“Daring,” the Queen observed, “I counseled you, when you were last here, to find yourself a bride. But I did not expect you to be so obliging.”
Darien swept into his bow, and the Queen’s eyes lingered on the striking figure he cut. It was more than his height, the saber swinging against his legs, the chest and shoulders filling out his tailed coat that gave him presence. There was a new sureness toLord Daring these days. As if he had settled something within himself. He still had that alert, watchful air, but he looked less desperate. Perhaps it was the birth of his daughter, or being reconciled with his father, or his brush with mortality that made self-destruction look less appealing.
It never occurred to Henrietta that she might be the reason for Darien’s new dignity, and she would have scoffed at the idea. But the Queen watched her with a considering look while Sir Jasper and his wife, Sir Pelton and his lady, and Marsibel and Rutherford, bringing up the rear, all made their bows.
“Brought the whole family to a private audience, Pell?” said the King with a touch of spleen. “Pittsy has a piece to say, but I’ve a few questions of my own first. Langford, what is the trouble with your son’s estate? Pitt tells me there’s a pile of suits backed up. It’s going to be a devil of a headache for the assizes.”
“Since we’ve had no word from Lucien since the Treaty of Mangalore,” the marquess said in a level tone, “I think it time to settle things on Darien. The King’s Bench has advised me to bring a suit before the Lords.”
“Cursed Mysore,” the King barked. “We’ll settle it this time. We’re taking the sultan’s sons hostage and bringing them to England to civilize them. Man’s on his way now.” He glared at Darien. “Well, boy? Time to cast off the life of dissipation and take up your duties, ain’t it? Set an example for Prinny.”
“If Your Majesty so advises,” Darien said in a neutral tone.
“Take it,” the King grumbled. “The world’s going arse up, first those blasted Colonies and now France. We must keep a steady hand on the reins.”
Henrietta squeezed Darien’s arm in sympathy. He must have known it would end here, with king and father and country all backing him into a corner. He had fought valiantly to preserve Lucien’s inheritance, but he was a man of honor in the end. Hehad proven it with the Pennyroyals, with Celeste, and with her. And if he consented to her conditions?—
Her heart thumped against the tight press of the stomacher. Could he really wish to marry her, this complicated, infuriating man?
If he were forced to yield to his father’s suit, he would no longer need her uncle’s influence. And she would not need his name to save her reputation if she might, by some act of divine mercy, survive this afternoon intact.
The herald appeared at the door. “Their Graces the Duke and Duchess of Highcastle. The Honorable Lord Alfred Highcastle. The Honorable Lionel Havering, son of the Viscount Bourchier.”
“Don’t recall asking for any of you,” the King riled. “Highcastle, what’s the meaning of this?”
“Told Langford I’d look in,” Highcastle said carelessly. “Though I’ve a mind to let Pitt string the bluestocking up by her thumbs. Daughters fleeing to the Continent.” He glanced at the marquess. “Kittens with claws.”
The marquess rolled his eyes and nodded.
“Is there any word on Lady Celeste?” murmured the Queen.
“They married in St. Denis, but I fear it’s none too safe for them in France,” said the duchess. “We hope to bring them home soon. Langford has promised to buy Mr. Empson a commission.”
“So long as he returns my sketches,” Darien whispered in Henrietta’s ear. “And repays my loan.”
She stifled a gurgle, clutching his arm. With the influx of people, she was beginning to guess what his business of the past few days had been.
“And you?” The King eyed Havering. “Planning a breach of promise suit?”
Havering shrugged. “Daring did me a service, sir. I’m here on his behalf.”
The King turned his protuberant stare to Sir Pelton. “And you’re giving your daughter to a Bales as well. Glad you shook off Pinochle! That ’un spent far too much time with my wastrel son.”
Lady Pomeroy’s nostrils flared, but she pinched her lips shut.
“All right, Pittsy,” His Majesty announced, reveling in his role as puppeteer. “Time to state what claim you’ve got against the future countess of Aldthorpe. Can’t wait to hear this, I must say.”
Henrietta struggled for breath as the prime minister stepped forward. Duprix had laced her stomacher too tightly. She was going to faint from nerves, just like the fragile ladies Miss Wollstonecraft deplored.
She could grovel and be spared, she saw that at once. But for a full pardon, the prime minister would require her to repudiate her beliefs, to deny the women she had modeled herself on, Lady Bess and Miss Gregoire. She worried the necklace at her throat. What would her mother have advised her to do?
Her fingers stilled, the answer obvious. Apollonia Wardley had defied convention, propriety, and censure to marry where she willed and support the causes she believed in. Her mother would have been standing next to her, insisting upon a woman’s right to have a choice. Henrietta drew a deep breath.
“This is not a trial, sire,” said Pitt, pointing his nose skyward. “I only wish to discuss a few questionable remarks that were made on a certain evening under the aegis of the Minerva Society. I have, to that end, invited some witnesses who can attest to the best of their recollection what transpired.”
The herald went to work again. Lady Bessington sailed into the room, an owlish Lord Bessington blinking in her wake.
“Bess? And you brought your leg-shackle!” The King laughed. “Like to know how you got him away from the card table.”
