Page 16 of Brilliance and Betrayal (The Diamond of the Ton Regency Mysteries #1)

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“Those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it.”

—Edmund Burke

P eregrine watched the duchess disappear into Carlton House, the bile in his throat so sharp and caustic it felt like it might burn a hole clean through his chest.

Focus, damn you. Think. Bloody think. Your life depends on it—again.

He shoved his bruised pride and simmering resentment into an imaginary box, slammed the lid, and shoved it into the farthest, darkest corner of his mind as he considered how to salvage this ruddy disaster. Throughout their talk with Ravenscroft, he had progressively worked through everything that they knew.

A gnawing suspicion had been festering during their conversation with Prinny’s magpie. Peregrine had sifted through every scrap of information, every word, and a pattern was beginning to emerge, one he hadn’t wanted to see. They’d suspected Caroline and questioned her. But they’d been so narrowly focused on the idea that the enemy was outside the walls that they’d overlooked the rest of the royal family entirely.

That had been a mistake. A monumental, bloody stupid mistake.

The one person they had dismissed from consideration, a person who had both the means and the motive to sabotage this delicate union, was the princess herself. She had long, loudly, and rather publicly lamented the notion of tying her fortunes to William. And now, the pieces began to fall into place, forming part of a picture that was… rather unpleasant to consider.

Peregrine had intended to share his suspicions with the duchess—that they ought to question Princess Charlotte, delicately and thoroughly—once they’d sent Ravenscroft off to amuse himself elsewhere. But as he watched her face shift like the tides, every flicker of thought plainly written for those sharp enough to see, he realized she had already reached the same conclusion.

He should have known better—should never have forgotten—where her loyalty truly lay. It was bound fast to the Queen, with not so much as a scrap left to spare for him.

And the crowning insult, the cherry on top of this whole damned disaster? Trust. Or rather, the lack of it between them.

Instead of confiding in him, instead of pooling their knowledge like rational allies, she had effectively kicked him square in the balls and sent him packing. She thought she’d left him dumb as a post, empty-handed, and clueless.

But she underestimated him once more. How and why she kept underestimating him, he hadn’t a notion.

What a little idiot. Just as her foolishness had laid bare the truth of last year’s ball to Selina, the duchess’s hasty flight to Carlton House hammered suspicion into cold, bitter certainty.

And the worst part? She had no idea what she’d done.

If she went in there and uncovered that the princess herself had poisoned a visiting foreign prince, what then? If she, in all her reckless righteousness, confessed the truth to the Queen?

Peregrine could only hope that the duchess’s pretty little head was as vacant as a ballroom at dawn. The alternative—that she knew she might be selling him out—was a truth too bitter to swallow.

Again. You were sold out again, that detestable, feminine voice whispered in his mind, sharp and mocking. You will never know peace unless you lose yourself in the wilds of Nova Scotia.

Get back in your box, Mother, he snarled silently.

But the voice wasn’t wrong. History had a nasty way of repeating itself, and here he was, scrambling once more to patch together his neck before the noose tightened. He’d have to track down Prinny again and arrange for another tête-à-tête with the duchess. All the while hoping against all odds, that the Prince Regent could grasp the stakes of this situation.

Yes, Princess Charlotte was an important thread, but no tapestry ever depended on a single strand. Her actions, however dire, didn’t give a sense of the larger design. There was something far bigger unfolding in London, something with consequences that stretched far beyond a petulant princess and her ill-fated marriage. And whatever it was, it boded ill—not just for the nation, but for him most of all.

His steps carried him to the front door, the weight of the moment pressing down until he let his bitterness consume him, if only for the solace of its burn.

Once he gained entry, Peregrine was conducted to the Prince Regent, who was busy lounging indolently in a quiet corner of the card room, jeweled snuff box in hand. “Fitzroy,” Prinny greeted him casually. “I have a dinner I must dress to attend shortly, but I will make time for glad tidings. Any word to the good about the, er… unpleasantness in the gardens?”

“Good? Well, I will let you be the judge of that.” Seeing no one near, Peregrine, fists clenched behind his back, gave the meat of his suspicions in clipped, deliberate words, careful not to let the edge of his frustration boil over. As he spoke, Prinny’s smile faded, replaced by an expression of mild distaste, as though the words themselves were an unpleasant odour.

Standing up with a speed that belied his girth, Prinny adjusted his waistcoat, casting a sidelong glance at Peregrine. "I should let you know, it is difficult to be on terms with someone possessed of your knack for ruining my evenings.”

Cynically, Peregrine gave him a shallow bow, watching as Prinny ruminated like a bad-tempered steer, fiddling with the snuffbox in his hand.

At last, the Prince Regent exhaled sharply, the sound as much irritation as resignation. "Yes, she despises William—I know that well enough. But to think her capable of poisoning the man!" He gestured broadly, as if swatting away the absurdity of it. "Oh, her impetuousness, that I can believe. She has always had a flair for melodrama. However, the planning, the execution..." He let out a bitter laugh. "I could fill a book with all the questions I have about how such a thing might be done by the princess with no one the wiser!"

"You will fill it with nothing but speculation unless we ask her," Peregrine said urgently. "But as to the many questions about the how… in short, I doubt she is the mastermind. The princess is clever, yes, but this reeks of manipulation. Someone else is guiding her hand, and we must find out who. Your mother will, of course, move to shield her—and rightly so—but the longer we wait, the more likely it is that whoever stands at her shoulder will vanish into the shadows."

Prinny’s expression darkened. "Then we shan’t waste another moment dithering," he growled, his voice thick with irritation. "If anyone is to confront the girl, it will be me. Come, Fitzroy—better a firm hand than a bloody calamity."

Peregrine followed the Prince Regent into the room where Princess Charlotte and the Duchess Atholl were seated. Both women shot to their feet, the princess wiping a hand over her face to dry her tears.

Peregrine couldn’t quite help himself. He leveled a fierce glare at the duchess, letting her know that in no uncertain terms he was wroth with her. But they could hash out their grievances later.

Princess Charlotte, sensing an income battle of wills with her father, crossed her arms, her chin lifting with a regal air no doubt perfected since birth. The duchess tried to radiate icy calm, but she let her gaze slide to the side only a second after meeting Peregrine’s eyes.

Guilt. How dare she pretend remorse about her actions now!

The Prince Regent, whose face was already red with temper, didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Charlotte Augusta,” he barked, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Did you mean to poison the Prince of Orange?”

The bluntness of the question hung in the air like cannon smoke. “Father, it was not supposed to happen like this,” the princess said, her face tear-streaked and her voice very small. “I thought—I never thought this was dangerous.”

"So you did. This is no time for excuses," Prinny cut in, his voice sharp enough to draw blood. "Do you understand the gravity of what you’ve done, Charlotte? You risked everything—everything—for what? A tantrum? A moment of defiance?"

The princess’s tears began anew. “Stop raising your voice to me! Her Grace already told me I could have killed everyone, including myself! Do you not believe that I feel terrible enough already? But I would never have done it if you had listened. You never listen, Father! Even now, you do not ask me why I did it.”

"And what is there to listen to?" Prinny barked, his face reddening as he stepped toward her. "Another of your tiresome complaints about how life is unfair? The survival of this family—this nation—requires sacrifices. Or have you forgotten that in your endless self-pity? Duty, Charlotte. Duty! I did mine with your mother, and so will you!"

"Duty? Duty is your excuse for everything! Is that what you call what you and Mama did to me—duty?" Her voice broke, and she pointed at him, her finger trembling. "Do you even know what it is like, being caught between you and her? Your shouting, your insults, your games? Maybe if you had not been forced to marry her, you would have been happy, and I would not have been born to grow up in the shadow of your misery!"

Ignoring the royal family’s mortifyingly personal bickering, Peregrine turned to Charity, his face a cold mask that showed nothing of the molten fury threatening to burn through.

“I assume you had a reason you did not think to include me in your plans?” he asked, his voice low but laced with anger. “A reason, I hope, that somehow justifies your actions once you extorted a promise from me that I would keep no secrets that hindered the investigation.”

The duchess waved her hands at the argument. “I wanted to handle this alone so it could be done… delicately. Instead, you decide that involving the Prince Regent was the prudent thing to do.”

Peregrine let out a sharp, bitter laugh, stepping into her space. “Had you simply been honest with me, as we both agreed, I would not have had to go to Prinny. This mess is entirely of your making.”

“Do you ever take any responsibility for the things that happen around you?” she snapped back, her demeanor cracking. She sucked in a breath, as if realising what she had said, and hurried to add, “The situation was complicated, and I thought it would be better if you were not involved.”

He stared at her, speechless, his heart bleeding. Sometimes, this woman acted like she could not give a fig for his life. “Tell me truthfully, Sparkles. You came expecting to hear an answer, and you expected you would have to report it to the Queen. Did you give one thought to what might happen to me then?”

Queen Charlotte wasn’t the sort to wring her hands and wail over family guilt. No, the Queen would never allow blame to settle on her precious granddaughter. She’d find someone else to bear the weight of the scandal. Someone expendable.

And Peregrine, son of England’s most notorious enemy, had an excellent chance of ending up at the top of that list.

The duchess’s face paled slightly, her blue eyes growing shadowed. “I—I didn’t…”

Finally, the princess threw her hands up in exasperation, breaking the tension between them. “Enough!” she shouted, silencing them all. Her cheeks were flushed, and her breath came fast as she glared at her father. “You want the information. I will give it to you and then you can all leave me alone!”

She turned on her heel and stormed into the adjoining room, slamming the door behind her. The sound of objects being thrown and crashing against walls echoed back into the parlour.

Peregrine sighed, stepping away, and the duchess began to wring her hands silently. “Fitzroy—” she began.

But before she could say more, the door flew open again, and Princess Charlotte reappeared, clutching a bundle of letters in her trembling hands. She marched back to the table and slammed them down.

“There,” she said, her voice shaking with anger. “I wish I knew who sent me these, because I would go to them now. This is the only person in this wretched world who seems to support me.”

The argument between them forgotten, the duchess stepped forward first, her face aggrieved as she picked up the top letter. “What are these?” she asked quietly.

“Read them,” the princess demanded, sinking into her chair. “See for yourselves.”

Prinny leaned over the Duchess Atholl’s shoulder, frowning as she unfolded the first letter. Peregrine moved to her other side, scanning the words as she read aloud. It looked like a woman’s penmanship, and the paper was of quality, but there was no address.

The first few letters were sympathetic, consoling Princess Charlotte about her dissatisfaction with the plans for her betrothal to the Prince of Orange. But the tone of the letters soon shifted. By the third, there was subtle encouragement to act against the betrothal. By the fifth, the writer was openly suggesting ways to sabotage the union.

Peregrine’s brows knit as Charity reached the final letter, dated a few weeks prior. “This one is… chilling to see it put so plainly,” she said, her voice unsteady.

She read aloud: “The vial enclosed contains a tincture. It is safe to drink as long as it is added to a bottle, not a glass. Retire to your chambers when you begin to feel tired, and all will proceed as planned.”

Prinny’s face was bloodless. “This… this is treachery,” he growled.

“Who sent these?” Peregrine asked the princess, his voice sharp. “Where did you send your replies?”

“I thought it was my mama. But now… now I do not know,” The princess hesitated, biting her lip. “I left them under a bench in Hyde Park. The first Tuesday of every month. I never saw anyone.”

Peregrine ran a hand through his bright blonde hair roughly. “Amateur work,” he laughed shortly, remembering the apothecary’s words. “This is the work of no amateur. The princess’s correspondent is someone with close access to the palace—or once had it,” he said. “She chose her target with care, cultivating trust so that she could exploit the princess and avoid detection.”

And someone who had some of the acumen of his mother, knowing how to acquire the henbane from an apothecary, and how to use it as a weapon.

Feeling the weight of the duchess’s gaze on him, Peregrine lifted his eyes. She looked so worried and unhappy that he knew her thoughts were also on his mother, but at the moment, he was too angry to care.

Prinny slammed his hand on the table, making them all jump. “Such speculation is not as helpful as a name,” he declared. “We must find out who was writing to the princess. Can we lay a trap at the bench?”

“Pointless,” Peregrine muttered. “The usefulness of the correspondence was at its end the moment the princess found the vial. Whoever left it would not risk being caught returning to the scene.”

“So what do you think we should do?” the duchess asked him. The irony that she would ask this now, of all times, was thick.

“ We shall do nothing. I have one final lead to follow,” Peregrine said crisply.

“But—” the duchess protested, her voice taking on an angry note.

“—Absolutely not,” he interrupted, lifting a hand toward her face to stop her. Instead, he began to address his words towards Prinny, who looked shocked and confused by his coarse treatment of Charity. “It would be highly inappropriate for the duchess to assist me. She will find her way home .”

Red Hand. He had to see if he could discover who had been so interested in stopping them from looking into matters. Not many would be willing to poke the belly of the underworld beast to send a message.

Two spots of colour appeared high on her face. “Your Highness,” the duchess said, “might I impose upon you to have a footman send for my carriage?”

The princess’s eyes grew round as she divided a look between her father, the duchess, and Peregrine.

“Do not be silly. There is no need to trouble His Highness with that, Your Grace.” He forced the honorific out, though it felt like salt on his tongue. “As I am on my way out as well, you may ride with me. I would be happy to make sure you arrive home safely.”