Improbable Eden Page 6

  Oddly enough, that thought disconcerted her. She must be overtired, Eden decided, and closed her eyes as the prelude to a much-needed nap.

  Chapter Four

  Her deep slumber was interrupted by a twittering mite of a girl who was accompanied by two youths carrying an ancient wooden bathtub. The girl’s size made her seem no more than a child, but up close she appeared to be nearer Eden’s age.

  “The water’s coming,” the girl announced in an odd, faintly accented voice. She pointed to herself, a dimpled smile lighting up her round face. “I’m called Elsa.” Her lips formed the name very carefully.

  “I’m Eden. Eden Berenger. Or actually ….” She stopped, confounded as to what she should call herself and ignorant of how she should be addressed by a servant. Elsa, however, was waving her hands at the two youths, who were now bringing in the water jugs.

  “Mayhap,” suggested Eden, “you could simply call me—”

  Elsa was shaking her head vigorously, and though she smiled as widely as before, she pointed to her ears. “I can’t hear. I’m quite deaf.”

  “Oh!” To hide her embarrassment, Eden moved to the tub and tested the water. “Just fine,” she shouted. Then, getting no response save the dauntless smile, she dipped a hand into the tub and nodded her approval.

  “May I help?” asked Elsa as the youths went out, empty water jugs slung over their shoulders.

  Since the only attention Eden could recall having received while taking a bath were the attempts of the other Berenger children to drown her, the offer came as a pleasant surprise. Dispensing with modesty, she allowed the maid to assist her, and at last relaxed in the soothing water while Elsa carried on a chirruping monologue.

  “My father was a Dutch sailor, my mother English. Poor Papa drowned, and Mama married again, a farmer from Dedham Vale in Suffolk. The land there is like Holland, flat, low, but pretty. Some days I miss it. But Prince Max, he is kind, and oh, so handsome, hey? Yet he’s a melancholy sort, with sadness in his eyes … such a pity.”

  Elsa’s description of Max piqued Eden’s interest, but she didn’t know how to put a question to the little deaf maid. As Eden wrapped herself in a fleecy towel, Elsa explained that she could read lips if a person spoke slowly and clearly.

  “Or,” she said, making motions with her hands, “you do this. It’s sign language, so people who can’t speak or hear can talk. Clever, no?”

  Eden had never heard of such a thing, but found the idea intriguing. “You must teach me,” she said, forming the words with great care.

  Again, Elsa beamed at Eden. “Of course. We will have many fine talks together.” With a decisive nod, she quit the chamber, hauling the bathtub behind her.

  Left by herself, Eden sat at the Venetian mirror and frowned at her image. The damp tangle of her claret curls nestled on her bare shoulders, her skin glowed from its recent scrubbing, and the lavender peignoir that Elsa had found looked well with her coloring. Yet she was not content with her appearance. The brief glimpses she’d had of London ladies made her feel inadequate. Their clothes, coiffures, and jewels enhanced even those on whom Nature had skimped. Eden rearranged the peignoir’s folds this way and that, artfully posing for the best effect. With an audacious tug, she pulled the fabric down just enough to reveal a hint of décolletage. Madame Berenger would have been scandalized by such a blatant display; Eden giggled in spite of herself. She didn’t hear Max open the door.

  “A pearl hung in that valley would be even more alluring.”

  Eden yanked the peignoir up to her neck and whirled to see Max’s tall, athletic figure leaning against the door frame. She expected to find mockery in his eyes, but he was quite serious. “How long have you been standing there?” she breathed. “Didn’t you knock?”

  “The door was ajar. And,” he added, making his leisurely way into the room, “it is my house.”

  Eden turned to the mirror and swallowed. “True,” she said, watching their images in the glass. Max was standing directly behind her, one hand resting idly on the back of her chair.

  “That shade is good, although I suspect your skin has too much color, and your hair needs taming.” He was eyeing her critically, his hand holding a thick tress up to the candlelight. “I don’t know much about fashion or fripperies, though. You shall have to be given advice by experts.”

  “For what?” Eden’s face puckered. Max was still toying with her hair; the gesture unsettled her. “I thought we were going to get His Lordship released. What difference does it make if my skin has too much color and my hair looks like a haystack?”

  Max didn’t reply immediately, but continued to study the shimmering strand that lay across his big palm. “Haystack? What?” He let go of her hair and backed off a few paces, then scowled. “We can’t get Jack out. He’s being formally charged this very afternoon. King William, damn his stubborn Dutch hide, is convinced that Marlborough is a Jacobite supporter and has been up to his ears in plotting to bring James back to England. Here,” he said, pulling a folded piece of paper out of his linen shirt. “This message just came from the Tower. You can read, can’t you?”

  Eden snatched the paper from Max’s hand. “Like a proper Sunday parson,” she retorted, but lost her verve as she skimmed the letter. “This is from His Lordship!” she exclaimed, heedless of how the lavender peignoir had managed to slip off one shoulder. “He minimizes the seriousness of his plight, yet it’s quite clear that this is a grievous matter. What shall we do?” She turned anxious eyes to Max.

  Max’s lips twitched. “We?” His glance strayed to the naked shoulder, then fixed resolutely on the letter Eden held in her slim hands. Having taken on the responsibility for her, he must maintain a proper distance. Eden was far too inclined to familiarity, a natural result of her background. Ironically, Max considered himself a very informal person. The situation was awkward at best, even dangerous. Indeed, Max told himself as he made a conscious effort to avoid staring at the tempting rise of her breast above the lavender silk, if he considered Jack like an older brother, then he must think of Eden as a cousin. Or better yet, a sister. “You’re right, of course,” he agreed. “It’s a mutual endeavor. Jack also sent this.” He extracted another, smaller piece of paper. “In his absence, I am assuming the task of your tutelage. Considering the gravity of the situation, we must waste no time.”

  “Doing what?” Eden asked testily. Her bare feet had grown cold, and she stood up, keeping the peignoir clutched tightly against her body.

  Max hesitated, his eyes unable to avoid the soft curves under the clinging peignoir. She was unschooled in courtly manners, but he should be pleased that she was at least a delectable little morsel. Her enticing appearance would make his job much easier. Once she was groomed to seduce the King, he could forget about her and concentrate on Marlborough. And on his own future, he reminded himself, and was annoyed to discover that he had lost his train of thought.

  “Well?” demanded Eden, slipping into a pair of black satin mules and sitting down on a little bench that had feet that looked like lions’ paws. Deliberately she yanked the hem of her peignoir out of Max’s way. “You haven’t answered me. Sir,” she amended hastily. Despite Max’s imposing presence, Eden was having trouble remembering that he was socially superior, even to Jack Churchill’s daughter.

  “Your lessons, of course.” Max became brusque, taking the letters from Eden and putting them inside his shirt. His scowl reappeared, and he sampled a plate of smoked salmon that Vrouw de Koch had left on a small chased silver stand. “Music, dancing, riding, how to dress, deport yourself, engage in courtly banter ….”

  “All that to entice one scrawny man?” Eden tossed her damp hair over her shoulders, discovered that the peignoir had slipped and decorously tugged it into place. “If I’m to be a concubine, why don’t you teach me how to … to ….” Face reddening, Eden broke off, her Huguenot upbringing not allowing her to complete the thought. “What else does a courtesan need to know?” she added.

 
; The scowl deepened as Max downed another slice of salmon and fixed Eden with a glacial stare. “You are a bumpkin. You know nothing of life among your betters. Being mistress to the King is a great honor.”

  Eden sniffed. “Not according to Maman. She says it’s only vile Papists and their imitators who make adultery fashionable. She also says they’ll go to hell in a hand basket.”

  Polishing off the last bit of salmon, Max kept his level gaze on Eden’s righteous face and wondered how anyone so beguiling could be such a dunderhead. “Do you think King Charles went to hell?”

  Eden thrust out her lower lip. “No. But Charles was different.”

  “Nonsense.” He plucked up the linen napkin that had been resting on the silver stand and wiped his hands. “Charles, like most great men, indulged himself. Look at James in exile, or Louis of France. The women fairly fight for places in their beds.”

  The image Max had created conjured up a far different picture than he had intended. Eden giggled, envisioning Europe’s greatest beauties scrambling around in various royal boudoirs, beating each other over the head with satin bolsters while the object of their affections sat in majestic comfort, awaiting the evening’s victor.

  “Eden ….” Max made no effort to keep the exasperation from his voice. “You must be more serious.”

  “Oh, my … yes, but ….” She gasped, bringing her laughter under control. “I’m afraid I’m not a very serious person.”

  “I realize that.” He sighed, taking in the merry, gamin features and the dark dancing eyes. Suppressing Eden’s ebullient nature was going to be difficult. William of Orange was a solemn sort, not given to mirth except when drinking late into the night with his Dutch cronies. But for Max, the hardest part was his discovery that Eden’s good humor was contagious. For a man who had seldom laughed in the past four years, the revelation came as a not entirely welcome shock. It did not seem right that any form of happiness should intrude upon his grief.

  “As you will,” he conceded. “Amorous conduct can have its comic side. But Jack’s predicament is grim. He expects you to help him.”

  Composed at last, Eden nodded. “I know. I’m to blame, in a way, having been what drew him to Kent and into suspicion.” Guiltily she cast around for a way to prove her good intentions. “Can anyone else help us? What about my … mother? Should I call on her?”

  Max stifled his initial reaction. It had always appalled him that such a notorious harlot should have dared to mate with that model of honor and refinement, Jack Churchill. Yet, on the heels of his lecture to Eden, he could hardly admit as much. “Let’s see how Jack feels about that,” he temporized.

  “If you say so,” agreed a more docile Eden. Max and Marlborough had to be right. Being the King’s mistress must be a prestigious post. As a child, she had witnessed firsthand the approval bestowed upon Charles’s favorites. Only in the straitlaced confines of her Huguenot home would such a vocation be considered immoral. And Marlborough’s future, if not his very life, was at risk. She owed him her very existence. Still, the idea of those tedious tutors hung over her like a dead weight, especially the riding lessons.

  “I don’t like horses,” she began, but was stunned into silence by the crash of the window casement across the room.

  Eden screamed as Max leaped to his feet. Amid the shards of glass and bits of wood, a man tumbled onto the carpet, blood streaming from his hands. Max instinctively went for his sword, only to discover that he hadn’t bothered to put it on. In three great strides he had reached the intruder and set a foot on his neck.

  “What knavery is this?” he demanded, glancing at the window to make sure no one else was about to descend upon them. “Speak, man!”

  “Stay!” gasped the interloper, trying to move his neck from under Max’s heel. “Mercy! My life is in danger!”

  “It is indeed,” muttered Max, but he took his foot away and reached down to haul the man into a sitting position. Slivers of glass fell to the floor, along with a few wood splinters. Max frowned as he recognized the uniform of a King’s cavalryman. “Well? Who are you? And why this violent entry?”

  The man stood, and managed on shaky legs to reach the chair by the dressing table. “Captain Thomas Craswell at your service, sir,” the man said, still fighting for breath. “I was being pursued along the rooftops. I …” he stopped, closed his eyes and covered his bloodied face with trembling hands.

  Max went to the door and called for brandy. Master Van de Weghe was already on the scene, apparently having heard the crash. “Later,” Max said tersely in response to his hofmeester’s inquiry about the noise. Turning, Max noted that Eden was busying herself with a basin of water and strips of linen.

  “Sit still,” she told Craswell quietly, wincing at the drops of blood on the exquisite embroidered cushion.

  Craswell suffered her ministrations with only a grimace or two, but opened his eyes when Max proffered the brandy. Heer Van de Weghe, upon his master’s instructions, had gone outside to look for any suspicious strangers. Craswell, meanwhile, had been overcome with a coughing fit as he drank the strong liquid.

  Eden raised the man’s hands high above his head and gazed vexedly at Max. “He drank too fast. Some of that brandy should be applied to his cuts. It helps, you know.”

  Max ignored her comments and turned to Craswell, who had got himself under control. “Come now, Captain, who was pursuing you—and why?”

  Small blue eyes focused under sandy brows, then shied away from Max’s compelling gaze. “ ’Tis terrible … terrible,” muttered Craswell, before darting another glance in Max’s direction. “I was on my way to see Milord Bentinck, the Earl of Portland—though how that may be when he’s as Dutch as Edam cheese, I’ll never—” Craswell caught himself and made a feeble effort at a sheepish grin. “Pardon, Your Highness, I forgot you’re a foreigner, too.”

  “But no relation to Bentinck. Yet,” Max added under his breath, provoking a curious stare from Eden. “Go on.”

  “There was a plot,” Craswell continued, “hatched by the Jacobites to assassinate King William. It was known that he hunted every Saturday, returning by way of Turnham Green. He’d be done in, as it were, when he crossed the river. Simple, eh?” Craswell spread his now bandaged hands, the snifter propped up between knees and chest.

  Max reined in his impatience. “I’ve heard some of this already. What has it to do with you? Or with me, for that matter?”

  Craswell stroked his sharp nose. “I was among the conspirators.” He shot Max a defensive look. “I worked for Sir John Fenwick. But another of us, one Pendergrass, went to Milord Bentinck and warned him in the nick o’ time. Now I’m duty-bound to tell my part, too. As for your friend, Marlborough, he’s innocent. I was at Dover to light the signal fire to alert King James.”

  Max folded his arms across his chest and looked as inflexible as steel. “Will you so testify before the King?” Max queried.

  Craswell wriggled uncomfortably. “Isn’t it enough to tell Bentinck? I almost died for my noble sentiments.”

  “No.” Max was emphatic. “You must tell His Majesty face-to-face. That’s the only way to convince him of Marlborough’s innocence. Who was chasing you over the rooftops of Westminster?”

  Craswell shrugged. “Except for Fenwick, you wouldn’t have heard of them. Jacobites all, but small fry. Mostly northerners from Yorkshire and Northumberland, the usual Papist dupes.”

  Max poured brandy for himself and looked thoughtful. “Where is Pendergrass now?”

  “Gone to ground, I suppose, waiting to see which way the wind blows. He doesn’t know yet if he’s a villain or a hero, same as me.” The immediate fear for his life apparently on the wane, Craswell spared an appreciative glance for Eden. “Her Ladyship here, I take it, is privy to Marlborough’s business?”

  “Yes.” The single syllable erupted between Max’s lips like a rifle volley. Flushing, Eden turned away and busied herself with putting the stopper in the brandy decanter. No one spoke until Ma
ster Van de Weghe appeared, announcing Rudolf, Count Hohenstaufen of Swabia.

  Max muttered an oath at the prospect of seeing his loathsome cousin and downed his brandy in a gulp. “What’s he doing here?” He set down the glass and gestured at his hofmeester. “Keep him below stairs, in the withdrawing room.”

  But Max was too late. Rudolf cruised over the threshold, brandishing a gold and ivory walking stick. He was almost as tall as Max and possessed the same fair coloring, but his features were less defined. He had a tenaciously boyish air, though Eden guessed him to be close to thirty. If Max seemed disinclined to laughter, Rudolf looked as if his smile had been applied with permanent paint. Despite herself, Eden cringed when the Count looked her way.

  “Such excitement, cousin! Imprisonment in the Tower, Jacobite conspiracies, and now, I’m told, visitors streaming through the windows. Pray introduce me, Max, you know how uneasy I am among strangers.”

  Eden thought she could detect Max grinding his teeth. “Milord,” she interposed, dropping as deep a curtsy as she could manage in the lavender dressing gown, “you’ve caught us in dishabille! Allow me to introduce myself and my brother. I’m Eden Berenger, and this,” she went on with an airy wave at the mystified Craswell, “is Gerard. He was wounded at Namur.”

  “And more recently than that,” murmured Rudolf, taking in the bandages on Craswell’s hands and face. “This fellow,” he asked pointedly, “is your brother, Mistress?”

  Eden beamed at the Count. “He followed me from Kent. We’re a very close family.” She edged closer to Craswell and put a hand on his shoulder. “Naturally, he was upset to learn I’d been arrested.”

  “Naturally,” remarked Rudolf dryly. Despite the smile, his blue eyes were hard as he studied Craswell, then turned to Max. “It appears your charity is boundless when it comes to offering shelter to members of the—what’s the name? Berenger?—family, Max.”