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Page 22 of Brilliance and Betrayal (The Diamond of the Ton Regency Mysteries #1)

21

“The arrival of royalty demands the utmost preparation—households must be set in order, staff drilled to perfection, and every detail arranged with meticulous care."

—Reflections of Grace: A Guide to Etiquette

T he Queen’s keen eyes remained fixed on Charity for a moment longer. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she leaned back in her chair, the stiff brocade of her gown rustling against the carved wood. A measured breath escaped her nose—not quite a sigh, not quite a huff—as her fingers resumed their rhythmic tapping against the armrest, a sound as precise and unrelenting as a clock marking the seconds.

At last, she spoke. “You look pale, Duchess. Sit.”

It was not a kindness. Charity knew better than to mistake the Queen’s commands for concern, but she accepted the invitation with a murmured “Thank you, ma’am,” and lowered herself onto the nearest chair.

Queen Charlotte lifted a small bell from the table at her side and gave it a delicate ring. A moment later, the door opened just wide enough for a footman to receive her order.

“Tea.”

The command was crisp, unadorned. The footman disappeared as swiftly as he had arrived, and returned soon after. He made quick work of pouring tea and then, bowing, he exited the room.

The Queen studied Charity with an uncompromising gaze and pursed her lips as she blew into the steaming cup. “The only positive news in all this is that the Dutch still have no idea their prince was poisoned. Can you imagine, Duchess, what would happen were they to learn? The matter of the betrothal would be insignificant in comparison to the diplomatic nightmare that would result. Who put my granddaughter up to this? You said there were messages?”

“Months’ worth, Your Majesty. Each penned in a feminine hand on fine stationery. Lord Fitzroy and I agree that it must be a woman within the ton .”

“Fitzroy agrees with you, you say?” Charlotte huffed in disgust. “And why should he not, when that description absolves him of any blame? What would he have me do? Drag all the ladies of the land before my throne and subject them to questioning?”

“Of course not, Your Majesty.” Charity clenched her jaw at a fierce glare from the Queen.

“And when the Dutch hear—for word will most certainly get out—what then? They will demand a head on a platter.”

“Then let us find one to deliver. I believe the person who passed those messages along to the Princess of Wales is someone who has previously been in Lady Fitzroy’s employ. How else would her man of business know to find them?”

The Queen shifted. “I am well aware that some of the less fortunate members of the ton rely on less savoury ways to line their pockets. We have always turned a blind eye to such matters. It would be far more convenient to blame Lord Fitzroy.”

Fear closed Charity’s throat. For whatever other issues they had between them, she did not want him dead. She dared to speak again, playing the only card remaining in her hand. “This is far worse than selling a courtesy, my Queen. This person acted directly against the express wishes of both yourself and the Prince Regent. If they are allowed to escape unpunished, what will they do next?” Charity glanced from side to side, as though checking to make sure they were still alone in the room. Then she lowered her voice and added, “Such an individual might very well help Marian Fitzroy, should she someday decide to return.”

The Queen sucked in a breath and her cheeks flamed. “I will not allow anyone from that viper’s nest to slide through the shadows.”

“Nor will I, which is why I hope you will forgive me for pressing this point.”

“I will grant you leniency, but do not make a habit of it, Duchess. Now, be quiet, and let me think.” Her gaze turned distant as she tapped one manicured finger against the rim of her teacup. “My granddaughter keeps an insipid collection of women around her, most of them married to one of my sons. Of them, at least, I can be certain of loyalty.”

Charity held her breath, sensing the Queen working through a line of reasoning.

“If we exclude them, and yourself, Duchess, we are left with a very short list,” Queen Charlotte continued, more to herself than to Charity. “Which one of the remaining has both a need for coin and a lack of scruples?” Her gaze sharpened, landing suddenly on Charity as if she had already come to the answer. “Tell me, Duchess, have you made the acquaintance of Lady Blandford?”

Charity hesitated. The name was familiar, but she had been in the north for much of the year, far removed from the latest scandals and whispers of London society. “I have crossed paths with her, ma’am, but our conversations have never progressed beyond polite niceties.”

“Then allow me to enlighten you.” The Queen sat forward, her voice edged with cool disdain. “At the start of the year, she claimed to have come into a modest inheritance. No relations were reported dead, mind you, but she appeared at court with new gowns and an air of financial ease she had never before possessed. I did not question it at the time, for I had more pressing matters to address. Now, I find myself reconsidering.”

Charity remained still, waiting.

“Lady Blandford,” Charlotte mused, tilting her head, “is a woman who likes her comforts. And comforts require funds. It would not be the first time she has sold her services to an interested party, though this is rather a bold leap from the usual indiscretions.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes. I do believe she will answer our questions.”

Before Charity could speak, the Queen lifted her hand and rang the bell. The footman appeared almost immediately, bowing low.

“Have the carriage brought round,” she instructed, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

A beat of silence. The footman hesitated, flicking a glance toward Charity before facing the Queen. “Your Majesty… you wish to go out?”

Charity’s breath caught.

Charlotte’s expression did not waver. “Did I not make myself clear?”

The man gave a hurried bow and all but fled to fulfill the command.

Charity found herself gripping the arms of her chair. “You mean to visit Lady Blandford? Now?”

The Queen settled back, smoothing the fabric of her gown. “We will catch her off guard. That is how one gets confessions, my diamond. Surely you understand that.”

Charity swallowed. Queen Charlotte never made unplanned visits. The weight of her presence was an event in and of itself, something carefully orchestrated and never without intent.

Still, she nodded. “Of course, ma’am.”

A small, satisfied smile curled at the Queen’s lips. “Good. Come along and I will show you what happens to those who dare to defy me.”

The carriage rattled through the narrow streets of London, the steady clip of the horses’ hooves echoing against the stone facades. Charity sat opposite the Queen, hands neatly folded in her lap, but her thoughts were far from still.

It was not lost on her how unusual this journey was. The Queen of England did not travel in anonymity, nor did she venture into the city without the full pageantry of rank and status. Yet here she sat in an unmarked carriage, the royal crest absent from the doors, with only the bare minimum of guards shadowing their path. No outriders, no heralding trumpets, no crowd of onlookers pausing in reverence. There would be no one to give Lady Blandford warning of her impending doom.

While the Queen had prepared for their outing, Charity had searched her prodigious memory for what little she knew of the Blandford family. Lady Blandford had once presided over an enviable household, her place in society assured by birth and marriage. But that was before her husband’s untimely death, before the title passed to a distant cousin who had wasted little time in ejecting her from the Blandford estate.

Queen Charlotte had not spoken since the carriage set off, her expression unreadable. Charity did not fool herself into thinking Her Majesty was in a softened mood. No, the Queen was merely sharpening the blade before the strike.

The houses grew narrower as they approached their destination, the grandeur of Mayfair left behind in favour of quieter, more practical elegance. The carriage slowed before a modest townhouse squeezed between its wealthier neighbours. Its painted shutters were chipped at the edges, the iron knocker polished but worn smooth from years of use. A pair of potted roses sat on the front step, their blooms slightly wilted, as though tended by a hand that no longer had the time or means to care for them properly.

Queen Charlotte’s voice cut through the stillness. “Let us see what secrets Lady Blandford has been keeping, shall we?”

A trio of footmen had accompanied the carriage. One leapt clear and headed to the door, while the other two took great care in helping the Queen down. Charity, nearly an afterthought, had to descend the carriage steps on her own. By then, the front door was open and the housekeeper was dropped into a deep curtsey that would have been the envy of any woman in court.

Queen Charlotte strode into the house, paying the housekeeper no mind, and went straight into the front room, where she and Charity found Lady Blandford waiting.

The woman in question was so pale that she was nearly invisible against the faded wallpaper, its once-grand pattern of roses now ghostlike beneath years of neglect. She jerked into a curtsey, half rose, then hesitated before dipping into another, as though unsure which instinct—self-preservation or formality—ought to take precedence. Her hands fluttered at her sides, before she pressed them tightly together, as though restraining the urge to clutch at her own skirts.

That could be you if you do not take great care in your interactions with the Queen.

Charity shushed her mother’s voice. Now was not the time for such reminders.

“Your Majesty, I was not expecting—that is to say, I am most honoured by your visit?—”

Queen Charlotte held out a hand to halt Lady Blandford’s torrent of words. “Yes, yes, I am here. Ring for tea, and let us be seated.”

Lady Blandford glanced around the room. There was an overstuffed sofa with the fabric worn shiny from years of use, a pair of wooden chairs, and a single wingback with a basket of sewing beside it. She rushed over, retrieved the basket, shoved it under a side table, and then offered the Queen her chair.

“The tea tray?” Charlotte reminded her. “I fear your housekeeper will end up frozen in that position if you do not prod her to rise.”

Lady Blandford gasped in horror and excused herself. Harshly whispered orders floated in from the corridor, followed by scurrying footsteps, and then the lady returned. She glanced at Charity, her searching gaze begging for some sort of hint of what was in store. Had Charity felt even a moment of sympathy, she might have found an encouraging smile or a slight nod of her head.

Charity had none, not for the woman who likely betrayed them all for coin. If somehow they were wrong in their accusations, she could apologise later.

Lady Blandford perched on the edge of one of the wooden chairs, her back rigid and her hands clenched in her lap. The housekeeper arrived in the doorway, her arms shaking so much that the cups rattled on the plates. She rushed forward, deposited the tray on the low table in the middle of the room, and backed out with her head bowed. A whimper was the last they heard of her.

“Shall I pour?” Lady Blandford asked in a wobbling voice.

“Not yet,” the Queen replied. She settled more comfortably onto the chair, but Charity knew any relaxation was feigned. Queen Charlotte was a lioness pretending to sleep long enough to coax her prey within reach.

Charity wondered how long it would take Lady Blandford to break. The answer was no time at all. The woman lasted two blinks of the Queen’s scrutiny before she dropped to her knees and begged for leniency.

“I did not think she would do it, not truly, and I had only her best interest at heart…” she babbled on, her words tumbling out between sobs. “She does not want to marry the prince.”

“Silence!” Charlotte’s voice boomed, making even Charity jump in her seat. “Do not pretend that this was about anything other than coin. Tell me everything and maybe you will avoid spending your remaining days with a view of Tower Bridge.”

Lady Blandford stayed where she was on the floor at the Queen’s feet, but she did find the wherewithal to sit up. Her skirts pooled around her, dragging her down with the weight of the expensive fabric. The pearls at her wrist and ears testified to her taste for expensive adornments. In a halting voice, with tears carving tracks down her pallid cheeks, she recounted the entire tale.

“No great harm was intended, my liege. I had only to copy the text of the letters I received, and then ensure my copies found their way to the princess. I thought once of refusing, but then who else might they have hired?”

“Have you still the original letters?” Charity asked gently.

Lady Blandford gave a nod of confession. At the Queen’s command, she went upstairs to retrieve them.

“Should we worry she might run away?” Charity asked after several long minutes had passed.

“Where would she go that I cannot reach?” Queen Charlotte replied.

Lady Blandford must have arrived at the same conclusion, for she returned clutching a handful of missives. The hair framing her face was damp from where she had stopped to wash away the salt from her cheeks. “Here they are, Your Majesty.”

The Queen flicked through them, skimming the brief lines before passing each letter to Charity. The notes were terse and matched with the ones Charity had seen at the palace.

“Where are the instructions for the poison?” Charity asked after she read the last one of the bunch.

“Oh, those came in the letter of introduction.” Lady Blandford hurried to her writing desk in the corner of the room, pressed a latch to release a hidden drawer, and then pulled out a ribboned scroll. “I followed them exactly. She told me exactly which herbwoman I could trust to mix the concoction. I asked again before I took the vial, to make sure no one’s life was at risk. Here, you can see for yourself.”

Charity took the proffered scroll, the weight of it immediately different from the others—thicker, richer, its creamy-white surface free of smudges or wear. A knot tightened in her stomach. This was no ordinary correspondence.

The world narrowed as she slid the ribbon free, the crisp snap of wax breaking too loud in the hush of the room. For a moment, her eyes refused to process what she saw. And then—recognition struck her like a blow.

The initials at the bottom of the page were unmistakable. Bold, flourished, confident. She knew this hand.

She forced herself to swallow, her throat dry. “Your Majesty,” she managed at last, the words tasting of dust. “This is from Lady Fitzroy.”

Queen Charlotte swiped the letter from Charity’s hands without a word. Only the rising colour beneath her powdered cheeks revealed her growing fury. When she lifted her head, it was to pierce Lady Blandford with her fevered gaze.

“You consorted with a known traitor?” She whispered, as though even she could not believe the signature on the page. She held up a hand to forestall any excuses. “No, save them for the judge. For this alone, I will see you cast from our shores, bound for transport to the worst penal camp they can find.”

That was the final straw for Lady Blandford. She went completely white, her eyes rolling back, and she crumpled into an unmoving heap on the floor.

Charity felt the sudden urge to kick her with the toe of her slipper, but refrained out of better judgement.

The Queen rose from her chair, slid the scroll into the pocket of her brocade skirt, and then stepped over Lady Blandford on her way to the door. When she passed the footman waiting in the narrow hall, she instructed him to remain behind. “Lady Blandford is not to move from that room until the guards collect her. Do you understand?”

The footman gave a nod in reply and then turned the knob on the front door. Another footman was on the doorstep, ready to assist Queen Charlotte with getting back into the carriage. He did, at least this time, help Charity up the stairs, nudging her toward the empty bench across from Charlotte. Before he closed the door, he asked the Queen for their next destination.

“St James’s,” she replied, urging them to move with all haste.

Charity braced herself as the carriage lurched into motion, though in truth she was bracing herself against the torrent of worries washing over her. Like her, the Queen was lost in her own thoughts, staring out the window with a determined set to her mouth.

The name of Marian Fitzroy sounded over and over again in Charity’s mind, like a bell tolling a death or a call to arms. The back of her neck itched. Had she somehow slipped past everyone and returned to London?

Suddenly, certain events that had happened these few days past seemed far more sinister. Was Lady Fitzroy out to finish gaining her revenge on Charity and her mama? What if the attacks had been directed at her for that reason?

She had to find Peregrine. He did not know his mother’s hand was directing matters. She feared his plans to talk to Mr Cameron might end up with Peregrine walking into a trap.