Page 2 of Brilliance and Betrayal (The Diamond of the Ton Regency Mysteries #1)
1
London, Early May, 1814
“The trappings of power, like the finest wine, are best savoured in company; for what value does it have if it cannot be paraded amidst a throng of admirers?”
—Charity’s diary
A trill of laughter floated over the meticulously pruned hedges of the gardens of Carlton House. It was as false as the carefully arranged expression gracing Charity’s face, her lips curved in a serene smile that felt as stiff and unnatural as the whalebone stays pressing against her ribs. A fête hosted by the Prince Regent was not an event at which one let down their guard, and it was thrice as important for Charity to remain vigilant.
Smile, nod, and listen closely.
And place yourself in the correct position to watch, Charity added to the imagined voice of her mother. Mama’s advice didn’t pop into her head nearly as often as it used to. Then again, her mother had not been preparing Charity for the life she was living now.
The title? Yes. The cloud of disapproving suspicion that occasionally surrounded her? Not even close. Fortunately, her rank and favour to the Queen held the worst of the gossip at bay. So far, she had heard not one word that suggested the Fitzroy family had been responsible for her disappearance last year.
Perhaps Charity could finally put her worst fear to rest.
Still, the advice was sound. Giving no hint of the thoughts churning in her mind, Charity parted her lips in a vacant smile, nodding along as the people around her chatted. With one ear attuned to their chin wagging, ready to respond at the first hint of her name, she let her gaze follow the movements of the important guests.
“Excuse me.” Charity gave a polite nod as she retreated from the group with the precision of a general. Her silk skirts brushed over the stone as she manoeuvred around the clusters of guests crowding the terrace, her mind focused on her next target. Laughter and chatter and heavy perfumes warred for attention, but she paid them no mind.
Her satin slippers crunched over the tiny white pebbles on the path, each one a sharp reminder that style and comfort rarely coexisted in high fashion. She kept her pace without winces or sighs.
Pain was a small price to pay for dignity—or, as her mother might have said, for avoiding the indignity of limping like a lame duck.
As she passed under the ivy-covered arch, she spotted Queen Charlotte ahead. Charity adjusted her stride to match the royal pace, falling into step beside her, a silent companion to Her Majesty’s stately progress around the social event.
The older woman stopped when the central fountain came into view, its cascading water catching the sunlight in shimmering arcs, framed by beds of irises and primroses that perfumed the warm spring air.
Charity kept her gaze forward. She had always admired Queen Charlotte’s composure, the regal tilt of her head and the unyielding elegance in her posture, but today it felt like trying to emulate a marble bust—an exercise in impossible stillness. The Queen’s gaze, sharp and assessing, studied the scene before them as though every detail were a riddle she intended to solve.
“Your Grace. I trust the princess has not caused too much chaos yet?” the older woman asked in a low murmur, surveying the season’s fawning debutantes with a practiced eye. “Though judging by this season’s crop of fresh faces, chaos might be an improvement.”
Charity chose her words with care, mindful that others might be listening. “She has been pleasant and exchanged kind words with all who have crossed her path?—”
“But she has not gone looking for anyone off that path. She has not approached Prince William,” the Queen said, finishing Charity’s sentence. “If he had any sense, he would have approached her himself by now—or perhaps he is smarter than he looks.”
In all the lands, there were few reasonable blue-blooded options of an age for the Queen’s namesake, Princess Charlotte. Even the princess had conceded that point. The Queen’s gaze slid to the cluster of foreigners from the Netherlands lingering along the garden path.
Negotiations for Prince William of Orange to secure the princess’s hand had moved at a pace that could generously be called sluggish. Still, most agreed the announcement was days away. As with all arranged marriages, whether to foreign princes or not, it required an abundance of diplomacy—and apparently an equal measure of discomfort.
“It is early in the event, Your Majesty. All eyes are upon the pair. Another round of champagne, and I am certain both will find the courage to say hello.”
“I require a sincere greeting and a kind word between the pair, at minimum, Your Grace,” the Queen reminded her. “And if you detect even the faintest hint of willfulness brewing in my namesake, you are to redirect her immediately—preferably before she dismantles the entire wedding negotiation. She must marry Prince William. If needed, I will personally escort her down the aisle myself.”
When the Queen spoke in that tone, all of England leapt to do her bidding, Charity included.
Everyone, that was, except for Princess Charlotte of Wales, who stood not ten feet away, doe-eyed and pink-cheeked, as English as the roses blooming behind her. She appeared to be enjoying the party, talking to everyone—except the one person her father and grandmother had ordered her to.
“I will uphold my duty, Your Majesty,” Charity promised, holding perfectly still under the Queen’s searching gaze.
Never mind the exquisite gown, or the pearls and sapphires adorning her person. Lady Charity Cresswell—now the Dowager Duchess Atholl—was as much at the Queen’s beck and call as the liveried footmen balancing trays of champagne.
She didn’t complain, of course. There were far worse fates than being an ‘honoured guest’ at society’s most exclusive events.
The Queen allowed a faint hint of satisfaction to brighten her expression, and she turned to walk away. But another woman came to a halt before her, bobbing the appropriate curtsey, before Charlotte could take a step.
Charity recognised her at once as Lady Pelham. Viscountess, wealth aplenty, mother to four healthy sons—and a vicious harpy with a penchant for gossip. Especially when it came to Charity’s presence. Her gown was a bright riot of purple satin and feathers, as ostentatious as her personality.
Lady Pelham ignored Charity, flashing a bright smile in the Queen’s direction. “Well met, Your Majesty. It is a beautiful day for a garden party, is it not? The spring blossoms are nearly as lovely as our fair princess.”
“My granddaughter is particularly becoming today,” the Queen agreed. “I was about to say as much to Duchess Atholl. You have had the pleasure of meeting her? If not, do let me know so I can rectify your oversight.”
Lady Pelham’s smile faltered, thinning into a line as she raked her eyes down Charity’s gown, which was decidedly not in any colours of mourning. “I heard she was here, but have not had a chance to speak with her, of course,” she replied, her tone clipped. “I heard word of your return, Your Grace, but I assumed it to be mistaken. To re-enter society so soon after the death of your spouse is… unusual, is it not, Your Majesty?”
Lady Pelham was hardly the first to say so. Charity’s own mother had insisted, “A year in mourning, at a minimum. Give society time to forget about your debut. In a year—or even two—with your title and wealth, they will be more than happy to welcome you back.”
Charity ignored that advice. Though they shared the same blonde hair and bright blue eyes, her mother was soft where Charity had grown hard. Lady Cresswell clung to a belief that beauty and loyalty could conquer all.
But Charity knew better—both were meaningless without the wit to wield them as weapons. Ten months in the north, feigning grief for the ancient Duke of Atholl—a man whom Charity had barely known for two weeks—had given her ample time to hone both plans and resolve. She instructed her parents to remain in the country this year. Better they spend the season in pastoral ignorance than fret over every snide whisper.
Thus far, Charity had no trouble handling women like Lady Pelham. Everything was calculated… and properly done.
“I am upholding the duke’s final wishes. My dear husband insisted upon my return to London on his deathbed.”
“So you say…” Lady Pelham’s voice trailed off disdainfully. It left no question as to her opinion on the matter.
“So I say.” The Queen’s stinging words took both Charity and Lady Pelham by surprise, and Queen Charlotte looked down her nose at the viscountess. “Even before they married, the duke knew my wishes—his wife was to accompany the princess during her debut. I am sure I remember my own request.”
The venomous woman’s mouth fell open, but no retort escaped her lips.
Charity maintained a composed expression. It wouldn’t do to gloat. Lady Pelham wasn’t an enemy, merely an irritant—a fly to be swatted when necessary. “My husband was a great supporter of the crown. Her Majesty’s wish is our command, Lady Pelham, is it not?”
“Good day, Lady Pelham,” the Queen said in an imperious tone. The woman bobbed a curtsey and then backed away as fast as she could without losing her balance.
Queen Charlotte flicked open her lace fan and waved it lazily in the air. “Lady Pelham would do well to remember that one does not rise to the top only by stepping on those around her. Perhaps she should redirect her energies toward proving her usefulness. To me, specifically.”
“Excellent advice, as always,” Charity murmured. “And on that note, I would ask for your leave to check on the princess.”
With the Queen’s approval, she walked deeper into the garden. She held her head high as would befit the wealthy duchess, now lady-in-waiting, and presumed confidante of the princess.
Charity was fast on her way to reclaiming her status as a diamond of the first water. Had she not known just how easily all that could be lost, she might have revelled in this accomplishment. Today, however, duty took precedence. Her task was to ensure the princess behaved amicably with her intended beau.
At present, the princess was leisurely strolling arm in arm with one of her aunts, clearly in no rush to fulfill her obligation.
Charity gathered her skirts, gliding forward until she slid neatly into place at the princess’s other side. Then she feigned a dry cough. “All these conversations have left me in desperate need of a glass of lemonade. Are you not parched, Your Highness? Come, allow me to escort you to the refreshments table.”
Releasing her aunt, the princess looped an arm through Charity’s and tugged her in the opposite direction. “Your Grace, your timing is perfect. I want your court knowledge. There is a handsome man in the French contingent, and I am curious as to his antecedents.”
Not fooled, Charity did not look to see who the princess meant. The stranger’s identity was irrelevant. The highest ranking foreigner at the event was Prince William of Orange, who happened to be positioned near the refreshments. Charity made a second attempt to suggest they go the right way, but once again, the princess dragged her feet.
“Please, Your Grace, must we go that way? My intended is so very…”
“Generous?” Charity offered. “He gifted you the bracelet around your wrist, did he not?”
The princess sniffed, not quite pouting. “It is a plain golden band, as dull as his conversation. The man could make the weather sound dire—and he never becomes remotely interesting until he has had three glasses of wine, at which point he is positively incoherent.”
The Dutch prince had many fine qualities, but his tolerance for drink was not one. Nor was conversation, unfortunately. Still, Charity had to get the princess and prince talking to one another. Else they would be finding themselves with a stranger on their wedding night.
It was rather an unpleasant experience, and Charity had learnt that lesson the hard way, enduring her wedding night beneath the fumbling hands of an octogenarian she’d only met hours before. Once had been sufficient to validate their union—mercifully brief and, by some stroke of fortune, not fruitful. It was a memory she carried with grim clarity.
The princess would be required to submit to much more than that. As soon as she married, she would have the duty to birth the heirs to two thrones.
Charity straightened, her tone firm as she pressed her point. “We must at least make our introductions. I will be right beside you. No harm will come of a simple hello.”
“Fine,” the princess sighed, with all the exaggerated resignation of a young girl gravely inconvenienced. “But first, just one more turn around the garden. I know Papa insists I marry him, but surely I am entitled to a harmless flirtation or two before I am officially doomed. Please, Your Grace. Wait for me here? I swear, I will be back before you can even lament my lack of sense.”
Charity checked to ensure the Queen was not looking their way before nodding her agreement. “Do not tarry, or your grandmother might take the matter into her own imperial hands—and no one will want that.”
The princess waved aside the threat and sauntered off with her aunt again.
In truth, Charity did not begrudge the charming but rebellious girl her moments of fancy. She remembered her first society events all too well. Wishing to be prepared, she had arrived in London with a short list of acceptable suitors in mind, and went to work matching the names with faces. Though she had always planned to marry to best advantage, she had also not been any more immune to aquiline noses, firm chins, and muscled arms than the next woman.
Lord Percy had been nearly the sum of all Charity could wish for. People thought she was mad for breaking the engagement.
Freeing him from their engagement wasn’t as altruistic a gesture as most thought. A man with no appetite for society made him a poor choice indeed for a woman bent on standing at its pinnacle.
Now, however, she was a widow, unshackled from the constraints of maidenly virtue. There was pleasure to be had in the act, Grace had assured her, though Charity was unconvinced of its value. Perhaps, in time, Charity might consider a discreet lover. Not immediately, of course, but perhaps by the end of the season.
Her gaze swept over the gathered men, assessing them with cool detachment. She sought someone worthy of her attention—someone she could control.
Across the lawn, a flash of blonde hair captured her attention—a colour that bordered upon white, it was so fair. Her whole body froze, and it felt as though the sky clamped down upon her, suffocating her with its nearness.
Stop. The world is not closing in , she ordered herself sternly. Stand tall. Graceful. You cannot faint here in front of the guests. You must stay with the princess ? —
The wrench of her gut at the thought of her dereliction, a knife-hot pain, forced her to breathe shallowly again. That, and the sparkles of light and dark that began to edge her vision.
It was not possible. Not at Carlton House. She must surely be mistaken.
No, not a mistake. A Fitzroy is at the party. A Fitzroy is here !
The voice in her thoughts, the one that sounded suspiciously like her mother, made a screech like nails on dark slate and fell silent. Charity halted in her steps, steadying herself with a hand upon an ornamental rail. It was a miracle she did not gasp for air, but she did not think the iron bands around her chest would allow it anyway.
It must be true. Only one family in London bore those hallmark locks, brighter than the spun gold of tales of angels or fairies. It was as clear a mark of the devil standing among them as the smell of sulfur.
As if hearing her thoughts, the crowd thinned between them, revealing Peregrine Fitzroy, Earl Fitzroy, poised as though he owned the world. His sharp features were set in a faintly amused expression as he stood half-turned towards her.
Some of the tightness left her lungs, but a far more complicated feeling began to seize her throat and heart in its fists. Vivid snatches of that ball shoved their way into her mind like a waking nightmare.
The spicy smell of cloves rose in her memory, as well as the slight, mocking curve of his lips as they danced together at his ball. His light blue eyes had been hooded and enigmatic, and her cheeks had burned, fever pitch, as the world began to tilt. She could still feel his arm at her waist, clutching her tightly to him after she stumbled into Grace and Lord Percy, his hand burning like a brand upon her back.
She had been so hot she could not bear to be within her own skin. She had decided to go to the garden and?—
Nothing after that. The hole in her memory yawned like a terrifying beast. Charity had been drugged so she would not fight her abduction, and so there was a great deal she could not remember about that night, or the days after.
It had been her friend, Grace, who had explained to her later that Lady Fitzroy had a prodigious medical knowledge of plants. A common headache remedy—henbane—had been slipped into her drink by a maid to make her clumsy in front of the ton . After she was taken, her captors had kept her dosed with laudanum to keep her pliant.
Charity’s fists tightened until her nails dug into her skin. The flash of pain reminded her to keep her wits sharp. She had lost nearly everything she had been planning for her future that night. Everything . And all of this had happened because Lady Marian Fitzroy wished to make Charity’s mama pay for slights that happened before she had been born.
It was unjust that so far the witch had escaped punishment. Revealing Lady Fitzroy’s role in the kidnapping would have besmirched Charity and her rescuers, too, but their fear of tarnish had only emboldened the woman. Lady Fitzroy had then gone on to commit a different crime—an act of treason during a diplomatic visit from the Swedish Ambassador a few weeks later. That time it was to retaliate against the Crown for the aid the Queen had given Charity. And after that, Lady Fitzroy had fled beyond the grasp of retribution, having escaped to the continent.
Rage edged with fear rooted her to the spot, no matter how much she willed her feet back into motion. If he turned his head only a few more inches, he would see her staring at him as though he had two heads.
Move, Charity, she told herself sternly. Preferably before he sees you .
But of course, by then it was too late. Fitzroy turned and glanced lazily in her direction like a great cat surrounded by his pride, surveying his surroundings, sleek and content. As he fixed his gaze upon her, she noticed the way his eyes widened and then sharpened in surprise and recognition.
Then, he had the audacity to lift the corners of his mouth in a faint, mocking smile, the kind that seemed to say he already knew the game and how it would end. Or was it meant to issue a challenge? After everything that Lady Fitzroy had done last year, how innocent could her own son possibly be?
Before Charity could decide which it was, he casually turned away again as though she was beneath his consideration. As if a world of bitter history did not lie between them. He took a glass from a passing footman, the perfect picture of an aristocrat who had every right to be there.
Of course, strictly speaking, he should possess that right. His service had earned him a pardon from his mother’s crimes.
Lord Fitzroy should have been stripped of assets. He should have been imprisoned. He should have been horribly maimed when he had been sent to war, or at the least, have come back with a haunted look and shattered nerves. Charity did not know how he had managed such a feat, but it looked as though the man had suffered little from his experience.
The sun shone upon him as though he were a golden god, and people circled him in worship instead of scorn. That smarted most of all—that she still had to put up with the backbiting from overstretched termagants like Lady Pelham, and he was wholly unmarked by the sins of his family.
She glared her frustration at him for a moment, and he turned his eyes her way again, catching her in the act. Shame at being caught staring, coupled with her fury, brought a scalding blush to her cheeks. Damn the man, for that only made his smile widen.
He should have left the country with the rest of his family. The punishment he had gotten… it was not nearly enough. He most certainly should not be standing in Prinny’s garden, smirking at her and lifting his glass in a toast.
Abruptly, her anger turned to suspicion, and she pointedly turned her back on him. Why was Lord Fitzroy here—at this particular event? What was his purpose? Could it be only to work to repair his damaged reputation? Or was there something else? Given the debacle at the end of last season, one would think he would give people another year to forget his association.
One should not look a gift horse in the mouth, Charity reminded herself, and the panic that had stifled her breath eased. Truly, his plans did not matter in the end.
Lady Fitzroy, the architect of all her suffering, had spent a great deal of time in Charity’s thoughts this winter. Mostly, that had comprised discovering the dowager’s whereabouts and formulating a strategy on how to bring her into reach so that Charity could give a little of that suffering back to the entire Fitzroy family.
The solution to both problems, it seemed, might have just been given to her.