Chapter 11
“Clara,” Diana said. “Go to Lord Rothgar’s room and say that I wish to speak with him.”
As she waited, she tried to think how to phrase her delicate warning, but in moments Clara returned. “He’s not in at the moment, milady.”
Already at an assignation? No, there hadn’t been time. How inconsiderate of him, however, to leave the inn. “Go back and say that I must speak to him as soon as he returns.”
Clara hurried out and Diana went over that conversation again. Had de Couriac said something about serving the king? Perdition. She couldn’t quite remember. She thought so.
Perhaps it wasn’t attempted assassination, but espionage. All those documents. Some were doubtless sensitive, perhaps even secret. Perhaps Madame de Couriac was meant to steal them.
A less dangerous plan than murder, but still the marquess should be warned. And he, plague take him, was out.
This fine and comfortable room in the best inn was beginning to feel like a prison. When Clara returned, Diana demanded a light cloak and the attendance of her footman, and escaped to enjoy the evening. People did notice her, but it wasn’t unbearable.
She was alert for sight of the French couple or the marquess, and it was the latter she saw first, taking farewell of a man who looked like a country lawyer. She hurried over, but conscious of the windows of the inn above their heads, she said, “I request a moment of your time, my lord.”
“I lay a hundred, a thousand at your command, dear lady.”
Rolling her eyes at this courtly manner, she turned to stroll down the street, until they were far enough from the inn. “I overheard the de Couriacs speaking, my lord.”
“And?”
She glanced up, embarrassed by the implication of what she was about to say. “He seemed to be urging her to … to make advances to you.”
“The lady did seem a little bold.”
“And perhaps dangerous?” she pointed out, wanting to poke him. Were all men so oblivious when a pretty woman made sheep’s eyes at them?
“All women are dangerous, Lady Arradale, as we have already established.”
“I am not likely to get you killed.”
“I wish I could be sure of that. But,” he continued, “why do you think Madame de Couriac’s charms fatal?”
Her fears began to seem overblown. “For no reason except their urgency. I think he mentioned something about service to the king. Could they be spies? Have an eye to your papers? Or am I foolish to think them up to no good?”
“Not foolish, no.” He turned them back toward the inn. “Thank you for the warning. I will take care of it.”
Despite that, he was disregarding the more serious danger. “What if the plan is to force a duel, my lord? To murder you.”
His eyes met hers. “I am hard to kill.”
“But not impossible! I heard of the duel you fought in London. If anyone plans such mischief, they have a measure of your skill now.”
“You think Monsieur de Couriac is sent to be my executioner?”
“I think a wise man would give him no cause for a challenge.”
His eyes twinkled. “Ah, but she is charming, is she not—?”
Before Diana could argue further, Madame de Couriac dashed out of the door of the Swan.
“Ah, Lord Rothgar. Thank heavens you are here!” she declared in rapid French.
“Jean-Louis is suffering the most dreadful pains. We have sent for the doctor, but our English is not so good and at times like these, not even so good as that. It is a dreadful imposition, but pleas …”
Hands on his arm, she looked up piteously.
“Perhaps I could help, madame,” Diana said sweetly. “My French is tolerable.”
The Frenchwoman turned with a false, rather frantic smile. “Alas, Lady Arradale, my poor husband, he is half undressed—”
“I see. I do hope it is nothing serious, Madame. Please call on me if you should need anything. Womanly comfort, perhaps.”
Diana resisted the urge to flash the marquess a warning glance as she left them. Surely it wasn’t necessary. He was reputed to be devilishly clever. He must be able to see through a stratagem such as this.
Rothgar went with Madame de Couriac, on guard but also curious to know exactly what she and her husband were up to. The countess could be right in thinking they were after his documents, but equally correct in thinking they were after his life.
If the latter, it would be another mathematical point. He suspected D’Eon of involvement in the duel with Curry. If the de Couriacs were up to mischief, it was all likely linked to the French.
He smiled over Lady Arradale’s sharp wits and swift action.
Admirable, but not particularly welcome when she must play the part of the perfect lady—the sort who would be blind to plots and politics.
A lady who would scream at a mouse, faint at a shock, and react to danger by throwing herself into the arms of the nearest male.
Not by trying to rescue him.
The next weeks were likely to be even more difficult than he’d anticipated.
But interesting.
Monsieur de Couriac was lying on top of the bedclothes, groaning. The extent of his undress was an undone waistband and a loosened shirt.
“You have sent for the doctor, you said?” Rothgar asked.
“Yes.” Madame de Couriac put her hand to her head. “At least, I think so … I am so frightened …” She moved close, and he obliged by putting his arm around her. She turned to press her face into his chest. A knock at the door didn’t even make her twitch.
So.
He put her aside and opened it.
“Doctor Ribble,” the young man there said. Slim and serious, he at least seemed likely to play his part properly.
“Come in, Doctor. You see your patient. I am Lord Rothgar, serving as translator if needed.”
The doctor’s sharp look said he recognized the name, but pleasantly, his demeanor did not change. He went over to the bed and asked questions, which Rothgar translated, then examined the patient.
In the end the doctor said, “I can see no reason for the pain, monsieur, though there is some tenderness. All I can suggest is rest. Often these things pass of themselves and medicines can make them worse.”
Rothgar approved, but Madame de Couriac stiffened. “And you think we pay for that!” she snapped in her imperfect English. “You must do something!”
“Madame, there is nothing—”
“You are a … a charlatan!” She turned to Rothgar. “How do you say?”
“Exactly that, madame. Charlatan. However, the good doctor is probably correct. It is doubtless something your husband ate.”
“But you, but I, we ate the same! I insist on treatment, or me, I will not pay.”
Tight-lipped, Doctor Ribble opened his bag and took out a bottle, pouring some dark liquid into a glass. “There, madame. If you give him a teaspoonful of that in water every hour it might soothe him, and it will do no harm.”
“So,” the lady declared, magnificent dark eyes flashing, “first there is nothing. Now there is something. Me, I think you hate the French! You want us all to die!”
“Not at all, madame. That will be five shillings for the visit, and a further two for the medicine. If you need more, you can send a servant to my house for it. However, do not hesitate to summon me if your husband’s condition worsens.”
Madame de Couriac extracted a silk purse from her pocket and passed it to Rothgar with a faltering hand. “Please, my lord. I am too distressed … Please find the coins for him.”
As she staggered back to hover over the bed, Rothgar obliged, resisting the urge to share a smile with the doctor.
He would remember Doctor Ribble if he ever had need of a physician in this locality.
He was sure the medicine was a harmless syrup with some herbs to make it taste unpleasant.
Who, after all, would believe in a pleasant medicine?
Perhaps even a touch of opium to send the patient to sleep.
When the doctor had left, he turned to find Madame de Couriac tenderly feeding some of the medicine to a resistant husband. The man saw Rothgar watching and said in French, “It tastes foul, my lord.”
“Such things usually do, monsieur. I advise you to take it, however. The doctor seemed to know what he was about.”
De Couriac drained the glass then shuddered.
“Now,” cooed his wife, “get under the covers, my darling, and rest. Soon, I am sure, you will be completely well again.”
Though he had no reason to stay, Rothgar did, intrigued to see what happened next.
His journey had been no secret. His night here had been arranged in advance.
He’d be flattered to think Madame de Couriac was taking extreme measures to get into his bed, but it was more likely to be another attempt on his life.
The interesting question was, why? Why were the French so desperate to dispose of him?
He had influence with the king, and was known to advise the king to stand firm against them.
He was urging limits on exports of anything that would help them rebuild their fleet, and the speedy destruction of the fortifications at Dunkirk.
None of it seemed justification for murder. There was always the chance that Madame de Couriac could shed some light on matters.
When the woman had her husband settled to her liking she turned to Rothgar, a picture of grateful womanhood, and ran forward to seize his hands. “How can I thank you, my lord? You have been so kind, so gracious …” Then she swayed. “Oh, I feel … Oh.”
He caught her against his body as he was clearly expected to. So tempting at such moments to step aside, leaving the lady to tumble to the floor. He’d done it a time or two.
This time, however, he tenderly supported. “Madame, please. Come to my dining room for a little cognac. We must let your husband sleep.”
“You are too kind,” she whispered, limp against him.
His role now was to sweep her into his arms, but he merely supported her toward the door and down the stairs.
On the lower floor he glanced at Lady Arradale’s door, expecting to see her peering out.
He was sure she would be if she’d known just when he’d return.