Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (25 page)

Clockwork precision, not easily changed.

That clicked her thoughts to the automaton. Presumably it had been unloaded by now and placed tenderly somewhere in this house. The drummer boy looked as she had as a child. What had Bey looked like at five or six? Was there a picture of him as an even younger child, before his mother’s cruel act? Did later ones show the change, even in childhood features?

When the housekeeper returned, followed by a footman bearing the tea tray, Diana asked, “Is there a portrait gallery here?”

“A small one in the corridor outside the ballroom, milady. Most of the family portraits are at the Abbey, of course.”

“I would like to see the portraits that hang here.”

The woman was clearly startled, for the tea awaited and the bath would soon be ready, but she curtsied. “Of course, milady. Be so kind as to follow me.”

She was led past the stairs to the other half of the house where a wider corridor was indeed lined with portraits. Diana thanked the housekeeper and dismissed her, then turned to stroll by the pictures.

The first were ancient paintings, one small miniature going back perhaps to the early Tudor period. Farther along she found two large portraits of a man and a woman in the opulent dress of the Restoration. Probably Bey’s grandparents, and again she saw a resemblance in the woman’s sculpted lids and the man’s classic bones.

Nothing here of his parents, however. She wondered if any portraits survived of his mother, and if so, in what secluded corner they hung.

The end of the corridor contained one moderately sized portrait surrounded by miniatures, rather like the sun and the planets. With a smile, she wondered if he thought of the arrangement that way, too.

The central portrait had to be Bey as a young man, a youth almost. It was probably the usual one painted in Italy when on the Grand Tour for he leaned against a stone pillar, book in hand, and revealed a glimpse of some Italian town behind him. She understood that many Italian artists kept a stock of canvasses already painted with background and pillar, so that the English milord could choose the one that suited his fancy, and have his figure painted in. This looked of that sort, but the artist had been skilled in capturing his subject as in life.

Bey had probably been about seventeen, and showed no sign of childhood shadows. A tribute, that, to his father and stepmother. He looked what he had been then—a young man with the world in his hands, enjoying life to the full. With his brilliant mind, she was sure he had enjoyed his Grand Tour as it was meant to be enjoyed—for learning and exploration
of the classical world. The smile and wicked eyes told her he was already enjoying other aspects of foreign travel.

My, but the Italian ladies must have been mad over him. Devastatingly handsome, with the well-shaped bones already clear but softened by the lingering blush of youth. Those mysterious, guarded eyes were larger, brighter, and full of the joys of life.

He was handsome now, grown into himself perfectly, but there was something toothsome about such youthful beauty accompanied by lordly confidence.

She dragged her eyes away to look at the smaller paintings, but they were all of his half-brothers and sisters, also in their teen years. No baby pictures at all, which wasn’t surprising. They were usually kept in less public areas and often done with the mother. Any pictures of Bey with his mother were likely hidden away, or even destroyed.

What was it like to have a parent whom everyone wanted to forget? No wonder it hovered over him like a shadow.

She looked back at the central portrait, but it gave no answers except to tell her that the shadows he lived with had not all come from his mother’s dreadful act. The death of his father and stepmother had played a part. Rosa had said they’d died of a fever he’d brought back to his home.

She knew they would not want him to suffer for it, but he must know that too. At heart, it was his mother who chained him. She turned and walked briskly back to her room, resolved to find a way to break those chains.

She paused at the head of the stairs for another look at the previous marquess and marchioness who must want happiness for all their family. All now had it, at least in part because of Bey’s loving care. Only he was left alone.

Help me
, she mouthed silently. Then she hurried on her way.

Two hours later, Diana surveyed herself in her mirror and declared herself satisfied. Formal court events required wide panniers instead of the narrow ones or hoops of everyday. The panniers, however, served to spread the fabric of the
skirt and show off precious materials, encouraging a blatant declaration of wealth.

Her cream silk did that perfectly, rioting with embroidered spring flowers and leaves. The same material formed the ruched border around the skirt and up the parted front to her waist, trimmed down the middle with glittering gold braid. Her petticoat was figured cream silk, and she wore shoes to match. The rich stomacher was formed of silk ribbon and gold lace, and a small bunch of the silk flowers nestled in the lace by her breasts.

Breath caught as she thought of last night.

Would the flowers remind him?

She hoped so.

She knew he would be working hard now to avoid, to block, to rebuild defenses, but she would do everything she could to break them down.

Then she recalled that her purpose at the moment was not to break Bey’s will, but to convince the king that she was a safe, conventional lady.

She looked the part. She would be expected to be grand as suited her station, and court fashion required face paint which allowed her to pretend a delicate pallor. She protected her complexion so it was honestly pale, but now the healthy glow in her cheeks was hidden as well. She’d not darkened her brows and lashes, and that too made her seem more faded, less strong, especially with powdered hair.

Her eyes traveled to the flowers again, and she realized that her bodice was very low. Not unsuitable for court, but here was a chance to seem particularly modest.

“My fichu,” she ordered. “The embroidered muslin one.”

After a flurried return to the boxes, it was found and draped around her neck, the ends tucked between her breasts behind the flowers.

Better. Sickeningly demure.

With that in mind, she chose simple jewelry. She had left off her rings after the bath, even though they were her armor. They were too much of an idiosyncrasy to wear for this performance. Now she chose one small ruby and a modest pearl.
Around her neck and in her ears she wore a seed pearl and ruby set she’d been given when sixteen. Paltry stuff.

She took a last look and nodded. Rich but slightly mousy. No challenge to anyone.

Would Bey approve? She took up her ivory fan and went to find out, foolish heart already trembling at the thought of seeing him again.

After
such
a long time apart.

A footman was stationed in the corridor to escort her. To her surprise, he took her downstairs and toward the back of the house which would usually be the household offices. With a tap on the door, he opened it and announced her.

Diana went in and found herself in a very businesslike study. Most of the walls were covered with bookshelves and drawers. A map drawer stood open with a map on display. The huge desk in the center of the room was a masterpiece of marquetry and gilding, but it was still a desk, and Bey had been sitting there dealing with large amounts of paperwork before rising as she came in.

He worked too hard, trying to hold the world together.

All the same, she smiled at his beauty in rich red silk and elegant powder.

Then she saw the picture on the wall to one side of him.

A young woman with coiled dark hair, in a loose gown of flaming red, sat apparently at her ease, but with an arrogant or perhaps challenging turn to her body. At first glance she seemed strong, her smile confident and sure, her eyes direct, but almost immediately Diana sensed fear.

Would she have even thought it if she hadn’t known what was to come? For this surely must be Bey’s mother. His father’s dark hair and eyes suggested a degree of likeness that wasn’t there. Bey had his mother’s exact features in stronger form—the high brow, the classic bones, the square chin, the straight, sculptured nose with flaring nostrils.

Was that why he felt so threatened by her mental instability?

Was that why he kept this picture here to remind him?

Diana knew that he had brought her here to see this. He had even dressed in red to make the likeness clear.

Undeclared, the war was on, and this was his defensive attack. The picture was to remind her of the facts, and to convince her that he had sound reasons to walk away from what they could have and be.

Commanding her racing heart to calm, Diana moved closer to the picture, her stiff silks rustling in the quiet room. “She looks frightened. Did she not want to marry your father?”

He stared, as if surprised. “She made no objection that I’ve heard, but it was somewhat of an arranged affair, yes. Arranged by loving parents on both sides. Her mother—my grandmother—is still alive, and still convinced that my father drove her daughter mad.”

This was the discussion she’d wanted, but not now when they had so little time. She was pressingly aware that clocks had chimed the half hour as she came downstairs. Deliberate. She knew it was deliberate, so they could speak of this, but only briefly.

Damn him.

She was at war with an expert, ruthless strategist, and must not forget that.

“You were a young child when she died,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Perhaps your grandmother is right and your father was not kind to her.”

“My father was very like Brand. Can you imagine Brand distressing any woman into madness? And besides, what unkindness, what cruelty even, could drive a sane woman to strangle her own newborn child?”

Diana gasped. “
Strangle
.”

“Would some other manner of murder be more to your liking?”

It was the Dark Marquess speaking, the one she had feared when they first met. She recognized, however, that this again was defense, frighteningly similar to his mother’s angled head and fierce smile.

“That was a silly reaction,” she agreed calmly. “And no, nothing external can explain her actions. But madness can come from many causes, some of which die with the
sufferer.” She looked back at the picture. “Was it done before or after the wedding?”

“Just before.”

“Then her mother doubtless sought an explanation to her liking, for the seeds were already there.”

“In the blood.”

She winced, realizing her words had reinforced his thinking instead of fighting it. How to fight the evidence of this picture, however? His mother had not been entirely normal.

“It was in her at a young age,” she argued. “There were warnings. It didn’t appear like a shooting star.” She looked at him again, looked him in the eye. “Have you ever detected a trace of it in yourself?”

“Perhaps not,” he said calmly, “but her blood runs in me, and through me. A child of mine could look like that.”

She felt frozen. How to fight that?

The clock chimed the quarter, and his eyes traveled over her. “Ah, I see the pallor is not a result of my sordid family affairs. You will do very well. You look suitably overturned by your experiences. We must leave.”

With one last, frustrated glance at the portrait, she flicked open her fan and sank into a deep court curtsy. “As you will, my lord.”

He held out his hand to raise her, but she rose smoothly by herself.

Instead of applause, he said, “Don’t do that at court. Let me assist you.”

“Devil take it.” Then she grimaced. “I know. Don’t do that, either.”

“Precisely.” He took her hand and kissed it, eyes dark on hers. “For both our sakes, Diana, make no mistakes.”

He was telling her what she already knew—that a marriage of rescue would be worse than no marriage at all.

She cast one last look at the dreadful portrait, then allowed him to lead her out to the waiting coach. A light town vehicle, painted and gilded, with liveried footmen up behind.

A small crowd had gathered and some pressed forward. Immediately she tensed, remembering that de Couriac was loose, and longing for her pistols.

She steadied herself. One did not show fear, or even concern, in public. These were the petitioners one would expect at a great man’s door in London. Such people would know when he would emerge to attend a levee or Drawing Room.

All the same, it would be too easy for an assassin to lurk among them, and she searched the crowd for de Couriac. She didn’t see him, but he could appear later, tomorrow, the next day, and she would not always be here to guard.

Oh yes, Bey had his armed servants around him, but she wanted to be there too, an extra pair of eyes, and an extra pair of pistols.

Damn the king. Damn the court.

He was accepting petitions, showing no sign of caution, so she threw him a warning. “I do hope these people are all well-intentioned, my lord. I am going to be extremely annoyed if I end up in the dirt in this outfit.”

A smile tugged at his lips, but he said, “None of us can live under glass, my lady, like wax flowers.”

He passed a handful of petitions to a servant behind, and moved on to a woman who fell to her knees before him, begging for help. Diana wanted to listen to her story now, and help her now. There was no time, however, and Bey only raised her to her feet, took her paper and passed it on, promising to read it as soon as possible.

Even from that, the woman looked eased a little, and dabbed at her tears. A child or husband in prison, perhaps? Now the woman had faith that the great marquess would help her, but he had another burden on his shoulders, another demand on his exhausted time.

She received petitions herself, but rarely in person, and never like this. And this, she suspected, happened every time he left his house for a formal occasion.

She suddenly wanted to shoo them all away, to protect him, but knew he’d be offended at the thought. This was part of the duties of his rank, and duty came before all.