Page 13 of Brilliance and Betrayal (The Diamond of the Ton Regency Mysteries #1)

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“In the game of hearts, let your rival falter with desperation—grace and wit are the weapons of a true lady.”

—Reflections of Grace: A Guide to Etiquette

T hough his words had been more of an evasion than an answer, both he—and Selina, for that matter—had reminded her that they considered information of the utmost value. That piqued her curiosity. By her mama’s measure, Charity had already gained everything worth achieving in life.

Fitzroy’s taunts hinted at a new challenge. Loathe though she was to admit it, she wondered what possible stakes people like the marchioness played for. The firm set to his mouth discouraged her from voicing more questions.

It probably was unlawful somehow. Jewels and heirlooms weren’t the only things that could be stolen or held for ransom.

The possibility of finding out that Lord Fitzroy was little better than a common cheat and swindler disappointed her somehow. It would be like… finding out that the sorcerer in a fairy tale was a charlatan.

She decided to ask something else. Lord Fitzroy seemed to be in an almost friendly mood, and she did not want to disturb the calm between them.

“What can you tell me of Princess Caroline?” Charity asked. “I have not yet made her acquaintance. The Queen and Prinny keep her name off every guest list.”

“I am sure you know the reasons for that. She has been unwelcome in polite society for years, which I am sure she took as a blow. Once upon a time she was quite a darling of the ton .” He let his boot tap pensively against the wall of the carriage. “Now Montagu House is one of those places where people want to be, but not to be seen.”

Charity’s eyes nearly crossed as she struggled to make sense of his last statement. Eventually, she gave up and asked. “I am not certain I understand what you mean.”

“If you are a friend of Caroline’s, you are not one of the royal court. You see how it would be impossible to accidentally cross her path, or to say you happened to be passing and saw someone go inside. Those who visit her keep quiet about it. Which brings us nicely to you, Duchess. Do you expect Princess Caroline to welcome the Queen’s diamond into her home?”

“I am a dear friend of her daughter,” Charity reminded him. “If we can agree to emphasise that connection, I am reasonably certain she will welcome the chance to get to know me.”

Fitzroy exhaled noisily, his face wreathed in an expression she couldn’t quite interpret. “Let me venture one suggestion. Do not emphasise your commitment to seeing her daughter wed to the Dutch royal. Princess Caroline has been outspoken against the match.”

Did he think she had no sense at all? “I only want what is best for the princess, and on that, I am certain her mother and I can come to an agreement.”

The carriage picked up pace once they crossed over the Thames. Charity risked pushing the curtains aside. The hustle and bustle of London was gradually replaced by the bucolic rolling hills of Greenwich Park. She studied each carriage that passed, searching for a coat of arms to identify the occupants, though none were so fine. As they turned into the drive of Montagu House, a dark coach rumbled past, kicking clods of dirt and dust into the air.

At the house, Charity allowed the footman to help her down from the carriage and then took a moment to surreptitiously study the grand estate while pretending to smooth her skirt. The tall, stately mansion pleased the eye with its symmetrical layout and prominent central entrance.

Fitzroy did not so much as pause as he exited the carriage. Not to walk with her, nor offer her his arm. Instead, he strode forward to present his card to the butler waiting at the front door. “Would you please ask Her Highness if she is receiving visitors?”

Charity gaped at him—or at his backside, at any rate. It was a backside that presented superbly in the pantaloons he was wearing, but really! The utter cheek! She nearly turned an ankle on the loose stone in her rush to catch up, and once she did, she glared at Fitzroy and grumbled, “You could have offered me your arm.”

“You told me not to touch you,” he reminded her smugly. “I was only following your directive.”

Charity did not slap the man’s smirking face, but he would have deserved it if she had.

“Her Highness is available. Please follow me.” The butler stopped long enough to pass their hats and gloves to the footman before leading them to a drawing room.

The wallpaper was green, not cabbage green like the dress Charity had worn, but a deeper green that evoked memories of forest walks in the middle of summer. The colour theme continued in the choice of upholstery and decorations. Wooden chairs and tables cut through the shades of green like branches on a tree, inviting birds to perch upon their edges.

In the middle of the room, swathed in vibrant yellow, orange, and red, sat the estranged wife of the Prince Regent. She leapt to her feet and raised her arms wide, putting the swirling shades of her elaborate gown on full display. The peacocks of Vauxhall would have screamed with envy had one been there to see her.

Her round cheeks flushed with satisfaction as she hurried over to welcome them. As she neared, her blue eyes, sparkling bright, opened wide with curiosity. “Lord Fitzroy, what an unexpected delight!”

Fitzroy bowed gallantly over her hand, and Caroline tsked softly. With a playful smile, she drew him closer, rose on her toes, and kissed him lightly on each cheek in the continental style before gesturing for him to sit beside her.

Charity blinked, finding herself standing all alone, forgotten. She stood, uncertain as to whether she should follow the pair across the room or wait for one of them to remember her.

“Fitzroy, you naughty, naughty man!” Caroline cooed. “How many times did I encourage you to come to one of my little gatherings, and only now are you here! Though I suppose I should not complain as at least now I do not have to share your attention with anyone else.”

Warmth spread up Charity’s neck, tingeing her cheeks in bright pink. Was the princess cutting her dead? She would hardly be the first society matron to sniff with disdain in Charity’s direction, but none had gone so far as to ignore her existence entirely.

But perhaps Caroline had not noticed her? She had been rather intent on greeting Fitzroy. And Fitzroy, to be fair, hadn’t forgotten her. He turned his face just far enough in Charity’s direction to give her a slow wink.

Good God. Was Charity the only woman in all of London who wasn’t in this flaxen-haired reprobate’s thrall?

Charity raised her fist to her mouth and gave a polite cough.

Princess Caroline shifted her attention away from Fitzroy’s face long enough to narrow her gaze at Charity. And Fitzroy, damn the man, looked like he might grin fit to crack his face. He smothered the amusement beneath a polite, restrained smile, and then put Charity out of her misery. “Your Highness, might I introduce you to the Duchess Atholl?”

Charity rushed forward, determined to get the awkwardness behind her. “I am a dear friend of the Princess of Wales, and have been most fortunate to accompany her during her debut.”

Caroline’s expression puckered, the harshness of the lines getting lost in the roundness of her face. “And yet, here I am, banished to the countryside, without the chance to even witness her presentation at court. Do you not find that to be a travesty, Lord Fitzroy?”

“Absolutely, Your Highness,” he purred, using every ounce of his despicable charm. “I am sure Her Grace would be happy to tell you about all of the latest events, if you so wish.”

“I wish to be there in person, not hearing about my daughter’s life second-hand as though I was no better than a lady’s maid subsisting on the stories of my betters.” Princess Caroline scowled at Charity. “Do you think yourself better than I am?”

Curtsey, child!

Her mother’s voice sent Charity dropping into the deepest curtsey in her repertoire, one she reserved exclusively for the Queen. Surely Queen Charlotte would forgive her given the circumstances.

Princess Caroline left Charity lingering in the position so long Charity feared she would struggle to rise again, but eventually she relented.

“Come, Lord Fitzroy. Let us enjoy a cup of tea and discuss our shared acquaintances.” She glanced over in Charity’s direction. “You may come along too, Duchess.”

Charity glided upwards by sheer force of will, for her legs were trembling. She took great care to keep the ache from showing on her face. She might as well have frowned, however, for the princess had already moved on.

You are accustomed to dealing with royals. Though her logical side spoke the truth, Princess Caroline was thus far exhibiting a whole new level of capriciousness. There was nothing for it but to grit her teeth.

The way the woman was hanging on Lord Fitzroy’s arm, you might have thought the floor was slippery with ice. The princess chose a pair of chairs near a bowed window overlooking the gardens, taking a seat without any consideration of what Charity would do. At her insistence, Fitzroy took the other chair, making sure to catch Charity’s attention when he did. His light blue eyes glittered, daring her to voice a word of complaint.

With a sudden epiphany, Charity realised he enjoyed when she was annoyed or caught at a disadvantage. What a scoundrel!

Now that she understood his measure, Charity would not give him the satisfaction. And neither would she give it to the princess, for that matter. She carried on, choosing a settee a few feet away. She crossed her legs at her ankles and tucked them under the chair. While the footmen poured tea and offered biscuits to them all, Princess Caroline peppered Lord Fitzroy with questions.

“Have you any plans to host your annual ball this season?” She frowned when he shook his head. “How about something more intimate—like a supper and a small concert? You could include my daughter on the guestlist, and invite me to act as chaperone.”

“I will give it some thought just for you, Your Highness. You know I was away for the better part of this last year, though. The house is still at sixes and sevens. You will have to grant me some time getting it in order.”

“Time is a luxury I am not afforded, my lord. Prinny means to announce Charlotte’s engagement any day now.” The princess’s voice was somehow able to sound even more petulant than her daughter’s. “He would have her at the altar and on a boat for the Netherlands before I get the chance to see her again. Who will prepare her for her wedding night? Who will give her advice?”

Charity froze in place, fearing Fitzroy would offer her name, but he did her the kindness of remaining silent. Lord Fitzroy took the princess’s hand in his and patted it in sympathy.

Princess Caroline was nothing if not determined. She prodded Fitzroy for information on who he counted as a close friend and whether they might be willing to arrange an event where she could see her daughter. Fitzroy handled her with adroitness that impressed even Charity. Captivated by the performance, she leaned a little too far forward and caught Princess Caroline’s eye.

“Your Grace, have you seen my gardens?” Caroline asked, her face the picture of innocence. Charity might have been convinced had she not seen Princess Charlotte use the same expression. Usually, it was a sure sign that Princess Charlotte was up to no good.

Caroline called a footman forward. “Take the duchess on a tour of the garden. Make sure she sees the roses in first bloom before she returns. Go along, Duchess Atholl. You can recount what you see to my daughter the next time you meet her.”

Gritted teeth would convey an honest, yet unwelcome, sentiment that served no purpose. Charity did, however, give Fitzroy a speculative look as she left. He wanted to be treated with respect? Now was his chance to prove he was worthy of it—assuming he would tell her what he discovered later.

The garden was lovely, which was to be expected, and Charity had the chance to see all of it, for of course, the roses held a prime position at the far end. By the time she returned, Fitzroy was standing at the front door with her gloves and wrap in hand.

“I hope you are not offended that I said our goodbyes for you. We should be on our way. It is a long drive.”

Trying to keep him amicable, she did not complain when he took up three-quarters of the carriage with his splayed limbs. She even left the curtains open, hoping the daylight would remind him that they were not to keep secrets.

“Did you have any luck?” she finally ventured, once they turned back onto the road to London.

“She is not the culprit, but she is tiresome,” he groaned. “And dogged in her persistence.”

“She is a mother,” Charity replied, surprising him. “The garden stroll gave me time to reflect on the untenable position in which Princess Caroline finds herself.”

Fitzroy cast a sidelong glance at her, his gaze breathing life back into a feeling she had believed long dead. “That is a thought worthy of your name. How is it that you can muster such charity towards her?”

“And so little for you?” the duchess asked laconically, folding her arms over the butterflies in her stomach.

He lifted an eyebrow. “I did not say that, but I reckon it is a fair question.”

Charity gave him a small, tight-lipped smile. “You seem to be doing well enough without my pity.”

She regretted her words as soon as she said them. He blinked, and in that fleeting moment, the windows to his soul became mirrors, denying her a glimpse within.

“I must confess that I have never heard anyone say no so many times without making an enemy of the person asking,” she continued, seeing if a compliment might soften him again and finally explain what Caroline had wanted.

He chuckled absently, his attention back to the window, bracing himself as the road got rougher. “There is an art to it. As we all surmised, she is desperate to slow down the wedding negotiations. Prince William’s penchant for being disorderly is convenient to her.”

“But what did she say that made you think she was innocent?” The carriage had picked up pace, bouncing its occupants around enough to make it difficult to keep their seats.

“She asked me if I could help arrange correspondence with my mother to beg a favour,” he replied.

Charity sucked in a breath, following that line of thought to its conclusion. If she had poisoned William of Orange, it seemed logical that she wouldn’t need Lady Fitzroy’s help. However, she could just as easily want more help since her first attempt had failed to achieve the objective. Prinny was still determined to see his daughter wed to Prince William. It was worth further discussion.

Charity was about to raise the point but he was no longer paying her any mind. His attention was turned outside of the carriage.

And for good reason. Charity braced herself to save herself from the humiliation of being flung into Lord Fitzroy’s lap.

They were close enough to London that the industrial buildings near the docks had replaced the trees and hills. Going as fast as they were, she barely had time to note one building before they passed another. “I say, Fitzroy, has your driver not had proper training on how to handle a carriage?”

“Sorry I need to break your rules, Duchess, but I assure you it is for a reason.” Fitzroy’s hands gently moved her out of the way enough that he had a clear view through the narrow rear window behind her. Charity spun around, heedless of bumping against his legs, and spotted a pair of men on horseback behind them. Fitzroy twisted around and slid open a panel to allow himself to speak to the driver. “Move to the side and let them pass.”

The driver’s raised voice sounded irritated. “Can’t. We’re being paced, and I can’t sodding lose them.”

“What does that mean?” Charity asked, for from Fitzroy’s expression alone she could tell it was not good.

“Turn onto another road,” he ordered the driver. “We can take a different bridge across the Thames.”

The carriage slowed only enough to allow the turn, sending Charity and Fitzroy sliding to the far side of the benches. Their limbs ended up intertwined in an effort to avoid being a heap on the floor. Fitzroy grunted before grabbing Charity around the waist, forcing her to sit beside him.

“I need to see what is happening,” he muttered at her gasp. “And this will keep you from sliding around. Mind your head.” He spread his legs and planted his feet, locking her into place at his side.

Charity was beyond complaints about his mishandling. All she could do was bring one arm up, bracing herself and keeping her skull from hitting the wall. But the rough ride threw her thoughts askew anyway, and abruptly it felt like she was back in the carriage that had abducted her on that terrible night, sick and nigh-insensible.

Every crunch of gravel under the wheel emphasised just how much danger they had been in. What if the carriage had turned over? What if the door got damaged and she could not get out? Would anyone think to save her?

Her vision narrowed, and she found it impossible to breathe. Like in the worst of the fits she had before, it felt like her soul had shaken loose within her cage of bones, ready to rise and fly free if she did not keep it within herself by sheer force of will.

Violently, she clung to the nearest thing her free hand could grab, trying to tether herself to the earth.

“Breathe, Sparkles!” Fitzroy’s hand was on her cheek and his face was alarmingly close to hers. “You are going to swoon if you don’t start breathing.”

He was right; her vision was already dim around the edges. She took one gasp, and then another, and the world began to fit itself into place. The carriage was shuddering—no, wait, that was her trembling. But the lord beside her didn’t mock her… or even point out the fact that she had seized a hold of his thigh just above the knee in her distress. She had to be hurting him. Her hand was aching at her fierce grip.

As she forced herself to let go of him, she noted that the carriage had slowed to a near crawl. Outside the window, the rippling flows of the Thames soothed her jangled nerves. “Nearly home,” she whispered under her breath. She counted masts bobbing on the river to keep her fears of being trapped at bay. “Just a few more minutes.”

As if to spite her words, the carriage came to a complete halt.

“Lord Fitzroy, we have problems,” the driver called down from his perch. “The road is blocked. Cart overturned on the bridge, looks deliberate. And riders coming up behind us. The same men as before, best I can tell, plus some new friends.”

Charity’s heart leapt into her throat as she heard the coachman’s voice. She leaned toward the window, but Fitzroy’s arm shot out, blocking her view.

“Stay down,” he ordered, his tone sharper than she’d ever heard it, and then he pushed the cushion aside on the other bench, drawing an officer’s dagger from under the seat. “How many?” he called to the driver.

“Four,” the coachman replied, a faint metallic click echoing ominously. A sudden crack followed. The report of the gunshot nearly deafened them both. “That there was your warning!” the driver bellowed. “The next one won’t miss!”

Charity slapped both hands over her mouth to keep from screaming in surprise.

“Didn’t send the rats scurrying. I’ll hold them off as long as I can,” the coachman told Fitzroy.

There was a second crack that echoed off the water, and Fitzroy sprang to his feet, steady despite the jolt of the carriage shifting beneath him. He wrenched open the door, sending a gust of damp air rushing inside.

“Fitzroy!” Charity hissed.

“Three now. No arms but knives.” The driver must have nerves of pure iron to keep talking so calmly to Lord Fitzroy.

“Stay here,” he said to Charity firmly, his face shadowed by grim determination.

“But—”

But he was already moving toward the three men advancing on the carriage. They looked like wolves circling prey, their knives glinting in the afternoon light. Fitzroy, however, showed no hesitation.

In the ballrooms, he had moved with the grace of a dancer. Now she could see how effortlessly he slipped between worlds. He was a man equally at ease commanding attention with charm as he was wielding steel.

Charity’s breath caught as she pressed her hands to the window. She couldn’t look away, even as fear pooled cold and heavy in her stomach. Her view of him was shifting, as though someone had upended the neat little boxes where she’d placed her opinions. Fitzroy wasn’t just the irritating rogue who pushed her buttons at every opportunity. There was something else, something dangerous and utterly magnetic about the man facing down three armed attackers without so much as a flinch.

Outside, Fitzroy raised the dagger, his posture poised and ready. Charity’s nails dug into the edge of her seat as the men closed in.