Flametouched Page 10

  As she feared, once the servants had staked out the pavilions and all the chairs and food were distributed, the whole affair turned into just another mix and mingle with familiar faces. The gentlemen, of course, had good sport with their rifles and their drinking, marching all over the valley in search of something to shoot. The women were relegated to cards and conversation. Still, Arianne couldn’t think of anywhere she would rather be, except within the beckoning shade of the massive trees.

  “My dearest Arianne,” the Earl said, having approached after some outing with the men. Arianne could detect his inebriation by the glassy eyes and slightly slower speech. By the sloppy smile, she judged that Uticus, Earl of Longford, was a silly drunk rather than an angry or sullen one. Just like her late husband. “Dearest Arianne,” he repeated, regarding her affectionately, “I wonder if I might have a word with you in private.”

  Arianne swallowed hard. So he would come to it now that the drink had propped up his courage. If she had to endure the proposal, she would at the very least get her walk in the woods.

  “Of course, Earl. Let’s walk to the woods. I’ve always longed to see the Elder trees.” She said this as sweetly as possible, thinking he would object.

  His face screwed up in perplexity for a moment, but he quickly returned to his charming self. “I thought we might see a nice thicket of flowers by the creek just there, but if you wish to see the woods, then just as well.”

  He extended his arm and they plowed through the tall grass and wildflowers toward the towering trees. The Queen regarded them with a smirk as they strode away, and Arianne tried to ignore her stare and the sudden burst in conversation among those who had long since run out of words.

  In the end, she wished for a horse. The impeding foliage quite worked her legs and stained her dress, but as they approached the deep shadows, the plants thinned and the whole feel of the place changed. The woods, mysterious, foreboding, and wondrous, beckoned to her. A fear and a thrill rose within her as she quickened her step to put her hand on a tree trunk as wide around as two carriages set side by side. Looking up took her breath away, the tree so high it defied her senses. The trunk disappeared into a verdant green canopy made up of leaves the size of serving platters.

  She walked forward, almost forgetting Uticus, who had unlimbered his gun.

  “My Lady, I think it best we not trespass too deeply here,” he said, concern displacing his mirth. “Dangerous creatures live in woods such as these.”

  “Just a little farther, Earl. It would be a shame to expend all that effort and stop here. I should like to see one of the streams as it passes through the wood.”

  She continued onward and he jogged to catch up, trying to recover some of his levity.

  “My Lady is adventuresome today. Don’t you have an Elder Forest near your home in Hightower?”

  She stopped and looked around. It was like twilight at mid-day. “Yes, but it is at some distance over rugged territory. I think I will commission a road be built. This is simply marvelous!”

  “Yes, well, Arianne, if you could spare a moment for me…”

  She turned, feeling flushed and alive, to find the Earl bending a knee. The blood drained from her face and her excitement died. She had known that this was coming, but she couldn’t feel comfortable about it and she hadn’t decided what to say. He placed his gun on the ground and groped for her hand.

  “Lady Arianne,” he began, face earnest but sloppy with glee, “you can hardly be at a loss as to my intent in wishing to speak with you thus…”

  The sound of horses tromping through the forest just to the west brought him up short. Arianne thought it might be some of the Lords or the horseman she had seen before, but three men astride poorly maintained stock horses appeared and disappeared between the great trunks of the trees. Gruff beards covered thin faces, and travel stained clothes clung to sun browned skin. These were commoners, and ill-favored ones, to boot.

  The Earl grabbed his gun and stood. “You there!” he called. The three men regarded him for an instant and then spurred their horses forward, riding toward the meadow and the party.

  “Remain here, Lady Hightower!” the Earl ordered, retrieving his rifle and running forward after the suspicious horsemen. Arianne ignored his commands and followed him until they both emerged from the trees. The horsemen arrived at the group of pavilions amid the yells and screams of the nobles. Eyes fixed, they lowered their weapons and fired.

  The thunder of the discharge tore through the valley, birds fleeing their branches and launching into the sky. Angry yells and oaths scarred the once peaceful air as the horsemen turned away from the gathering to attempt their escape along the edge of the lake. The Earl went to a knee and began fishing for a bullet from his hunting bag.

  “Get behind the trees, Arianne.”

  This time she complied, taking a few paces back and hiding in a wrinkle of a trunk of the nearest Elder Oak. The earl’s inebriated hands fumbled the ammunition, bullets spilling on the ground. He cursed. The horsemen were building up speed about one hundred yards away.

  The sound of running to her right sent her heart into her mouth, and she shrank more deeply into the recess. The slumping, limping, bespectacled underclerk she had met earlier that morning sprinted toward the Earl. He slumped no longer. With the speed and athleticism of a sabercat, he sprinted through the deadfall and detritus of the forest with a supernatural grace. She didn’t know if he had spotted her, but in an instant he blew by, his broad brimmed hat pushed from his head by the force and speed of his passing. In a split second he had torn off his glasses, relieved the Earl of his gun, and grabbed a bullet.

  With sure fingers he shoved the bullet in the breech loader and readied the gun against his shoulder, taking aim and squeezing the trigger. The bullet slammed into the lead horseman’s head and dropped him from the saddle in a spray of red. The clerk dumped the casing, reloaded, and took aim. While the first shot had been difficult, the second would be near impossible. He didn’t hesitate. Load, aim, fire, all in a smooth, expert motion. The second horseman fell as if yanked off his mount by the hair. The third horseman gained the cover of some trees along the lake shore, slashing in and out of view. Clear the shell, load, aim. The clerk took his time now, leading his target, and fired. Arianne couldn’t see what happened, but the riderless horse galloped out of the trees a few moments later. She knew little about shooting, but it didn’t take an expert to know that the shot was more than impossible; it was inhuman.

  The Earl spoke first. “That was my shot to take! You had no right!”

  The clerk handed the Earl his gun. “It was your shot, My Lord. You are an excellent marksman.”

  “What?”

  The clerk retrieved his glasses and his hat, resuming his stoop and his limp. “I said that was fine shooting, My Lord. Well done! I shall tell the Queen of your bravery and skill. You will be rewarded.”

  The Earl was dumbfounded. “I? But? Well, it was my rifle.”

  Arianne shrunk into her hiding place as the clerk passed some thirty paces away. After having seen him blast through the forest like a gale, watching him limp around made him appear ridiculous.

  “A fine rifle, My Lord,” the clerk continued as he slunk away. “No doubt you would have missed your marks without it. Again, well done.”

  He disappeared from view and Arianne wrinkled her brow. Why was he giving the Earl the credit?

  “Lady Hightower?” the Earl called. “Where are you?”

  Arianne exhaled and stepped out, finding the Earl scooping up the rest of his fallen ammunition. “I am here! What happened, Earl Longford?”

  “I shot them down, Arianne! I shot them down!”

  Arianne tried hard not to frown. “Marvelous, my Lord. We’d best get back to the main party to see if anyone’s been hurt.”

  Chapter 12

  Arianne walked into the finely appointed drawing room in Bellshire palace fit to burst. What game was the clerk playing at? She suspected he might
be one of Filippa’s agents or spies, but from what she understood of his odd history with the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, should couldn’t trust that assumption. And what man, spy or no, would simply hand over—no, not hand over, demand—that someone else take credit for an act so skillful and heroic that it would, at the very least, garner him a Knighthood?

  No man she ever knew.

  At the worst, Queen Filippa was ignorant of who this clerk was and what he was capable of. She had to enlighten her, at once. The Creetisian Ambassador’s accusations and blustery rhetoric signaled dangerous times, and she wouldn’t let some disingenuous commoner threaten her friend any further. The truth must out!

  Once the doors closed and Filippa’s serene smile dawned upon her, Arianne tried to settle herself. Her emotions had the better of her, and the older woman’s placidity reminded her to keep control. For someone recently the target of an assassination attempt, Filippa appeared remarkably calm.

  “Good morning, dear Arianne. Do sit down,” Filippa said, setting aside her embroidery. “Did you sleep well after yesterday’s excitement?”

  “Quite well, thank you,” Arianne lied as Filippa massaged her knuckles.

  “My hands hurt when I embroider for too long,” the Queen complained. “I suppose when I can no longer embroider, it will really be time for me to move on. Well, I don’t need my gift to tell me that you’ve got something troubling on your mind.”

  Arianne sat and took the tea cup proffered by a white-wigged servant. “I do. Can we speak in private? It is a delicate matter, I fear.”

  “Of course, my dear,” Filippa said, ordering the servants and the guard out of the room with a look. “I assume this has to do with yesterday’s events?”

  “Yes,” Arianne confirmed, sipping the bitter tea while she collected her thoughts and waited for the doors to completely shut. “The first part is about the heroic shooting attributed to the Earl of Longford.”

  “Ah, the Earl. Yes, a fine piece of marksmanship. Has he asked you to marry him yet?” The question was asked politely, without mirth, though the Queen wore an expression that Arianne couldn’t read. “It seems the Earl is fond of you.”

  Arianne looked away from her gaze. “No, he has not.” The assassination attempt, while unfortunate, had blessed her with the gift of delay on that issue. “But that is not the point. The point is that the Earl did not kill the would-be assassins.”

  “Oh really?” the Queen replied, leaning forward, eyes alight. “I thought he seemed a bit dismissive of the whole affair rather than reveling in his notoriety as is more in his character. So who did?”

  Arianne told her the story, the Queen’s lips sliding into a grin. “And so,” Arianne continued, a little confused by the Queen’s odd—even pleased—reaction, “this clerk forced Earl Longford to accept the credit of it. He literally forced it upon him! It was quite strange and I thought you should know. I am a bit disappointed that the Earl seems to have so easily accepted the honor and continues with this charade. I think he almost believes he did it.”

  The Queen’s eyes lit up with a mischievous humor. “Thank you for telling me, dear. Very interesting indeed.”

  Arianne took a drink before proceeding, wondering what Filippa would do about the Earl’s wrongfully assumed fame. “And that brings me to the second point. I am well aware that this may sound a bit ridiculous. This too concerns the underclerk, Mr. Harper. I fear that he may not be who he says he is and is serving you under a false pretense.”

  Filippa surprised her with a wide-eyed look and a hearty laugh. “Well, I thought you would have figured that out by now. You really don’t recognize him?”

  “Do I know this Mr. Harper?” Arianne asked, mind rifling through every face should could remember and trying to match them to the man she saw sprinting through the woods the day before. She was sure she hadn’t known him until yesterday.

  The Queen took a sip of tea before continuing. “Know him? Well, let me say that you know of him, certainly. Of all people I thought you would see through his little disguise. I suppose he is cleverer than I thought, or perhaps my discernment aids me in this case.”

  Arianne’s curiosity would not be denied. “Who is he then?”

  “I will tell you if you give me your word, and I mean your word as a friend, that what I say to you now stays between the two of us. Do I have it?”

  “Always.”

  Filippa smiled again and took another drag on her tea cup. Arianne wondered if she savored making her wait. Filippa played games with people to amuse herself, and Arianne didn’t take well to being toyed with.

  “Very well. Let me give you a clue so I can watch your mouth drop to the floor. I will tell you that to this man you owe your status as an independent woman of large fortune. Does that help any, dear?”

  Arianne’s brow creased as she puzzled, and as the truth slowly dawned in her mind, her heart banged in her chest. Hastily, she set her tea cup down, the cup clinking a nervous pattern on the saucer. Could it be? She had only seen him once at the Queen’s ball, eyes full of fire and passion, as he rebuked her husband and challenged him to a duel of honor for insulting his betrothed. How had she missed it? The brown, weathered complexion, the deep eyes, the athletic form; the clerk displayed them all and cleverly disguised them with a hat, beard, spectacles, and a practiced stoop that he had conveniently thrown off in the heat of the moment.

  “Yes. You see it now,” the Queen said. “This is the man who blew a hole in your husband’s heart from thirty paces because he called his fiancée ‘Miss Ironwhore’ in a room full of young, drunken lords. I suppose if you couldn’t pick him out, no one will. I thought his face would have been branded on your memory forever.”

  Arianne realized that her mouth had, indeed, wandered southward and snapped it up. “But Baron Davon Carver? Did I not read that he was dead? Killed in the wild somewhere?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Arianne’s mind reeled. How should she feel? Her husband had been an insufferable boor who could, at times, behave in an affable and even lovable manner. They had married as an alliance, not for love, and at his passing she had felt little sorrow. At the time she had viewed Lord Carver’s violent challenge as highhanded and thought of him with contempt; with a few hours and a strong tea she could have persuaded her reckless husband to apologize and no blood would have been spilt on the green grass in the courtyard on that beautiful summer’s morning four years ago.

  She, of course, had not attended the duel, but waited anxiously for word from their house in town. The messenger’s grave countenance told her all she needed to know before he had handed over the legal document stating the results of the contest. She had shed tears, but they did not fall for long or deeply.

  Looking back, she really had thought little about Lord Davon Carver after the event. He was so unconnected with her and with Bellshire nobility in general that he seemed like an odd force of nature, a rumbling, swift storm that had blown into her life and then just as quickly blown out again to some distant country.

  “But why is he masquerading about?” she managed, not bothering to hide her discomfiture. “Did I not also hear that widow Lady Carver is to be presented at court as the fiancée of the Earl of Tahbor?”

  Filippa hauled her old bones out of the couch and walked to the window, staring at the manicured gardens where men clipped and snipped at snaking branches and vines to keep them in line. “Well, I have not let him know that I know who he is, so he has not confided anything about his reasons to me. What I offer you now is a bit of conjecture, so take it as such. It’s been some four years now since he came to court to present his future bride to me. This is what I saw then. I saw a man passionately in love with a woman. I saw a woman opportunistically using a man to escape her reputation.”

  Arianne calmed herself enough to retrieve her tea. “So her…indiscretions…were not merely the stuff of idle tales?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Filippa returned flatly. “I won’t embar
rass you with the details, but yes, ‘Miss Ironwhore,’ while cruel, was not far from the mark.”

  Arianne was confused. “So why did he consent to marry her then?”

  “He didn’t know. Part of the reason his disguise works so well now is that he steered clear of court, mostly due to his family’s history, of which you are likely aware, in part. Even when here, he wasn’t ‘here’ in the strictest sense. He isn’t one for gossip, politics, and courtly intrigue.”

  “A sensible man then.”

  “Yes, though sense failed him when he saw those green eyes, that copper hair, and that thin waist. Your Lord Hightower’s slight on his fiancée’s character was likely the first bit of really substantial gossip he had ever heard about Emile, to unfortunate effect. At any rate, my dear, to the point. He brought her to Bellshire last year—at her behest, I’m sure—and I have never seen an unhappier man in all my life. I watched him wander around like a phantom at one of the assemblies. He tried to cling to his pride, but he was clearly subdued and humiliated. She was radiant; he was drowning. My opinion is that he faked his own death to escape his marriage.”

  “The coward!” Arianne said. “He could have divorced her. I suppose he couldn’t take the shame of it.”

  Filippa turned back toward her, gaze sharp, almost angry. Arianne bit her tongue as the Queen closed on her, standing a few paces away, arms folded and eyes intense. “Cowardice? Shame? Oh, dear Arianne! Sometimes I think I give you too much credit. I suppose it would be hard for you to have a clear mind in this case. Listen for a bit, will you.”

  Arianne breathed again as Filippa turned her fervent gaze away and paced the room.

  “When Davon Carver was fourteen years old, his mother learned that her husband had squandered away their entire fortune on a ridiculous gold speculation. She took ill and died six months later, soon to be followed by Lord Carver blowing his own brains out in a melancholic fugue while Davon watched.”

  Arianne gasped at this blunt revelation. The deaths she had heard of, but not the particulars.