Page 11 of Brilliance and Betrayal (The Diamond of the Ton Regency Mysteries #1)

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“A lady should never entertain male visitors in her bedroom under any circumstances, as this would invite scandal. Even female friends should be admitted sparingly and only when the room is suitably tidy.”

—Reflections of Grace: A Guide to Etiquette

C harity had loved Atholl House from the first moment she had walked through the door. Truth be told, even before then, for she had often admired it while perambulating around Grosvenor Square. Spanning five floors, with tall sash windows that gleamed like polished mirrors and a marble-columned entryway that echoed with footsteps, the stately home had more than enough space for its single occupant.

Or at least Charity had so thought before she woke to Lord Fitzroy staring down at her in bed in the dead of night.

The state of Atholl House now was better described as one of frenzied madness. The silence was disrupted by the hurried shuffle of maids and the occasional clatter of dropped crockery. Her servants were too well-trained to breathe a word of their concern within earshot, but Charity could hardly fail to notice how they dogged her footsteps, standing braced for what she would do next now that Lord Fitzroy—the house’s invader—was expected to visit.

“There is no need for you to escort me around the house, Mr Pritchard,” Charity reassured the butler, her words almost too bright. “Surely your attention must be required somewhere else.”

His eyes were pale and flinty as they scanned her face. Her butler was a man who took duty far too seriously. “Nothing is more important than seeing to your safety and comfort, Your Grace.”

“I am safe enough. I would be more comfortable if I could have some quiet time for myself—in the privacy of my chambers.”

Her butler had been part of the ducal household since King George III took the throne, hired by the duke’s second wife. His loyalty was absolute, and he cared not one whit that Charity had played wife for barely more than two weeks before the previous duke died. The duke had chosen Charity, and that was enough for him to hold her in esteem.

Charity had counted his dedicated service as a point in the house’s favour. Now, she was… less sure.

Mr Pritchard carried on, heedless of his mistress’s waning patience. “I have personally checked the latches on every window and door on the ground floor, Your Grace. The stableboys will take turns guarding the back gates. A footman will be on round the clock duty at the front door. Mrs Potts has her iron skillet ready, having promised repelling invaders is no more daunting than frying eggs. No one shall enter Atholl House without my approval.”

“And Lord Fitzroy?—”

“Will be invited inside when Your Grace is ready to meet with him. He is still outside, waiting in his carriage.”

Good. Call her petty, but he was due a reminder that this was her home. He shouldn’t have taken the liberty of invading through her window. She would decide when he would be allowed in to wait.

“In that case, that will be all, Mr Pritchard. I will ring for my maid when I am up to receiving callers.” Charity employed her mother’s trick of lifting her head just high enough to remind the servants who was in charge, and then she swung open her bedroom door.

“ Eek !” A tiny screech slipped from her mouth, drawing a smirk from the man lounging in her sitting room beside the obviously opened window.

Behind her, her butler lurched forward. She spun around and held out a hand to stop him, angling her body to prevent him from seeing into her room. “Silly me! Just a bird on the windowsill. I overreacted. You may go, Mr Pritchard.”

The old butler searched her face, but eventually followed her command. Charity scooted into her chambers, closed the door behind herself, and then crossed her arms over her chest.

Combed and polished and looking not at all as though he had been troubled by the idea of climbing into the second floor of her home, Lord Fitzroy smiled cattily at her. As if he was amused that she hadn’t told her proud butler all his efforts had been in vain.

She stifled her urge to see him tossed from her home, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of turning her house into a circus again.

Lord Fitzroy was reclining languidly on the pale pink velvet upholstered chaise lounge by the window as though he were some ancient deity waiting to be served. All he needed was a tray of grapes and pitcher of wine at his side, and he could be mistaken for Caravaggio’s Bacchus. The pink velvet seemed almost insulted by his rakish sprawl, his muddy boots leaving smudges on its otherwise pristine surface.

His smug smirk was a challenge—a weapon he wielded with infuriating ease.

“Your boots are getting dirt on the velvet,” she barked a harsh whisper, choosing to skip straight past any questions as to why he was inside her house.

“So sorry about that,” he drawled in a low voice, though he did not move his feet. “You should ask a housemaid to leave a mat near the window so I might clean my boots on my way in.”

“Perhaps you might consider using the front door like any other gentleman of the ton .”

“Challenging when the lady forgets I came at her own invitation. I did warn you that I am a staunch believer in the Golden Rule, so you have no right to be surprised when I treat you the way you treat me.”

Because he was right, abruptly she was embarrassed, and then angry. How did this villain manage to have the ability to set her temper alight with the ease of lighting a candle?

“You wish to follow rules?” she hissed as quietly as possible. “I was trying to impress upon you that this is my home . Which was what you had forgotten two nights ago when you entered without an invitation.”

He smiled wickedly, which only served to remind her that he had seen her undressed, and she felt her face grow hotter. His voice dropped even lower, a quiet rumble. “I suppose it could be argued that was rather ill-done of me. On the other hand, I did give you the chance to stab me for it. And in my defence, it felt necessary at the time, so I hope you will forgive me if I am not too sorry.”

She snorted. “You should be sorry. I cannot believe you thought I was the one to poison the prince and princess. I would have to be… lunatic.”

The blackguard actually rolled his eyes at her. “It was a possibility that crossed my mind. Maybe if you had chosen a different time to inform me you were going to burn my life to ashes, I would not have jumped to such an erroneous conclusion.”

Then he considered Charity from his position, eyebrows raised. “You thought I poisoned the prince. Did you think that made me the lunatic?”

“No,” Charity muttered. Vile mastermind like your mother, perhaps.

“Dreadfully sorry. I am afraid I did not catch that. Could you say it louder?”

She made her hands into fists. “If we raise our voices, my servants will be beating down this door.”

Abruptly he stood, taking two steps to close the distance between them. He didn’t touch her—but his body was so close she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. “Then say your words now,” he murmured, his breath tickling her ear.

Gooseflesh pebbled her skin. Part of her was horrified he could have such an effect on her body still. There had been such a strange alchemy between them since they had first met in on a balcony during an event before the season. After they had finally been introduced and she had learned his name, that had immediately ended any hope of an association.

That… had been for the best, or so she told herself. But there was another, darker part of her that was reminded of the way she felt like she had come alive that evening last year. The same part that remembered him looming above her in the dark in her room, and it was growing curious about what it might be like to know a man in the ways that sometimes she heard her maids whisper about.

“No,” she said again, and steeling herself, she stepped backwards. Unfortunately the wall at her back only granted her a few inches. “Bent on trouble, certainly. People who are not in control of their faculties would not be so… careful not to kill the prince.”

Fitzroy searched her eyes, his breath feathering against her temple. “A curious compliment. I think. Are you finally ready to—how did you put it? Open doors for me rather than throw them shut in my face?”

“Since we must.” He was still looming, and it was making it hard to think. She put her hands on his chest to make space between them. “Lord Fitzroy, we have to associate with one another. We are acting in concert for a purpose. I do not want people to think we are friends. And you cannot barge into my rooms like this.”

“Then you will mind your manners like a civilised acquaintance in public, and invite me to a parlour like a reasonable host.” He shrugged as if this was simple.

“We also cannot keep secrets from one another,” she insisted, feeling as though she was losing control over this negotiation.

“If you ask for the impossible, you will only be disappointed. Not all secrets can be freely shared, and you do not have the right to demand I give you mine.”

“You consider yourself an honourable man, do you?” her voice was sharp.

“As difficult as it may be for you to believe… yes, actually, I do. As do you, else you would not ask me to abide by rules you think I will not keep. Or I would lie to you and tell you what you want to hear. How about this: I will not keep a secret that might prevent you from finding the guilty party. Or do anything that might impede your investigation.”

Though her heart was pounding, she gave that compromise the consideration it deserved. It might do. “Fine.”

“Are you done?”

“I have other rules,” she blurted in a rush. “You cannot touch me.”

He pointedly looked down at his chest where her hands were still pushing him away, and then his eyes moved upwards to her hair, as if remembering the touches as vividly as she did. She couldn’t let a man do that again. It had left her feeling exposed, vulnerable—and, to her eternal shame, wanting.

Tracing a line in the air above her hands with one of his fingers, he gave her an impish look. “Sparkles, you are blushing. I wonder what you are thinking about. Are you glad you will not have to tell me your secret?”

He could wonder ‘til the sun went cold. She yanked her hands away before he could call her on breaking the rule about touching and slapped them over her cheeks. “You also need to respect my title, Lord Fitzroy. No more calling me that… ridiculous name.”

Fitzroy pretended so sarcastically to ponder that she knew there was going to be trouble. “Mmm… no.”

The warm wash of pleasure the idea of that gave her was absurd. “You must,” she insisted. “It will attract too much attention in public.”

“I will do in public spaces what must be done. When we are alone it will be a different story.”

The emphasis on the word alone made her spine tingle. Charity wasn’t sure what expression was on her face, but it amused Fitzroy hugely. “I hope you mean that regarding the name, and not the rest of the rules.”

“I did. But if you decide you want to change your mind…”

Heaven forbid. “Joining forces was a terrible idea,” she gritted, wanting nothing more than to go back and inform the Queen that she could not work with this flirting miscreant. As the thought crossed her mind, she stopped, narrowing her eyes. The sneaky devil. He was badgering her on purpose so that she would go to Queen Charlotte and do just that.

Charity snapped her focus back to the present. Fitzroy was still watching her, his infuriatingly unreadable expression back in place instead of the libertine leer. His expression had changed so thoroughly, it felt uncanny. A chill brushed down her arms, and she wondered if he had pretended everything.

She dug her nails into her palms to stop herself from smoothing her hair or crossing her arms over her chest. She refused to let him see that he’d shaken her composure.

“Fine. Do as you feel you must when we are alone. As long as you do act appropriately in public, it matters not,” she said, her voice brittle. “You agreed to more than I thought you would. Shall I codify our rules on paper and have us both sign?” Charity pointed at the paper and pen she had left sitting on the small table.

Fitzroy gave her a disbelieving look and then he laughed almost silently. Charity’s face heated again, but this time she felt stupid instead of… something else. Of course he was laughing at her. If she thought he wouldn’t honour a spoken agreement, why would he abide by a written one?

His rapidly changing expressions, not knowing what he was really thinking or feeling, left her feeling like her stomach was hovering more towards her navel. She changed the subject. “I started a list of people we might want to question.”

Peregrine released her from her position against the wall, retrieving a scrap of paper from her desk. He unfolded it, allowing Charity to see the swirly loops of her own handwriting. “ Viscount de Vries, Lord Musgrove, Sir Harris Wycombe… this reads more like a list of candidates for marriage. I must suggest you aim higher than a lowly baron, Duchess.”

“That is my list of suspects,” she said, quashing the annoyance that threatened to resurface. “Everyone on the list has quite publicly stated their opposition to the royal match. I will leave it to you to indicate which ones might have a quarrel with either you or your mama.”

Peregrine raised his eyebrows and went back to studying the names. After a moment of silence, he balled it up and tossed it into the fireplace.

“What—wait, what are you doing? You did not even read them all,” Charity complained.

“They would make sense only if we lived in a chapbook. Even you believed I might only be bent on trouble. Admit it. This was not the work of an amateur. A real villain would not announce his intentions to the world before committing a crime.”

Charity crossed her arms over her chest. “You thought I announced my intentions to you.”

He smiled—a real one, however brief. “But only to me, and all works of genius require an audience to properly appreciate it.”

Indifferent one moment, warm the next. It was enough to drive her to madness. “I suppose you have a better recommendation of where to start, then? One of your gentlemen’s clubs or some gaming hell where I am not welcome?”

“In fact, I do know where we need to start. This door will not be barred against you, but as to whether you will come inside? Well… we will see.” He approached her and the door she was hovering in front of, stretching his arms like a cat rising from its morning nap. His chest came dangerously close to brushing against Charity’s crossed arms. Somehow, she did not think that was an accident. However, true to his word, he did not touch her. “Shall we go?”

She hurried to stay ahead of him, desperately hoping that they might somehow make it downstairs and out the front door without passing any of her servants. She made it as far as the landing before she crossed paths with Mr Pritchard. He opened his mouth to bellow for help, but she cut him off before he got out a word.

“Lord Fitzroy and I are going out. Would you please let one of the upstairs maids know that there is a spot of dust on the chaise lounge?”

The butler held her gaze for a moment. Charity did not so much as blink.

“Of course, Your Grace. Wait just a moment and I will get your wrap and gloves.”

The butler did not need to voice his misgivings. All the voices in Charity’s head were in agreement. Riding alone in a carriage with a Fitzroy was a terrible idea of the first order. She hurried across the pavement and climbed inside, flicking the curtains closed while he joined her. When he sat on the bench next to her, she burned him to bits with a fiery glare.

“Apologies. I must have misinterpreted your reasons for wanting privacy.” Then he winked at her as the carriage lurched into motion.

Charity rolled through a litany of nicknames, each more slanderous than the last, but could not decide which one suited him best. It had to be accurate and unexpected. She had not yet landed on a solution when the carriage rolled to a stop.

She shifted the curtain aside and studied her surroundings. In preparation for her own debut, she had memorised each important lineage in Debrett’s and their holdings. It took her a moment of concentration to recall the name of the occupant. A face swam up from the recesses—it matched the woman who had been parading around Prinny’s garden party on Fitzroy’s arm.

“You brought me to pay a call on your latest paramour?” She gaped at Lord Fitzroy. He was a madman. There was no other explanation. “What happened to respect?”

“Selina is not my mistress. She is a marchioness and was at the self-same event as the two of us.”

Charity shrank into the depths of the cushioned seat, her mind a whirl. It was bad enough that someone might have seen her get into the carriage. But to exit here, on Lord Fitzroy’s arm, and walk through the front door of that woman’s home?

“No. Just no. There are lines, Lord Fitzroy. I do not care where you draw them, this particular outing is well beyond the boundaries of propriety.”

“Suit yourself. Pull the curtains closed again and sit here until I am done. As I said, Sparkles, the only one barring your entry here is you.”

He left with a satisfied tip of his hat, confident he was in the right. Charity could have sworn she had made the correct decision. But when the door swung shut and the latch slipped into place, the world around her grew dark and close.

The space felt oppressive, the polished wood panels seemed to close in with every breath. The faint scent of leather and Lord Fitzroy’s cologne did nothing to soothe her rising panic. For all her bravado, Charity was sure of only one thing: this darkness would consume her long before she admitted she had a weakness.