and by no means the first he had visited since he left Herriard House several hours
before. His original destination had been his Albany rooms, as a satisfactory
compromise between the company of his well-wishers and the company of his
new-wed bride. There Wessex had shed his wedding garments for something less
gaudy, and by the time he had done that, it seemed an easier thing to seek the
company of intimate strangers in clubland than to go and make the acquaintance of
his wife. Eventually and inevitably he had arrived at Garvin’s.
Garvin’s was a unique establishment for a number of reasons, two among them
being that it admitted both women and foreigners. The man believed to be its owner
was a thoroughly disreputable Irishman named O’Donnell, whom few of Garvin’s
members would have considered receiving in even a bachelor establishment that
aspired to respectability. It was said that O’Donnell had killed a man with his fists,
though no one was quite certain of where or when this interesting event had taken
place – excepting always His Grace of Wessex, who had his own ways of knowing
a great many interesting things. It was also said he had a partner, a woman, but no
one knew anything about her, either, including Wessex.
For that matter, no one knew why the club was called Garvin’s, or where
O’Donnell had gotten the funds to open it, and O’Donnell did not enlighten them.
This air of mystery in no Way lessened the club’s attractions; it may well have
increased them, as its patrons either relished the self-created illusion of danger or felt
that a man with such a cloudy past would turn a tolerant eye upon their
equally-occluded presents. In this, too, O’Donnell did not enlighten them.
The ground floor of Garvin’s was a series of private rooms available to members
by appointment. It was the only area to which nonmembers were admitted, and then
only when accompanied by a member. It was also the only floor possessing visible
windows, and those windows were heavily barred, though Garvin’s was located very
near the best part of town. The first floor held the windowless gaming rooms – faro,
whist, roulette – as well as a salon in which gendemen who wished to drink in peace
could do so. The second floor was a fencing salle, where those so inclined could
practice the deadly art of the blade against one another or under the auspices of the
dueling master whom O’Donnell kept always upon the premises. The quite-illegal
boxing matches that Garvin’s occasionally hosted for the delectation of its members
were held upon the second floor as well.
The cellars of Garvin’s were extensive, and contained a target range of sufficient
length to accommodate those duels among members that could not be resolved
through diplomacy or the sword. Though Garvin’s kept no kitchen (members might
partake of bread, cheese, and cold meat if desired), it had an extensive catalogue of
wines and spirits stored beneath the street as well – conveyed to its cellars, or so it
was rumored, by the same conjectured Thames tunnel through which many a duel’s
survivors were alleged to have been smuggled to the Continent or to a ship bound
for the Americas. Most of the members were not completely certain whether or not
such a tunnel existed; the uncertainty added to Garvin’s mystique.
But the two things that Garvin’s offered most of all to its clientele were absolute
privacy and complete freedom from interruption. Its precincts were as sacrosanct as
those of a medieval church. Bailiff, Redbreast, or private revenger, no one save
Garvin’s own members ascended above the ground floor, and once inside, even
members were as likely as not to be chucked violently into the street did they venture
to annoy another member.
Which was why it was so particularly surprising, on this very early June morning,
that His Grace of Wessex was to be interrupted in the midst of his twin pursuits of
deep play and heavy drinking.
The man who entered the gaming salon was almost painfully nondescript. That he
wore evening dress – dark blue coat matching breeches buttoned at the knee, white
silk stockings, black pumps – seemed almost an oversight. This self-effacing
personage was hardly the sort that any hostess would invite to ornament an evening
party; he had the sort of face that was forgotten almost before it was noticed.
Forgettable or not, he ought hot have been able to pass the footman at the door
below, much less ascend to these sacrosanct altitudes.
As he crossed the room, the self-effacing gentleman began to be noticed – for
where he was, if not for who he was – and gradually the quiet conversation from the
ranks of the gamesters ceased. As the ripple of quiet reached him, Wessex looked
up into the spreading pool of silence and saw the intruder.
With great care, Wessex lay down his hand of cards and refilled his glass. He
watched the quiet gentleman approach, but even after the man’s destination became
obvious to all, Wessex did nothing to indicate he was aware of the fact, other than to
watch the man’s advance with a steady implacable gaze.
At last the visitor reached Wessex’s elbow.
The rest of the room had returned to its pleasures, once its inhabitants were
certain that it was not their privacy that was to be infringed upon. The other
gamesters at Wessex’s table, the intruder’s target being determined beyond all
doubt, set down their cards and waited for the Duke to deal summarily with him.
„There is someone who wishes to see you, Your Grace,“ the gentleman said.
„Then let him tell me himself.“
Wessex was not precisely in his altitudes, but in the last several hours His Grace
had drunk sufficiently deeply to have gained a certain implacable recklessness. It was
the sort of condition in which a man might fight a duel over a comment about his
tailor, were such a comment to be offered.
„Alas, the gentleman is not a member,“ the other replied.
„Then let him apply,“ Wessex said’ reasonably.
„Unfortunately, his business with Your Grace cannot wait upon the application
process.“
„I understand that O’Donnell can act in the absence of the Members’ Committee,
if necessary,“ Wessex responded unhelpfully.
„It is possible that Mr. O’Donnell would not welcome this gentleman’s
membership,“ the stranger said.
Wessex regarded him narrowly, patience gone. „It is more than possible that I
shall shoot you if you do not go away.“
„The gentleman’s business with you is urgent, Your Grace,“ the gentleman
persisted. „Will you not come?“
Perhaps it occurred to His Grace at this moment to wonder how the stranger had
made it this far without outcry, or perhaps he simply tired of the verbal fencing
match. Without answering, he stood and swept the pile of yellow-boys on the table
before him into one of his pockets, and indicated that the interloper should precede
him.
* * *
The chill predawn air was cold on Wessex’s face as he stood on the doorstep of
Garvin’s. The night fog was at its thickest, but even so, he could see the lamps of
the heavy carriage standing in the street a few doors away. Instinctively he stopped,
his hand going to the concealed pocket in his jacket.
„There is no cause for alarm, Your Grace,“ the man said, turning. „I come on
business from the Palace.“
„So any man might say.“ And there were more factions in the Palace of St. James
than King Henry’s.
„But few of them would carry this.“
The emissary reached into his pocket and withdrew a slender wallet. Flipping it
open, he allowed Wessex to see the badge it contained. Gold and enamel glinted
colorfully in the light of the cresset-basket burning beside Garvin’s green door.
Wessex strode past the man to the standing coach, and flung open the door.
„Your Majesty.“
King Henry was in a towering rage; Wessex could see that much from the hot
glitter of the King’s eyes and the high color spread across his cheekbones, „So,
Wessex. Is this how you would serve your King?“ Henry demanded.
Wessex was abruptly, entirely, and unpleasantly sober. With the force of a
sudden revelation, it occurred to him that he ought, perhaps, to have gone home.
Hours ago.
„I made no secret of what I wished for with this marriage – that the Duke and
Duchess of Wessex, leaders of the ton, should ease Princess Stephanie’s admission
into the ranks of English society. May I ask how the Duchess’s reputation is to be
enhanced by the knowledge that her husband has spent their wedding night at his
clubs rather than going home to her bed?“
The King’s tone was arctic. Wessex could not think of any explanation he was
willing to even attempt to provide.
„It will not be enhanced, Sir,“ Wessex answered in a low voice.
„Then, perhaps, this is the opening gambit in some deep game you play? Is the
ton possibly to be moved to compassion by Her Grace of Wessex’s plight? How
could any woman deserted by her husband upon their wedding night be other than
an object of pity, after all? And you have made the matter so very public.“
And so he had, Wessex thought in despair. Had his wits utterly deserted him, that
instead of going to ground, he had made the knowledge of his absence from Dyer
House a present to half the Polite World? Even if those he had played against tonight
at Garvin’s said nothing of his presence there, that was not the only place he had
been this evening.
There was nothing he could possibly say.
The King gazed fixedly at him, and Wessex was possessed of the sinking feeling
that King Henry understood everything of what had happened here tonight, even
those things of which Wessex himself would prefer to remain ignorant.
„Do you think you can repair matters?“ the King asked evenly.
„I shall repair matters,“ Wessex vowed. Tonight’s folly could be smoothed over,
with determination and his wife’s assistance. He had not made a good beginning, but
with luck they could still produce a convincing charade. He would be the uxorious
and attentive Duke, and Sarah his gracious Duchess.
At least in public.
„Then there is no more to be said,“ King Henry pronounced. He tapped his cane
upon the ceiling, and Wessex felt the coach begin to move off. Of course, he
realized.
It would be best to conceal the bridegroom’s time of arrival at Dyer House as
much as possible.
But the journey, short as it was, was fax from pleasant.
She was Sarah Cunningham, and in her deepest dreams she was passing through
a wood that had never known axe or forester; she moved like a carp through the
river, an animal at home in the place for which it had been created.
She no longer wore long gowns of muslin, or brocade, or calico over stockings
and corset and petticoats. Her hair was not dressed high on her head with ribbons or
jewels. She did not carry a painted fan, and move with the whisper of satin slippers
over marble floors.
No.
The dream-Sarah’s braided hair hung down her back, heron feathers braided into
it at the temples. Her face was painted with hunting magic in red and yellow and
white, and she wore the beaded leather smock and leggings of a warrior of the
People. In her left hand she carried a musket in its fringed and beaded sheath.
She was Sarah Cunningham of Baltimore, of a country that had owed no
allegiance to mad, bad King George of England in all the years of Sarah’s lifetime.
But no! It is Henry Stuart who is King, not George of Hanover!
No. She might be a backward Colonial, ignorant of the ways of the Great Power
to the East to which her country had been so lately subject, but even she knew…
But the memory-within-a-dream balked her; memory of an opulent presentation
gown far finer than anything that could be found in the entire state of Maryland, and
of a regal man who smiled at her as he raised Lady Roxbury from her curtsey.
But that was not true; not real. It could not be.
She was Sarah Cunningham of Baltimore. She was! There was no Roxbury, no
Marchionate.
And to fall back into that elegant fantasy would destroy her.
Her vision cleared. She was Sarah Cunningham, daughter of Alasdair
Cunningham, foster-daughter of a Cree warrior. This was what was real. She stood
very still, inhaling the sharp green scent of the summer woods. The wind was
blowing toward her, away from the prey she hunted.
As if by her thoughts she had ill-wished herself, the wind shifted, and suddenly