Chapter 19
As they approached St. James’s Palace, the press of vehicles and avidity of the watching crowds broke Diana out in a sweat. These fashionable parades and the unfashionable pointing mob weren’t her challenge. The king was. All the same, she had to work hard not to flinch from a thousand eyes.
And she’d thought her life confined and under scrutiny in Yorkshire!
“Drawing Rooms are popular with the people,” he remarked in a bored tone she knew was designed to steady her.
“So I see. Do they gather for the levees as well?”
“Not to so great an extent. Ladies are generally more decoratively entertaining than gentlemen.”
She glanced at his finery. “It is not apparent. And anyway, in the animal world the male has the gorgeous plumage.”
“And if we follow Monsieur Rousseau, we must, above all, be natural.” As the coach drew to a halt, he said, “I will suggest that the king command all ladies to attend in sackcloth and drab.”
A footman swung open the door, and Bey climbed down, turning to offer her a beautiful, jeweled hand in plumage of lace and brocade.
“You do like to stir enemies,” she commented as she descended and smoothed her glorious skirts.
“Alas, without enemies life might become dull. Speaking of which, let me present you to the Chevalier D’Eon.”
Snapping to the alert, Diana went with him toward a slight man in rich brown with the striking red ribbon of an order across his chest, the medallion glittering. Bey himself wore the Order of the Bath on a red sash, and an imaginative mind might see the two red slashes as a bloody challenge.
The Frenchman saw them and stepped forward with the quick elegance of a good fencer despite his high heels.
“Monsieur le marquis,” he said in rapid French.
“I am distressed, outraged—” Then he seemed to catch himself, and bowed, addressing Diana in English.
“My lady, I beg your pardon for speaking in French. And here I am again,” he added, with a rather arch flutter of embarrassment, “speaking to you without introduction—”
“Lady Arradale,” said Bey, sounding amused, “may I present the Chevalier D’Eon, the most honorable Ministre Plénipotentiare de France.”
Diana held out her hand and greeted the Frenchman in English. Bey’s meaningful look had not been necessary. She could see that being thought unable to understand the language might be an advantage one day.
Of course, de Couriac knew differently …
Monsieur D’Eon bowed over her hand with exquisite grace, pursing his lips a delicate distance above her skin.
“London is made glorious by your beauty, Lady Arradale,” he said, but then his expression turned tragic.
“And I am devastated that you have apparently been distressed upon your journey by some rascally compatriots of mine.”
“It certainly was terrifying, monsieur. But,” she added, sliding her hand free of his ardent grasp, “any country can produce rogues. We escaped with our property and lives intact.” She turned adoringly to Bey. “All due to Lord Rothgar’s formidable courage and skill.”
His eyes flashed a humorous warning before he said to D’Eon, “It happened too fast for skill. I regret the deaths of your countrymen, however.”
“As do I, my lord. I would like to have the questioning of them.”
“Quite.”
It was like a slither of blades.
“They were apparently associates of a Monsieur de Couriac,” Bey remarked, “whom we encountered in Ferry Bridge. Do you know him, Chevalier?”
“De Couriac?” D’Eon said vaguely as they all turned to join the people flowing into the palace. “He presented papers to me some weeks ago upon arrival. I know nothing more. Petite noblesse from Normandy, if I remember.”
“Ah, then perhaps the Comte de Broglie may know the family. He resides in Normandy, does he not?”
One sharp glance from D’Eon told Diana that Bey had scored a hit.
“I doubt it, my lord,” D’Eon said. “Monsieur de Broglie lives very quietly now he is out of power.” He turned to Diana. “Be assured, my lady, that I will attempt to get to the bottom of this terrible affair.”
He bowed and left to greet someone else. Escaped, one might say.
“Who is de Broglie?” Diana murmured as they filed up the stairs.
“D’Eon’s secret superior,” Bey said in a voice so muted she could scarcely hear it, and with a look that told her not to pursue it here.
Lud! What tangle was hinted at in that? D’Eon’s only master should be the King of France. Is it wise, she wanted to ask, to tell him that you know?
With a flash of irritation, she recognized that Bey had just thrown down a challenge to the Frenchman.
She could understand that constantly waiting for these sneaky attacks would test the patience of a marble statue, but she wished he hadn’t.
Especially now when she was going to have to leave him unguarded.
Especially when he had probably done it to ensure she was not caught in any further attacks.
Ah, but she was going to hate being put in this gilded cage.
As they made their way through the crowded corridors, Diana could at least be grateful that the king refused to live here in St. James’s Palace.
These dark and ancient passageways had seen their share of wretches heading for disaster, torture, and execution, and the memories seemed to linger in the walls.
Some of the victims had been His Majesty’s ancestors. Some of them had been hers.
Her pulse started a nervous beat again as she approached the drawing room—as if a headsman might appear, ax in hand.
She could see ahead now to where the king and queen sat in magnificent garments and jewels, ladies- and gentlemen-in-waiting standing behind.
Most of those attending the Drawing Room merely approached to curtsy or bow and exchange a word or two, but those being presented were given a little more time.
After greeting Their Majesties, people moved around the room chatting, taking care never to turn their backs to the royal couple, though some seemed to leave quite quickly. She wished she had that option.
When their turn came, Bey led her forward, and she sank into her curtsy, head bowed. The queen gestured for her to rise and Diana remembered to allow Bey to assist her. It was clearly an excellent point. The royal couple looked as if they were searching for monstrous aspects.
“We welcome you to London, Lady Arradale,” said the very pregnant queen with a strong German accent. She was as plain as reported, with a rather monkeyish face and bulbous eyes.
“You are most kind to have invited me, Your Majesty.”
Diana had forgotten how young the queen was. Only nineteen. Not that age counted here. The king was a year younger than herself, but that did not lessen the dangers.
The queen frowned. “I understand you have inherited your father’s property and title, Lady Arradale. I find that a very strange thing.”
“It is unusual in England too, Your Majesty.”
“A cruel burden to put upon a woman’s shoulders.”
Diana looked down. “Indeed, Your Majesty.”
“Strange, then, that you have not married.”
Straight to the attack! Diana hoped she had the right expression as she met the queen’s eyes. “Alas, Your Majesty, but I have delayed in search of a man I could truly love.”
Queen Charlotte’s eyes did warm slightly. “Das ist gut. But you must not delay too long, my lady, or you will lose your bloom. We will talk of this later. You will stay with me as one of my ladies for a while.”
This had been arranged, but now was given the royal affirmation.
“You do me great honor, Your Majesty.” Diana curtsied again to king and queen, and could move to one side. First engagement over.
However the king rose and stepped aside with them. “What is this I hear, Lord Rothgar? Brigands on our highway? What? In daylight? French brigands? What?”
“An unfortunate incident, sire.”
“Unfortunate!” The king’s fresh face reddened. “Intolerable. I have dispatched Colonel Allenby to look into the matter. I will not have such things, especially within ten miles of London! You are unharmed?”
“Completely, sire.”
“And Lady Arradale?” The king looked at her, but Diana judged that she was not expected to actually speak for herself.
“Unharmed also, Your Majesty, though distressed, of course.”
Diana blessed her pale powder and tried to look distressed.
“It would be unwomanly not to be,” the king stated. “But three brigands dead, my lord? What? I know you to be a formidable man, but how did that come about?” Then he gave an irritated shake of the head. “Not now. You must return to the Queen’s House and relate the whole story.”
Bey bowed. “With pleasure, sire. If you wish, I could convey Lady Arradale there in my coach.”
The king nodded and returned to his duties.
Diana looked up at Bey. More time together? Irresistible, but it only extended the pain. Had he perhaps just given in to a moment of weak temptation?
There was no way to tell from his manner.
He led her around the room introducing her to ladies and gentlemen who seemed grateful to see a new face.
Especially, she soon realized, a face attached to such an unusual creature as a peeress in her own right and a very wealthy woman.
Everyone seemed to have a perfectly wonderful son, brother, or nephew.
This sort of heiress hunting was the least of their problems, however. She didn’t like the queen’s plan to find her a husband, but otherwise she thought it had gone well.
Perhaps Their Majesties had expected her to clump in here in breeches, brandishing a weapon.
That was another unfair aspect of the way the world regarded women.
It was assumed that they could not be strong without attempting to dress and act like men.
That a woman who liked pretty clothes and jewels, and cared about her complexion must be a simpering ninny.
It was the sort of thing she would love to discuss with Bey, but certainly not here. When next would they have a chance to talk in private? That precious cup, their conversation, had only been sipped, and she thirsted for more.