Realm 07 - A Touch of Honor (23 page)

JS

Satiné sighed heavily. She never thought she would miss Lord Swenton’s company, but she did. He was always tending to her needs, and Satiné discovered she yearned for those little touches: a rose upon her dressing table or a glass of her favorite wine. “An extra three days,” she whispered. “What shall I do to entertain myself? Definitely not plan an afternoon tea.” She did not believe she could tolerate the questioning gazes of His Lordship’s neighbors. “I wish Isolde had remained in York.” Satiné thought that odd. Only a few days prior she had accused Lord Swenton of possessing a
tendre
for her former companion. “Why did I act so foolish?”

“Pardon, my Lady? Did you require my service?”

Satiné looked up to see one of Lord Swenton’s footmen looking upon her with concern. “No. No. I am well. Thank you.” She placed her serviette upon the table and hurried from the room. Unaware of what else to do with her day, Satiné returned to her quarters to write her daily letter to Coyle, but she entered her sitting room to find the maid His Lordship had assigned to her.

“Pardon, Lady Swenton.” The girl dropped a quick curtsy. “I brought the papers, but Mr. Fenton says I am to return them to him when you finish. Lord Swenton will wish to read them upon his return to Marwood.”

“Thank you, Pauline.” The servant scurried away, and Satiné sat to peruse the pages. At least, the news would provide her a respite from the boredom. Opening the folded sheets, she read of London. The Season had ended, and the majority of the
beau monde
had retreated to their country estates. In fact, there was a line which indicated Lord Morse had joined the Viscount and Viscountess Kelley, along with several other of Morse’s crowd at the Kelley’s estate in Dorset. Satiné’s finger traced the names she recognized among those listed. For a few brief moments, she had been part of the sect. “If I had not agreed to marry Lord Swenton, I could be among those enjoying Verity’s entertainments.”

Had it really been less than three months
? she wondered. “Those days seem a lifetime prior.” Again, she sighed with regret. “Silly girl. It was a lifetime. You shall never know such freedom again. The baron does not go abroad or entertain those of quality.”

Already feeling the lack of Society and her former spontaneity, when her eyes fell upon the brief mention of the Prince Regent’s entourage, the news ripped through Satiné’s heart:
Among the Regent’s guests are Prince Henrí of Rintoul and the prince’s fiancée, Miss Iris Callender.

“Miss Callender!” Satiné was on her feet immediately. “Miss Callender,” she repeated in disbelief. “That pale-faced snippet of a girl! Henrí proposed to Miss Callender! How is that so? The only thing the girl could offer a man of Henrí’s sophistication is a reported dowry of forty thousand pounds! She possesses no noble connections!” Fury ruled Satiné’s thoughts. “Could Henrí require funds so desperately to align his court with a no-named chit from the north of England? My God, Miss Callender’s father is a factory owner in Manchester! If Henrí wished an English woman as his wife, should he not choose the mother of his son?”

She stormed toward the window and jerked the drapes open. “I shall not tolerate Henrí’s snub,” she growled through tight lips. “The prince will find I am not one to be ignored.”

*

“Pardon, Baron Swenton.” McAdam’s butler had interrupted the negotiations between John, McAdam, and Archibald Cochrane, the Ninth Earl of Dundonald, with whom McAdam held a previous connection. John had not welcomed Dundonald into the negotiations for the earl held a reputation for failed dealings with the British admiralty, but John had withheld his objections until he had more completely understood McAdam’s allegiance to the man.

He had been in Penrith for seven days, and John was anxious to have McAdam’s signature before he returned to York. John worried for his wife’s composure: Satiné had displayed her acceptance of the pact they had made, but he was never fully certain of his baroness’s thoughts. In addition, he still hoped for word of Satiné’s eventual lying in. John had been disappointed to discover Coyle’s illness for he feared without her connection to the physician, Satiné could slip into her previous ways.

“Yes, Mr. Bartwaithe.” McAdam did not appear pleased by the interruption.

“The baron’s servant from York has arrived, Sir. The man insists upon speaking to his master.”

John was on his feet immediately. “Where is he?”

“In the front sitting room, my Lord.”

John made his excuses to the room before rushing through Cockell House’s passageways. He closed the door behind him to assure privacy as he entered the sitting room. Peter, covered in road dirt, stood by the unlit hearth. “What is amiss?” John demanded. “Is it the baroness?” His first thought had been she had lost the child of which she had meant him to know nothing.

“Mr. Fenton sent me to find you, Sir.” Peter extended his hand to present John a letter.

He snatched it from the footman’s hand before turning his back on the man. He tore the wax seal from the page to read the words, which ripped the breath from his lungs: His baroness had commandeered John’s small coach. Although Satiné had originally indicated she was to spend the day with her modiste in Durham and return to Marwood the following day, from all indications she had set a course for Brighton. “What else can you tell me of Lady Swenton’s intentions?” He studied his butler’s missive again. John hated to add to the servants’ gossip lines, but he required information on why Mr. Fenton thought Satiné had chosen Brighton.

“Pauline shared below stairs how Her Ladyship became quite agitated after reading the London papers, Sir. The baroness ordered Pauline to pack her small trunk, and then the two set out for what we all thought to be Durham. When Lady Swenton’s coach did not return, Mr. Fenton sent out riders. Olde Sapp returned with the information that the baroness’s coach was seen traveling south on the London Road.”

John worked hard to maintain his composure. “How are we to know Lady Swenton did not return to the Capital?” He could not understand what his wife had hoped to accomplish by leaving Marwood. Had she confirmed her condition and meant to do something drastic to end her pregnancy? If Satiné did something so foolish, John would never forgive her.

Peter fished inside his jacket to retrieve the folded over newsprint. “Mr. Fenton says there are names in the Society notes, which you will recognize.”

John reluctantly accepted the single sheet and spread it upon a nearby table so he might study it. Using his finger to trace down the column of London
on-dits
, his eyes and finger stopped at the mention of Lord Morse and the Kelleys’ presence in Dorset, but John quickly rejected the idea Satiné would risk their marriage for a country entertainment. By its own volition, his finger took up the list again to discover a mention, which confirmed Mr. Fenton’s suspicions: Prince Henrí had announced his engagement to a woman John had seen but once–a girl from the
nouveau riche
, who would claim the title of princess Satiné had coveted. He groaned in defeat. His baroness would again drag his family name through the muck. He refolded the newsprint. “How many days ahead is Lady Swenton?” John held no choice but to give chase.

“This would be day four, Sir.” Peter waited for John’s reprimand, but he possessed no complaint for how his staff had performed.

If the weather had held, his wife would arrive in Brighton on the morrow–perhaps even late this very day. “Call in at the stables and ask them to saddle Kratos. I will see to my belongings. Then I want you to return to Marwood. Ask Mr. Fenton to stifle the tale. I do not want the neighborhood to know of Lady Swenton’s impetuous actions.”

*

Her husband’s carriage arrived in Brighton mid-morning of the fifth day of her journey. “I should have arrived last evening,” she grumbled. However, her maid had taken ill, and Satiné had sent the girl home on the mail coach. She suspected Pauline had simply feared Lord Swenton’s ire and had feigned her complaints of the movement of the coach making the girl’s stomach queasy. “I have no need of one whose loyalty is in question.”

Mr. Lyster and the one footman she had requested had thankfully kept their thoughts to themselves. She had taken a comfortably well-established room at a fashionable inn and had hired a local girl to tend to her dresses and hair. When she had chosen several of her new gowns for the journey, Satiné had also brought the diamond and emerald jewelry, which had reminded her of the funds she had received for the brooch. Lord Swenton had not asked for its return, and Satiné meant to use it to entice Prince Henrí to her. She had reasoned Henrí had looked upon Miss Callender as a means to a small fortune. “Henrí was always one to look upon a woman as an asset,” she told the empty room. “He admitted as much when I asked him why he had chosen to associate with Lady Fiona. Only I appealed to his desire for a woman of merit. Only I can fill that need in him.”

She chose the gown she would ask the girl to press upon her return. Satiné had sent the maid to learn of the time set for the Prince Regent’s entertainment on this evening. “I mean to make an entrance, which shall capture Henrí’s attention and send Miss Callender crying into her father’s shoulder. I have perhaps two, possibly three, days before Lord Swenton arrives. I must reclaim Henrí’s heart and demand we leave for the Continent prior to either man knowing what has transpired.”

She looked about the crowded assembly room, but her heart rejected such gaiety. Isolde had returned to her beloved home some two months prior, but not for one day had she forgotten Lord Swenton. The baron’s image haunted her day and night. “You will save your papa a dance, Izzy.” Her father patted the hand she had rested upon his arm.

“Of course, Papa,” she said with a well-practiced smile.

Even so, her father frowned. “I would wish my only daughter would leave her time in England behind and find happiness with those who know her best.”

Isolde was not certain anyone knew her as well as Baron Swenton, but she did not argue. “I am happy in Ireland, Papa,” she insisted. “I simply expended so much energy searching for you, I forgot to tend to my own needs. I am still a bit exhausted, but I promise soon to be my old self. Just a little more time.”

*

Although his madness told him to press on, John’s body had demanded surcease, and so he had reluctantly called at Lexington Arms. “Kratos is too valuable for me to run the horse into the ground. The stallion has served me well for some five years,” he told Viscount Lexford in excuse.

“I will gladly lend you one of my newest acquisitions,” Lexford assured. “I have a new Arabian, which should prove a fine ride.” Lady Lexford had judiciously excused herself from the conversation, and except for the few minutes his friend had called upon John to admire the viscount’s first child, the eight-month-old Thomas Kimbolt, John had been glad he had stopped in Cheshire. He had thought the child remarkably handsome, but he had felt the depredation of never knowing such pleasure. In the ride from Penrith to Lexington Arms, John had carefully analyzed the chances he would ever hold his child, and each time he had determined the possibility extremely slim.

“You have no idea how fortunate you are to have escaped Satiné’s madness,” he admitted. “Charters did you a service by removing any memory of my Lady from your mind.”

Lexford had studied John closely. The viscount sipped his brandy while considering his response. It was always Aidan Kimbolt’s way–first into the fray, but not before careful planning–however, thoughtful musing had become more prominent since Lexford had suffered a memory loss. It was as if the viscount no longer trusted his initial judgments. Perhaps John should learn to emulate his friend. God only knew John’s judgments had failed him soundly. “Hearing you speak so of Miss Aldridge grieves me. I have been blessed by Lady Lexford’s presence in my life, but as your friend I cannot rest easy knowing you suffer. I fear I do not understand Lady Swenton’s many obsessions.”

“Mr. Coyle has assured me repeatedly my wife’s manipulations are a matter of exercising control in her life, but when I suggested she assume the duties of my household, Satiné retreated further into renunciations. One would think she would seek control wherever she found it. Instead, Satine’s illness has manifested itself in her desire for perfection. We at one time made light of the duchess’s desire for storybook endings, but, in reality, it was Satiné, who has sought the fairytale story.”

Lexford folded his arms across his chest, and wariness crossed the viscount’s expression. “You think Lady Swenton still means to convince Prince Henrí she should be the man’s princess? Even after the prince’s rejection?” John had swallowed his pride and had divulged what had occurred with the prince’s claiming of Rupert.

John scrubbed his face with his dry hands to drive away his exhaustion. “I had assumed Satiné and I had come to a compromise, but with my leaving her unattended for a week, she has abandoned her position.”

He and Lexford shared the raw bitterness of John’s “reality.” John knew enough of the viscount to expect nothing less than indignation from his friend. “You should simply petition Parliament for a divorce and damn the scandal! You deserve better than this turmoil.”

A grieving ferocity lapped at John’s control. “You do not understand,” he said through tight lips. “There is the possibility Lady Swenton carries my child. I have no choice but to return her to Marwood and pray she experiences a healthy delivery. After that, I can take action against my wife’s latest betrayal.”

*

It had taken several well-placed bribes for her to gain entry into Prince George’s pavilion, but Satiné had entered the grand dining hall on the arm of an elderly viscount, along with, at least, a hundred other members of the
beau monde
. She had skipped the receiving line; yet, she had quickly latched onto the unsuspecting aristocrat, and he easily succumbed to the bating of her lashes and the fine art of the language of Satiné’s fan.

“And where is the baron?” Viscount Setcliffe asked as he seated her beside him. She noted how the prince’s staff scrambled to add another seat to the long table. Satiné thought it amusing she had so easily found access to the prince’s private party.

“Lord Swenton had business in the North.” She noted how Setcliffe peeked at her décolletage as he assumed his seat.

“Then there is no reason we should not enjoy each other’s company,” the viscount declared good-naturedly.

She thought of the letter of farewell she had written to her husband. If she were successful on this evening, Lord Swenton would discover it upon his arrival in Brighton. If not, she would burn it. The baron would never know for certain the extremes to which she had gone in the name of love. “No reason at all.” Satiné sipped the wine while her eyes searched the room for Henrí. “I am thrilled to be one of Prince George’s guests. I have not long been in England, and I know few among our future monarch’s company.”

“Then I shall have the pleasure of making you acquainted with many in the room,” Setcliffe said with self-importance.

Satiné lightly touched the viscount’s arm in encouragement. “I would be much obliged, my Lord, for any kindness you might show me.”

The meal was well into its second course before she located Henrí, who kept company with the dastardly Miss Callender. She might have spotted him earlier if not for the multiple plumes her tablemate wore. Lady Charles had taken the latest fashion to an extreme, with three feathers sprouting from her headdress. The display reminded Satiné of drawings she had seen in one of her uncle’s history books about the natives in America who met the early Pilgrims.

“I see you have taken note of Prinny’s prized guest,” Setcliffe whispered conspiratorially.

Satiné blushed at her obvious lack of sleuth. “I did not realize Prince Henrí was in England. In the wilds of Yorkshire such points of Society are inconsequential.”

“You recognize the future ruler of the principality of Rintoul?” he asked suspiciously.

She schooled her countenance and her tone. “Prince Henrí was a guest at one of my mother-in-marriage’s many evening entertainments in Vienna.”

“Yes, I have heard rumors regarding Lady Fiona’s infamous parties. Were they as free as one hears?”

Satiné thought at first to acknowledge the truth regarding the former baroness, but then a twinge of guilt froze her tongue. Lord Swenton would suffer enough by her actions this evening. She giggled softly. “No proper English woman would ever exercise such depravity, my Lord. The rumors are highly exaggerated.”

After the meal, Satiné permitted Lord Setcliffe to lead her about the room. Despite the luscious offerings, she had limited her consumption to five mouthfuls of food and one glass of wine–the first she had eaten since leaving Marwood five days prior. Silly as it would sound to others, the food had frightened her more than the possibility of facing her husband’s ire.

“Shall we renew your acquaintance with the prince, my Dear?” Setcliffe whispered close to her ear.

Satiné’s pulse quickened, but she managed to say mildly, “If you insist, my Lord.”

It provided her a sense of satisfaction when Henrí looked up to note her approach. Her former lover blanched–the color draining from his countenance. They offered the obligatory bows before Henrí said smoothly, “I was not aware, Baroness, you were in Brighton.”

“I chose to enjoy the sea air while Lord Swenton saw to estate business. The baron thought Brighton would do me well.” She paused to permit Henrí to understand she was alone.

Henrí lifted an eyebrow in awareness. “I am sorry for the lack of Lord Swenton’s company. Please give the baron my regard.” With that, he excused himself to join Prince George’s other guests, but Satiné knew he would return to her side before the evening ended.

And as she predicted when the music began, Henrí appeared. “Lady Swenton.” He bowed formally. “May I request the honor of the next set?”

She acknowledged Setcliffe’s company before placing her hand in Henrí’s. As he led her to the floor, she whispered, “Does Miss Callender realize I am Rupert’s mother?” She meant the remark as a clandestine threat.

“Iris is aware we held a previous acquaintance in Vienna,” he explained. He turned her into his embrace. “Tell me, Satiné, why you have come to Brighton?”

She placed one hand on his shoulder and the other in the palm of his right hand. “Is it not obvious.” She kept her expression neutral for many watched their interactions.

“You appear to assume we have much to discuss.” Henrí set their steps in motion.

Satiné smiled knowingly. “This reminds me of the night we first met at the masquerade. Everyone watched us then, as they do now.”

Henrí said with a hitch of awareness in his voice. “I held no idea. I only had eyes for you. You were quite stunning.”

He maneuvered her around several couples before she spoke again. “Ours was a shooting star.”

Again, they were silent, both considering what to say next. “What do you wish of me, Satiné?”

“I thought we should speak privately,” she suggested.

Henrí glanced about the room. “I have commitments to Prince George this evening. After all, I am his guest.”

“The party cannot last all night. Brighton does not possess the life of London,” she assured. “Come to my rooms at the Blue Fox when all have retired.”

A look of consternation crossed Henrí’s countenance. “I should not. Miss Callender’s father would not be pleased if I am seen.”

“Then be discreet,” she argued. “There are things to be said, and I would prefer to say them in private.” Satiné’s tone held a cold warning. “However, you must realize, Henrí, I possess no qualms in saying them before an audience. The Callenders would certainly not approve of our true connections.”

Henrí hissed, “A man does not appreciate threats,
mon Cher
.”

She countered, “Neither does a woman, Your Royal Highness.”

*

Satiné had departed shortly after their conversation. She had made her excuses to Viscount Setcliffe before returning to her rooms. She entered on a cloud of anticipation. It was the first time she had been hopeful since learning of Rupert’s existence. “Henrí chose me as his partner before he asked Miss Callender to dance.”

In reality, Satiné had departed prior to the musical interlude of the following set. She did not wish to observe Henrí’s attentions to the other ladies. In Calais and Vienna, he had remained dutifully by her side, but England held stricter guidelines for acceptable behavior. She permitted the maid to unlace the gown and assist her into a satin nightgown and robe before she excused the girl for the evening.

She held no idea how long she might have to wait for Henrí, but Satiné assumed the wait would prove the prince’s attraction to her. She took the time to thoroughly brush her hair and to add drops of scented oil to key points upon her body. Finally, she set the door to permit Henrí’s entrance and then crawled into bed. It would likely be several hours before the prince made an appearance. “Meanwhile, I shall practice what I wish to say to him. It is important I convince Henrí to abandon Miss Callender.”

Satiné refused to consider the possibility he might reject her again. She also would not dwell upon how she might find a means from her hasty marriage to Lord Swenton and the displacement of her possible pregnancy. “If I can entice Henrí to my bed, I can claim the baron’s child belong to my prince. After all, no one questioned Rupert’s likeness to the baron. Both Henrí and Lord Swenton possess similar appearances. All I must do is not increase too quickly and then later claim the child has arrived earlier than expected.”

It pleased her to have come so quickly to a solution to the child. “Now what should I do in the matter of my marriage vows?” Satiné’s countenance screwed up in heavy concentration. “It would be ironic simply to ignore my vows, as had Lady Fiona with the previous Baron Swenton. Of course, Lady Fiona never chose to remarry. Unfortunately, Henrí cannot abandon his obligation to marry: His father and his reign require it.”

*

“You are awake?” The maid she had hired edged closer to the bed. “Should I ask Mrs. McClenton for a tray?”

Satiné rolled to her back and stretched leisurely, but then realization had arrived. She glanced toward the window. “What is the time?” She sat up abruptly.

The girl appeared confused. “Well past one, Ma’am.”

Satiné flung the coverlet aside. “One in the afternoon?” she said incredulously. “How can that be?” She stood and reached for the satin robe she had discarded during the night. Rushing to the window, Satiné drew the drape aside to look upon the early afternoon sun. Something was amiss: Henrí had not come. Or had he? Turning to the girl she asked, “Did I have no visitors? Could the McClentons have sent my expected guests away?”