Mouse gave one last self-satisfied bark, happy to have chased him off.
Vale bent and petted the dog, muttering something to Mouse that made his tail wag.
Melisande breathed a sigh of relief and strolled to the two males. “What did you say to Timothy?”
Vale straightened and turned entirely too-innocent eyes on her. “What?”
“Jasper!”
“Oh, all right, but it wasn’t much. I requested that he not visit my aunt.”
“Requested?”
A satisfied smile was playing about his mouth. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing Mr. Timothy Holden or his wife here again.”
She sighed, secretly pleased at his concern for her feelings. “Was that entirely necessary?”
He took her arm and replied softly, “Oh, yes, my heart, oh, yes.”
Then he was leading her toward Aunt Esther and calling, “We have returned, Aunt, and we bring news of the reclusive Sir Alistair!”
Chapter Seventeen
The next day, the king announced a final trial. A golden ring was hidden in a cavern deep underground and guarded by a fire-breathing dragon. Well, Jack put on his suit of night and wind and took up the sharpest sword in the world, and soon enough he stood at the entrance to the cavern. The dragon came roaring out, and Jack had quite a battle, I can tell you, for the dragon was very big. Back and forth they fought, all through the day. It was almost nightfall when the dragon finally lay dead and Jack held the golden ring in his hand. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
A week later, Melisande walked in Hyde Park with Mouse. They’d arrived back in London only the night before. The journey from Scotland had been uneventful—saving for a horrible meal of cabbage and beef on the third day. Last night, Melisande had made a pallet in a corner of her room, and Vale had slept with her there all night. It was an odd a?abbrrangement, she knew, but she was so glad to have him with her, sleeping next to her, that she didn’t care. If she had to make her bed on the floor for the rest of her life, it would be fine with her. Suchlike had given the pallet a curious glance but hadn’t said anything. Perhaps Mr. Pynch had informed her of Lord Vale’s strange sleeping habits.
The wind fluttered her skirts as she walked. Vale had gone to speak with Mr. Horn this morning, probably about Spinner’s Falls. Melisande frowned a little at the thought. She’d hoped that after talking to Sir Alistair, he’d give up the chase, perhaps find some peace. But he was just as intent as ever. Most of the ride back to London he’d theorized and plotted and told and retold her his ideas of who the traitor might be. Melisande had sat and worked her embroidery, but inside, her heart was sinking. What was the likelihood that Vale could discover the man after all these years? And if he couldn’t find the traitor, what then? Would he spend the rest of his life in a fruitless search?
A shout interrupted her gloomy thoughts. She looked up in time to see Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s little boy, Jamie, embracing Mouse. The dog licked the child’s face enthusiastically. Evidently he remembered Jamie. His sister carefully bent to pat Mouse’s head as well.
“Good day,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam called. She had been standing a little apart from her children. Now she strolled over. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”
Melisande smiled. “Yes, it is.”
They stood side by side, watching the children and the dog for a bit.
Mrs. Fitzwilliam heaved a sigh. “I ought to get Jamie a dog. He begs for one most piteously. But His Grace can’t abide animals. They make him sneeze, and he says they’re dirty.”
Melisande was a little surprised at the casual mention of the other woman’s protector, but she tried to hide it. “Dogs are rather dirty sometimes.”
“Mmm. I expect so, but then so are boys.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam wrinkled her nose, which only made her lovely face more adorable. “And, really, it’s not as if he visits us very much anymore. Hardly once a month in the last year. I expect he has gotten himself another woman, like an Ottoman sultan. They keep ladies like sheep in a herd—the Ottomans, I mean. I believe they call it a harem.”
Melisande could feel herself blushing, and she looked down at her toes.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said. “I’ve embarrassed you, haven’t I? I’m always saying the wrong thing, especially when I’m nervous. His Grace used to say that I should always keep my lips firmly together, because it spoiled the illusion when I opened them.”
“What illusion?”
“Of perfection.”
Melisande blinked. “What an awful thing to say.”
Mrs. Fitzwilliam cocked her head to the side, as if considering. “It is, isn’t it? I didn’t realize it at the time, I think. I was very much in awe of him when we first met. But then I was very young too. Only seventeen.”
Melisande truly wished she could ask the other woman how she had beco“ow seme the Duke of Lister’s mistress, but she was afraid of the answer.