Page 17 of Brilliance and Betrayal (The Diamond of the Ton Regency Mysteries #1)
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"Desperate times force us to confront the truths we’ve been avoiding."
—Anonymous
C harity did not utter a word as they made their way through Carlton House. Between Lord Fitzroy’s anger and the listening ears of those around them, saying anything would be the height of foolishness. Outside, she stood demurely at Fitzroy’s side, waiting for a footman to flag a hired hackney. He didn’t look at her, his stony countenance keeping its own counsel. But she knew better; she had seen the wound that lay beneath.
Guilt and shame ate at her. Of course, her Queen would likely want to make him a scapegoat.
But on the other hand, her thoughts had been wholly consumed by the significance of putting such dangerous questions to the princess with only a suspicion to justify it. Finally, they took their seats inside. For once, he kept his legs well clear of her space and stared out the window. Really, he was almost being petulant.
She had to explain. At least, she had to try to make him understand why she had done it. She took a calming breath and forged ahead. “Fitzroy, I had not thought far enough ahead to worry about the aftermath, and what would happen if the worst were true. I just knew I had to be careful—so careful about asking. What if I said something so terrible and I was entirely wrong? It would have been just as catastrophic for you to be involved in questioning the princess.”
“Agreed,” he said shortly.
If he agreed he could not question the princess with her, then why was he so angry? She glowered at the man from across the confines of his carriage. “Is that all? You have nothing more to say?”
“You are… a most backward, deceitful creature,” he said, with all the heat he would address a stubborn cowlick in his hair.
Her mouth dropped open, and her small gasp of outrage finally forced him to look at her. “Surely not more so than other certain women of your relation!”
“Ah, there it is. Is it not just the most peculiar thing? No matter how far we come, when we are quarrelling because you are in the wrong, you will always, always use the fact that Lady Fitzroy is my mother as a weapon against me.”
His words were edged in truth, and they cut to the bone. She was coming to understand how much he despised when people looked at him and only saw his mother, and she had brought it up for that very reason. But— “How can you say I am wrong for not bringing you? You just said you agreed?—”
“You wanted no secrets between us, a rule that you blatantly ignored when you set off for Carlton House without telling me the real purpose behind your visit.”
“I told you as much as I could, Fitzroy. I did not tell Lord Ravenscroft my suspicions either, if that is any consolation?—”
He tossed back his head and barked a laugh. “You looked me in the eye and lied, and you did that for the same reason you will never let the subject of my mother go—because you do not trust me. You… simply don’t want to.”
“No, Fitzroy, that is not true?—”
“Stop. Spare me your pathetic attempts at justifying everything. You asked me if I ever took responsibility for my own actions. Do you ?”
Charity pressed a hand to the sharp pain at her breastbone. How could she possibly make this right?
“You are right. I should have explained my suspicions and why I wanted to speak with the princess alone,” she said in a low voice. “And… I did lash out when I realised how wrong I was to do so. I was wrong to do all these things, but please believe the truth in what I say. My silence was not because I thought you were untrustworthy. Not once did I ever consider not telling you if she was guilty.”
He raised an eyebrow, his voice cool and biting. "Is that an apology? Because if it is, I must have missed the part where you said the word sorry even once."
She looked him in the eye, feeling the ache linger in her chest. “Would it fix everything if I say it?”
He leaned forward, closing the space between them and commanding her full attention. Suddenly, the realization struck her like a bolt. He wanted to be seen. Not as a shadow cast by his mother, but as his own man.
Why had it taken her so long to notice, when she had wanted the same thing? She had wanted to be seen as a duchess. A lady-in-waiting for the Queen herself. A person of power—and not a broken creature who needed the protection of Roland Percy.
Whatever else he was, he wanted to be seen as Peregrine. Not just the son of Lady Fitzroy. Everything was shaped by that need, and she, who should have known better, had spent all this time together ignoring it.
Peregrine. She sounded the name out in her head. It was unwieldy, long, and formal, but somehow it suited him, too. Perry , the marchioness had called him.
All of the Fitzroys had been named after birds, including his sister Lark and his father Robin. Falcons were a hunting bird—graceful, precise, and worthy of respect. And so was he.
But his eyes danced with malice, unaware of the rearrangement of her thoughts. “I suppose we will never know until you try.”
She had earned this, and she swallowed hard. “You spoke every word true,” she said softly, “and I understand why you would believe I was motivated by a lack of trust, but I?—”
Charity stopped trying to explain, cutting herself off. “Never mind, the reasons do not matter. I am sorry for everything I did today. I did not intend to slight you.”
Peregrine was still watching her, and she said nothing more. She let him hold her gaze, willing him to see the bare truth of it, but his eyes were flat and empty, and she could not guess what he was really thinking.
It seemed that he would not let go of his anger today, which was only to be expected. Feelings did not change at the drop of a hat. Even she did not know if she would ever be able to find it within herself to trust him in all things, without limit. Not after what Lady Fitzroy had done.
Perhaps that was unfair, but… Charity could not quite forgive that it had been well within his power to find the missing diamond—if only he had looked.
She did trust him, at least, in helping to find who had poisoned the prince. Maybe if she extended a small piece of trust they could begin to mend things somewhat.
"Whatever you are planning next," she said, "be careful. I know I cannot go poking around in the darker corners, but at least take someone with you—someone to watch your back."
His eyelids flickered softly, and he sat back.
The carriage jerked to a halt and Charity was startled to see her own front door outside the window. Fitzroy swung open the door on his side of the carriage and leapt down after a cursory glance at passing traffic. She slid across the seat, determined to stop him from stomping off, forgetting he was not at his destination.
He was standing outside her door, looking anywhere but at her, offering a careless hand to assist her with her descent.
She sighed, but took his hand and squeezed, compelling him to look her in the eye, but he did not indulge her. He offered a stiff arm, doing the bare minimum expected of a gentleman, and the coldness of it made her bones ache.
Where had the defiant man who called her the most disrespectful names gone—the one who snuck into her bedroom and splayed across her chaise? How was it that somehow she missed him?
They crossed the distance to her door in seconds. He deposited her there, pulling his arm free of her light hold. “Tonight has been… educational, Your Grace. Good evening.” He executed a stiff bow and did an about face before she could reply.
The door opened behind her. She walked through, her mind and attention still on the man walking away outside. A gruff, guttural voice sounded from inside her home.
“Guv didn’t say what a beaut’ this one is. We’ll have some fun before we slit her throat.”
Her head snapped around. A bald, hulk of a man, dressed in a stained coat and rough trousers grinned at her with yellowed teeth. He shifted forward, crushing the broken shards of an ancient Greek vase that had stood in her entrance hall under his feet.
Terror closed her throat. Someone stepped out from behind the door and jerked her inside. As the door swung shut behind her, she was shoved against the bulky, smelly, torso of the bald man in front of her. He wrapped his arms about Charity, and his onion-scented breath made her gag.
It was enough to pierce through the fear-induced haze that had stolen her voice. Without conscious thought, she screamed a single cry for help. “ Perry! ”
Peregrine had barely taken three steps when the scream reached his ears. It pierced through the evening like a dagger, driving straight to his core.
His name reverberated in his chest, momentarily robbing him of thought. Then, as if a match had been struck, a jolt of heat surged through his limbs, igniting every nerve on fire. Spat with the duchess forgotten, he let himself be consumed by purpose. He turned on his heel and sprinted back to Atholl House, blood pounding in his ears.
Reaching the door, he grabbed the latch. It had been locked. Not wasting any time, he braced himself and kicked it open with his boot. The wooden panel crashed back against the wall. The force rattled the nearby chandelier, but he couldn’t care less about the damage to the house.
For as quickly as he had been set ablaze by the need to take action, the scene inside chilled him. The duchess stood with her back arched painfully, a hulking brute holding her hair in one fist, yanking her head back. A worn but wicked knife gleamed in his other hand, the blade hovering ominously close to her throat.
Charity’s face was pale, her wide eyes fixed on him, and her captor’s yellowed grin widened, revealing crooked teeth as he leered at Peregrine.
“Boss, lookie at who came back,” the slatternly man who held her sneered, his voice low and gravelly.
Another man, smaller but wiry, stepped around the broad bastard holding Charity. His face was weathered, his dark eyes gleaming with a cruel kind of intelligence. Peregrine’s stomach soured as he recognized the man.
“McGrath,” Peregrine said, his voice steady despite the sudden urge to do violence.
The wiry man inclined his head slightly. “Ah, so you remember me, my lord. Always gratifying to make an impression and revisit past glory, but I’m afraid this isn’t a social call.”
Peregrine’s gaze darted between the two men, his mind racing to consider his options. Charity stood stock still, her breaths shallow and quick, her face as colourless as linen. The man holding her tightened his grip again, making her wince.
“Easy,” Peregrine muttered, raising his empty hands. “Let us talk about this like gentlemen.”
McGrath laughed, and so did his jolly giant friend. “You always were a funny lad when you wanted to be. Unfortunately for you, we ain’t got much to talk about, Fitzroy. Our orders were clear. Send a message. And, well, nothing screams louder than a duchess with her throat slit in her own home, all of her servants helpless to do anything about it.”
“Don’t do this.” Peregrine wanted to avoid provoking them further. “Turn around and walk away. No one has to die tonight.”
McGrath shook his head. “Ah lad. You fancy this one, do you? Ach . No wonder she was chosen as the price of such a sinister bargain. Sorry about that, love,” he told her, stroking her cheek with smudged fingers.
“This is bigger than you, yer lordship. Bigger than her. And you should know better than to play the Crown’s lapdog. Be careful with that leash around your neck… it’ll strangle you someday. Maybe even tonight, if you don’t walk away and let us do what we came here to do.”
His world felt like it was spinning on its axis, and he gritted his teeth to keep the sense of vertigo at bay. “If you kill her, you will not make it out of this house alive,” he promised.
McGrath chuckled darkly. “Don’t take offence to this, but I think I’ll take my chances, lad.”
Sensing a fight about to happen, the bald man shifted slightly, his knife hand dropping and his grip loosening on the duchess’s hair just enough that it gave her a head a fraction of movement.
She cast her eyes to the side table where a heavy brass lamp sat. And then she locked eyes with him. His stomach turned at the risk of it, but he gave her a fractional nod.
Charity collapsed bonelessly, feigning a swoon, and the brute holding her cursed, trying to hang onto her as McGrath turned from her to lunge at Peregrine with his knife.
Peregrine sidestepped the reach of the blade. Then he shoved himself against McGrath’s overextended arm, trying to pin it against the wall. McGrath’s henchman tried to keep the duchess’s dead weight from sliding to the floor, but finally, he gave up and let her go so that he was free to help his boss with Peregrine.
Finding herself released, Charity staggered but she caught herself on the table, grabbing the lamp with both hands. Before he could stab his blade in Peregrine’s direction, Charity swung the lamp with all her strength, smashing it into the side of his head.
He also hit the floor with his skull. Rather hard, too. But Peregrine had no sympathy.
Though he was rather awkwardly pinned against the wall, McGrath still had a grip on his knife, and he was trying to shove Peregrine off by sweeping outward with his right arm. Peregrine had his right hand wrapped around McGrath’s wrist. His left was twisted in the man’s short hair to keep him from trying to deliver a blow to Peregrine with his pate.
The duchess lifted the lamp again, trying to swing it at McGrath, but she missed, only hitting him in the shoulder. Still, the force of it caused him to grunt in surprise, slowing his struggle against Peregrine.
Taking advantage of the duchess’s distraction and gripped in battle rage, Peregrine slammed McGrath’s right hand against the wall over and over until the man finally dropped the knife with a pained cry.
“Look away, duchess,” Peregrine hissed at her, not waiting to see if she obeyed before he spun McGrath around and began to knock the man’s skull against the wall the same way. Only once the man collapsed did Peregrine release him with a shove, snatching up both men’s knives.
McGrath was still alive and would most likely stay that way—for better or for worse. Leaving such a dangerous man breathing in Atholl House was risky, but Peregrine refused to make himself even more like a monster to Charity than he already was. He had to get everyone out before the man regained his senses.
He turned to the duchess, who was leaning against the wall, standing amidst shards of broken antiques, her face tinged with green.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded. His voice made him sound half-mad. It was more than probable he looked that way, too. She shook her head, shaking like a leaf, and trying not to be rough with her, Peregrine spun her around, moving her away from McGrath, deeper into Atholl House.
“Steady, Sparkles,” he told her, jollying her along with the nickname. “Where would they hold your servants?”
“T—the cellar,” she answered in a whisper. “There is a lock on the door.”
She tried to pull ahead of him, but he caught her by the wrist, holding her back. “Stay with me, Duchess. They would not overpower your household with just two men.”
Indeed, as they progressed stealthily towards the back of the house, he could hear people rummaging in the butler’s pantry. Stealing the good candlesticks, if he had to guess by the clinking. Between the walls and the noise they were making, the fight in the front entryway had gone unnoticed.
McGrath must have sent his lack-witted men to ransack the place and make sure that the servants stayed put, because the thief had left the butler’s key ring sitting on the table by the door, the pantry door key conspicuously separate.
Well, that was two men easily taken care of. Pushing the duchess behind him, Peregrine lightly picked up the right key. Two steps, and he slammed it shut on the men inside, locking it even before they realised what had happened.
A scuff behind him, from the kitchen, had Peregrine spin on his heels. One lone thug stood there, muddy green eyes wide as he goggled at the two of them. He was young—hardly more than a boy, really—and had been probably set to watch the cellar.
Hardening his resolve, Peregrine lifted one of the knives he had taken from the front hallway. “Are you and I going to have a problem?” he demanded.
“No milord,” the stripling said quickly, his Adam's apple bobbing furiously.
“Then tell me—how many more of your friends are in this house?”
“F-five of us all told, milord.”
“Then leave right now. Or… don’t.”
Peregrine didn’t bother to elaborate, but the young man didn’t ask for any further explanation. He ran for the door like the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels, leaving the cellar door clear. Pounding and voices on the far side confirmed the duchess’s guess; her household had been herded and locked up.
Giving Charity the key ring, he asked her to find the one belonging to the door. She took it from him, but she was still shaking, and the keys were jangling like chimes as she tried to sort without dropping them. As discreetly as he could, he cupped her elbow in his hand, helping her steady it. Finally, she found the right one, and Peregrine unlocked the door, flinging it open to find a very upset butler at the fore.
“Mr Pritchard,” Charity gasped as the servants spilled out, hale and safe.
The butler cast a sharp glance at Charity, standing so close to Peregrine’s side, before turning his steely gaze on the man himself. "Mr Pritchard," Peregrine said, the slant of his mouth gaining a touch of irreverence.
Before the butler could muster a lecture, Peregrine thrust the keyring into his hand. "There are two locked in your pantry and two more unconscious in the front hall. I would suggest you have the footmen secure those others in the cellar—where they so kindly decided to hold you. And preferably before they wake."
The footmen rushed to do his bidding, but returned with empty hands. The older of the pair said, “The front door was wide open and there was no one there.”
Fitzroy cursed under his breath. As a reward for leaving those men alive, he would have to continue looking over his shoulder. He had little doubt they would return. “Send someone to Bow Street to collect the men locked in the pantry. The rest of you can set the place to rights. Her Grace will not be back here for a few days.”
As the servants fled, Peregrine turned back to Charity. She was staring at the locked pantry door, her breathing shallow.
“Stay with me,” he warned her again, but this time he was more concerned that she was going to lose command of herself. He placed a hand on her shoulder, nudging her toward the door. In a firm voice, he instructed, “Come now, we are leaving.”
She nodded, her movements wooden. By the time they reached the door, she looked dangerously close to falling apart.
Peregrine sent Prichard to flag a carriage to meet them around back, and then took Charity in hand. He draped a heavy cloak over her shoulders, steering her toward the mews. As he helped hand her into the hired hack, she froze on the steps, refusing to budge.
“Come on,” he said quietly to the suddenly terrified duchess.
“I—” she started, gulping. “I can’t .”
“We are going together,” he reminded her firmly, being patient, and she finally moved inside with a lurch.
The hack had only one bench. He spared a single thought for hope that the duchess wasn’t going to be fussy about sharing a seat, but she only huddled in her cloak, pressing to the wall as the hack rolled into motion.
Once they found themselves sitting still and no longer fighting for their lives, Peregrine’s mind felt free to resume its footrace.
The ride was silent, save for the clatter of hooves and the faint creak of the carriage. For her part, Charity stared out the window as they drove towards the Seven Dials, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.
It was only a matter of time before she collected her wits and began to demand answers. Surely she noticed when he called McGrath by name. She would want to know how they knew one another, and he wasn’t sure how he could begin to answer her.
How did one strike up a conversation with a duchess about how his mother’s man of business had contacts within London’s underbelly, anyway?
This was his comeuppance for being so furious with her. Of course, the duchess could hardly look at him without seeing his mother. Every layer peeled away on the rotting onion of this crime, they found only more and more of her black corruption. More and more shadows of the past, and more ruins of her neglected empire.
With his mother absent, there was a void to be filled, and someone had just made a declaration of war.
Beside him, the duchess stirred, finally rousing from the inky mire of her distress.
“You came for me,” she whispered, her voice muffled, and the sound of it cracked a piece of the wall around his heart.
“Of course I did, Sparkles,” he said simply, wrapping her cloak more tightly around her as her shivering increased.
She means you came for her this time , his mother’s voice gave a low chuckle in his thoughts, and Peregrine shoved the sound of Marian Fitzroy’s hateful voice back into the dark hole of his thoughts.
Charity leaned against him slightly, as if she was afraid he would push her away. But he just tucked her beneath his arm, trying not to remember the time last year when he hadn’t.