great importance.
Wessex felt a spasm of something similar to relief. She was even more
cold-blooded than he, it seemed: this marriage would not disturb her ladyship in the
slightest. And perhaps she will develop a taste for the Shadow Game….
Recollecting himself, Wessex pulled off his dress glove and removed the ring.
He’d tucked it over the tip of his little finger for safekeeping, the gorgeous uniforms
of the Prince of Wales’s Own being undersupplied with pockets. Taking the ring
between his thumb and forefinger, he held it out to her.
„You’ll want this, then. It’s traditional.“ There. The thing was done past all
unmaking.
The thick circle of rose-gold gleamed between the Duke’s fingers; Sarah took the
ring with as much caution as if she were being offered a poisoned chocolate.
It was an old piece, the rose-gold of its surface worn with time and many hands.
The ring was a salamander in flames; the tail of the salamander circled her finger,
glittering with the red of the flames and tiny yellow diamonds set to represent sparks.
The face of the jewel was the creature’s body, set with tiny golden pearls meant to
represent its knobby hide, surrounded by carved ruby flames. Its head was set with
a tiny diamond, and the gem winked in the candlelight as Sarah turned the ring in her
fingers.
A betrothal ring. She’d agreed to marry him, hadn’t she? But somehow Sarah
could not bring herself to put the ring on her ringer.
Abruptly Wessex seized her left hand. She was still wearing the jewels she had
worn for her presentation; he drew a large ring with an onyx table set with
marquise-cut diamonds from her finger and replaced it with the salamander in flames.
Done! a tiny voice seemed to cry out within Sarah’s mind. Done past all
undoing. She stared at the metal salamander circling her finger as if the little creature
might bring itself to speak at any moment.
„What do I do now?“ she asked numbly.
„I think,“ said Wessex grimly, „that it would be best if we announced our Joyous
Event – and gave your guests something else to talk about this evening.“
Chapter 11
The Property of a Lady
If anything, being officially Engaged was less devitalizing than simply being
abroad in London had been. People, Sarah reflected with a new cynicism, knew
what to think about the Marchioness of Roxbury now. And if it was rumored that the
Duke of Wessex was getting damaged goods – well, at least Sarah did not have
enough of an affection for the unspeakable man to care!
She had not had a recurrence of her headaches in the fortnight since her marriage
date had been announced, but she had finally been forced to admit to herself that her
„little lapses of memory“ were nothing of the sort.
For try as she might, she could not truly remember anything at all before her
awakening at Mistress Bulford’s after the coach crash. Mooncoign – where she must
have grown up – was as unfamiliar to her as London. The Marchioness’s circle of
friends were people Sarah had no memory of ever meeting. She reread the
Marchioness’s careful diary entries, and could not imagine ever having written them.
Sarah did not much like the woman she met in those pages, either. Vain,
arrogant… Sarah could not even be properly ashamed of her previous behavior,
since she could not manage to believe in her heart that the woman represented in the
pages of the little red-bound diaries was anything to do with her. Was this the
woman the high-nosed Duke of Wessex thought he was marrying? It hardly
mattered, Sarah thought with resignation, since Wessex had made it clear that their
marriage was a social formality only.
She would not think about that. It would be enough that she was doing what she
could for the Crown. Her family had always served the Stuarts….
The sidestepping of the mare beneath her brought Sarah’s mind abruptly back to
the present day. Her personal life might be a hopeless tangle, but she had many other
things to be thankful for!
May had turned into June, continuing bright and warm, and Sarah had taken
advantage of the delightful weather to go riding every morning. At her orders, her
groom waited for her at the park gate, and in the gently rolling wooded environs of
Green Park, the strange dissonance between her surroundings and her expectations
seemed to vanish.
And at this hour, the park was also an excellent location to meet with someone
who did not wish to be seen.
A few minutes’ trot brought Sarah to a secluded clearing just off the edge of the
trail. It was watched over by a statue of Apollo, and anyone in the clearing would
have been visible to anyone passing along the ride – but Fashionable London
preferred to take its exercise in the afternoons, and the morning sun was just clearing
the rooftops of Piccadilly. The spire of Christ Church winked golden in the distance
as Sarah turned her delicate-footed mare into the clearing and waited.
She had just reined in when she heard the quick rhythm of hoofbeats on the path
behind her, and Meriel Bulleyn cantered into view.
Miss Bulleyn wore a neat and very modern black habit cut à la Hussar, with
double rows of silver buttons glittering upon the jacket’s impeccable broadcloth
bosom. Her gleaming beaver hat was swathed in veils to preserve her anonymity, but
the horse she rode was enough to make her stand out in any assemblage – its coat
was as black as Miss Bulleyn’s own hair, except for a silver mark in the center of his
forehead like a fairy’s kiss. As Meriel reined it to a halt it danced and bowed,
indicating its displeasure at stopping.
It was beyond Sarah’s understanding why Meriel’s uncle would present her with a
mount the equal of which could hardly be found in the Royal stables – and then
insist she keep herself out of Society.
„Good morning!“ Miss Bulleyn called. Her own groom, Sarah knew, waited
around the bend of the trail; either he was more loyal to Meriel than to her guardian,
or wicked Uncle Richard saw no harm in these early morning meetings. „How do
you do this morning?“ Meriel continued, flinging back her veils.
„I vow I am run off my legs with everything to do with the wedding – and the
Dowager tells me that my bridegroom is in a foul temper, because he means to buy a
house for us to live in – Dyer House is far too small and the Dowager Duchess has
lived there for years – nor would I ask him to turn her out of it – and by no stretch
of will or imagination can a new house in the West End of the grandeur he proposes
possibly be ready in time for our wedding.“ As she spoke, what had loomed as a
catastrophe Sarah suddenly saw as the trivial crisis it truly was. Sarah felt her spirits
lift, and smiled at Meriel.
Meriel laughed in return. „He will have to learn to live with disappointment – and
upon a short rein, as all husbands must! Have you not got a house of your own,
after all?“
„So I do,“ Sarah said, „and you must come and see it, Meriel. I vow, when I have
so many good things in my life it burns my heart to see my dearest friend skulking
about in corners. I am to be the Duchess of Wessex, an intimate of the King! How
can your uncle possibly object to your seeing me?“
„He… is very pleased that I have made your acquaintance, but – oh, do not ask
me to explain – I would give anything to attend the fêtes you describe to me, but I
cannot. Not yet!“ Meriel cried.
„Not yet?“ Sarah’s puzzlement made her pry when she did not wish to, but the
look of anguish on Meriel's face made her wish she had not. „Well, I will content
myself; I ought not tease you, Meriel, I know!“
„You are far too good to me,“ her friend said in a low voice. „If you knew what I
truly was, you would not be so kind.“
„If you were Old Nick himself I should still love you,“ Sarah declared stoutly.
„Come, a good gallop will shake you out of these blue megrims!“
The Duke of Wessex’s wedding drew closer with each day; he regarded it with
the same fatalism with which a man might view his execution. The unpleasant event
would occur no matter what he did; therefore he might as well occupy his time until
the fatal day with what diversions he might.
To that end, Wessex frequented his clubs, spent a suitable amount of time at the
Horse Guards, attended his boxing club and his fencing salon, and rode in Hyde
Park at the fashionable hour. He saw little of his betrothed (which suited him, he told
himself) but had constant reports of her from their mutual acquaintance.
Such urbane delights must be supposed to please; Wesr sex permitted himself to
seem idly amused by life in London. But every few days, he found occasion to stop
by the building in Bond Street, arriving through one of its assorted entrances, and
one afternoon, there was a summons from Lord Misbourne awaiting him.
Wessex crushed the paper between his fingers and replaced it upon Charteris’s
silver salver. The butler bowed and retreated, and then dropped the crumpled wad
automatically into the closed stove that served to dispose of all of the White Tower
Group’s waste paper.
Wessex got to his feet, glancing about the paneled room that looked so much like
the library in an ordinary gentlemen’s club. The others who were there did not even
glance up from their reading; two of them Wessex knew by name, and the other was
a stranger to him, but within these precincts they were all equals, and all equally
anonymous.
He sighed. There was as little point in postponing the moment as in wondering
why Misbourne had summoned him. He turned from the room, heading down the
corridor to the padded red leather door of Misbourne’s office.
„She’s meeting Ripon’s niece nearly every day. In Green Park,“ Baron
Misbourne said.
Wessex blinked, momentarily off-balance at this rather unconventional greeting.
Misbourne shimmered in the chamber’s radiant gloom like some deep-sea beast
being drawn toward the surface in a net.
„Good afternoon, Lord Misbourne,“ Wessex said equitably. A lethal instinct
made him hazard a guess at Misbourne’s meaning: „Lady Roxbury?“
„Has become quite the bosom-bow of Ripon’s whelp,“ Misbourne said, fixing
Wessex with a pale baleful eye.
„Don’t blame me,“ Wessex snapped. „I’m only marrying the woman.“
„And thus her conduct is none of your concern. Quite so. But her motive is,“
Misbourne reminded him.
Wessex frowned, realizing that he’d still formed no very complete picture of his
betrothed’s character. On the one hand, he knew she was a member of the Boscobel
League, but as that secret could not be shared even with Misbourne, it was of no use
now. Nor did Roxbury’s membership in the League preclude any amount of intrigue
with Ripon’s niece, especially if Roxbury were playing a deep game of her own at
the King’s behest.
„There could be any number of possible motives,“ Wessex pointed out, which
was only the truth. „And what is Ripon doing?“
„Nothing.“ Misbourne’s answer was comprehensive. „He keeps his niece very
close and does not seem anxious to make the ton a present of her existence; she
goes nowhere and sees no one… save Lady Roxbury.“
„Interesting,“ Wessex said, with a composure he was far from feeling. He was
possessed of a sudden swift desire to grab Roxbury and shake her until the truth
rattled out from between her lying lips. He’d thought he could trust her – he’d
thought he didn’t have to think about her at all – and now look what she’d done. He
became aware that Misbourne was watching him closely.
„Is there any news from Denmark?“ Wessex asked.
„No more than one might expect.“ Misbourne answered him readily. „Koscuisko
tells us that they still expect to sail by the end of July, when the sea is at its calmest.
The Prince Regent is still attempting to redraw the treaty so that the Danes are
obligated to nothing, but Sir John continues to forestall him at every turn, the wily
old fox.“
Wessex smiled faintly. Sir John’s nickname in political circles was „The Little
Bulldog“ for precisely this quality of unswerving tenacity.
„What must be a matter of more concern is the Princess’s reception when she
arrives. Prince Jamie’s intemperate behavior increases with each passing day, and
there are rumors that an open break between me Prince and his father is all but
inevitable.“
And an open break between King and Prince would give Jamie a chance to form
his own party – or, more likely, have it formed for him by the likes of Ripon. At least
Jamie had not yet been beguiled by Ripon’s niece. Wessex was certain that