The Shadow of Albion by Andre Norton, Rosemary Edghill
Authors: Andre Norton, Rosemary Edghill
Tags: Demonoid Upload 6
Ads: Link
said as how the Bulfords might always
look to Roxbury.“
Roxbury. Worse and worse. For a moment Sarah entertained me distempered
freak that she might in fact be whoever Mistress Bulford thought she was – and had
simply run mad – but the vision of that other Sarah, glimpsed in an instant before the
crash, robbed me notion of much of its humor. Sarah’s heart beat faster as she
phrased her next question.
„And so of course you know who I am?“ Innocuously as the question had been
put, it had still been the wrong thing to say. Renewed fear showed in Mistress
Bulford’s eyes as she replied, „Why, you are Lady Roxbury – the Marchioness of
Roxbury – Your Ladyship.“
Chapter 4
A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows
(Paris, Germinal, 1805)
The tall man with the dangerous eyes knew that someone was going to die tonight.
Rupert St. Ives Dyer, Captain His Grace the Duke of Wessex, coolly surveyed
the salon from the privileged vantage-coign of the entry-hall. When he had arranged
with the Underground three days ago to meet Avery deMorrissey somewhere here
among these privileged New Men and successful turncoats of the Ancien Regime,
Wessex had been reasonably certain of retaining both his liberty, and his life.
Now he was less so.
A note smuggled up the backstairs of the Hotel des Spheres, Wessex’s residence
on this trip to the City of Light, had tipped him that the Jacquerie – the Red Jacks –
Talleyrand’s secret police – wished very much to have speech of the Chevalier de
Reynard, which nom de guerre was Wessex’s own for the moment. He did not
know if it was the foolish loyalist Reynard, or Rupert, Duke of Wessex, King
Henry’s political agent, who had earned M. Talleyrand’s enmity, and at this moment
it did not matter: the Jacks were only a few minutes behind him.
Wessex had left the Chevalier’s lodgings in the Hotel des Spheres by way of the
roof, but it was only a matter of time before the Jacks took his scent and ran him to
ground. The carte de invitation for this evening’s party had still been on his
dressing-table, after all.
It was foolish to have come – but without him deMorrissey had no chance of
reaching England, De-Morrissey was English, a naval officer who had been interned
at Verdun where he had learned something of interest. Holding this information to be
of more importance than his life, deMorrissey had managed to escape the walled city
and blunder into some members of the Royalist Underground who’d covered his
tracks, at least as far as Paris, But the man hadn’t a word of French, and if the
Royalist Underground had not managed to put him in touch with „Reynard,“
deMorrissey would have been dead long since. And if the Red Jacks had anything to
say about it, he might yet be.
Reynard/Wessex lifted his quizzing-glass and surveyed the room with
maddeningly languid affectation. La Belle Paris was not what she had been in the
days of Wessex’s boyhood, but to the casual observer she had made a phoenixlike
recovery from the bloody events of the „glorious“ ‘93 – at least assuming one had
no memory of her original splendor. In this modern incarnation the appointments
were a little too opulent, the talk a little too loud, and dress and manners veered
self-consciously between Republican and Imperial.
Wessex allowed his quizzing-glass to drop and nicked imaginary grains of snuff
from the lapel of his wasp-waisted celadon silk evening coat as he shook out his
ruffles. He was dressed slightly beyond the cutting edge of fashion, and on a lesser
man the mode might have appeared ridiculous, but not upon my lord Wessex. He
had me height, the carriage, the killdevil black eyes to support any freak of fashion,
and enough cold swords-edge charm to beguile any lady save Madame la
Guillotine herself.
Wessex descended the three shallow steps to the black-and-white tiled floor
look to Roxbury.“
Roxbury. Worse and worse. For a moment Sarah entertained me distempered
freak that she might in fact be whoever Mistress Bulford thought she was – and had
simply run mad – but the vision of that other Sarah, glimpsed in an instant before the
crash, robbed me notion of much of its humor. Sarah’s heart beat faster as she
phrased her next question.
„And so of course you know who I am?“ Innocuously as the question had been
put, it had still been the wrong thing to say. Renewed fear showed in Mistress
Bulford’s eyes as she replied, „Why, you are Lady Roxbury – the Marchioness of
Roxbury – Your Ladyship.“
Chapter 4
A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows
(Paris, Germinal, 1805)
The tall man with the dangerous eyes knew that someone was going to die tonight.
Rupert St. Ives Dyer, Captain His Grace the Duke of Wessex, coolly surveyed
the salon from the privileged vantage-coign of the entry-hall. When he had arranged
with the Underground three days ago to meet Avery deMorrissey somewhere here
among these privileged New Men and successful turncoats of the Ancien Regime,
Wessex had been reasonably certain of retaining both his liberty, and his life.
Now he was less so.
A note smuggled up the backstairs of the Hotel des Spheres, Wessex’s residence
on this trip to the City of Light, had tipped him that the Jacquerie – the Red Jacks –
Talleyrand’s secret police – wished very much to have speech of the Chevalier de
Reynard, which nom de guerre was Wessex’s own for the moment. He did not
know if it was the foolish loyalist Reynard, or Rupert, Duke of Wessex, King
Henry’s political agent, who had earned M. Talleyrand’s enmity, and at this moment
it did not matter: the Jacks were only a few minutes behind him.
Wessex had left the Chevalier’s lodgings in the Hotel des Spheres by way of the
roof, but it was only a matter of time before the Jacks took his scent and ran him to
ground. The carte de invitation for this evening’s party had still been on his
dressing-table, after all.
It was foolish to have come – but without him deMorrissey had no chance of
reaching England, De-Morrissey was English, a naval officer who had been interned
at Verdun where he had learned something of interest. Holding this information to be
of more importance than his life, deMorrissey had managed to escape the walled city
and blunder into some members of the Royalist Underground who’d covered his
tracks, at least as far as Paris, But the man hadn’t a word of French, and if the
Royalist Underground had not managed to put him in touch with „Reynard,“
deMorrissey would have been dead long since. And if the Red Jacks had anything to
say about it, he might yet be.
Reynard/Wessex lifted his quizzing-glass and surveyed the room with
maddeningly languid affectation. La Belle Paris was not what she had been in the
days of Wessex’s boyhood, but to the casual observer she had made a phoenixlike
recovery from the bloody events of the „glorious“ ‘93 – at least assuming one had
no memory of her original splendor. In this modern incarnation the appointments
were a little too opulent, the talk a little too loud, and dress and manners veered
self-consciously between Republican and Imperial.
Wessex allowed his quizzing-glass to drop and nicked imaginary grains of snuff
from the lapel of his wasp-waisted celadon silk evening coat as he shook out his
ruffles. He was dressed slightly beyond the cutting edge of fashion, and on a lesser
man the mode might have appeared ridiculous, but not upon my lord Wessex. He
had me height, the carriage, the killdevil black eyes to support any freak of fashion,
and enough cold swords-edge charm to beguile any lady save Madame la
Guillotine herself.
Wessex descended the three shallow steps to the black-and-white tiled floor
Similar Books
