A Perfect Knight For Love (37 page)

The words echoed in the chamber and then died away, leaving a resonating hollow feeling.

“What should I do now?” She leaned forward to whisper it to Angus. It was probably heard by those about them due to the acoustics in the room. Angus winked.

“Advise the men to rise. Too much time on the knee can be harmful to a man’s health. And speak loud and clear. We’ll make certain you’re heard.”

“Oh.” Speak loud and clear? In front of so many? Amalie had often pondered with Edmund what going on the boards as an actor would feel like, if she’d been born a male and had that opportunity. She found out at this moment that it was more than frightening. It was terrifying.

“Rise. Please.”

The words warbled. Angus shouted them for her. Then Stout Pells added an echo of them and some words of his own. “The duchess accepts! Now, move aside and allow her a path!”

A path. Right to the raised dais containing chairs that looked like they’d been constructed for giants. Amalie followed a trio of elders, Stout Pells right behind her, as she was taken to the dais and seated in a chair that made her feel like a dwarf, and probably look like one. She had elders on both sides of her, Angus on her right while Stout Pells stood just to the left of her chair back.

“First item of business, your grace?”

Good heavens. She was at a war counsel, and worst of all, they expected her to lead. Nothing could have prepared her for this. Except those afternoons when she and Edmund had fought the Spanish Armada. Amalie smiled and rubbed her hands, not just for warmth, but because she was excited.

“I would say we must get my husband released, but I’ll leave that in the hands of competent men such as yourselves.”

She’d said the right thing. As it was announced, and then re-announced, she could see open grins and nods. Not to mention Angus MacGorrick was looking at her like a kindly grandfather. If, of course, it was her imagination of how a kindly grandfather would look, since she’d never had one.

“Fair enough. Next?”

“Was Jamie . . . I mean, the late Duke of MacGowan . . . a Catholic?”

“You insult the MacGowan clan with such a question, your grace!”

Angus went a shade of purple, as it looked like he controlled his words. Amalie said words that just came to her, without any thought or any preparation.

“Then, we must see Jamie’s body readied for a proper burial, in the only right and proper church, and that means the Church of England!”

That announcement didn’t need to get repeated. Cheers broke out, ringing off the walls. Angus nodded and turned out to the crowd.

“See to it. You? Garrick! Take Leeman, Sean-the-Younger, and Pitt. You have an issue with the dowager, you come tell me!”

Rustling and crowd noise followed the announcement. Amalie assumed it was due to the departure of the specified men. She leaned toward Angus again. “What issue might they have with the duchess?” she asked.

“Hopefully one that’ll get her arse thrown off the land. And this time, for good!”

This time?
There sounded like a good story in that bit of information but Amalie didn’t pursue it. “Good thing I am the lesser evil, eh?”

“I never said such, your grace. I never even inferred such a thing.”

“It’s all right. I said it for you. So.” Amalie rubbed her hands together in a semblance of childish glee. That was probably what brought grins to every bearded face she looked into. “Why should we let them start anything? I say we go and have an issue with the dowager now.”

“My lady! I mean, your grace!” It was Maves, moving forward to stand at the base of the podium that just reached her breast line. “You’ll need time to prepare! Time to get presentable!”

Amalie stood and shouted her answer. It got repeated anyway.

“Presentable? I’m the wife of the laird of Clan MacGowan. There isn’t anything about me that isn’t presentable! So, tell me . . . who’s with me?”

The answer was blurred from many throats but wasn’t mistakable. They might hate her because of her lineage, but they hated the French-court raised duchess even more. Amalie took Stout Pells’s arm for an escort again, although this time the crowd parted easily so she could reach the front of the mass. Angus was on her other side, while the other elders strode beside him.

They made quite a retinue crossing the inner bailey grounds, especially as it appeared word was spreading, and the crowd size had grown apace. It had seemed a lengthy distance to the Palazzo when she’d undertaken it at night. And in a carriage. And with Thayne at her side. It had seemed to take a lot longer than the few minutes it took to traverse it now. She might as well have wings on her feet. She didn’t even feel the damp of the ground mists or late afternoon chill since any daylight was blocked by the height of the walls. They arrived on the heels of the clansmen Angus had sent, who were attempting to gain entrance.

Stout Pells held her back as Angus took command, sending shouts and orders that saw the front force of the crowd reach the double doors and push them inward. Amalie watched from several yards back as the wood bowed with a loud groaning sound, and then burst wide, tumbling men forward.

Several effeminate-looking servants blocked their path at first, brandishing canes, chairs, a fireplace poker, and one of them had a torch stand.

“Cease that or face a bruising! Andrew!”

One of the largest men Amalie had ever seen stepped through the crowd, and slammed a long spear-thing into the floor. The room resounded with the boom of noise while several cracks appeared in the parquet flooring. But it worked. The servants dropped their impromptu weapons and fled. From the back hall, another man appeared, his wig askew on his head while the buttons on his coat were half fastened. The heels of his shoes clicked with his haste in approaching them. He stopped just shy of the behemoth that was Andrew, looked him up and down before turning to Amalie. And then he spoke in a supercilious tone that was meant to put her firmly in her place and almost succeeded.

“We were not prepared for a visit, Mistress MacGowan. You are to leave.”

“Bow your head in deference, Cousin MacGorrick, and that’s an order. This here is the new Duchess of MacGowan. I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, or I’ll be for carving it out for you. And ye ken already how much I’d like that.”

Angus used his cane for emphasis, tapping it rapidly as he stepped up to stare down the man. His threat must mean something, for the man went even whiter than his face paint. Then Wynneth spoke up, looking down on them from the dim gloom of the stair crest. She had four servants on either side, and looked exactly as overdressed and ridiculous as she’d looked the first time Amalie had seen her.

“What is this? I’ve just been informed of my bereavement, and this is the behavior of Clan MacGowan . . . to their late chieftain’s wife?”

Her voice carried just the right amount of warble. Amalie could feel the reaction in the crowd about her. The woman was good with her acting. Very good. But Amalie was better. Hadn’t she spent her entire childhood acting out emotion-charged dramas like this one? She took a deep breath, stepped forward, and curtsied.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but your men might need help with their hearing. We did knock.”

There were chuckles coming from about her, whether at her childlike voice or her words, she didn’t know.

“Oh! And your door must have worm-rot. Just look. It didn’t withstand my knock!”

She lifted her hand for effect, and got more laughter and some applause, all of it bringing a wonderful feeling of omnipotence. No wonder men went on the boards to act! It was exhilarating.

“What do you want?”

“No pleasantries? No comments on my . . . appearance?”

“You look like a
peasant
. Is that what you want to hear?”

The word was infused with insult and rudeness. It wasn’t lost on the crowd. A ripple of something unpleasant went through those about her. Amalie knew why, but the woman facing her was immune. Amalie looked like every other woman in the crowd.

“Very well. We’ll speak of other things. Perhaps you’d come down from there so we could speak in a normal tone, and not shout?”

“Say what you’ve come to say and then leave. You’re damaging my floor.”

Amalie put her hand up with her index finger outstretched. “Very well, we’ll shout, then! And the floor is one of the reasons for my visit, Wynneth.”

“My proper title is “your grace.” You are to use it when addressing me.”

“Not anymore, my lady. Thayne’s wife is the new duchess.”

Stout Pells announced it in his booming bass voice. Wynneth looked to waver, but had it immediately covered over as she resumed glaring down at them from her superior vantage.

“And as such, I’m here to assess my new lodgings . . . damage and all!”

“Your new lodgings?”

“Surely you didn’t think you’d be allowed to stay in the Palazzo, did you?”

“This is my home!”

The woman’s voice rang out stridently. Amalie waited for her to fling her arms wide to encompass the entire area. If the woman had any notion of using drama to sway a crowd, she’d have done it. Amalie was rather disappointed when nothing happened. So, she took a deep breath and spoke her next lines, as if someone had scripted them for her.

“That is a real problem, Wynneth, dear. It seems the Palazzo belongs to the reigning duchess, and that is me. Actually, I believe the entire estate is in my control now, and that includes this building. As such, I’ve decided to move my household here for a bit. With some changes, of course.”

“Changes?” The woman’s voice choked.

“There’s a lot of French-style furniture I’ll see to removing. . . as well as religious icons that jar with the true faith. And look here. There’s some obvious damage been done to this floor. Remove your spear Andrew, and let me look at it. Yes. I do see a bit of replacement is in order. And let’s not forget the front doors. They were obviously defective. Made of weak wood. For shame.” Amalie clicked her tongue for effect. The crowd seemed to enjoy that, as chuckling broke out.

“You’d . . . evict me?”

The woman had finally lost some of her bravado. Her voice actually dropped on the words. Amalie smiled up at her and approached the base of the staircase.

“Eviction is such a strong word. I believe I’m doing the right and proper thing by seeing you moved to a dower house. Surely the MacGowan clan has some sort of arrangement of that sort? A small abode for a dowager duchess with only a widow’s portion to sustain her. Don’t we, Angus?” She turned her head to address him.

“To be sure. We—”

“Silence!”

Amalie had been mistaken. Wynneth still had some arrogance and haughtiness left. She had a hysterical note to her voice, too. The room quieted to an uncomfortable silence. So Amalie did something that instantly broke the tension. Everyone laughed, and they were directing the amusement at the dowager duchess. Stupid woman. If Wynneth thought to best Amalie now, the woman was naïve.

“Yes?” She drew the word out, making three syllables out of it.

“You take a lot upon yourself,
governess
.”

She put a snide, condescending tone on the word, as if it actually had meaning. Amalie had to give her one thing. The dowager duchess had courage. Misguided, conceited, and supercilious courage, but she faced them as if a horde of backward serfs had gone rampant. Amalie sighed heavily, put both hands on her hips, and leaned back so her words would get the best projection.

“Whatever I might have been is immaterial, for I am clearly the Duchess of MacGowan now. And you’ll begin packing your household for removal. Or I’ll assign members of my household to assist. You ken?” Amalie used the Scot word and knew it was the right thing as a swell of approval seemed to encase her.

“You truly think to usurp me? You . . . upstart! You’ve nothing more than ties to a man who might be dead!”

“Oh. He’s not dead. Why . . . I already know he’s escaped. He’s on his way back to me. You’ll see. And all of this is words while you stall. I’ve given the orders to pack your household for removal to the dower house, and you’re to begin immediately.”

“If I refuse?”

“Andrew? Do you have kin?” Amalie turned to the giant fellow and looked way up to ask it. He grinned and nodded.

“Good. Request them to my employ. I seem to be in need of strong backs at the moment.”

“Thayne escaped? You’re daft. We all know he’s locked away in a MacKennah dungeon because of you!”

Silence hit the space again. Amalie narrowed her eyes as she turned back to the duchess, who’d come down four steps toward them. She didn’t have one servant with her. They actually seemed to be backing, fading into the shadows of the upper halls. The woman had decided to try and sway the crowd now? More stupidity. The dowager duchess was an amateur. Amalie waited several long moments as the silence just kept growing, and then she spoke, clearly and concisely, and with sarcasm gleaned from years of practice. Years.

“How . . . odd. I distinctly recall being told a feud started from Jamie’s wedding to you. Ancient history, but there you are.”

“Ancient? Why, you—!”

Amalie interrupted her. “This is really tiresome. I’ve finished speaking my orders. I’ll be assigning a contingency of clan here to oversee your removal. Good day.”

Amalie turned around, and waited for a path to open for her.

“I can pack my own household!”

Amalie pivoted back. The man, Andrew, had moved into her vacated spot to stand, looking up at the staircase. He had his spear in a vertical position, point upward. He was intimidating, and obviously meant to be. Amalie couldn’t have asked for a better finale.

“Oh. I don’t send them to assist with packing. I need them for other things, such as an accounting of the treasury. There might be two thousand pounds locked away that could’ve already been used to get my husband released. Who knows? It might have spared your husband his death. Oh! Another thing . . .” She reached into her bodice and pulled out the ruby ring; held it high for everyone to see, and then moved to place it on the lowest stair. “I don’t believe I’ll be needing this.”