###
When the King's stately carriage had first passed the duchess's, one of the ministers of state had been peering out the window. He recognized the Langley crest on the vehicle's door.
“Your Majesty! The Duchess's carriage!”
Silence fell within the royal equipage.
And then the king spoke lazily. It took a lot to raise his excitement—perhaps even his interest.
“Not likely.”
“Upon my honour, Sire! It was the Langley crest!”
Another voice spoke: “I saw a glimpse of the livery on a servant. It was not the duchess's colours. She is silver, is she not?”
Suddenly opinions were flying from all around His Majesty on whether it was indeed the duchess's coach, or the colours of her livery, and on what she could be about going forth in her carriage when she ought to have been expecting to entertain the King. The monarch grew weary betimes and held up an arm.
“Silence!” When his word had been obeyed he said, “Stop the coach and let us think on it a moment.”
The carriage soon ground to a halt. This was when, leagues behind them on the straight road one of the earl's servants—wearing secondhand colours so as to maintain secrecy for his master, Dorchester—could see that the royal coach had stopped and alerted his employer.
Back in the King's carriage, the atmosphere was still one of puzzlement, but not alarm. “Why would Her Grace leave Langley, just when His Majesty is expected?” one asked. Another said, “That coach was moving betimes! In a hurry, I'd say.”
“And, knowing of the royal visit, why did she not stop when she encountered this vehicle?”
“Where could she be going?”
Suddenly the monarch spoke, and his words, of course, were law. “Her Grace is expecting us. Whatever the cause of her coach being on the road, I am certain it cannot concern us. Let us move on. I'm ready for my supper! And I will see the lady Allisandra, for I've momentous tidings for her.”
The royal equipage resumed its journey.
“How much farther is it?” asked the king.
“We should be arriving within thirty minutes o’the clock, Your Majesty.”
“Good.”
###
Back in the duchess's coach, there was silence while Allisandra marveled secretly at Lord Dorchester's patience. She was doing everything in her power to make herself difficult to convey, and he was taking it with amazing affability. If she hadn't long known how evil his past was, she could almost find the man agreeable. It was irritating.
“Would it help,” he said, suddenly, “if you understood that it is your 'guardian' I am rescuing you from?”
“His Majesty?” she asked, incredulous. She was fully confident of his being in error. There were many things he could have said that she might have believed, but this was not one of them. “He protects me!”
“His Majesty,” he repeated, “has finally found a suitor for you that meets with his approval. He is anxious to have it done before you reach your majority, so the Comte, therefore, came along quite conveniently.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“The King, to his credit, almost let you decide for yourself on your marriage; he was loathe to take advantage of you for his own benefit, which, in itself, is remarkable in him; but the Comte de Puillon, that sickly old rattle-bag slowly dying of consumption, made him an offer he dared not refuse.” He was eyeing her compassionately and he spoke gently, but no amount of gentleness could disguise the horror of what he was suggesting.
Her eyes narrowed. He continued, “It turns out that our emaciated friend happens to own a great deal of land which produces a vast income. What's more, he has long desired to settle in England. He offered the King 100% of the proceeds of the sale of his land in France—land which the Queen of France has long had her eyes on and will no doubt pay double its value to possess—in return for an estate on English soil—and you.” He fell silent, watching for her reaction.
Allisandra digested the information, searching her mind for clues, for anything she might have seen or heard in the past to either refute or lend credence to the story. But nothing came to mind. She knew that the Comte had been given the ear of the King on many occasions of late, and that an introduction to her had been requested; but then, many people, new at court, requested the same. And the King had many times avowed to protect her! She did not think he would give her up for mercenary reasons.
“I cannot credit this!” she pronounced, finally. “The King is my friend—and guardian. He cares for me.”
“And so he does. He also lusts for you.”
“You—you blackheart! How dare you!” She would have struck at him she was so blinded by momentary outrage, but he strongly grasped—and held—her raised arm.
“I dare to state the facts, which no one else had the stomach to tell you since no one else thought anything could be done. Except me.”
When she still showed no sign of crediting his assertions he added, “His Majesty is happy to give you to an old cavalier who cannot have much time left him. Once you are a widow he will bring you back to Whitehall and make you his mistress.” When she would have objected, he added, “Even the most virtuous lady, before marriage, may sometimes be brought 'round afterwards, particularly when her husband is no longer alive, and she has the king as her admirer.”
“I will never be his mistress, king or no!” She glared at him as though it were his fault. She hated him for telling her this. She did not want to believe that Charles would treat her in such a fashion—or that he would scheme to one day make her his mistress.
“How could you know of such things, and I not have heard? There are no secrets at court and I have many friends!”
“This arrangement was made recently; and secrecy was the reason you were sent off to the duchess's keeping. Your friends were helpless in any case, but once you were removed to Langley, even if they might have dared warn you, they could not. As I am not known to be your friend, Charles saw no conflict of interest in telling me what was afoot.”
“He wished to take no chances, and it was only on account of my haste that I managed to reach you before he did. The Comte was no doubt in one of the vehicles which passed us earlier, as well as a priest. The King would have had you married in Langley's chapel.”
“And Elizabeth...she knew?” she asked, disconsolately.
“Only as of last night, when I managed to get a messenger to her. Why else, I ask you, would she willingly conspire with me, to hand you over?”
This struck such a chord of truth inside Allisandra's heart that suddenly she knew he was telling the truth.
“The Duchess knows nothing of my reforming”—Allisandra’s head shot around to face him. Reforming! She had not heard of it, either. Such was the case when one was away from court; none of the news or gossip could be learned. But he was continuing his tale, and so she listened, very interested despite all of the distaste she felt for the whole affair.
“Her Grace,” he was saying, “required only one promise from me, easily given, which persuaded her of the wisdom of trusting you to my power, rather than allowing you to fall to the Comte's. You see, then, how much your 'guardian' has protected you.” His voice was edgy and utterly commanding. Compelling. /Hateful./ A bolt of anger shot through her. How dare such a profligate attack the name of the King! His Majesty was kind and soft-hearted! Surely he would have allowed her to refuse the plan.
But then she thought of Elizabeth. Her friend was risking her own neck to help Allisandra escape, and so it had to have all been settled. Otherwise, Elizabeth would never have given her over to Dorchester. Would she?
“But—but surely His Majesty viewed the marriage as a good match.”
“Indeed; one that will pay for his war without his having to raise tonnage or poundage, or create a new tax. And all it will cost him—is you—and that only temporarily. A matchless match.”
She turned her head away, trying to disbelieve it all, but could not. The matter tore at her heart. In her mind's eye she could see the smiling countenance of the king—and suddenly, it did seem that there was more in his eye than just the fond affection of a guardian, she thought. The King was known for his many mistresses. Allisandra blinked back tears.
But she forced herself to keep her wits about her. Could there not be another explanation? Could it be that the duchess had been misinformed, as Allisandra was now? Perhaps Dorchester had invented the whole terrible falsehood. But why would he do so? And Elizabeth, her own dear Elizabeth, was nobody's fool. She had wondered on what account the king had intended to visit Langley. Now it made sense.
But then something inside her rebelled at the thought.
“There is more to this matter! What are you not telling me? Elizabeth would never have given me to /you/! To become your newest conquest! My heart tells me that she would rather have seen me Countess to an old lecher than to be ruined by a young one!”
Once again the earl's unruffled composure surprised her, as he received her insult in stride. In that low but firm tone he admitted, “Indeed, madam. How very right you are. I failed to mention that we must wed. It was the promise I gave her Grace and which I intend to fulfill. I am prepared to marry you. 'Countess' you will be, but to me, not to de Puillon.”
In response, Allisandra just stared at him.
“Marry me?
You?”
He tried not to grimace at her tone, and replied, “Yes.” He actually averted his eyes and looked ahead, at nothing, the opposite wall of the coach. Allisandra stared. Lord Dorchester was behaving as though out of his element. The unflappable, unfeeling reprobate, the man infamous for seductions and liaisons—could it be he had feelings for her? But that made no sense. How and why would such feelings develop?
She continued to stare at him and her eyes narrowed. “Why? Why are you willing to marry, and why marry me? My properties are not great; indeed, quite small in comparison to your own, and--”
“Are you so unfit to be the wife of an earl that you question me?” he shot in, reflecting a question back at her instead of answering hers.
“No, my lord!” she said, defensively. She did not notice that her answer contained two words she had not previously used when addressing him: “My lord.” But Dorchester noticed, and swore silently at himself for being inordinately pleased by it. It was the first small moving of her heart in his direction, and though he could not have put it into words as such, he instinctively felt it.
“Are you so unattractive in your own estimation that you cannot conceive of my wanting you?” Again she answered stiffly, “No, my lord!” Then she became the questioner.
“Are you proceeding in this manner as a way of getting at the King? Do you seek a quarrel with him? Or revenge?”
He chose his words. “My actions, I hope you can credit, are for myself and for you alone. I expect they shall raise Charles's ire, in which case we can go abroad if we must. But I am not using you as a means of power against the King or anyone else. I give you my— word.”
She was still unsatisfied and sat there, trying to frame a further question, when he asked, “Are you uncertain of whether you are 'worthy' of my name or my attentions?”
“No, it is not that.”
“Then what makes it impossible to you?”
“Not to me, but to—to—
you
.” He felt a surge of hope. “I have professed it not to be so. I say again, Lady Allisandra, that I intend upon marriage. To you. Anything less would leave you vulnerable to the King's plan.”
It still failed to make sense to her. “And you care about that, because..?”
It was the question at the heart of it all. They both knew it. He shifted in his seat but came to some resolve and lit the interior lamp, so that he could see her eyes with more than moonlight as he spoke.
“I care about that,” he began, and then faltered. “I care about that…” he started again and seemed equally at a loss to continue. He turned and faced her and the look on his face was indescribable. He was evidently unsure of himself. “Because... I care...for you. I am...happy to be at your service.”
“Is that an explanation? You have never cared a whit for me, indeed you cannot care for me! That explains nothing, sir!”
He tilted his head to look at her with an unreadable expression.
“In that case, let me add that I—I—well, it seems that I am…” He sighed. “I am in love with you, my lady. You see, that is it.” He was watching her with his head still tilted back, watching her with eyes that searched her own, eyes that were hopeful….
But Allisandra did not see. Her eyes widened and she wondered for a moment if one of them was not in their right mind. Lord Dorchester could not possibly be in love with her. But here he was saying it was so, and he appeared to be in earnest.
She glanced at him uneasily, and though her eyes betrayed her thoughts, he discovered them by her silence.
“Ah,” he said. “You are wondering how it could possibly be, that I, Lord Dorchester, am in love with you, Lady Allisandra. How does the notorious rake whose interest, heretofore, has been with coquettes and whores, suddenly find he has developed a taste for the virtuous lady he has been happy to ignore previously, eh?”
She was a bit shocked at his vulgar language. “P-P-Precisely.”
A moment passed, while he gathered his thoughts. He turned to her and began to speak in a far different tone of voice. “Well, p'raps you're right, luv,” he said. Her eyes widened in astonishment as she recalled where she knew that voice from.
“I perceive the laidy thinks I'm fit for Bedlam. She doesn't as know wha' to make o' it. I'm only an 'ighwayman, luv. I've nought to do wi' proper laidies like you'self, ay?”
