Chapter 20 #3
His death in a duel with an Englishman posed no risk to the French.
Even a duel with a Frenchman over an unfaithful wife could be unsuspicious.
An open attack on the king’s highway by four Frenchmen was another matter entirely.
D’Eon was hobbled now, and must know it.
He couldn’t afford any more attacks that could be traced back to the French.
It would be a few days at least before D’Eon could come with some new device.
He read the scrawled and tearstained letter.
Mistress Tulliver’s only son and chief support had certainly been unwise, and was condemned to transportation, but his offense was only the theft of some gentleman’s clothing in an attempt to cut a fine figure.
She claimed it was his first crime. He could at least look into that and perhaps find a way to seek mercy for him.
He made a note and looked through the other petitions. A few were requests for small amounts of money, and he approved all but one. The others required more thought, so he put them aside. It was nearly three and he had a long ride ahead of him.
All the same, he could not leave without taking some steps to control D’Eon. The man was blocked from direct attack on him, but that might lead him to meddle even more in Diana’s affairs.
As official representative of France, he was untouchable, but there were other ways.
He sent for Joseph Grainger.
Grainger, a young and serious man, was both his lawyer and steward of his business affairs. He was also manager of his more secret activities. He gave the man a string of orders.
“… and get a list of D’Eon’s debts and creditors,” he concluded.
“Yes, my lord.”
Rothgar took pity on the impassive, but surely curious, man. “His finances must be a mess. He’s living in state as a full ambassador without the ambassador’s emoluments or any private income. I have indications he’s already dipped into the money waiting for Guerchy, but he must be borrowing, too.”
“You will buy up his debts, my lord?”
“Precisely.” Rothgar rose. “Have the word spread that he’s not a good risk.”
Grainger closed his notebook, frowning. “Is he a bad risk?”
“A terrible one. Yes, I’m likely to end up with a bunch of bad debts and that offends your tidy soul. Consider it an extravagant expense.”
“Yes, my lord,” Grainger replied, still with a subtle tone of disapproval. Rothgar didn’t mind. It was Grainger’s job to disapprove of financial losses.
“And double the watch on him. I want to know everything he does, everyone he speaks to, in and out of the embassy. That’s all for now, but send Rowcup to wait for me here.”
Twenty minutes later, in plain riding clothes, he returned to his study and found his resident forger waiting for him.
Rowcup was a fat little man who pleasantly combined passion and skill in his illegal calling with total loyalty. Rothgar had saved him from hanging for his crimes because it was clear that forgery for Rowcup was not a means of making a living, but a gift he could not put aside.
He employed him openly to make exact copies of manuscripts and records that threatened to disintegrate, but sometimes he used him for more dangerous matters.
Today they constructed a letter in the style of the secret ones D’Eon received from the King of France.
In it, Louis praised D’Eon’s work, and encouraged his illusion of untouchability.
Finally, the king hinted that he understood the need to put forward a glorious presence in London, and that even if he was forced to let Guerchy take up his post as ambassador, all D’Eon’s expenses would be covered.
As Rowcup completed his work with a perfect seal, he shone like an angel with pride. The letter was sent to be woven into the secret communication stream between France and England, and Rothgar quickly reviewed the steps taken.
That was enough for now. With the supply of borrowed money tightened, D’Eon should have less time for thinking up trouble for others. With luck, he’d start dipping deeper into the ambassador’s moneys, which would really put his head on the chopping block.
He was about to leave when Carruthers appeared with a folded paper. “Mr. Merlin’s report on the automaton, my lord.”
Rothgar glanced quickly through it and saw immediately that the machine could not be completely repaired in time for tomorrow, so he put aside the thought of eclipsing the French automaton.
He sent orders for the work to be started immediately anyway.
If there was to be a war of automata, he might need his little drummer boy.
He headed for the door, but turned at the last minute to look at the portrait of his mother. What had Diana seen? Madness, apparently, in the intense eyes and tense body, but madness there before the birth of children.
He had no memory of his mother other than the dreadful one, and had never asked. But he had often wondered. Had she ever held him tenderly? Sang songs to him, played games to make him laugh? All the things he had seen his stepmother do with his half-brothers and -sisters.
Had she loved him? Or had she felt the same hatred she’d felt for little Edith?
The main question, however, had always been, how like her was he?
He left, closing the door, but thoughts would not be shut away.
For years he’d convinced himself that he was cold, as perhaps she had been cold. He’d thought he lacked the ability to bond closely and warmly, and had no need of it. It seemed strange now, but he’d seen himself as taking care of his family out of logic and duty.
Cyn’s sickness had shattered that illusion.
Walking briskly toward the front of the house, he felt again that shocking pain, remembered the furious rebellion against fate. He’d fought death—with a Malloren all things were possible—and against all odds, he’d won. He, doctors, nurses, and Cyn’s robust constitution, had defeated death.
Never after, however, had he thought he was of a cold, unloving nature.
He’d felt some of the same rage last year when he’d found Brand unconscious, when he’d feared a brain fever or some other fatal condition. On realizing the truth, that rage had turned to the people who had drugged him.
Rosa and Diana.
He felt anger at neither now, but his longing for Diana burned as fiercely.
Death, however, was an easier opponent than honor.
Despite Diana’s challenge, her battle was already lost, defeated by the madness in his mother’s fierce eyes.
No trick of fate had turned her mad. She had been born that way.
Honor said that blood must end with him, despite Diana’s grief.
He took his hat, gloves, and crop from Fettler, waiting by the door. He must not think of her as Diana. Opponents in a duel, after all, should never be on first-name terms.
Lady Arradale. To be protected, but never to be loved.
He strode briskly out of the house, mounted his horse, and attended by two armed grooms, rode out of London.