Part 44 (1/2)

”My husband,” she gasped. ”My Edward-”

”He is the victor, Your Grace,” said Albani, ”and he lives.”

She felt her knees buckle with relief beneath her, and Albani caught her arm, keeping her upright. She twisted enough to look back down the hill, where Edward stood, still tall and proud, clearly the victor as Albani said.

”You have brought the brooch?” he demanded. ”Come, do not torment me another minute, and tell me instead! Do you have the brooch as you promised?”

”Yes,” she said unsteadily, ”but I must go to Edward, I must-”

”You must come with me for now, Your Grace,” ordered Albani curtly, dragging her with him through the snow, back among the carriages and chaises. ”Your husband has survived one threat yes, but he is still in a different danger if you do not come with me.”

He didn't need to explain further. She knew what he wanted, and what he would do if she didn't obey. She let him hurry her into a waiting hackney, the driver starting almost before she climbed inside.

”Where are we going?” she asked, then gasped as she heard the second shot, twisting to try to see from the hackney's window. ”Oh, Edward!”

”The Duke is unharmed, Your Grace,” said Albani. ”I saw the duel. That shot is meaningless, no more than a misfire, perhaps. Now where is the French queen's diamond plume?”

Francesca sat back, bracing herself in the rocking hackney. They'd left the snow-covered gra.s.s of the park, and were on cobbles now, pa.s.sing by a rambling building that her uncle had pointed out as Whitehall. They must be coming close to the river, near to where she'd landed from the packet that first day.

”The brooch is in a most safe place,” she said. Her fingers brushed across the diamonds now, tucked deep inside her m.u.f.f, though she'd no intention of telling that to Albani yet. ”But before I can give it to you, I must have your a.s.surance that you will never spread lies about me or my husband again.”

Albani scowled, and sniffed derisively. ”A most brave demand, Your Grace. Until your message this morning, you have denied ever even having the jewel in your possession, and yet you expect a.s.surances from me now!”

The hackney lurched to a stop, snarled among the wagons and carts around the docks, but Albani didn't seem to notice. ”If you want to be certain of me, Your Grace, you must first give me the plume.”

Francesca swallowed, belatedly wis.h.i.+ng she'd asked her uncle for his advice about this as well. Last night, when she'd discovered the brooch, she'd been sure she could deal with Albani herself, but now, facing him here alone, she wasn't nearly as confident. She didn't want to live with the threat of Edward fighting another duel; she wanted this settled now, which was why she'd brought the diamond plume with her. But the jewel was all she had for bargaining, and she had to be sure before she gave it away.

”You do not even know the value of what you have,” he sneered. ”A piece like that! worn by a martyred queen, I can sell it as a relic, a memento, to an emigre who mourns Her Majesty. Or I can offer it to another who will use it as a rallying cry, a symbol against Napoleon and for the Bourbon cause. Or best of all, I can restore it to our own dear Queen Maria Carolina when His Majesty King Ferdinando is placed back on his throne, and receive the most lavish of rewards in return for my loyalty. Ah, Your Grace, you cannot guess how valuable such a piece can be to me!”

But as Francesca's fingers traced the brooch's curling outlines, she thought not of the politics these diamonds represented, but of the unhappy women who'd owned it, women caught in wars that were not their doing: of Marie Antoinette, sending the plume as her last gift to her sister in Naples, of Maria Carolina who had kept her head but lost her home and throne and her little son when she'd fled Naples; of Lady Hamilton, desperately in love with one man and married to another; and now herself, the one with the chance to be the happiest of all, if only she could save her husband this way.

”You must write a statement for me, swearing I am the same virtuous and honest woman I was known to be in Naples,” she said urgently. ”You must sign it, too, before I give you the brooch.”

”And pray, Your Grace,” he asked scornfully, ”what would I use for writing this doc.u.ment here in a hackney?”

”We can stop at an inn or tavern,” she suggested eagerly, glancing out the window. ”Surely they would have pen and paper.”

Then he smiled, the yellow teeth as ruthless as a jackal's. ”You have it with you, don't you? On your person, pinned to your s.h.i.+ft, perhaps hidden somewhere else, ah?”

His gaze flicked lower, to the m.u.f.f, and in an instant he'd grabbed the fur and jerked it from her arm. But when he'd pulled the m.u.f.f free, the brooch had remained clutched tight in her fingers. Before he could realize his mistake, she lunged for the latch on the hackney's door and shoved it open, and jumped out into the street.

”Watch yerself, miss!” shouted a carter as she ducked beneath his horse's nose and bolted across the street, her skirts and cloak flying behind her. Another horse reared at the sight of so much flapping red cloth, a woman screamed and more men swore at her, yet she didn't stop and she didn't look back, determined to escape from Albani. Ahead lay the bridge to Westminster and her uncle's house, one of the few places she recognized in London, and she raced toward it as fast as she could, her heart thumping in her breast and the diamond plume clutched tight in her fingers.

But the cobbles on the bridge's walkway still carried the glaze of snow that had frosted the gra.s.s in the park, and as she darted across her feet slipped. With a cry she tried to catch herself, but her heels tangled in her skirts and she pitched forward to the cobbles, her breath driven from her lungs but the brooch still in her hand.

”Mi scusi, mi scusi,” said Albani, pus.h.i.+ng past two marketwomen who'd bent to help Francesca. ”Excuse me, please, my ladies, and let me tend to my sister.”

Unable to catch her breath to speak, Francesca tried to pull free as he raised her, gasping, to her feet, but Albani only shook his head, and smiled sadly at the two women.

”She isn't well, my sister,” he explained in halting English. ”Some days she will claim to be an English d.u.c.h.ess! We have come here from Naples, for her to see your English doctors.”