“Are they poisonous?”
“Not lethal,” Portia replied solemnly. “I did say I wouldn’t kill him.”
“Oh, I wish I could see it.” Olivia hugged herself.
“Watch him at the breakfast table.” Portia grinned.
Brian paused outside Diana’s parlor and automatically straightened his doublet, readjusted the fall of lace on his shoulders. He still hadn’t recovered from his experience with Jack Worth’s bastard. No one had ever insulted him in such fashion before, not even during his sojourns in the vilest taverns, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He couldn’t imagine reporting the incident to Granville or Diana. How could he possibly admit that a bastard guttersnipe had so routed him? How could he possibly repeat what she’d said? And the worst of it was that Olivia had heard. That pathetic brat had witnessed his defeat. Somehow, he would be avenged upon the bastard, but in his own time and in his own fashion. He was good at vengeance. He had a long memory and when it came time to strike it was all the sweeter.
He knocked and opened the door to the parlor, bowing low. “Lady Granville… how can I be of service?”
She looked up from the letter she was writing and smiled in some surprise. “Why, how delightful of you to keep me company, Mr. Morse. I own life can be a little dreary these days. We have so few visitors. Who would pay social calls to an armed camp?”
She made a little moue of discontent. “Of course, my husband must do what he thinks best, but I do so long for civilization sometimes. A little stimulating conversation, the opportunity to dabble in fashion again. Why, you know I have no idea what the latest court fashions are.” Her hand passed in self-deprecation over the skirts of her elegant gown. “I dare swear you must think me a positive dowd.”
“Why, no indeed, my dear Lady Granville.” Brian took a seat on the sofa beside her. “You are the very picture of elegance. No one at court could hold a candle to you.”
Diana laughed musically. “You flatter me, sir. But pray don’t stop.” She touched his hand. “Give me news of the court. How is the dear queen managing in this adversity? I do so wish I could be with her to lend her my support. And the poor little princess, Henrietta. Such a fragile child. She must be feeling it very badly.”
“I was at Oxford two months ago,” Brian said. “Their Majesties’ courage is an inspiration to all who serve them.” He didn’t think it necessary to add that although he had certainly been in the city of Oxford, he had not once attended the court-in-exile and his only view of the king and queen had been from the street when they’d attended church one Sunday.
“I wish I could persuade my husband to…” Diana stopped, lightly dabbed at her eyes with the corner of a perfumed handkerchief. “Forgive me, Mr. Morse. It’s not for me to offer criticism of my husband’s decisions, but I feel so… so dishonored. My duty, my loyalty, is to my sovereign, and to find myself in this invidious position… forgive me,” she repeated and buried her face in her handkerchief.
Brian patted her knee, his little eyes sharp. He scented the possibility for mischief here. Very useful and productive mischief. “Sometimes, my dear madam, one must follow one’s conscience even if duty dictates otherwise.”
Diana looked up. Her countenance bore no disfiguring signs of distress. “What do you mean, sir?”
Brian coughed delicately. “Personal loyalties… matters of personal conscience… I don’t believe that even your husband would expect you to abandon your conscience simply because his own takes him along a different route. And you and I know, dear Lady Granville, that Lord Granville is gravely mistaken in his decision. To stand against the king is to stand against God himself. The king has a divine right to rule. He is God’s anointed representative.”
This gravely sententious speech was music to Diana’s ears. “I do so fear for my husband,” she murmured. “What will happen to him… to all those… who have stood against the king when this rebellion is put down, and they must face the king’s wrath?”
“It’s a grave prospect indeed,” Brian said. “And Lord Granville cannot have considered that his own family will share his fate.”
Diana shuddered. “My own father is thinking of declaring for Parliament also. There will be nowhere to take shelter.”
“Perhaps… but, no, I couldn’t… couldn’t suggest such a thing.” He rose and began to pace in apparent agitation around the warm, firelit room.
“Oh, yes, pray do speak your mind,” Diana begged.
“It seems so… so ungrateful when Lord Granville has welcomed me with such generosity… and yet…and yet I cannot endure to see you suffering so, my lady.” He came back to the sofa and knelt before her, taking her hands. “If you would trust me.”
“Oh, but of course I trust you.” She squeezed his hands. “What is it you would say to me?” Her eyes shone with eagerness.
“Why, that maybe you could with your own actions mitigate your husband’s offense in the eyes of the king.”
“Work against my husband?”
“Not exactly. But perhaps if you could find a way to help the king’s cause without your husband’s knowing…” His tongue flickered over his lips. This was dangerous ground, but Diana was regarding him with such open wonder that he could already taste his triumph. What a coup. To subvert the wife within the very confines of a rebel stronghold.
Cato was a powerful man. An honorable man whose support for Parliament would make an enormous difference to the cause… would legitimate it in the eyes of many waverers. If he could be undermined on his own territory, from within his own walls, he would lose all credibility. And Brian Morse, the instrument of his downfall, would receive the immeasurable gratitude of a sovereign once more restored to his rightful throne.
“How?” Diana whispered, no less aware than Brian of the danger. But before he could answer, the door opened.
“Good God, man, what are you doing on your knees?” Cato demanded. “I assure you my wife is already spoken for.”
Brian scrambled to his feet. “Oh, my lord, I was… was…”
“Mr. Morse was helping me look for a particular shade in my embroidery silks,” Diana said calmly.
“I see.” Cato bent over the basket of silks. “Perhaps I can help.”
Diana merely smiled at him. “Come now, my lord, you know you have no interest in anything not connected with this dreadful war.”
Cato shrugged. “Perhaps so.” He reached for the bellpull.
“Has something occurred to upset you, my lord?” Diana rose and fluttered across to him, laying a concerned hand on his arm.
“Just this damn war,” he said shortly. “Ah, Bailey… bring wine.”
“Anything in particular troubling you, my lord?” Brian inquired, bending to poke the fire.
Your supremely annoying presence, and a whole hornets’ nest of suspicions about Portia Worth. “Where’re the girls?” Cato asked, seeming to ignore the question. “It’s suppertime, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Diana said. “Should I send for them… or for Olivia?” She smiled up at her husband, continuing with all sweet concern, “I’ve been thinking, my lord, that we are perhaps too ready to include Portia in the family. I don’t think her influence on Olivia is really to be encouraged… particularly after this latest escapade… such a terrible business. I know you don’t wish to slight your brother’s child, but… but I think she would be happier taking her place more with the servants.”
Cato tried to control his irritation. He had no intention of taking Diana into his confidence. “I disagree, madam. She seems to have persuaded Olivia to leave her bed, at least. And that can’t be bad. I have my own reasons for wishing her to remain within the family circle… at least for the time being.”