Darling Jasmine (30 page)

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Authors: Bertrice Small

BOOK: Darling Jasmine
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The young man bowed with great elegance, and once again she was reminded of Geoffrey. “Viscount Villiers at your service, madame.”
“So you are George Villiers,” Skye said. “My granddaughter has nothing but kind things to say about you. Sit down. Will you have wine?” She was already pouring him a goblet of her best as she spoke. Handing it to him, she asked, “To what do I owe the honor of your visit, my lord? Surely you know that Jasmine and Jemmie are at Glenkirk.”
“But why did they go when the king expressly forbade it until the matter of Lord Stokes's murder was cleared up?” George Villiers said. “The king is furious with them, and that wretched Piers St. Denis is egging His Majesty into issuing a warrant for the earl and countess of Glenkirk. The queen has, so far, been able to prevent her husband from doing so. She sent me to you to learn if you know of any reason for the Leslie's disobedience so she may defend them against the marquis of Hartsfield's accusations. He says they have fled because they know that their guilt in Lord Stokes's murder will soon be discovered.”
“When did the king order Jasmine and Jemmie to remain in England, my lord? They said nothing of it to me. James Leslie has always been a loyal adherent of the Stuarts. He would not flout the king's authority under any circumstances. It is not in his nature. Besides, I thought the king was convinced that neither Jasmine nor Jemmie had anything to do with that poor man's murder,” Skye said.
“St. Denis convinced the king to send a messenger here to Queen's Malvern before your granddaughter's marriage, instructing Glenkirk and his bride to remain in England. St. Denis still believes he can still somehow revenge himself on them and obtain the custody of the little duke of Lundy. The king cannot rid himself of St. Denis until a wife is found for him, and the queen cannot bring herself to give St. Denis some innocent young heiress because of his reputation for deviant passion. The queen, I believe, hopes St. Denis will just go away, but of course he will not. And the king is too kindhearted to send him away because he fears he would hurt his friend, and he, himself, would look like an ingrate. So Piers St. Denis remains at court, making difficulties for all,” young Viscount Villiers concluded.
“No messenger came to Queen's Malvern from the king either before or after my granddaughter's marriage. In fact it has been a most uneventful summer with one exception. Jasmine is to have a child in late winter,” Skye told George Villiers. “If a messenger had come, the Leslies would have remained here, but none did, and they followed their plans to return to Scotland.”
George Villiers sipped at his wine thoughtfully, pulling himself back to the day that the marquis of Hartsfield had convinced the king to keep the earl and countess of Glenkirk in England. He had offered to carry the king's missive to one of the royal messengers for dispatch himself, and had hurried off clutching the packet.
“But he didn't deliver it!”
the viscount said aloud. He looked to Skye. “St. Denis offered to take the message to one of the royal messengers, madame. Obviously he did not do so, knowing that Jasmine and Jemmie would return north as they had planned. It was his idea to bring them back to court for the Christmas festivities in December, too! He has planned it all, the clever devil, and I underestimated him! I thought we had him beaten! What a fool I am, and Jasmine warned me, too,” Villiers cried despairingly.
“Not so much a fool, my lord,” Skye soothed the young man. “You are not experienced enough in court intrigue to know that a desperate man will resort to rash measures to ensure his survival.” She looked past him to the darkening sky beyond her windows. “It is too late for you to begin your return journey today, George Villiers. You will stay the night, and then tomorrow
we
will return to court to explain to the king that his messenger never arrived. We will make no accusations, however, for we have no proof; but you will immediately upon your return seek out the head royal messenger and learn if any of them have left the royal service since last June. If not, you will ask each messenger if he was entrusted with the royal missive. If you are right, then none will admit to it,” Skye told him, “and then you have your proof of St. Denis's dishonety, and the vitriol he harbors toward my granddaughter.”
“But what if a messenger has left the royal service since last June?” Villiers asked her.
“Then,” said Skye, “we have no proof against St. Denis. We can plan no further until we know everything we need to know, dear boy, or St. Denis makes a foolish move.”
“Mad as hatter, you are!” Daisy Kelly told her mistress when informed that Skye would be leaving for Winchester in the morning. “Since the master has died, you've been your troublesome old self again, and we just ain't young enough anymore for your wicked ruses!”
“Speak for yourself, you old fool!” Skye snapped at her. “Do you think I can allow this St. Denis fellow to ruin my darling girl's life? Besides, you aren't coming to Winchester with me.”
“What?”
Daisy squawked indignantly.
“I'm taking Bramwell's daughter, Nora, with me. I need you to stay here and pack up what we'll need to spend the winter in Scotland,” Skye said calmly. “Now I won't need much for tomorrow. Just some traveling clothes and one decent gown for my audience with the king.”
For once in the over sixty years of their association, Daisy was rendered speechless. Muttering beneath her breath, she set about to do her mistress's bidding, thoroughly disapproving of it all.
In the morning as she bid Skye farewell, she asked, “When do we leave for the north?” Her tone was sharp, and her lips twitched with acute annoyance.
“I'll want a full day's rest when I return,” Skye told her, “but the day after that we'll go. We've never been to Scotland, Daisy,” she cajoled her faithful servant. “You'll get to see Pansy and her family. Don't you want to see them?”
“Saw me daughter all summer long,” Daisy replied sourly.
“I'll be back as quickly as possible,” Skye told her, climbing into her big, comfortable traveling coach.
“I don't doubt it,” Daisy said.
George Villiers was amazed that the coach was able to keep up with him on their journey south, and old Lady de Marisco was an intrepid traveler it appeared. They traveled until dark. She ate a hearty meal, then returned to her bed; up and ready to go first light. They traveled directly from Queen's Malvern, which was located near Worcester, through Glouster, Swindon, and Andover, directly into Winchester. There had been no need to come near London at all. The king and queen liked to hunt in the autumn in the nearby New Forest.
“They'll not be in the town itself,” Villiers told Skye, “but in their hunting lodge outside of it. They enjoy the informality of it much better, but it's a bit hard on the courtiers who don't have houses here, or aren't able to rent houses. Many end up sleeping in barns and in haystacks,” he chuckled, “and washing in icy streams.”
“The price of following the court,” Skye said dryly. “Can you find this old lady a place to lay her head, my handsome lad?”
“Madame, you may have my cubicle in the royal lodge,” he said gallantly. “It's terribly tiny, but you will be able to change your garments and get a decent night's sleep.”
“If I were twenty years younger, my lad, you wouldn't have to give up your bed at all, just share it,” she teased him.
“It is the first time I have ever regretted my youth,” he told her, and Skye laughed aloud, delighted by his quick tongue and the charming compliment he had just paid her.
“You are more dangerous than St. Denis, I think,” she said.
His dark eyes flashed a moment, then he said, “I think that you praise me too highly, madame.”
“Nay, Villiers, I think you are greatly underestimated, but they will learn it in time,” Skye told him quietly with a small smile. What a charming rogue he was, she thought, and very ambitious, but there was no harm in ambition. She had had it herself in her youth, when life was so wonderfully intense, and she could scarcely wait for one day to end so another could begin.
She wore black for her audience with the king. She was, after all, in mourning for her beloved Adam. Her dark hair with its two silver side wings was affixed in its familiar chignon. “Give me a bit of color for my cheeks,” she asked Nora, the maidservant who had traveled with her.
“Let me do it,” Nora said. “You have beautiful skin for any woman, let alone an old woman, my lady. We want the merest touch of color. Too much, and you lose the proper effect.” She dabbed the color on ever so slightly, smoothing it until Skye's cheeks showed just the faintest touch of rose. “Perfect,” she announced, and held up the small traveling glass for her mistress to see.
Skye looked into the mirror. She was astounded. She did look frail. An elegant, fragile old woman stared back at her.
Who is she?
Skye wondered.
I don't feel old in my head. Just my joints. No wonder Bess never allowed mirrors about her in her later years. Still, she had lived longer than Elizabeth Tudor, and dammit, she did look better!
The king stared at the woman before him. She was garbed in the height of fashion, and her jewelry was incredible to behold, especially the diamonds and pearls she wore. Blue eyes met his for just a fraction of a second before she curtsied, back straight as a poker, head lowered just the proper amount. Then she rose and awaited permission to speak.
“Steenie tells me ye treated him verra well, madame,” the king began. “He hae pleaded wi me to listen to ye, and so I will. What excuse can the Leslies of Glenkirk possibly hae for disobeying me, madame?” The king glared at the elegant old woman before him. Despite her age, she was still a great beauty, and he somehow thought it indecent that she should be. “Well, madame?” he barked.
“Viscount Villiers tells me that Your Majesty sent a message to my granddaughter and her husband at Queen's Malvern, but no messenger at all arrived at my home during the summer. They departed for Glenkirk as they had planned in late August. Your Majesty knows that if James Leslie had received your instructions, I should not be here today to speak for him, or for my granddaugher,” Skye said firmly.
“Dinna receive my message? Are ye saying, madame, that no royal messenger arrived? Am I to understand that is the reason for this disobedience?” The king looked confused.
“No messenger arrived,”
Skye repeated.
“This is verra strange,” the king puzzled.
“Perhaps Lady de Marisco was not aware of a messenger's arrival,” Piers St. Denis said, confusing the king further.
Skye's head swiveled just slightly, and she pierced the marquis of Hartsfield with a strong look. “I do not know you, sir,” she said icily, “but rest assured that
nothing
happens with regard to my household of which I am not fully aware. If I say no royal messenger arrived at Queen's Malvern, then no royal messenger arrived. To question me further on the matter would be to imply that I am lying. Is that what you are implying, sir?” Her beautiful face was stony.
“Madame, at your age,” he began, only to be cut off.
“My age?
Sir, you do indeed presume!” Skye told him. “My age has nothing to do with the matter at hand.
Who are you?”
“I am the marquis of Hartsfield,” he told her, but she had already known it.
“And I, my lord, am the dowager countess of Lynmouth and Lundy,
and
the dowager duchess of Beaumont de Jaspre. How dare you impugn my honor! Were we not in the royal presence, I should call you out myself. I am quite an excellent swordswoman, and I do believe it would give me great pleasure to slit your gullet, you arrogant puppy! I am not surprised my granddaughter chose Glenkirk over you. It is the difference between water and rich wine.” She turned to the king. “My lord, you know that I have the utmost respect for Your Majesty, but must I remain here to be insulted by this
person?”
It was a magnificent performance. The queen caught Viscount Villier's eye and saw that he was close to losing his vaunted composure. The marquis of Hartsfield looked stunned by the attack he had just encountered at the skilled hands of Skye O'Malley de Marisco. The king, mindful of Lady de Marisco's age, was distressed that she should feel under attack in his presence, and when she swayed just slightly before him, or at least he thought she did, he cried out, “A chair for Madame Skye!” using the appellation he had heard her family use for her. A footman ran forward with a small chair, which he slipped behind her.
Skye sank with apparent gratitude into the seat. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she murmured weakly, her hand upon her chest.
“Wine!” shouted the king, and it was brought.
She sipped slowly, smiling weakly at the monarch, and nodding her thanks.
“My dear Madame Skye,” the king began, “I dinna want ye to feel that yer family is threatened, for it is nae so. If ye tell me that my messenger dinna arrive, then I accept yer guid word, for in all that I hae heard about ye, I hae nae heard it said that ye were a liar. Indeed, 'tis said about ye that if gie yer word, it is yer bond.”

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