Chapter 34
Diana stared, fascinated by D’Eon’s illusion of femininity. Paint and powder could achieve a great deal, but he had the mannerisms and gestures down perfectly. And above his low bodice, breasts swelled!
Perhaps he was just plump, she thought, as tension swept away idle thoughts. Here was the master hand behind the attacks.
D’Eon waved his lacy fan. “It would have been a sorrier one, my lord, had that madman achieved his end.”
“You disown him?”
D’Eon shuddered. “Emphatically.”
Bey’s brows rose. “You expect me to believe you are innocent of the various attacks on my life?”
D’Eon was an astonishing image of outraged innocence. “I have never sought your life, Lord Rothgar. Never.”
“What of Curry?”
The fan wafted again. “A wound, no more.”
Diana almost spoke her opinion of that, but she decided to be a fascinated observer of this verbal fencing.
“De Couriac’s orders in the north were the same,” D’Eon said. “I did not realize he was so unbalanced.”
“Or that he was under other orders, perhaps?” Bey said.
D’Eon’s red lips tightened. “Or that, my lord.”
“You expect me to accept these attempts to wound me without affront?”
“C’est la guerre, monsieur le marquis.”
“Then perhaps you are a prisoner of war, Chevalier.”
The little man stiffened. “You cannot touch the ambassador of France.”
“Acting ambassador,” Bey gently reminded him. “Soon Monsieur de Guerchy will come, and your cloak of protection will be removed.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” D’Eon’s eyes were steady. “Like you, my lord, I serve my king, and serve him well.”
“Kings are not always faithful to their servants. In time, Chevalier, you will die for involving Lady Arradale.”
D’Eon glanced at her, seeming genuinely puzzled. “My lord? An irritation, perhaps, but aimed to take you in the end precisely where you now so happily stand. You would risk all in a duel over that?”
“You have a very strange notion of what is irritating.”
At the icy tone, D’Eon stared. “What has happened? All I have done is to encourage the king to seek to match you up. In view of your declared intention not to marry, it seemed likely to distract you from other matters. I admit, I hoped it might bring about a falling out for a while. But this is not of what you speak?”
Bey studied him for a moment.
D’Eon swore in French. “De Couriac! And the offense was great?” He looked at Diana. “You are all right, my lady?”
“I was rescued,” Diana said, guessing that Bey did not want details revealed.
D’Eon stood a fraction straighter. “This was nothing to do with me, my lord. But I admit a fault. I did not kill de Couriac when I saw him for the rabid dog he was. He came with orders from Paris. It was difficult. I should have realized, however, when he claimed you were to blame for the death of the woman who played his wife.”
“She was found strangled, but it was nothing to do with me.”
“Oh no, he killed her. He said as much. A rabid dog, as I said. But a French dog. For the honor of France, monsieur le marquis, I will meet you.”
No, thought Diana. I will not allow this now! Not when I have everything my heart desires.
But D’Eon said, “Do not interfere, Lady Arradale. Sometimes a man has a need to fight.”
Despite that, Diana tried to find words, but he had already turned to Bey. “Not, I think, to the inconvenient, undiplomatic death, but to the blood? First blood. You will not find that easy.”
Diana bit her lip. She’d remembered Bey’s words about her ordering him to be safe. She was not to do that unless she was willing to be controlled that way by him.
Fear fluttered, though, and she began to think this night would be too much for her after all.
Where were Bryght or Elf who might be able to deflect this danger?
Bey said, “You are correct about my need to fight, monsieur. But I could hardly duel with you in skirts.”
“I can arrange matters. It must be now, I think, that we cauterize this wound. Come, where do we do it? I will defend the honor of France!”
Bey looked at Diana, and she saw that he was thinking of her, and ready to step back to save her from concern. D’Eon had been right, however. Bey needed this.
She had no idea whether D’Eon was acting with good intent or ill, but against all instincts, she said, “To minor wounds only. Please.”
D’Eon executed an elegant, flowery bow that wasn’t ridiculous despite his feminine dress. “I will not kill him, Countess. Or even damage him badly enough to affect your pleasure. My word on it.” He turned to smile at Bey. “I must tell you, my lord, that I have never been beaten.”
Bey smiled back. “In a serious contest, neither have I. Come, let us return to the ballroom.”
He led the way by back stairs, so any hope Diana had that they would bump into Bryght or Fort faded. As they went, however, instinct told her that this was right.
She still prayed. Accidents could happen, and though she thought D’Eon was honest in this, it was still possible that he intended death, and was coming at it in a subtle way.
They detoured to Bey’s rooms for rapiers, then walked into the silent, deserted, black-shrouded ballroom. The moon and stars still glowed, giving a certain amount of light.
D’Eon stepped out of his heeled shoes, then discarded his overskirt and petticoat, showing that he wore satin breeches underneath. Peculiarly female on top and male below, he chose a sword and balanced it for a moment in his hands. Then he nodded and began making some passes with it.
Diana could tell immediately that he had not boasted about his skill.
Bey took off shoes and shed his robe, and he too was wearing breeches and shirt. He took off all his rings except the sapphire, and gave them to Diana.
“Is this wise?” she had to ask. “What if he does plan murder?”
“He still has to make the hit.” He turned to D’Eon. “Monsieur, what of your corset? It must hamper you.”
The Frenchman flexed his shoulders. “Not at all, my lord. I indulge in vanity, but not to that extent. You are ready?”
Bey bowed. “I am completely at your service.”
He walked toward D’Eon, but Diana made a sudden resolve, and spoke. “Monsieur D’Eon,” she said, and the man turned to face her, painted brows high. “I still have my bow, and a number of arrows. If there is any foul play here, I will kill you.”
After a still moment he smiled, and blew her an extravagant kiss. “Magnifique! You are indeed worthy of the great marquess, and if de Couriac was not already dead, I would kill him for you.”
“No you wouldn’t,” said Bey. “En garde, monsieur.”
With shocking suddenness, the blades clicked together, and the two men became intent only on each other. It should have been a ridiculous mismatch simply because of height and reach, but Bey had never thought so, and he’d been right.
D’Eon was, quite simply, brilliant. His agility was astonishing, his balance perfect, and the blade, even though it was strange to him, seemed a smooth extension of his body.
It took a moment for Diana to realize that Bey was almost as good, but only almost. It was the height and reach that leveled it, but it was level.
Too level? The blades seem to hiss close to flesh with every daring move.
The fight burned with energy, nothing at all like the bouts she had with Carr. Did Carr fight like this sometimes with skilled men, moving at fierce speed around a huge room, taking terrible chances with vicious speed and strength that could so easily kill?
They swirled close, and she had to quickly back out of the way to be sure of not distracting them. No chance of that. Neither had eyes for anyone or anything but each other.
Almost, she thought, like a deadly minuet.
As the fight went on, she could hardly believe that neither of those wicked, flashing blades had drawn blood. She found that she was sucking in air as they must be.
D’Eon’s powdered wig had gone, and his hair straggled. Bey’s hair had been loose to begin with, but now tangled with sweat.
“What the devil’s happening?”
She started at the low murmur in her ear, and glanced once at Bryght who had appeared at her side, Fort nearby. She looked back quickly, however, feeling that her attention alone stood between this and disaster.
“A friendly fight, of sorts.”
“Friendly …” Bryght muttered, but at that moment D’Eon moved quickly out of pattern, lowering his sword, and Bey checked a thrust.
It stopped.
The Frenchman sucked in deep breaths. “We will kill each other out of exhaustion, my lord … You are satisfied?”
Bey lowered his sword, too, and when he had his breath, said, “Perhaps. You were right. You are extremely good. A little better than I am.”
D’Eon bowed, and did not dispute it. “So, the record is swept clean?”
Bey replaced his sword in the case. “You say you have no plans to kill me, monsieur, but what of your masters in France? Someone instructed de Couriac.”
D’Eon shrugged. “I will try to convince them that it would be extremely impolitic now for a Frenchman to create more havoc in England. You will always have enemies there, however.”
“I am glad of them. The passion of one’s enemies should mark the stature of one’s triumphs. But was there any true attempt to kill the king?”
“No, I am sure not. King Louis would have no wish for it. No king is happy with the idea of regicide. I think that was merely to draw you out for attack. Your protective instincts are very well known.”
“How dismaying to be so predictable.”
“So now?” asked D’Eon. “You have a beautiful lady as your bride, my lord, and happiness ahead of you. We can put this all behind us?”
Bey turned to face him. “Not quite, monsieur. You did, after all, attempt to wound me. I have arranged some discomforts for you in return.” With a smile he added, “C’est la guerre, non?”
The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed.
Bey continued. “However, I will offer a friendly warning. You have enemies in France, and have not perhaps always received accurate information. Take care.”
D’Eon’s features pinched, but he merely said, “We shall see, my lord.” He passed over his sword and picked up his clothes. “Good night, my lady, my lords.”
“What discomforts?” Bryght asked as the Frenchman left the room.
Bey pushed hair off his face, and replaced D’Eon’s sword in the case.
“His influence is already undermined with King Louis, along with his master’s, de Broglie.
Guerchy comes soon, only too keen to put him in his place.
What’s more, D’Eon has been encouraged to keep copies of all materials relating to his dealings with the king.
Insurance of sorts, but a keg of gunpowder beneath him. ”
“King Louis will be frantic!” Diana exclaimed. “I’m never going to trust anything I read again.”
Bey came over to her, and gently relieved her of the bow and arrow she was still clutching. He passed the weapons to Bryght and put his arm around her. “I said we needed a code. Perhaps sweet and pea.”
Disheveled and sweaty, he still glowed with the exertion of the fight. She saw that it had scoured away some last, lingering mark. “Very well. But add scarlet and poppy.”
“So that’s where it started?” he said. “With the poppy?”
She looked around and found they were alone. “No, it started, as I remember, with pimples.”
“And pistols.”
“And dalliance,” she murmured, remembering, “which is one step above flirtation, and one below seduction.”
“Ah. Would you care to dally a little, my lady?”
She turned to face him, hand on his chest. “That depends, my lord, on where it leads. My courses are on me.”
He kissed her, but said, “Good. I’m saving myself for my wedding night.”
She laughed, surprised to find herself perfectly content with this for the moment, with togetherness and conversation. She moved apart a little to look again around the ballroom, where the great moon still glowed and the stars still shone. “It’s a shame this was all wasted.”
He took her hand. “It’s bits and scraps. We can put it together again some other time, and this will certainly be one of the most talked about entertainments of the decade.”
“We,” she echoed with a smile. “I love that. I am happy now, here, but how long till our wedding?”
“Are you asking me to name the day? In two weeks, then, when the moon is dark and your powers leashed.”
“Do I frighten you?”
“To death,” he said, but smiling. “I believe I will survive. I liked the sort of wedding Brand and Rosa had, with family and friends. Considering our stations, however, I think it should be on a grand scale.”
“Having seen what you can do in days, I can’t wait to see what you can achieve in weeks.”
“Miracles and marvels. But we have those already. Will you marry me in the south? At Rothgar Abbey?”
“Gladly. It would be too soon after Rosa’s wedding at my home, and I want to be part of your life here, too.”
“Two weeks from now, then,” he said, slowly drawing her into his arms. “At Rothgar Abbey. A country wedding, open to all.”
“But suitably magnificent. Rosa and Brand must be there.”
“Of course. I’ll have to send riders to Scotland to find Steen, too. I’m sure Hilda will want to attend my final conquest.”
She touched his face. “Do you feel conquered?”
He kissed her palm. “Completely. I’m delighted.” Then he kissed her lips, sweeping her into magical night. They broke apart eventually and wandered the now silent house, talking, touching, kissing.
Eventually they arrived at her bedchamber, the marchioness’s bedchamber. He entered with her, but moved on to the adjoining door to his rooms. He paused however, to say, “You must order any changes here you like.”
“I think I like these rooms as they are. But you must put some thought to the redecorating of my spouse’s bedchamber.”
A smile crinkled his eyes. “Don’t touch a thing. I long to be taken with violent passion upon that virginal bed.”