Chapter 25
“If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he, and I was I.”
―Michel de Montaigne, The Complete Essays
Lord Ravenscroft’s cravat was crooked. Again.
Antoine had tied it twice already, if his attempts could be described as such. More accurately, he had turned the carefully starched fabric into a wadded mess no self-respecting courtier would wear.
Any other aristocrat would have immediately sent their valet packing after such a poor performance, but not Lord Ravenscroft. Of course, other men of his social class did not usually love their valets as he did.
Other trysts and paramours came and went, but Antoine was the one he kept coming home to. Antoine was the one who made him whole. The one he could never acknowledge publicly.
When his valet made to undo the series of intricate knots for a third time, Ravenscroft reached up and grasped the man’s trembling hands. Not that his hands were trembling less. Ravenscroft had spent an evening begging his lover to leave for his own safety, and Antoine had refused to go.
“Mon c?ur, ca suffiit.” The magpie softened his words by pressing a kiss onto his lover’s knuckles. “That is enough,” he repeated.
He had never seen Antoine so out of sorts. Stubble darkened Antoine’s cheeks, and his hair was still mussed. Ravenscroft forced himself to say again, “I wish you would not stay in London, mon amour.”
Antoine pulled his hands free and tugged on the linen knot of the cravat harder than was warranted. “And I wish you would not keep trying to send me away.”
“We should not be arguing—”
“I will not leave you here on your own!” the man shouted in his face, and shocked, Ravenscroft stared at his lover. “How could you ask me to do this?”
The magpie blinked moist eyes. “Because I love you, you simpleton. Is that not reason enough?”
Antoine grabbed the ruins of the cravat in his fist like he was ready to strangle his lord. “I will not go without you. We both go, or not at all.”
Fitzroy forgive him. “If you ask me to go—”
“No,” Antoine said with resignation, though the shadow of fear did not leave his eyes. “You should not abandon your duties or your friends. So you will stay. And I will stay with you. You great, stupid, loyal lummox.”
The magpie let out a stuttering laugh, a little pained because Antoine was still throttling him. But his lover’s anger also stemmed from knowing he would have done the same. Even now—if the choice were his alone, the soft-hearted Antoine would not abandon Fitzroy in this hour of need.
Ravenscroft studied the other man’s face. He had memorised every inch of it. It was exactly because of this man—this tender, caring soul—that Ravenscroft understood a tenth of Fitzroy’s sorrow. If Antoine had been the one lying gravely still in a sickbed, the magpie would burn the world down.
Still, his heart was tearing in two. Their lives now depended only on the silence of the most vile person he had ever had the misfortune of meeting, and that was no guarantee at all. He still wanted Antoine to go. To be safe.
“Then we will stay. But be sure, darling. I can refuse you nothing, especially when you speak to me this way.”
“I know, mon ange noir,” Antoine’s eyes glittered. “We will stay. We will stay for us. For our right to be happy. I will not cede control over our lives—our future—into the hands of Marian Fitzroy.”
The man’s bravado filled Ravenscroft with a desperate need. He lifted his hands and cupped Antoine’s cheeks, savouring the stubble that scraped against his palms. It grounded him in the moment.
“Je t’aimerai jusqu’à la mort,” Antoine breathed, their lips inches apart.
“Let us hope that is no time soon,” the magpie said dryly, pulling Antoine’s mouth to his.
His valet finally stopped strangling him with his cravat, sinking his fingers roughly instead into Ravenscroft’s hair. It hurt in the best sort of way—a trace of pain and wild pleasure commingling, making everything sharper and more vivid. Need. Want. Passion, and tenderness.
It made Ravenscroft come alive.
He needed to go, and was, in fact, due at the palace within the half hour. However, seeing the Queen was the last thing on his mind at that moment. He held Antoine’s face captive as he brushed his lips over the man’s mouth in a chaste kiss that promised more later. Once. Twice.
As if that would ever be enough.
But then, Antoine loosed his hold and slid his hands down until they rested on Ravenscroft’s chest. He pressed against it, halting them there. “Let me tie your cravat properly so you can go see the Queen. You will be late.”
He well knew it, but the magpie still grumbled, unsatisfied.
His valet gave him a wicked, languid gaze and added, “Tying you up properly will have to wait.”
Ravenscroft sucked in air, his interest piqued. “Do not make promises you do not intend to keep.”
Antoine lifted his nose, dangling the ruined cravat on his finger. “Perhaps I shall keep this as proof of my word then.”
Ravenscroft was, after all, late to arrive at the palace.
In his defence, he did not expect to be waylaid by Hodges, waiting just outside of Carlton House, who also looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Hodges had come to find him after seeking the counsel of the marchioness, following his meeting in the slums.
Only Lady Fitzroy and her henchmen surely would be so daring as to stage an attack at one of the handful of remaining events. Clearly her son was not the target—not if he was at Charity’s bedside and unable to intervene.
That meant an attack on someone else. Someone noble or higher. Perhaps even on a member of the royal family.
When the royal guard waved him through the door, Ravenscroft was once again cool and collected.
“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing in obeisance. “You are as radiant as you are wise this morning.”
She gave him a look. “Wise enough to question why you would bother gilding my ears with your glib tongue, rather than speak with my son,” the Queen replied, her tone cold and deliberate.
“Your request for a private audience gives me cause for concern, Lord Ravenscroft. Rise and account for yourself.”
With a deep breath to steady himself, Ravenscroft explained what had happened at the Fitzroy estate. The Queen’s expression grew ever more grim, the blood draining from her face as Charity’s plight became clear.
When the magpie finished telling her about the attack on the house and Fitzroy’s later meeting with his mother, she was silent for a long time.
“This touches not only one household, but the Crown itself,” she said at last, her voice low but ringing.
“If the Duchess Atholl lies poisoned in her own rooms, and there is no proof that cannot be excused as accusations in a private family squabble, then no subject high or low is secure. You have done right to bring this to me, though the telling chills me to the marrow.”
“You are right about not being secure,” he said unhappily, couching his words carefully. “For my part in the kidnapping of Lark, my head may be the next to fall. Marian Fitzroy offered to sell her son the duchess’s cure if… he pronounced a slander so vile it cannot be named in polite company.”
The Queen cocked her head curiously, but her eyes were keen and knowing. “Did he accept?”
“No, ma’am. His man said that Lord Fitzroy refused. He would not pretend to be God, choosing who lives and dies.” Ravenscroft let his shoulders drop as a complicated feeling of guilt pulled through him. “Not even to save his love.”
Charlotte leaned on her fist. “I cannot help but think your situation is not unlike what happened to Lady Normanby.”
“If Your Majesty means to say Marian Fitzroy has set out to have the lot of us blindfolded, deafened, gagged, and trussed like fowls, we have reached much the same conclusion. Fitzroy’s mama is buying time. But I believe we have begun to smell the plot.”
The Queen sat straighter. “Go on.”
“Marian Fitzroy, through one of her charming accomplices, no doubt, may be scheming an attack at one of the few entertainments left before the Sovereigns flee our shores. And knowing the lady’s tastes as we do, it is the princess who likely sits most squarely in her sights.”
He explained, the bile burning the back of his throat.
Though Red Hand had not known who the target was, it was not hard to form a short list of the most vulnerable and likely.
The Queen was too well guarded at St James’s and Buckingham House.
The loss of Prinny—though Ravenscroft was loyal to the man—would hardly be a blow to England, even he had to admit.
The marchioness had felt certain Marian’s target had to be the princess. The future Queen of England. Ravenscroft, unfortunately, agreed. But what was truly terrifying was the idea that an assassin might be attempting to pose as one of the allies to do so.
Charlotte’s knuckles whitened as she paused again, considering. “There are not many remaining events. It is just as well that we ended the engagement. I will not need to offer explanations to anyone for closeting the princess. Someone might be trying to spark another war by posing as an enemy.”
“Before Your Majesty consigns her to her rooms, might we have a word?” Ravenscroft ventured. “Lady Fitzroy has already managed at least one private audience with your granddaughter since her arrival. If the Princess knows anything of her schemes, now would be the moment to press her for it.”
The Queen rapped her cane on the floor. The door swung open, and a retainer hurried in.
“Fetch my granddaughter,” she ordered. “And my physician.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the retainer said, though not without first studying the Queen for any signs she was unwell. When she banged her cane again threateningly, he leapt into action and darted out the door.