Trapped at the Altar

Ivor unrolled it, and as he began to read, his brow creased. “I don’t understand. Lord Daunt seems to be abjuring the Catholic faith, offering himself to King Charles as a loyal subject. His granddaughter, now married to a staunch Protestant and therefore obliged to embrace her husband’s loyalties, is his representative . . . a loyal Protestant.” He looked up at Rolf. “Why?”

Rolf’s smile was thin as, without answering, he took another scroll from the casket. “In the event of his majesty’s death and the ascension of the Duke of York to the throne, you will present this to King James.”

Ivor read and shook his head. “This is so duplicitous. I, as the son-in-law of an ancient Catholic family, am to swear fealty to a Catholic king on behalf of my wife.”

“Duplicitous, maybe, but Lord Daunt’s greatest wish was to reestablish our family’s position. And that is now mine and therefore yours. You will go to the court at Whitehall, you will present your credentials to King Charles, and you will also encourage Ariadne to make friends in the Duke of York’s court.”

“I understand.” Ivor tucked the scrolls into the pocket inside his jerkin. “Why now? Why not last year or the year before?”

Rolf shook his head. “Had I had my way, it would have happened as soon as Ariadne passed her twelfth birthday and was of marriageable age, but my father would not consider it until he felt she was old enough to understand the complexities.” He took a draught from his tankard. “I doubt she has the wit to understand properly now. However, this has been long in the planning, starting, of course, with your adoption. My father planned a perfect couple, with appropriate credentials, to play the cards dealt them. It is your time now.”

“I see. And what of this talk of the King’s bastard, the Duke of Monmouth? If he succeeds in his bid for the succession, then we have no credentials here”—Ivor patted his jerkin—“to give us credit in a successful rebellion.”

“Should Monmouth mount an armed rebellion in the event of the Duke of York’s succession, and should he succeed in defeating the King’s armies, then you, as a Chalfont, will declare yourself for the new Protestant monarch and carry your wife and her family’s loyalties with you. Do you see?”

“I see I must perfect the art of the turncoat,” Ivor said grimly.

“Indeed, you must.” Rolf nodded a curt dismissal, and Ivor took himself off into the refreshingly clean air.

It wasn’t that he had any particularly strong affinity with either side in this battle of religions, but he disliked intensely the expectation that he would play both ends against the middle. And he disliked even more the knowledge that as far as the Daunts were concerned, he was merely a pawn in their game, to be moved around the board as they saw fit.

He knew that Daunt valley lived only by its own rules, but he had never been concerned by the knowledge during his growing. Now he had to take a position. Did he play their game without a conscience, or did he decide where his loyalties and inclinations lay without reference to the position Lord Daunt expected him to take?

And Ari? Did she have an opinion? They had both been groomed for this play, and only now did it occur to Ivor that they did not have to allow themselves to be manipulated on Lord Daunt’s chessboard. Once they were free of the valley, they could actually play the game any way it suited them. Lord Daunt’s reach was a long one but surely not long enough to extend into the royal court at Whitehall. News traveled slowly; if his pawns decided to play by their own rules, it would be a long time before Rolf realized it. And by that time, who knew what the power play would be?

Old Lord Daunt, Ari’s grandfather, had left out of his calculations the consideration that maybe his chosen players might decide to act according to the dictates of their consciences rather than the dictates of pragmatism. Ivor was by no means sure what his conscience would dictate once he was immersed in the tangled manipulations and deceptions of political life, but he intended to discover and make his own choices accordingly. And from what he knew of Ariadne, she would feel the same way.

? ? ?

Ariadne stood patiently as the final pinning and tucking took place. She had no mirror long enough to see how she looked in her new finery but could imagine from the way her carefully fitted garments felt. She was aware of a sense of elegance, a very new feeling for one who was accustomed to tumbling about the countryside, concerned only that her clothes should not hinder her movements.

“Very handsome.”

Surprised, Ari looked towards the door. Ivor stood there with an appreciative gleam in his deep blue eyes. “Oh, do you think so?” She turned with a swish of her skirts, a little movement indicative of feminine vanity that brought a smile to his lips.

“Most certainly.” He came into the room, letting the door close behind him. She looked enchanting, he thought, in a deep red velvet riding habit, her tiny waist accentuated by the long braided jacket. The high collar of a ruffled white shirt seemed to lift her small and very determined chin, and the rich folds of her velvet skirts shaped the soft curve of her hips.

Ivor was startled by a sudden surge of desire. He had shared a bed with Ari but he had kept himself scrupulously separate, in both mind and body. Now there was no reason he should not anticipate losing that division. Now he could look at his wife with the eyes of a desiring husband, not just those of a disappointed friend.

Ariadne felt the change in his eyes, the sudden jolt of awareness. And it set up an answering awareness in herself. Her skin tingled, and she straightened her knees as if they were buckling beneath her. Something seemed to be shifting; the safe ground on which she had always trodden with Ivor had grown untrustworthy. It threatened to move beneath her at any moment. He had looked at her countless times over the years, made teasing comments on her appearance, and she had never responded in this strange nervous fashion. She swallowed and said with a little laugh that sounded false to her ears, “You should see the hat. It is a positive confection. Pass it to me, Tilly.”

Tilly lifted the wide-brimmed black felt hat, resplendent with gold braid and three white plumes, and arranged it carefully on Ari’s dark head. She tilted her head for Ivor’s inspection. “What do you think? Will it not make me the talk of London?”

“I rather suspect you won’t need a hat to do that,” he commented. “Just be yourself, and you’ll set the town on its ears.”

“I am not sure that’s a compliment,” she said.

He laughed. “Well, it was not intended as an insult, let’s put it that way.” He crossed the room to the table, where the dressmakers’ work was piled in an overflowing cascade of rich velvets, embroidered silks, and figured damasks. “Dear God, this lot is considered merely a traveling wardrobe?” He lifted a gown of bronze silk, the bodice embroidered with seed pearls. “I can’t see you wearing this in a country hostelry . . . assuming we’re lucky enough to find one and don’t have to bed down in a hedgerow ditch,” he added.

“Lord, Sir Ivor, what do you know about what a rich lady needs?” Tilly demanded. “There’s nothing here that Miss Ari won’t be needin’ on such a long journey. Lord Daunt said no expense to be spared. Miss Ari’s to hold her own with any other rich lady traveling the same road.”