Chapter 3
Noon approached and people streamed through the gatehouse off Pall Mall into the warren of old buildings known as St. James’s Palace.
Ministers of the Crown were present, along with military officers, jaded courtiers, and country gentlemen wishing a once-in-a-lifetime audience with the king.
All wore full court dress—elegant clothes, small sword, and powdered hair—for otherwise they would not be admitted.
Those accustomed to going through this two or three times a week wandered across the courtyard chatting, or with minds clearly on other things.
The gentlemen up from the country, on the other hand, looked around wide-eyed, shining with expectation.
To see the king so close. To be acknowledged. To speak a word or two with him!
The marquess’s chairmen carried him through the gatehouse and into the Great Court, where he emerged adjusting the frothing lace at his wrists.
He acknowledged various greetings, assessing the mood.
Curiosity, and some excited anticipation of him ending up in the Tower.
It might happen. The young king was unpredictable, and burdened by a strong sense of his position as moral leader of his realm.
He spotted his secretary, and strolled over to join him and two of the wide-eyed countrymen. Before Carruthers could introduce them, the older man, tall and hearty, though clearly ill-at-ease in his grand clothes, stepped forward to bow. “My lord marquess! We are infinitely obliged.”
Rothgar bowed in turn. “Not at all, Sir George. I am delighted to see you in London. This must be your son …” As he spoke, his eyes flickered to his secretary who mouthed “George.” Suppressing a smile, he added, “George.”
The handsome, dazed youth also bowed, hand sensibly on his small sword. They were notoriously tricky to handle and had tripped up many, and even poked ladies in unfortunate places on occasion. Young George looked likely to grow up to be as sound a man as his father.
The marquess indicated that they should proceed into the building. “I hope my people have made your visit to London everything you could wish, Sir George.”
“Indeed they have, my lord!” Sir George declared, and related all the wonders as they progressed toward the presence chamber. As they approached the chamber, however, he began to falter with nervousness and excitement. “Upon my soul, my lord, I don’t know what I should say.”
“Follow His Majesty’s lead, Sir George, but do talk to him. His greatest complaint of these events is that people stare and say, ‘Yes, sire,’ ‘No, sire.’”
“Indeed, my lord!” Sir George looked as if he was swallowing hard. “Well, by Gemini, I will do my best then. But you, Georgie,” he said to his son, trailing behind and staring at the array of weapons on the paneled walls, “you’d best keep to yes sire and no sire. You hear?”
“Yes, Father!”
Rothgar hid a smile. Levees were a boring obligation, so he quite enjoyed presenting his country neighbors.
Seen through their eyes, this took on some freshness and flavor, and reminded him that it was central to English government that good men have access to the monarch.
He regretted not putting off the duel a day.
He’d make sure the Uftons weren’t caught in any unpleasantness, but if the king decided to make as issue of dueling and death, it would mar their enjoyment.
They entered the presence chamber, magnificent with tapestries and paintings, but bare of furniture, and took a place in the circle forming against the wall.
Rothgar chose a spot near some other country people and soon the Uftons were chatting comfortably to their own kind.
Meanwhile, a number of men came over to talk to him.
None of these men disapproved of the duel, but a number were clearly unsure of the outcome.
He also noted those who seemed to be suddenly blind to his existence.
When the king finally entered, there was no way to tell his mood.
Only twenty-five, George III was tall and of pleasing appearance, with a fresh complexion and large blue eyes.
Because he took his duties seriously, he moved slowly around the room, pausing to speak to each man.
Even if his mind was on Rothgar, he would not let his attention wander.
As he progressed down the room, however, the attention of everyone else shifted.
The king spoke briefly to the Earl of Marlbury beside Rothgar, and then his eyes moved on, sober and thoughtful. Rothgar could feel the room hold its breath, wondering if they were to witness an event worthy of recording for their descendants.
Then the king inclined his head. “My lord marquess, we are pleased to see you here, and in good health. Very pleased.”
As a stir ruffled the air, Rothgar bowed. “Your Majesty is gracious as always. May I present Sir George Ufton, of Ufton Green, Berkshire, and his son George.”
From there, all went smoothly. Sir George spoke briefly and sensibly of conditions near his home. The king then inquired of young George as to whether he was enjoying his visit to London and received a nervous, “Yes, sire,” in reply.
Then he moved on.
Sir George wooshed out a big breath. Rothgar restrained himself from any similar sign of relief. He allowed no sign of victory to show as he returned the bows of the passing Ministers of the Crown, even though some of them persisted in viewing him as a rival.
Though it was perfectly permissible to leave when the king had passed by, Rothgar gave the Uftons a moment to recover from their experience before guiding them out into the fresh air.
Carruthers awaited to pass them on to a liveried footman who would take them on to yet more delights, but he stepped aside to tell Rothgar that the king commanded him to a private audience.
“Ah, so I have not escaped entirely,” Rothgar murmured, summoning a wry look even from his discreet secretary.
He made his way to the King’s Bedchamber, now used only for audiences, knowing that in fact he would not be scolded, but fussed over, then put to work advising the king on the many complex matters on hand.
At times he tired of the role. At times he even wished to be like Sir George, responsible only for a small estate and his family. He was born to his duties, however, and God had given him talents of use to his country. He could not, in honor, hold back.
Upon his return to Malloren House, Rothgar stripped out of his stiff court dress with relief, and put in hand a number of matters arising out of his time with the king.
Though the peace treaty with France had been signed, there were still those in Paris who longed to return to war, to wipe out defeat.
It was necessary to know what they planned, and to watch for their spies in England.
He could often discover things that more official investigators could not, especially as he maintained a spy network of his own.
Next, he attended to a pile of documents requiring his seal and signature, then he turned to idle matters—to letters and catalogs from people hoping for his custom or his patronage. He flipped through them, in no mood for such matters, but he paused at a package sent by a publisher.
It contained a variety of poems, and he glanced through them, putting a few aside as of interest. Then he came upon some sheets entitled, Diana, a cantata.
It was attributed to Monsieur Rousseau, but translated into English.
A light piece, but intriguing because another Diana came immediately to mind.
The sun was now descended to the main,
When chaste Diana and her virgin train….
Lady Arradale. Straight of spine, clear of eye, and a body made for love. She was, however, almost certainly a chaste virgin, and somewhat irked by the fact.
A copy of this could make an amusing gift.
He understood her choice not to marry, but that decision carried costs, especially for a woman. There would be no easy way for her to satisfy her sexual nature, and to many people, an unmarried woman was an affront against heaven, destined in fact to lead apes in hell.
Today, for some reason, the king had asked about her, and he was clearly one of the ones affronted. George was even more affronted by the notion of a young single woman in the peculiar position of being a peer of the realm.
Rothgar had given bland responses hoping that the conventional monarch forgot her existence entirely. The kings of England were constrained by many rules, but they still had teeth.
He read quickly through the cantata. It described an attack by the goddess Diana on Cupid, and thus on love. The countess, he thought, would appreciate that. Would it also serve as a warning? In the end, one dart is missed, and Diana succumbs to love.
Perhaps, he thought, as he put the sheets with those of interest, he should keep a copy close to hand himself.
He was aware—he was always aware of such things—that Lady Arradale could be a lurking arrow. She was pretty and lively, but those were the least of her charms. From her unusual rank, she had become an exceptional woman, clever, bold, and brave.
She was also willful, impulsive, and perhaps even spoiled. Normally such qualities would wipe away any interest he had, but in her case, they stirred his instinct to protect. As cousin to Brand’s bride, she was almost within his sacred limits, his family.
A wise man avoided danger. Sliding his signet ring up and down his finger, he considered not going to Brand’s Yorkshire wedding after all. That would keep him well out of arrow range.
The rest of the family planned to attend, however, and he wanted to be there, to see the happy end to Brand’s adventure.