Chapter 25 #3
His look was all quick, sharp speculation, and she realized that he’d been playing a part as much as she had. Not that he was any less selfish and self-centered, but that he was more so, and shrewd and ruthless with it.
Then the look passed, and he was smiling again. “A week then. But if you decide sooner, my love, I will be waiting anxiously. Every day.”
My love. How could two pleasant words sound so slimy?
Diana returned to the Queen’s House regarding it more as a refuge than a prison.
She knew Lord Randolph couldn’t trick or force her into marriage, but having him stalking her with smiling, predatory intent made her skin crawl.
What was worse, she’d have to behave warmly toward him until she broke down Bey’s dark walls.
At least she didn’t have to speak to any of her suitors again that day.
The queen demanded a complete description of Diana’s purchases, and a viewing of those she had brought back.
Later, after dinner, some members of the King’s Theater came to give the royal household a private recital.
In Diana’s honor, it was to consist of selections from Mr. Bach’s popular opera, Orione, which featured the goddess Diana.
Diana tried to use the time to think of ways to escape one man and capture another, and within the week, but the lovely music swept away clear thought. She could welcome the release from worry, but it also carried away her defenses.
Since she spoke Italian, she could easily understand the story. Orion wanted to marry the sweet maid, Candiope, but the goddess wanted him for herself. It was based on a classical myth, and in that myth the goddess Diana eventually killed the man she desired.
For the first time, she wondered if her battle of wills with Bey could lead to such disaster. Listening to the singers, however, she saw herself and Bey more in Orion and his beloved Candiope, with the king and queen as the angry god.
But then, the king wanted her to marry Bey, and was likely to wreak havoc if she didn’t! Lord Randolph was the jealous, grasping lover, but he had no godlike properties at all.
As usual in this mad time of her life, no one was playing their correct role.
Then Candiope sang: “We must obey the will of the gods and never see each other again. But alas! without thee my days must be spent in sorrow.”
Orion replied: “Cruel parting that tears from me all I treasure, yet does not put an end to a wretched existence!”
The words cut too close to reality, and coupled with the swell of lovely music, they brought tears to Diana’s eyes. The end of Orion’s aria on lost love found her swallowing in a desperate attempt to hide them.
“Now, now, Lady Arradale,” said the king, coming over to her afterward, and even offering his own handkerchief, “we cannot have you unhappy, what?”
She blew her nose. “The music was just so lovely, sire.”
“Very fine, is it not? But I think your tears come from your unsettled situation, what? Like all women, you find it hard to make up your mind, and you are making yourself miserable over it. Time to make your choice, what?”
Cloaking panic, Diana gazed up at the king. “It is such a hard choice, sire. So many kind men, all with their virtues.”
“And thus all suitable, what? Come, come, we can’t have you falling into a melancholy, and the uncertainty is distressing to the queen. You must make up your mind.”
“In a few weeks, sire …”
“No, no! You are overset. I could swear you have grown paler since you came here. A person could sicken, even go mad, under this indecision …”
Diana stared at him, sure that that mention of madness had not been accidental. “But, sire,” she said desperately, “you said I should have the masquerade to help me decide!”
“After the masquerade, then,” the king said firmly, patting her hand. “Your suitors may have that final opportunity to win your heart. But if you still cannot decide, we will settle your mind.”
There was nothing to say but, “Thank you, sire.”
He retired with the queen then, and Diana could flee to her room. Oh, but she needed to speak to Bey. Had there been any way to avoid this latest twist? If so, she couldn’t see it. The king was determined, and his choice would be Bey.
This left her with only two days, however. Two days to change Bey’s mind, one of them Sunday, when the court was quiet. The prospect of disaster hovered.
No, with a descendant of Ironhand, too, all things were possible. She would find a way.
Lord Randolph was at Lucifer’s losing at hazard when the Frenchman joined the table. A Monsieur Dionne, with an old-fashioned beard and no particular distinction as far as he could see, but a gentleman with money to lose.
However, it was himself who continued to lose. Damned dice. He had no idea what his tally was, but his father would cut up stiff about it again.
No he wouldn’t, he thought with a private smile, because any day now flighty Lady Arradale would make up her mind, and she’d as good as said he was her choice.
Idiot woman with her chatter of eastern potentates. That was no problem, however. He’d keep her at home and pregnant, and she’d be no trouble. If she was, she’d soon learn better.
All that lovely money. Shame he couldn’t have the title, too …
“My lord?” It was the Frenchman offering him the box.
He shook, and missed the mark again, devil take it.
“Luck is a wanton bitch, is she not, my lord?” said Dionne, offering his snuff box.
Lord Randolph took a pinch and found it excellent quality. Perhaps Dionne, despite appearances, was good for a temporary loan.
The man smiled at him. “Not that you need to worry about these minor losses. All London says you are likely to win the hand of a wealthy lady.”
“It is as good as settled,” he agreed, preening.
“My felicitations, my lord.” Dionne turned to watch the play. “Though I have heard some speculation that the lady will go to the great marquess.”
Lord Randolph felt a chill on his neck. “Rothgar? Nonsense. Everyone knows he will not marry. His mother was a raving lunatic.”
The Frenchman shrugged. “Men change their minds. I understand Lady Arradale is a very rich woman, and a beauty besides.”
“Dammit—” But Lord Randolph collected himself. “Mere gossip,” he said coolly, rolling the dice again, losing again. “And if he harbors hopes, he is bound to be disappointed. The lady as good as promised me her hand this very day. It is to be announced on Tuesday.”
Dionne seemed genuinely delighted for him. “That is excellent news, my lord.” He raised his glass of wine. “I toast your good fortune.”
Lord Randolph returned the toast and the congratulations of the men around the table, but inside he was pricked by doubt.
Rothgar? The woman didn’t even like him. She’d commented on how chilly he’d been during the journey south, how he’d spent all his time on papers, hardly even speaking to her.
All the same, he was a man of power. What would happen if he decided to have her anyway?
An hour later, de Couriac slipped back into the French embassy, the warm glow of the perfect plan burning inside. Never mind D’Eon. He would have it all.
He had come to London with orders from the foreign minister to achieve two things—the death of the Marquess of Rothgar, and the disgrace of the Chevalier D’Eon. His plan would achieve both, and also avenge his poor Susette.
Yes, suffering for the countess, and then death for the marquess. He would need some help. He began to consider who in the embassy would be most useful, and most willing to keep their mouths shut.