an unmarried woman.

And King Henry was still speaking.

„ – I mean the Princess to be all the fashion; I will not have another arrangement

beneath my roof like Maria and her German Georgie – the man can’t even be

bothered to learn English; he’s hissed everywhere he goes. Princess Stephanie will

arrive in England by mid-July, and I should take it very kindly if you and the

Marchioness had wed by then. Roxbury has cut a dashing figure upon the Town for

years, and you are hardly an inconsequential fellow, Your Grace – the two of you

can sponsor the Princess in English society, and make certain that all goes well for

her. I need you to do this for me, Rupert.“

Wessex’s heart sank, but he could hardly refuse the King in such a small matter

when he had given up so much more than his honor in England’s service. If a Duke

and his Duchess would be of more use to the King than an unmarried Duke and the

freewheeling Marchioness of Roxbury, Wessex would marry the chit. The Royal

command had been given, and it did not occur to Wessex to disobey.

But Wessex’s tainted line ended with him; he would breed no more spies to

follow him. That vow Wessex would not break.

„I will not fail Your Majesty,“ Wessex said, bowing slightly. He wondered if the

Marchioness would be as agreeable to the King’s behest – but he had seen the

talisman she carried; as a member of the Boscobel League, one of that elite cadre

sworn to serve the interests of the King, she must be, once she knew it was the

command of the King himself.

Henry saw Wessex’s faint hesitation and mistook its cause.

„My dear Rupert,“ he said, smiling, „is it possible that you think Roxbury will

refuse you? I grant the girl has a high enough opinion of herself, but the family has

always been a great friend to the Crown – to save you the worry, I’ll ask her myself.

On your behalf, of course.“ King Henry smiled.

Sarah could not repress a last flutter of nervousness as she regarded her reflection

in the gilt-framed mirror. The archaic presentation dress, a peculiar anachronistic

confection of wide-sprung hoops and towering headdress, gleamed with white satin,

silver tissue, and enormous jewels of price. The design had been copied, in the same

fabrics but in a modern line, for the ball-dress she would wear later this evening.

Sarah only hoped her nerves would get her from here to there. Fortunately, the

Presentation was a very formal affair; she, along with perhaps a dozen other hopeful

damsels, would be ushered into one of the palace’s withdrawing rooms to await the

arrival of King Henry. There, each of them would be presented to the King and have

the opportunity to make dieir bows. It would all be over very quickly, so she’d been

told.

Out of consideration for her rank and precedence, she had been given a private

chamber to wait in while she put the last finishing touches on her costume, and she

and Knoyle had needed every minute to affix the egret-plume headdress – too high

to survive a trip in the carriage – shake out the yards of ice-white satin that made up

the voluminous skirt of Sarah’s gown, and finish sewing and pinning the Roxbury

diamonds to every available surface of the costume. Sarah glanced in the mirror. She

was pale with tension, and glittered as though her gown were sewn of ice, not silk.

Only a few more minutes now, she could see by the ormolu clock on me nearby

table, and they would call her to attend the King.

By rights, Sarah should have made her bow to the King at the same time she had

made her bow to Society, eight years ago. She could not at the moment recollect

why it was she had not done so men, though the stress of doing so now was

undoubtedly the cause of the strange and disturbing dreams she’d been having of

late. Perhaps once mis evening was over, the dreams would vanish, too.

If they did not, she did not mink she could stand it. If she had not had Miss

Bulleyn to confide in, the last few weeks would have been quite unbearable.

Sarah had wanted to invite Miss Bulleyn to her ball – and had, in fact, broached

the subject to her friend. But Meriel had brushed aside all Sarah’s hopeful

suggestions, saying only that her uncle would certainly not approve – and would

certainly find out. Sarah found herself nourishing quite a healthy dislike for Mr.

Richard Bulleyn, wherever he was – any man who would deny his niece such a

harmless and respectable entertainment as a ball given by the Dowager Duchess of

Wessex for her goddaughter was certainly no one that Sarah could be fond of, and

the future he was shaping for his niece by keeping her so secluded from Society was

certainly not an enviable one.

Not that Sarah’s own future looked that much brighter. She sighed. Despite her

triumphs, she was thinking of returning to the country just as soon as the ball was

over. The city was no place for her; whatever she was seeking, it was not to be

found here.

The melancholy tenor of her thoughts was interrupted by a tapping at the door.

Knoyle rushed to open it. A footman in formal palace livèry – gold-laced suit and

powdered wig – stood in the doorway.

„Lady Roxbury? King Henry has sent me to’ conduct you to the Withdrawing

Room.“

The Drawing-Room was crowded and overheated; the last glimmerings of dusk

were still in the sky, though the candelabra that lit the walls had already been lit and

the heavy scent of burning beeswax filled the air. Sarah concentrated on standing so

still that her diamonds barely flashed in the sweltering air and took the position that

the liveried footman showed her to without complaint, or any attempt to find a more

favorable one.

The salon’s walls were draped with thick falls of red velvet, interspersed with

brilliant gilt-framed mirrors, and the floor beneath Sarah’s diamond-sewn slippers

was a polished checkerboard of colored marble. On the gilded and painted ceiling

above, plump and glittering cherubs surrounded depictions of ancient kings – finding

swords beneath altar stones, drawing them forth from anvils, receiving them from

ladies rising up out of lakes. The three chandeliers sparkled with candles and

cut-crystal lustres until the light was nearly enough to hurt Sarah’s eyes. To rest

them, she glanced about herself, careful not to move from her appointed place.

Most of the other ladies present were far younger than Sarah’s own advanced age

of five-and-twenty, and all were so nervous – even though they were, as Sarah was

not, accompanied by at least one hovering female relative – that Sarah felt herself

grow calmer in simple self-defense. There were a number of gentlemen of the Court

also present in the room, and as Sarah looked up, she saw that one of the

spectacularly-uniformed Hussars standing near the window was the Duke of

Wessex.

He was wearing a short blue jacket encrusted with the distinctive silver lace of the

eleventh Hussars, and a bearskin-trimmed pelisse was slung over one shoulder.

Cherry-red trousers were tucked into gleaming gold-laced tasseled Hessians, and his

plumed shako was tucked beneath one arm. The uniform looked unfinished without

the sword that should have hung at his waist – since Wessex could not come armed

into the King’s presence – though he was still wearing the sabretache embroidered

with the regimental honors slung from his belt. In uniform, Wessex cut a dazzling

and martial figure far removed from the languid and chilly harlequin with whom Sarah

was acquainted.

He saw her across the room and seemed to become utterly still, much as a

leopard who had sensed the presence of an unwary hunter. For a moment his black

eyes burned into hers –

Then he glanced away, without so much as the felicity of a common bow in

passing.

Sarah’s eyes flashed dangerously. So he thought to ignore her, did he, and

pretend he didn’t see her, as if she were some cast off, importunate mistress?

The situation would not have been so appallingly irritating had not the last several

weeks given Sarah a very good sense of her own importance – and if not for the

fact that she had sensed some strange bond between herself and Wessex from the

very first. It seemed so much more of a betrayal when all her instincts told her that

they ought to be friends – and they weren’t.

She glanced away, and when she looked back, Wessex had disappeared behind

another pair of gorgeously costumed officers. She had almost made up her mind to

pursue him when a footman bearing a long ivory stave entered through a hidden door

and thumped his shaft upon the marble floor, summoning the attention of all.

„His Royal Majesty, Henry Charles James Arthur Christian, King of England,

Ireland, Scotland, and Wales!“

The king’s image was, of course, to be seen on every coin from golden guineas

to copper ha’pennies and in a number of the pictures that hung in the Royal

Academy as well, but this was the first time that Sarah could remember laying eyes

on the living man. He was not as tall as she had expected, and the bright chestnut

hair that marked the Stuart line had faded and darkened with age, but even without

crown and royal robes, Henry was every inch the king, and Sarah found herself

responding to that aura of kingship with an almost unconscious reverence.

King Henry moved slowly about the circumference of the room, stopping and

greeting each person there. At its simplest, a Royal Drawing-Room was an

opportunity for the people of England to see that their monarch was hale and whole,

something that would stop the rumors of illness and even death that tended to run

rampant in troubled times.

A number of gentlemen of the court followed the King, and Sarah was faindy

irritated to see that Wessex was among them. She had not known that the Duke was

an intimate of the King, and the knowledge vexed her for some perverse reason.

At last the King reached her place in the tableau, and Sarah gracefully sank down

into the Court curtsey she had rehearsed for so many hours. Her hoops made a faint

thump as they struck the marble floor, and then collapsed neatly upon themselves,

folding the white satin and silver lace of her skirts as if it were the sugary

whipped-cream decoration at the top of a ornate dessert. She bowed her neck, and

the egret-feather headdress bowed with her until she could see the tip of the feathers

dangling in front of her nose. Then she looked up, and was astonished to see that the

King was holding out his hand to help her rise.

She had not looked for such a particular mark of favor; placing her gloved hand

into his, she allowed him to help her to her feet.

„And how do you find London, Lady Roxbury?“ King Henry asked, a twinkle in

his eye. Sarah smiled in return. She could not commit the incredible social solecism

of looking away from the King to see where Wessex was; wherever the Duke might

be, she knew that he saw her.

„It is an interesting place, Your Majesty,“ Sarah replied.

„But not so interesting as Mooncoign, eh, Your Ladyship?“ the King said with

dismaying insight. „You must tell me something about it.“

Almost without thought Sarah found herself describing the glories of the Wiltshire

downs to King Henry, who seemed completely enchanted by her depiction, until

abruptly Sarah realized she was rattling on like the veriest greenhead.

„But Your Majesty will not wish to hear about such things,“ Sarah finished

lamely.

„Au contraire; it is utterly delightful – but it only serves to convince me that we

must do more to amuse you here in London – and perhaps you will take pity on

Princess Stephanie when she arrives, and show her about the Town?“

„Of course,“ Sarah replied quickly. The plight of the Danish princess – to be sent

so far from home to seal a treaty, betrothed to a Prince Who didn’t want her to

come at all – had touched Sarah’s soft heart as soon as she had heard of it.

„Then that is settled – and it will be good for the Princess to have the guidance of

a young married lady of unexceptionable connection. You-must on all account send

me an invitation to your wedding breakfast; I shall be delighted to attend.“

„Your Majesty is too kind,“ Sarah said automatically. Only long practice kept her

features immobile as King Henry released her hand and moved on.

Married lady? Automatically she looked around for Wessex, only to find he

wasn’t there at all.

Chapter 10

The Prince of Our Disorder

„My dear, the King was all that we could have hoped for! He engaged you in

conversation for quite ten minutes – your success is assured,“ the Dowager Duchess

of Wessex assured her.

Sarah glanced away from the mirror; Knoyle was putting the finishing touches on

Sarah’s second full-dress toilette of the evening. „Yes,“ Sarah said slowly, „I

suppose that it is.“ But social success somehow seemed more irrelevant than ever.

King Henry had spoken as though her marriage was a certainty, me date set and

settled – and in the face of the King’s expectations, what could she say?

„Poor child,“ the Dowager said. „You already look all in – and you must see in

the dawn, you know, or the gossips will make heaven above knows What of your

absence. But come along – there will be just time for you to swallow a bite of supper

before you must greet your guests.“

* * *

The ball was all that the Dowager had predicted and Sarah had dreaded. All of

London was there, and ready to meet her – with, it seemed, one exception. The

Duke of Wessex was nowhere to be found.

Sarah was dancing with the Earl of Ripon, rather against her wishes. She knew the

Earl only by dinner-table reputation; the Highclères were a Catholic family which had

for generations held a grudge against the Stuart line for turning to me Anglican faith

and forsaking the Old Religion. Though they made their way in Society, the

Highclères could be counted upon to oppose any policy of the King’s – from the

continuance of the Continental war to His Majesty’s liberal dealings with the

American colonies.

But if the Dowager Duchess thought it good to invite Ripon to Sarah’s ball, the

Marchioness of Roxbury could do no less than dance with him. And she did have to

admit that Ripon did not tax her with his politics on what was, after all, a purely

social occasion.

Yet there was something about the Earl that Sarah could not like – not quite a lean

and hungry look, perhaps, but something just as dark –

As if it could be anything to do with me! Sarah told herself brusquely. She was

still seething at Wessex’s absence and knew that she was seeking other targets for

her anger.

The music spun down to its end, and the couples who had made up the set

looked to the sides of the dance floor in unconscious pursuit of their next partners,

but before the dance could reach its natural conclusion, Ripon dragged Sarah to a

halt as he stopped in amazement.

„Geoffrey!“ he muttered.

But the eyes of the jumbled dancers were not upon Ripon’s younger brother, but

his companion, now making his grand entrance into the ballroom as if the

entertainment had been given in his honor.

Jamie, Prince of Wales, had arrived – and he had not come alone.

Slowly, Sarah and Ripon moved to the edge of the dance floor. The Prince of

Wales had not been invited, although of course all the Royal Personages had de

facto invitations to any entertainment they might choose to grace with their presence.

But Prince Jamie’s interests ran with an entirely different crowd than that of the

reclusive Dowager Duchess of Wessex – and tonight’s guest list had been drawn

very much from the Dowager’s set.

Sarah recognized none of the half-dozen male sparks of fashion attendant upon

the Prince, save by reputation, but almost certainly the blond man at whom Ripon

stared so fixedly was Ripon’s ne’er-do-well younger brother Geoffrey. The man on

Jamie’s other side – dark angel to Geoffrey’s golden one – must be the notorious

Lord Drewmore, a man whose exploits were too scandalous for even gentlemen to

talk of. And the woman on his arm, whose bright yellow curls owed far more to Art,

Sarah was certain, than to Nature, was someone she thought she knew….

Caroline Truelove was the young relict of Sir Arthur Truelove, who had

distinguished (as well as extinguished) himself upon the field of honor less than three

years before. His young and beautiful widow had made her way through most of the

available European capitals and all of Sir Arthur’s money in her progress toward

England and the loving bosom of her husband’s family. But that assemblage – Sir

Arthur’s younger brother having inherited both the baronetcy and the guardianship

of Sir Arthur’s two young sons – was inclined to be far less indulgent of Lady

Truelove than her late husband had been. Balked of any attempt to enlarge upon her

widow’s jointure and quietly discouraged from seizing her boys to accompany her

upon her peripatetic round of house-parties, Lady Truelove found her natural

volatility of spirit drew her, like a leaf upon the bosom of the river, into the

whirlpools of fast company and high living in the company of a dangerously raffish

crowd.

In fact, Sarah recalled seeing Lady Truelove at Mooncoign not so very long ago,

though she was quite certain that the Dowager had not invited her tonight. Lady

Truelove was wearing a low-cut gown of Paris green silk adorned with knots of

diamonds at the shoulders and decolletage; in Herriard House’s chaste Palladian

ballroom she looked far less respectable man an opera dancer upon the Covent

Garden stage.

„You had better go and greet your guests,“ Ripon snarled in Sarah’s ear, and she

shot him a murderous look. How dare you speak to me as if this

disaster-in-the-making were my idea!

Music began to play once more as Sarah headed for the Prince’s clique. The

Dowager must have told the bandmaster to begin again, and Sarah was grateful to

the cover of respectability that the music afforded, for as she approached, she could

see that Prince Jamie was rather the worse for drink. His cheeks were flushed and his

eyes glittered brightly and he looked entirely too dangerous for Sarah’s peace of

mind.

„Lady Roxbury!“ the Prince of Wales cried gaily as he saw her. „How splendid

to see you here – and here is His Grace of Wessex! What a demmed fine fellow you

look in all that regimental lace – what a pity to waste such a uniform on a fellow who

might go overseas whenever he chose and doesn’t.“

Sarah risked a quick glance behind her. Wessex was standing behind her in the

same dazzling dress uniform he had been wearing at the Royal Drawing-Room – she

wondered when he had entered, as she had not seen him do so – smiling as though

he had not just been called a coward by the Prince of Wales.

„Indeed it is, Your Highness,“ Wessex said genially, stepping forward, „but as

the Eleventh is the Prince’s Own Regiment, if the uniform offends Your Highness,

you have only to change it, you know.“

The idea seemed to amuse Jamie; he laughed, and clapped Wessex upon the

shoulder. „For a chap who spends all his time hanging about m’father, you’re not

such a dull dog after all. Kate, say hello to His Grace.“

Lady Truelove smiled at Wessex in the fashion of one who knows she will not be

chastised whatever her actions; the expression made Sarah long to slap the woman –

she was not certain why she’d ever found Lady Truelove an amusing companion,

but vowed to cross her off the list of Lady Roxbury’s acquaintance at once.

„I’m honored that you should choose to attend my ball, Your Highness,“ Sarah

said, taking command of the situation. Though Geoffrey Highclere had stuck close

by the Prince’s side, his other companions had wandered off to sample the delights

of the ball. „Perhaps Your Highness would care for some refreshment?“

„Splendid notion!“ Jamie beamed.

At least some of the sets were returning to the dance floor. Perhaps the Prince’s

inebriated and totally unexpected entrance could be smoothed over, Sarah thought

hopefully.

But her plan to divert the Prince – and whisk his disreputable companions from

public view – was doomed to failure. As Sarah conducted the Prince through the

ground-floor rooms that had been opened for the ball, Jamie began, inevitably, to

attract just such an audience as Sarah had hoped to avoid.

„Is it true we are to expect an Interesting Announcement this evening, Lady

Roxbury?“ Lady Truelove asked with a giggle. „I vow, there is nothing I like better

in all the world than the chance to wish someone very happy.“

Sarah hoped her expression did not too patently display her disbelief; Lady

Truelove looked rather more like the sort of person who would revel in her

acquaintance’s misfortune. And was she hinting that she, as well as half the world,

expected Sarah to announce her engagement – or rather, the date of her marriage –

this evening?

„Well, you shan’t be felicitating me, Your Ladyship,“ Jamie said abruptly, reeling

to a stop. One of the hangers-on had brought a glass of champagne. Jamie gulped

the liquid as if it were water and beckoned for more. He glanced about himself and

then sprawled upon the nearest sopha, and Lady Truelove promptly disposed herself

beside him. There was nothing for Sarah and Wessex to do but stop as well.

„But I had understood you were to marry, Prince Jamie,“ Geoffrey Highclere

drawled from his position at the Prince’s elbow. „Some deadly dull Danish

cart-horse, wasn’t it?“

Jamie’s color deepened to a maroon that even the amount of drink he had

imbibed could not entirely account for.

„The devil I shall!“ he exclaimed loudly, his fiery Stuart temper slipping from his

control. He struggled to his feet again, his angry glittering gaze sweeping the

assembled guests – and not all of them were the Prince’s cronies. „Princess

Stephanie may sail for England, or Hell, or wherever she likes, but I shall not marry

her! No Stuart Prince shall be-“

„Sold for an advantage England could as easily gain upon the battlefield?“ Mr.

Highclere said helpfully.

„Precisely, Geoffrey!“ Jamie said, pleased with his crony’s cleverness. „So let the

Danes look to their best interests, lest the British Lion – “

„More wine, Your Highness?“ Wessex asked with ruthless politeness.

There had to be some way to break this up, Sarah thought with growing

desperation. Suddenly, inspiration struck.

„Mr. Highclere,“ she said abruptly, „do favor me with this next dance –, won’t

you?“

Sarah locked eyes with Ripon’s younger brother. Geoffrey’s pale eyes burned

into hers, but the forms of the Polite World had been invoked, and Highclere could

no more ignore Lady Roxbury’s request than he could sprout wings and fly. He

bowed slightly, favoring her with an. avaricious lupine glance.

„As you command, Lady Roxbury.“

Exerting every wile that imagination could devise, Sarah kept Geoffrey Highclere

by her side for the next quarter of an hour, though the man’s presence made her feel

oddly endangered. It was with intense relief that Sarah spied Wessex returning to the

ballroom, and could finally allow her impatient companion to conduct her to a chair.

The moment she was safely disposed, Highclere strode from the room with almost

indécent haste, and Wessex watched him leave with a rather chilly smile.

Sarah started to her feet, alarmed.

„Oh, do let him go, Lady Roxbury,“ Wessex drawled. „I am devastated to tell

you that His Highness has already moved on to his next engagement, and the hopeful

Mr. Highclere will seek his quarry in vain.“

„Thank heavens,“ Sarah said in relief.

She discovered her fan, looped about her wrist on a tinsel string, and plied it

vigorously to conceal the force of her feelings, then glanced around for Lord Ripon.

She did not see Geoffrey’s older brother anywhere, which was an additional mercy.

„So all has been tidied away, for the moment,“ Wessex said. „Unfortunately, the

Prince’s intemperate remarks will be all over London by dawn, which brings me

to… Lady Roxbury, may I have the favor of a private word with you?“

Sarah rose slowly to her feet, wondering how on earth she could avoid this

interview. Only a fool would be unable to guess what subject Wessex wished to

raise; and it would lead to a discussion that Sarah very much wished to avoid.

Reluctantly, she raised her glance to his face, and against her expectations, he

smiled.

„Yes, I know; you do not wish to grant me such a favor, and in fact you wish me

entirely at the devil. But we do not either of us have the luxury of behaving as private

persons, so if Your Ladyship will do me the honor…“

His hand was beneath her elbow; moved as much by the force of his personality

as by his grip upon her arm, Sarah let Wessex lead her from the dance floor. Though

so far as she knew he had never been here before, Wessex seemed to know her

house better man she did herself, for in a few moments they were on the narrow

servants’ stair ascending to Sarah’s small private parlor on the second floor. He

conducted her into the room with a little more force than courtesy and closed the

door behind them.

„You wished to speak to me, my – Your Grace?“ One of the frightening blank

spots in her memory had suddenly appeared, carrying with it forgetfulness of proper

forms of address that Lady Roxbury must have known from her cradle. But the

bobble was only momentary and Sarah doubted Wessex noticed. She crossed the

room and seated herself in the large comfortable chair in front of the fire. By her

standing orders, there was a fire of sea-coals burning, taking the edge off the chill of

the May night, but Sarah was not comforted.

Away from the. watchful eyes of the other revelers, Wessex’s face was set in

harsh lines, as if there were a painful duty before him, and Sarah could guess what it

was.

„Your Grace – “ she began.

„Be quiet,“ Wessex said sharply. „There are some things which – I believe! – you

do not know. And you will learn them tonight, Lady Roxbury.“

„Prince Jamie has for some time been surrounded – in spite of King Henry’s

efforts – by a faction composed primarily of those who still regret the loss of

Charles II’s Catholic younger brother James as England’s king. You have danced

with one of its leading architects this evening; the Earl of Ripon is one of those who

believe that England should stand with the Catholic kingdoms of Europe, and

abandon its policy of tolerance and emancipation.“ Wessex stared broodingly into

the fire’s heart for a moment before continuing.

„The Prince’s marriage into the house of

Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderberg-Glücksborg would be a great blow to their plans; as

you have seen, Ripon’s supporters do all that they can. to keep Jamie dissatisfied

with the match his father has made for him. What few people know is that Ripon has

his own candidate for Princess of Wales: his young niece, a girl who has been

carefully schooled for her role in his machinations. It is said that Ripon plots to

entangle Prince Jamie with this girl past his ability to free himself; to cause a scandal

great enough that the Danish Prince Regent will withdraw both his sister and the

treaty of alliance.“

„I see.“ Sarah’s hand went involuntarily to touch the small hard lump that was her

father’s ring, tied securely into the bodice of her balldress.

„I doubt you see all of it, Lady Roxbury. Should the Danish marriage fail,

England would lose an important ally. And should Prince Jamie go on to marry

Ripon’s niece, Ripon would gain such power at Court as to be able to further his

ultimate ambition – to withdraw England from the Triple Alliance and force her to

make a separate peace with Bonaparte.“

„But – But – “ But this is impossible. „But Ripon’s niece must be a Catholic – “

„And you will be wondering how such a marriage could be made in the face of

the Act of Succession,“ Wessex finished. „Depend upon it, madame, if Ripon’s

plans go as he wishes them to, the King must allow the match, or see the Throne

rocked by such scandal as it cannot easily weather.“

„And so the Earl wins either way,“ Sarah said, slowly puzzling out the political

tangle Wessex had presented her, „because he wants to put an end to the Alliance,

doesn’t he, and if there is such a – a turmoil here in England…“

„Our beloved allies will bolt like frightened coach horses,“ Wessex agreed. For a

moment he gazed once more into the hot flames, his face expressionless, and when

he spoke again it was nearly as if he spoke to himself alone. „That must not happen.

If Prince Jamie can be brought to a sense of his responsibility; if he can be kept from

entanglement with Ripon’s brat… but most of all, if Princess Stephanie can make

herself agreeable to the mobile, to the English people, then public pressure on her

behalf will force the Prince to behave appropriately.“

Wessex took a deep breath before adding, „In the face of Prince Jamie’s

displeasure, the Princess will need advocates and partisans – and you, Lady

Roxbury, cannot sponsor her in society as an unmarried woman, nor can I associate

with her without my attentions seeming far too particular for the delicate measure we

must tread.“

Then Wessex fell silent, and much against her will, Sarah thought about what he

had said. She did not much care for Ripon, and somehow felt about Prince Jamie as

an elder sister about a younger brother whom she saw heading into disaster. Princess

Stephanie she did not know at all, but the thought of a young woman traveling to a

strange land and an unknown fate struck a deep chord somewhere within her, so that

Sarah felt she needed to do whatever she could to help the Danish Princess find

happiness in England and her marriage.

Marriage. It all came back to that, in the end. Marriage, and the Duke of Wessex.

Sarah did not doubt that Wessex was telling her the simple, truth – that without this

marriage, she could not do anything to aid either the Prince or the Princess. Was this

what the Old One had meant that night in the garden at Mooncoign when he had told

her that she must make herself a part of this world – or die?

„So you wish me to marry you?“ Sarah asked. Wessex’s tone had implied that it

was almost a formality – something to be done for the look of the thing, nothing

more. And King Henry wished her to marry him, even if Wessex seemed less than

enthusiastic about the matter himself.

„Yes,“ Wessex said baldly.

He had hardly been able to bring himself to say the words that made their

marriage inevitable – he must remember upon some future occasion to thank the Earl

of Ripon for providing him with such a textbook illustration of how vitally necessary

it was. In some sense, Wessex would be taking a far more public role in the fight

against England’s foes than ever before, if he and his Duchess were to lead the

faction in Society that opposed Ripon’s isolationist schemes. At least he was not

being asked to perform a task beyond his strength. It would be one more

masquerade, that was all. Another part to play, and the Duchess of Roxbury only

another partner in the Game of Shadows. So now I corrupt her, too –

„All right,“ the Marchioness said. She shrugged, as if the matter were not of very

great importance.

Wessex felt a spasm of something similar to relief. She was even more

cold-blooded than he, it seemed: this marriage would not disturb her ladyship in the

slightest. And perhaps she will develop a taste for the Shadow Game….

Recollecting himself, Wessex pulled off his dress glove and removed the ring.

He’d tucked it over the tip of his little finger for safekeeping, the gorgeous uniforms

of the Prince of Wales’s Own being undersupplied with pockets. Taking the ring

between his thumb and forefinger, he held it out to her.

„You’ll want this, then. It’s traditional.“ There. The thing was done past all

unmaking.

The thick circle of rose-gold gleamed between the Duke’s fingers; Sarah took the

ring with as much caution as if she were being offered a poisoned chocolate.

It was an old piece, the rose-gold of its surface worn with time and many hands.

The ring was a salamander in flames; the tail of the salamander circled her finger,

glittering with the red of the flames and tiny yellow diamonds set to represent sparks.

The face of the jewel was the creature’s body, set with tiny golden pearls meant to

represent its knobby hide, surrounded by carved ruby flames. Its head was set with

a tiny diamond, and the gem winked in the candlelight as Sarah turned the ring in her

fingers.

A betrothal ring. She’d agreed to marry him, hadn’t she? But somehow Sarah

could not bring herself to put the ring on her ringer.

Abruptly Wessex seized her left hand. She was still wearing the jewels she had

worn for her presentation; he drew a large ring with an onyx table set with

marquise-cut diamonds from her finger and replaced it with the salamander in flames.

Done! a tiny voice seemed to cry out within Sarah’s mind. Done past all

undoing. She stared at the metal salamander circling her finger as if the little creature

might bring itself to speak at any moment.

„What do I do now?“ she asked numbly.

„I think,“ said Wessex grimly, „that it would be best if we announced our Joyous

Event – and gave your guests something else to talk about this evening.“

Chapter 11

The Property of a Lady

If anything, being officially Engaged was less devitalizing than simply being

abroad in London had been. People, Sarah reflected with a new cynicism, knew

what to think about the Marchioness of Roxbury now. And if it was rumored that the

Duke of Wessex was getting damaged goods – well, at least Sarah did not have

enough of an affection for the unspeakable man to care!

She had not had a recurrence of her headaches in the fortnight since her marriage

date had been announced, but she had finally been forced to admit to herself that her

„little lapses of memory“ were nothing of the sort.

For try as she might, she could not truly remember anything at all before her

awakening at Mistress Bulford’s after the coach crash. Mooncoign – where she must

have grown up – was as unfamiliar to her as London. The Marchioness’s circle of

friends were people Sarah had no memory of ever meeting. She reread the

Marchioness’s careful diary entries, and could not imagine ever having written them.

Sarah did not much like the woman she met in those pages, either. Vain,

arrogant… Sarah could not even be properly ashamed of her previous behavior,

since she could not manage to believe in her heart that the woman represented in the

pages of the little red-bound diaries was anything to do with her. Was this the

woman the high-nosed Duke of Wessex thought he was marrying? It hardly

mattered, Sarah thought with resignation, since Wessex had made it clear that their

marriage was a social formality only.

She would not think about that. It would be enough that she was doing what she

could for the Crown. Her family had always served the Stuarts….

The sidestepping of the mare beneath her brought Sarah’s mind abruptly back to

the present day. Her personal life might be a hopeless tangle, but she had many other

things to be thankful for!

May had turned into June, continuing bright and warm, and Sarah had taken

advantage of the delightful weather to go riding every morning. At her orders, her

groom waited for her at the park gate, and in the gently rolling wooded environs of

Green Park, the strange dissonance between her surroundings and her expectations

seemed to vanish.

And at this hour, the park was also an excellent location to meet with someone

who did not wish to be seen.

A few minutes’ trot brought Sarah to a secluded clearing just off the edge of the

trail. It was watched over by a statue of Apollo, and anyone in the clearing would

have been visible to anyone passing along the ride – but Fashionable London

preferred to take its exercise in the afternoons, and the morning sun was just clearing

the rooftops of Piccadilly. The spire of Christ Church winked golden in the distance

as Sarah turned her delicate-footed mare into the clearing and waited.

She had just reined in when she heard the quick rhythm of hoofbeats on the path

behind her, and Meriel Bulleyn cantered into view.

Miss Bulleyn wore a neat and very modern black habit cut à la Hussar, with

double rows of silver buttons glittering upon the jacket’s impeccable broadcloth

bosom. Her gleaming beaver hat was swathed in veils to preserve her anonymity, but

the horse she rode was enough to make her stand out in any assemblage – its coat

was as black as Miss Bulleyn’s own hair, except for a silver mark in the center of his

forehead like a fairy’s kiss. As Meriel reined it to a halt it danced and bowed,

indicating its displeasure at stopping.

It was beyond Sarah’s understanding why Meriel’s uncle would present her with a

mount the equal of which could hardly be found in the Royal stables – and then

insist she keep herself out of Society.

„Good morning!“ Miss Bulleyn called. Her own groom, Sarah knew, waited

around the bend of the trail; either he was more loyal to Meriel than to her guardian,

or wicked Uncle Richard saw no harm in these early morning meetings. „How do

you do this morning?“ Meriel continued, flinging back her veils.

„I vow I am run off my legs with everything to do with the wedding – and the

Dowager tells me that my bridegroom is in a foul temper, because he means to buy a

house for us to live in – Dyer House is far too small and the Dowager Duchess has

lived there for years – nor would I ask him to turn her out of it – and by no stretch

of will or imagination can a new house in the West End of the grandeur he proposes

possibly be ready in time for our wedding.“ As she spoke, what had loomed as a

catastrophe Sarah suddenly saw as the trivial crisis it truly was. Sarah felt her spirits

lift, and smiled at Meriel.

Meriel laughed in return. „He will have to learn to live with disappointment – and

upon a short rein, as all husbands must! Have you not got a house of your own,

after all?“

„So I do,“ Sarah said, „and you must come and see it, Meriel. I vow, when I have

so many good things in my life it burns my heart to see my dearest friend skulking

about in corners. I am to be the Duchess of Wessex, an intimate of the King! How

can your uncle possibly object to your seeing me?“

„He… is very pleased that I have made your acquaintance, but – oh, do not ask

me to explain – I would give anything to attend the fêtes you describe to me, but I

cannot. Not yet!“ Meriel cried.

„Not yet?“ Sarah’s puzzlement made her pry when she did not wish to, but the

look of anguish on Meriel's face made her wish she had not. „Well, I will content

myself; I ought not tease you, Meriel, I know!“

„You are far too good to me,“ her friend said in a low voice. „If you knew what I

truly was, you would not be so kind.“

„If you were Old Nick himself I should still love you,“ Sarah declared stoutly.

„Come, a good gallop will shake you out of these blue megrims!“

The Duke of Wessex’s wedding drew closer with each day; he regarded it with

the same fatalism with which a man might view his execution. The unpleasant event

would occur no matter what he did; therefore he might as well occupy his time until

the fatal day with what diversions he might.

To that end, Wessex frequented his clubs, spent a suitable amount of time at the

Horse Guards, attended his boxing club and his fencing salon, and rode in Hyde

Park at the fashionable hour. He saw little of his betrothed (which suited him, he told

himself) but had constant reports of her from their mutual acquaintance.

Such urbane delights must be supposed to please; Wesr sex permitted himself to

seem idly amused by life in London. But every few days, he found occasion to stop

by the building in Bond Street, arriving through one of its assorted entrances, and

one afternoon, there was a summons from Lord Misbourne awaiting him.

Wessex crushed the paper between his fingers and replaced it upon Charteris’s

silver salver. The butler bowed and retreated, and then dropped the crumpled wad

automatically into the closed stove that served to dispose of all of the White Tower

Group’s waste paper.

Wessex got to his feet, glancing about the paneled room that looked so much like

the library in an ordinary gentlemen’s club. The others who were there did not even

glance up from their reading; two of them Wessex knew by name, and the other was

a stranger to him, but within these precincts they were all equals, and all equally

anonymous.

He sighed. There was as little point in postponing the moment as in wondering

why Misbourne had summoned him. He turned from the room, heading down the

corridor to the padded red leather door of Misbourne’s office.

„She’s meeting Ripon’s niece nearly every day. In Green Park,“ Baron

Misbourne said.

Wessex blinked, momentarily off-balance at this rather unconventional greeting.

Misbourne shimmered in the chamber’s radiant gloom like some deep-sea beast

being drawn toward the surface in a net.

„Good afternoon, Lord Misbourne,“ Wessex said equitably. A lethal instinct

made him hazard a guess at Misbourne’s meaning: „Lady Roxbury?“

„Has become quite the bosom-bow of Ripon’s whelp,“ Misbourne said, fixing

Wessex with a pale baleful eye.

„Don’t blame me,“ Wessex snapped. „I’m only marrying the woman.“

„And thus her conduct is none of your concern. Quite so. But her motive is,“

Misbourne reminded him.

Wessex frowned, realizing that he’d still formed no very complete picture of his

betrothed’s character. On the one hand, he knew she was a member of the Boscobel

League, but as that secret could not be shared even with Misbourne, it was of no use

now. Nor did Roxbury’s membership in the League preclude any amount of intrigue

with Ripon’s niece, especially if Roxbury were playing a deep game of her own at

the King’s behest.

„There could be any number of possible motives,“ Wessex pointed out, which

was only the truth. „And what is Ripon doing?“

„Nothing.“ Misbourne’s answer was comprehensive. „He keeps his niece very

close and does not seem anxious to make the ton a present of her existence; she

goes nowhere and sees no one… save Lady Roxbury.“

„Interesting,“ Wessex said, with a composure he was far from feeling. He was

possessed of a sudden swift desire to grab Roxbury and shake her until the truth

rattled out from between her lying lips. He’d thought he could trust her – he’d

thought he didn’t have to think about her at all – and now look what she’d done. He

became aware that Misbourne was watching him closely.

„Is there any news from Denmark?“ Wessex asked.

„No more than one might expect.“ Misbourne answered him readily. „Koscuisko

tells us that they still expect to sail by the end of July, when the sea is at its calmest.

The Prince Regent is still attempting to redraw the treaty so that the Danes are

obligated to nothing, but Sir John continues to forestall him at every turn, the wily

old fox.“

Wessex smiled faintly. Sir John’s nickname in political circles was „The Little

Bulldog“ for precisely this quality of unswerving tenacity.

„What must be a matter of more concern is the Princess’s reception when she

arrives. Prince Jamie’s intemperate behavior increases with each passing day, and

there are rumors that an open break between me Prince and his father is all but

inevitable.“

And an open break between King and Prince would give Jamie a chance to form

his own party – or, more likely, have it formed for him by the likes of Ripon. At least

Jamie had not yet been beguiled by Ripon’s niece. Wessex was certain that

Misbourne would have mentioned such a disastrous development.

But no. Ripon’s pretty catspaw was spending her days in the company of

Wessex’s betrothed.

„I may be able to whistle the Marchioness to heel,“ Wessex said slowly, „or at

least gain her attention. I doubt she’d obey any order I gave, but if I were to object

to the connection between her and Ripon’s niece, the ensuing brawl might at least

lend the matter a publicity that Ripon seems unwilling for it to have.“

Misbourne regarded Wessex for a long moment, his grey eyes as bright and pale

as glass.

„No,“ Misbourne said at last. „The vixen is out of her earth. We must see how

she runs,“ Misbourne said.

Chapter 12

The Marriage of True Minds

On June 15, 1805, at the Chapel Royal in St. James Palace, Rupert St. Ives Dyer,

Captain His Grace the Duke of Wessex, took in holy matrimony Sarah Marie Eloise

Aradia Dowsabelle Conyngham, Marchioness of Roxbury. The groom was

formidably correct in a dove-grey waistcoat, biscuit-colored knee-breeches, and a

dark blue coat; the bride was resplendent in cloth-of-silver. The King himself

presented the bride to her groom, as the Marchioness was an orphan and – by the

sheerest of technicalities – His Majesty’s ward.

Though the wedding party itself was quite small, one hundred and fifty covers

had been laid for the wedding breakfast that was held at the Marchioness’s own

property of Herriard House. Every delicacy and novelty that a small army of cooks

could provide had been produced for the delight of the guests, including a small

rainbow of jellies, and ices in every flavor imaginable.

By popular consensus, it was a very merry occasion.

Rather sourly, the Duke of Wessex wished that Illya Koscuisko was here to enjoy

it. In fact, he wished that Koscuisko were here in his stead, and that he himself were

at the devil.

This was a mistake. Regardless of his grandmother’s wishes – or his monarch’s

– Wessex should not have married Roxbury. He’d known it the moment he entered

the chapel and saw the girl standing beside the altar, an opulent and gleaming ghost

in a dress that made her look as if she were formed of ice and steel. She had looked

as stricken as if she were to be shot, and his sympathy with her feelings had made

Wessex smile encouragingly at her. He could not tell if she had noticed.

Then had come the ceremony, and every word of it had hammered home the

awful finality of what he was doing. Once they two were wed, only an Act of

Parliament could undo the marriage again.

But once begun, there was no stopping the ceremony – and then the thing was

done, and when Wessex kissed his bride, her lips were as cold as the ice her gown

so resembled. Fortunately, she was not given the time to speak her mind about their

wedding as the party dispersed from the church steps into breakfast-bound

carriages, and afterward, Wessex had seen to it that she had no chance to approach

him again. Tonight the happy couple were to sleep at Dyer House, as generations of

Dukes and their Duchesses had before them, but – as Wessex’s partner often said –

they would bum that bridge when they came to it. Meanwhile, there was enough

champagne flowing to drown the entire Imperial Guard in, and Wessex vowed that

he would founder on it.

If he did not quite manage that, he succeeded in drinking enough to insulate him

nicely from the wedding toasts that he was forced to receive.- Possibly he even

smiled at his bride. But while Wessex had often been a ready executioner in the

service of King and Country, he’d never taken any joy in it. And by any honest

account, he was ruining his new Duchess’s life quite thoroughly. After all, she had

married a spy, the lowest of the low. If his clandestine activities for the White Tower

Group ever came to light, it would not be the hero’s laurel that awaited Wessex but

the martyr’s crown – and an eternity of shame for his family that its head should

have behaved in so thoroughly despicable a fashion.

And if that were not bad enough, his unfortunate Duchess was married to a man

who had not the slightest intention of continuing his tainted line. She could, Wessex

knew, gain an annulment if she could prove that (and if he had made enough enemies

of the right sort in the interim). Perhaps, in a few years, that would be a way out for

both of them, though that scandal, too, would be killing.

And then again, he could die.

Wessex felt his spirits lift. That possibility hadn’t actually occurred to him before,

but in his line of work it was a very real one. If he died, his shameful secrets could

die with him, his widow could respectably remarry, and his grandmother need never

know what a creature her grandson had become. Under the influence of far too

much of the finest vintage champagne, Wessex became convinced that his death in

action was the best of all possible outcomes, solving all his problems in the neatest

fashion conceivable.

He would have to arrange it.

Just as soon as Jamie was safely married, and that damned treaty signed.

But first, he had to manage to get through his wedding night….

* * *

Sarah, now Duchess of Wessex, sat bolt upright in the bridal bed, just as she had

been left, watching the heavy bedcurtains sway gently closed from where Knoyle had

let them fall a moment before. Light from the chamberstick that had been left burning

on a side table winkled through tiny pinholes in the ancient fabric, and could be seen

as a thin slice of light where the faded scarlet silk had not quite been pulled shut.

She heard her abigail’s steps fade as the woman left the room, and when that

sound had vanished completely, Sarah could still hear all the other sounds Dyer

House made as it settled upon its foundations. The sound of her new husband

ascending the stair to join his bride, however, was not among them.

Secure now in the knowledge that Knoyle would not return-and catch her

behaving in some mysteriously un-bridal fashion, Sarah pushed back the curtain and

slipped out of bed. Her cashmire shawl lay across the back of a nearby chair; she

picked it up and swirled it about herself.

The rooms of Dyer House were tiny, and though this back bedroom was one of

the grandest the house could boast, its ceiling gorgeously painted with a daylight

view of the dome of St. Paul’s wreathed in cherubs and heavenly light, that same

painted ceiling slanted dizzyingly down toward the windows in the back wall, making

Sarah feel almost as if she needed to duck her head to reach them. The window’s

antique catches were tricky things, but after a moment’s work Sarah flung the

windows open and leaned out.

The night air was heavy with the river damp, and fog had curled in off the

Thames, misting the air around her and making the ground impossible to see. It was

very late; a full moon rode the sky like an argent tea-tray, its light striking the fog and

turning familiar shapes into the terrain of a frosted unreal otherworld out of which

anything might come. Outside the narrow windows that opened onto the house’s

tiny back garden all of nighttime London could be heard going about its occupations

as it readied itself for the morning. Sarah could hear the clip-clop of horse’s hooves

on the cobbled streets, the faint distorted cry of the Thames boatmen plying their

river trade…

Where was Wessex?

Inexplicably, Sarah felt deserted. It was not that she had a. personal interest in

her new husband, of course. Her emotions were most certainly not engaged; that

would be foolish, when (by his every word and gesture he had indicated that theirs

was to be a marriage of convenience only; the convenience to be King Henry’s. But

even so, it was slightly embarrassing to misplace one’s bridegroom upon one’s

wedding night.

Suppose he did not mean to come at all?

That would suit her just as well, Sarah declared to herself, but she would like to

know at once, and not have to lie awake wondering if her sleep would be disturbed

by the sudden arrival of a stranger in her bedroom. Which was certainly what His

Grace of Wessex was to the former Miss Sarah Cunningham of Baltimore….

No. She was – she had been – Sarah Conyngham, the Marchioness of Roxbury.

Lady Roxbury. She was the mistress of Mooncoign, and Mooncoign was hers, hers

and her daughters’, so long as the Pledge were kept.

Roxbury had sworn. But she had not sworn. And she was not bound to the

land….

Sarah rubbed her aching head, feeling a sudden wave of utter weariness crest over

her. Her day had started before dawn, and it was now nearly midnight. She was as

tired as she could ever remember having been, and her nightly dose of strengthening

cordial had been forgotten in all the excitement, the bottle left behind in her bedroom

in Herriard House. No wonder she was so confused that not only who she was, but

where she ought to be was scattered and obscured in her mind.

A breeze purling in through the window made the flame of the chamberstick

dance and swirl. The painted London on the ceiling seemed to tower and shimmer

above her, as if at any moment the image might alter into another landscape entirely.

Sarah groaned and closed her eyes tightly, leaning her head on the cool painted sill. ‘

She’d eaten very little at the wedding breakfast – fine name for a party that had

stretched on until a scant few hours ago! – and drunk several glasses of smuggled

French champagne to make up for it. No wonder she felt unwell.

Sarah slunk across the room and sat down in the chair, drawing her feet up

beneath her to save them from the floor’s chill. Cocooned in her caslimire shawl, she

contemplated events. If he wasn’t here – never mind „why“ just now – where was

he? She’d lost track of her new husband during the festivities at Herriard House, but

he’d known she was going to Dyer House – he’d insisted upon it, in fact; some

fugitive flare of amour propre in His Grace rebelling against beginning his marriage

beneath his wife’s roof. Around the time the lanterns were lit, Sarah had been happy

to leave for Dyer House at the Dowager’s urging, and naturally had expected

Wessex to follow at once – the man was such a painful pattern-card of virtue that

Sarah had assumed he would do precisely as anticipated upon every occasion.

Except, apparently, upon this one.

But as the hours had passed, and Sarah’s elaborate wedding toilette had been

dismantled, Wessex still had not arrived, and somehow she could not bring herself

to ask the Dowager where her grandson – Sarah’s husband – was.

Which thought brought Sarah back to this room, to an aching head and a rapidly

increasing sense of unreality.

It didn’t look as if Wessex was going to put in an appearance any time soon, or

perhaps at all; Sarah was certain that Langley had long since barred the outside door,

so unless the man could scale the wall to Sarah’s third-floor window, he was

doomed to spend the night on the street. Which was where (if nowhere worse) his

bride wished him, if anyone were interested.

The candle had burned more than halfway to its socket when Sarah sighed and

shook herself, and climbed stiffly back into bed. Why had he not come? He’d

insisted upon this marriage – he’d offered her his ring and his name – why make a

fool of her?

Why?

The rosepink room was filled with candles and mirrors, and with tables draped in

white linen cloths upon which decks of gaudy pasteboard and rouleaus of golden

guineas vied for pride of place. Fortunes had changed hands here upon the turn of a

card, and men whose families had been destroyed by the tables had slunk from these

precincts to end their lives in the waters of the Thames or the privacy of their own

libraries. The room remained unchanged.

The establishment was called Garvin’s, and the man in the corner had been there

since midnight. An empty decanter of whiskey sat at his elbow, and he was one of

the few patrons in the salon who had not taken me opportunity to exchange his

fashionable coat for one of the linen dusters provided by the establishment for the

comfort of its patrons. It was now after four o’clock of a new spring morning, and

he was still mere, playing as mechanically and as desperately as if faro were his only

hope of salvation. Onlookers thought it odd, since His Grace of Wessex had been

winning consistently since he sat down.

In a lull in the play, a sharp-eyed servant whisked me empty decanter away and

replaced it with a fresh one. His Grace affected not to notice.

Garvin’s was only one of several clubs to which His Grace of Wessex belonged,

and by no means the first he had visited since he left Herriard House several hours

before. His original destination had been his Albany rooms, as a satisfactory

compromise between the company of his well-wishers and the company of his

new-wed bride. There Wessex had shed his wedding garments for something less

gaudy, and by the time he had done that, it seemed an easier thing to seek the

company of intimate strangers in clubland than to go and make the acquaintance of

his wife. Eventually and inevitably he had arrived at Garvin’s.

Garvin’s was a unique establishment for a number of reasons, two among them

being that it admitted both women and foreigners. The man believed to be its owner

was a thoroughly disreputable Irishman named O’Donnell, whom few of Garvin’s

members would have considered receiving in even a bachelor establishment that

aspired to respectability. It was said that O’Donnell had killed a man with his fists,

though no one was quite certain of where or when this interesting event had taken

place – excepting always His Grace of Wessex, who had his own ways of knowing

a great many interesting things. It was also said he had a partner, a woman, but no

one knew anything about her, either, including Wessex.

For that matter, no one knew why the club was called Garvin’s, or where

O’Donnell had gotten the funds to open it, and O’Donnell did not enlighten them.

This air of mystery in no Way lessened the club’s attractions; it may well have

increased them, as its patrons either relished the self-created illusion of danger or felt

that a man with such a cloudy past would turn a tolerant eye upon their

equally-occluded presents. In this, too, O’Donnell did not enlighten them.

The ground floor of Garvin’s was a series of private rooms available to members

by appointment. It was the only area to which nonmembers were admitted, and then

only when accompanied by a member. It was also the only floor possessing visible

windows, and those windows were heavily barred, though Garvin’s was located very

near the best part of town. The first floor held the windowless gaming rooms – faro,

whist, roulette – as well as a salon in which gendemen who wished to drink in peace

could do so. The second floor was a fencing salle, where those so inclined could

practice the deadly art of the blade against one another or under the auspices of the

dueling master whom O’Donnell kept always upon the premises. The quite-illegal

boxing matches that Garvin’s occasionally hosted for the delectation of its members

were held upon the second floor as well.

The cellars of Garvin’s were extensive, and contained a target range of sufficient

length to accommodate those duels among members that could not be resolved

through diplomacy or the sword. Though Garvin’s kept no kitchen (members might

partake of bread, cheese, and cold meat if desired), it had an extensive catalogue of

wines and spirits stored beneath the street as well – conveyed to its cellars, or so it

was rumored, by the same conjectured Thames tunnel through which many a duel’s

survivors were alleged to have been smuggled to the Continent or to a ship bound

for the Americas. Most of the members were not completely certain whether or not

such a tunnel existed; the uncertainty added to Garvin’s mystique.

But the two things that Garvin’s offered most of all to its clientele were absolute

privacy and complete freedom from interruption. Its precincts were as sacrosanct as

those of a medieval church. Bailiff, Redbreast, or private revenger, no one save

Garvin’s own members ascended above the ground floor, and once inside, even

members were as likely as not to be chucked violently into the street did they venture

to annoy another member.

Which was why it was so particularly surprising, on this very early June morning,

that His Grace of Wessex was to be interrupted in the midst of his twin pursuits of

deep play and heavy drinking.

The man who entered the gaming salon was almost painfully nondescript. That he

wore evening dress – dark blue coat matching breeches buttoned at the knee, white

silk stockings, black pumps – seemed almost an oversight. This self-effacing

personage was hardly the sort that any hostess would invite to ornament an evening

party; he had the sort of face that was forgotten almost before it was noticed.

Forgettable or not, he ought hot have been able to pass the footman at the door

below, much less ascend to these sacrosanct altitudes.

As he crossed the room, the self-effacing gentleman began to be noticed – for

where he was, if not for who he was – and gradually the quiet conversation from the

ranks of the gamesters ceased. As the ripple of quiet reached him, Wessex looked

up into the spreading pool of silence and saw the intruder.

With great care, Wessex lay down his hand of cards and refilled his glass. He

watched the quiet gentleman approach, but even after the man’s destination became

obvious to all, Wessex did nothing to indicate he was aware of the fact, other than to

watch the man’s advance with a steady implacable gaze.

At last the visitor reached Wessex’s elbow.

The rest of the room had returned to its pleasures, once its inhabitants were

certain that it was not their privacy that was to be infringed upon. The other

gamesters at Wessex’s table, the intruder’s target being determined beyond all

doubt, set down their cards and waited for the Duke to deal summarily with him.

„There is someone who wishes to see you, Your Grace,“ the gentleman said.

„Then let him tell me himself.“

Wessex was not precisely in his altitudes, but in the last several hours His Grace

had drunk sufficiently deeply to have gained a certain implacable recklessness. It was

the sort of condition in which a man might fight a duel over a comment about his

tailor, were such a comment to be offered.

„Alas, the gentleman is not a member,“ the other replied.

„Then let him apply,“ Wessex said’ reasonably.

„Unfortunately, his business with Your Grace cannot wait upon the application

process.“

„I understand that O’Donnell can act in the absence of the Members’ Committee,

if necessary,“ Wessex responded unhelpfully.

„It is possible that Mr. O’Donnell would not welcome this gentleman’s

membership,“ the stranger said.

Wessex regarded him narrowly, patience gone. „It is more than possible that I

shall shoot you if you do not go away.“

„The gentleman’s business with you is urgent, Your Grace,“ the gentleman

persisted. „Will you not come?“

Perhaps it occurred to His Grace at this moment to wonder how the stranger had

made it this far without outcry, or perhaps he simply tired of the verbal fencing

match. Without answering, he stood and swept the pile of yellow-boys on the table

before him into one of his pockets, and indicated that the interloper should precede

him.

* * *

The chill predawn air was cold on Wessex’s face as he stood on the doorstep of

Garvin’s. The night fog was at its thickest, but even so, he could see the lamps of

the heavy carriage standing in the street a few doors away. Instinctively he stopped,

his hand going to the concealed pocket in his jacket.

„There is no cause for alarm, Your Grace,“ the man said, turning. „I come on

business from the Palace.“

„So any man might say.“ And there were more factions in the Palace of St. James

than King Henry’s.

„But few of them would carry this.“

The emissary reached into his pocket and withdrew a slender wallet. Flipping it

open, he allowed Wessex to see the badge it contained. Gold and enamel glinted

colorfully in the light of the cresset-basket burning beside Garvin’s green door.

Wessex strode past the man to the standing coach, and flung open the door.

„Your Majesty.“

King Henry was in a towering rage; Wessex could see that much from the hot

glitter of the King’s eyes and the high color spread across his cheekbones, „So,

Wessex. Is this how you would serve your King?“ Henry demanded.

Wessex was abruptly, entirely, and unpleasantly sober. With the force of a

sudden revelation, it occurred to him that he ought, perhaps, to have gone home.

Hours ago.

„I made no secret of what I wished for with this marriage – that the Duke and

Duchess of Wessex, leaders of the ton, should ease Princess Stephanie’s admission

into the ranks of English society. May I ask how the Duchess’s reputation is to be

enhanced by the knowledge that her husband has spent their wedding night at his

clubs rather than going home to her bed?“

The King’s tone was arctic. Wessex could not think of any explanation he was

willing to even attempt to provide.

„It will not be enhanced, Sir,“ Wessex answered in a low voice.

„Then, perhaps, this is the opening gambit in some deep game you play? Is the

ton possibly to be moved to compassion by Her Grace of Wessex’s plight? How

could any woman deserted by her husband upon their wedding night be other than

an object of pity, after all? And you have made the matter so very public.“

And so he had, Wessex thought in despair. Had his wits utterly deserted him, that

instead of going to ground, he had made the knowledge of his absence from Dyer

House a present to half the Polite World? Even if those he had played against tonight

at Garvin’s said nothing of his presence there, that was not the only place he had

been this evening.

There was nothing he could possibly say.

The King gazed fixedly at him, and Wessex was possessed of the sinking feeling

that King Henry understood everything of what had happened here tonight, even

those things of which Wessex himself would prefer to remain ignorant.

„Do you think you can repair matters?“ the King asked evenly.

„I shall repair matters,“ Wessex vowed. Tonight’s folly could be smoothed over,

with determination and his wife’s assistance. He had not made a good beginning, but

with luck they could still produce a convincing charade. He would be the uxorious

and attentive Duke, and Sarah his gracious Duchess.

At least in public.

„Then there is no more to be said,“ King Henry pronounced. He tapped his cane

upon the ceiling, and Wessex felt the coach begin to move off. Of course, he

realized.

It would be best to conceal the bridegroom’s time of arrival at Dyer House as

much as possible.

But the journey, short as it was, was fax from pleasant.

She was Sarah Cunningham, and in her deepest dreams she was passing through

a wood that had never known axe or forester; she moved like a carp through the

river, an animal at home in the place for which it had been created.

She no longer wore long gowns of muslin, or brocade, or calico over stockings

and corset and petticoats. Her hair was not dressed high on her head with ribbons or

jewels. She did not carry a painted fan, and move with the whisper of satin slippers

over marble floors.

No.

The dream-Sarah’s braided hair hung down her back, heron feathers braided into

it at the temples. Her face was painted with hunting magic in red and yellow and

white, and she wore the beaded leather smock and leggings of a warrior of the

People. In her left hand she carried a musket in its fringed and beaded sheath.

She was Sarah Cunningham of Baltimore, of a country that had owed no

allegiance to mad, bad King George of England in all the years of Sarah’s lifetime.

But no! It is Henry Stuart who is King, not George of Hanover!

No. She might be a backward Colonial, ignorant of the ways of the Great Power

to the East to which her country had been so lately subject, but even she knew…

But the memory-within-a-dream balked her; memory of an opulent presentation

gown far finer than anything that could be found in the entire state of Maryland, and

of a regal man who smiled at her as he raised Lady Roxbury from her curtsey.

But that was not true; not real. It could not be.

She was Sarah Cunningham of Baltimore. She was! There was no Roxbury, no

Marchionate.

And to fall back into that elegant fantasy would destroy her.

Her vision cleared. She was Sarah Cunningham, daughter of Alasdair

Cunningham, foster-daughter of a Cree warrior. This was what was real. She stood

very still, inhaling the sharp green scent of the summer woods. The wind was

blowing toward her, away from the prey she hunted.

As if by her thoughts she had ill-wished herself, the wind shifted, and suddenly

she could smell the rank scent of decay. There was something behind her; something

monstrous and evil.

And it was moving toward her.

Sarah stood frozen to the spot, unwilling to believe, until she heard the sound of

crackling underbrush, as something heedless in its power began moving deliberately

toward her. Hunting her.

Sarah began to run.

The sound behind her grew louder, and now the choking stench of the monster

that pursued her was all that she could smell. Wildcat – boar – without knowing

what followed, Sarah feared it as she had never feared any earthly peril. If it caught

her, a disaster worse than death would be her portion.

As she ran, the forest began to dim, but instead of the cultivated fields and

whitewashed frame houses that made up Baltimore in the first years of the new

century, she broke out onto an endless vista of close-manicured green.

This is Mooncoign.

She stopped, disoriented enough to forget, for a moment, what pursued her. New

memories warred with old, and try as she might, Sarah could not reconcile them. She

had been journeying to England – She had taken ship in Baltimore –

No. She had been born at Mooncoign….

Both could not be true.

„But they can.“

Sarah spun around. The voice had come from behind her, and as she turned she

thought wildly that it was the monster itself, given human voice. Then she saw the

speaker, and for an instant believed that it was one of her Cree brethren who spoke –

but this stranger, for all that he dressed in the skins of animals and carried a tall

spear, had the rosy-fair skin of an English child.

His hair was a white, lime-stiffened crest over his skull and down his back. Rings

of blue paint around his eyes gave his gaze the staring intensity of an owl’s, and

around his neck he wore a gleaming tubular collar of pure gold. As he regarded her

serenely, she realized that she had seen him before.

In Mooncoign’s garden, the night of the masquerade ball.

„How?“ Sarah asked, falteringly. „How can both be true?“

The stranger smiled, as if she had passed some unknown test merely by asking

the question, and held out his hand.

Sarah set her hand in his.

The dream shifted. Now she and the stranger were walking through the paths of

Mooncoign’s formal garden, and the great house itself reared up before them, its

white facade blue with the chilly spring twilight of weeks before. Sarah still wore her

beaded buckskins, but the stranger now wore a fantastic archaic costume in green

velvet and a brazen mask ornamented with sweeping golden antlers. He gestured

toward the house with one gloved and jeweled hand.

„It begins here. But where does it end – ah, me; there is the riddle. And not mine

to solve, Sarah Cunningham – but yours.“

„Mine?“ Sarah echoed, startled. The juxtaposition of her suppressed self and the

undeniable reality of Mooncoign was illuminating that baffling netherland of memory:

there had been Baltimore, then the ship, men the coach.

And Dame Alecto in both – in Baltimore, and here.

„The same woman, but not the same person,“ her guide said. Now he wore a

leopard’s skin over black Elizabethan velvets and a mask to match, and stared wisely

out at her from behind the jeweled eyes of the cat.

„You’re talking in riddles,“ Sarah said angrily.

She’d forgotten that she was dreaming, but she had not forgotten the loathsome

beast that had chased her out of the wood. If it were not a trick of this smiling,

elegant gentleman – something she was not prepared to. rule out – then it might

return at any moment.

„Riddles are my nature,“ the stranger replied, „for I am the Master of the Horn

Gate and the Ivory. But here is your answer, Sarah – look.“

Sarah looked. They were in the shadow of the house itself, now, and she could

look in through a ground-floor window and see an opulent room with a fire burning

upon the hearth, and over the hearth, a painting of a woman in antique gems and

velvets.

„That is my bedroom,“ Sarah said. At least, it is the bedroom of the Marchioness

of Roxbury, and everyone says that I am she.

„Is it?“ said the stranger. „Then why aren’t you in the bed?“

Sarah looked. A young, brown-haired woman lay in the great carved bed, her

slender form elevated upon a mound of pillows.

„But I am in the bed,“ Sarah said in growing confusion.

Through the glass of the window she could see herself plainly.

Just as she had seen herself in the moments before the mail-coach had crashed.

The sun had been rising –

– setting –

– the stranger had been driving a gig –

– sitting inside a coach; and she had –

„Stop!“ Sarah groaned, turning away from the bewildering scene at the window.

„How could I be in two places at once?“

The same woman… but not the same person.

„Ah,“ said the stranger. „A question I can answer.“ He plucked at Sarah’s sleeve,

and led her away from the window.

The ornamental water had been added to the grounds by the last Marquess of

Roxbury, Sarah’s grandfather. But which Sarah? Following her guide, Sarah began

to dimly realize that all that she thought she knew of Mooncoign – or of London

society – she had been carefully taught in the weeks that followed her accident.

And her own memories had been hidden from her.

Sarah leaned forward, gazing into the still, silvery surface of the lake. Though she

could feel the presence of her companion’s body beside her, the surface of the lake

reflected only her.

Instinctively, Sarah tried to turn toward him, to reassure herself with her own eyes

that he still knelt beside her, but his hand upon her cheek prevented her.

„No, Sarah. Gaze into the water, and see the truth.“

Sarah leaned forward, and the mirrorlike surface of the water darkened until it

seemed an endless void opening beneath her feet. In its depths she could see a

flicker of light, and as she stared at it the flickering took on form and color.

Figures. Pictures. Scenes. And at the center of each one was Sarah.

Sometimes it was as if she gazed into a mirror. Sometimes she did not recognize

herself at all. It was the present that she saw – but an infinity of presents, ranging

from the nearly familiar to those so alien that Sarah hardly recognized them. Here she

was in the dress of a Cree maiden, a baby in her arms and a tall warrior at her side.

There, she slaved still in her cousin’s house in Baltimore. And again, another Sarah

stood beside the Duke of Wessex –

„I will not look at any more!“ Sarah cried, dashing her hand across the surface of

the water and spoiling the mirror. „What does it mean? They are all me, but…“

„But they are all in their proper places, Sarah Cunningham of Baltimore, and you

are not,“ her companion said. „You have been brought from your own world to take

the place of one who failed – and yet who dared not fail. For a creature stalks this

world – “

In the distance, Sarah heard a faint savage howl. Though the day had been

sourcelessly bright, it seemed now as if a cloud passed over the sun. The day

seemed darker now, ,and colder.

The sound came again. Instinctively she connected it with the creature that had

chased her.

„That is what you must help to destroy,“ her companion said gravely. Sarah

opened her mouth in automatic protest – they had risen to their feet, her

companion’s uneasiness communicating itself to her – but the wailing came again,

closer this time, and now it seemed as if she could smell the foul rankness of the

hunter once more.

„Go,“ the other said, pushing her toward the trees. „You must flee, Sarah; I will

hold the beast back while I may, but it is not my blood that it hungers for.

Remember all I have told you – and remember, too, that you do not yet belong to

this world. If you cannot make yourself a part of this land, you will die, Sarah, and

the Great Work will remain undone!“

„But – But – “ Sarah sputtered. Half-hints and impossible truths – what was she

to make of them?

Her companion now was garbed in silver armor, a red cross blazing like rubies

upon the shining white damask of his stainless surcoat. He lifted a sword that flashed

so brightly in the light that she could not tell whether it was forged of gold or silver,

and raised his shining shield.

There was a crashing sound, as of something forcing its way through the

ornamental hedges at the far side of the house, and Sarah surrendered to the urgency

in his voice and to her own fear.

She ran. And as she ran, she heard an unfamiliar voice shouting for her to come

back, come back, and a high keening sound, as of a stormwind whipping through

the treetops.

Wessex cautiously opened the door to his bedroom. The early summer dawn

thrust a ghostly illusion of light through the narrow windows, allowing him to make

out the shapes of the familiar room even without the hoodwinked lantern that he held.

The bedside candle had burnt itself out, filling the pewter receiver with a white

pool of beeswax. At some point the window had been opened and not relatched;

when it was closed the slant of the house had caused it to drift open again, filling the

room with morning chill.

Wessex reached into his pocket for the object he carried, and advanced

cat-footedly toward the silent bed. The lantern was well oiled; there was no betraying

squeak as he opened it and allowed a ray to fall through the opened bedcurtains onto

the bed’s sleeping occupant.

His wife lay pillowed against white linen like a Renaissance angel in disarray. Her

braided hair lay loosely against her neck; her lashes brushed her unpainted cheeks,

and the whitework-embroidered lawn of her nightdress made her look absurdly

young. Disturbed by some dream, she frowned. Asleep, she possessed what was to

Wessex’s eye a curious purity, almost an innocence.

And her life, her fate, and her reputation were now in his keeping.

I will never hurt you, he vowed, gazing down at her, and a fatal quirk of honesty

made him silently amend the words to: I will hurt you as little as I may.

But he had come here on a specific mission, and he wanted to fulfill that charge

without wakening her. He set the dark lantern down carefully on the table beside the

chamberstick and drew the package from his coat pocket.

Ruby and gold flared in the lantern-light, caught in a web of glittering flame. The

necklace held a heart-shaped ruby the size and color of a ripe cherry, surrounded by

diamonds as clear as winter’s first ice. On each side of the ruby a

diamond-encrusted heart led to the wide gold chain. For almost two hundred years

his line had presented the Heart of Flame to Dyer brides as the Morning Gift.

He turned it over. The back of the flanking hearts was plain polished gold, on

which the intertwined initials of generations could be seen. A new set of initials now

shone bright upon the old gold, graven by steady expert hands at Rundell and

Bridges: R and S, ornately intertwined. Rupert and Sarah.

Careful not to waken her, Wessex set the glittering necklace on the pillow next to

Sarah, and picked up the lantern once more. A moment later he was gone as if he

had never been there at all. The door closed softly behind him.

Sarah did not wake.

Moving like a specter through his own house – it was his mother’s residence, but

that was an inconsequential distinction – Wessex reached the library and eased the

door shut behind him. He drew a breath of relief; no one would disturb him, and he

would disturb no one, here.

In his father’s day, this had been the study, and a strictly masculine preserve. The

heavy mahogany desk and sideboard remained from that time, and books still lined

the mellow oaken shelves, but the Dowager and her lady-companion had since made

their own stamp upon the premises. There was a needleworked footstool beside the

deep chair that faced the fireplace, and a wicker sewing basket, half-spilling its

freight of embroidery, lay upon the seat cushion.

Wessex set his lantern down upon the desk and rummaged in the drawer for a

rolled spill. Finding one, he lit it at the lantern’s flame and used it to light first the

candles on the mantel, then the elaborate candelabrum that stood on the library’s

long center table. The room filled with light, the illumination banishing its aspect of

ghostly disuse.

There was a fire on the hearth, ready-laid for morning, and it kindled quickly,

radiating a welcoming warmth. Wessex searched out the brandy decanter and

poured himself a generous glassful. Langley kept the decanters filled; the Dowager

might use this room, but she would not materially change the way it had been when

her son was alive.

Automatically, Wessex looked up to the portrait above the mantelpiece; a LeBrun

portrait of his father as a young man, wearing the satin and lace of a vanished age

and swaggering with a rapier upon his hip. That swashbuckling dandy had died a

dozen years ago, in a fatal, foolish attempt to save me Dauphin of France from the

Terror, but Grandanne lived in patient waiting, as if some day Andrew Dyer might

walk back in the front door – even though a dozen men had pronounced him lost in

France and a Chancery Court had ruled that the tide should pass to his son.

Still, somehow, Grandanne thought against all reason and sense that Andrew

might someday return, and sometimes Wessex felt as if she were right; as if the

so-distant certainties of his life were only a masquerade, their foundations built upon

shifting sand.

He shook his head, dourly amused at his own fancies. He needed either more

liquor or not to have drunk what he already had; with a quick, brutal gesture he

raised the glass of brandy to his lips and half drained it. He had not meant to give

Sarah the Heart of Flame at all. A petty gesture, he knew, as if having lost the game

of freedom he could not bear to capitulate utterly. For the Heart of Flame was a gift

between lovers, and he and Sarah were not lovers, nor would they ever be: he had

married her at the command of the King, and at the same command she had

accepted him.

But he had given Sarah his name and his title, and she was entitled to all of the

jewelry that went with them. There was no reason for him to withhold any of the

traditional gems simply because the act of their presentation was a lie.

He emptied the glass and refilled it again, knowing that the liquor was a substitute

for steadiness of nerve, and tomorrow he would have to learn to face his wife

without its aid.

Tomorrow and for the rest of his life.

Wessex sighed, and carried his glass back to the fire. As he passed the stool, his

foot struck something that lay upon the carpet and set it skimming across the floor.

Intrigued, Wessex stooped and picked it up. A sketchbook, bound between boards

of gold-stamped buckram. He carried it back to the chair and sat down,

automatically moving the workbasket as he did so. Neither Grandanne nor Dame

Alecto sketched, to his knowledge. He wondered whose it was.

The pages were rilled with careful, intricate drawings, some of them finished in

watercolor and ink. Obviously the sketchbook of a young lady of fashion, the

contents were very much what one would expect: bowls of fruit, studies of flowers

and horses’ heads, drawings of long-limbed ladies in elaborate gowns, apparently

copied from Ackerman’s Repository.

But there were other drawings, harmless enough in themselves, but oddly

disturbing to Wessex. The deck of a ship, carefully executed but oddly generalized,

as if the artist were attempting to reconstruct something from memory. A Colonial

settlement, its crude whitewashed buildings scattered along a stretch of unfamiliar

coast. A woman churning butter. Another sitting at her spinning wheel.

And then page after page of Aborigines, wild and splendid in their feathers and

paint. The artist had spent a great deal of time on these subjects, rendering every

detail of their barbaric costumes and wild surroundings with scrupulous care… and

accuracy. Wessex had reason to know the drawings were accurate, as he and the

volatile Mr. Koscuisko had spent some six months traveling with the People in the

American colonies during one memorable adventure.

But it would be an extensive search to find any woman – even one born and bred

in the Colonies – who had as intimate an experience with the Cree as this artist

seemed to possess. Who was she?

There were some letters interleaved with these pages, and from them he

discovered the name of the book’s owner: Sarah, Marchioness of Roxbury.

His wife.

Surely this was not possible. If Sarah had traveled to the American Colonies

Wessex would know… and if she had not, he did not think she could have drawn

such detailed and precise images.

For the first time, Wessex began to wonder precisely who it was that he had

married.

Sarah ran from the Terror that pursued her through a landscape that grew

increasingly more unreal, until its very unreality drove her out of sleep and into

waking.

She was lying in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar narrow room. Golden morning

light turned the mural of aerial London spread across the ceiling to glitter and fire.

She was in Dyer House, and yesterday she had married the Duke of Wessex.

Sarah groaned, rolling over. She’d thought, for a brief dazzling moment, that it

was all part of the dream.

The dream! But even as she tried to grasp at it, those memories filtered through

her fingers. There was something she’d learned – some truth that she needed to

remember….

But it was gone.

Sarah pounded her hand against her pillow in frustration, and yelped as something

cold and supple slithered against her wrist. She jerked away, sitting upright and

opening her eyes.

There was a necklace lying in the bed, where it had fallen from the pillow.

Confused, Sarah picked it up, wondering if in all the confusion of yesterday she

could possibly have worn such a thing to bed.

No. This was none of her jewels. Sarah stared down at the ruby heart cradled in

her hand as understanding came to her. The Duke of Wessex had been here,

sometime while she slept, and left this.

Sarah turned the glittering prize over in her hand, and gazed at the intertwined

initials engraved upon the back. A pretty token; an opulent bribe, intended to buy her

compliant silence on the subject of his absence the night before. To buy… as if she

were a tradesman, a servant, a common prostitute walking the London streets. As if

there were no honor between them, or even duty, but only an acquiescence that must

be bought.

Sarah ground her teeth in irritation rapidly turning to fury. Wessex must not think

his dukedom a very worthy thing if that was the sort of person he was willing to have

for his Duchess. Pure furious anger swept away all the ambiguity and uncertainty of

the last several weeks and the last clinging cobwebs of her strange dream. Wessex

had offered her a mortal insult, and Sarah was going to make him very sorry that he

had.

The yellow-and-white breakfast parlor on the first floor gave one a fine view of

the bustle of the street below. The Duke of Wessex regarded it with a baleful

disinterest. The fine china cup before him held strong black coffee instead of his

usual morning chocolate; even with Atheling’s sternest measures and a great deal of

ice-cold well water, Wessex felt as brittle as the delicate cup he held.

He had cornje down to breakfast as if everything were perfectly normal; he had

greeted Grandanne (the Dowager was a notorious early riser, and her grandson was

not surprised to see her up and doing at an hour when most of Society still clung to

its bed) and told her that Sarah was still asleep. So far he had told nothing but the

truth; if the conclusions he wished his grandmother to draw were not precisely the

truth, that was merely another sin upon his far from lily-white conscience.

If the Dowager had anything to say about the lateness of Wessex’s arrival at Dyer

House or his choice of nocturnal beverage, she made no comment. The morning

light sparkled upon the linen and silver, and upon the bright spectacle of oranges

filling the colorful Export Ware bowl on the table. The Dowager placidly ate her

marmalade and toast and drank her tea as if this were any ordinary morning, and

Wessex realized that he had made yet another miscalculation in this whole disastrous

affair.

He had undertaken to enact a masquerade with the aid of an only

somewhat-willing partner; well and good. But it was borne in upon him that unlike his

many other impersonations, he had no idea of what this one entailed. How was he to

carry off before the eyes of the ton – and, a slightly more urgent question, before the

eyes of his own grandmother, a far more critical audience – the illusion of an

ordinary marriage?

He was saved from further consideration upon that head by the entrance of his

Duchess. Sarah swept into the room as regally as if she were making her bow before

Royalty, and stopped beside Grandanne’s chair to drop a kiss upon the Dowager’s

cheek.

„Good morning, my dear. How radiant you look,“ the Dowager said placidly.

„Thank you, Godmama,“ Sarah answered.

She was dressed in a pale pink morning robe trimmed with ribbons of darker

pink, and the Heart of Flame was a vivid blaze about the base of her throat. She

looked across the table to Wessex, who had stood when she entered the room.

„Rupert,“ Sarah said calmly.

Of course she had every right to use his Christian name – they were more than

mere acquaintance, they were married – but Wessex found himself slightly nettled by

her cool assumption of her new status. However, he bowed over her hand in the

fashion that had charmed countesses and courtesans in half the capitals of Europe,

and conducted her to her seat.

„I trust you slept well?“ the Dowager asked, as a footman stepped forward from

his post beside the door to pour tea for Sarah. „Sometimes it is difficult to do so in

a strange house.“

Sarah smiled at Wessex, color rising in her cheeks, and raised her cup to her lips.

„I slept entirely well,“ she said.

The ring that held the device of the Boscobel League glimmered upon Sarah’s

finger, made to fit by a plug of beeswax inserted between the finger and the band.

Gazing at his new-wed bride, Wessex felt himself relax. She had agreed to his terms,

then, and would help him play out the game. Married by the King’s command, theirs

would be a marriage blanc, with no sordid tangle of bodies or passions to mar it.

Sarah would have a Duke’s ransom in jewels.

But no Duke.

Chapter 13

A Singular Duchess

It was exceedingly fortunate, the Duchess of Wessex told herself on a fine June

morning precisely one week after her wedding day, that her husband had been called

from Town on Royal business of the most urgent. Fortunate because if he were not

there to see it, he was not there to rebuke her for removing back to the comfort and

familiarity of her own home – fortunate, too, that his absence carried with it a

ready-made justification for such a move that even the highest sticklers must accept.

The move back into her own house gave her a breathing space while she

considered how she was now to manage her life. For King Henry and the

still-unknown Princess Stephanie of Denmark’s sake, Sarah must present the world

with the illusion of a happy marriage. And that meant that she must see Wessex

every day. They must live in the same house.

But not yet, Sarah told herself with craven relief. Her husband was off to the fen

country, and she was left in Town, to sample the delights of being Wessex’s

Duchess without suffering the inconvenient presence of the Duke.

Those delights were both powerful and pervasive, but Sarah possessed a sense of

standing apart from the pleasures of Society. Others might desire these things, but

she did not.

The puzzled looks of her servants and of her acquaintance told Sarah how very

much she had changed from the Marchioness of Roxbury that they had known. But

she was not that woman, and in her troubled, restless nights, Sarah wondered if she

ever had been. Only Mooncoign seemed real, and not the ritual and the pomp that

surrounded it – and certainly not this London life of endless revelry.

At least she had made one true friend in her time here. And Sarah had discovered,

to her delight, that a ducal coronet seemed to carry enough weight with Meriel's

wicked uncle to overcome his prohibition against Mend’s going forth into any form

of society whatever – for Miss Bulleyn had been granted permission to call upon the

Duchess of Wessex today to drink tea.

Nervously, Sarah fluttered about the drawing-room, as if Herriard House’s small

army of servants had not already engineered all domestic matters to perfection, and

as if Cook did not have an array of tasty dainties prepared in the kitchen, awaiting

Sarah’s call. She paused to peer out the window, inspecting the carriages that

passed on the street below. A glance at the clock upon the mantlepiece told her that

she could not expect Miss Bulleyn for a quarter of an hour yet, so there was no use

looking out for her carriage.

It occurred to Sarah that she was not even sure where Miss Bulleyn lived. They

had always met in secluded public places, by arrangement, each new meeting fixed at

the close of the previous. But that near-clandestine arrangement would cease as of

today, Sarah vowed. If Meriel’s uncle could afford to set at naught the wishes of a

mere Marchioness, he would find the desires of the Duchess of Wessex a different

matter entirely.

The sight of a familiar figure in the street caused Sarah ‘ to emit a highly

unduchesslike squeak. It was all she could do to compose herself in a slightly more

ladylike fashion until Buckland came to announce her young visitor.

Miss Bulleyn was a figure of flowerlike perfection in white muslin and a

deep-poke bonnet. The ribbons that trimmed bonnet and dress alike matched the

deep green velvet spencer that she wore, and tiny emerald drops glittered in her ears.

She had the same Otherworldly beauty as –

But as soon as the thought formed it vanished, leaving Sarah momentarily

confused. She shook off her confusion to hug Meriel in greeting, a salutation that

was warmly returned.

„How well you look!“ Meriel said. „Marriage agrees with you.“

„The absence of my husband agrees with me,“ Sarah responded with tart

honesty, and Meriel’s green eyes danced with answering amusement.

„Then I will be glad for you that he is gone – but he is twice a fool to leave you

so hard upon the heels of your wedding.“ Meriel untied the ribbons of her bonnet

and set it aside, and then began calmly removing her crocheted cotton gloves.

„It was not of his own choice.“ Perversely, Sarah felt the need to defend her new

husband. „It was by the King’s order. Something to do with the Army,“ she finished

vaguely, suddenly realizing that though she had thought Wessex’s explanation

pedantic and boring in its length, he had actually told her nothing at all.

„And when the King disposes, what can his loyal subjects do save obey?“ Meriel

said.

It was undoubtedly not Meriel’s intent to make the simple statement sound so

scornful; Sarah decided that her nerves were playing her false after so many

sleepless nights. While she had no idea what Meriel’s politics might be, certainly

there was no malice in her friend. Sarah smiled to herself, shaking her head. Meriel’s

caustic words were no more than the truth, anyway, what could any of them do in

the face of King Henry’s commands? She had married Wessex because of them,

after all.

„But I hope he does not make you too unhappy,“ Meriel went on.

„The King?“ Sarah said blankly, and Meriel laughed, a silvery peal of affectionate

mirth.

„Your husband, lobby! Although, if you are thinking of the King when you ought

to be thinking of him…“

„Indeed,“ said Sarah with exaggerated piety, „I should be very wrong not to think

of the King on every possible occasion.“

As she had hoped, Meriel laughed.

At first the visit passed smoothly, with the two women chatting of their common

experiences: books, shopping, plays they had attended. They did not have many

acquaintance in common – for though Sarah was not much fond of Society, she was

a figure in it, while so far as she could tell, Meriel did not go out at all. Sarah tried to

extract from her friend the promise that she would visit again, but Meriel’s response

was odd; not precisely evasion, but almost one of guilt. At last she said:

„I see I may not put it off any longer, but I pray you, Sarah, that for the friendship

we have shared, you will not hate me for what I am about to do.“ From a pocket in

her dress, Meriel withdrew a small velum envelope folded over a square of stiff

pasteboard.

Highly puzzled, Sarah took the mysterious billet. Opening it, she pulled out the

little square of pasteboard and read almost with incomprehension the invitation

written upon its smooth white surface.

„The Earl of Ripon requests the Favor of the Duchess of Wessex’s Attendance

at a Ball to be held upon the Occasion of the Presentation to Society of his Niece,

Lady Meriel Jehanne Bulleyn Highclere….“

„Your wicked Uncle Richard is the Earl of Ripon?“ Sarah said in astonishment.

Which meant, her mind informed her with pedantic thoroughness, that Meriel was

Ripon’s niece and, further, that her dear friend Meriel was the woman Wessex had

said was intended to entrap the Prince of Wales into marriage at the bidding of some

looming Catholic conspiracy.

„Yes,“ Meriel said in a low voice. „When I knew who you were’, I did not want

you to know, for your husband and my uncle are political enemies, but Uncle

Richard insisted…“ Her voice trailed off.

Sarah looked sideways at Meriel. It was hard to imagine anything more ridiculous

than that Meriel should be entangled in such a dark plot – but Wessex had said it

was true, and whatever Sarah might think of the man, he was not given to flights of

gothic imagination. If Meriel were indeed tangled in such a coil, surely she would

need a friend to help her find her way free.

„Oh, Meriel, pray do not look so Friday-faced! I do not care two pins for any

quarrel that Wessex and Ripon may hold,“ Sarah said, with more heat than

accuracy. „We two are friends, are we not? And I hope we shall remain so.“

„Then… you do not mind?“ Meriel asked in a low voice.

Sarah’ hesitated, choosing her words with care, for to tell Meriel she did not

„mind“ was to extend a carte blanche over Ripon’s contemplated treasons, and that

she could not do. Disgusted with her husband Sarah might be, but she was loyal to

the King, and it had not even occurred to her to doubt the wisdom of the Danish

treaty and the wedding that was its price. Sarah decided her first action must be. to

extract a promise from Meriel not to be a party to any plan to entrap the Prince of

Wales.

But Sarah would never know whether her common-sensical approach would have

enjoyed any particular success, for at that moment the door opened, and Wessex

strode unannounced into the parlor.

Wessex checked at the sight of Lady Meriel, but by then it was too late, for his

guest brushed past him. A heartbeat later James, Prince of Wales, came face-to-face

with Lady Meriel Highclere.

She swept him a deep curtsey, looking up from beneath her raven’s-wing lashes

into Jamie’s face.

„Duchess!“ Jamie said tardily, never taking his eyes from Meriel’s face. The

Prince hurried forward, raising Meriel up out of her curtsey. „Dash it, Wessex, you

never told me that your wife’s friends were such charmers!“

„Your Highness, may I present Lady Meriel Highclere? She is the niece of the Earl

of Ripon,“ Wessex said austerely.

Sarah stared at Wessex, surprised out of her mortification. How had he known

who Meriel was?

„Yes, that is right,“ Sarah said lamely. „She has just come to – to drink tea,“ she

finished, whisking Ripon’s invitation behind her back.

As if on cue, Buckland entered the room, carrying a heavily laden tea tray. Sarah

flicked a glance at the mantle clock. It was four o’clock, and Sarah had asked that

the tea be brought in now, but – oh! – her timing could have been better…

„Well,“ the Prince said heartily, „I must say that tea seems like a fine idea – and

with such delightful company, too. But I must take Mr. Highclere to task; Geoff

never told me he had such a handsome niece.“

„You will turn my head with your compliments, Your Highness,“ Meriel

murmured. A fetching blush rose into her ivory cheeks, and she clung to Jamie’s arm

as if unable to stand by herself. „I know that you are widely accounted a

connoisseur of many things, so that your praises must be held to be far more sapient

man those of lesser men.“

„Ah, well, a man in my position does have his opportunities,“ Jamie said, happily

swallowing this piece of outrageous flattery without a blink. „But do sit down, Lady

Meriel,“ he finished, conducting her to a chair beside the tea table and seating

himself beside her.

Filled with a looming despair, Sarah sank back down onto the sopha. She tried

not to look in Wessex’s direction – of all the times for the man to come back, why

did he have to return now, and in such company?

And what must he be thinking, to find her entertaining Ripon’s niece? It was true

Wessex had not forbidden the connection when he had told her of his suspicions

regarding Ripon’s plans, but then, he had not known of the connection – or had he?

Sarah did not choose to wonder – at least, not at this fraught moment. She

poured tea for her future sovereign, her guest, her husband, and herself.

And then realized, with Meriel and the Prince deep in the most animated of

exchanges, that Propriety demanded that she make some sort of conversation with

Wessex.

* * *

There had been a hint of Saint-Lazarre’s business, a hot enough lead that the King

had been willing, even after the furious upbraiding he had given Wessex less than a

day before, to set Wessex upon the trail; the source was one of Wessex’s own

contacts. Such promising information turned neglect of his new bride into a positive

duty. And so Wessex had saddled Hirondel and ridden for the fen country to tease

his informers out of their taciturnity. What he had learned there had been enough to

cause him to follow the trail across the Channel, to spend | three days in a French

port impersonating, a Breton fisherman on the run from the Army. He had barely

escaped impressment by a French shore party, but Wessex had no desire to spend

any time at all fighting for La Belle France in a naval capacity, either from the rigging

of a man o’war or from the decks of a prison galley, and had taken that near miss as

his signal to find his way back to England. His news was too important to risk

losing, and he was the only one who knew it.

On a bitter January day twelve years ago, the King of France had been guillotined

by a bloodthirsty Convention. Louis-Charles, the Dauphin of France, had been a

child only seven years of age.

Louis-Charles – King Louis XVII from the moment the blade fell upon his

father’s neck – spent only a few more months in the company of his mother and

elder sister, the fourteen-year-old Marie-Therese, before being taken away into „more

secure custody“ at an unknown location. By Christmas, his mother, his sister, and

his aunt were dead… but no one was sure where the young Louis-Charles was.

Wessex’s father Andrew had died trying to find out. In the wake of King Louis’s

execution, Andrew, Duke of Wessex, had gone into France at the White Tower’s

behest to try to save the rest of the French Royal family, especially the vital heir to.

the House of Bourbon. But Andrew had vanished without a trace, without any hint

of how close he was to the completion of his mission. And the whereabouts of the

young King remained a mystery that baffled all of Europe.

A band of emigres that succeeded in escaping France a few years later carried the

story that the boy had died in prison, but this tale had been seen by the Great

Powers as a fairly transparent attempt to consolidate France under Napoleon by

causing the Royalists, through Louis-Charles’s supposed death, to acknowledge the

emigre Comte de Provence as King Louis XVIII knowing that the Comte’s

unreformed Bourbonist sympathies would win French supporters not for the true

king, Louis-Charles, but for the devil they knew – Napoleon.

The Comte de Provence, however, had refused to assume the tide of King upon

the rumors of Louis-Charles’s death, instead challenging the French to produce the

body of his nephew or even a reliable witness to his death. But no one was able to

present Louis-Charles, dead or alive, and the succession was deadlocked.

So matters had stood for the next ten years. Belief grew that the young King must

be dead – for surely, if he were alive, he would have appeared, even if only to be

paraded as a suppliant puppet at Bonaparte’s Imperial court. And if he were alive,

Louis-Charles’s arrival on the political stage would galvanize the Triple Alliance to

renewed energy and spur the Royalist factions to consolidate and fight effectively for

the one King of France everyone must acknowledge without question: the son of

Louis XVI.

Thus, everyone grew to assume Louis-Charles was dead, but no one was entirely

certain of it. And now this.

Saint-Lazarre thought the Young King was alive. More, he thought he knew where

Louis-Charles was. Saint-Lazarre was suspicious and cynical, but whatever

information he had gained had been enough to convince him. That was why

Saint-Lazarre had disappeared so suddenly from English society, and why he had

vanished into France without a word to anyone.

Truth or Compelling fraud, this news could overset the I chessboard of Europe,

and the players of the Shadow Game must be warned at once. So Wessex had made

his way back to England, reclaimed his horse and his own identity, and ridden for St.

James Palace.

He’d made his report twice: once to King Henry and once to Baron Misbourne,

each of whom had plied him with endless questions. Such information could not be

taken at face value: it must be sifted, weighed, checked as! much as possible. But if

it were true – if there were even a possibility that it was true – someone must go to

France! to pick up Saint-Lazarre’s trace, to reach the Young King J before

Saint-Lazarre moved him to yet another hiding i place… and to make certain that

King Louis would i await the restoration of his throne in England, and nowhere else.

But Wessex would not be the man charged with carrying out this delicate task.

King Henry had been most explicit in that regard. Wessex’s place was in London,

dancing attendance upon his wife and preparing the way for the arrival of the Danish

Princess, not adventuring S upon the Continent.

And so Wessex had returned at last to Dyer House, only to discover that his wife

was not there. That his wife, free as you please, had removed to Herriard House

once more, just as if their wedding ceremony had never taken place.

For himself, Wessex would have been just as happy to .leave her at Herriard

House – but fresh from the King’s presence, the King’s strictures firmly in ‘mind,

Wessex was not at all doubtful as to where his duty lay. It had been pure bad luck

that he had fallen in with Prince Jamie on the way.

He’d seen the Prince coming out of one of his clubs in the company of Mr.

Geoffrey Highclere, and a desire to preserve the young Prince from that gentleman’s

poisonous counsel had led Wessex to detach Prince Jamie and bear him off toward

Herriard House. Jamie had conceived a certain affection for Wessex’s new Duchess,

and was easily persuaded that he ought to tender his felicitations. Wessex had

thought it would be all for the best, and would give him a breathing space while he

thought of what to say to his new wife.

As it happened, he was now in no doubt at all of what he wanted to say to his

wife. Unfortunately, it was not such information as any gentleman of breeding could

convey to any female whatsoever.

„And how do you find the weather here in London?“ the Duke of Wessex said to

his Duchess.

The next quarter of an hour passed with painfully exact courtesy between Wessex

and his wife, while Jamie and Meriel were very merry indeed. In the midst of all her

other emotions, Sarah was conscious of a sense of seething betrayal. She had

thought Meriel a girl of sense and sensibility, too wise to fall in with her ambitious

Uncle Ripon’s silly plan to attach Jamie to his faction by entangling him with a

Catholic heiress.

Apparently she’d been wrong. For Meriel was playing the part of a vivacious,

empty-headed charmer, and doing it with enough conviction to cause Sarah to

wonder if she had ever known Lady Meriel at all.

At last Jamie rose to go, and inevitably, Meriel rose to her feet as well, exclaiming

that she was late for an appointment. There was a brief flurry of bonnets and hats,

and then the Duchess of Wessex was alone with her husband.

Hesitantly, she risked a glance at his face. His black eyes glittered with anger, and

his mouth was set.

„I shall ask you only one question, Your Grace: do you know what you have

done here today?“ Wessex said.

Anger gave her answer a fearful precision. „I did not bring the Prince of Wales

here. Was that the reason for your return, Your Grace? To thrust him into the midst

of this Catholic plot of your own devising?“

Wessex recoiled as if he had been struck, and his face filled with a white fury.

„How could you?“ he said in a strangled voice. „How dare you? Is this how you

serve the King and the League – by playing at petty plots, of your own, like a spoiled

child with his nursery toys?“

„How dart you?“ Sarah responded just as hotly. „You call me a child – you have

no idea of my character, of anything about me!“

„There you are wrong,“ Wessex said in a deadly calm voice, the worse for his

obvious anger. „I have every notion of your character, and would to God I did not!

You are spoiled, luxurious, and wilful – you betray a sacred trust for your own idle

amusement – “

By now Sarah was not entirely sure of what Wessex was talking about, and it

frightened her. „Idle amusement!“ she countered, grasping at the parts of his speech

she thought she did understand. „Meriel is my friend! She does not love her uncle in

the least, and certainly she would not do such a thing as you suggest to please him –

I know you wish to think her at the heart of Ripon’s plotting, but she is not such a

fool as that!“

„Is she not?“ Wessex snarled. „She gave a perilous good imitation of it here

today, Madame! Tell me, what freak of distempered nature inspired you to invite her

beneath this roof?“

„It is my roof, Your Grace, as you are at such pains to remind me.“

„Should there be the sort of scandal that Ripon will not scruple to brew, the

Danish Prince Regent will not hesitate to withdraw both the Princess and the treaty –

“

„And does the Prince of Wales not know this?“ Sarah demanded with icy

archness.

„Jamie is a young and volatile boy – not yet a man – and his father, our King, set

both of us to guard him from just the sort of foolish error that he is about to commit,

thanks to you.“

„Then he is too much of a fool ever to be crowned!“ Sarah cried, and froze in

horror at the audacity of her own words.

„Do you play at kingmaking, then, Madame?“ Wessex asked, very softly. „Oh,

beware, Your Grace, if that is the direction in which your appetites have led you.“

Their quarrel had veered into deeper and more dangerous waters than Sarah was

prepared to navigate, and Wessex now seemed less an infuriated husband than a

dangerous enemy whose presence placed her in mortal peril.

„I don’t know what you’re talking about!“ Sarah cried. „I never wanted to marry

you in the first place, and I wish I’d never been born!“

She grabbed the nearest tiling to hand – the porcelain sugar bowl – and flung it at

Wessex’s head. As he almost automatically caught the china missile neatly in his

hand, Sarah ran from the room.

After setting down the sugar bowl upon the nearest flat surface, Wessex walked

over and closed the door, very quietly. He had never been less sure of his ground,

and in his position, such uncertainty was dangerous.

What was Sarah’s game? Was she loyal to the Boscobel League, or did she seek

to bring down the League and destroy the King? In befriending Lady Meriel, was her

intent to fall in with Ripon’s plans, or to turn his pawn to her own use? Wessex

paced, trying to think beyond the disaster of the moment. That Sarah was hunting

her own line of country was clear – but it was also clear that for the moment Lady

Meriel was coursing the game the Earl of Ripon had set her at> whatever Sarah’s

plans fpr her might be.

Should he keep his Duchess in Town or bundle her off to Wessex Court to bury

her there, far from Town and its temptations? A man might do as he liked with a wife

– this was one of the joys of marriage, so the wits, said – but on the other hand, it

must be admitted that the fatal introduction of Lady Meriel to Prince Jamie already

had been made. If Lady Meriel had cultivated acquaintance with Wessex’s wife in

hope of just such an apparently accidental introduction, then Lady Mend’s, use for a

maddeningly stupid but not actively treacherous Duchess of Wessex had just ended.

But if Lady Meriel were a there catspaw, and her grace a scheming puppeteer…

His metaphors hopelessly mangled, Wessex’s attention was drawn to a scrap of

white pasteboard sticking out between the arm and the cushion of the sopha. He

drew the card out as carefully as though it were the fuse of an unexploded bombard

and inspected it carefully.

An invitation to a ball that the Earl of Ripon was giving on behalf of his niece.

Fascinating. Enough so, at any rate, for Wessex to once more alter his opinion of

his wife’s actions. Now, he had to admit, he had absolutely no idea what game she

played. Why did she want to go to Ripon’s ball enough to attempt to conceal the

invitation from her husband?

And – far more to the point – why would Ripon invite her?

Sarah fled to her room as ardently as she had ever run from the Terror-beast that

stalked her half-remembered dreams. She’d assumed that Wessex would make it

easy for her to enact the shadow-marriage, but after today she realized there could

be no easy peace between them. With a feeling very similar to panic, she reached the

safety of her room and slammed the door.

Since Wessex showed no inclination to follow, Sarah quickly calmed in the

privacy of familiar surroundings. A warrior of the People never surrendered to panic;

fear was the Way of me Bear, and caused one to lose one’s path…

For a moment two Sarahs – Sarah Cunningham of Baltimore, and the false Lady

Roxbury she had since become – quarreled for possession of the young woman’s

body. Then once more Sarah’s self slid from her grasp, to hover tantalizingly out of

reach. But this time it left one certainty in its wake.

They all want me to play Wessex’s Duchess, and lead Society upon a merry

dance. But I don’t know how. I’m not the woman they think they’ve bought and

paid for….

Sarah sank into a chair, wringing her hands. The mirror on the dressing table

mocked her with her own reflection: a serene, self-assured noblewoman in a gown of

old gold and blue; a woman not pretty, perhaps, but strong-featured and

strong-willed.

And not Ike Duchess of Roxbury. Though I suppose I am the Duchess of

Wessex, since I married the Duke, but I am not the Duchess he thinks I am….

Her muddled memories betrayed her; Sarah could hardly imagine by what feats of

falsehood and impersonation she had been set in the Marchioness’s place, but here

she was. As for where the Marchioness was – or who Sarah had been before this

insane masquerade began- – she had the teasing feeling that she knew these answers,

and that they were only awaiting the proper moment to reveal themselves.

She took a deep breath, and her old plucky common sense asserted itself. Other

things did not matter so much, now that Sarah knew who she was not.

But what was she to do now?

She could not stay in London. She could not endure this masquerade one

moment longer. She had been willing to be Wessex’s ally from the first moment he

had asked for her help, but it seemed that all he did was demand her cooperation

even as he pushed her away. And now he was furious – it was true that Meriel's

introduction to Prince Jamie was a disaster,’ but as Sarah hac} pointed out, it was a

disaster of Wessex’s creation, not of hers, and it was a thing they could have

repaired together, had he only been willing to cooperate.

She was tired of being the only one who tried to compromise! An end had to

come sometime – let it be now. She would go back to Mooncoign and leave Wessex

to manage his affairs without her.

She doubted he’d mind.

Wessex was still brooding over the billet from the Earl of Ripon when Buckland

opened the door once more. The old retainer’s face was worried.

„Your Grace? A Mr. Farrar to see you. He says his business is urgent.“

If Wessex had been any other man, he would have commended Mr. Farrar to the

devil with a hearty good will, but in the profession he followed, one did not lightly

dismiss unfamiliar visitors.

„Send him up, Buckland. And get someone to take away all of this,“ he added,

waving a hand at the tea tray and sugar bowl.

Mr. Farrar was a neat gentleman in a self-effacing bottle-green coat. Wessex had

reason to know him, though not by that name.

„Good Lord!“ Wessex exclaimed. „Toby! What are you doing here?“

„It’s a delicate matter – and a bad one, Your Grace. I’m sorry for the Christmas

pantomime, but Lord Misbourne did not wish to entrust anything to writing, and so

he thought it best to send me.“

The man Wessex knew as Toby – though that was no more his real name than

Farrar was – was not a member of Society, though he could certainly pass for a

gentleman, and had. If he were someone Wessex was likely to encounter in private

life, Misbourne would not have let Wessex know of his existence, for what a man

does not know he cannot reveal, even under torture. For Wessex, „Toby Farrar’s“

existence began and ended in the hallways and libraries of the house in Bond Street.

Yet now Toby was here. And a situation or a summons that could not be

entrusted to a curt „see me“ encoded in a tailor’s bill delivered by an unwitting

lackey was a serious situation indeed.

„Tell me,“ Wessex said.

„Princess Stephanie’s vanished.“ Toby said flatly.

The Danish embassy had not been to sail until the end of July. Instead, it had

embarked a month early in strict secret – reasonable enough, as a ship containing a

member of the Royal family of neutral Denmark would be a rich prize indeed. The

two ships – Queen Christina and Trygoe Lk – had sailed four days ago. One of the

ships had reached Roskild. The other had not.

„Captain Koscuisko says that they lost Queen Christina in the fog – says it was

thick enough that Old Boney could have moved the entire Household Cavalry ten

feet off the starboard bow and they’d have been none the wiser – the ship was gone

when the fog lifted, and hadn’t made port before them,“

Princess Stephanie – the key to the vital treaty – gone! „How old is this

information?“ Wessex asked.

„No more than thirty-six hours, Your Grace. It was sent by heliograph to

Scotland, and by pigeon from Edinburgh,“ Toby said.

Wessex didn’t bother to ask if the information was good. That was something

one never knew. They must assume it was, and deal accordingly.

„Who knows?“ was his next question. And how long until everyone did?

„The crew – the portmaster in Roskild – King Henry – Baron Misbourne,“ came

the curt reply. „Koscuisko says it looks to him as if Christina was not interfered

with in any way.“

Which meant that her absence was intentional – on someone’s part – and

suspect.

„Do we have any notion of why the Queen Christina disappeared?“

Toby Farrar pulled a disgusted face. „Lord Misbourne says, ‘Go and see.’“

Chapter 14

Dance with the Devil in the Pale Moonlight

A fortnight later Sarah, Duchess of Wessex, attended the ball given by the Earl of

Ripon to present his niece, Lady Meriel Highclere, to Society.

That fortnight had been an awkward period. When Sarah had finally mastered her

inner turmoil to the point that she was ready to confront her husband and explain

why she intended to return to the countryside, her husband wasn’t there. Neither was

he at Dyer House, at the Albany House rooms she had discovered that he still

maintained, or at any of his clubs. Two days later, a hasty message from Wessex

himself – addressed both to her and to the Dowager Duchess, and sent to Dyer

House – explained that urgent business with the Regiment had called him away, and

that he hoped they were not too inconvenienced by the abruptness of his departure.

It was so preposterous a missive that Sarah had hardly known whether to laugh or

to cry. But with Wessex gone, she didn’t need to leave Town to avoid him – and

she did want to keep an eye on Lady Meriel.

Keeping an eye on Lady Meriel wasn’t especially difficult, because everyone

Sarah met was wild to tell her what Lady Meriel was doing. She was seen in the

company of the Prince. They had gone riding. They had gone driving. He was

expected at her come-out ball. He had thrown over Caroline Truelove and his other

flirts. He had gone to her uncle’s house and stayed all afternoon.

Rumors. Gossip. Worries. And Meriel would not answer Sarah’s messages,

would not meet Sarah at any of their appointed places. Sarah had even gone to call

upon her in person, only to be told mendaciously that Lady Meriel was not at home.

And so, in the end, the Duchess of Wessex went to the Earl of Ripon’s ball.

Sarah’s coach – the crest on its side was still that of Roxbury, not of Wessex –

rocked and complained. The oldfangled conveyance was hung on leather straps

rather than set on the modern leaf-springs, and consequently provided a jarring ride,

but it was enormous and well-made, and when at rest, provided a haven of

unequaled comfort – and this evening, it spent most of its time at rest.

The gilded leather curtains were buttoned away from the windows to provide

more air; Sarah folded down the window and looked out. They were nearly to the

corner, well-wedged in this vast crush of conveyances; another half an hour and she

would have reached the door. Already she could see the Earl of Ripon’s London

establishment looming ahead, nearly medieval in its splendor. The house soared over

its neighbors like a great beast intent upon choosing its prey, a gothic facade faced

with dark Cornish stone and ablaze with torches. Though the worst heat of the

summer was yet to come, the sultry July night made Sarah glad that her ball-dress

was of the most modern – and lightest – mode; muslin and silk instead of stiff

brocade and velvets. Her hair was dressed simply, with a low cockade of egret

plumes set in diamonds, and her etherial-blue ball-dress was composed of yards and

yards of aeroplane crepe sewn with sequins and trimmed in rosettes of silver tissue.

She did not wish to outdazzle Meriel, whose night this must be held to be, but

neither did she wish to look like a Duchess grieving over her absent Duke – and she

fancied she did not.

Reflexively, Sarah touched the ring hidden at her bosom. She could not wear it,

of course – the low-cut neck of her gown prevented that – but she had been able to

persuade Madame Francine to make a small pocket in the bosom of the dress where

the ring now resided. Its hard weight reassured her, even while it raised new

questions of its own.

The ring had belonged to her father. Sarah was certain of that. But the ring had

most certainly not belonged to Lady Roxbury’s father – and yet the first time Sarah

had met the Duke, Wessex had recognized the ring and its device. Which meant that

the ring held meaning – perhaps the key to her entire history – and Wessex knew

what it was.

The coach lurched forward with a jolt, disrupting her thoughts. The line of

carriages was moving again, bringing her closer to the house.

Captain His Grace the Duke of Wessex – traveling of necessity under his own

dignities and tide – stood at the railing of His Majesty’s ship Widowmaker, bound

for the northernmost possession of the British Crown: the Orkney Islands. Atheling

had accompanied his master on this journey, for on this anomalous occasion

Wessex was acting as a representative of King Henry and could not afford to be

anything less than splendid.

Passed from Denmark to Scotland by the queen immortalized in history as Lady

MacBeth, the Orkneys were largely the resort of isolated fisherfolk for whom life had

changed little in the past thousand years. Roskild was the largest town in the island

chain, and the only harbor deep enough to anchor a ship of any size. Trygoe Lie had

made for this anchorage, and now Wessex followed in his turn. -He’d sailed from

London on the tide, and the Widowmaker had headed north, hugging the English

coast (much to the distaste of her captain) in order to avoid provoking the French

ships lurking in mid-Channel like pelagic sharks. A journey that would have taken a

man on horseback more than a week was accomplished in four days of expert

sailing, and at dawn on the fifth day Widowmaker sailed into Roskild harbor on the

morning tide.

This far north, the sun was already high in the sky at an hour when even honest

tradesmen would still be abed. It therefore gave Wessex a certain ruthless pleasure to

leave the Captain to present his credentials to the harbormaster while he sought out

Illya Koscuisko.

The Polish Hussar (who was not, so far as any of the inhabitants of the town was

prepared to testify, either Polish or a Hussar) had taken a room in the lesser of

Roskild’s two hostels, an inn set far enough away from the harbor that it could not

quite be confused with the flash kens that catered to common seamen, but one

which did not by any stretch of the imagination cater to such gentry as might

inexplicably find themselves in Roskild.

Wessex had never been to the Mermaid, but he had been to a thousand places like

it; though the front door was still stoutly barred against the terrors of the night, the

kitchen door stood open to let the heat of the day’s baking escape, and Wessex

walked quickly through the kitchen to the steps that led to the first floor.

There were two doors on the floor above, and from behind one came a

thunderous snoring. Wessex opened the other.

Illya Koscuisko lay sprawled atop his disorderly bed in a state of absolute

unconsciousness, one hand stuffed beneath his wadded pillow. His mustache had

been shaved, and his hair had been trimmed out of its fantastic Hussar style and

bleached a nondescript blond. He wore a shirt and pantaloons unbuttoned at the

knee and looked like any of a hundred students, refugees, or remittance men.

Wessex closed the door behind him. The click of the latch almost masked the

sound of the pistol cocking. He turned back.

Koscuisko had raised himself up on one elbow and was pointing a pistol at

Wessex’s head. When he saw it was Wessex, he raised the barrel and set the gun

aside.

„You should dress better, my friend. In that villainous coat I was sure you were a

Frenchman.“ Koscuisko ran a hand through his hair, wincing slightly as his fingers

encountered its coarse bleached texture.

„If you thought I was likely to be a Frenchman, you ought to have locked your

door,“ Wessex reproved him.

„I’d rather been hoping one would come along, you see,“ Koscuisko confided to

him. „Where’s the point in leaving one’s self open to overtures if no one makes

them?“

Koscuisko got to his feet and began searching about the disorderly room for his

boots and a bottle of brandy.

„And no one has?“ Wessex asked.

„We have been singularly blessed by an absence of any adversarial nationals

whatsoever,“ Koscuisko said, and added a long phrase in his native tongue. From

experience, Wessex knew that the translation was something on the order of: „the

Devil sends peace when one is already bored“; it was one of Koscuisko’s favorite

sayings. „For myself, I cannot explain it.“ He shrugged, and sat down to put On his

boots – which, being the shabby down-at-heel footgear required by his persona,

gave him no difficulty whatsoever.

Wessex looked about the room, but there was no other furniture besides the bed

and the table beside it. He settled for leaning against the wall.

„You were, you know, supposed to be on the ship with the Princess,“ he

observed conversationally.

„And so I was – I was doing a very pretty job of being a Dutch physician who’d

prevailed upon the kindness of Sir John to secure myself a place on the first ship

bound for England, I'll have you know. But Her Highness shuffled me off onto the

second ship just before we sailed – said she couldn’t fancy that Van Helsing fellow

above half, and it was too close to sailing for me to come up with anyone else.“

„I wasn’t worried at the time – checked out the crew of the Queen Christina

while we were in port, and they were all disgustingly loyal; not a traitor among them.

No last-minute changes, either. The only drawback to my being on Trygve Lie was

that I wouldn’t be close to the Princess, but Sir John would be, and he’d make a

better report of the Princess’s mood to the Palace than ever I would. And then the

Christina vanishes clean as you please, half a day before we’re to sight the Scottish

coast.“

The plan, Wessex knew, had been to keep close to the English coast – just as

Widowmaker had – in order to avoid French attack.

„And that’s all you know?“ Wessex said in mild exasperation.

Koscuisko threw up his hands. „There’s nothing more to know,“ he said, a faint

wail in his voice. „No one on the Tryg was expecting the Princess’s ship to vanish –

you can believe I made sure of that – and nobody aboard has the slightest idea of

where she’s gone.“

„We must assume,“ Wessex said reasonably, „that she’s gone somewhere. And if

it were any place in the least desirable, we would have heard by now.“

„Which leaves France,“ Koscuisko said glumly.

„Which probably means France,“ Wessex agreed. „We daren’t put off telling

Prince Christian that we’ve lost his sister – we have to assume he’s heard already –

so Widowmaker and I are bound for Copenhagen now. I’ll sniff around the Danish

court and see if anyone knows more than he should.“

„I’ll go with you,“ Koscuisko offered instantly.

„No,“ Wessex said firmly. „You’re bound for England. Prince Jamie’s got

himself entangled with Ripon’s girl, and you’ve got to pry her away from him.“

„Me?“ Koscuisko said blankly. Then he smiled. „Well, it’s worth a try. Is she

pretty?“

„More than you deserve, my son. So make yourself beautiful and be on your

way.“

„Her Grace the Duchess of Wessex!“ the bewigged footman shouted as Sarah

reached the top of the stairs.

The Earl’s ballroom occupied the second floor of his townhouse, three stories

above the London streets. Sarah could not help comparing the room with that at

Mooncoign, and wondering if the differences between the two betokened differences

in character as well.

Mooncoign’s ballroom was lavish – everything gilded and grand, meant to be

impressive. But Brookstone (Ripon’s townhouse was named for one of his

secondary titles, Viscount Brookstone) was meant to overwhelm – not with itself

alone, but with the consequence of the family that had caused it to be built. The

Highclere arms were repeated everywhere, like trophies of captured enemies, and the

mirrors reflected the Waterford chandeliers into an infinity of heartless dazzle that

struck the eyes like a thrown challenge.

Sarah had meant to come early, hoping to get Meriel off in a corner where she

could quiz the girl about her true plans, but the crush of carriages in the street had

delayed Sarah’s arrival until well after ten. The ballroom was already filled with

people, and in the arctic glitter of the crystal and mirrors, Sarah could see neither

Meriel nor Prince Jamie. Perhaps the Prince had not come, which would be ideal –

„Your Grace, how pleasant it is to have you Join us.“ The Earl of Ripon

materialized at her elbow.

„Yes, isn’t it?“ Sarah shot back, biting down an even more caustic reply. She

wondered if Ripon really believed in the success of his scheme to make Prince

James a puppet king upon a shadow throne, and if the man had for one moment

stopped to count the cost.

„And your husband?“ Ripon pursued. „The Duke?“ As if Sarah might have

forgotten who it was she’d married barely more than a month before.

Sarah tightened her grip on her fan. „My husband does not care for your

company,“ she said boldly. She might as well send all her bridges blazing to heaven

upon this one occasion; her attempts to personate a pattern-card of virtue had

brought her nothing but failures, so perhaps the opposite would serve her better.

„Alas.“ Ripon did not seem especially devastated by this observation. „Perhaps

we can persuade you, at least, to a better opinion of us.“

I doubt it, Sarah thought, but this at least she did not say aloud. Instead she

allowed Ripon to lead her along the edge of the ballroom floor and into another

room, where he procured her a glass of iced champagne punch and bowed himself

off, leaving her in peace. With a duplicity that surprised even its owner, Sarah spent

the next half an hour dissembling to her fellow guests and promising dances she did

not intend to dance before setting off in search of Lady Meriel. Ripon had outdone

himself – half the Upper Ten Thousand, it seemed, had crowded into these rooms

tonight.

A quick scouting of the rooms flung open to the entertainment satisfied Sarah that

her quarry was not anywhere present, but it was inconceivable that Lady Meriel

should be absent from the ball being given to establish her in Society. It was barely

possible that Meriel was still in her rooms; Sarah set out to discover the actuality.

She was able to make her way out of the ballroom without difficulty, but once on

the floor below, Sarah was adrift in a strange house with no idea where Meriel’s

rooms lay. She shrugged philosophically, pulling her crepe shawl higher about her

bare shoulders. She must search until she found it – it was unlikely, with everyone

attending the ball on the floor above, that she’d startle anyone but the servants, and

eccentricities in the Quality were only to be expected. A few vails, liberally

bestowed, should ensure that Ripon did not hear of this excursion. Toward the back

of the house, she found another staircase and began to climb.

The first few doors she opened on the third floor led only into darkened

bedrooms and parlors – none of them showing any signs of extensive occupation –

and Sarah began to think her idea a particularly shatterwitted one when she turned the

corner and saw light leaking from beneath a closed door. Perhaps Meriel was within.

But she could hardly walk up to the door and knock, Sarah realized. What reason

would she give?

She’d just realized the ill-conceived nature of her mission when the door she had

been contemplating swung open abruptly.

„There’s no one there,“ the Earl of Ripon prophesied.

„I know there’s no one there!“ Geoffrey Highclere snarled. „Just your mewling

catspaw of a niece, a houseful of servants, five hundred guests – “ A courier from

France…. „ With an effort, Geoffrey reined in his temper. There was no sense in

alienating his so-helpful brother, especially since the original plan to entangle the

Prince of Wales had been Ripon’s idea.

But Geoffrey’s French masters had battened upon it, particularly that white spider

Talleyrand, secret master of France, and suddenly it was Geoffrey’s business to

make sure his brother’s plot achieved its full flower – without, of course, letting

Ripon know who took so much interest in it. Because Ripon was loyal to England,

after his fashion – and any power that Ripon tore loose from the Crown he meant to

bestow only upon Ripon.

But when a thing was struck loose from its moorings and floated freely, it might

end up anywhere at all….

„You worry too much, Geoffrey,“ his brother rumbled. „Meriel is weeping in her

abigail’s arms after the lesson you gave her earlier, and everyone else is at the ball.

As I should be – Wessex’s Duchess has favored us with her presence, and it would

not do to neglect her.“

„Wessex!“ Geoffrey all but hissed. The courier had brought word from

Geoffrey’s French masters that Wessex was becoming a dangerous annoyance – the

man, Geoffrey had discovered, was more than he seemed. „He meddles in our plans

at every turn.“

„How can he?“ Ripon asked reasonably. „Wessex has gone to the country once

more.“

„He has not gone to the country,“ Geoffrey said. „He has gone to Denmark –

Princess Stephanie has vanished; her ship did not reach landfall in the Orkney

Islands.“

„What?“ Ripon was thunderstruck. „When you told me you had urgent news, I

thought it was to do with our cause.“

Tour cause, dear brother, Geoffrey amended mentally.

„And so it is. Do you think France uninterested in any matter that could make

England once more her natural ally against a sea of inhuman creatures and heretics?“

Geoffrey said smoothly. „And so she has acted to aid us: Princess Stephanie will

never reach Edinburgh.“

The rumors of the Danish Princess’s disappearance were already drifting from the

Palace like smoke, and the courier had brought Geoffrey confirmation of them –

though it was possible, his informant had told him, that the account of Princess

Stephanie’s disappearance was merely a Banbury tale ta explain why the Duke of

Wessex was traveling to the continent in such unseemly haste.

„Vanished!“ Ripon smiled. „Then we have more time to make sure of the Prince.

You need not have been so harsh with Meriel this evening at all.“

„We may not have so much time as you think,“ Geoffrey said slowly. He

hesitated over how much to tell his brother, drew a deep breath, and called upon all

his powers of inventive diplomacy.

„My… sources believe that Wessex’s real mission has nothing to do with

Princess Stephanie. That it is only a convenient excuse for those who know that the

Duke is King Henry’s agent. It is believed in fact that Wessex is on the trail of Louis

XVII. It seems that the Young King may be alive, and if he is, Wessex means to

bring the boy to England and set up an opposition government.“

Ripon mulled this over while Geoffrey wondered if his brother would take the

bait.

„It is possible,“ the Earl said. „Did not Wessex’s father go to France to rescue

the child – and fail? Or – wait! Did he fail? If the old Duke were able to spirit the

boy into hiding with a loyal Royalist family…“

„Then the son could stand ready to complete what the father could not,“

Geoffrey said. „And once the Young King is in English hands, Imperial France will

be seen as weak enough to defeat. England will never sue for a separate peace…“

„And our cause is doomed.“ Ripon frowned. „Wessex must be stopped.“

„He isn’t here – brother – to be stopped,“ Geoffrey pointed out. „How do you

propose to neutralize him?“

„I have a plan that might amuse you, Geoffrey,“ the Earl said. „It will involve

travel upon the Continent….“

Sarah retreated around the corner just as the door opened, and her common sense

asserted itself in a mighty surge. If she wished to present herself as the voice of

Reason, skulking around the hallways of other people’s houses was not the way to

do it.

She was very glad to have made such a decision when she heard Geoffrey

Highclere’s mocking drawl. He had undoubtedly chosen this occasion to present his

brother with yet another selection of his duns, for all the world knew that Mr.

Highclere’s pockets were emphatically to let.

As for where Meriel was, a perfectly reasonable explanation presented itself upon

reflection. The girl did not yet have much experience of Society, and was in the

midst of conducting .a scandalous romance. What was more likely than an attack of

nerves was delaying her appearance? The reasonable thing to do was to return to the

dance floor and take the opportunity to ask Lord Ripon about it when she saw him

again.

But Reason was not to be her ally – this night or any other – Sarah reflected

irritatedly several hours later.

Her dressing-table was lit by one lone candle, and she. sat before her mirror in a

grey watered-silk combing-coat lavished with ecru lace, still damp from the ablutions

that had removed the makeup from her face. She had sent Knoyle to bed as soon as

the abigail had unlaced her dress and unpinned the jewels from her hair, and it had

taken the better part of an hour after that for Sarah to finish preparing herself for

bed.

She inspected her reflection in the mirror critically. Neither an intriguer nor the

society leader King Henry had wanted her to be; she had not managed so much as a

private word with Lady Meriel all evening, and seen much to dismay her.

For Prince Jamie seemed more man simply dazzled by Meriel’s beauty. The

young Prince seemed dangerously – foolishly – recklessly – besotted with Meriel.

And Meriel was playing him as if she were a damsel in a courtly romance, requiring

outrageous and public proofs of his devotion.

If Wessex had still been here, Sarah would have swallowed her pride and gone to

him – this disaster was too large a tiling for her to stand upon her hurt pride if there

were any help she could seek. But Wessex was gone away, and she did not know if

anyone knew how to reach him.

Sighing, Sarah set down her hairbrush. If the Marchioness of Roxbury had

possessed numerous allies, plain Sarah Cunningham had none. Which meant that

though she was filled with a sense of responsibility for the impending ruin of the

Danish treaty, she was completely powerless to affect matters –

No! I will not accept that! Meriel had been Sarah’s friend, and there must be

some way still to reach her.

Perhaps tomorrow Sarah could discover what it was.

She was Roxbury. She was Mooncoign. The ancient promise and ancient bond

beat in her blood, and from behind the sleep-pierced veil of her amnesia Sarah

understood it: she was the champion of the Oldest People, the human warrior set

to guard their lands from the intrusion of those who would seize them. That was

the responsibility that the Other Sarah had forsaken; the one that she – the

Other’s doppelganger – had so carelessly taken up. She, like her predecessor, had

rashly believed that there was no enemy tofght.

And she, like her predecessor, had been wrong.

The Sarcen Stones homed high and grey above her, the pillars of a city without

walls. In the waking world the stones were rough-hewn things, but in Ms dream

Otherworld they were tall silvery pillars of gleaming rune-covered crystal. Sarah

stood in their midst, before a block of stone through which was thrust an ornate

and glittering sword. It was a ceremonial sword – far too large for any human

being to wield. A sword for a giant.

But she was expected to wield it – to draw it from the stone and carry it against

the enemies of the People. Against the Terror; the. beast that paced just beyond

their borders.

They were watching her. Out of the corner of her eye she could see them,

standing among the pillars which bordered the circle. Rank upon rank of the

Oldest People, their bodies nebulous and insubstantial as mist, waiting for her to

keep her promise.

Only she was hot the one who had made the promise. Another had promised for

her – had plucked her from her own familiar world to keep a promise she had

never made.

Despite this, Sarah would not fail them. The fight was just, and she was ready

to take her part in it. But when she steeled her nerve and reached for the sword,

she could not grasp the jeweled hilt. It slipped through her fingers each time she

tried.

„You are not a part of the land.“

It was the man who had shown Sarah her other self in Mooncoign’s lake, but

now, instead of green velvet and golden horns, he wore a suit of cloth-of-silver that

glowed so brightly that she could barely look at him. Around his brow was a

chaplet of rubies, and as she watched they swelled and broke, running down his

face – not rubies, but blood.

„Until you make yourself a part of the land you cannot serve it. Nor will it

nourish you. Do not fail us, Sarah….“

„Wait!“ she cried. „I don’t understand!“

Sarah sat bolt upright in her bed, heart racing. She gazed wildly about the

bedroom – only the faintest of light filtered in through her windows, left open and

uncurtained in the summer heat.

„I don’t understand,“ she whispered, but she had no chance to chase after the

wisps of the dream. A shadow moved between the window and the bed and she

realized she was not alone in the room.

„Shhh!“ an urgent voice hissed, just as Sarah drew bream to cry out.

„Meriel?“ Sarah whispered in disbelief.

The phantom drew closer to her bed. It was Lady Meriel, clad in a long black

domino over the white silk ballgown Sarah had seen her in earlier this evening.

Sarah flung back the coverlet and scrambled out of her bed.

„What are you doing here?“ Sarah demanded, more harshly than she intended.

She moved toward the table, intending to light the candle waiting mere, but Meriel

was there before her.

„No!“ she hissed in an urgent undertone. „No light! Someone might see!“

„Who?“ Sarah demanded, instantly alert. She pulled the windows shut, then drew

the heavy brocade draperies over them.

„Uncle Geoffrey,“ Meriel said in a low voice. „If he should see a light – “

„It is all right now, Meriel – no one can see us,“ Sarah said. The heavy damask

draperies would certainly shield the light of a single candle from observation by the

street below – even if there were an intruder lurking in Sarah’s back garden.

„But he will know that I am here,“ the other girl said miserably. „Uncle Geoffrey

always knows everything – it is he who said I must scrape an acquaintance with you,

that your loyalty to the King would provide a good blind for – for what he would do.

He said you were cold and over-proud –   but you were always such a friend to

me….“ Meriel's voice faltered and she could not go on.

„Never mind that now,“ Sarah said hastily. She abandoned the candle to cross the

room and take Meriel by the arm. Even through the thin silk of the domino, Meriel’s

flesh was icy. „The important thing is whatever brought you out like this – it is the

middle of the night.“

Meriel managed a shaky laugh. „It is nearly morning, and I am meant to be found

with the Prince at Vauxhall Gardens in one of the private boxes – to what end you

may well imagine! Uncle Geoffrey got the Prince to come away with him when the

party was over, and has put laudanum in his flask. Then when he was insensible I

was to go to him, and allow myself to be discovered with him – “ The younger

woman’s control broke, and she dissolved into a fury of silent weeping.

A spark of resolute anger kindled within Sarah, even as she urged Meriel to sit

down on the edge of the bed. It was a shabby trick to play on both Jamie and

Meriel, and if Jamie did not panic and marry her – If the King did not give in to the

scandal – Meriel would be ruined all the same, and all for her uncles’ greed and

ambition.

„But you have not gone to Vauxhall,“ Sarah said, her tone half-questioning.

„Uncle Geoffrey sent the carriage for me,“ Meriel said, her voice filled with grim

triumph, „but I did not let the door latch, arid when it was stopped behind a

brewer’s wagon down near the docks; I slipped out and let it drive on without me.

But then I did not know where else to go, so I came here.“

„You walked all that way?“ Sarah was horrified. She had heard tales of the bands

of roving young noblemen – Mohocks – who spent their nights serving up mischief

to anyone unlucky enough to be abroad. And down near the river even greater

danger abounded – Meriel had been lucky indeed to reach Herriard House, instead

of having her throat cut – or worse.

„I had no choice,“ Meriel said. In the darkness, she was only a faint shadowy

shape, and for a moment Sarah wondered if she were still dreaming. Everything

seemed so unreal here in the dark.

But it was real. For one brief pure moment, Sarah wished Wessex were here. As

cold and calculating as the man was, she was certain he would know exactly what to

do in this situation. Shoot Ripon and Mr. Highclere, perhaps, but certainly he would

know just how to whisk Meriel out of her wicked uncles’ reach.

Unfortunately, Sarah had not me least idea of where he could be found. Perhaps

the Dowager Duchess…

„I know it is too dreadful of me to burst in on you this way,“ Lady Meriel said

ruefully, as if only now realizing what she had done. „But I shall only be a charge

upon you for a short while longer. I have had more man enough time to consider

what I would do – Uncle Richard’s plans have been no secret to me this past

twelvemonth and more! – and I know, now, that I must go where he will never find

me.“

„Where?“ Sarah asked, fearing the worst. „Meriel, don’t be afraid – I can take

you into the country, to Mooncoign – “

But Ripon was likely to trace Meriel there easily. Ripon need only present himself

at Sarah’s door and demand her return, and Sarah – or her servants – would have

little choice but to comply. And try as she might, Sarah could not think of where else

Meriel could go once she had run away from her guardian.

„No!“ Meriel said, her voice rising above a whisper for the first time. „I shall go

to Mama’s family, in Spain. He dare not follow me there, and they will take me in – “

„Spain! Meriel, have you lost your wits?“ Sarah gasped. Only last December

England had declared war upon Spain, and Spain was now a French vassal state, its

exiled nobility fighting frantically – as was all of Europe – to free its people from

beneath the Corsican boot.

„My mother’s family is there,“ Meriel said. „I know my aunt Maristella very well,

and until my uncle Richard forbade it I would write to her every week. She will take

me in – and I will be done with both my uncles and their plots.“

Sarah tried to argue Meriel out of her mad plan – travel halfway across Europe in

the middle of a war? But English ships continued to call at still neutral Lisbon, in

nearby Portugal, and from there Meriel could probably find an escort to take her to

her mother’s family. Even the candles that Sarah finally succeeded in lighting did not

shed the light of Reason on the discussion.

„Sarah, I have no choice!“ Meriel burst out at last. „I do not dare go home again

– do you know what my Uncle Geoffrey will do to me? No?“

Meriel flung off the domino and tugged wildly at the bosom of her ballgown.

Delicate silk and lace parted, opening the neckline far enough for Meriel to push it

and the chemise beneath down a few inches. She turned her back to Sarah, and in

the candle’s glow Sarah could see an ugly red welt marking Meriel’s skin above the

line of her corset.

Lady Meriel had been whipped.

„Your uncle did this?“ Sarah said, aghast.

„Uncle Geoffrey,“ Meriel said. „I did not wish to fall in with their plans – to see

the Prince last night – but if I do not do as they wish, Uncle Geoffrey says he will

make me disappear to where no one will find me… and I believe he will. I have

money,“ Meriel went on, pulling a pocket from beneath her skirts that clinked

heavily, „and my mother’s jewelry. It will be enough to take me to Madrid,“ Meriel

said stubbornly. „And there are those who will help me, once I reach Dover. I know

those whom Uncle Geoffrey deals with – they have no loyalty above gold, and I

have gold.“

This put an entirely new complexion on matters, Sarah realized. She was not

satisfied of her own ability to hide Lady Meriel – not if the Earl of Ripon and Mr.

Geoffrey Highclere wanted their playing-piece back. But to leave Jamie to be

entangled in a web of Ripon’s spinning was unthinkable – not the least now that

Sarah had seen what they were capable of.

What to do… what to do…?

„You cannot continue to wear that,“ Sarah said decisively, gesturing toward

Meriel’s torn and mud-draggled ballgown. „Let me ring for Knoyle, get you a

suitable gown, and have the coach put to – “

„No!“ Meriel protested.

„But Meriel, however else will we get to Dover?“ Sarah said simply. „You say

you have friends there, but I think you need-friends here as well.“

It was still an hour before dawn as Sarah and Meriel entered Sarah’s well-sprung

yellow-paneled traveling coach. Unlike the ceremonial monster in which Sarah had

journeyed to Lord Ripon’s ball the night before, the yellow coach was a swift,

smooth-riding beauty, which would whisk its passengers to Dover in only a day.

Knoyle, her face a mask of expressionless disapproval, sat on the seat facing

Sarah and Meriel, bandboxes crammed with the most vital necessities tucked to

either side of her on the yellow velvet seat. A large hamper full of cold delicacies –

for every English traveler knew the unreliability of the table d’hôte at English posting

inns – occupied the floor between the travelers’ feet. All three women were

swaddled in thick warm shawls – despite the summer weather, the morning was cool

– and looked like so many bundles of laundry.

The door closed, and Sarah heard the coachman crack his whip out over the ears

of the team leader. A moment later the carriage began to rock over the cobbles in

front of the house. Behind her, Sarah heard the hoof-clatter of the outrider’s mount

as he took up his position.

It was hardly a covert or unremarked departure, but to travel without a.

coachman, a footman, and an outrider was to invite disaster along the way. And

Knoyle would be needed, not only to preserve Sarah’s reputation on the return

trip…

But so that she cannot be taken and questioned – however unlawfully – while I

am gone. A quality that Sarah had not realized that she possessed made her soberly

estimate the danger they were in, and not hold lightly Ripon’s power to do harm. He

knew that she was Meriel’s friend – once Meriel had vanished, Ripon would wish to

see what Meriel’s friend knew about it, and somehow Sarah was not as sanguine as,

as –

– as the real Duchess of Wessex would have been – – that her rank would

protect her from Ripon’s curiosity. The man was already conniving at High Treason,

after all – what was one duchess more or less to his plans? Once Meriel was safely

away – and Sarah intended to satisfy herself of that before she abandoned her

friend-Sarah intended to lie low at Mooncoign behind a wall of stout footmen until

she could locate Wessex –

– and explain to him how wrong he was about Lady Meriel’s character,

though I must own he was right about the rest of her family, Sarah admitted

mournfully. Accursed man! Where is he?

The Amalienborg Palace in Copenhagen was a severe and formidable grey stone

building facing an enormous square. The Widowmaker had arrived the day before

yesterday, but it had taken until today for Wessex’s credentials to work their way up

through the labyrinth of protocol that surrounded the straitlaced Danish court and

win him an interview with Prince Frederick, who was regent for his father, Christian

VII. King Christian had for years been subject to such fits of rage and melancholy

that the government of the country had eventually passed to his eldest son,

Frederick.

Prince Frederick was Princess Stephanie’s father, and Wessex did not relish

being the bearer of the news that her ship had disappeared without trace somewhere

in British waters.

The Amalienborg was of recent construction, its classical marble facades

presenting a chill and imposing vista;

Wessex’s self was equally chill and imposing: his blue uniform coat and its silver

lace gleamed as if they were made of metal and enamel, and the finish on his black

Hessians glittered like glass. He carried a dispatch case beneath his arm.

At the door of the palace, Wessex was met by a functionary in Court livery, who

took and inspected his documents before allowing him inside. Another courtier,

adorned and slightly antique in slippers and powdered wig, was waiting; he turned

and strode away without meeting Wessex’s eyes, carrying a gilded staff of office

before him.

Wessex followed the courtier, his boots echoing upon the polished marble floors

as he walked along a corridor of columns and mirrors. The infrequent bronze doors

that interrupted the pale sweep of the walls were flanked by strapping guardsmen in

ornate uniforms.

The documents he had presented yesterday – returned to him so he could present

them more formally today – should be his guarantee of a private audience with

Prince Frederick, but Wessex had not lived as long as he had by making any

assumptions. While he would certainly receive a-hearing today, he might not see the

Prince for several days yet. There was still the Court Chamberlain to get past,

Wessex reckoned, and a smattering of Gentlemen of the Bedchamber at the very

least – the Danish court’s protocol was far more elaborate than that of the relatively

freewheeling Stuart court that had sent Wessex as its emissary. If it would not be in

the worst of taste to take a lead from regicidal France, Wessex might even suppose

that the very winds of liberty and Equality that had fanned the flames of the

holocaust in France blew more gently on England and her American colony.

Certainly as the years passed, Great Britain and her dominions seemed to have less

and less in common with their Continental kindred.

But these were ruminations for another day. For some minutes his guide had been

leading Wessex deeper into the palace and up several flights of steps. Wessex

judged they were now some distance from the ceremonial spaces of the palace.

So it was to be a private interview, then.

The courtier stopped before the most elaborate door they had passed yet. The

Danish Royal arms, carved and gilded, were set into the center of the door, and as

the courtier stepped toward the door the guards standing beside it turned smartly to

and thrust the two halves of the door inward. Wessex’s guide snapped to attention,

becoming nearly a statue, and Wessex, guessing his role in the play, walked past

him.

The walls of the small windowless room were elaborately draped with dull gold

velvet, and even the ceiling was hung with the stuff, pinned and pleated in elaborate

sunburst folds that radiated from a central rosette. The thick soft cloth that covered

the walls and ceiling deadened all sound and gave a curious sense of disassociation

to the room’s inhabitants, and though Wessex knew it was just past two in the

afternoon outside, it could be midnight here, or any other hour… just as anything

might be hidden behind those all-enshrouding folds of velvet. The predominant color

in the Aubusson carpet that covered most of the floor was the same soft amber, and

the only furniture in the room was an enormous desk whose top was a single slab of

semiprecious green malachite, and the thronelike chair behind it, occupied by the

man Wessex had come to see.

And the Prince Regent did not wait alone. With a sensation as of a knife twisting

in his gut, Wessex recognized me Regent’s companion.

The Marquis Donatien-Alphonse-François de Sade had been an inmate of the

Charenton lunatic asylum until the Glorious Revolution released him. The unsavory

rumors that surrounded his name to some extent explained Napoleon’s tolerance of

him, for the Marquis de Sade was thought by England to be a diabolist as well as a

deviant, and in the apostate court of the Emperor Napoleon, such black arts could

be more than useful. Ever since the time of Louis XIV and the affair of the Marquis

de Montespan and the Chambre Ardente, it had been known that the etheric

magnetism more vulgarly known as the Art Magickal could be a powerful weapon –

especially in the hands of those who, unlike the Wicca, the Jews, and the Christians,

were not bound by either ethical or religious precepts. The worship of Lucifer, that

fallen angel, was a peculiarly French vice, and de Sade was a master of that and

many other vices, that much England was sure of.

But what was de Sade doing here, in pious, straitlaced, Protestant Denmark?

While at the moment Denmark was still neutral, that neutrality would end the instant

the treaty was signed, making de Sade liable to arrest and unceremonious banishment

at the very least. And de Sade did hot know that the most vital component for the

treaty’s signing – Princess Stephanie – was missing. The disaster had happened less

than a week before: news traveling through normal channels could not possibly have

reached the Danish court yet. So de Sade could not know.

Or could he?

The courtier followed Wessex into the room, precise as any well-drilled ranker in

the Duke’s own regiment, and announced him.

„His Grace the Duke of Wessex begs leave to approach Your Most Christian

Highness.“

Privately, Wessex did not beg leave of anyone to do anything, least of all foreign

monarchs who were not even – as yet – England’s allies, but he supposed he would

allow the statement to stand.

„Your Highness,“ Wessex said. He advanced to the front of the desk and made

his bow, then indicated the case of his credentials that the servant had placed upon

the table between them. The lion and the unicorn of England, stamped in gold upon

its flap, flanking the Royal arms, gleamed brightly in the room’s candlelight as

Frederick opened the pouch and withdrew a document heavy with seals and written

in King Henry’s unmistakable raking script. There had not been time to commit the

details of the disappearance to paper, even if the King had been willing to do so, so

Wessex, like a messenger of old, carried the true message in his head.

As the Prince studied the document, Wessex studied the Prince. Prince Frederick

shared the pale, hawklike good looks of the rest of the Danish Royal family. His light

blond hair was swept back from a high widow’s peak, and his broad forehead and

piercing blue eyes gave an impression of keen intelligence. He was-dressed in a

uniform of pale blue satin, which, Wessex guessed, must be that of one of his

regiments, though Denmark was primarily a naval power and it was the Danish navy

that England feared Napoleon gaining as a weapon against the Triple Alliance.

Neither King Henry, who had dealt extensively with Prince Frederick in arranging

for the now-endangered treaty, nor Wessex, who had read the briefing book the

White Tower kept on the Danish Prince Regent, knew , much about the man himself.

Denmark had played a remarkably close hand these past two decades in navigating

through the sea of alliances and entanglements that had marked the map of Europe in

the wake of the French Revolution, and even now she was far from wooed to

England’s standard.

And now Wessex must tell Denmark’s ruler that his daughter had vanished, an

event that the Frenchman de Sade would be quick to turn to England’s discredit.

„So you are the Duke of Wessex,“ Prince Frederick said, in his ponderous,

accented English.

Wessex inclined his head. De Sade emitted a faintly audible sneer. His eyes

glittered fervidly, reflecting the flame of the candles, and his gaze flicked back and

forth from Frederick to Wessex. The diabolist was dressed in ornate black and had

powdered his pale skin until he looked like a convict… or a corpse. His face was

fleshy and corpulent, and his body had the bloated unconvincing obesity of the

invalid or the drunkard. His hands were long and slender, making a shocking

contrast with his black and ragged nails (normally of the most cold-blooded

temperament, even Wessex did not like to contemplate what use’ those sullied hands

were put to), arid the Marquis’s fingers were crusted with massive rings whose

stones shone in the dim candlelight of the windowless room as if they were open

sores.

„I had hoped that we might speak privately, Highness,“ Wessex offered as his

opening gambit.

„I do not think you will say anything I would not wish my good friend the

Marquis to hear,“ Prince Frederick said disapprovingly.

Wessex kept his eyes on the Prince and his face expressionless, but from the

corner of his gaze he could see that dé Sade gave every appearance of wriggling with

delight at Wessex’s discomfiture, rubbing his hands together so that the rings he

wore clicked together like abacus beads.

„Then I am sorry to have to convey to you King Henry’s deep sorrow and regret

in so public a fashion, Your Highness. He is desolated to be forced to inform you

that Princess Stephanie’s ship has disappeared, and she and all aboard her are

missing.“

Wessex had spoken so bluntly in part to judge the reactions of his auditors to the

news he bore, and in this he was not disappointed. The Prince Regent’s face went

absolutely white, confirming Wessex in his belief that the Prince had not known

about mis in advance.

But de Sade certainly did not seem to be particularly surprised by the news of the

Princess’s disappearance. His face was slightly flushed beneath its coating of

greyish powder, as if he fed upon the Prince Regent’s palpable distress.

„Missing?“ Prince Frederick said. His pale eyes, unfocused by the sudden shock

of me devastating news, fixed themselves now upon Wessex, and there was an angry

light in their wintery depths.

„Her ship disappeared a day’s sail outside of Roskild, while still in Danish

waters,“ Wessex said again. Roskild was the northeasternmost port that Britain

could claim, and her influence did not extend appreciably far beyond it: as Wessex

had said, the princess had vanished in Danish waters, for what that was worth.

„A very pretty illustration of how the English treat their allies,“ de Sade said. He

spoke in French, as if all the world should be expected to know that tongue.

„Be silent,“ Prince Frederick snapped in the same language, without looking at the

Frenchman. The Marquis emitted a small displeased hiss and rocked back on his

heels.

„You will please tell me what occurred,“ the Prince said to Wessex in his labored

English. „And where is Her Highness my daughter?“

„Your Highness,“ Wessex said, bowing again, and proceeded to explain at great,

diplomatic, and ultimately pointless length what little the English knew: that the

Queen Christina had sailed from the Copenhagen harbor toward the port Roskild

(where she and her sister ship were scheduled to rendezvous in any case if there

were any trouble on the voyage) and had disappeared in a fogbank before she

reached it.

„And this is the security you haf provided for my poor daughter?“ The Prince

Regent’s accent was thicker now with the stress of this information, and his face had

darkened with the characteristic rage of his royal line.

„The security for your daughter disappeared with her,“ Wessex pointed out.

„Along with a number of British diplomatists. Naturally His Majesty has sent ships to

search for the Christina, and hopes that he can count upon Your Highness to do the

same. However – “ Wessex nodded toward de Sade „ – there are some elements

that might complicate His Majesty’s ability to carry out such a search.“

„I do not care.“ The Prince got stiffly to his feet and did his best to glare down at

Wessex, who unfortunately, was taller man he by several inches. „You vill find my

daughter and return her to me – and then perhaps we vill discuss the matter of this

treaty further.“

„I am sure His Highness would not choose to make a dangerous enemy lightly,“

Wessex said confidingly in French, as though making a casual comment to de Sade

about me weather.

Prince Frederick stopped in the middle of turning away and stiffened as though he

had been struck. His already florid color deepened alarmingly, and for a moment

Wessex feared that the Prince Regent would explode into the same sort of

extravagant fury for which his Royal father was noted.

„Find my daughter!“ the Prince roared, swinging back toward Wessex. Without

waiting for any reply he strode to the door concealed behind the velvet drape in the

back wall, thrust the hangings aside, and strode out through the secret door. There

was a faint dull impact as the concealed door closed, and suddenly the room seemed

much smaller.

Wessex stood as he had been left, watching the dull gold velvet swing slowly

back into its original position. His message had been delivered, and some small

amount of information had been gained. Now Wessex was free to make what further

inquiries he could, but his finely-honed instincts warned him already that there was

little enough for him to find within the walls of the Amalienborg.

„Oh, Duc d’Anglais, I think you handled that so very well,“ de Sade said softly in

French. The little man moved toward the desk, though the Prince had given neither

of them leave to go… or, in fact, to move at all.

„Do you think so?“ Wessex answered pleasandy in the same language. „I thought

that perhaps my approach lacked something of subtlety… but no. I bow to the

perceptions of one far better versed in these matters than I. It was well handled.“

„Well! It speaks a civilized tongue,“ de Sade said, concealing his astonishment at

Wessex’s response.

„Alas, French has forfeited that claim in recent years, for a language must be held

to partake of the virtues of those for whom it is their native tongue,“ Wessex said in

tones of regret. „But perhaps at some time in the future,“ he added kindly.

„Mock if you wish, English Duke! But France shall have the last laugh as we bury

you English. The Emperor is one in ten mousand – such a man will not be born

again for a century! What he proposes shall come to pass – and he proposes that

France shall be me master of Europe. In his lifetime he will redraw the map of

Europe,“ de Sade gloated.

„And when he dies, we shall simply redraw it once again,“ Wessex drawled,

unimpressed with de Sade’s rhetoric. „I do not think that you can refine too much

upon your ability to make away with one ship! A ship is not, after all, a nation. Or

even a regiment.“

Though Wessex was not completely certain of French complicity in the matter of

the Christina’s disappearance, this meeting with the perverse French magician might

yield valuable information. De Sade must have been at the Amelienborg before the

ship sailed… could he have somehow arranged for the Christina to disappear? Or

did he simply know who had made such arrangements? i But oddly enough, braggart

though he obviously was, de Sade did not rise to this particular bait. He smiled his

reptilian smile at Wessex and the gems on his fingers glittered wet as he worked them

about his fingers.

„Oh, let us be frank with one another, English Duke. The little princess is far less

important than that which you have actually been sent to find. We know who you

are, you of the White Tower. The English King’s hellhounds – and you think France

unaware of what game he has set you to course this time. Is it here, I wonder? Or

have you simply come to divert suspicion while others do your hunting for you?“

Wessex did not allow one iota of the baffled amazement he felt to appear on his

face – nor the chagrin that de Sade knew him for what he was: a spy.

„My very dear Marquis,“ he said lightly. „You should know that an Englishman’s

greatest joy is the hunt. As for the location of the covert I draw, perhaps it will

amuse you to attempt to discover it, M’sieur le Marquis.“

„What is de Sade doing here?“ Wessex asked without preamble, striding into the

library of the small, nondescript house situated on a back street near the center of the

city.

Sir Gavin’s residence – it was nothing so grand or definite as an embassy or an

office – was indistinguishable from the houses which surrounded it here in this quiet

side street. Unlike London, which had constantly been renewed, phoenixlike, by the

series of fires which had swept away the construction of previous generations,

Copenhagen was still very much a medieval city, narrow and grey. The Augustan

sweep of the Royal family’s rebuilding fervor had not extended to the city itself; in

most quarters buildings of stone and timber stood much as they had three centuries

before.

Sir Gavin MacLaren studied Wessex for a moment without answering. MacLaren

was a tall, spare Scot, whose ancestors had fought for the Stuart line during

Cromwell’s Great Experiment in the seventeenth century. His good-humored

Presbyterian virtue stood him in good stead amidst the austere ardor of the Danish

court, and for many years he had been King Henry’s representative to this most

difficult of political posts – not so much an ambassador or official representative as

a solver of problems great and small. And the disappearance of the Princess was a

very large problem.

„De Sade has been here for the last three months, replacing the previous

ambassador, an odd notion in itself,“ Sir Gavin finally said. „I have been unable to

uncover what he may be doing here, other than supporting French interests, of

course. There is, unfortunately, no way for me to get rid of the cursed creature,“ Sir

Gavin added, shrugging. He gestured toward the sideboard, where a row of

decanters gleamed in the pale northern light. „And he has not – yet – done anything

unspeakable enough to make himself persona non grata – odd in itself, as Frederick

is notoriously puritanical.“

„Fine talk, coming from you,“ Wessex said with a grim smile. He crossed to the

sideboard and poured himself a whiskey.

„Ah, hadn’t you heard, Your Grace? Even virtue can become a vice if pursued

with sufficient extravagance,“ Sir Gavin assured him.

„But why is he here?“ Wessex persisted, leaning back against the sideboard and

unbuttoning the high, silver-laced collar of his dress uniform. „De Sade is a

voluptuary, a dabbler in philosophy and the Black Arts. He might be of some use in

Paris as a blackmailer and gossip-monger, but why send him here to offend the

Danes?“

Sir Gavin shrugged without moving from his comfortable seat. „There’s certainly

no sign of de Sade’s line of country here. The Old Races are strong in the

countryside, you know, and they’ve never accepted any part of the White Christ’s

pantheon.“

„And it’s just as unbelievable that a Black Lodge is operating at the Danish court

itself. But if not for de Sade’s special talents, why send him here?“ Wessex

brooded.

„Have you considered the possibility that he is not the only warlock the French

have sent – only the most visible?“ Sir Gavin asked.

„Naturally. But whether he is working alone, or as part of a group, I need to know

why he is here,“ Wessex said.

And why he thinks I am here.

Chapter 15

Summoned as to Tourney

Despite the fact that they were under the constant threat of being overtaken by the

Earl of Ripon, the hours of the journey passed with aggravating slowness. Both

Sarah and Meriel were too overwrought to engage in small talk, and Meriel did not

encourage any discussion of her future plans, so in the end the two fugitives simply

stared out opposite windows in silence as the countryside rolled by.

The horses were changed every two hours, and at noon they stopped for an hour

at a coaching inn in order to partake of the contents of the hamper in comfort and

safety. The inn the outrider selected was quite clean and comfortable enough for

Sarah to be almost sorry that they had brought their own provisions. The ladies were

able to secure a parlor for their private use, and the landlord’s wife contributed hard

cider and strong coffee to their collation, and an upstairs room so that they could

refresh themselves a bit from the rigors of their headlong journey.

But that peaceful interlude was over far too soon, and once more they were on the

road.

„You will have to tell me where you are going sooner or later,“ Sarah pointed out

reasonably. „Unless, of course, you expect John Coachman to drive us right into the

sea.“

The very thought drew a muffled giggle from her companion.

„Oh, no, Sarah. It is just that – I have been planning this for so long, and it is my

only chance….“

And it is so hard to trust anyone, when everyone you meet may be an enemy,

Sarah thought sympathetically.

When they stopped again to change horses, Meriel at last told Sarah where they

were going – not to Dover, but to a small fishing village several miles down the

coast. By the time they reached Talitho (driving slowly to spare the horses, as the

possibility of a change was much less off the main coach road) the sun had set and

sea-mist had begun to creep in toward the land. The lanterns on the sides of the

coach, lit at their last stop, burned with a dim warm glow.

The village of Talitho was a small isolated hamlet tucked into a fold of the

coastline, and seemingly unchanged for centuries. There was a church and an inn

anchoring the two ends of the brief high street; Sarah’s coach passed the one and

stopped at the other.

Sarah pushed open the door to the coach and leaned out, grateful to be stopping

anywhere. She could smell the sea in the air that she breathed, and was eager to get

out of the coach despite the misty rain that fell with soft soaking insistence.

The footman brought the step and placed it on the ground, and Sarah

disembarked. Behind her came Meriel, looking disheveled with the rigors of the

day’s travel but still radiant, like a rumpled rose.

„Simon, go and see if there is a private parlor we can have,“ Sarah said. „John,

take the coach around to the stable and unharness the horses. We must have a fresh

team if we are to go any further tonight.“

She wasn’t sure yet whether to ask about rooms for the night, for the inn was

very small, but lodging could certainly wait until diey’d recovered somewhat from

the journey.

„Well, Meriel,“ Sarah said, turning to her companion as the coach rolled away.

„We have arrived at your destination safe and sound. What do we do now?“

Meriel shrugged slightly, weariness etching lines of strain on her face in the light

from the coachlamps. Sarah took Meriel’s arm, and the two ladies, followed by

Knoyle, proceeded toward the door of the inn, only to be met by the liveried

footman.

„Beg pardon, Your Grace, but me landlord says that the private parlor is already

reserved – for Lady Meriel, Your Grace.“

Who knew we were coming?

Sarah glanced toward Meriel. The girl’s face was drawn and frightened. Meriel

had not made this arrangement herself, then.

In that sudden premonition of disaster, Sarah wished for a weapon. In her

imagination, she could feel the weight of a long gun in her hands, and did not doubt

her ability to shoot, even to kill. The last shreds of the glamourie that Dame Alecto

and the Dowager Duchess of Wessex had set upon her when they brought her to this

alien England was lifted by catastrophe, and Sarah realized at last who she was.

I am Miss Sarah Cunningham of the United States of America, and this is not

my world at all –

But both shock and questions must wait upon current danger. Her warrior’s

instincts awakened, Sarah realized that they dared not walk into this trap. She

clutched at Meriel’s arm again; they would go back to the coach and leave. It was

the only way.

„Simon – “ she began, but the footman was already moving aside to make way

for the man behind him.

„That’s right, Lady Meriel. The coffee parlor is already reserved for you and your

little friend. It’s wet and it’s late. So why don’t you come inside? Especially in

consideration of the fact that I have a pistol in my pocket and I’m not-in the least

afraid to use it.“! With the light of the doorway behind him, neither woman could see

the speaker’s face. But once heard, the voice was unmistakable.

It was Geoffrey Highclere.

i The last ten days had been interesting, if one were of a I temperament that could

find intense and utter boredom interesting, and Wessex, alas, had been forced years

before to admit that he was just such a person. Any absolute condition was so rare

as to be peculiar, and the peculiar was the Duke of Wessex’s line of country.

Even the frantic sea-hunt for Princess Stephanie, whose disappearance was

gradually becoming common knowledge, lacked any sense of suspense, because no

one really expected to find either the Princess or’ the Christina after so long a time.

The sea did not easily give up her dead, and unlike the land, disaster at sea left no

evidence behind. And if the Princess had washed ashore anywhere along the coasts

of the British Isles, Denmark, or her Baltic neighbors, he would know about it…

which left only one coastline upon which she could have made her landfall: France.

Initially Wessex had ruled that country out – July was calm sailing weather, so the

missing ship could not have been blown off course. The Captain and crew were all

trustworthy and loyal, which ruled out mutiny. And if there had been pirates, one

source or another would have let slip that information. There was no way for the

Christina to have reached a destination so far off course.

No natural way….

But they lived in an unnatural age, and though Wessex half-disbelieved in the Art

Magickal, he could not afford to leave it out of his hypotheses. On the island once

called Logres, the Oldest People had constructed passages that led to Otherwhere,

connecting disparate places and times, so the thing itself was not impossible. Could

not the same sorcery that Christian magicians used to summon demons from their

proper sphere be used to annihilate space and time and cause a sailing ship to vanish

from the coast of Scotland to reappear off the coast of France?

Assume that it could. And suddenly de Sade’s appearance at the Danish court

became much more comprehensible – to attempt to sway the Prince Regent in the

direction of France by any means fair or foul – but more to me point, to somehow

use his arts to bespell me Queen Christina so that the Princess, captured and held

safe in France, became a hostage to ensure Prince Frederick’s new pro-French

position.

Wessex wished that Koscuisko were here, and not safely back in England. The

Polish Hussar was a jack-of-all-trades, and more than once had saved Wessex’s skin

and his own through the use of some scrap of arcane knowledge he’d managed to

pick up in the course of his vagabond career. Koscuisko would probably be able to

tell Wessex if de Sade had me capabilities the Duke had imputed to him – at the

moment, Wessex’s shatterwitted theory had all the respectability of a blind and

desperate guess.

Of course, there was the heartening fact that someone had tried to kill him just

yesterday.

He’d been walking back to MacLaren’s house very early in the morning. A

wearying day spent presenting the public face of England’s solicitude for her hopeful

ally had been followed by a slightly more interesting evening party given by a Baron

Anderssen, at which Wessex had sifted gossip, hint, and innuendo. He’d thought

nothing of walking home alone afterward, for the moon was nearly full and the

streets of the Danish capital notoriously safe. He’d taken a small candle-lantern with

him to light some of the darker corners of the streets he would have to traverse, bid

his host a warm farewell, and was on his way.

And he’d been followed.

Even with as many bottles as Wessex had drunk that evening – for it had been an

exclusively masculine gathering – he detected the presence behind him almost at

once. Two men; either very eager or not very skilled. In less than ten paces more he

had made up his mind what he would do about it, and began feigning the sloppy gait

and wandering attention of one far more intoxicated than he actually was.

A block later the narrow street opened out into a small square of the sort that had

a pump and trough at its center. Wessex had stopped at the trough and splashed

cold water on his face, then gone on…leaving his lantern behind.

As he’d hoped, the invitation was too good to refuse. He’d barely reached the

street at the far end of the square when they attacked.

„Can. I help you, gentlemen?“ Wessex asked, drawing his sword and turning on

them in one practiced moment. He blessed the happy accident that had let this

happen while he was in uniform; he need not deploy any of his more clandestine

weaponry against these bravos when his saber was ready to hand.

There were two of them – neither, from the look of him, a Dane. The taller one

looked to be Irish; he carried a stout cudgel and seemed more than willing to use it.

His companion was shorter and darker; he had a pistol thrust into his waistband and

held a dagger with a very keen edge to its glittering blade.

Wessex recognized him. It was Charles Corday – Gambit – Talleyrand’s

assassin.

„Allons!“ Gambit snapped at his companion. The Irishman began to move

forward, swinging his shillelagh back and forth in front of him in experimental

swipes. Wessex retreated warily. His saber was the finest Sheffield steel, but the

stout stick in his opponent’s hand could snap the blade with one blow.

„Sure now and it’s a terrible thing, but its Your Lordship’s life we’ll be wanting,

so you’d best be making up your mind to lie down at once, so says Sean O’Brien.“

„I tell you what, O’Brien,“ Wessex answered back easily. „Throw down that twig

and tell me who sent you, and I promise only to thrash you severely.“

Sean O’Brien threw back his red-maned head and roared with laughter. „Sure,

and it’s a rare waste to have to kill you, me Lordship,“ he said. But there was no

regret in his voice, only anticipation,, and his small eyes were cold. Without further

warning, he charged.

But Wessex wasn’t there. Like an acrobat evading a maddened bull, he slid aside

and allowed the force of O’Brien’s first ferocious rush to pass him by. His blade

flashed in the moonlight, and O’Brien went down with a roar, hobbled by a cut to

the thigh.

Wessex looked for Gambit, his eyes probing the shadows. He’d resigned himself

to having only one man to question, but to his faint surprise Corday hadn’t bolted.

He stood in the mouth of the alleyway, the pistol Wessex had seen held in both

hands.

„You are not so drunk as you appear, cher“ Gambit Corday said reprovingly in

his heavily-accented English. The barrel did not waver, even in the uncertain light: the

uniform of the Eleventh Hussars had been designed to be visible at all times, and

Wessex made an easy target.

„And you are nothing like a Dane, Frenchman,“ Wessex answered. O’Brien was

getting to his feet, and in a moment Gambit would fire.

„And I am not French. I am Acadian, me,“ Gambit said proudly, and then fired

with one lightning movement –

– straight into O’Brien’s chest.

The Irishman fell back with a roar, blood fountaining from his wound for a few

brief seconds as his heart beat its last. The noise would summon the watch –

Wessex intended to be far from here when that happened. He glanced back at

Gambit.

An Acadian – a settler in Acadie, one of the New World colonies that had once

been French, but had been ceded to England almost a century ago. Her inhabitants

had not taken kindly to the change in government and had been dispossessed as a

result. Most of them had gone south to settle in the still-French Louisiana Colony,

though Wessex knew that the children and grandchildren of the Acadians still

mourned their lost homeland.

„We ‘ave been on opposite sides before, but now I't’ink we are on de same one,

me,“ Gambit said to Wessex. „Wat you look for – maybe it better dat you find it,

eh? You put it back where it.belong, an’ nobody bodder wit’ us over de sea.“

Wessex drew breath for a reply, but Gambit had already vanished. Wessex

could-hear the rattle of shutters opening in the windows above the streets, and knew

he had little time to waste if he was to escape undiscovered. He turned to the body at

his feet.

First de Sade, now Gambit. Their presence argued a major clandestine operation

being staged on Danish soil, but Wessex could not imagine what it was – or why

Gambit had felt the need to save him when his orders had obviously been to see

Wessex dead.

O’Brien had little of value about his person, and nothing in writing. It was

possible that the man had been unable to read. But he apparently had been able to

count very well… he was carrying ten Imperial golden eagles with Bonaparte’s

laurel-crowned image 6n their face.

Wessex pocketed the money and took to his heels. A few minutes later he was

safely within doors at Mac-Lareil’s house, being helped out of his uniform coat by a

silently-disapproving Atheling.

„Have mercy, man,“ Wessex protested. „I didn’t get a spot of blood on me.“

„Your Grace is perhaps mistaken,“ Atheling murmured, drawing Wessex’s

attention to a smudge on his scarlet trousers that was beginning to turn brown as it

dried. „But I daresay that I can save them, Your Grace.“

Wessex waved this aside; God knew Atheling had been given ample opportunity

to learn every method known to manservant of removing blood from clothing.

„May one ask if any events of unusual interest have transpired this evening?“ the

valet pursued.

„Nothing,“ Wessex said shortly.

Except that two men – paid in French eagles – had been sent to kill him tonight.

Except that one had killed the other rather than fulfil his commission. And that

Gambit, though in the pay of France, styled himself an Acadian … who wanted

Wessex to find what he was looking for, and then put it back where it belonged.

Wessex had a hunch Gambit hadn’t been referring to Princess Stephanie – but

what had the man meant?

Wessex had not the slightest notion. It was all very mysterious.

Things were looking up.

There had seemed no recourse but to do what Mr. Highclere said or be shot on

the spot, so Sarah had dismissed Simon and she and Meriel had gone into the parlor

Mr. Highclere had reserved for them. Meriel was white to the lips and shaking; if

Sarah had needed any further proof that this had not been a trap of her friend’s

devising, Meriel’s shock at seeing her uncle provided it.

The coffee room already had a collation laid out in expectation of their arrival:

pasties and cheese and a steaming pot of coffee. A vigorous fire blazed on the small

hearth, and despite herself, Sarah felt cheered – and hungry-She knew who she was,

now, but her orderly American world had been turned inside out: she had been thrust

into a strange mirror-image of an England she barely recognized, a world populated

with spirits and woodkin. Any daughter of the People knew that they shared the

world not only with the Speaking Animals, but with the Firstborn of the Great Spirit

– but Sarah Cunningham of Baltimore had never expected to see proof of that, let

alone find herself forced to masquerade as her own strange twin in a world that held

such creatures openly.

But despite the unbelievability of her whole situation, Mr. Highclere presented a

far more urgent threat than mere magical oddity. However strange and unreal this

new world might be to Sarah Cunningham, Mr. Highclere’s gun was tangible enough.

Reality and masquerade blended; bearing Meriel with her, Sarah swept past him

just as the true Duchess of Wessex would have done and seated herself upon the

long bench that ran around two sides of the room. Behind them, Geoffrey pulled the

sliding door of the coffee room shut, sealing them off from prying eyes.

„Now that you’ve got us, Mr. Highclere, what do you mean to do with us?“

With a detached clinical interest, Sarah heard her voice wavering between the

broad vowels of Baltimore and the clipped English way of talking she had learned as

the Marchioness of Roxbury. It was as if she had slumbered these past months, and

now was awake… but to what end?

Geoffrey ignored her question, pouring out coffee for both of them and behaving

as if he were any host.

„Can I tempt you to a bit of the ham, Your Grace? The cook has a delicate hand

with pastry, but I daresay you’ll want something more filling than apple tarts after

your long journey. There’s bread from the morning’s baking, and several kinds of

fish, I’m afraid, but what can one do this close to the ocean? Why, Meriel, I do

believe you don’t look at all well….“

„Enough of your roundaboutation,“ Sarah snapped. „Kindly state your business

with us, if you please!“

Mr. Highclere looked somewhat taken aback – American forthrightness, Sarah

realized, did not go down at all well with the English nobility. But he quickly regained

his composure, and smiled at both of them.

„Why, I’ve come to congratulate my little niece on showing some spirit and sense

at last, Your Grace. Dick would take a maggot with his notion of making the Prince

marry into the Old Religion and turn England back into the fold of the True Faith,

but I know Jamie better than he does – our Jamie might marry the girl, but he’d never

mind her. And marriages can be unmade, one way or another.“

„Wh – what do you mean?“ Meriel stammered, regaining enough of her

composure to speak at last. „I could not divorce him!“ Her hand went to the base of

her throat, as if searching for the beads of an absent rosary.

„No,“ Mr. Highclere said with a vulpine smile, „but you could die, my dear. The

King would see to that – he and his hatchet-man Wessex.“

„King Henry would never be so base,“ Sarah scoffed. She picked up the coffee

before her and sipped at it cautiously. The warmth lent her vitality and courage.

„Drink your coffee, Meriel. I’m sure that Mr. Highclere will get around to explaining

his purpose eventually.“

„It is me that he wants,“ Meriel said in a low voice. She cradled her cup in her

hands, looking miserable.

„You’re quite wrong in that,“ her uncle told her genially. „As I said, Dick was

right out in his notion – I went along with it because it would pretty well queer the

Danish treaty, but with the Princess gone missing there’s not much more need of

that. There’s still Wessex to consider, though – a man of truly annoying habits.“

Though she was not herself in charity with Wessex, Sarah did not wish to allow

anyone, else the liberty of criticizing her husband.

„I am certain that no one here has any idea of what you mean,“ she said coldly.

„The Duke of Wessex is a man of irreproachable character.“

„My so-dear Duchess,“ Mr. Highclere said. „You wound me far more than I can

say. Did I reproach him? I merely pointed out that he is a murderer and a spy in the

King’s service. I do apologize for distressing you – -if indeed I have done so – is it

possible that you did not know about your husband’s secret life?“

Wessex an agent of the King! Sarah's mind shied away from the implications of

the information. It explained so much – and nothing.

„That is – “ That is none of your affair, Sarah had meant to say, but somehow

the words tangled on her tongue.

„But you don’t want me anymore? I’m free to go?“ Meriel interrupted, her voice

full of hope. She took a deep swallow of her coffee.

Mr. Highclere’s smile widened still further. „Now sweeting, did I say so? Dick’s

plan may have failed, but there’s still a world of uses for a girl like you….“

Sarah tried to set her cup down, but the table jarred it loose from her numb

fingers and it jounced across the surface, spilling coffee in a dark fan across the

table.

Drugged, She wanted to shout out the word, but no words would come. She

tried to stand, but she no longer had any sense of her body. The world blurred, and

Sarah did not even know when she crossed the border into unconsciousness.

The first of July had seen Illya Koscuisko arrive in Edinburgh, where the young

Dutch artist Jan van Harmenz who had debarked the hired fishing boat vanished, and

a cheerful French emigre named Jean-Marie took his place for just long enough to

claim a safe-house and send a brief report by carrier pigeon to London. Jean-Marie

saw Koscuisko over the border, where the Polish Hussar could at last resume his

own identity and make his way at a less-than-breakneck pace back to London and a

certain house on Bond Street.

He spent the next week being carefully debriefed of everything he had seen and

heard in the last month, and learned that the Danish Princess was still missing, and

that Wessex in far-off Copenhagen was no closer to finding a solution to the

mystery. From more public channels, he learned that the Prince of Wales was

conducting a scandalous and unsuitable flirtation with the Earl of Ripon’s niece and

that Wessex’s Duchess seemed to smile upon the match, since she had accepted an

invitation to Lady Mend’s come-out ball.

Koscuisko wondered what Wessex made of all this. He knew his partner’s

guarded heart well enough to know that Wessex had not intended to marry and

would not have done so if the King had not commanded it, but the little Roxbury

who was the Duke’s choice of bride Koscuisko did not know at all. It did not even

occur to him to wonder if she could make the Duke happy… but he did wonder very

much if she could be trusted.

In the service of his curiosity Koscuisko changed his coat once again, becoming

Davy Vaughn, a young ostler in Baron Misbourne’s service who was looking to find

another post due to a quarrel with His Lordship’s head groom. He was taken on at

Herriard House provisionally, and thus had every excuse to loiter about, the

household and hear the gossip that servants always had about those they served.

It was Davy Vaughn who searched the Duchess’s rooms quite thoroughly while

she was at Lord Ripon’s ball and failed to find even one scrap of sedition, and it

was Davy Vaughn who, loitering in the garden well past midnight, saw the startling

spectacle of a gently-bred young maiden in domino and ballgown scale the trellis to

enter the Duchess’s rooms. All of Davy’s cleverness was not sufficient to gain him

access to what transpired thereafter, but from his privileged position in the stables,

he was aware that the Duchess’s traveling coach was summoned and put to before

the sun had even begun to consider rising. And for a long journey, too – the

coach-footman was provided with musket and shot, and an outrider was given two

charged pistols and enough gold to secure many days’ changes of horses at the

coaching inns of England.

And so it was that as the Duchess of Wessex’s coach rolled away from her front

door, Davy Vaughn slipped out of her life forever, having discovered that the

Duchess’s midnight visitor was none other than Lady Meriel Highclere, Prince

Jamie’s dangerous inamorata.

An hour later Illya Koscuisko claimed his stubborn, heavy-boned grey from the

stables in Bond Street, and was away down the Holborn road in pursuit of Wessex’s

Duchess before the sun had cleared the church spires.

A traveling-coach is not the world’s fastest form of transportation, and Illya

Koscuisko, on horseback, could easily have caught up with and even overtaken the

vehicle early on, had he so wished. He was, however, much more interested in where

the Duchess and Lady Meriel were going – and why – so once he was certain that he

was on their trail he hung back, sparing Spangle as much as possible. As the sun

climbed higher, the coach left Holborne Road for the Dover Road, and Koscuisko

began to believe that a journey of some length was contemplated. But there was only

one likely destination when one embarked for Dover….

He followed the coach throughout the day, staying out of sight and riding across

fields to avoid coming to their attention. So certain was Koscuisko that Dover was

their destination that he nearly lost them when they turned west, away from the

bustling port city. By now night had fallen and a soaking drizzle had begun, so

Koscuisko was willing to follow the coach more closely, but he was relieved to find

tile coach stopped in Talitho. When he was sure of their destination, he rode back

up the road a ways and coaxed his tired mount to perform its favorite trick, and

made his formal entrance into the lives of the landlord and his goodwife as a wet and

irritable traveler leading a very lame horse.

The stableboy led the grey – who, with the soul of a thespian, was nearly bowing

now with each step – back toward the stables, promising poultices that would have

the animal ready to run in the morning. Koscuisko turned his attentions to the inn.

„I will of course require a private parlor,“ Koscuisko said haughtily. The persona

he would use on this occasion was one that had served him well many times

previously, that of private secretary to a gloriously-nonexistent Duke.

„Of course, sir,“ the innkeeper said, and escorted his esteemed (and

open-handed, for Koscuisko had tossed him a yellow-boy along with the demand)

guest to the private parlor at the back of the inn.

As Koscuisko passed through the common room he glanced about surreptitiously

for men in the Duchess’s livery, but saw no likely prospects.

The landlord rolled back the sliding door. A fire was already burning and the

room was warm. Koscuisko touched the surface of the table and found it slightly

damp, as if fresh-wiped. There’d been another occupant of this room, he’d be

willing to bet – and that recently.

„Is this your only private room?“ he demanded. „Have you nothing better?“

The innkeeper stuttered and stammered his way through a speech extolling the

parlor’s virtues; Koscuisko cut him off with another sovereign.

„Bah! I am going to the stables to see what those lunatics you doubtless employ

have done to my horse—-I shall expect dinner to be ready for me when, I return.“

Koscuisko strode from the common room of the inn. The inn had no other

parlors, and the town had no other Inns. He had seen the carriage stop here, and it

and its occupants hadn’t been out of his sight more than half an hour.

So where were they?

His spirits lifted momentarily when he entered the stableyard and saw the muddy

yellow-paneled coach with the Roxbury crest on its doors standing empty, but it was

only the small elation of being proved right. He still had to locate the Duchess and

her subversive ladyship. And as much as he needed to do that, he must find out

what time the tide ran tonight, and who was sailing on it.

Entering the barn, he found Spangle much recovered, a hot bran mash in his

nosebag and a groom working over him. When he saw his master, the grey picked

up his right fore and began pecking at the ground with it, as though the hoof was too

sore to put down. Koscuisko smiled. It had taken months to teach the animal that

trick, but it had been worm the effort. There were times when it was worth real

money to have a horse that could „go lame“ on command.

The grey was crosstied between two beams, because every other stall in the barn

was full. Six of the inhabitants were match bays, the excellent and high-mettled

horseflesh of the Duchess’s equipage. One was me outrider’s chestnut, and the

other three stalls were filled with local animals.

„See here, my good man,“ Koscuisko barked. „What d’ye think you’re about,

leaving the animal to stand in the draft like that?“

„I’m sorry, me lord,“ the ostler said, obviously willing to err on me side of the

conservatism in the matter of Koscuisko’s rank. „But h’it’s only for ah hour or so.

‘E’ll have a warm bed for the night.“

„An hour?“ Koscuisko affected outrage. „Turn one of those nags out and put my

horse in.“ He started toward the stall that held the outrider’s chestnut.

„Begging your pardon, me lord.“ The osder’s voice was anguished. „But those

‘orses belongs ter the Duchess of Wessex.“

Koscuisko stopped, as if struck by the force of the argument „The Duchess of

Wessex is here?“ he said. „And her servants?“

„I dessay young Simon might be about,“ the ostler offered. „The others is all

inside, a-having of their dinners. Hi! Jemmy! Go on up to the loft and fetch down

Her Grace’s Simon.“

The ostler’s apprentice, so addressed, came away from the horse he had been

grooming and began climbing the ladder to the loft.

„Are you mad?“ Koscuisko demanded in tones of outrage. „Do you think I came

out here to chatter with the servants? Just go on about your business and see that

he’s hale to travel in the morning.“ With a swirl of his greatcape, Koscuisko stalked

from the stable.

But he did not go back into the inn. Instead, he stood on Talitho’s High Street,

looking up and down. He could smell the scent of the ocean, and the riper scent of

trash fish left to rot on the beach even through the veils of soft ram that gave the

landscape a misty, unreal quality. It made visibility difficult, and though he strained

his eyes, he saw no sign of light except the vigil lights in the church up the hill and

the lanterns hung at the front of the inn.

Tne coach was here. The horses were here.

The Duchess was not Lady Meriel awoke to violent rocking and the overpowering

smell of fish. She opened her eyes and then wished she hadn’t, for the action

brought on a headache that made her gasp in protest „Awake, are you?“ There was

the sound of a lamp chimney being removed, and then a sudden wash of light over

the rocking walls of what Meriel realized must be a ship bound for France.

But why? Uncle Richard was fanatic about the restoration of the True Faith to

England, but France had not been a Catholic country since the Revolution banned all

churches nearly twenty years ago. Uncle Richard would never ally himself with the

Emperor.

But Uncle Geoffrey would. Uncle Geoffrey would do anything that would cause

someone else pain.

Having little choice, Meriel rolled over on the narrow bunk and sat up. The flare

of pain on her welted back anchored her further in consciousness. She looked up.

Uncle Geoffrey was standing beside the hanging lantern he had just lit, looking like

a rose-gold Satan. Meriel flinched involuntarily at the sight of the riding crop in his

hand.

He laughed. „Oh, you’ve earned yourself a proper hiding, my dear, but at the

moment I'm minded to be pleased with you. I'd never have winkled Wessex’s

Duchess out of her burrow half so neatly, and, I'm forced to admit, she’s of a lot

more use to me at the moment than you are.“

„But you’re certain you will find a use for me later,“ Meriel said bitterly. „How

did you find us? We were not followed – I made sure of that.“

Geoffrey laughed again. „I hadn’t the least need to follow you, my poppet: I've

read every letter you’ve posted since your dear father died and Dickon hatched this

cloudwitted scheme to make you Queen of England. Knowledge is never wasted, so

I've found, and what an inventive little plotter you are! So once the carriage turned

up at Vauxhall empty, I just assumed you’d bolted for Auntie and set my course

accordingly. Your precious blockade runner doesn’t give a fig what cargo he carries,

you know, so long as the price is right And I've found over the years that gold is

always right.“

Meriel hung her head. It had all been for nothing, and the brief illusion of freedom

she’d cherished was only that But in the midst of her despair, a faint spark of

defiance kindled and swelled within her. More than she wanted her own freedom, she

wanted to deny her tormentors the prize they sought „So you want the Duchess,“

Meriel said, making certain she sounded cowed and bitter. „But why?“

„Because the Duchess has a Duke,“ Geoffrey said. „And at the moment, he’s a

most inconvenient one.“

It was nearly midnight when the three of them were rowed ashore on the French

coast Sarah still slept heavily, for Geoffrey had given her more laudanum a few

hours into the voyage, something Meriel had not been able to prevent Now Sarah lay

on the sandy shore bundled in her traveling cloak, while Geoffrey waited for a

response to the message he had sent from the ship. He still carried the hoodwink

lantern in his hand, as if he thought to have further use for it Meriel crouched beside

Sarah’s slumbering form. Geoffrey had not bothered to drug her – one unconscious

female was burden enough, he’d said. Meriel knew that he was certain she was

cowed into submission, and she meant for her uncle to go on thinking so.

She also meant to run at the first opportunity – although she knew any apparent

opportunity would only be the illusion of a chance. Geoffrey had only to run her

down to capture her once more.

Therefore she must run when he was not able to follow. And she still had money,

gold coins in the pocket in her petticoat Uncle Geoffrey had overlooked that.

To Meriel’s disquiet, their signal was answered by men in French uniform. The

French Captain did not seem at all surprised to see such strange and ill-assorted

arrivals on the beach at this hour, and spoke for some time to Geoffrey in a French

too low and rapid for Meriel to follow, though she knew the language well. The party

was then brought to what was probably a local inn; the landlord, yawning and

unshaven, provided hot soup for Meriel and whiskey for Geoffrey. Their respite was

brief, however; by the time Meriel had finished the cup of broth, a carriage had

arrived, and once more the little party was on the move.

The miles passed slowly. As the sky lightened toward dawn it began to rain. This

was unusual weather for July, but Meriel blessed it; rain would help to cover her

escape. As they traveled on, Meriel stared out the window, wondering where she

was. She was too young to have memories of France in happier times and so had no

hope of discovering their location, but that did not dissuade her from her plans in the

slightest.

The sun was well-risen when the coach jolted to a stop in front of an inn of the

sort that catered to travelers. The rain had recently stopped, and the dampened

countryside was shrouded in veils of steam. The country here was pretty and rolling,

and in the distance Meriel saw the spire of a church. There would be a village

nearby, then.

She did not try to feign sleep, for Uncle Geoffrey would see through that ruse and

it would make him suspicious. Instead, she concentrated on projecting an air of

abject fear and dejection – it was not hard, for she could not see much future for

herself along any course she pursued. Spain and the dubious support of her

mother’s family was very fer away, and there were many perils set in the path of a

young girl on her own.

Still, she would not let Uncle Geoffrey win.

The coach rolled to a stop. There was bustle and rocking as the team was

unhitched and led away; the mounted French soldiers who accompanied them took

the opportunity to reconnoiter the taproom with an eye to refreshment and comfort

Geoffrey stretched, and leaned over to inspect his sleeping prisoner. Sarah’s hands

were icy and her breathing was slow, but Meriel believed that the dose of laudanum

was not fatal.

Satisfying himself that Sarah would not move, Geoffrey pushed open the door of

the coach. „I’m off to breakfast. As for you, poppet, wait right here, or Uncle will

be very, very angry.“

Meriel hung her head and did not answer. But as soon as her uncle was gone, she

pushed open the door on the far side of the coach and slipped out. Her borrowed

traveling boots slipped and squished in the inn-yard mud, and she clutched at the

frame of the carriage for support She did not like to leave Sarah a helpless prisoner

in Geoffrey’s hands, for she well knew his implacable cruelty. But her uncle had

claimed that Sarah was necessary to some plot he was hatching against the Duke of

Wessex, which must mean that he would not harm the Duchess.

Meriel had to believe that.

Carefully she closed the door of the coach behind her. The main road was at her

back, and behind the inn she could see the hedgerow that flanked the country lane.

Throwing the hood back – she dared not look as if she were skulking, should

anyone notice her – Meriel began walking toward the hedge.

She was nearly there when she was seen, by a soldier who preferred to take his

beer and bread in the fresh air, even if the weather was damp.

„Where are you going?“ the soldier asked in French, but his tone was curious, not

sharp.

„I have a necessity,“ Meriel replied in that same language. When the soldier took

her meaning he looked away, begging her pardon as the color rose in his cheeks.

Meriel walked briskly past him, in the general direction of the privy.

If Uncle Geoffrey knew his niece so well, then equally Lady Meriel knew her

uncle. Unwilling to share his information, intent upon keeping others in tile dark as

much as possible, why should he tell them that he did not trust his niece, and that

she must on no account be allowed to escape?

She’d gambled and won. Now let her luck only hold for ten minutes more….

The angle of the building now concealed her from the curious soldier, and Meriel

picked up her skirts and began to run. She reached the hedge and scrambled through

it, blessing the ever-practical Sarah for insisting on the nigh-indestructible Cotton de

Mmes traveling dress that she wore, and the stout boots that were on her feet.

Swathing her cloak tightly around her and gathering a fistful of skirts, Meriel hurried

in the direction of the village.

She could not get far before she was discovered; but Meriel knew that Uncle

Geoffrey had urgent business elsewhere, and she thought she could manage to hide

until her uncle could no longer afford to search for her. She hurried through the

town, assessing every building she saw in light of her needs. She could rely upon no

one to help her escape, for anyone might betray her to Geoffrey.

At last, nearly despairing of finding a haven, Meriel reached the old church at the

edge of the village. For an instant she considered seeking Sanctuary at its altar, then

dismissed the foolish romantic notion. That custom was centuries dead, and even if

it were not, Geoffrey Highclere did not respect man, God, or devil.

But the church was attached by a wailed garden to the residence of its abbé, and

at this hour of the day the garden was deserted. Meriel opened the little gate and

stepped inside, glancing fearfully toward the house. But no one had seen her.

Flitting through the garden like a feral ghost, Meriel found sanctuary in a

gardener’s shed at the foot of the garden. Gingerly she pulled open the door, fearful

of spiders, but even spiders were not as terrifying as her uncle. She slipped inside

and closed the door behind her, then groped through the darkness until she found an

empty corner. There she crouched down and settled in to wait. And as the slow

minutes passed and nothing happened, Meriel fell asleep.

„You can come out now, you know. He’s gone.“

With a gasp, Meriel snapped awake, heart hammering. The little hut was stiflingly

hot now, but a cool breeze wafted in through the open door, and slanting golden

afternoon light filled the dusty shed. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, but

her dazzled eyes could not make him out. As she struggled to her feet she became

tangled in her cloak, and fought the cloth as if it were a living tiling.

„It’s all right,“ the stranger said, taking her arm and raising her to her feet. „He’s

gone. He was looking for you, wasn’t he – the ill-tempered Anglais with the golden

hair?“

Meriel could see him now. He was at young man, near her own age, dressed in the

plain simple clothing of the country burgher. His toffee-colored hair was pulled back

in a short queue, and his blue eyes regarded her inquiringly.

„He’s gone?“ she asked, wanting to be sure of the most important thing first. She

spoke in French, as he had addressed her in that language.

The stranger smiled. „He has gone hours ago, Mademoiselle. I waited for you to

emerge, and then I Began to think that you meant to spend the night in Jacques’s

shed, and that certainly could not be allowed.“

Meriel shook out her skirts and attempted vainly to brush some of the dust and

dried mud from her draggled cotton gown. Her mind was working frantically, trying

to decide whether this was salvation or yet another form of trap.

„If you knew I was there, why did you not tell him when he came looking for

me?“

The stranger laughed. „Because I did not like him, Mademoiselle! And Père Henri

– I suppose I should say the Abbé de Condé, but he has lived here for so long that

everyone in Trois Vierges calls him Père Henri – did not know you were here, so he

was not forced to perjure his soul with lying, which is a very good thing,“ the

stranger said piously. „But now the Anglais is gone and I may present you to Père

Henri, so that we may all decide what to do. This is a very bad man you are running

from, Mademoiselle, is it not?“

„He is a devil,“ Meriel said with feeling. „If he should find me again, he will kill

me.“

„Alas,“ the stranger said. „There are many devils in France these days – but Père

Henri is very good at making sure that they do not find those whom they seek. And

now I shall present him – poor man! – with someone else to hide. Only – who shall I

say that you are?“

Meriel hesitated. But she very badly wished to trust someone, and this engaging

young man seemed as though he might be an ally. Still, she hesitated for a long

moment before she replied.

„Meriel ‘… Greye. Yes. Tell him that. But who are you?“

„You must call me Louis,“ the stranger said, smiling a little bitterly. „It is forward,

I know, but I have had no other name in our glorious Republic these dozen years.“

Chapter 16

The Lion in the Oak

As soon as Wessex had walked into the Parisian cellar, he’d known that this was

a trap. He did not recognize any of the members of this Underground cell – and he’d

been forced to use the cover of M. de Reynard in contacting them, knowing that the

Red Jacks had blown that nom de guerre months ago and that in all probability they

would know him for an English political agent. And so, it seemed, they did.

„Come in, M’sieur de Reynard… or whatever your real name is,“ the leader – a

brunette who must once have been beautiful but who now was merely striking – said.

„Do not try to leave – you will be dead before you do.“

„I’ve come for information,“ Wessex said evenly. „I am not one of the Red

Jack’s dogs.“

„It does not matter whose dog you are, if you are not ours, hein?“ the woman

said. „You will tell us what you know, and then… we shall see.“

„If I knew anything of interest, I would not have come to you,“ Wessex

responded. In his persona of the Chevalier, he wore a saber at his hip, and carried a

number of other little surprises about his person, but he did not wish to kill anyone

here tonight, much less attract undue attention. „Can’t we behave as reasonable

people? My people have always supported the Restoration of the true government of

France – you have worked with us before.“

„Times change,“ the hard-eyed brunette said. She seemed upon the verge of a

drastic decision, when suddenly there was a small commotion from outside the

door, and Victor Saint-Lazarre walked in.

He appeared taken aback by the sight of Wessex.

„Zette! What are you doing?“ he demanded.

„What I must, Victor,“ Zette replied stonily. „Do you think we dare to trust our

so-called allies at this time of all times? They would steal the bone themselves- – “

„Be quiet!“ Saint-Lazarre snapped. „Can we behave like the sans-cubttes and

hope to save France at the same time? This man is a friend – “

„This man has no name,“ Zette noted dryly. „He says he is the Chevalier de

Reynard – but the Chevalier de Reynard does not exist; he is a shadow cast by an

English spy.“

„I know this man,“ Saint-Lazarre said, gazing steadily at Wessex. „I will vouch

for him. He means us no harm and has done me a very great service.“ He turned his

attention to Wessex. „What have you come here for… m’sieur?“

So Saint-Lazarre was willing to keep his secret. Wessex spared a moment to feel

relief. But Saint-Lazarre knew he was the Duke of Wessex, and now knew him for a

spy. Try as he might, the Frenchman could not keep the expression of distaste from

his face, for a spy was the lowest of back-alley skulkers, and to find that a nobleman

had descended to such a level…

„I came to see if the rumors that the Tyrant was behind the disappearance of

Princess Stephanie of Denmark were true. Her ship has vanished, and I do not

believe that she is dead.“

„The little Princess who was to have sealed the treaty,“ Saint-Lazarre said. „She is

gone?“

„Her ship has vanished.“ Wessex admitted only what the whole world knew.

„And the Marquis de Sade is discovered as the Tyrant’s emissary at the Danish

court. What can he be doing there, I ask?“

„De Sade is a foul name indeed,“ Saint-Lazarre said, shaking his head in disgust

„But we cannot help you, m’sieur. The Princess is not in Paris. And I advise you to

go home, Englishman. France will determine her own destiny without England’s

help.“

And so Wessex had left Paris. But he had not gone home.

All his instincts assured him that Princess Stephanie had been kidnapped, and the

only power that could wish to abduct her was Imperial France. But the Princess had

not vanished alone. A Hundred-Gun Ship of the Line carried over eight hundred men

as its crew; over a thousand men and women had vanished with the Princess, and

Wessex did not believe that Bonaparte had executed them all… the little Corsican

was too canny a gamesman to have done that.

They must be somewhere. To search all of France for them was like searching for

a needle in a haystack. But where better to search for a needle than in a haystack

made of needles?

* * *

The medieval walled city of Verdun bestrode the road to Paris like an angry

colossus, but the colossus was a tame giant in the pay of La Belle France. Within the

city’s walls lay all those who did not swell the numbers within French prisons –

enemy soldiers on parole; neutrals who could not be allowed to pass; others who,

though prisoners, had not been judged enemies of the state.

If Avery deMorrissey had been able to escape from the place, Wessex mused, he

himself should certainly be able to get in. He lacked the papers that would allow him

to enter the city’s guarded gates as a bureaucrat or tradesman upon lawful business,

and hacl little interest in entering Verdun as a prisoner. The only remaining possibility

was a clandestine entry that eluded the sentries, and Wessex was considering how he

might effect one when his attention was caught by the sound of hoofbeats on the

road behind him.

Dismounting, he led his horse off the road into a small stand of trees. They would

not conceal him completely, but it might serve to screen him from casual attention.

A few moments later, a lone rider on a neat-footed grey gelding came trotting up

the road. The man was in uniform and cut a fantastic figure, from the leopardskin

saddlepad beneath his saddle to the arcing eagle’s wings that thrust skyward, making

a faint keening sound as they cut through the air.

Wessex stayed where he was. He was too far away to recognize the rider – and

many of those who wore that uniform now served Bonaparte – but the Andalusian

gelding was impossible to mistake.

Illya Koscuisko reined in. Spangle stopped, bowing and prancing.

„I do hope it’s you cowering there in the bushes, my dear fellow. I’d hate to have

to shoot another in a series of minor French bureaucrats in order to cover my

traces,“ Koscuisko said.

For a long time Sarah had only come near the surface of wakefulness before

being forced down again into darkness by the sick-sweet taste of laudanum. In her

mind, her drugged state became the insensate period just after the carriage accident,

when she had been reshaped by careful instruction into the semblance of the

Marchioness of Roxbury.

But now that shaping had fallen away, and having been caught so once, she could

not be beguiled so again. She was Sarah Cunningham of America – and it was that

peculiar stubborn independence of mind, forged in the aftermath of a war this world

had not experienced, that allowed her to force herself awake at last The drug still

anchored her body in the bed like the press of a heavy hand, and her head felt made

of lead, but at last she could open her eyes and think—-after a fashion.

Geoffrey Highclere had found her and Lady Meriel in Talitho, drugged them, and

brought them… where?

The room she lay in had the same impression of heavy stone and hint of damp

that Sarah associated with the chapel at Mooncoign, only here the sensation was

magnified a thousandfold. The bared plaster upon the walls was stained with

moisture, and in places the plaster had flaked away to reveal the grey shapes of

dressed stone beneath.

The ceiling was crafted of massive age-darkened beams, adding to the sense

Sarah was gaining that she lay within the walls of some medieval fortress. When she

at last managed to lift her head, she could see that a window – the sole source of

light in the room – was set deep into the opposite wall. Two cross-bars blocked off

that avenue of escape.

Groaning, Sarah levered herself into a sitting position. The room contained only

the bed she was on – a thing of delicate curved and gilded and enameled wood that

looked jarringly out of place in this rude medieval keep – and a rough wooden table

upon which sat a carafe of water and the ominous blue bottle of laudanum.

The upright position brought with it lightheadedness and thirst. She was still

wearing her traveling clothes, down to her cloak and shoes, and wondered how long

she had lain drugged. Her hair felt sticky and disheveled, and her feet had swollen as

she lay abed until they ached like a bruised tooth. Using the frame of the bed, Sarah

dragged herself to her feet, wincing at the pain. The room reeled savagely around

her, but she was determined to prevail. At last she managed to make her way over to

the barred window.

She was in a castle.

Outside her window, the tower wall dropped sixty feet to a stagnant moat almost

overgrown with water lilies. The landscape stretched soft and green, verdant with

summer growth. In the distance she thought she might be able to see the spire of a

village church, but she couldn’t be certain.

England… or elsewhere? Meriel had planned to go to Lisbon –

Where was Meriel?

Still light-headed and groggy, Sarah turned and looked around the room. No

Meriel. Sarah shook her head, trying to clear it. Mr. Highclere had meant to bring

both of them with him. Was Meriel being kept somewhere else?

Sarah ran her hand through her light brown hair, dislodging the last of the pins and

sending it cascading down her back in a tangled mass. Gould she get out of the

room to find out? Sarah studied the stout, iron-bound oaken door with misgivings.

She wasn’t certain she even had the strength to drag the heavy door open – and

what if it was locked?

She was spared having to make that discovery. There was a rattle of keys (so it

was locked!) and a groaning of unoiled hinges as the massive slab swung inward.

A young woman dressed in country homespun entered, carrying a large wooden

tray containing a bowl and a pitcher. Behind her came Geoffrey Highclere, neat and

immaculate in Revolutionary black. He looked like an elegant ferret, and Sarah felt

even more disheveled and grubby by contrast.

The servant uttered a distressed squeak at the sight of Sarah on her feet, and

scurried over to the table to set down the laden tray burden. Mr. Highclere merely

smiled.

„So you’re awake then, Duchess? Well it saves me the trouble of wakening you.“

„Where is Meriel?“ Sarah demanded with Yankee bluntness. If he expected fits or

vapors, Mr. Highclere was going to have to look elsewhere for them.

He smiled, obviously about to spin her some faradiddle, and Sarah’s frayed

patience snapped. „And the truth, if you please, Mr. Highclere! I am in no mood for

one of your Banbury tales.“

„You ought, you know, to be more conciliating,“ Mr. Highclere pointed out in

hurt tones. „After all, you are my prisoner.“

Sarah’s only response was an unladylike snort „Oh, get out, girl, and go tell the

Monsignor that he can talk to her now,“ Geoffrey snapped in French.

The frightened maidservant bobbed deeply and scuttled from the room.

Sarah faced Mr. Highclere. Her heart was fluttering frantically, but she knew that

her face was an expressionless mask, and that such a Sphinx-face would unnerve

him. Her enemy was a soft city-dweller, and he would not survive a day in the

boundless forests of her homeland. If she could only escape from this keep, she

could vanish into the French countryside beyond his ability to trace her. tcYou may

think you have the upper hand, but the Monsignor won’t care for that. He’ll break

you the same way he shells a walnut; he has but to tighten his fingers –

„And then he can eat me,“ Sarah supplied helpfully. „Well, while I must admit it

sounds a useful party-trick, Mr. Highclere, I can hardly see that it is of the least use

here. You are a traitor to England, Mr. Highclere, and while I have some passing

sentiment for traitors and revolutionaries, I cannot approve of the way you have

treated Lady Meriel,“ she said firmly, returning the conversation to the matter she

most wished to know.

„It is nothing to the way I would have treated her,“ Mr. Highclere snarled, „and I

hope the chit is dead in a ditch somewhere. She bolted from the carriage at the first

stop- – abandoning you, my dear Duchess – and I have not the least idea where -she

is now.“

„How very too bad for you,“ Sarah said commiserat-ingly.

Mr. Highclere’s face darkened with rage, and he moved toward her, hand raised.

Sarah stood her ground, braced for the assault. She had been a warrior of the

People, and if Mr. Highclere expected an easy conquest, he was quite misled. Sarah

expected to be the victor, and once he was immobilized, she would escape.

But her plan – and Mr. Highclere’s – was forestalled by the arrival of a dapper

young man in an immaculate unfamiliar uniform.

„Monsignor Talleyrand will see you now, M’sieur Highclere. And Madame la

Duchesse, as well.“

* * *

Sarah did not know that Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord held the

nickname in some circles of the Black Priest (only partially due to his unwilling

flirtation with holy orders), but she might have coined it herself upon reflection;

though the fair hair had since gone to silver and he was entering his sixth decade,

Talleyrand still had the sweet-faced innocence of a kindly village priest. He had

escaped the Terror by becoming its instrument, and when the wheel of bloody

Revolution turned, he had gone on to become an instrument of Imperial terror

instead.

He was dressed in a black coat like any clerk, his hands sheathed in black kid and

a black stock tied about his throat (some said he wore black because it showed the

blood less than a white linen cravat would – but fortunately Sarah had not heard

these tales). He sat in a plain wooden chair behind a plain wooden table in a room

upon the ground floor of the keep. An inkwell, pens, and paper stood on the table at

his elbow, as if he were a law clerk preparing to take a witness’s statement.

Sarah gazed about as she was brought into what once must have been the grand

salon. It was a chamber thirty feet by sixty, and had been beautiful once, but now the

salon held the same air of vandalism and neglect as the rest of the building – a pale

area on the bare wooden floor showed where a rug had once been, and many of the

panes of me row of long windows had been mended with parchment, casting the

room into a dolorous golden gloom. The ornamental plasterwork had been damaged,

and me wall-coverings ripped away. Someone had taken a hammer or a crowbar to

the immense white marble fireplace, so that its frieze of satyrs and cupids now stood

eyeless and maimed. No fire burned upon the hearth now, and despite the season,

the echoing room was cold.

„Good afternoon, Madame la Duchesse?“ Talleyrand said in flawless English as

Sarah was brought to a stop before his desk. „I trust you had a pleasant journey?“

„Oh, do stop all this play-actor foolishness,“ Sarah burst out in exasperation.

„You know very well I did not! I was kidnapped, and drugged – and if you do not

know what a head so much laudanum gives one, I shall be happy to enlighten you

upon that much, at least!“

„Madame has spirit,“ Talleyrand observed. „Such spirit as others have had, when

first they came before me. Not afterward.“

„If you brought me here only to kill me,“ Sarah observed with some asperity,

„allow me to point out that you have very many other people available to you for this

exercise, much more easily obtained than I. You went to a great deal of trouble to

get me here.“

„But you are here now,“ Talleyrand observed passionlessly.

„Yes,“ Sarah agreed. „And I should like to know why?“

„You did not explain?“ Talleyrand asked Mr. Highclere.

„I thought – That is to say – “ For the first time in their unwanted acquaintance,

Sarah saw Mr. Highclere at a loss for words.

„You did not think. Very good, Monsieur Highclere. I do not ask all of my agents

to think. You may go now. I wish to speak to the Duchess privily, and then I shall

have another commission for you.“

From the corner of her eye, Sarah saw dark color mount in Mr. Highclere’s face,

but he seemed unwilling to cross the man he had called Monsignor, and after a

moment Geoffrey Highclere managed to master himself enough to nod stiffly and

stalk from the room.

„And now we may be comfortable, madame,“ Talleyrand said, as if Sarah were

not left to stand in front of him, without even the refreshment of the bowl of gruel

that the maidservant had brought to the room. „And I shall explain matters to you.“

Sarah was tired. She was afraid, and becoming more so at the minute, for she

could sense that Tallyrand was a far more dangerous man than Geoffrey Highclere.

But her face showed nothing of this – she was cornered and at this man’s mercy,

but she would do as the porcupine and the skunk did in such situations.

She would bluff.

„I do not require your cooperation, so you may set your mind at rest upon that

head,“ the Black Priest said, when Sarah said nothing. „What I require is that your

husband come to heel and cease his quixotic quest.“

Talleyrand got to his feet and began to pace, speaking as if he were lecturing a hall

of students.

„You may perhaps not be aware that for some years the Duke of Wessex has

been King Henry’s chief political agent, a meddler without portfolio in the affairs of

sovereign nations: killer, blackmailer, thief – “

„He is, after all, English,“ Sarah said, a faint ironic note of explanation in her

voice. „But pray continue, sir. I collect that you have brought me here to transform

my husband’s character?“

Talleyrand stopped, and what seemed an expression of genuine amusement

transformed his fallen angel’s countenance.

„In a manner of speaking, my brave one. In the past few days I have been made

aware that Wessex’s latest adventure is a strike against the secret heart of France.

Monsieur le Duc wishes to accomplish his father’s commission and discharge the

duty that the late Duke his father died attempting to fulfill. Such filial feeling is often

admirable, Madame la Duchesse, but in this case I must deplore it. France’s affairs

must be left to France, and if the Duke of Wessex does not see the wisdom in this, I

am desolated, dear lady, to tell you that your life will be forfeit.“

Sarah’s heart sank, though her face did not show it She’d known there was

something smoky about her husband’s character – and frequent absences. But to

hear his crimes and his profession laid out so baldly…

„It would make more sense, surely,“ Sarah offered in a steady voice, „for you to

murder my husband. If you had a desire to accomplish your objective, I mean.“ She

forced herself to stand as still as ever she had stood while on the hunt This, too, was

a hunt of sorts… only who was the hunter, and who the prey?

„I will admit, madame, that here we touch upon a small difficulty,“ Talleyrand

said, stopping in his endless pacing to face her. His back was to the window, and his

black coat was spotted with gold and silver light falling through the glass and

parchment panes of the windows. His silver hair was haloed in metallic fire, and in

that moment he seemed less like a man than like some inhuman instrument of Fate.

„For you see, at the moment we have no method of placing this small matter

before the Duke your husband. We attempted to settle the matter of his inconvenient

life in Copenhagen, but we have received recent word from Paris that the Duke of

Wessex is still most troublesome alive – though, alas, still incommunicado. And

while he remains so, it will be a matter of the most difficult to explain to him that he

must surrender or receive your pretty head in a large box.“

Even Sarah could not keep from flinching at the particularly brutal image

Talleyrand’s words conveyed. Defiantly, she walked around the table and sat down

in the chair he had vacated. She folded her hands in her kip and raised her chin

boldly.

„He will be a difficult man to convince,“ Sarah said after a moment. „He does not

love me, you know.“ And even as she said that, a tiny part of her deep inside cried

out that it did not matter, because she loved him, the man she had crossed universes

to find….

Talleyrand walked over and stood directly before Sarah, gazing down at her with

a stern fond expression, as if he were her father confessor.

„My dear Duchess, no wonder you look so, as the English say, blue-deviled.

How could any man spurn a lady of such vivacity and breeding – not to mention

undoubted wealth? Truly this Wessex is not a civilized man. But do not concern

yourself: Wessex will certainly wish to preserve your life, for you are his wife. I

would hesitate to term this a matter of honor, something which no spy has, but

certainly his pride would be touched upon if I were forced to kill his Duchess. Alas,

madame, it is a weak reed, but it is all we have to rely upon, you and I.“

Sarah’s head hurt; she was tired, thirsty, and beginning to be hungry. And she

was becoming very weary of this man’s pretense that the two of them were allies of

any sort.

„You cannot possibly suppose that I believe I will escape this chateau alive?“

Sarah scoffed.

„Perhaps not, madame, but you will hope,“ Talleyrand said at last. „As we all

must hope, in these dreadful uncertain days.“

Without waiting for her reply, he went to the door and knocked at it. It opened,

and the same young soldier who had conducted her to mis room came to lead her

away.

„How did you get here?“ Wessex demanded of his errant partner. „And more to

the point – why? Did Misbourne send you? Has the Princess turned up?“

Koscuisko shrugged, looking oddly uncomfortable. „No, and no, but I can assure

you that Ripon’s guns have been rather neatly spiked as well. Lady Meriel is here.“

Koscuisko seemed to gather his forces. „And so is the Duchess of Wessex.“

For one appalled moment Wessex thought Koscuisko meant his mother, then he

recollected that it was Roxbury who was Duchess of Wessex now.

„She’s in France?“ he said rather blankly.

Briefly, Illya Koscuisko put Wessex in possession of such information as he’d

managed to piece together: the Earl of Ripon’s ball; Lady Meriel’s midnight visit to

the Duchess of Wessex; their flight to Talitho; Geoffrey’s Highclere’s sudden

arrival.

„I tracked down the blockade runner he used too late to stop the sailing, but

there’s no doubt it’s Highclere who made all the arrangements. And I’d lay a

monkey the Duchess didn’t mean to make the trip – not and abandon her coach and

servants. I found the maid in an upstairs room – drugged – and she told the tale that

they were running from Mr. Highclere. If that’s the case, they didn’t get very far.“

„Women!“ Wessex swore in furious exasperation. His mind was working rapidly.

„If Highclere has made for France, it does seem to argue that his heart isn’t quite

with his brother and the cause of the Old Religion.“

„Or that the plot had blown up – especially if the lady wasn’t as willing to play as

she was previously advertised – and Highclere was looking for a new paymaster.

He’s quite the loose fish by all accounts,“ Koscuisko said.

„Where did he take her?“ Wessex asked hopefully, but his only answer was a

rueful shrug.

„I waited for Captain Crispin to return and had him land me and Spangle at the

same location, the good Captain being a man of remarkably elastic principles when

hard coin is at stake. But we were a day behind them, and the trail went entirely cold

in a littie village about a day from here. So I decided to take a cold cast, and since

they might as well be held here at Verdun as anywhere…“

„Here you are,“ Wessex agreed. „And I’d had the same thought, regarding the

Princess and her suite. Shall we try our luck? Providing, of course, you have a plan

to get both of us past the city gate.“

„Well, as to that,“ Koscuisko said modestly, „I always have a plan.“

The Lieutenant of the Emperor’s newly-formed Bataillon Polonais de la Garde

Impériale rode up to the gate at Verdun with the fury of a young nobleman who had

lost his day and was late for his dinner. To be asked to present his papers was an

insult. He and M’sieur le Chevalier were attached to Talleyrand’s own Department –

it was impertinence even to question them. Did the gentleman – and the Lieutenant

used the term with all due disbelief – wish to send for his officer to meet the

Lieutenant with sabers in the woods nearby?

The outrageous bluff worked. Cavalry officers were frequendy detached from

their regiments to serve as couriers and messengers, and it was known throughout

France how highly Bonaparte valued his Polish troops, who added style and spirit to

what was, at this moment in time, the most broadly based multinational army in the

world. In the end, the guards saw what they expected to see, and Wessex and

Koscuisko passed through into Verdun.

„It won’t work for long,“ Wessex told his partner, as they rode up the street to

their assigned billet.

„I didn’t think you wanted to stay long,“ Koscuisko replied with elemental

simplicity.

Verdun was a city with every appearance of being under siege. Its wealthier

residences had become boarding houses for those who had the money to make their

incarcerations comfortable; the less fortunate were crammed into every crowded

corner of the medieval city. Every necessity of life was sold at a premium, and to

find one’s . self without money was to be tumbled into a life of an unspeakable level

of squalor.

The tension of the city’s inhabitants was a nearly tangible thing, composed of

narrow streets and patrolling sentries, of a. high wall and fates held in far-off Imperial

hands. When the war was over, the internees could leave Verdun. But whether they

would find a homeland to return to was another question for a day many of them

might not even live to see.

Wessex and Koscuisko checked in at their billet – despite the oppressive

crowding of the internment city, the provision for traveling officers was much what it

would have been anywhere in France – stabled their horses, and went on to a café to

plan their next move.

„Well?“ Koscuisko said bluntly, once he had been supplied with coffee and

cognac. He spoke French, though any other language would not have been out of

place here in this cosmopolitan city of refugees.

„You astonish me,“ Wessex said mildly. „We are in Verdun, and in desperate

need of gossip. Where else ought we to repair?“

There was a moment while Koscuisko digested this.

„Ah. I see. We are to visit Helicon, then.“

Wessex smiled.

* * *

Germaine de Staël, Baronne de Staël-Holstein, had been born in 1766 to a life of

wealth and privilege. An internationally acclaimed authoress, salonniere, and reigning

Toast of Europe’s intellectuals, she had been banished from France by the

Revolution and from Paris by the Directory. When that government fell in its turn,

Madame had returned at once to the Paris she so loved to become that most French

of paradoxes: an ardent Royalist who embraced the ideals of the Revolution.

In the name of both these loves, she had opposed every step Bonaparte had taken

toward the golden laurel crown of Empire, and when, two years before, he had

forbidden Madame to return to Paris, she had taken up residence in the walled city

simply to spite him, From Verdun she ran one of the most notorious underground

presses in all of Europe; according to rumor, its pamphlets and essays drove both

Napoleon and his unscrupulous handmaiden Talleyrand (satirized in the novel,

Delphine, which had occasioned her banishment) to utter distraction. Yet Bonaparte

dared not make himself appear altogether ridiculous by moving publicly against a

mere woman, one who, moreover, was a daughter of a hero of the Revolution,

banker Jaques Necker.

And so Madame de Staël recreated her famous Paris salons here in this

subjugated city, mocking the Emperor with her very existence.

It took Wessex and Koscuisko about an hour to reach Madame de Staël's house,

making their leisurely way through the streets of the city. Verdun as it had become

reminded Wessex of an Eastern city: crooked, crowded, and desperate. The butler

who opened Madame’s green-painted door was formidably correct in coquelicot

satin livery and powdered horsehair wig. The man did not so much as raise an

eyebrow at Koscuisko’s fantastic uniform, and took Wessex’s card in to his

mistress without a murmur. A moment later he was back to say that Madame would

see them both.

Wessex preceded his friend into Madame’s ground-floor salon.

The room had been painted with fantastic murals and furnished out of the

Arabian Nights. Trompe de l’oeil vistas recreated Madame de Staël's beloved Paris,

while the room itself was strewn with divans and cushions and contained ornaments

of the most fantastic nature, including an enormous green parrot chained to an ivory

perch and a tiny black monkey dressed in a copy of the servant’s livery which sat

upon Madame’s shoulder.

Now nearing her fortieth year, Madame de Staël was still a commandingly

handsome woman. Though the lustrous black curls turbanned in an Indian shawl

were touched with grey, she still retained the opulent figure and round white arms

that had made her known as much for her beauty as for her formidable intellect. She

extended a hand as Wessex entered.

„Reynard!“ she cried, in her hoarse beautiful voice. „So you are not dead!“

Wessex made a profound leg and bowed over Madame’s hand, kissing it

thoroughly. „Reports of my death – as so often – have been greatly exaggerated,

Madame. As you see, I journey instantly to your side to dispel them.“

„Willingly or no,“ Madame responded, darting a glance at his companion.

Wessex made the introduction, and Koscuisko launched into a voluble flood of

Polish. Wessex could not follow their conversation, but apparently Madame was

well enough versed in that language to be able to blush in it. She shook her head,

laughing.

„Abominable boy!“ she declared in French. „But it is good to know I am still

read.“

„Madame knows that her greatest triumphs are still before her,“ Koscuisko

responded gallantly, „and one hears rumors of a masterwork to come – a German

history?“

„Young flatterer!“ Madame declared roundly. „Yes, I am still writing – much as

That Man in Paris would wish that I were not. But come! We shall have tea, and you

may tell me all the news of the larger world which I am denied.“

For fully an hour conversation turned upon events in Paris and the Continental

war. Madame was not so uninformed as she would have herself appear, and her

reputation as the foremost conversante in Europe was well deserved. The discussion

ranged from the rights of man to the necessity of government, touching occasionally

upon the inequities suffered by Verdun’s internees. At last Wessex turned the

conversation toward the purpose of his visit.

„Shocking indeed. One wonders how much longer the Corsican can expect to

send people here without allowing any to leave. One feels there must be some limit to

the numbers poor Verdun can accommodate,“ he said.

„Indeed,“ Madame said, cutting a sly unbeguiled glance toward the man she knew

as the Chevalier de Reynard. „Not tihree weeks past we were forced to accept a

positive deluge of Anglais whose ship was blown ashore near Calais. And what is

most infamous is that it was a Danish ship, and though Denmark trades freely with

France, her officers were likewise imprisoned, her men impressed, their ship

impounded. It is more than shocking – it is infamous!“

„Infamous indeed,“ Wessex agreed smoothly, though his heart was racing with

the excitement of a fresh scent. „But no doubt a temporary annoyance? Once the

Captain applies to the Danish ambassador, his release and that of his crew are

assured, are they not?“

„So one would think, M’sieur le Chevalier, though the post from Verdun is read

by the commander of the garrison, and letters are often stopped. Yet if I were to tell

you that this was a consular vessel carrying members of the Royal family of

Denmark to a meeting in England to seal a treaty that would bring Denmark into the

Grand Alliance that opposes my poor France while she languishes in the grip of that

madman…?“

„Then I should not be surprised that Bonaparte holds this ship and all who sailed

hi her, for where Denmark goes, the rest of the League of Armed Neutrality will

surely follow,“ Wessex said. „Russia has already done so.“

„And Denmark dares not take the opposite side of a Russian quarrel, lest the Tsar

use the excuse to gobble her up – so!“ Madame said, snapping her ringers to

illustrate her point. „But they do not hold all those who sailed upon this ship. So it is

said,“ Madame finished. She selected a sweetmeat from the tea tray before her and

offered it to her costumed monkey. The little creature took the sugared walnut and

bounded away with the tidbit, retreating to the top of a gilt-framed mirror to devour

its treasure.

„If it is said, Madame, I make no doubt that it has been said to you,“ Wessex said

gallantly. „For everyone knows that you are the eyes, the ears, the conscience of

France. I do not doubt that it would be most diverting to make the acquaintance of

these folk. But only if they are entertaining. Saving yourself, Madame, who are an

oasis in a desert, I find myself nearly dead of boredom.“

„My poor Reynard!“ Madame cooed, and laughed her throaty laugh. „You will be

more than bored once you have spent a few weeks here.“

„Alas,“ Wessex said lightly, „I fear that my sojourn here is much briefer than that.

I vow that I have come only to see you.“

„But my dear man – “ Madame said, and stopped. „You will be leaving Verdun?“

„Almost instantly,“ Wessex said. „If the Jacks do not find me here, of course.“

Madame made a moue of distaste at the mention of the Red Jacks. „If it is as you

say, there is a trifling commission you can discharge for me, if you will. In return, I

promise to alleviate your boredom, if you will do me the honor of dining with me this

evening. And bring your handsome friend, of course.“

Extending one glittering, bejeweled hand, Madame achieved the yellow velvet

bellpull and rang it vigorously.

Wessex was already standing. „It will be the greatest delight of my heart,

Madame. You may depend upon it“

By any standards – let alone those of embargoed Verdun – the meal that evening

was lavish, beginning with clear soup and sherry and proceeding to the highest

pinnacle of the gastronome’s art They were seven for supper, and Madame had not

stooped to the empty conventionality of a balanced table. She was the only woman

present.

Koscuisko had shed his uniform for an evening suit of an even more peacock

splendor than his Hussar’s garb, and even the Chevalier de Reynard had found it

incumbent upon himself to blossom, in part, through the good offices of his fellow

internees, in an aubergine silk coat, oriental brocade waistcoat, and dove-colored

breeches ornamented with steel-cut buttons. The party might have been any

gathering in any metropolis – but there was always the undercurrent of tension

peculiar to the walled city.

And as Madame had promised him, Wessex was amused.

The party consisted of Wessex and Koscuisko, and four others: Captain Rytter,

formerly master of the Queen Christina; Lord Valentine Grant, the engaging

redheaded scion of one of England’s noblest families; a Belgian divine named

Poirot; and Sir John Adams, King Henry’s envoy to the Danish court. Dinner was

conducted in French.

Wessex studied Sir John closely, thanking his lucky stars that he and Sir John had

never formally met. It would not do for Sir John to know him as the Duke of

Wessex when he was here upon the pretext of being the Chevalier de Reynard – but

then, even if Sir John should recognize Wessex, the old fox was far too sly to tip his

hand. King Henry’s envoy had this very year achieved the Biblical threescore and

ten, but his gadfly vigor showed no sign of abating. He had been born in England’s

North American colonies, and his forthrightness and persistence had seen . his rise in

the Foreign Service to this most delicate of all posts. If Sir John was in any wise

discomfited by this abrupt change in his fortunes, Wessex could discern no sign of

it.

And Captain Rytter’s presence at Madame de Stael's table was living proof that

Wessex had been right The Christina had been somehow waylaid, and shipwrecked

on the inhospitable shores of France.

It was not unreasonable that conversation should dwell upon such an unfair

misfortune, and so Wessex learned that the Christina had sailed into a fogbank, only

to sail out of it upon the coast of France, hundreds of miles from heir last position.

„And I am afraid the French did not believe anything of my explanation,“ Captain

Rytter said regretfully. „For we were taken and boarded over our protests, the men

impressed and the rest of us sent here to Verdun. I am afraid that the Kronprinz

must consider this an act of war; Denmark is neutral and to violate her flag is an act

of arrant piracy.“

„And so he will, should he ever happen to hear of it,“ Lord Valentine said. The

youngest son of the Duke of Hurley, Lord Valentine had been encouraged to leave

home at an early age and never return, as his politics were quite at odds with his

father’s. „But I daresay Boney don’t want him to know. If anything’d make the

Danish lion lie down with Britannia, snabbling the Prince Regent’s daughter off the

high seas would do it“

„But we are fortunate that he did not,“ Captain Rytter said. „The Princess was

aboard the Trygve Lie, and we have heard nothing to say she did not reach port

safely.“

Wessex kept himself from looking at Koscuisko. His partner had been aboard the

Christina’s sister ship and was prepared to swear that Princess Stephanie had not

been on the Trygoe Lie. Instead Wessex looked toward Sir John, who, of all the rest

of those gathered tonight at this table, must know that Captain Rytter was lying.

„Indeed, though it was impossible to persuade our friends of that as well,“ said

Sir John blandly, in his fluid diplomatic French. „The Princess’s ladies-in-waiting

and gentleman ushers were aboard the captured ship, and a detachment of her

regiment, but they were wholly unable to produce the Princess, no matter how

diligent their search. Captain Rytter, of course, told the French she was not aboard.“

He shrugged. „I dare to swear their powers of comprehension were not above

ordinary.“

„So Princess Stephanie has made her way to safety,“ Koscuisko agreed

cheerfully. „What a very good thing, to be sure.“

At the end of the meal, Madame de Staël rose promptly.

„I shall leave you gentlemen to – briefly – punish the port, as I know that Sir John

and Lord Valentine are English and would fall into despair if this custom were not

followed. But I shall expect you to be brief, and the Chevalier I shall take away to

bear me company while I wait.“

Wessex obediently rose and followed Madame from the dining salon. However,

she did not conduct him to the grand salon, but rather to her private study on the

floor above.

„Are you most certain, M’sieur le Chevalier, that you wiH be leaving Verdun

within the next few days?“ Madame de Staël demanded.

„I think I can promise you absolutely that I shall be away by the end of the week.

To prefer one place over another becomes tedious over time, do you not find?“

Wessex said smoothly.

„Then I will give you this. It is a manuscript that I wish to see published – in

France.“

From a secret compartment in her desk, Madame withdrew several thick sheaves

of paper inscribed in a fine copperplate script. She piled the pages together, forming

a bundle nearly a foot thick, and began making it fast with red waxed string. „It is my

latest work – based upon my journeys in Italy. Corinne will show the world that I am

not to be forgotten!“

„If you can obtain the imprimatur. The Minster of Police will surely have

something to say about that,“ Wessex observed mildly.

Madame threw back her head and laughed. „And so he should, if he knew that it

was by my pen! That! for Fouché – I have it in mind to let him know that this is by

my hand only after the edition has been circulated, and see how he weathers the

charity of his Corsican master! But first the manuscript must be taken to a publisher

and prepared for press.“ . „Dear lady,“ Wessex protested, slightly alarmed.

„Oh, do not fear, Monsieur le Chevalier, I do not have you in mind for my

go-between. I have for some time been in correspondence with a certain religious

gentleman possessed of a noble and open mind; you have but to take this parcel to

the village of Auxerre and give it into the hands of the innkeeper there; Père le Condé

will call for it in good time – and I shall be spared the tedium of recopying it when

the so-tiresome commander of our lovely city loses my package, as he has done so

often before. Will you help me, M’sieur le Chevalier? It would seem you have been

sent by the very Spirit of Liberty to aid me.“

„When such a beautiful – and formidable – woman makes such a gracious appeal,

what can any man do but lay himself down in her service?“ Wessex answered

grandly. He needed Madame de Staël’s help – though she had been of great

assistance to him already in gaining him access to Sir John – and he relished the

opportunity to tweak the noses of the bureaucratic butchers who were currently

stifling the life of the mind here on the Continent „Then I will wrap this with my own

hands for you against its journey,“ Madame said. „I dare not trust the manuscript to

my maid – there are spies everywhere, and many within my own household. But for

now, we have the whole of the night before us, and I have invited a few of my

particular friends to call. Let us banish care.“

The party broke up long past midnight, after a glorious evening of Olympian wit

and sparkling talk. Some twenty members of Verdun’s society – free-thinking men

and women both – had made the walls ring with epigrams and laughter, and even

Wessex had been able to lay his cares aside for a while.

He had not been so rash as to attempt to approach Sir John at the garnering, but

as housing was a frequent subject of discussion, it had not been difficult to discover

where Sir John lived. Wessex had made plans to visit that location as soon as it

might be arranged.

As Wessex was making his good-byes, Madame handed him a large,

oilcloth-wrapped bundle.

„Your books, Chevalier. Be sure to return them to me soon,“ Madame said.

„You may depend upon it, my dear Baronne?“ Wessex said. „In fact, I shall

exert myself to return them a thousandfold.“

When Wessex returned to his billet, Illya Koscuisko was there before him,

lounging on the bed in shirt and trousers.

„You’ve been shopping, I see,“ Koscuisko said, indicating Wessex’s package.

„Something that may be as damaging to Bonaparte – in the long run – as a couple

of companies of heavy artillery,“ Wessex answered, setting the oilcloth-wrapped

bundle containing Madame de Staêl's manuscript down on his bed. „We are

encouraged to bring it to a little town named Auxerre.“

„I know the place,“ Koscuisko said. „A village about one hundred and eighty

kilometers outside Paris. Madame has friends there who will surely help her work see

print But is this quite the direction we are bound in, one wonders?“

„I shall know better once I have seen Sir John,“ Wessex said. As he spoke,

Wessex began changing his evening finery for the more sober coat and breeches he

had worn that day – but he did not put the coat on immediately.

First he turned the garment inside out – it was lined, not in silk or satin, but in soft

black moleskin that ate the light There were small black horn buttons on the reversed

lapels as well, and when Wessex had put the coat on and buttoned the collar into

place, he was wearing a sort of black tunic closed high up to the neck. He turned the

cuffs down over his hands, and then the dark moleskin tunic covered his white shirt

completely; he would be invisible in dim light.

The boots Wessex donned were rubber-soled, permitting a noiseless movement

and a certain ease in scaling the walls of buildings.

Koscuisko rummaged about his luggage and produced a curiosity: an unfringed

shawl of black gauze. Sheer enough to see through, the shawl’s swaddling folds

would dim the whiteness of Wessex’s skin and the brightness of his blond hair,

allowing him to become even more a phantom of the night. Wessex thanked

Koscuisko with a curt nod and began swathing himself in the veiling.

„And what am I to do, while you are frightening the amiable Sir John out of

several years’ growth?“ Koscuisko enquired.

Wessex paused to slip a long knife into one boot and to wrap a primed pistol

carefully in his handkerchief before sliding it inside his coat.

„You, my son, will be figuring out some way to get yourself and bom our horses

out of the city again – not forgetting Madame’s parcel – without raising the view

halloo. There’s an inn a few miles west of here – I’ll be there by dawn.“

„And if you aren’t?“

„Then for God’s sake take Madame’s package on to Auxerre for me, and men

get home as quick as you can. Misbourne needs to know that Princess Stephanie’s

entourage is here in Verdun. The captain was lying – she was on that ship – and I

hope Sir John can tell me why. But the information that she is here is of vital

importance.“

„And what of the Duchess?“ Koscuisko said. „Highclere has kidnapped your

wife.“

For a moment Wessex’s face went very still, but when he spoke his tone was

unchanged. „Get the information to London and the manuscript to Auxerre, there’s a

good fellow. I’ll join you as quickly as I can.“

But for all his cavalier dismissal of his Duchess’s fate, Wessex could not stop

thinking of the woman he had married as he made his careful way across the

rooftops of Verdun to a meeting with King Henry’s envoy.

The deep game his wife had been playing had proved successful – she had turned

Lady Meriel and drawn the girl away from Prince Jamie’s side. Sarah, Lady Roxbury

– now Duchess of Wessex – was a member of the Boscobel League, sworn to serve

the person of the King before her country or her crown, and so she had done. The

king was safe from the assassination that Lord Ripon must surely have contemplated

once he felt Prince Jamie was safe in his marital trap.

But now Sarah was in danger, imprisoned somewhere in France. Kidnapped by

Ripon’s ill-mannered younger brother – had Geoffrey Highclere somehow

discovered who she was? – and spirited away for reasons unknown.

Sarah might already be dead.

Wessex set his jaw. He dared not think about that now. If he did not find Princess

Stephanie, the Danish Treaty would collapse. Denmark would become Bonaparte’s

foothold on the Scandinavian countries; the Tyrant’s bridgehead from which to

launch a Russian invasion.

That must not be.

Over the last several years Wessex had made it his business to know the streets

of Verdun very well indeed, and he found Number Ten Rue de la Paix without

trouble.

Even in the summer’s heat, the rooftops of the city were largely deserted, owing

primarily to the sentries’ habit of shooting at anything they saw moving mere. Their

muskets did not have such range as to make it likely they would hit anything beyond

three hundred yards, but even a spent bullet could kill.

And so the rooftops remained empty.

Sir John, as one of the latest whom the poor city must somehow find room for,

had been given an attic bedroom, and the shutters of his windows were open against

the heat of the night. Wessex made short work of descent from the rooftop through

the open window.

The room was empty.

„I have very little worth stealing,“ Sir John Adams remarked from behind the

wardrobe. He was in nightshirt and cap, with a fireplace poker clutched in one hand.

„Your countrymen have been remarkably efficient.“

„Not my countrymen, Sir John,“ Wessex drawled, straightening from his crouch

and turning to face the envoy.

„You’re English!“ Sir John exclaimed, his eyes first widening, then narrowing as

he recognized his dinner companion from earlier in the evening.

„King Henry sent me to discover what happened to the Queen Christina and

Princess Stephanie,“ Wessex said. „It’s a pity I can’t show you a Royal

Commission, but I left that with Prince Frederick in Denmark. He was as cordial as

you may imagine.“

„And what brought you here?“ Sir John said, his tone cautious.

„I was possessed of the liveliest curiosity as to why Bonaparte should have

despatched the Marquis de Sade as envoy to the most straidaced court in Europe,“

Wessex said. „It occurred to me to imagine that his reputation for sorcery may not

be entirely undeserved.“

„That-fog was a thing of the devil, right enough,“ Sir John muttered. Gathering his

dressing gown from a nearby chair, Sir John swathed himself in its folds and sat

down. „And you’ve come here – why? After this evening’s masquerade, ‘Chevalier

de Reynard,’ I can hardly imagine that you are here to treat with the garrison

commander for my release.“

„I’m afraid not,“ Wessex agreed, „though I will certainly tell the King that you are

here in Verdun, and perhaps pressure can be brought to bear. For that matter, His

Holiness will not approve of Bonaparte’s employing sorcerers, and even these days,

France is still very much a Christian country. But what I wish to know is, where is

the Princess?“

Sir John sighed, and seemed to age years in seconds.

„I only wish I knew,“ John Adams said.

„When we came out of the fog,“ Sir John continued, „at first we were not at all

certain of where we were. The navigator shot the sun, of course, but it was some

time before any of us could believe what the ship’s instruments told us. By then we

had been sighted by a French patrol, and the outcome of that was only a matter of

time. The Christina fought well – I will give Captain Rytter that – but she was

outgunned, three against one.“

„By the time she struck her colors and stood to for boarding, it was late

afternoon. The women had been belowdecks for hours, with a couple of Kongelige

Ihgank there to defend them – we sailed, with a full company: sixteen men.“

„The French must have thought we were a spy ship, or a particularly foolhardy

smuggler. They swarmed over us; there was some fighting hand-to-hand. It took the

French Captain nearly an hour to restore order. He seemed convinced that we were

leaving France, having taken on passengers; when we managed to make him

understand that we were a consular ship that had somehow found herself in French

waters I do not think he believed us, but he was so relieved that the Dauphin was not

aboard that – “

„The Dauphin!“ Wessex could not keep from exclaiming. „King Louis?

Ridiculous; the boy died years ago.“

„So I had always understood,“ Sir John said, waving his hand to dismiss the

matter, „but me Captain seemed obsessed with the notion that we had the Lost King

somewhere in our luggage. At any rate, by the time order was restored and I was free

to go and attempt to explain to the Princess what had happened… she was gone.“

Wessex waited, but there was no more.

„Gone?“ he said at last. „Gone where?“

„Vanished, my dear boy,“ Sir John said. „Vanished from plain sight and the midst

of her entourage. When the Captain and I went below to escort the Princess up on

deck, she was not there.“

Then where am I supposed to look for her? With a significant effort of

self-control, Wessex kept from speaking the words aloud. Every instinct told him

that Sir John Adams was speaking the truth – at least as Sir John knew it.

„And none of her entourage were able to tell you where she had gone?“ Wessex

finally asked.

„My dear young man,“ Sir John said, „I have exerted my wiles on kings, tsars,

tyrants, and princes – but it is quite beyond me to impose order on a dozen weeping

women all wailing in Danish and of the unshakable opinion that they are about to be

sold into the Grand Seraglio of the lustful Turk! I have spoken to several of the

women since, of course, and their story remains the same: they don’t know where

the Princess is, or where she could have gone.“

„They’re lying, of course,“ Wessex said.

„I imagine so. But there is one thing of which I am certain, and that is that the

French have no more idea of Princess Stephanie’s location than I do.“

„That is something at least. Very well, Sir John, I will leave you to an undisturbed

rest. I shall convey to the king news of your situation as soon as possible.“

„There is a letter I have written to Lady Adams, which I should be most obliged if

you would convey to her for me. Dear Abby! If she were only with me, I dare swear

we should have routed those Frogs.“

Or at least would now know where Princess Stephanie was, Wessex thought

dourly. He accepted the neat wax-sealed billet from Sir John and tucked it into his

coat beside the pistol.

„I shall convey your letter – and your regards – to your lady as soon as

possible,“ Wessex said. „But now I must bid you farewell, for it has been a long

night already and I have still to break out of this cursed city.“

Sir John chuckled at that. „Then be on your way, my nameless friend-i-and I hope

we shall meet again under more pleasant circumstances!“

Chapter 17

The Once and Future King!

The small bedchamber was tucked up beneath the eaves of the country house,

and from its open windows Lady Meriel could see the riotous abundance of the

Abbé de Condé’s garden and the beautiful grey stone of the small church beyond

drowsing in the golden evening light. The little village of Trois Vierges looked just as

it might have appeared a hundred years before, as if neither the Terror nor the new

Empire had been able to harm it.

The room smelled of lavender and fresh linen – Madame Carmaux had been all

that was kindly and efficient when Louis had come into the kitchen trailing Meriel like

some stray kitten. It was Madame Carmaux who had bundled Meriel off to the guest

room with a bowl of soup and a glass of sherry, and announced firmly that Louis

and Père Henri’s inquisition must wait until the little maiden had set herself to rights.

Now Meriel was clad in a borrowed dressing gown, the housekeeper having taken

away her clothing to make it as presentable as womanly possible after its adventures.

Meriel had gladly taken the opportunity to refresh herself; to wash her face and

comb out her long black hair before braiding and pinning it up once more. And the

thick nourishing soup had done much to restore both her equilibrium and her spirits.

She turned away from the window to regard herself in the green-turned,

fly-spotted mirror that graced the door of the enormous mahogany wardrobe. An

etherial fantôme returned her gaze.

Lady Meriel was aware of her own beauty – she had been raised to be constantly

aware of it, first as a spiritual obstacle to be overcome and then as a lure to entangle

young Prince James in her uncle’s web. Now, as she studied herself, Meriel

wondered if there were anything more to her than this accident of comeliness. For

the fresh beauty of youth would fade with time, and then -what would she have left?

Who would she be?

There was a knock upon the door, and Madame Carmaux entered, with a bundle

of clothing over one stout arm.

„Ah. A little soap and water soon puts things to rights, eh, mademoiselle?“ the

housekeeper said, laying out her burden on the bed.

„Yes, indeed,“ Meriel agreed warmly. She smiled at Madame Carmaux. „I am

very grateful for your hospitality.“

„It is of the most improbable that you are one of the Black Priest’s spies, being

English as you are,“ Madame Carmaux said. „If, of course, the blond English was

indeed your uncle, as he swore himself to be to the good father.“

Meriel sighed, knowing that she would have to explain herself sooner or later –

and servants were apt to be much more concerned with propriety than their masters.

„He did not lie,“ Meriel said with a sigh. „He is my uncle, but he is a very wicked

man. He will surely return to search for me again.“

„As to that, no doubt he will find what he deserves,“ Madame Carmaux said

placidly. „But there! I am an old fool to worry you so when a good dinner awaits

you. But I must tell you that your dress will not be ready for you until tomorrow –

and perhaps some of the stains will not come out at all,“ the housekeeper added

darkly. „I have brought you some of my daughter’s clothes, which will suit you for

tonight.“

Madame sorted through the bundle she had brought, laying aside a nightcap and

gown for later use, and flourishing a slightly old-fashioned dress of sprig muslin with

a wide deep neckline, a ruffled lawn fichu, and a warm woolen shawl.

„You are very kind,“ Meriel said again.

„It is a sad thing to be hunted like the hare in the spring,“ the older woman said. „I

shall send Jeanette to you to help you dress, then she will bring you to Père Henri’s

study.“

When Meriel knocked and entered, she did not see the Abbé de Condé at first.

Tall leaded-glass windows were open into the garden. A white cat drowsed on the

sill in the last rays of evening sun, and the enormous carven oak table that dominated

the room was covered with books and papers. Sudden tears prickled in Meriel’s

eyes. Somehow this room reminded her of her father and her home, and of how safe

she had once felt. Sternly she suppressed the traitorous emotion. Lady Meriel had

long since learned that she had no one to depend on save herself.

„Ah, there you are, my child. Come in, and let me look at you.“

The Abbé de Condé was a tall, slender, regal-looking man, with swept-back silver

hair that owed none of its color to wig or powder. It was impossible to judge his

age, but whatever his years, his piercing blue eyes were as keen and sharp as those

of a much younger man. The Abbé wore a black soutaine, its hem sweeping the

floor, and a large gold cross upon his chest The ring of his office circled the first

finger of his right hand; a violet stone glinted dully in the dim light.

„Are you a believer, child?“ the old priest said.

„I… yes, Father. I am a Catholic,“ Meriel said diffidently.

„And what brings you to my garden?“ he continued.

Meriel was attempting to bring the tangled threads of her story into some

semblance of order when there was a knock on the door.

„Ah,“ Père Henri said. „That will be Claude with the candles.“

But it was not Claude with the candles. It was Louis, the young man who had

found her in the shed, who entered. Louis carried a massive candelabrum in each

hand; he set them down on the table.

„Marie says you will go blind entirely, working here in the dark,“ Louis said. He lit

the candles with a spill kindled at the room’s one lamp, and once the candles were all

alight, setded himself upon the edge of the table with every air of intending to remain.

„Louis – “ the Abbé said warningly.

„I found her,“ the young man said stubbornly, „and – I should very much like to

hear what Mademoiselle has to say.“

„I don’t mind,“ Meriel said. „I have little to hide.“

* * *

But if she had little to conceal, the household was her opposite. For there was a

great secret here, Meriel realized later, when the small household was seated at

dinner. When he had heard her story, Père Henri had agreed that of course Meriel

must stay with them until such time as her aunt Maristella in Madrid could send for

her. Of the fate of her companion – Meriel had been reluctant to mention that Sarah

was the Duchess of Wessex, and neither Louis nor the Abbé de Conde had pressed

her upon any point – they had been unable to speculate, though the Abbé had

promised to make discreet inquiries as to Geoffrey Highclere’s destination. But it

was quite impossible, so the priest assured Meriel, that she should send a message

to England.

„We are at war with England,“ Père Henri had said mildly. „And we dare not

draw attention to ourselves here in Picardy. We are not so far from Paris as all that,

and the Emperor might at any time remember that he is only a friend of the Church

when she comes bearing gifts.“

Meriel had hung her head, unwilling to press the issue though determined that she

would find some way to aid her friend. But tomorrow would be soon enough to

think of that. For now she was willing to be diverted by the far more agreeable

mystery of young Louis.

Everything about him bespoke aristocratic blood – blood as blue as de Condé’s,

who had been a prince long before he had become a prince of the Church, as so

many younger sons were. Meriel knew that it was de Condé’s induction into holy

orders that had saved his life when so many of the rest of France’s Royal family had

died. Though many members of the Church had died in the bloodbaths that had

characterized the nineties – for the Jacobin mob had drawn little distinction between

princes of this world and the next – those with quiet country parishes far from

Court, such as de Condé’s, had weathered the storm of atheism until Napoleon had

found it politic, as First Consul, to court Mother Church once more.

But that did not resolve the puzzle of Louis.

Marking the strong resemblance between him and the old priest, she wondered if

he were in fact the Abbé’s natural son, but the words Louis had spoken to her in the

garden still teased at her mind.

„I have had no name in France these dozen years."

No. Not a by-blow. Something more magnificent, and far more dangerous.

Meriel was not willing to construct such a fabulous cloud-castle without more

proof than her own wild surmises, however. There was a great distance between

knowing that Louis had the look of the Bourbons about him and deciding that he

was Louis-Charles, the lost boy-king who had vanished amid the bloody chaos of

the Revolution.

It was more likely, in fact, that Louis was not the true Dauphin at all, but merely a

young man groomed to impersonate the heir to the throne of France; a pawn for the

French Royalists to use in another of their so-far-fruitless series of countercoups.

She had never thought she would bless all those tedious frightening hours spent

sitting quietly while her uncles wrangled about plot and counter-plot; of the Catholic

support they could expect from Scotland and the possibility of a separate peace with

France. But those long hours had left her able to see the Matter of Europe as a great

chessboard, its playing-pieces interlocking in infinite combination. To return the lost

King of France to the chessboard of Europe would dissolve old alliances and make

new ones. Louis XVII’s importance was so great it hardly mattered whether he

actually existed or not….

And so Lady Meriel bided her time, through the soup, the fish, the roast, the

savory, the sweet, and at last the cheese, keeping her own council and turning over in

her mind how she might prove – or disprove – her theory.

When she excused herself from the table and went into the garden, Meriel was not

surprised to find that Louis sought her out not so very much later. Her beauty was

her currency, and Meriel could wield that beauty as a soldier might ply his sword.

„I came to see if…“ Louis began.

„Your Majesty,“ Meriel said, sweeping the startled young man a deep curtsey.

She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes, knowing that the light from the house

fell upon her face and turned her skin to lambent cream.

Louis drew back as if Meriel had transformed herself into a viper upon the spot.

„How – How did you – “ he stammered.

„You have the look of your uncle – if he is your uncle,“ Meriel said. She rose

gracefully to her feet.

„A cousin, not an uncle,“ Louis said. „A distant cousin, who endangers himself

by sheltering me.“ He regarded her unhappily. „Perhaps you are one of the Black

Priest’s agents after all. Have you come to number the days of my life, then?“

Abruptly Lady Meriel lost all appetite for the game she was playing with him.

„I have no desire to harm you… Your Majesty. But I have no taste for plots and

secrets, and if you are entangled in one I will not remain here. There are things I did

not tell your cousin the Abbé earlier.“

To her own surprise, Meriel found herself confiding the whole of the truth to

Louis – about the plot her uncle Ripon had hatched to snare Prince Jamie of

England, of her flight with the Duchess of Wessex’s help –

„Wessex!“ Louis exclaimed „I remember the Duke of Wessex – he came when I

was just a boy, to save me from the sans-culottes. Is this his daughter, then?“

„The wife of his son, I think, for I have heard that the old Duke disappeared in

France years ago. My uncle Geoffrey thinks the current Duke is a political agent for

the king, and has taken Sarah as a hostage for his good behavior – only I do not

know what it is that he is doing that Uncle Geoffrey has taken in such dislike,“ Meriel

finished faintly.

It was such a relief to tell the whole truth to someone at last that Meriel hardly

cared at this moment whether Louis was the rightful King of France or not She

thought that he might be – the reason for the old Duke of Wessex’s disappearance

was certainly not a matter of public knowledge. But if the son were a political agent,

it was not unlikely that the father had been as well.

„Do you think the Duke will come to France to rescue his Duchess?“ Louis

demanded eagerly. Meriel stared at him, baffled.

„I… suppose he will. Uncle Geoffrey must have some notion of how to reach

him,“ Meriel said uncertainly. But was that true? Why, even Sarah hadn’t had any

idea of her husband’s whereabouts’.

„Then perhaps he will aid me, as his father tried to do,“ Louis said, „listen, ma

petite – you know who I am.“

„I know who you wish me to believe that you are,“ Meriel answered cautiously.

Louis dismissed such equivocation with a wave of his hand.

„The soi-dissant rightful King of France – as if France can ever again be what she

was,“ Louis said with wistful scorn. „Even if the Tyrant died-tomorrow, how could I

bear to rule those who killed all my family? No. If France will have no more of kings,

men this king will have no more of France.“

„You don’t want to be king?“ Meriel asked cautiously.

„I am the king,“ Louis corrected her gently, „but I do not wish to rule. Perhaps

the English Duke can help me.“

„He will take you to England, to live under King Henry’s protection and form a

government in exile,“ Meriel said with bitter cynicism. „Is that the help you want?“

„Should you like such aid, in my place? No, ma petite, I have said I am done with

France. If the Duke of Wessex can smuggle me out of this country which once was

mine, I will take the first ship I can find and go to the New World. They do not care

so much for old blood there, and there the world is wide. There, at last, I can make

my own fortune.“

Meriel gazed at the young king, dazzled by the audacity of his vision. Shyly, she

extended her hand. „I hope you may achieve your dream, Your Majesty.“

„You must call me Louis, my brave one – the Emperor would be very cross with

you if you insist upon giving me a tide long since revoked.“ The young man smiled

slightly at his own joke. „But the first thing that falls to us, I think, is the rescue of

your friend.“

„Could de Sade have spirited Princess Stephanie away just as he did the

Christina?“ Koscuisko asked idly.

Kosciusko and Wessex rode southwest, toward Auxerre and away from the grim

walls of Verdun. Madame de Stael's manuscript was in Wessex’s saddlebag, and the

letter from Sir John Adams was tucked inside his coat. There was no point in

concealing either document. If they were stopped, the two of them would have more

troubles than a there set of seditious papers could place them in.

„To what location? The man is too foolish to be playing a double game, and I

would bet my soul that the lady isn’t in Paris. Sir John said the Princess was gone by

the time the French took possession of the Queen Christina!“

„But gone where? Not to England, not to France, not back to Denmark….“

Kosciusko appeared to ponder the matter for a moment. „Where?“ . „That’s the

question,“ Wessex said.

„Well,“ Kosciusko amended. „One of them, anyway. I can think of half a dozen

more.“

„Who is de Sade really working for? Where did he gain the right to call upon

such power? Why did Gambit think letting the Irishman kill me would harm the cause

of Acadian independence?“ Wessex recited, ticking the points off on his fingers.

„Why did the French Captain think that the Christina had the missing Dauphin

aboard? Is Ripon as well as Highclere working for the French? And why does

Highclere think it necessary to kidnap your Duchess?“ Koscuisko added helpfully.

„A question that I hope soon to put to Mr. Highclere,“ Wessex said broodingly,

„but at the moment all trails seem equally cold. And why the Young King? The poor

child has been dead these twelve years.“

„Well, someone thinks he’s alive,“ Kosciusko said. „And if Princess Stephanie

continues missing, that means Eire-well to the Danish alliance, and hello to Citizen

Bonaparte’s perfect staging ground for an invasion of England.“

„In that case,“ Wessex replied „I think it is almost obligatory that we provide

M’sieur L’Empereur with something to distract him from such an attractive notion.

A Found Dauphin seems about right as a diversion, don’t you think?“

„To be sure. But at the moment we are in rather awkward circumstances

ourselves, particularly should someone wish to ask questions about our holiday at

Verdun.“

Wessex considered this. „As you say. I have no papers save as the Chevalier de

Reynard, and I dare not present them, for I fear that the Chevalier’s usefulness is at

an end. It is too bad: I shall miss the fellow.“

„He was a good deal more amusing than present company,“ Koscuisko said

provocatively, „but if Reynard’s dead there is no use wailing over him. You shall

have to become someone else. Now, my friend, who shall it be?“

Four days later Citizen Orczy of the Committee for Public Safety arrived – with

his escort, a galloper from the Garde Polonnaise – in the city of Amiens. Citizen

Orczy went directly to the Golden Cockerel, where he took the best room in the inn,

was rude to the landlord in the way that those of high station traditionally were, and

closeted himself in his rooms immediately.

The Pole, after the fashion of his kind, immediately took himself off, announcing

that the Cockerel was by far too tame for his tastes, and a few hours later was to be

found dicing in an accommodation house which had been set up on the former

premises of a cobbler, from which device the place had taken its name of The Red

Boot. As accommodation houses provide nothing for their customers beyond

tables, chairs, and some very bad coffee, the Pole had brought his own brandy and

his own dice, and was throwing left hand against right and disliking the results

extremely. The Pole looked a villainous sort of fellow, and in a foul mood beside,

but as the brandy was in plain sight, it was perhaps not surprising that, after

three-quarters of an hour or so, he was joined by a fellow whose smock and clogs

proclaimed him a local tradesman.

The man sat down and essayed some pleasantry about the weather, which was

ignored by the Polish Hussar. The tradesman made a number of other casual

remarks – all ignored – until the attention of the accommodation house’s other

inhabitants drifted elsewhere, since a quarrel did not seem to be forthcoming.

„I perceive you are a fishmonger,“ the tradesman said at last.

„No, but I can tell a hawk from a handsaw when the wind blows from the White

Tower,“ Koscuisko responded.

„What do you need?“ the tradesman said, leaning closer.

„Travel papers for myself and a friend. I have his particulars with me, and I’ll

need the papers as soon as I can get them. I’ll also need information, but you may

have to send abroad for it“

„Have you anything to pass to the White Man?“ the tradesman asked, using the

field agent’s name for Baron Misbourne. Amiens was a large enough city that the

White Tower ran a station there – the contact was known as the Bishop – and its

field agents knew the contact procedure – though not, of course, who the agent was.

Even now Koscuisko did not look at the well-disguised Bishop of Amiens, learning

as little as he could about the man, so that he would have little to betray if he were

caught and questioned.

„Andiron sends,“ Koscuisko began, using his and Wessex’s code-name. Each

team of field agents had a code-name, and each individual agent had one as well.

Koscuisko was Eagle; Wessex was Lion. But it was not important that the White

Man know which of them had. sent this message, only that it came from a

trustworthy source.

„The crew of the Christina is interned in Verdun. The Princess disappeared from

the ship and is still missing. Andiron believes that Charenton“ – the code-name by

which they denoted the Marquis de Sade – „is responsible.“

„So that’s your hare,“ the Bishop said respectfully. „You’ll need this then: Saint

Lucky’s been captured by the Jacks and is sleeping in the Tuilleries. Tis said he was

dolphin-fishing when he got the office.“

Koscuisko drew a deep breath, concentrating on keeping his face blank. He threw

the dice again, dien pushed the cup across to his companion.

„Try them if you like – they’re sound enough,“ he said in the faintly imperious

tones suitable for a Hussar condescending to address a tradesman.

So Saint-Lazarre was taken by Talleyrand’s secret police and being held in Paris.

That was disaster enough, but that Saint-Lazarre had been captured while attempting

to get to the missing Louis-Charles nearly beggared belief. Worst of all, Tallyrand

would be sure to break Saint-Lazarre, given enough time, and men everything the

man knew about Royalists still operating in France would be endangered.

„The frogs were fishing for dolphins in the Channel and drew a Queen instead,“

Koscuisko murmured.

The disguised Bishop darted him a startled glance, then recovered himself and

threw the dice. Both men inspected the results. Koscuisko laughed, and clapped the

apparent tradesman on the shoulder. He passed the bottle and, when it was returned,

took a drink himself.

The tradesman spent another fifteen minutes throwing the dice against the Hussar,

and among the winnings that changed hands at the end there was a small folded

scrap of paper. Koscuisko shoved it into his pocket along with the small hoard of

greasy coin and wandered unsteadily from the accommodation house.

Wessex had intended to stay circumspecdy in his room at the Golden Cockerel

until Koscuisko had met with the Bishop of Amiens and received Citizen Orders

proper documentation, but once his partner was gone, the Duke found himself too

restless to remain in one place. Despite his discipline, his mind kept turning upon

Sarah. Where was she, and what was happening to her?

It was entirely his fault that Sarah was in danger. If he had not married her, she

would not have become a target for Ripon’s vengeful plots. The mere Marchioness

of Roxbury did not fly high enough for Ripon, nor was she so closely placed to the

Crown.

But the Duchess of Wessex was so placed, and with the Duke’s anonymity

becoming more compromised by the day, the time would soon come when there

could be no place for Wessex on the chessboard of Europe.

Such thoughts disturbed him – the more because there seemed no escape from

them. But there was escape from the small inn, and so Wessex tucked a pistol in his

pocket and went to walk about the town.

His steps soon took him in the direction of the church. Amiens was not a

cathedral town (although, Wessex reflected sardonically, it was the seat of quite

another sort of Bishop) but the Popish church was quite grand enough for all

practical use. Vaulting gothic arches led the eye skyward to battlements encrusted

with saints and gargoyles, remaining despite the best efforts of the atheistic

Revolution to overturn them.

The more pragmatic Bonaparte had restored Holy Mother Church and her

privileges to the country that had fought so desperately to throw off her yoke.

Bonaparte gave Up service to freedom of conscience, but in truth, the highest power

in the land was the Imperial Eagle, and even the Church must bow to that Even the

Powers of the land itself fled before the great beast Bonaparte, causing disturbances

in the Unseen World whose repercussions spread like the lake-ripples from a thrown

stone.

Thinking his bleak thoughts, Wessex found himself gazing at a tiny shop that

stood almost within the church’s shadow. It was such a shop as would never have

existed so openly in Royal France, where the kings had made the promises and

treaties they must but commended their people wholly to the mercies of the Church.

But at the dawn of this new century, the Church’s power to dictate was much

circumscribed, and such things as this shop flourished.

Willing to be distracted, Wessex crossed the square toward the shop. It occupied

a small narrow building, and the age-old symbol of an open hand inscribed with the

symbols of the palmist hung above its door.

Wessex opened the door warily, and a tiny bell rang sweetly as he did so. The

narrow shop was fragrant with the scent of stolen Church incense, and the walls

were covered with gaudy broadsides detailing the phrenological map, the signs of the

zodiac, a prudently unattributed horoscope, and other tools of the prognosticator’s

art. A curtain divided the back of the shop from the front, and as Wessex looked

about, a woman came forward through the curtains.

She was not dressed in Gipsy tawdry as he had half expected, neither was she

some ancient crone; instead, a woman only a few years older man he was regarded

him calmly. She was dressed in neat, plain, sensible clothing, and her blue wool

shawl was pinned at the neck with a scarab-shaped brooch of red carnelian, the only

exotic thing about her.

„Good afternoon, monsieur,“ she said. „Do you seek advice from Madame

Fabricant?“

„Is that what you sell?“ Wessex asked. „Advice?“

To his surprise, the question made the woman laugh merrily. „Oh my! Monsieur,

you know what sort of shop this is. I sell what people wish to buy – but you do not

look as if you need me to petition the Good Mother for health or wealth or love. So

it must be the future you wish to know.“

„I had rather know the present,“ Wessex found himself replying, „if your skills

extend to that, mademoiselle.“

„Your Grace is too kind,“ the woman said, turning to pass through the curtain

again. „But I did have a husband once, though he is dead now.“

Wessex stood as if footed to the spot. Was the tide she had given him just empty

flattery, or did she indeed have the Sight?

Or was she one of Talleyrand’s agents, warned to look for the Duke of Wessex

along the road to Calais?

No answer came; Wessex shrugged to himself and followed her though the

curtain, one hand inside his coat and resting on the butt of his pistol.

Behind .the curtain the shop was dark, lit only by a large pillar candle that stood

upon a massive brass holder in the shape of a monkey. The walls of the room were

lined with cabinets of polished mahogany, whose myriad of small drawers reminded

Wessex of an apothecary. Just as in an apothecary, there were jars of herbs and

flasks of colored liquid, but no apothecary would have a statue of the Blessed Virgin

upon the wall, and before her a small table upon which rested a small votive in a red

glass jar in .the midst of a tumble of less recognizable objects.

Dominating the room was the table upon which the pillar candle rested. The table

was covered with a green oilcloth drape, and in addition to the candle, its surface

held a large crystal ball and a deck of tarots pillowed upon a red silk kerchief.

Smoothing her skirts, the shop’s proprietor seated herself at the far side of the table

and gestured for Wessex to take the other chair.

To do so would place him with his back to the curtain. Wessex did not move.

„Why did you address me as you did, Citizeness?“ he asked. „I am no aristocrat,

but a proud citizen of France.“

She glanced up from beneath her lashes, and the candlelight seemed to gather in

her eyes, making them glow like an animal’s.

„I shall call you what you wish, Citizen,“ Madame Fabricant said with a shrug,

„but I will not say I do not see what I do. I have the Sight, as my mama did – we are

from the Languedoc, and me Old Blood runs strong there – and I have known for

days that one would come for whom I had a message.“

„And I am that one?“ Wessex asked. His voice was skeptical but civil.

„Do you want the message or not?“ Madame said tartly. „I was to tell you this

first: I am the key for every lock.“

Wessex went very still. He knew the Roxbury motto as well as he knew his own

family’s – this was either a trap, or a true sending. Without responding, he went

back through me curtain to me shop, and occupied himself for a few minutes closing

and locking the door and pulling the shutters across the window.

When he was done, the shop was so dark that he could see the thin line of

candlelight that leaked out from beneath the curtains between the front room and the

back. He dragged the curtains open and tied them securely.

„Very well, Madame,“ Wessex said. „Deliver this message you say that you have

for me, and I shall see you properly compensated for your troubles.“

„How cautious you are,“ the sorceress mocked. „You are a man who is no

stranger to trouble, so I mink. You are not the client I would have chosen, but I do

not turn away any who come to my shop. It is bad for business,“ she added with a

very French shrug.

Wessex smiled sourly and seated himself opposite her at the table. The

candlelight collected in the crystal ball, showing him the whole room turned upside

down.

Madame Fabricant took his hand and turned it palm upward. She gazed into his

palm intently, as another of her ilk might stare into a bowl of water or ink, „Monsieur

is married?“ she asked after a moment.

Ridiculous that the question should pain him so, as if an escape route he had not

noticed before was closing even as he gazed upon it. But escape from what?

„You tell me,“ Wessex said.

Madame Fabricant made a face.   „So cautious! Very well, Your Grace. I see that

your wife is in danger, over stone and water, but not far from here. She is guarded

by Time itself, and her danger will only increase once she has France in her charge.

She relies upon you to aid her, so you must follow the setting sun until you come to

the ancient regime.“

„You must admit that the message is a bit vague,“ Wessex drawled politely.

„It is what I have been told, Monsieur le Duc“ the fortune-teller snapped. „Go

west without delay – or you will lose your wife… and your heart.“

Lady Meriel sat on a little stool placed beneath one of the trees in the garden,

using the strong summer light to work on a shirt she was making for Louis. It had

been five days since she had come to the Abbé and stumbled upon his great secret,

and though she worried constantly about Sarah’s fate, the days had passed like

something outside of time, like a beautiful dream out of which she must someday

awaken. Here she could be herself, not an actress in a wicked masquerade, playing

out a part written for her by someone else.

And Louis was a part of that dream.

Louis could not be for her, Meriel told herself firmly.

For Louis was the true King of France, and reject his birthright though he might,

others would force him to take it up as soon as he declared himself.

Meriel set another stitch in the shirt, reproaching herself for her foolishness in

giving her heart to a man who – no matter how much he loved her in return – could

never marry her. A king must have a princess, and, though the blood of kings flowed

in her veins, Meriel was not one such as Louis would be forced to accept as his

wife.

Let us have this little time together then, before they take him. Oh, Blessed

Virgin, surely that is not too much to ask of You?

Louis would return soon. He had gone to the village – Père Henri was a member

of the Royalist Underground, and through him, Louis could reach those who had

eyes and ears in every part of the land. Already they had discovered that Meriel’s

uncle Geoffrey Highclere was in Talleyrand’s pay. If they could only discover where

Uncle Geoffrey had taken the Duchess of Wessex, they might be able to rescue her,

and then the great burden of guilt that Meriel carried would be eased.

She continued sewing – she was happy enough to take up what work of the

household she could, and a basket of whitework lay at her feet, awaiting attention –

but could not keep herself from glancing toward the road every few minutes, hoping

to see Louis’s return. When she saw him at last, walking up the road with his

wide-brimmed hat in his hand and his white shirt open at the throat in the country

fashion, Meriel surrendered to her impulse and put the shirt aside, running to greet

him.

They met at the gate, where Louis set his hat upon Meriel’s head and kissed her

soundly. He smelled of clean linen and sunlight, and Meriel’s heart swelled with

present joy and future sorrow.

„Marry me,“ Louis said instantly.

She laughed, because it was a familiar demand. „No, and no, and no again! I’ve

told you, Louis – one so. great is not for such as I.“

„I have renounced my throne,“ Louis reminded her, coming through the gate and

closing it behind him with his free hand. His other hand was on her waist. „I am no

one greater than Citizen Capet, and Citizen Capet wishes very much to marry a

pretty English girl.“

„Louis, don’t tease me,“ Meriel begged. „Renounce what you will – no one,

English or French, will leave you in peace. You are too important to them.“

„Too important to their games,“ Louis corrected bitterly. „They are like children

with toy soldiers, forgetting that these toys of theirs bleed and the. It is different in

the New World. We can be free there, Meriel. Wessex will help us.“.

„Against his King’s wishes?“ Meriel asked. „Oh, let us not quarrel now, my love,

but tell me: what news do you have of Her Grace?“

„I only spoke to a messenger,“ Louis said, „a drover who had come to town. But

he brought word of a meeting – at the ruins of the chateau that is about five miles

from here. He says that if I will meet their leader there, he will have news of the

Duchess.“

„It is too dangerous!“ Meriel said.

„And that is why we will not say a word of this to Père Henri,“ Louis said firmly.

„When we have certain knowledge of where your uncle and Her Grace are will be

time enough to involve him. He has risked too much, hiding me here as he has, for

me to worry him now.“

„But if you should – “ Meriel began.

„These people are friends,“ Louis cut her off gently. „They believe in France and

the King – riot in that opportunist who has lately crowned himself Emperor in Paris.

They will not betray me, though they do not know who I truly am. Now, we should

go in. If we hurry, we can be married before Madame Carmaux has supper upon the

table.“

„No,“ Meriel said, smiling back at him.

But her fears would not be put to rest. In some ways she was wiser than Louis –

though he had been in danger since he had been a small boy, he had always been

surrounded by those who wished him well. He believed in happy endings.

Meriel did not.

And so, when Louis left the house a few hours after dark to keep his appointment

with the Underground, Meriel followed him.

The moon was only a couple of days past full, and still provided enough light for

Meriel to find her way. Louis carried a dark lantern, but did not need it to find his

way over familiar roads.

The chateau had burned many years ago, during the riots that had plagued the

countryside as the Glorious Revolution took hold. The great house had been looted

before it was set ablaze; now only a few walls and charred timbers remained to mark

the spot where it had stood, since all else had been carried away by the people or

masked by Nature. The gatehouse had been pulled down entirely, its stones carried

away by the villagers to repair their own homes and barns. Even the iron gates had

gone for Bonaparte’s cannon. The sweeping lawns had turned to wild meadows; the

formal gardens had become a wilderness of thorn and bramble.

Now Louis used his lantern to find his way, and Meriel – who had lagged far

behind, both from fear of discovery and because her skirts did not allow her to keep

to his pace – saw its tiny golden spark bobbing on ahead of her. As she tried to

follow, she stepped into a rut and fell fall length.

She froze where she lay as Louis, yards ahead, looked around for the source of

the sound. As she lay sprawled in the dirt, her outstretched hand touched another rut

in the ground, twin to the one she had tripped in.

Wagon tracks. But who would be taking a wagon up to the ruined chateau?

Louis moved on. Meriel rose to her knees, tracing the shapes on the ground by

touch. New marks – ’the ground was still moist. The wheels that made the tracks

had been , very wide, and the wagon heavy; the tracks were deep. j Meriel got to her

feet, her heart hammering with more than exertion. Gathering up her skirts in her

hand, she I began to run after the bobbing lantern light I Let her be wrong. Merciful

saints in heaven, let her be wrong!

She had thought to catch Louis before he entered the ruin, but the darkness

caused her to misjudge the distance between them. When she stopped to catch her

breath, she i saw that he was almost to the chateau itself.

What if she were wrong? If Louis were truly coming to meet the Underground

leader, she would frighten the man! away if she cried out, and then they might never

have what information about the Duchess of Wessex he possessed.

There was little time to weigh her options – she must choose between her lover

and her friend. But though her heart broke at her own betrayal, Meriel did not find

the choice hard.

„Louis!“ she cried as loud as she could. „Ifs a trap! It’s a trap!“

Louis turned. She saw him raise his lantern high, saw its golden beam fall across

his face as he looked for her. And then the ruin blazed with light, as though the

abandoned chateau had been set afire once more, and soldiers were shouting and

running from their places of concealment.

„Run!“ Louis shouted as they grabbed him. „Meriel – run!“

She hesitated for only a moment, then, fleet as a white deer, turned and ran.

She stopped for nothing. Shots were fired past her, but she felt nothing. She held

her skirts as high as she could and ran as though Hell’s mouth had opened behind

her, ran until she reached the church door and rang the bell that summoned the priest

to midnight emergencies.

When Père Henri came Meriel could not speak. She crouched at his feet, gasping

for breath and fighting the nausea and faintness that gripped her.

„Louis!“ she finally managed to say, gesturing back the way she had come.

As if she had summoned it, a black coach came rattling down the lane in the

direction of the road to Paris. It was drawn by twelve black horses, and needed

every one of them, for the coach was made entirely of iron, and its narrow windows

were barred. The padlocks on each of its iron doors made a din like rolling thunder

as it passed, and six mounted soldiers rode before and six behind, and four more

rode upon the coach itself, all armed with muskets.

„No,“ Meriel whispered in despair.

The Abbé de Condé lifted her to her feet. „You must be strong, my child,“ he

said.

It was long past midnight. Meriel knelt before the statue of the Virgin in the village

church, a borrowed rosary between her fingers. She was numb with the prayers she

had said, but sleep was impossible. All she could think of was that Louis – her Louis

– was in the hands of his enemies.

Because of me. Always because of me….

The Abbé had roused the town and made inquiries. The drover Louis had spoken

to was nowhere to be found, though the man’s cattle were still in the barn of a local

farmer. No one had seen sixteen soldiers and an iron coach enter the village – but

there were other routes to the chateau.

Louis was gone. The Abbé was in his study, writing letters that might help his

young cousin but more likely would not. And Meriel was kneeling here, beseeching

the Blessed Virgin for a miracle. Not even a great miracle. She would understand,

she told the Mother of God, if she could not set Louis free. But that he should die

alone – that Meriel should live without him – she could not bear.

„Only let me know where he is, Holy Mother. Only let me go to him.“

But there was no answer.

‘ People came and went that day – some to pray for young Louis, whom all had

known and liked even when they had thought him merely a young nephew of the

curé; some to pray for themselves, for if it became known that their village had

sheltered the Lost King, the Emperor, in his wrath might raze the place to the ground.

Meriel remained, resisting all attempts of Mme. Carmaux to put her to bed, until at

last, in the late afternoon, the curé himself came for her.

The Abbé de Condé had aged twenty years in a night His eyes were sunken in his

head, and Ins skin was papery and grey. Looking at his face, Meriel could see the

memento mori, the skull beneath the skin.

„Meriel?“ he said. „Child, you must rest You cannot go on like this; it does not

help him.“

„Then my prayers are useless?“ Meriel asked scornfully.

„But it is said that Our Lord loves sinners prayers best – and I have betrayed so

many in my life that surely He will listen to me now – “

„Do not talk so,“ the Abbé said sternly. „You are overwrought and grieving; you

do not know what you are saying. But do not mock God, child.“

„I do not mock God, Father,“ Meriel said. „But I do not think He is listening.“

In the middle of the night, Meriel awoke abruptly, sitting bolt upright in the bed,

her heart hammering as if someone had shouted her name. The windows had been

carefully closed and shuttered against the dangers of night air, and the room was

stiflingly close; Meriel slipped out of bed and went to the window. Shoving up the

sash and throwing back the shutters, she looked out over the garden.

Everything was calm and quiet. The only light was the faint spark of vigil candles

in the church. From within the house, there was no sound – and there was no one in

the garden.

Louis….

For a moment grief welled up inside her, shaking Meriel as a terrier shakes a rat.

Roughly, she pushed the emotion aside. Now that she was awake, the determination

that she had taken to bed with her returned. There was something she must do.

By moonlight, she dressed quickly in the cotton de Nimes dress she had brought

with her, and picked up a borrowed shawl and clogs. Carrying the heavy shoes

bundled in the shawl, Meriel tiptoed from her room and through the silent house.

In the kitchen, she unbolted the door and stepped out into the garden. Meriel was

not certain what time it was, but the hour was somewhere in the deep trough of

country night, long after all the folk are abed and hours before the rooster crows to

wake the dawn. She closed the door slowly, wishing she had some way to lock it

once more, and went on her way.

No dogs barked as Meriel took to the road and began walking toward the village.

She passed by the wall of the church; though she hesitated, Meriel did not stop. She

had begged God for help and He had not answered. Now she would go elsewhere.

Every village in France had such a place: a well, a tree, a stone sacred to the

Oldest People, where offerings could be left and boons begged. Good Christians

were sternly forbidden to have aught to do with such, for (so the priests said) all

Power came from the Most Holy God, and to worship His mere creations rather

than God Himself was a grievous sin. But simple countryfolk knew a deeper tram:

Christ’s Holy Mother could not always aid them if it went against the wishes of her

Son, who was less understanding than His Holy Mother, and God Himself was

impartial, and just, and could not be bribed.

But the Fair Folk could.

Meriel had heard that their kind did not care for silver, but what she had brought

with her was gold: coins and jewels she had sewn into her petticoat on the eve of her

flight from England. Nothing that she could buy on earth mattered to her now: she

would give them all as an offering, and hope that the Fair Folk would hear.

Louis had pointed out the place to her a few days before: a cluster of stones at

the edge of two fields. She’d been afraid that day; when he’d dared her to step

inside them, she’d run away instead.

Now she was coming back.

It did not seem like so fearsome a tiling: three pale grey blocks of stone arranged

in a rough triangle. They were not very large – the tallest of the three barely came to

Meriel's chin – and looked like half-worked mileposts. Between them the grass grew

lush and green (even, so Louis had said, in the deepest summer’s heat), but that

could mean nothing more supernatural than a buried spring.

But as Meriel approached the stones in the still summer’s night, her heart beat fast

with holy dread, and she was filled with superstitious fear.

It is for Louis, she told herself fiercely. Fear and anger at what might be

happening to him even now drove weakness from her heart, and she stepped boldly

into the center of the triad of stones. It was cold between them, though the summer

air had been hot only a moment before.

This was her last hope. If THis did not work Louis would be taken to Madame

Guillotine. The soldiers would be back, looking for her as well, and if she too

disappeared there would be no one else who knew where Sarah had gone.

Determined none of these things would happen, Meriel rucked up her skirts and

with clumsy chilled hands ripped at the secret seam of her petticoat. Coins and

jewelry spilled out into the grass. Meriel carefully collected gold and gems together,

piling her offering in a heap upon her handkerchief. She stared at the small treasure –

– and then, standing within the fairy ring, Lady Meriel began to weep, for she

suddenly realized there was truly no hope left. Not even for her Louis’s life could

she summon up the Fair Folk – she did not know how. She sank slowly to her

knees, clasping her hands tightly together. She would have prayed, but in this place it

seemed blasphemous, and she did not know who she could pray to. If Louis died –

if her prayers were not answered – she would have no more faith in God, and she

feared that nearly as much as she feared losing Louis.

Her eyes filled with heavy tears, and she clenched her teeth to keep anyone from

hearing her weep. And so, in her turn, she did not hear what approached.

„Who summons me?“ a sweet musical voice asked.

Meriel gasped and looked up. Her astonishment at what she saw was so great that

her tears dried immediately.

A woman stood between the stones. She was a tiny thing – the top of her head

was level with the top of the tallest stone – and her gown was of a silk so fine and

sheer that it shifted like layers of river mist

„I – I– I  do,“ Meriel stammered. „I need – “

„The King is gone from the land,“ the fairy woman observed, „and the Hills are

gone with him. I came from far away to answer your call, Daughter of Earth, but

your cry was loud.“

„He is not dead,“ Meriel gasped, heeding nothing of the woman’s message but

that „Tell me that Louis is not dead – I beg you, Madame!“

„The Young King Hves, but he is dead to us, for he will never pledge to us in the

old way.“ The woman’s voice was cool and remote, as though she did not belong in

the world and suffered none of its concerns.

„He lives!“ Meriel clutched her joy to herself for a moment before remembering

that she had come to ask for help. „Help me, Madame – and I will give you all of

this,“ Meriel said, indicating the bundle at her feet „And – “

And anything else you ask for, she had been about to say, when memories of her

old nurse’s teachings stopped her. Old Janet had been a Scotswoman, and traffic

with the Oldest People was still common enough in the land beyond me Wall for

Janet to have warned her infant charge sternly against such dealings. Most of all, she

had warned little Meriel against the dangers of making vague and open-ended

promises.

– and I will honor you so long as I live, Meriel finished carefully.

The fairy woman smiled her cool lunar smile and knelt down, poking through the

clutter of gold and jewels.

„It is not enough,“ she said at last.

„But it is all I have!“ Meriel protested, fresh tears in her eyes.

„No,“ the fairy woman said reprovingly, and Meriel remembered the necklace and

earrings she still wore.

Slowly Meriel worked her coral earbobs free and dropped them into the pile. The

fairy woman seized them immediately, and held them up, admiring them.

More slowly, Meriel unclasped the chain around her throat. It held a gold locket; a

cross picked out in diamonds adorned one side, and the engraved Ripon arms the

other; inside was a miniature of her long-dead mother. The locket was Meriel’s

dearest possession.

She only wants to see if I will give it up, Meriel thought rebelliously, but knew her

qualms were foolish. She was risking her immortal soul merely by being here and

lives were at stake. This was no time to quibble over trifles. Meriel dropped the gold

locket among the other jewels.

„It is sufficient,“ the fairy woman said. „What would you ask of me, Daughter of

Eardi?“

Meriel hesitated. Old Janet had told her that the Fair Folk would make a bad

bargain if they could. What should she ask for? That the woman free Louis? That

could mean anything. Send a rescue? The same thing applied.

„I wish you to supply me with the means to rescue Louis, and to send me to his

side,“ Meriel said at last. The moment the words were out of her mouth she wished

she could call them back, seeing a thousand traps set before her.

„That is two things. Which of them shall I grant you?“ the woman asked playfully.

Meriel opened her mourn to speak again, but the form before her had begun to

flow and change, melting like the river mist it so resembled until Meriel had to blink

and look away.

When Meriel looked back, the fairy woman was gone and a grey pony stood in

her place. When it turned its head to look at her, the pony’s eyes flashed red as a

ferret’s. Meriel looked down. The gold, her handkerchief,! and her mother’s locket

had vanished.

Determinedly, Meriel got to her feet and warily advanced upon the grey pony. She

had ridden from earliest girlhood, but the uncanny animal was neither saddled nor

bridled.

She could not allow that to matter.

The pony did not retreat as she advanced upon it.   When she was within range,

Meriel grasped its mane firmly in both hands and threw herself over the pony’s back.

Before she had quite settled herself it began to move, first walking, then trotting, then

stretching itself at a run. Without reins, Meriel could hot control it. All that was left

for her to do was cling to the pony's mane and pray.

Chapter 18

Pawn Takes Rook

(July 19, 1805)

It was exceedingly boring to be imprisoned, Sarah decided. She had been

Monsieur Talleyrand’s guest these past four days, and found the entertainment

decidedly flat.

If she had truly been the woman Talleyrand thought her – the gently-bred English

aristocrat – Sarah might very well have been undone by her harsh treatment: locked

in a cold bare room, her only food a single bowl of gruel each day.

But Sarah had been taught in a much harsher school, and had slept rougher on

scantier provision than this. She had combed out her hair as best she could with her

fingers, braided it into two plaits, and tied them up with strips of rag torn from her

petticoats. She had lost muff, bonnet, and pelisse before she had arrived at Chateau

Roissy, so she made herself a cape from the blanket upon the bed, and occupied her

time pacing her little cell to keep her muscles supple and her body warm. She had

abandoned her corset immediately, hiding the undergarment beneath the wool

mattress in order to keep it with her, and without its constriction, she could move

freely. It was true that her dress had been cut with fashionably narrow shoulders, but

now that she had surrendered her corset the gown was laced only loosely.

Sarah would far rather have had a pair of trousers, such as she had used to wear

when she went hunting, but she supposed she must make do, as her jailers did not

seem to be the kind of whom one could make such odd requests. Except for the

serving girl who came twice a day, Sarah saw no one at all, which was, she

supposed, a thing to be grateful for: Geoffrey Highclere had struck her upon their

brief acquaintance as the sort of pushing fellow who might be inclined to gloat and

take other unpleasant liberties if he thought he might be able to get away with it.

However, Mr. Highclere had blessedly played least in sight, and so Sarah paced

her cell, ate all that was offered to her, and planned her escape.

For escape she must… and soon.

She did not know if Wessex meant to ransom her – though she rather thought his

chilly pride would make it inevitable – but she did know she must not depend upon

his help to escape, for Talleyrand had admitted that he did not know where the Duke

was to be found. Jf a nest of French spies could not discover his whereabouts, it

was unlikely that Sarah Cunningham could, even if she did not happen to be a

prisoner. So she must banish Wessex from her hopes.

And she did have hopes, for both Geoffrey Highclere and Monsieur Talleyrand

had dismissed her as a mere female pawn. They had not even bothered to search

her, but Sarah, when she had been taken, had been dressed in the first style of

elegance, from coif to boots. The tube-shaped buckram corset that Fashion

prescribed was stiffened with supple wire and whalebone stays, and she retained the

silver hairpins that had secured her long brown hair in the upswept fashionable

mode. With these two items, she could pick the lock of her prison. The moon had

been just past full when she had arrived at the chateau; once it waned sufficiently for

night’s darkness to conceal her, Sarah would make her move.

Her circumspection was equally dictated by the fact that the longer she played the

cowed and spiritless prisoner, the less her jailers would look for any resistance from

her. But she did have to admit that the long days empty of companionship or

occupation were very hard to bear. Only the discipline she had learned among the

People in her American homeland kept her from exhausting herself by fretting over

things she could not affect, from Wessex’s whereabouts to Lady Meriel’s fate.

Meriel was not blessed with Sarah’s own resources, and Sarah tried to make herself

accept that she might never know what had happened to her friend.

Sarah was lost in her melancholy thoughts, her feet automatically pacing out the

dimensions of her cell, when suddenly she came alert. She did not know what had

roused her, but as she stood poised, listening, she heard a scrabbling at the lock of

her door. Instandy Sarah fled to the bed and sat on its edge with head bowed, doing

her best to impersonate a spiritless captive.

When the door opened, Sarah looked up. Several chasseurs in red-and-green

uniforms were grouped in the hallway, holding before them a young blond man

dressed in a grimy smock and breeches. The young man’s hands were tied behind

his back, and his face was bruised and bloody, but despite his disadvantages, he

continued to struggle with his captors until they flung him into the room, swinging

the door shut behind him and locking it once more.

Sarah ran over to him, but he was already trying to get to his feet. The cords

about his wrists were tied so tightly that his hands were dark with congested blood.

Vainly Sarah plucked at the knots, realizing that they were too tight to untie.

„Wait here,“ she said. „I’ll have to cut you loose.“

She’d spoken in English; French had been among the accomplishments that her

mother had taught to the young ladies of Baltimore, but Sarah had been an indifferent

student at best and remembered none of her French lessons now. It appeared,

however, that, the stranger knew English, for he stopped struggling and knelt on the

hard stone floor, watching her intently.

At the beginning of her captivity Sarah had stolen the spoon that came with her

gruel. The utensil was tin (ever since that-theft her porridge had come with a wooden

spoon) and she had quickly realized that it would not be of great use to her as either

weapon or tool. But she had sharpened the edge of the bowl to a knife edge anyway,

partly for lack of any other activity to relieve the crushing boredom of her plight.

Now she carefully worked the sharpened spoon free of its hiding place in her

mattress and returned to kneel beside the young prisoner.

„So you are English, men?“ he said in that language. Only the faintest of accents

betrayed the fact that to him this was a foreign tongue.

„American,“ Sarah said automatically, before recollecting that in this bizarre

otherwhere the word had no meaning.

„From the New World!“ the stranger’s face lit up, as though for a moment he had

entirely forgotten his captivity. „You must tell me all about the place, mam’selle.“

„Gladly,“ Sarah said, inspecting his bonds for the likeliest place to cut. „But I

think we had better free your hands, first – if the circulation is not restored I think it

will go badly with you.“

„Those cowardly swine,“ the captive said without heat. „As terrified as old wives

of one lone man – what can I do to harm them, who have been an exile in my own

country since I was but a child? Ah, well. There is no uncertainty about my fate – if I

could only be sure that ma petite is safe. She followed me to the rendezvous where I

was captured; I should have known that she would.“

„And so you should,“ Sarah said absently. She’d chosen her spot and begun

sawing at the cord. The tin was sharp, but it was also soft, and she dared not press

too hard for fear of breaking her feeble weapon.

„Perhaps you have heard something of another prisoner?“ the young man went

on. „Her name is Meriel – she is English, though she could pass as one of my own

countrywomen – “

„Meriel!“ Sarah stopped sawing at the cords and stared at him. „Do you know

where she is? Is she safe?“

„Do you know her?“ the young man said, puzzled. „But you must forgive me,

mam’selle. I have been remiss in making myself known to you. My name is Louis.

Perhaps it is best not to say more, given the singular nature of our means of

introduction.“

„My name is Sarah,“ Sarah answered.

Oddly enough, the simple introduction made Louis laugh, then groan as his

bruised muscles protested. „You must, then, be my Mend’s Sarah – it is good to

see that Monsieur Geoffrey did not make away with you entirely.“

Their stories were quickly told – though Sarah sensed that Louis was holding

something back – and by the time they had finished, Sarah had sawn through the

cord. Carefully, she unwound the bonds from Louis’s wrists, then massaged his

swollen hands until circulation returned to them.

The dishes from her morning’s meal were still on the table, and there was still

some water in the pitcher. Sarah tore a square irom her petticoat and dampened the

cloth before using it to wipe the blood from Louis’s face. When she was done, he

took the pitcher and drank thirstily, draining it dry. Afterward, she helped him to his

feet and began to walk with him, helping him ease muscles that were cramped from

too-long confinement.

„So they mean to execute you?“ Sarah asked, resuming their conversation. She

knew that Talleyrand meant to kill her as well, but somehow her own plight seemed

less immediate than Louis’s.

„They must take me to Paris for that,“ Louis said. „It is not enough that I die – I

must die before the eyes of the world. But before that time comes, the Black Priest

means to discover what I know, so that he may turn it to his own advantage.“

„Ah, a man of some importance, I see,“ Sarah teased gently, hoping to keep his

mind from his troubles. For all his laborer’s garb, Louis seemed an educated young

man, though she knew no more of him than that he had been resident in a small

village near where Meriel had escaped from the coach.

„Only in the demented fancies of the Emperor Napoleon and his jackals,“ Louis

answered wearily. „Perhaps we must hope that your husband will rescue us,

Duchess, for I do not see any other way for us to be saved.“

„That remains to be seen,“ said Sarah.

Sarah did not divulge her plans for escape to Louis both from native caution and

out of a desire not to upset the young man. A few hours later, the serving girl

brought another pitcher of water and a bowl of broth, an$ Sarah bullied Louis into

eating and drinking. Afterward, she made him lie down on the bed to rest. Though

escape would be much harder if she had to take Louis with her, Sarah did not

consider for a moment the possibility of leaving the young man behind. His arrival

gave her a goal for her flight – they would return to his village, and there she could

find Meriel again. Meriel spoke excellent French, and Sarah was certain that between

them they could either bribe one of the smugglers to take them back to England, or

at least to take a message there.

But to do all these things, Sarah and Louis first had to escape, and Louis was

battered and weary with two days on the road. Though he protested gallantly, he was

asleep and breathing deeply at almost the moment his head touched the thin pillow.

Sarah retreated into a far corner of the room and squatted down to wait. Her

captors did not provide lamp or candles to light her prison, and her body had

readjusted itself to rising and sleeping with the sun. Tonight she would not have that

luxury; even if their jailers were willing to leave Louis alone tonight, tomorrow they

would surely come for him and do their best to force him to give up his secrets.

They must flee tonight.

Sarah set herself to awaken at midnight and fell into a light doze.

She came awake several hours later, instantly alert in the darkness. The open

window was visible as a paler square against the darkness, but there was no light to

see by. The only sound was Louis’s quiet breathing.

Sarah did not need light. She had spent five days memorizing this room so that

she could move about it without eyes. Pulling her improvised tools from the pocket

of her dress and slipping off her shoes, she stalked cat-footed to the door.

A faint light shone inward through the lock; as she had determined beforehand, a

lantern was left burning in the hallway all night somewhere near this room. She did

not think a sentry was set outside the door, but she put her ear to the lock and

listened intently for several minutes, all the same. If there were anyone in the hallway

outside the door, he was as silent as one of the People, for she heard no sound.

At last she set to work. A corset-stay served as a probe and a bent hairpin as a

lever, the lock was old, and consequently the iron pins were large and heavy – but

someone had oiled this lock well, and the pins would move if she could only

approach them properly.

Time and again she nearly had her picks in position, only to have the recalcitrant

pin slip out from between them, but she dared not hurry, no matter how frustrated

she became. After what seemed like a small eternity – but could not have been much

more than half an hour – the pins finally slid back. The lock clicked open with the

sharp furious sound of a cocking pistol.

Louis stirred in his sleep and then froze, coming awake to his grim surroundings.

Sarah hesitated, agonizing over whether to go’ to him and keep him from crying out,

or stay where she was and keep the unlocked door from drifting open.

Louis solved the dilemma by sitting up – she could tell by the sound – and

swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. In her mind’s eye Sarah could see him

peering out into the darkness, trying to see her.

„Mam’selle la Duchesse?“ he whispered.

„Hush!“ Sarah hissed in an urgent whisper.

Louis made no more sound, and Sarah slowly eased the door open. A thread of

light appeared in the opening, dazzling illumination compared to the previous

darkness, and slowly, breathlessly, Sarah swung the door open.

The corridor was empty.

Louis appeared at her side – moving rather quietly for a city-bred man – and

looked at her questioningly. Sarah held up her hand, motioning Louis to remain

where he was, and eased herself out into the corridor.

Still nothing. A few feet past the door, a candle in a glass chimney rested on a

battered table. Sarah crept down the corridor in the direction she had gone for her

meeting with Talleyrand – moving warily for fear of creaking boards – and finally

achieved the head of the stairs. They were dark and silent; if there were anyone on

the floor below, she could not see them. Sarah retreated as silently as she had come

to where Louis waited, motioning him to follow. Though his face was alight with

curiosity, blessedly he had enough common sense not to ask any questions. He

followed her as silently as he could.

Sarah suffered a thousand silent deaths as she and Louis descended the stairs, for

they were both clumsy in the darkness and each tiny sound was magnified a

thousandfold in Sarah’s hearing. When they reached the first floor at last, she was

nearly too exhausted to go on.

Which way? The room in which she had had her interview with Tallyrand was on

the floor below, though at the opposite end from the older stone section of the

chateau in which she had been held prisoner. The chateau was built on uneven

ground and she thought they could get out through the windows on that side; she

had seen no sign of the water lily-filled moat seen from her prison window. Surely

the chasseurs could not guard every window?

No matter, for they must try that route. It was now not long until sunrise, and they

must be miles away from here by daybreak.

There were two staircases on this floor, at opposite ends of the wing, both

leading up. Across the open expanse of inlaid marble was the stair to the ground

floor, as wide as both the other staircases put together, with gilded and scrolled

banisters that were still lovely despite the damage that had been visited upon the rest

of the house.

Sarah took Louis’s hand, feeling as though they were children tiptoeing through

some dark forest, and led him toward the stairs. His hand was cold, and she could

feel him trembling. For herself, she could barely breathe for the fierce desire for

freedom that she felt To be out of here – away – to be her own person once

more——

They reached the bottom of the stairs. Sarah stopped, orienting herself in the

darkness.

„Wait,“ Louis breathed, pulling back against her hand.

But Sarah had already heard the sound. The scuff of a boot-sole against the stone

floor. The rasping sound as a shuttered lantern was opened.

Sarah lifted her hand to shield her eyes from sudden brightness.

„Why, my dear Duchess. How positively intoxicating to see you again,“ Geoffrey

Highclere said fulsomely. He set the lantern down and stepped into its light.

Mr. Highclere was wearing an unfamiliar but very ornate uniform of black

embellished with silver lace and red flashes. A saber hung from his swordbelt, and

his blond hair gleamed in the lantern light. There was a pistol in his hand.

„And your Royal Majesty. An unexpected bonus.“

„I have never cared for the company of traitors,“ Louis remarked

conversationally.

Sarah stared at Louis. France’s Revolution had been an inevitable subject of

conversation during the time she had spent in England, and so she had heard that

Louis XVI had been executed; his son long presumed dead. Was Mr. Highclere

saying…?

„But my very dear Majesty, you will certainly not be forced to suffer such

company for long,“ Mr. Highclere said cordially. „When Talleyrand returns from

Paris, you go to your execution. And I’m very much afraid that the Duchess will be

leaving us… now.“

Illya Koscuisko and the Duke of Wessex had left Amiens that same day, heading

westward to the coast. Wessex had refused to allow the Bishop of Amiens to pass a

message to England for a ship to pick them up; in fact, the Duke seemed to be in

such a towering inexplicable passion that even his partner trod warily. It had been

foolish to leave the city that evening; their rooms were already paid for the night and

their traveling papers, still damp from the forger, would not stand up to close

inspection should suspicion fall upon them.

What was still more foolish was that Wessex did not seem willing even to keep to

the road. Instead, he made side-trips through hedges, took them along narrow

country lanes, and even backtrailed once or twice.

He seemed to be looking for something.

At last Koscuisko could stand it no longer.

„Look here,“ he said to his friend. „I don’t mean to exhibit a vulgar curiosity, but

where are we going and what are we doing? Princess Stephanie isn’t here, and – “

„I don’t,“ said Wessex pleasantly, „give a damn about Princess Stephanie.“

Koscuisko waited.

„I want my wife back,“ Wessex said, as if the words hurt him. „And I’ve even

been told where to look for her: over stone and water, but not far from here. So I

must follow the setting sun until I come to the ancient regime.“

„And are we to think this information reliable?“ Koscuisko asked cautiously. „I

should only wish to point out that the sun has already set, making it somewhat

difficult to follow.“

„I think it’s all a bag of moonshine,“ His Grace said roundly. „Some Gipsy

nonsense; I can’t imagine why I ever listened to it,“ he added, his voice troubled.

Koscuisko shrugged. „Across stone and water, not far from Amiens. That could

mean across the city and the river, of course, but where is one to encounter the

ancien regime these days?“

„The prophecy improves,“ Wessex added. „I am told that the Duchess of

Wessex is guarded by Time itself, and is about to take France into her charge,

wherefore I must rescue her at once.“

„Easier said than done,“ Koscuisko agreed. „So she has France? What did she

do, pinch one of Boney’s eagles? That’s all the France I know of.“

„Not,“ said Wessex in a peculiar voice, „if the Young King is alive, as everyone

seems to mink. If he is, King Louis the Seventeenth is France itself.“

„Well men, that much is made clear,“ Koscuisko said derisively. „Geoffrey

Highclere is not in the pay of Napoleon, but of King Louis, to whom he has

conveyed the Duchess. Now all we need to do is find Time and the Ancien Regime“

Wessex stood in his stirrups, stretching, and gazed around himself speculatively,

as if he were hoping that his landmark would spontaneously appear.

„Koscuisko,“ Wessex said, a considering tone in his voice, „who do you

suppose is truly Geoffrey’s paymaster – and where do you suppose he is?“

.The grey phouka that Meriel rode traveled faster thari any mortal animal, swift as

an arrow in flight. In moments the little town of Trois Vierges had been left behind as

the fairy pony vaulted ditch and wall and hedge with equal facility. The sound of its

hoofbeats were like a martial drumroll, too swift to impute any rhythm to.

Lady Meriel clung to the creature’s back for dear life. There was no time now to

wonder which half of her petition the fay had granted – discovery or rescue – or

even to ponder what her destination might be. She buried her face in the animal’s

neck, feeling her tightly pinned braids dragged free by the wind until her hair

streamed half-undone down her back. She lost her clogs the first time the pony

jumped, and the wind quickly stole her shawl as well, leaving Meriel only her cotton

dress and petticoats for protection against the summer’s night.

But the phouka must be taking her to Louis. That was the only thing that mattered

now. The landscape swept by faster than a bird could fly, so that a church steeple

would loom into view and vanish behind them in scant minutes. Meriel looked for the

waning moon in the sky;’ she could not see it, yet the landscape all around was as

bright as if a full hunter’s moon shone upon it. She dared not even pray, lest calling

upon the Holy Names cause the fairy horse to vanish like morning mist.

The Emperor’s bright new kilometer-posts flashed by like the white-painted

pickets of a giant’s fence, and Meriel ‘s fingers and toes ached with unnatural cold.

But she was determined not to give up, or to beg the animal to stop. She must

rescue Louis. There was no one else to do it if she did not.

She did not know how long the pony had run tirelessly forward when finally its

speed began to slacken. She blinked wind-caused tears from her eyes and looked

around.

The brilliant blue moonlight had faded with the pony’s slowing speed, and now

the world around her was merely dark. Perhaps a mile distant loomed the ruined

towers of some vast crumbling casde. Meriel could hear dogs barking in the

distance, and the village clock striking the half-hour. Now the horizon was a faint

dirty oyster color, harbinger of dawn, and her fey mount had slowed to a walk,

though its coat was still as cool and dry as if it had not run tirelessly for leagues like

some automaton.

„Where have you brought me?“ Meriel asked unsteadily: The phouka had been

supposed to bring her to Louis. That was the bargain she had struck… wasn’t it?

„Where is Louis?“

The pony tossed its head, as though shrugging off her questions, and began

trotting once more. But this time the world did not make its strange shift into brilliant

blue light, and Meriel found herself more conscious of her own foolishness with

each passing second.

What could have possessed her to endanger her immortal soul in this fashion?

And her«sudden disappearance would be certain to grieve the Abbé de Condé, who

would have no way to know what had become of her. As dawn brightened, the pact

Meriel had made came to seem more and more outlandish – and futile, besides. Even

if Louis were being held prisoner near here – perhaps even within that nearby chateau

– how could she reach him?

I am no better off than I was before!

For the last several minutes, the phouka had been traveling along the highway;

now Meriel became aware that two horsemen were approaching from the other

direction. She dragged at the pony’s mane, trying to turn it from the road, for she

knew what a freakish sight she must represent, barefoot and with her hair tumbling

down her back, and had no desire to be made sport of by early travelers.

But the pony did not respond to her tugging. In fact, her fingers passed through

the wiry mane as though it were so much sea-mist, and the compact, muscular body

between her knees melted away like sugar in hot tea. Meriel tumbled to the road

almost at the feet of the approaching horsemen.

The two men had ridden through the night, with Wessex wracking his brain to

provide some clue to the sorceress’s riddle. The identity of Geoffrey’s paymaster

was simple enough: the Black Priest ran the network of agents confidential and

provocateur who worked clandestinely for Imperial France. If Geoffrey Highclere

were in French pay, it was Talleyrand who was paying him, and to Talleyrand that

Highclere had taken Sarah.

But where was Talleyrand? Sarah was not in Paris – Saint-Lazarre would have

mentioned that fact. Sarah had saved his life while he had been her guest at

Mooncoign, and Saint-Lazarre would welcome the chance to even the score.

Suppose, however, that Talleyrand had not only the Duchess of Wessex but the

King of France – or thought he did, at any rate. The spymaster was not above

intriguing against his Imperial master, but even Talleyrand was not so bold as to plot

against the Corsican in the City of Light itself. The spymaster would seek some

out-of-the-way retreat where he could assess the worth of his prize at leisure.

For some time the White Tower Group had known that Talleyrand had a

particular bolt-hole here in the countryside. Centuries before, Chateau Roissy had

been a castle, and that ancient heritage remained in tower and moat. Later the castle

had become more home than fortress, and later still an abattoir to the family and its

servants who had lived here. After that revolutionary bloodbath, Chateau Roissy had

fallen into disuse until the Black Priest had found a use for it. What pleasures

Tallyrand indulged within the chateau’s blood-soaked walls was something unknown

to Baron Misbourne’s busy agents, but one might as well assume the worst That

Sarah had been taken to Chateau Roissy was, at best, a guess – and one built upon

the most tenuous chain of inferences. If Highclere was a French agent – If

Talleyrand was his paymaster – If Highclere had brought Sarah to Talleyrand – If

Talleyrand was keeping her at the chateau –

If, and if, and if. But Wessex knew there was no other choice for him, for he only

had time to act upon one guess. Let it be this one. He must break into the Chateau

Roissy and search the ancient place.

He had not told Koscuisko of this plan, for the volatile Pole would only dislike it,

and Wessex had no time for argument. By now Koscuisko knew all that Wessex had

learned since the Duke had arrived in Copenhagen, and Wessex meant for his partner

to cross the Channel with that report and deliver the information to Misbourne with

all due dispatch.   So they rode on through the summer’s night. When they reached

the place where Wessex was to turn off for Roissy, the Duke reined in.

„This is where we part, my friend. You’re no more than two days from the coast;

the Bishop of Calais should be able to get you across, and men – “

„And then I can have the ineluctable joy of explaining to the White Man that

you’re wandering around France in solitary splendor? No thank you, Your Grace, I

had rather face a line of French artillery.“

„English artillery would be more likely to hit you,“ Wessex pointed out mildly.

„But see here, Koscuisko – “

„Don’t you ‘see here’ me, Your Grace,“ his partner objected. „You’ve figured

out that Gipsy’s riddle, haven’t you? Well don’t think you’re going to cut me out of

the fun-– and as for your report, the Bishop of Amiens can forward it as well as I,

so that excuse won’t fadge,“ Koscuisko added gaily.

„I’m breaking into Roissy Castle,“ Wessex explained patiently. „I expect that

M’sieur le Pape Noir will have something to say to the matter.“

„Then we shall answer him as we always have,“ Koscuisko responded. „It

sounds like grand fun – and surely you don’t think you have the least chance of

success without me?“

„You never did know how to follow orders,“ Wessex grumbled, but surrendered

to the inevitable and spurred his horse into motion once more.

It was near dawn by the time they reached the neighborhood of the chateau, and

both men were wary. Wessex knew he could not enter the chateau unobserved –

success or failure depended upon whether Talleyrand was present at Roissy. For if

he were not, then the shift they had employed at Verdun might work twice and allow

them to enter the chateau in the guise of messengers from Paris.

But if Talleyrand were there at the chateau…

On a memorable occasion in the not-too-distant past, Wessex and the Black

Priest had encountered one another face-to-face; Tallyrand would be certain to

recognize the Duke of Wessex behind the thin disguise of Citizen Orczy. Koscuisko,

uniformed as one of the Garde Polonnaise, might baffle Talleyrand a while longer,

but not by much. And men they, too, could be executed, along with whatever poor

fool Talleyrand had found to impersonate the Young King.

Firmly, Wessex turned his thoughts aside from that path. What would be, would

be. All he could do was to make me best of what came.

As they approached Roissy, Wessex began to wonder if it might not be possible

to sneak inside after all. The great house was dark, even though at this hour servants

should be rising to begin their daily tasks. No guards patrolled the road or the

grounds; there were not even dogs to bark and raise the alarm. Perhaps Talleyrand

was, in fact, elsewhere.

Then the two men heard the sound of hoofbeats upon the road.

The noise came from the west, along the high road; as Wessex looked in that

direction he saw a faint lunar glow, like a will-o’-the-wisp, moving toward him.

Almost in the moment Wessex became aware of it the creature had closed half the

distance between them and Wessex could see it clearly. A moon-grey pony, faintly

glowing in the pale dawn light.

Wessex heard Koscuisko mutter an oath and sketch the sign of the Cross in the

air between himself and the apparition.

And in that instant the spectral equine vanished, as if it were in fact the marsh-mist

it had reminded Wessex of. The sound of hoofbeats stopped, but in the same instant

there was a prosaic mud and a soft female outcry. In place of the horse, a black

shape remained upon tile road.

Wessex urged his hors» forward. Behind him, he heard Koscuisko mutter

something in disgust before doing likewise, but while Wessex believed in devils, in

his experience all of them had worn human flesh. A man in his profession must

accept the inexplicable, but he did not fear it any more than he feared a man with a

loaded pistol. There was no irrational world in the Duke of Wessex’s cosmos, only

a world imperfectly understood.

In mis case, the ghost-steed resolved itself into a grubby female person in a

shabby cotton dress, her hair a tangled black mass of elf-locks. As she pushed her

hair from her face and stared at him in fear, Wessex realized with a pang of

amazement that this was someone he knew.

„Lady Meriel,“ Wessex said in disbelief.

„Oh, Blessed Virgin, it is you!“ Meriel ran to him, clutching at his booted leg for

support. „Your Grace, you must help me! I know not how you come to be here, but

your wife and – and Louis are in terrible danger. Mr. Highclere spies for France, and

– “

„Where did he take her?“ Wessex demanded, cutting through her babbled

explanations.

Meriel drew back with a cry of fear at the sight of Koscuisko in his fantastic

costume. Wessex leaned forward, seizing her hands to keep her from fleeing.

„Where did he take her?“ Wessex demanded again.

„I don’t know – I don’t know – “ Meriel was nearly frantic. „She – the Lady in

the Circle – she told me she would send me to him but I do not know where I am –

“

„You are near the Chateau Roissy, mademoiselle,“ Koscuisko said. He removed

his coat with the towering wings and dismounted from Spangle, hanging his shako

on the saddle as well. Well trained, Spangle stood patiently as Koscuisko walked

toward Meriel, holding out his pelisse. „If mademoiselle will forgive me for

observing, she seems chilled to the bone – and to go out without one’s footwear

cannot be considered a prudent act, even in summer weather.“

As he continued his nonsensical prattle, Koscuisko reached the girl and slipped

his wolfskin-lined pelisse over her shoulders.

„Really, Wessex, that face of yours would be enough to frighten a gargoyle,“ he

said chidingly. „I am certain that Lady Meriel means to be entirely forthcoming with

us at the earliest opportunity.“

Once more the Polish Hussar’s easy charm produced the desired result. Lady

Meriel lost much of her wild-eyed look and, encouraged by Koscuisko – and

refreshed with strong brandy from his pocket flask – told them everything, from her

arrival in Trois Vierges to Louis’s kidnapping by the men in the iron coach as he

tried to discover from the Royalist Underground the fate of Her Grace of Wessex.

„And I did not know what to do, but I went to the circle, and the White Lady

came – I gave her my locket, and she said she would send me to Louis – or save

him. I do not know which, Lord Koscuisko, and now thephonka is gone, and what

am I to do? Why should everyone I love suffer because of me?“

„Be quiet,“ Wessex said sharply. „The bad bargain you made with the fairy

woman hardly matters. We are going into the chateau – a matter in which you can be

of some aid. As for your Louis, rest assured, Lady Meriel, that if he is there I will

rescue him. Pretender or King, I would leave no man to the Black Priest’s mercies.“

Sarah stared into the barrel of the gun, transfixed with horror. Geoffrey Highclere

smiled.

Louis stepped in front of her.

„I have spent all my life learning what it is to be a valuable pawn, M’sieur

Highclere. I do not think that M’sieur Talleyrand will thank you for shooting me.

Run, Sarah.“

The last words were uttered in such a conversational tone that both his listeners

nearly missed them. Of the two, Sarah reacted first. She turned and ran.

Every fiber of her being rebelled against deserting Louis, but to do so was the

only weapon Sarah had. Louis had been right – Mr. Highclere dare not kill him. And

so long as Sarah lived, and was free, there would be another chance for her to

rescue him.

Behind her she could hear Mr. Highclere roaring for help. The corridor she ran

down was unfamiliar, leading her away from the staircase to the first floor. She heard

shouts as me house was roused; she had only seconds to find a haven.

She jerked open a door and found a narrow staircase leading bodi up and down.

The servants’ stair. When she closed the door behind her even the dim glimmers of

light from the hall were gone. Sarah hesitated only a moment before stepping into the

darkness of me downward steps.

But when she reached the next landing, the doorway was bricked over; she could

feel me new rough patch of brick, colder than the old plaster that surrounded it

There was no escape from the stairs into the ground floor.

And from above she saw a gleam of light shining upon the wall. Someone had

opened the door to the hallway.

Noiselessly, Sarah fled further into the dark.

Illya Koscuisko saluted gaily and turned the grey aside. The sky was light enough

that the animal seemed to glow, though not as supernaturally as the phouka had

done.

„Where is he going?“ Meriel asked. She was still bundled in the Hussar’s pelisse,

and Wessex had taken her up before him on his horse.

„To make a diversion, to find another way in, to secure our exit,“ Wessex said

dismissively. „Or to be shot, if our friend Talleyrand’s notion of order extends to

posting any sort of guard.“

„I am sorry for all the trouble I have caused you,“ Meriel said diffidently.

„You may be sorry for it later with my good will, assuming we both live through

the next few hours. I have no intention of leaving my wife in Talleyrand’s hands.“

„Do you care for her, then?“ Meriel asked. „Because she did not think that you

did – and when Geoffrey said he would hold her hostage for your behavior, she did

not think it would answer.“

„Woman“ Wessex groaned eloquently. „Listen here, my little adventuress: I am

about to present myself at Chateau Roissy in the guise of one of the Red Jacks who

has just come, from tidying up the business in Trois Vierges – which is to say, you.

In all likelihood, you and I shall be shot at once. If we are not, perhaps we can do

something in the way of rescuing the prisoners. All of this is of quite enormous

concern to me – a concern so great that somehow I cannot summon up the energy

to discuss my marriage. Do you quite take my meaning?“

Meriel turned her back to him as best she could in her awkward position, her back

poker-straight.

The stairs curved sharply around as they descended, the narrow staircase

becoming narrower still until Sarah’s shoulders brushed against the wall on both

sides. She had left both plaster and brick behind – ’here the walls were of

close-fitting stone, beaded with icy moisture from beneath the ground. Even the

steps were wet and slimy, so that if she had not been barefoot, she would have

slipped and fallen a dozen times.

She stopped in the darkness listening. Whoever had come to the stairs to look for

her had not bothered to come all the way to the bottom. She waited a few more

minutes, then crept slowly through the darkness back up to the first-floor door. A

thin line of light shone from beneath it, making Sarah hesitate. If she opened that

door, she might be walking directly into an ambush. Cautiously, she drew back,

continuing on up the stairs.

No light shone beneath the door on the second floor. Slowly Sarah eased the

door open. Darkness, and an unfamiliar hallway. For the moment she’d eluded her

pursuers.

She crossed to a window and pulled back the curtain. It was just dawn; the light

was grey and the grass was silver with morning dew. There was no escape in this

direction: the window gave onto a two-storey drop onto flagstones, and there was

no way for her to climb down.

Someone was riding up the drive. She looked – then stared.

It was the Duke of Wessex. And Meriel was riding with him.

She must attract his attention! Sarah tapped at the window, then realized Wessex

could not hear the faint sound. After an instant’s thought, she balled her fist up in a

fold of her dress and struck the glass with all her might Tinkling fragments showered

out into the cold morning air.

Wessex looked up. Sarah pressed her face to one of the unbroken panes, hoping

he would see her.

He stopped – and then swung himself and Meriel down from the horse’s back,

disappearing into the ornamental shrubbery near the chateau. He had seen.

What to do now? Sarah stared around wildly. She must find some way to get

Wessex inside – but the lower floors of the chateau were filled with armed soldiers.

Then I must go up.

A few minutes’ search found the stairs that led to the higher floors, and once on a

higher level, Sarah squirmed out through a window and stepped onto the roof.

The slates beneath her feet were cold and wet; as smooth as glass. Her

stockinged toes curled around the wet slates, seeking purchase, as she clutched at a

chimney top for support The countryside stretched out far below her, as tiny and

unreal as a toy. Where was Wessex?

There was someone else on the roof with her; Sarah could hear scrabbling as

someone clambered over the slippery slates. Sarah temporarily abandoned her

search for Wessex and went in search of the intruder.

He was clean shaven and dressed in an unfamiliar green military uniform, his hair

dyed an unnatural yellow. At the flutter of her dress in the morning breeze, he

glanced up.

„Ah… the Duchess of Wessex, I presume?“ Illya Kosciusko said.

A few moments later all of them were standing in the small room that Sarah had

originally used as her egress onto the roof. She’d hugged Meriel, and assured the girl

that Louis was indeed here, alive, and well – though Geoffrey Highclere’s prisoner at

the moment „Though I do not think Mr. Highclere will shoot him. He is waiting for

Talleyrand to return from Paris – after that, I do not know what will happen.“

„And before that, we will be gone,“ Wessex announced. „Sarah, you and Meriel

go with Koscuisko, and – “

„No.“ Sarah’s refusal was flat and unequivocal. „I’m not going to be whisked out

of sight and out of trouble and leave you here to die. It will take all of us to save

Louis. And there is something I must tell you, Your Grace – but not right now.“

„I am relieved to hear it,“ Wessex said dourly. He looked at Koscuisko and

shrugged. „As you wish, Duchess. We shall confound the enemy together. Places,

then, ladies and gentleman. The show is about to begin.“

* * *

„I hope you will find your new accommodations… suitable, Your Majesty,“

Geoffrey Highclere sneered. He swung the barred door closed and thrust the iron

bar through the slots.

He hadn’t dared risk a shot at the Duchess with Louis blocking the way: his life

wouldn’t be worth a lead sovereign if the Black Priest returned to discover that

Geoffrey had executed the King of France. His shouts had brought reinforcements,

however, and he’d sent the chausseurs off after the damnable Duchess, with orders

to turn the chateau inside out until they found her. Geoffrey wasn’t sure how she’d

escaped, but he had no intention of allowing Louis to duplicate the Duchess’s trick.

He had brought Louis down to the lowest level of the ancient part of the castle. In

medieval times, the Due whose castle this had been had kept prisoners here; his

descendants had found better use for the space as a wine cellar. But this section of

the old dungeons was too damp for the convenient storage of casks and the wooden

racks upon which bottles of fine vintage might repose. So this archaic dungeon had

been left very much alone, much to its current owner’s delight. Upon occasion,

Talleyrand had cause to make use of this most unhealthy place, and in his absence,

Geoffrey Highclere had felt it would be just the thing to cow – and secure – an

unruly captive.

„I will find my accommodations familiar, at any rate,“ Louis retorted. „Take care

that I do not take a chill upon the lungs and expire before you can make use of me.“

Louis retreated to the far corner of the cell, and kicked disgustedly at the moldy

straw that lay in stinking, slimy piles upon the damp stone floor. „I console myself

with the knowledge that whatever my fate, the Duchess has won her freedom.“

„Not for long,“ Geoffrey snarled. „And once I have her back, I shall see which of

these antiques can be rendered serviceable once more.“

It was’a fine line to exit upon, but Geoffrey had taken Louis’s words to heart

also, and so he spent a further few minutes lighting the cressets in the iron baskets

upon the walls, and lighting the coals in the braziers.

Louis stood at the back of, his cell until he heard Highclere’s footsteps fade from

hearing, then came forward to examine the door. The bottom half of the barrier was

iron-sheathed wood, with a slot in it for a tray. The top half was open, secured by

iron bars as thick as a strong man’s thumb. Leaning against the bars, Louis gazed

out at an identical row of cells opposite him. The air stank of damp, burning coals,

and rotting straw. With gallows humor, Louis wondered whether he could manage to

sicken and die before Bonaparte’s First Minister returned to question him.

He hoped the Duchess had gained her freedom.

There was a sound, but not from the stairs that Highclere had so lately ascended.

Ah, Mon Dieu, let there not be rats….

It had been a stroke of luck to overhear Mr. Highclere explaining where he had

put Louis, for Sarah had a very good idea that the curving stairs she had tried before

must be a back way into the dungeon. She had tried to lead Wessex and Meriel

along them, but soon the stairs had narrowed so much that Wessex could not pass.

He had told them to go on while he sought for another way and returned up the

stairs, leaving Sarah and Meriel the candle to light their way.

Soon the passageway narrowed even further, so that the two women had to inch

along it sideways, and Sarah began to fear that the stone walls would narrow to the

point that she and Meriel were trapped. The candleflame danced wildly in the cold

draft blowing up from below, and Sarah reluctantly passed the taper back to Meriel

for safekeeping, for if it blew out they had no way to relight it.

The passage was so narrow that Sarah could not reach across herself to pass the

candle back; instead she stretched both hands up over her head and Meriel did the

same, passing the burning taper over their heads. She felt Meriel's fingers glide over

hers and seize the candle firmly. Sarah released it and lowered her arms.

And a sudden gust of air snuffed the flickering taper before Meriel could lower it

to safety.

„Pray pay it no mind,“ Sarah said, as soothingly as she could manage in the

sudden darkness. „It is not as if we are likely to lose our way.“

Meriel produced a shaky giggle, though Sarah could feel the girl trembling with

both cold and fear. „This will teach me, I suppose, to make pacts with the Fair

Ones,“ Meriel said aloud.

„Well, at least you are here,“ Sarah offered, though she could think of no good

reason that anyone in their right mind would wish to be here. The darkness was so

impenetrable it seemed to glow with unreal colors, and Sarah had to fight off a

sudden surge of claustrophobia. It was as if she was trapped in a cave deep beneath

the earth, where she might rest forever, with no one to ever know her fate….

„Sarah,“ Meriel breathed. „I see a light.“

To Louis’s astonishment, the source of the scrabbling noise was revealed as the

Duchess of Wessex, and with the Duchess was Lady Meriel. The moment she saw

Louis, Meriel ran to his side, oblivious to what dangers might lurk here, and clutched

at his hands through the bars.

„Oh, Louis – I .thought I had lost you!“ Meriel said, beginning to weep.

Sarah closed her ears to the rest of their conversation – they had switched to

French, at any rate, a language that Sarah did not know- – and struggled with the iron

bar. Mr. Highclere might be an indifferent hunter, but his quarry had multiplied to the

point that even he could not fail to draw some covert or other. They must get Louis

out of here – but even to save the young man’s life, Sarah did not think she could

get him out along the servant’s stairway.

Sarah only hoped that Wessex had done something permanent about Geoffrey

Highclere.

Geoffrey had entered the grand salon to pour himself a drink. His saber jingled at

his side as he walked, symbol of a rank and status that would vanish like morning

mist if he failed to retain possession of both Louis and me Duchess.

It was no longer much of a salon, its furnishing consisting of a table, a sideboard,

and a chair, but there was a bottle of brandy there with which Geoffrey had an

appointment. The day was advanced enough for him not to need a candle; the cold

grey light of dawn gave the space a sickroom clarity, but Geoffrey was intent upon

the brandy, and the castle was not heated well even at the best of times. It therefore

took him some seconds to register that one of the windows had been opened to the

chill morning air.

„I have come to kill you, Mr. Highclere,“ the Duke of Wessex said pleasantly.

„Please be so good as to draw your sword.“

A dozen feet away stood His Grace of Wessex, King Henry’s noble executioner,

dressed like a French clerk and holding a dueling sword that glittered like a barber’s

razor.

„Are you challenging me to a duel?“ Geoffrey asked, playing desperately for time.

If Wessex were here he must know everything. He must have come for the Young

King. It would be a feather in Geoffrey’s cap if he could deliver Wessex – alive or

dead.

And then the inconvenient Duchess would be his to do with as he pleased….

‘ „Actually, no,“ Wessex said apologetically. „I’ve come to kill you, and a pistol

would draw inconvenient attention.“

And I have a pistol, Tour Interfering Grace – and you do not.

Geoffrey did not dare to draw attention to his hole-card, but he could feel its

weight dragging at his tunic pocket. Slowly he drew his sword with his left hand.

Most right-handed fencers were hindered against a left-handed swordsman, and so

Geoffrey had taught himself long ago to wield a blade with either hand. He held his

saber point downward, edge out, in the German style.

Wessex, he saw, favored the Italian school. His grace came en garde and

advanced quickly, the knuckles of his free hand pressed against his waist.

The swords clashed with a high rasping sound. Both men were excellent

swordsmen; each had killed. But Wessex was fighting for the lives of others, and

Geoffrey was fighting for his own skin. He pushed the Duke back again and again,

until they had traversed the length of the salon. The stamp of their boots rang loud in

the silence of the morning, but not as loud as a pistol-shot would have. Geoffrey

slashed wildly, his entire aim to keep from being cut, and to free his pistol. Though it

took only seconds for him to achieve this aim, bom men were already sweating when

he succeeded.

„And now, Wessex, it is time to resign the match.“

„Must it be this way, Highclere? There will be a scandal, I expect, but at least

your family might know that you died as a gentleman.“

„You’re mad, Your Grace. Who are you to talk of gentlemen and honor? But I

digress. The victory goes to me, I think. Throw down your sword.“

Wessex did, and Geoffrey kicked the weapon away as he closed in.

Then His Grace drew his pocketwatch and opened it, apparently oblivious to the

pistol in Geoffrey’s hand.

„It is just rising’ six, I think,“ His Grace observed, and shot Geoffrey Highclere

through the throat.

The recoil caused the pocketwatch to fly out of the Duke’s hand, smashing itself

against the wall behind his head. The sound of the shot echoed loudly, and Wessex

wrung his bruised hand- – the hideout pistol was a fearsome weapon, but at a price.

Quickly Wessex retrieved his sword and the smashed remains of the watch; it

would not do to allow the White Tower’s secrets to fall into enemy hands.

The door flew open.

„The Anglais has been shot!“ Wessex shouted into the faces of the surprised

chausseurs. „The assassin has escaped through me window! After him – quickly!

Quickly!“

The upper storeys of the old chateau were largely uninhabited, Illya Koscuisko

had found, forcing a window that let into one of the attics, but hardly empty.

Wessex had told him to create a diversion, and so he would. The chateau had

burned once: why not again?

Koscuisko spent a few minutes gathering straw ticks and ramshackle furniture

together into one of the deserted attics. The best way to start a fire was never from

the top down, but he was forced to work with the materials at hand. Having amassed

a fine pile of potential tinder, Koscuisko crossed from that attic to the servant’s

quarters, and then to the attic on the far side, where he found an object that surprised

him gready – a wicker basket nearly as high as a man, ringed with sandbags.

„Interesting,“ he murmured to himself.

Even more interesting was the fact that the rest of the mechanism was also

present, carefully packed in wooden crates. Koscuisko went over to me window and

looked out. The roof canted steeply, and the walls were a sheer drop to the moat

below, but to his left, the roof flattened out where it met the top of the old stone

tower that formed the oldest section of the chateau.

Now the next question was, could he transport the contraption from here to there?

Whistling softly to himself, Koscuisko set to work.

The underground complex was a maze. Once they got as far as the wine cellar,

where the sounds of chaos were audible: screaming servants and swearing soldiers,

all shouting at each other. There would be no escape through the kitchen. And so

Meriel, Sarah, and Louis turned back, trying to find the route that Geoffrey had taken

to bring Louis down into the cellar, but only succeeded in retiring to the dungeon

cells again.

„It is no good,“ Louis groaned. „There is no escape that is not guarded by

Talleyrand’s jackals. You must return the way you came, and leave me behind.“

„No!“ Meriel cried.

„I mink there is another way,“ Sarah said. „Give me your candle, Meriel – and

you, Louis, bring me some of that damp straw.“

Before Sarah Cunningham had ever become entangled in the affairs of alien

nations, she had been taught to survive with little more than her bare hands to aid

her. The other two watched uncomprehendingly as the thin thread of smoke from the

tiny fire spiraled upward toward the roof.

„Forgive me, Madame la Duchesse“ Louis said, „but what good can this do? A

fire will not help us.“

„A fire will show us the way out,“ Sarah corrected. And true to her word, the top

of the smoke-thread streamed sideways, in the direction of the exit.

Three times Sarah stopped and kindled a tiny fire from the relit candle and a few

wisps of dank straw. Each time the smoke followed the direction of the circulating

air, pointing their way to freedom. She had safely explored caves near her home with

this method, which could nearly always point the way to some exit from beneath the

earth.

And once again – in an artificial labyrinth far from home – the trick worked its

simple magic. They reached a door that none of them had seen before. The panel

stood at the top of a long, free-standing stone staircase, and light shone beneath the

door.

„Another dead end,“ Meriel said somberly. „Locked… or guarded.“

„We don’t know that,“ Louis said hopefully. He looked to Sarah.

„I don’t think it is,“ she said slowly. She’d been doing her best to keep a map of

the chateau in her head, and it seemed to her that they were at the opposite end of

the great building from the narrow staircase along which she and Meriel had

descended into the dungeons in the first place. That ought to put them beneath the

old tower in which Sarah and Louis had been held captive.

„I don’t believe there’s anyone here,“ Sarah amplified. „I think every one is

looking for us at the other end of the cellars – not here.“

„And even if they are closer, we are rapidly running out of choices, are we not?“

Louis said. He put an arm around Meriel's shoulders. „We cannot stay down here

forever.“

„No,“ Sarah agreed. She took a deep breath and started up the stairs.

The door will be locked, she told herself hopefully. If it were, she would at least

not have to choose whether or not it was safe to open. There was a small grille set

into the door; through its lattice, Sarah saw that the light came from a narrow

arrow-slit in the left-hand wall of the tower. The sun had risen; it was morning.

She pulled on the handle. The door didn’t move. But it ratded, and Sarah saw that

it was secured by a tiny latch on this side of the door, not the other. Carefully she

eased back the small bolt. Now all that was left was to open the door and see what

lay beyond. Mustering all her reserves of courage, Sarah opened the door.

The half-circle room that lay beyond the doorway was empty. She pushed the

door open and beckoned to the others.

„This way. Hurry!“

The Duke of Wessex was a busy man this morning. His ruse had worked about

as long as he’d thought it would – three minutes – but that gave him a three-minute

lead, and His Grace used the time to good advantage. With Talleyrand absent, and

the over-busy Mr. Highclere now among the angels, the soldiers and servants had no

one to give them orders – leading to an amount of confusion that could only work to

England’s benefit.

That confusion did not mean, however, that Wessex would not be shot on sight.

He managed to deprive one soldier of rifle and ammunition bag, and thus armed,

held off his pursuers while allowing them to drive him backward through the chateau.

He’d wanted to make for the dungeons, but was balked in this – however, from

Sarah’s information and his own early reconnaissance, Wessex had a good idea of

where he wanted to go, and what he meant to do when he got there.

Wessex gained the top of a staircase and flung himself into cover. The

cartridge-bag hit the floor beside him with a dull mud, and he swung the weapon

down into position.

A well-drilled infantryman could deliver three shots a minute under field

conditions. Wessex lacked that peak of training, but he could manage two. The first

shot exploded the wall in a shower of splinters and plaster, filling the stairway with a

thick veil of acrid white smoke. He reloaded and fired again, and then, while his

pursuers waited, expecting another shot, Wessex ran.

As he’d hoped, the tower was separated from the newer building by thick,

inward-opening doors. He slammed the door behind him, jamming a piece of a

broken chair through the iron staples meant to hold the wooden bar. The barrier

would not keep his pursuers at bay forever – he would have to find something

stronger.

And then he heard movement on the stairs below him, and realized that perhaps

his plan would not serve after all.

„Who’s there?“ Meriel called out nervously, before Sarah could shush her.

Desperately, Sarah wished for a weapon – any weapon, even a knife.

There was a clatter of boots upon the stair.

„Sarah?“ Wessex demanded.

His face was blackened with gunpowder, and Sarah’s heart gave a treacherous

leap of joy to see him alive and whole. And then she grabbed for the weapon he

held. Relief washed over her as she took the familiar weight in her hands – whatever

else had altered when she had been wrenched from her own world, the light

single-barreled gun she had used all her life remained unchanged. She slung the

ammo-bag over her shoulder and rummaged in it, then automatically swabbed the

barrel clean and began to load the weapon.

Wessex regarded her with a nonplussed expression.

„Sarah?“ he said again.

Sarah glanced up from her loading, and in that moment realized what a freakishly

un-English picture she must represent. There was nothing she could do but smile

apologetically.

„I got Louis out of the dungeon,“ she offered hopefully. She rammed down the

charge and slid the ramrod back beneath the barrel of the musket.

„So I see.“ Wessex was struggling not to smile back, she could see – even

though the situation was as black as it could possibly be.

„What do we do now?“ Louis asked.

Sarah saw Wessex’s face change as he looked at the young man; saw the pang of

unwilling recognition that told her that the wild story was true: that somehow, this

bedraggled young man whom she’d rescued was the true King of France, saved

from his executioners a dozen years before by Wessex’s father.

„Come on,“ Wessex said shortly, leading them back up the stairs.

* * *

His plan was to escape across the roofs – or at least to see if such escape were

possible – but when Wessex reached the tower room he was met by a grinning Illya

Koscuisko.

The Polish Hussar was stripped to his shirtsleeves, his dyed-blond hair hanging in

his eyes. But he looked far too pleased with himself to be bearing news of anything

but success.

„Your chariot awaits,“ Koscuisko said, bowing and flourishing in the direction of

the open trapdoor in the ceiling.

„What… is that thing?“ Sarah demanded in astonishment when all five of them

were on the roof. The day was fully advanced – blue, bright, and cloudless – and the

stones of the roof were already warm beneath her feet. The air smelled of smoke.

„It is a hot-air balloon, I think,“ Louis said. „One was demonstrated in Paris a few

years ago. They allow a man to fly.“

Meriel crossed herself, looking as appalled as Sarah did.

„It is unnatural,“ Meriel said.

They were staring at a wicker basket the size of a pony-trap, secured by stout

ropes to an enormous bag of bright-colored silk that was attached to an iron ring

suspended over the basket by iron rods. A brazier filled with burning coals hung

beneath the ring, and the air above the coals shimmered with hot air that was slowly

inflating the balloon.

„This is your idea of an escape plan?“ Wessex demanded of his partner.

„It has the virtue of originality,“ Koscuisko explained. „I set fire to the West Wing

about an hour ago – they ought to be discovering the blaze soon – and I have hopes

that it will distract them, as well as conceal our retreat.“

„In that,“ Wessex said without inflection, regarding the hot-air balloon skeptically.

He crossed the roof and looked out over the edge. „The fire seems to be working

well, at least.“

Another gust of smoke sailed past the tower as the wind shifted, and Sarah

fancied she could hear the distant crackling of flames.

„Well,“ Koscuisko said modestly, „between that and the gunpowder – “

There was an earsplitting roar, and the tower shook. Meriel screamed.

„Ah,“ said Koscuisko with satisfaction. „I hadn’t been entirely certain of the

timing of the slow match. Still, I think it works out well.“

„You’re mad,“ Wessex said comprehensively.

Koscuisko shrugged meekly. „I think we ought to get into the basket. I wasn’t

able to tie it down particularly well, and we’d best be aboard when it decides to fly

free.“

„Well,“ said Sarah, almost at a loss for words. „Well. If it does not work, it shall

almost certainly kill us, which I suppose is all to the good.“

Once the five of them clambered aboard, Koscuisko untied the ropes with which

he had bound the balloon to the battlements. He piled more coal into the brazier

from the sack at his feet, and the swelling sides of the balloon began to lose their

softness and take on the taut aspect of a windjammer’s sails.

„Can this possibly work?“ Sarah wondered, clutching at the barrel of her musket.

Now that she was armed at last, she had no intention of leaving her weapon behind.

„A question that is on everyone’s lips,“ Wessex murmured.

Meriel simply clung to Louis, more terrified of the airship than she had been of the

White Lady, the dungeon, and all of Talleyrand’s soldiery combined.

It seemed like an eternity, but it could not have been more than a quarter of an

hour before the basket began to bob gendy as the upward force of the heated air

began to lift it from the roof. They were playing a dangerous waiting game – could

the balloon whisk them away before the soldiers discovered where they were and,

broke through the trapdoor to the rooftop?

The balloon inched upward, pulled by the wind. It slid the length of the tower and

stopped, held in place by the crenelations.

„The sandbags,“ Koscuisko said. „It is time to lose them, I think.“

„Look!“ Meriel – who had been staring back at the trapdoor as though it offered

her only hope of eternal salvation – shrieked and pointed.

A chausseur had climbed up through the trapdoor and seen them. Only the man’s

upper body was visible, but he would reach the roof in a moment, and it would be a

matter of only a few saber-cuts to detach the balloon from the basket, stranding

them here.

Wessex reached for his own sword, as Louis and Koscuisko frantically untied

filled bags of sand from the basket.

„Get them out of here, Koscuisko,“ Wessex said, preparing to climb out of the

basket. „I’ll join you later.“

„You will not,“ Sarah said, lowering the musket and taking aim. „I’ve chased you

all over France, Your Grace – and I’m tired of it.“ She squeezed the trigger. There

was a flash as the powder in the pan ignited, and the beau sabreur fell backward

into the room below with a cry of surprise.

Sarah calmly began to reload. As the last of the sandbags fell free, the balloon

surged upward with a bound, sailing westward on the wings of the morning.

Chapter 19

The Road Not Taken

The five of them arrived at Trois Vierges in the dead of the night, but Sarah would

not allow anyone to approach the Abbé’s house. Instead, she settled her little band

into the shelter of a hedgerow to watch the house until dawn.

If not for Sarah’s woods-cunning, they would never have made it this far. With

only one horse among them – Koscuisko’s Spangle, who had followed the balloon

until the contraption had settled to earth several hours later – there was no possibility

of outrunning their pursuers.

They had hidden from them instead. Shabby as tinkers, traveling by night and

hiding by day, living on what they could catch or steal, they had taken three days to

traverse the distance that Meriel and the phouka had covered in a single night.

Sarah’s greatest worry had been to keep the grey Andalusian hidden, for the only

way such a modey crew as they currently appeared could have come across such a

fine animal would have been to steal it. But Koscuisko refused to abandon his horse,

and Wessex had agreed with him: if they were surprised, at least one of them might

be able to reach safety on horseback.

There was no certainty that they could find sanctuary in Trois Vierges, but neither

Louis nor Meriel had been willing to abandon the Abbé de Condé, and Wessex

himself suspected that the old priest would be a useful ally… if, of courses the Abbé

was not dead.

Lying pressed against the cold damp earth of France, Wessex regarded his

Duchess.

Her face was smeared with earth and animal fat, her hair skinned back into a

greasy braid. The traveling dress that once must have been grey twilled Gros de

Naples was now mud-colored, its shoulder seam ripped to expose an equally dirty

chemise. Her feet were bare, – her lisle stockings now swaddling the precious

musket against damp and dust She was as impassive and unmoving as the carven

figurehead of a sailing ship.

Wessex realized that he did not know her at all. Here at last was the woman he’d

thought he’d met at Mooncoign: the savage, efficient warrior, fellow soldier in a

private war. But that woman had vanished when King Henry had forced their

marriage. All that had been left was the reputation of a flighty, heartless, fashionable

hostess, a woman of the sort who held no interest for the Duke.

They must talk. She knew what he was now, he owed her the chance of an

honorable release from the wedded -state. But the business of survival had taken up

every waking hour since their escape from Hoissy, and now was no time to strike up

a conversation: voices, even whispers, carried too damnably well in the absence of

all other sound. Instead, he watched as she did, and with as much suspicion. Louis

had been taken from this place. It was not unreasonable that Talleyrand would again

be looking for him here.

Louis. The long-lost King of France, returned to the political chessboard, to the

consternation of friend and foe. His reappearance among the living would redraw

alliances all over the map of Europe. Royal blood and rightful kingship was a

powerful lure.

But young Louis did not wish to rule. He had told Wessex what he wanted – to

emigrate to Louisiana, there to live out his life as an ordinary man… with his wife.

Lady Meriel even now had not agreed to marry Louis – something which did

much to repair her reputation in Wessex’s mind – but only a fool wouldn’t know

that it was Midsummer Moon with the chit. And even though Mr Highclere was

dead, Lord Ripon remained, and would have to be dealt with. So something must be

arranged for the girl.

Something must be arranged for Wessex, as well. It would be months before the

White Tower knew whether Wessex’s true identity was known to the French,

months in which he could not go abroad with any degree of safety. If the Danish

Princess had been recovered, there would be work enough for him in London.

If he still had a Duchess.

Lying beneath a hedge in the middle of the night, watching the serene intent face

of his wife (who flatly refused to surrender the rifle for any reason whatever),

Wessex discovered that he very much hoped that he did.

The sun had risen. The Abbé had said early Mass, and returned to the little house

across the garden. A few hours -before, just as the sky was turning light, Sarah had

moved the fugitive band from their perch beneath the hedgerow to a new

hiding-place at the bottom of the garden. Now it was time to make their move.

„Louis?“ she said, as politely as if they were all in her London townhouse.

„Would you care to go to the kitchen door and see if your uncle will receive us?“

„No!“ Meriel instantly protested, clutching at Louis’s arm.

„It must be, ma petite“ Louis said. „Madame Carmaux will let me in, but she

does not know Monsieur le Duc nor Madame la Duchesse, nor yet the excellent

Koscuisko. And I am afraid we are such as to make any prudent housewife recoil in

alarm.“

„What if the Red Jacks are there?“ Meriel persisted. No matter how long they had

watched, the fear remained.

„Then Madame la Duchesse will shoot them with her large gun,“ Louis said. „But

I do not think they are there.“

With that, Louis wriggled out of his concealment and got to his feet, walking

across the garden as if nothing in the world were the matter. He reached the kitchen

door, opened it, and disappeared inside.

Silence.

„It isn’t that I’m in any way apprehensive,“ ffiya Koscuisko said apologetically.

„It’s simply that I’d like to know how long we are to wait here.“

Meriel began crawling out of her hiding-place next to the wafl.

The door opened. Louis stood in the doorway, beckoning them on.

By the time luncheon was placed upon the Abbé’s gleaming white linen tablecloth

by a much-less-than-mollined Madame Carmaux, the five refugees had been restored

to some vestige of tidiness. The Abbé de Condé assured Wessex that he could

arrange transportation to the coast, where the Duke could signal a patrolling English

warship and arrange for the party to be picked up.

Talleyrand had not come to the village – possibly he thought that his captives

were all dead in the fire that had engulfed the chateau, though Wessex did not believe

the spymaster was quite that simpleminded. At any rate, they would be gone from

here in a few hours, for to stay longer was to place the villagers in more peril than the

Duke cared to.

The only question was, who would go… and who would remain here?

„I should very much like to encourage Your Majesty to come with us to

England,“ Wessex said, when the dishes had been cleared away and the servants had

departed, leaving them alone. „Naturally I cannot compel you – “

Here Illya Koscuisko coughed, and Wessex’s mouth twitched.

„Say rather I shall not compel you, then, Your Majesty, though it must be known

– in certain circles – that you survive. Surely you understand that?“

„And what of Lady Meriel?“ Louis asked. There was an undertone of anger in his

own voice, but he was too much a man – and a King – to let it show.

„She shall be under my personal protection,“ Wessex promised. „There is

nothing more she need fear from the Earl of Ripon or his plots.“

„So. You dispose of us all very ready, Monsieur le Duc. But I do not wish to be

so disposed of, either to France or to England. And I do not wish to be King.“

„My son – “ the Abbé said, but Louis raised his hand for silence.

„I am sorry, mon oncle – I know how very much you have sacrificed to this

dream, and how many good men have died to keep me safe. But it is not my dream.

Let me renounce it, here and now.“

Stricken, the Abbé stared at his royal charge.

„It is better so, papa,“ Louis said. „Let it be so.“

„Has Your Majesty fully considered what your renunciation of the Crown will

mean?“ Wessex asked. „You are the kfst of the True line – if you are not King, who

will there be to make the Great Marriage with the soul of the land?“

„No one,“ Louis said briefly. „Let me be, Monsieur le Duc.“

„Is that what you will choose for France?“ Wessex persisted. „That the magic will

be gone from la Belle France, and she will become a mortal kingdom at last?“

Louis shrugged, looking Wessex in the eye. „That happened upon the day my

Either was murdered, Your Grace. I was far too young to be taught any of the Old

Rule, and all those who might know the Covenants and Pacts are surely dead. The

Corsican Tyrant has broken the power of the Hollow Kingdoms – he has boasted of

it – and whether there is ever again a King in France or no, he .will not have the

power of the Old Rule to call upon.“

„But Your Majesty – “ Wessex began to protest, and Louis held up a hand,

stopping him.

„Do not call me that; what do I know of being a king? No.“ Louis shook his head.

„If I were mad enough to claim the throne, I would be no more than a puppet

dancing upon gilded strings.“ Louis’s voice held a quiet dignity; his words a finality

that admitted no argument „Let me go, Your Grace. France’s fete and mine do not

lie together, and… and I would start a new life with the woman I love, far away from

crowns and thrones.“

Louis looked toward Meriel She smiled at him, and then looked back at Wessex.

All her arts of dissembling could not disguise the hope in her eyes.

„Very well,“ Wessex said, hesitating only a moment. „It will be as you wish.

Come with me to England, and I will see you and your bride safely boarded on a

ship bound for the American colonies – but I hope I may call upon you, Your

Majesty, should there be need?“

„For anything save to rule France,“ Louis promised, breathless and laughing with

relief. „And now my lords – and Madame la Duchesse – may I invite you to attend

upon my wedding?“

„I must speak to you,“ Sarah said to Wessex.

The Duke turned to face her. The others had already left me church, returning to

the priory for a small celebration, but Wessex lingered in the doorway, and Sarah

had turned back to find him.

„I had thought that you would,“ he said quietly. „I assure you, once we have

returned to England I will place no obstacle in your way, but you might consider

whether it would suit your purposes better simply to live apart. Mine is a dangerous

life, and it is quite possible that you will soon be a widow. It is a less scandalous end

to a marriage than dissolution.“

„What are you talking about?“ Sarah said blankly. „I have come to tell you who I

really am.“

And she did, with brisk efficiency. The strange tale was soon told – of all of it,

the part that Wessex found hardest to believe was that the Americas would revolt

against their King – or that Englishmen would not always have Stuarts to govern

men, „But the ring you wore – the one that was your father’s – what of that?“

Wessex asked. Did the Boscobel League exist in both worlds? And if it did, how

had England’s rightful king in Sarah’s world ended his days a hunted outcast?

„I never knew the ring’s story,“ Sarah said, „and now I never shall. But what am I

to do, Wessex? For I cannot go home.“

„Not unless Grandanne has another string to her bow,“ Wessex agreed, „though I

shouldn’t discount that, my little Colonial. But you were brought to this world

a-purpose – do you think you have discharged your task?“

„I don’t know,“ Sarah said honestly. „What work could the Marchioness of

Roxbury have left undone that was so important that she needed to call me from

another world to finish it? I do know that that creature – that Jack-in-the-Green –

said that I must become one with Has land: and I have not figured out what he

meant, much less how to do it.“

„As to that,“ Wessex said, „I think I may have some notion.“

He drew her gently to him – she did not resist – and carefully sealed her mouth

with his own.

EPILOGUE

The Lioness of England

The heavily-laden haywain rambled down the road to the coast in the fading

afternoon light. It was months too early for the new hay harvest to be ready, and

thus, highly unlikely that such a waggon would be making this journey, but the

cavalry units that patrolled this coast had very few farmers among them, and Wessex

and the Abbé both thought the deception would pass.

Sarah, Louis, and Meriel were hidden in the false bottom of the waggon, while

Wessex and Koscuisko, in suitable rustic disguise, rode upon the box. Koscuisko

had finally been persuaded to abandon his mount; Spangle remained behind in the

Abbe’s stables until the animal could be sent for – the gelding was far too valuable

to abandon if there were any hope of rescuing it later.

The pickets on station in the Channel would know to ,, look for them, thanks to

the Bishop of Amiens. They were within sight of the sea; at the farmhouse the Abbé

had marked out for them they could leave the haywain. Then all they needed to do

was walk a mile or so to the coast, wait until dark, and signal with the dark-lantern

and mirror that the Abbé de Condé had provided.

It seemed, on the face of it, a simple matter, and Wessex had been in and out of

France more times than he could count in the years since the Revolution. But there

was always something that could go wrong, even when the situation at hand verged

on… boredom.

Case in point: what should have been a simple drive in the country.

A dispatch rider had passed them an hour before, heading eastward. They had

seen nothing since, nor had they expected to; it was the wrong time of day for traffic

along this offshoot of the Paris – Calais road.

But there was a sound of hoofbeats in the distance. Koscuisko pointed in the

direction of the rising dust cloud and shrugged inquiringly at his partner.

If it was a French patrol, in all likelihood it was searching for them. The only

question was, would a patrol recognize them when it found them? They could bluff,

or they could fight: Wessex would prefer to bluff, if the choice were offered. He

shook his head at Koscuisko and made a clicking sound at the horses, encouraging

them to pick up their pace.

The mounted troop appeared – six French chausseurs, light cavalry whose

primary use in war was scouting and skirmishing. They were also used to patrol

disputed areas, such as the coast near Calais, and it looked as if one of their sweeps

had borne fruit, for they had a prisoner, riding, hands bound before him, at the

center of the troop. Wessex recognized the mustard-colored uniform of the

Kongelige Livgarde amidst the black French chausseur uniforms.

„A Dane,“ Wessex said quietly. „One of the Queen Christina’s complement. He

might have news of the Princess.“ The Livgarde had not tendered his parole – if he

had, he would still possess his saber and pistols – and so would be likely to fight if

the chance of rescue loomed.

„It is our duty,“ Koscuisko said piously, reaching for his sword and pistol.

„Denmark is an ally of England, or ought to be.“

* * *

The waggon was prudently pulled off to the side of the road, leaving the highway

clear for the soldiers. The unexpected shots rang out when the troop was a few

yards from the haywain.

The Captain and his Lieutenant fell, and Koscuisko ran out to seize the lead

horse’s bridle and drag the wounded rider from the saddle. In an instant Koscuisko

was mounted, turning the skittish animal and galloping back upon the others.

Wessex emptied both pistols – a provident gift from Abbé de Condé – and then

ran forward with his saber. A man on foot was at a great disadvantage when facing a

man on horseback,, but there was no time now to count the cost.

A shot whisded past his ear; Sarah had slithered from her hiding-place and had

added her expert marksmanship to the fight The Livgarde at the center of the melee

had not been slow to seize this opportunity for freedom. When the first shots rang

out, he had flung himself at the nearest chausseur, throwing both of them to the

ground, where he was giving a good account of himself even with his hands bound

before him.

It was over very quickly.

The Livgarde got to his feet. He’d freed his hands with the aid of a bayonet, and

stood surveying the carnage surrounding him, a cocky grin on his face.

„A most provident rescue, m’sieur,“ the Livgarde said in French as Wessex

approached him. Sarah and the others were standing beside the waggon now –

confused, perhaps, but blessedly unhurt.

The Dane’s voice was light and husky, and from the look of him he hardly needed

to shave yet – the bushy mustaches and sideburns favored by the Kongelige

Livgarde were conspicuously absent.

„To a certain extent it was motivated by self-interest,“ Wessex said as Koscuisko

joined him. „You were on the Queen Christina, were you not?“

„I think so,“ Koscuisko commented, and reached out swiftly to knock the

Zzvgarde’s shako from his head.

„Damn,“ the Livgarde said ruefully as his – her – blond hair tumbled down over

her shoulders.

„I’d had you fooled, didn’t I?“ Princess Stephanie of Denmark said.

Princess Stephanie told her story to Wessex and the others as she helped them

collect the members of her former escort. There was no need to execute them all;

bound and gagged and concealed beneath the hay in the waggon, the survivors

would live to fight another day while giving the five – now six – fugitives the

headstart to reach England that they needed.

And the French had kindly donated mounts enough for the party to quickly reach

the shore, as well.

„I must say, Your Highness, that such a masquerade shows a great deal of

personal resourcefulness,“ Koscuisko said respectfully, as the party rode westward.

„Oh, pho!“ the Princess said. „No one ever looks at a soldier – they expected to

see a Princess in a crown and a gown, and looked no farther than that. And my lads

wouldn’t give me away – they are my grandfather’s regiment, but it is I who wear

their uniform and drill with them. But you are Anglais, and will think my wearing

men’s dress very shocking, hein?“ she added, grinning at Koscuisko.

„Polish,“ Koscuisko corrected. „The disapproving gentleman on your left with

the terrible hat is English. May I present to Your Highness the Duke of Wessex, one

of Your Highness’s great admirers?“

Princess Stephanie threw back her head and laughed. „What a company we are –

Dukes and Duchesses, Princes and Princesses! What trouble we could make for the

French, if only we stayed!“

„Alas,“ Wessex said. „I do not need to remind Your Highness that her duty is

elsewhere?“

The Princess heaved a deep sigh and gazed at Wessex saucily. „What a bore that

I must marry this tiresome Prince! We could have had many adventures.“

Wessex and Koscuisko glanced at each other.

„I do not think, Your Highness, that you will find Prince James lacking in a sense

of adventure,“ Koscuisko said soberly.

The Princess made a rude noise.

„And somehow I doubt the Prince will be disappointed in his future bride,“

Wessex observed in English.