Now Face to Face (35 page)

She felt as if she were going to faint, but she could not faint and miss this. The carriage was passing by. There he was, an aging, proud face in profile, the scar Barbara had described not visible. Now he was turning to look at her, and the scar was there, as Barbara had said. The Duchess looked on him without smiling. He touched two fingers to his forehead, in salute, and then she saw that he was signaling his carriage to stop.

Sweet Jesus, he was going to speak to her.

When his carriage halted several yards from her own, the postilion who rode behind leaped off the back and ran forward to his window, then to her carriage.

“Letters for the Duchess of Tamworth,” said the postilion.

“Ask your master if he will stop awhile. Tell him the Duchess of Tamworth invites him.”

The Duchess held to her window’s edge, listening to the beat of her heart, thinking a thousand things at once, none of them coherent. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Sodom and Gomorrah. The fate of Lot’s wife. Judge not, that ye be not judged. Here was another letter from Tony. No telling what was in this one. Had she the courage to open it? She saw the postilion had done as she asked, saw the carriage door open, saw the Prince descend and walk haltingly toward her.

“Who is he?” hissed Annie.

“Hush. Is my cap straight? My gown—straighten that fold there. One of my earrings has fallen—”

“No, it’s there. You never looked better.”

“Your Grace, I feel as though we’ve been introduced,” said Philippe, standing at the Duchess’s window.

His voice was purring, rich, touched with his foreign accent. Eyes narrowed, the Duchess faced him arrogantly, this man who had hurt Barbara. He has a proud face, proud eyes, and he was cold, thought the Duchess, cruel. Barbara had said he was the cruelest man she ever knew. Yes.

“How kind you are to honor me with your invitation, Your Grace, but alas, I’ve a long journey ahead of me, for I return to my home in France. I cannot tarry. I never saw where Lord Devane, who was my friend, as perhaps you know—”

Does he mock me? thought the Duchess.

“—was buried. And I thought, before I left England, to do so. Forgive me if I disturb the quiet of your village. I hope I have given no offense by entering the chapel. If I have, again, I ask forgiveness, for the manners of an uncouth foreigner. One letter is from your grandson, the other from his mother. I warn you they carry news which may be disturbing.”

“I know of the duel. How does my grandson do?”

“The man, Masham, died. London, as you must imagine, talks of nothing else.”

“Ah.” Tony would take it hard. He had a kind heart.

“I believe the young Duke’s mother asks you to visit, but that would be a hardship, would it not, for one of your years. Your influence would do much good now, but…” Philippe shrugged.

Did she imagine it, or did his eyes challenge her? French toad. Of course, it would be a hardship. She seldom traveled, being old, being infirm, as anyone with eyes in their head could see. But if need be, she could travel to London…if the family needed her. Well, of course they needed her. Where was her mind? Lost in its fog and old memories. She ought to have started out for London the day after she received Tony’s missent letter. That way, she’d already be there. Her presence, her name, would restore decorum after all these despicable antics. She could call upon Lord Holles in London, settle everything between their two families once and for all. And she would call upon King George, talk to him about the large amount of Roger’s fine, its ruin of Barbara. Yes.

“The marriage between your grandson and Lord Holles’s daughter has been put back a year. A pity. Have you word from your granddaughter yet?”

“No.” A year? What was this? Why on earth had Abigail not written immediately, by special messenger? Because she thought she could manage everything herself, that was why. Bah. Abigail was a proud fool. The Duchess had never liked her.

“Such a long way, Virginia. I make you my respects, Your Grace. The bust of Lord Devane is very fine, as is the inscription.”

There was in his face a momentary glimpse of sadness, deep and frigid. Then he was wishing her well, wishing her good-bye. Good riddance, Frenchman, she thought. Richard ought to have slaughtered you all. Marriage put off a year? That would never do. A bird in hand was worth two in a bush.

It took all her determination not to hang out the window to watch him walk back to his carriage. As it was, she made Annie do that work for her, describing every movement he made until she heard the sound of his carriage wheels on the road. Then the Duchess moved to the window and watched with her own eyes, staring until even the dust from the wheels settled back to earth. She hadn’t turned to a pillar of salt, had she? And neither had he.

“Shall we go home now?” Annie asked.

“Yes. Home.”

The Duchess sat back against the leather carriage seat, the letters in her hand. Soon they would be off to London. Annie would not be expecting that, would fuss and flutter at the break in her routine like the stubborn stick she was. It would do Annie good, do them all good. One needed to do the unexpected, sometimes. Speaking of the unexpected, how surprised Abigail would be. She and the Duchess had never gotten along.

Ha.

Chapter Sixteen

T
HE WAIL OF BAGPIPES, HARSH, JARRING, FILLED
S
LANE’S EARS
and made the flesh on his arms crawl. All around him, men’s mouths had opened to scream the call of their clans, wild cries that set every man’s legs into motion. The enemy was massed ahead, formation solid, unyielding. Slane kept step with the man on each side of him, screaming out his family name, Duncannon, as a battle cry, though he’d never seen the home of his father in Ireland, and a clansman who had second sight said he never would. The soldiers toward whom he ran raised muskets as horses in the calvary behind them reared and screamed their fright at the sound of the bagpipes.

Slane woke with a start, heart pounding, fear a knot in his insides.

It took him more than a moment to know where he was, the small chamber in the outer buildings of Westminster Abbey. It took less than another moment to know he was not alone. Someone else was in the chamber with him, waiting, on the other side of the screen.

The dream fading, he stood, quietly, coolly, not a gesture wasted or awkward, and put his hand to the window, which opened soundlessly. The courtyard below yawned open like the mouth of a dark well.

“Make a joyful noise unto the God of Jacob. I hadn’t the heart to wake you.”

In Rochester’s voice Slane heard the verdict. Still standing on the cot, he put the heels of his hands to his eyes in relief.

Thank God, oh, thank God. Such nightmares he’d had these last nights. Now or never, the voices in him said. Come home, his mother urged in dreams. Leave Jamie. It can never be.

“Come out and show your ugly face,” said Rochester. “Send couriers off, immediately, to France and Italy.”

“And tell them what?”

“That I accept the plan. That I lead it.”

You’re certain? Slane wanted to say, but did not. Impossible, irascible, cruel, Rochester had been in his floundering, though one would not know it, now. There was no sense in telling Rochester he had done real harm, been among the most divisive, pointing out the flaws of the plot with brilliant clarity. Several key men had removed themselves, saying they would give their time and trust to God and the coming election, thank you, rather than to King James. They might have stayed if Rochester hadn’t openly argued his fears.

“No New Year’s gifts this year, Slane,” Rochester said. “All our coin will go instead to King James. Come drink a cup of wine with me, to the year in which King James assumes his rightful throne. Long live the King, hurrah the King, but who that King, is quite another thing—”

“To revolution,” Slane said, quietly, wanting to calm Rochester. He swung too high after being so low.

T
HAT EVENING,
as planned, Slane met the Duke of Wharton late, in a tavern. To his surprise, Charles, Lord Russel, sat with Wharton. Slane bowed stiffly, thinking, Why are you here? Wharton and I were supposed to speak privately. Then, his brows drawing together as he looked Charles up and down: I still think I’d have been better for Barbara than you.

“Charles, I have the honor to introduce the Viscount Duncannon,” said Wharton, “King James’s most trusted adviser.”

Slane was caught completely by surprise. No one was to know his name. That was imperative. His anonymity was the only thing that protected him.

Quickly, smoothly, a muscle in his face working, he recovered enough to say, “The Duke flatters me. I am simply Laurence Slane.”

Struggling not to show anger or dismay, he thought: How dare Wharton be so foolish, so cavalier with information that he was privileged to know? Not an auspicious beginning to rebellion. I depend on a fool.

Wharton laughed wildly, his narrow, ugly face flushed. He’s drunk, thought Slane.

“His Grace isn’t himself,” Slane said to Charles. “And neither am I. He confuses me with someone else.”

“Don’t fret about Charles,” said Wharton, leaning toward Slane to whisper loudly. “He is one of us. I will swear to his loyalty. He is my most faithful lieutenant, directly under me as to the counties which are mine to maneuver. Look over there, Slane, in that corner. See that stalwart old man? That is Sir John Ashford, as staunch a Tory as the day is long. No Jacobite he. He stands for Church and home and God save the King. If you could convert him, Slane—What? What is it?” For Slane had leaned his hands onto the table and brought his face close to Wharton’s.

“Come outside with me, now. Come outside, or I will drag you out. You, too,” he said to Charles.

Once outside the tavern, Slane shoved Wharton into a wall, hard, and the younger man slid down it, his dark, brilliant eyes bewildered. Charles made a movement, but Slane said, “I’ll fight you, too, not with pistols at dawn, but right here and now, with fists, if you try to interfere. This is not a game.”

Slane looked down at Wharton. “This is life and death. If you cannot hold your drink, then do not drink. And if you ever introduce me to anyone else to whom I do not ask to be introduced, I will kill you.”

“I meant nothing, Slane. You can trust Charles—”

“I trust no one, and neither should you.”

Slane looked over to Charles, who was not drunk like Wharton, and who was standing with one shoulder against the wall, listening, his expression serious. You are handsome, thought Slane. Was that what she liked? “You and I have never met, except as Laurence Slane and Lord Russel. Do I make myself clear?”

“Quite clear,” said Charles.

Wharton moved to stand, and Slane pushed him down again, hearing the breath go out of Wharton’s body, hearing the raggedness with which he now took in air. He knelt, took the man’s long chin in his hand. “Beware. Beware of yourself. And beware of me.”

He stood. He must leave. He was so angry that he would do something he would regret if he didn’t leave this moment.

When he was gone, the sound of his steps clear and harsh on the cobbles, Charles reached down to help Wharton up. “That was very foolish, Wart.”

“Yes.” Wharton brushed himself off, some of the drunkenness gone now. “It was. He is right, and I was wrong.”

“We’ll win,” said Charles. “With men like him, we’ll win.”

“If men like me don’t ruin it.”

Chapter Seventeen