The Vagabond Duchess. Claire Thornton

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      A few feet away from Swiftbourne, an aristocratic rogue was trying to seduce one of the ladies of the court. From the tone of her responses, Swiftbourne judged the rogue was close to success. He ignored the couple as he focussed on the group around the King. His grandson, John Beaufleur, the Duke of Kilverdale, was among them.

      Kilverdale was just short of twenty-six and in the prime of his youth and power. He looked every inch the courtier in his periwig, silk brocade coat and Venetian lace, but he also had the manners and intelligence necessary to hold his own in the Court of Charles II. It was an environment where little was sacred and noble poets could shred the reputation of a rival with a few anonymously circulated verses.

      Kilverdale had been the target of such satires in the past, but now he was doing nothing more scandalous than asking the King’s permission to leave the country.

      ‘A retreat! Kilverdale seeks a retreat because he has been over-matched by Rochester’s wit!’ Fotherington exclaimed.

      Swiftbourne controlled a scornful curl of his lip. The youthful Rochester was a fine poet and a brilliant conversationalist, but he did not intimidate Kilverdale. Swiftbourne was confident his grandson could match wits or swords with any man present should the need arise.

      ‘I must fetch my cousin from the English convent at Bruges, your Majesty,’ Kilverdale said.

      ‘A nun, by God!’ said Fotherington.

      ‘She is a guest of the nuns,’ Kilverdale said, continuing to address the King.

      ‘I visited the convent at Bruges myself, when I was on my travels,’ said Charles. ‘Remember me to the Abbess.’

      Kilverdale bowed gracefully in acknowledgement of the request. His expression, as so often, was courteously unreadable. Swiftbourne knew the English nuns on the continent had done a great deal to help the King’s cause when he was in exile. The Abbess might justifiably have expected a little more from Charles than his remembrances now.

      ‘Is she beautiful?’ asked Fotherington. ‘I have heard rumours her name is Athena and your mother sent her to the nuns because she is so beautiful.’

      ‘You must present her to us,’ said the King, his interest caught.

      ‘I thank your Majesty for your kindness. She will be honoured to attend Court—but I must present her to my mother first,’ Kilverdale replied. ‘Athena has lived retired from the world for several years. She must become accustomed to society by degrees.’

      ‘Is she an heiress?’ asked one of the fops crowding around.

      ‘That depends on the quality of the man who courts her,’ Kilverdale said, a cold glint in his eye.

      The fop opened his mouth and then shut it again. It was well known that, unlike many of the debt-ridden noblemen adorning Charles’s court, Kilverdale’s title was backed by a large fortune. The implication in his words was clear—if he approved a suitor for his cousin’s hand, he would bestow a dowry on her. If he didn’t approve of the man, he would be ruthless in preventing access to his cousin.

      Of course, Kilverdale’s cousin was also Swiftbourne’s granddaughter, but Swiftbourne had no intention of interfering with Kilverdale’s plans for her. Athena had been living in the convent to hide from her abusive husband, but she’d recently been widowed. It seemed Kilverdale had decided it was time for her to return to England and make a more satisfactory second marriage. Despite his sometimes eccentric reputation, the Duke had always had a well-developed sense of responsibility for those who depended upon him. Swiftbourne was curious to discover what kind of matchmaker his grandson would prove. So far he’d been notably reluctant to enter marriage negotiations on his own behalf.

      Kilverdale took formal leave of the King and turned to make his way out of the chamber. As he did so he looked straight at his grandfather for the first time.

      Even after fifteen years it still shocked Swiftbourne to be confronted by that flat, hard gaze. There were times when he was convinced Kilverdale hated him, other times when he was sure ruthlessly controlled rage seethed behind the polite stare. And sometimes he caught glimpses of the devastated eleven-year-old boy whose world had been overturned by a few short words. It was those occasions Swiftbourne found most disturbing, though he always concealed his feelings behind the impenetrable mask of the professional diplomat.

      ‘My lord.’ Kilverdale paused to acknowledge his grandfather. ‘I am glad to see you in good health.’

      ‘Thank you,’ said Swiftbourne, allowing just a touch of irony to shade his cool response. ‘It’s an inconvenient time to cross the channel, now we’re at war with the French as well as the Dutch.’

      Kilverdale raised one eyebrow. ‘I dare say the enemy will come to more harm than I if we encounter each other,’ he replied. ‘Good evening, my lord.’

      ‘Good evening.’ Swiftbourne watched Kilverdale walk away. Two sons and a grandson had already predeceased him—he did not wish to receive the news of this grandson’s death. Of all his children and grandchildren, Kilverdale was the one who most resembled him. Swiftbourne had survived seventy-four years with his health and wits intact and his fortune significantly enlarged. He comforted himself with the thought Kilverdale was more than capable of equalling that achievement.

      Kilverdale was approached several times as he made his way out by his friends—or those who sought his friendship. Swiftbourne watched with cynical amusement as one enterprising girl nearly tripped up at Kilverdale’s feet in her efforts to catch his eye. It was far from the first time such a thing had happened. The young, unmarried and wealthy duke had been a target for matchmaking parents and ambitious daughters ever since he’d returned to England six years earlier.

      Kilverdale restored the girl’s balance with a deft gesture, spoke a few coolly courteous words and moved on. The next attempt to waylay him was far more determined. The Earl of Windle stepped away from the basset table and moved directly in front of Kilverdale. Even at this distance Swiftbourne could see the bullish expression on Windle’s face. It was well known the Earl’s fortune was in a desperate state. His plans for recovery centred on finding a rich husband for his daughter. At first he’d tried to lure Kilverdale into marriage negotiations. Recently his attempts at persuasion had become less subtle. Swiftbourne began to stroll towards the two men.

      ‘I regret I do not have time to linger tonight, my lord,’ Kilverdale said.

      ‘You can spare the time to take some wine with me, I’m sure, your Grace,’ Windle replied unctuously.

      ‘Unfortunately not. I’m bound for Flanders at first light,’ said Kilverdale. ‘I—’ His eyes narrowed as Windle caught his coat sleeve.

      The Earl flushed angrily, but released his grip. He was naturally inclined to be a bully, but Kilverdale’s prowess with a sword was too well known for Windle to risk forcing a quarrel on the Duke. ‘I will be pleased to travel with you to the coast so we can conclude our discussions before you leave,’ he said.

      ‘I do not recall starting a discussion with you that cannot be concluded with a simple “good evening”,’ Kilverdale said, turning away.

      ‘By God, Kilverdale, you must take a wife soon!’ exclaimed Fotherington. ‘Why not Windle’s daughter?’ He glanced between the two men, clearly hoping his meddling would incite some entertaining fireworks.

      ‘With СКАЧАТЬ