Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor (19 page)

Moving cautiously through the adjoining sitting rooms, John eased the latch upon his wife’s door. Not wishing to interrupt if Coyle had set himself a task of confronting Satiné regarding her self-inflicted troubles, John listened in on the conversation. Satiné sounded as if she sobbed, but John recognized her customary confrontational tone. Despite his wife’s anxiety, however, the man’s voice was not that of the cultured physician. Instead, it was a heavily accented one.

“I know not where the baron has placed his mother’s brooch,” Satiné declared, half pleading and half in defiance. “Take the necklace and the bracelet. It is all I have, but tell me what I wish to know.”

John’s heart quickened. Did his wife plan to sell the remainder of Lady Fiona’s collection?

“Without the brooch, the other items are useless.” The man’s voice was familiar, but John could observe no one through the door’s crack. In anticipation of what must be done, he silently removed the gun he carried in a holster about his waist.

“I will also give you my string of pearls,” Satiné encouraged.

The man’s weight shifted to the right. John could now see the intruder’s shadow upon the wall behind where his wife stood beside her bed.

“This is not about the money,” the man insisted. “This is about honor.”

Immediately, John knew the intruder’s identity. He had heard the accusations repeated upon multiple occasions. Cautiously, he released the door’s latch completely. He would be at a disadvantage: From where the intruder stood, his enemy could view the door’s opening; speed would be of essence if John were to place himself between the man and Satiné. With a deep breath of determination, he shoved the door from his way, sending it barreling into the wall. Diving and rolling across the small open space, he felt the swish of an object over his head. He scrambled to his feet to shove Satiné behind him and to hold his gun at ready–the barrel pointing at the Realm’s most active enemy.

“Welcome, Lord Swenton,” Jamot snarled. “Your baroness claimed you from the estate.” The Baloch’s gun was aimed at John’s heart.

He reached behind him with his left arm to make certain Satiné remained secure, but his eyes and attention rested upon Murhad Jamot. “How could I not return to greet such an auspicious guest? Why are you in my home, Jamot?” John demanded.

The Baloch smiled wryly. “The others have proved they hold no knowledge of Mir’s emerald. Only you have showed yourself deceitful. Give me the brooch and the other pieces, and I will return them to Mir. He will not be pleased to have the emerald broken into multiple stones, but the diamonds should allay my lord’s discontent.”

A slight smile lifted John’s lips. “And why would I wish to please Mir? Besides, Lady Fiona’s emeralds were hers alone. They were never tainted by the touch of a filthy Baloch.” Contempt filled John’s tone.

From behind him, Satiné encouraged, “He says he knows where to find Uncle Samuel. I wish justice, Lord Swenton.”

John wished to catch his wife in a tight grasp and shake some sense into her. However, he dared not turn his head. “Jamot knows no more of Samuel Aldridge than does the Home Office. If the power of the English government cannot find Lord Averette, then one displaced Baloch, without connections, would have no opportunity to do so. Be reasonable, Baroness.”

She pleaded, “But all my troubles rest at Viscount Averette’s feet. If you wish us to know happiness, you must see to Samuel Aldridge’s death.”

John could not prevent his scowl of disbelief. However, his Realm training permitted his body to remain alert to Jamot’s ready stance, while his mind revolted against his wife’s bloody suggestion. “I will not kill Lord Averette for you, Baroness. I am an agent of the King, and we do not commit murder. Taking a man’s life without a just cause has no place in a country seeking justice for all its citizens.”

The message in Jamot’s words was plain when he taunted, “Will your honor prevent you from killing me, Lord Swenton?”

John answered the unspoken challenge. “I would be pleased to make an exception in your case, Jamot.”

The Baloch chuckled. “I would expect nothing less, Baron.” Jamot shifted further to the right, and John adjusted his stance, keeping his wife securely behind him. “Tell me, Lord Swenton,” the Baloch said casually, “on the day the duke made his daring rescue, where did you go when you left my lord’s tent?”

John guarded his words. He spoke in flat tones, which turning the accusation. “I searched for you. I was curious as to why you were not among those who visited Ashmita’s tent.”

“Why would I wish to soil my manhood with Mir’s harlot? My lord had declared Ashmita worth nothing more than a rupee.” The light from the dying fire shadowed Jamot’s eyes, which gave the Baloch the look of an apparition come to life. Yet, John could hear the strain in his enemy’s tone when the man spoke of Ashmita.

“Yet, we both are aware you wanted Ashmita as your wife. When Fowler rescued her, Ashmita explained how you meant to marry.” John listened to what Jamot did not say as the silence hung between them.

The Baloch finally spoke with the absolute knowledge of what all he hid. “Ashmita erred. The day she spoke out against Mir, I begged her to silence her tongue, but innocence and immaturity thinks itself invincible.” Even in the shadows, John could see how the Baloch’s pupils had dilated, a sign of the emotional wave Jamot attempted to conceal. “That day, Ashmita proclaimed her demise, as well as mine. I have been banished from my homeland until I secure the emerald. We both lost our futures that fateful day.”

John met his enemy’s harried glance full on. “You turned your back on the woman you meant to take to wife. You stood by and permitted Mir’s men to violate her again and again. To claim the innocence which should have been yours,” he challenged.

“Ashmita’s innocence was Mir’s to claim,” Jamot declared bitterly. “My lord wiped her woman’s blood upon his cloth and wore the material upon his belt as if it were a lady’s favor for her knight.”

John could feel Satiné trembled, but he could not release his guard in order to comfort her. “How could you bear her screams? Her prayers to die? When you stormed from the tent where Mir had housed our English unit, I thought you had finally discovered your courage.”

Jamot’s glare raised the hairs upon John’s arm, and he had thought he had misjudged the Baloch; but the Realm’s enemy reined in his anger. “I could do nothing to prevent Mir’s edict.” Bitterness filled his tone. “What good would my death do? It would not keep Ashmita safe. I begged her… Mir had ordered fifty men to know Ashmita, with his being the first and last of her trials.”

This was a fact of which John had not been aware. The attacks on the girl had begun before the Realm had arrived in Mir’s camp. Their unit had been charged with securing Mir’s cooperation in securing English trade routes. Fowler’s reckless taking of the girl had not pleased Pennington. Fortunately for Fowler, it had been proved at a later time that Mir also had pledged his allegiance to those who regularly interrupted English supply lines. “How many had Ashmita known before Fowler rescued her?”

“Three and forty.” Jamot’s voice broke in sorrow. “I counted each one. Planned my vengeance when it was over. I had purchased a most potent poison from a merchant train. I meant to taint the wine of each man who had touched her, and then I planned to take Ashmita away to India. I pleaded with her to survive. Only seven more, and she would be free. We would leave her family behind and start anew elsewhere.”

In his indignation, John nearly forgot the need for caution. “Do you not realize what enduring all those men did to Ashmita? The best surgeon in Bombay could do nothing for her! She was torn inside. The surgeon said if she had not already conceived, Ashmita would never have known children. The girl spent her months of child bearing in bed so she might deliver Sonali. Fowler married her to provide the child both his name and a future. Another seven men would likely have killed Ashmita. She was bleeding inside.”

The truth rested baldly between them. “You lie!” Jamot exclaimed, although his expression said the Baloch knew otherwise. “She knew my plans for our future. Ashmita was strong.”

“Of course she was strong. I know no other who could have survived what Fowler’s wife did. She lived for her child.” John paused briefly, before he prompted. “Did you speak to Ashmita? When you left the group tent, you went to her, did you not? You spoke to her of your desire to take her away. Did Ashmita rebuke your suggestions?”

Jamot appeared broken. “She spat at me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Cursed me for permitting her agony.”

The missing details for which he and Wellston had searched had arrived. “You were in her tent when the forty-third attacker had entered. You hid. You closed your eyes to the horror of watching another violate the woman of your heart.” John felt Satiné’s shudder, but he continued his probe, searching for long-forgotten answers. “When Fowler burst in and dispatched Ashmita’s assailant, you escaped from the back of the tent. You ran away. Lord Yardley recalls seeing you in the area of the women’s tents.”

“Mir would have discovered my intentions if he found me in Ashmita’s tent. He had forbidden any man to step within unless he would use Ashmita as a harlot. When Tantur stopped for prayers before entering her tent, I hid behind the screen. I watched as silent tears streamed down Ashmita’s cheeks. Her eyes pleaded with me to do the deed by which Fowler declared himself her hero. Instead, of using my knife to save her, I slit an opening in the tent’s side to escape.”

The emerald
. John’s mind searched for the connection. The scene from the Baloch camp played out before him, the unexpected solution mesmerizing him: so obvious, it angered John he had not realized it earlier. “You stole Mir’s emerald.” John whispered into the silence. “You meant to offer it to Ashmita to earn her forgiveness, but even the gem was not enough for her to look upon your countenance with kindness.” A barely contained fury clamped John’s teeth together. “You have tormented my friends for four years when you had possession of the emerald all along!” Righteous anger streamed through his tone.

A hard, brittle laugh escaped Jamot’s lips. “If I held the emerald, I would have returned it to Mir and have blamed one of you. For a man recognized for his logical mind, you have erred again, Lord Swenton.”

“Erred how?” John challenged as he edged closer. “Do you mean to insist you did not steal the emerald?”

Jamot glanced to the cowering Satiné. “The others chose wisely, but you have accepted the weak one. A weak woman brings no glory to a man.”

“You change the subject, Jamot.” The testing mood between them had vanished. The truth was close; John could almost taste it. “Someone had to save Ashmita, but not you. She rejected you–rejected your gift–chose to escape with a pasty-faced Englishman–accept the Englishman as her husband. Who did you mean to punish by hiding the emerald: Ashmita, for turning from you, or Fowler, for proving himself superior?”

“Neither!” Jamot hissed. The whites of the Baloch’s eyes shown brightly in the dimly lit room. He raised the gun higher, but John was quicker. The smoke hung upon the air, but John pushed through it to chase the retreating form of the Baloch.

“Swenton!” Satiné called, but John refused to look back at her. Her constant vulnerability pulled at his sense of honor, tempting him to remain as her protector, but Jamot’s capture took precedence. Securing the Baloch would earn his return to the Realm. From below, John could hear his household come to life. He thought of Isolde and how he had hoped to one day to return to her: The idea slowed his step just long enough to provide Jamot an advantage. Reaching a cross vent window, the Baloch sat upon the sill and swung his legs through the opening to propel himself into the night’s darkness. John rushed to the window, meaning to follow, but below him, as he looked upon the groomed lawn, the Baloch scrambled to his feet. If John had had his long gun, he would have taken the shot, but it would be foolish to follow a seasoned warrior into the woods without a weapon.

“My Lord!” Mr. Fenton called breathlessly. “Are you injured, Sir? We heard a gunshot.”

John turned from the window. “An intruder. Set men about the house. I must see to Lady Swenton.”

“Should we have the hounds follow?”

John’s personal preference was to track, Jamot, but his men were not trained to go against a man of Jamot’s talents. “In the morning, Mr. Fenton. Perhaps our thief will save us the trouble and step into one of Mr. Lattimore’s game traps. It would be ironic to capture a slimy snake in a trap meant for a wily fox.”

“You remain,” her father said weakly.

Isolde shifted closer to his bed to speak privately. She braced him so he might sip more of the chamomile mixture. “I intend to be as such every time you open your eyes,” she assured.

He had several sips of the sweet wine mixed with the infusium. “You will become ill also.”

Isolde shook her head in the negative. “All within these walls are better. Lord Swenton has paid Doctor Timmons’s expenses. You will have the best of care. Clean clothes and sustenance.” Earlier, she had told him of being in Vienna, having taken a position as a lady’s companion to earn enough money to finance another search for him.

Her father’s eyes closed, and Isolde had thought he had returned to sleep, but then he said, “Your voice softened…when you spoke of…this English lord.” He sucked in a deep breath. “What else…should I know…of Lord Swenton, Izzy?”

“Nothing, Papa.” She bathed his fevered brow with a cooling cloth. “He is…I mean, he was my employer. His Lordship used his influence with the British government to discover your whereabouts."

“Does he think…you will
repay
him?” Her father emphasized the word “repay,” and Isolde fought to keep the blush from her cheeks. “Some Englishmen think…themselves above…the Irish.”

Isolde gently smoothed the gray strands from his brow. She wondered when the blond-gray had entered his hairline. When had her father grown weary and older? She had always seen him as the virile young man who had been the love of Maebh Neville’s life. “The baron is not of an ill nature. He is a powerful man, but Lord Swenton is also the most honorable man of my acquaintance. Our debts are even.” The next words choked her, but Isolde made herself say them for then they would be real. “His Lordship has returned to his estate and his responsibilities. I expect never to be in his presence again.”

*

John had had but three hours sleep, and he was in no mood for the announced call of Prince Henrí, who had arrived promptly at eleven of the clock. “Escort His Royal Highness to my study, Mr. Fenton, and send someone for the baroness. Instruct my wife to attend me here.”

“Yes, Sir.” From Fenton’s expression, John’s butler did not approve of the chaos, which had invaded Marwood Manor since John had spoken his vows to Satiné Aldridge. In truth, John wished for the power to turn back the clock to a time when he was free to make a choice of wives. More than once of late, he had chastised himself for not simply escorting Miss Aldridge to Cheshire, depositing her in Ashton’s care, and claiming Miss Neville as his own.

When he had returned to Satiné’s chambers after Jamot’s escape, they had had another rout. “I could have been killed,” she had charged. “But I suppose that is what you wish: to be rid of me.” She had thrown a vase containing roses at him. “Did you plan for your henchman to slit my throat?”

During her tirade, he had sat silently on the end of her bed, his shirt damp from the vase’s water. “What man would hire a murderer and then interrupt the deed? It would be ill advised to do so.” John had learned quickly not to antagonize his wife with tones laced with his like rage, but the bit of logic had escaped nonetheless. His antagonism caused Satiné to carry on longer, and in truth, the continual turmoil exhausted him.

“Did you kill him” She had stormed away toward the hearth. Before he had the opportunity to respond, she had countered, “Why did I bother to ask? Of course you did not for you have not the stomach for killing!”

John felt the full impact of her taunt. His wife knew exactly how to cut a man to the bone. “I have not the stomach to kill a man without cause.”

She said sarcastically, “Has not the Baloch presented you just cause to seek his demise?”

John stood slowly. “I mean to protect you, Baroness, with my life. On that you can be assured.” He had left her then, but it was not the end. His wife had followed him through their adjoining sitting rooms, and even when he had locked the door to his chambers behind him, Satiné had pounded upon the door relentlessly for well over an hour. He expected her hands would be bloody and torn from the efforts. John’s baroness had called him the customary vile names, part of her repertoire of late. He assumed his staff’s tongues had been busy on this new day, repeating what they had heard and seen. Soon the entire neighborhood would be speaking of Lord John Swenton’s shameful marriage.

The sound of approaching footsteps brought him from his musings. Within seconds, Prince Henrí strode confidently into the room. John quickly excused Fenton and gestured the prince to a nearby chair. “It is a bit early, but would you care for a glass of wine, Your Highness?”

“I am satisfied for the conversation, Lord Swenton.”

John noted the prince’s assessing eye; Prince Henrí displayed no contempt for John’s more classic tastes in décor, and somehow John found that particular fact reassuring. John sat with feigned casualness. “I pray you do not object, Your Highness, but I have asked the baroness to join us. My wife should have knowledge of our negotiations regarding her son.”

The prince’s eyebrow rose in bemusement. “Englishmen provide their wives too much say, but I have anticipated Lady Swenton’s presence today and have steeled my resolve appropriately.”

John nodded aristocratically. “My baroness has a certain brass when things do not proceed as she wishes. I expect we will both be recipients of several of her barbs today.”

“I would imagine the accuracy of your words, my Lord.”

No more had the prince spoken than Satiné appeared at the door. From the look of eagerness upon her countenance, John suspected one of his servants had informed her of the prince’s appearance in York. “You sent for me, my Lord?” she said sweetly.

John stood painfully slow to greet her. The energy had suddenly been drained from his body. He realized he was totally unprepared for another confrontation. “Prince Henrí has called,” he said without emotion. “Please close the door and join us. The prince has a matter of some import of which he wishes to speak to us.” John gestured to the chair between him and the prince. Today, Satiné would choose to whom she would extend her loyalty. When she was properly seated, John said, “Prince Henrí, perhaps you might explain your reasons for calling upon my household.”

The prince spoke in his heavily accented English. “As you are aware, Lord Swenton, your baroness and I held an acquaintance while we were both in Calais.”

John’s muscles tightened; he had thought Satiné and Prince Henrí had met in Vienna. Evidently, their relationship had been of a longer standing than he knew. Was the prince the one with whom Ashton had objected: The one Satiné had refused to relinquish when her favorite uncle had threatened to return to England? “Go on,” he said through tight lips.

“Later,” the prince continued, “we renewed our acquaintance in Vienna.”

John said perversely, “At my mother’s villa?”

“I was unaware of your connection to Lady Fiona until Auersperg informed me of it,” Prince Henrí admitted. After a short pause, the prince added, “I should make excuses for my behavior, but that is not of my nature. Although I developed an
affection
for Lady Fiona, I was infatuated with Miss Aldridge, an act of which I possessed no right. I was married to the woman my father chose for me–a woman some fifteen years my junior. A woman I had never seen before the day we spoke our vows. I know my duty, and I soon brought Princess Matild to child. Unfortunately, neither my wife nor my child survived the delivery.”

Pure disgust filled John’s chest; however, he ignored Prince Henrí’s supposed sorrow; instead, John studied his baroness. Satiné hung on the prince’s every word. John held no doubt if Prince Henrí offered to take her away, his wife would choose to go. It bothered him Satiné felt on fidelity to him, but in some ways, he would welcome her departure. If Satiné departed with the prince, he would seek an annulment. Miss Neville could refuse him if he petitioned Parliament for a divorce, but if the Church agreed to dissolve his union to Satiné, the lady’s objections could be softened.

Prince Henrí cleared his throat. “After Miss Aldridge’s departure from Vienna, I learned your baroness had borne my son.” He dropped his head in grief. “My father has taken quite ill; I expect to come to the throne soon, and I will require an heir.”

John taunted, “So you mean to claim my wife’s son? Why do you not simply remarry and bring your new princess to child?”

Satiné’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You came for the boy?”

Prince Henrí ignored Satiné’s anxiousness, but John did not. Each of her furtive glances to the prince stabbed John’s pride as surely as if they were sharpened arrows. “I have been informed by the royal family’s personal physician I may never sire another,” the prince explained to John, while overlooking Satiné’s question.

“Only the boy?” Satiné rasped. “You came only for your son?”

As he had expected his wife to object to Prince Henrí’s request, this time it was John who overlooked his wife. “What would lead your physician to pronounce such a dire possibility? Did you suffer some sort of injury?”

The prince blushed. “Nothing so dramatic. I contracted measles. I was quite ill–out of my head–for more than a fortnight. My father’s physician has suggested that one of the lingering effects of the disease in grown men is a decrease in his ability to sire a child. Moreover, I approach my fortieth birthday. The combination could spell disaster for the principality.”

John said bitterly. “What a coincidence! Lady Swenton also succumbed to measles shortly after we departed the Austrian coast.” He felt the knife of duplicity being inserted into his gut, and John was certain Satine’s response would be the turn, which ripped him in two. “I do not suppose you met with the baroness before the lady and I spoke our vows?”

Prince Henrí said honestly, “I did not seek out Miss Aldridge. We had parted in less than acrimonious circumstances, and I was too ill to consider holding a conversation of such importance. However, my manservant has informed me Miss Aldridge called upon me at my suite of rooms. According to Mr. Gregor, Miss Aldridge insisted upon seeing me and then she left a lengthy letter explaining her intentions to marry you and where she would be if I so wished to interrupt your joining and claim her and my child.”

Something painfully acute crossed John’s countenance. His wife had betrayed him from the beginning. “When did you call upon the prince, Satiné? Miss Neville has stated previously that you had not left your quarters for many weeks,” he accused. “Was it the day I called upon your rooms, and you were not at home?” He had been such a fool!

“Yes!” she said defiantly. “I learned of Princess Matild’s demise, and I swallowed my pride and sought out Henrí. I did not wish for Rupert to be known as your by-blow. He is the son of a prince.”

John hissed, “You have never displayed one moment of maternal pride or an interest in the boy’s welfare. If you called upon Prince Henrí, it was because you thought to replace his dead princess with a ready-made family. It was your attempt to place yourself in a position of importance. My title was never grand enough for you!” He felt as if his heart had been unseated. John did not think he could bear another scandal. Another rejection.

“What woman would not prefer a prince to a mere baron?” Satiné vehemently countered. She was on her feet and pacing. “Do you not see?” she attempted to reason with Prince Henrí. “We could have married: Princess Matild had passed. It would not have been the best of situations, but we could have stared down any gossip. You would have had your heir and me!” Her voice rose shrilly. “You called me your
Little Blackbird
. Look upon me,” she demanded. “I have done everything for you.”

Prince Henrí shook his head in denial. “I explained my father’s objections to our engagement,
mon Cher
. I am a Catholic. You are a Protestant,” he reasoned.

“I will convert,” Satiné argued.

Scowling, the prince expelled a breath of disbelief. “You are a married woman,” he insisted. “Until death, you must not part. I cannot marry a woman who has known a divorce. I have spoken to England’s Prince George, and he has assured me my claim to the boy shall be sufficient to bring Rupert under my care. I will present the child to my father as the rightful heir.”

A nameless emotion kindled in his wife’s eyes, and John knew the full impact of her loss had arrived. “You think to tell the court Princess Matild delivered a child before she passed? You would use my son against me? After all I have practiced in Love’s name?”

Consternation puckered John’s brow. “What manipulation have you practiced in Love’s name, Baroness?” Satiné’s expression was that of a trapped animal–eyes darting wildly from him to the prince. She jammed her fist into her mouth to prevent her cry of pain. Sinking to her knees, she rocked her misery to and fro.

John knew he should go to her–to comfort his wife, but he was too fatigued by the drama she had brought to his life to act. Instead, he rose to pour himself a stiff drink. Swallowing the American whiskey he had kept stocked for Pennington, John savored the heat burning his throat. From behind him, he could hear Satiné’s sobs muffled against what he knew was Prince Henrí’s chest. John wished to rage against the world. To cry out against the injustice of having no one who had ever loved him. To bleed inside when he had attempted to cauterize all he had felt.

“Tell us what you did,
mon Cher
,” the prince coaxed, but John still refused to look upon the scene. He knew if he did he would exact revenge on the woman who had ripped his soul to shreds.