Page 26 of Brilliance and Betrayal (The Diamond of the Ton Regency Mysteries #1)

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“A wife should listen with care, but now and then, she must listen to her own heart. There will be moments, my dear, when the right course is yours alone to choose."

—Lady Cresswell, to Charity on the eve of her wedding

“ Y our Grace?” A man’s voice pierced the fog of sleep. Charity’s dreams unraveled, slipping through her grasp as she clawed her way to wakefulness. “Duchess, it is morning.”

Morning. The word held little meaning. There had been no true rest, only darkness and the aching pull of exhaustion. She scrubbed at her gritty eyes, pushing herself upright. Pain lanced through her spine, stiff and unyielding after a night spent curled on a wooden bench. She sucked in a breath and blinked until the room sharpened into focus.

Lord Ravenscroft peered at her from up close. He backed away at her rousing, revealing the unfamiliar confines of the space around them. The room smelled of charred wood and bitter herbs. A small hearth crackled with freshly stoked embers, casting flickering shadows across a shelf of apothecary bottles. In the corner, a discarded rag—dark with dried blood—lay in stark contrast to the pale wooden floor.

They were still in the doctor’s surgery. Still waiting.

The night had yielded no miracles. Charity braced against the surge of frustration. She had refused to retreat to the palace, and made it clear she wanted to stay at his side. But Ravenscroft had forced her to rest—if one could call this pathetic excuse for sleep rest. Now morning had come.

“Lord Fitzroy,” she croaked, ignoring the dryness in her throat.

“Has not yet woken,” Ravenscroft answered. “The doctor is with him now. I sent Antoine out for rolls and tea to break our fast. Do not shake your head. We must keep up our strength if we are to help him.”

Charity rubbed her sore neck and glared at the hard wooden door separating her from the next room. Goodness knew there was little else to see in the spartan space. The only other furniture was a narrow table by the window. The emptiness pressed against her, heavy and suffocating. She took the food Ravenscroft offered, chewing mechanically—not for hunger, but because collapsing from weakness would do Fitzroy no good.

When the doctor finally emerged, she set the half-eaten bun aside, her entire body tensing.

“How is he?”

The doctor did not smile. Did not soften his tone.

“The laudanum should have worn off by now, but he is not coming round.” He hesitated. “His temperature is rising.”

The words struck like a hammer blow.

Rising. Not lowering.

She forced herself to focus, to hear the rest.

“The wound still looks clean. If there is some sort of infection, it is deep inside. The fever may burn it out.”

Or it might burn him away completely.

The room tilted slightly. Charity’s fingers dug into the bench, anchoring herself. Fitzroy stood on the threshold of life and death, and all they could do was wait.

No. Not wait. She would not sit by idly and leave this to fate.

Perhaps what he needed was an incentive to make the right choice.

“May I sit with him?” she asked. When the doctor nodded and stepped aside, Charity turned to Lord Ravenscroft. “Will you stay, or have you somewhere to be?”

“I will not depart without your leave—and not until we agree on what to tell the Crown. Prinny will be expecting an update from me before the day is done.”

Prinny. Queen Charlotte. The Marchioness. The ever-growing queue of those who wanted something from her. If even one of them had spared a thought for Fitzroy beyond what he could give them, perhaps they wouldn’t be here at all.

Charity found the energy to give Lord Ravenscroft a grateful smile and then gathered her nerve to go into the next room. It looked much the same as it had the night before. Someone had added a fresh log to the fire and left a bowl of clean water on the chest of surgical instruments.

From the doorway, Peregrine appeared to be asleep. He lay atop the battered old table that served as a bed, with only a wool blanket beneath to cushion his injured body. His arms twitched and his ragged breaths huffed out far too quickly for Charity’s liking. She rushed to his side, brushing damp hair from his fevered brow before lifting the cloth. It had gone warm. Too warm. She dipped it into the cool water, wrung it out, and pressed it gently to his forehead, her fingers lingering for a breath too long.

Her mother would be apoplectic at the sight. Peregrine, bare-chested beneath a thin blanket. Charity, disheveled, her hair mussed, her gown irredeemably wrinkled. Lady Cresswell would demand a wedding before the man even opened his eyes.

The faint smile slipped from Charity’s face before it had time to take hold. Stickler though Lady Cresswell was for propriety, she would never consent to her daughter marrying a Fitzroy. Certainly not Marian Fitzroy’s only son.

The weak light seeping in around the edge of the curtain cast Peregrine in a strange half shadow. Charity noted a hint of his mother’s features in the shape of his brow, not to mention her same white blond locks. He had been cast in her mould, raised by her hand, yet here he was, far, far from his mother’s side.

He was just as alone in the world as Charity was, but unlike her, he desperately longed to stay that way. Clawed hands reached for him from every direction, striking out for a pound of his flesh.

How had she ever thought him her enemy?

He had tried to tell her in the maze at the garden party. He had said he intended to leave well enough alone. She had only to keep her distance. She had all but spat in his face. Now, she did not want to leave his side, albeit for a very different reason.

She wet the cloth again and placed it back on his forehead, watching as rivulets of water ran through his hair. He muttered something unintelligible, shifted around, and then clutched his injured side. She pulled his hands away carefully, crooning words in a singsong voice, begging him to lie still, to be at peace.

“You must rest, Perry. Your body needs time to mend, but your spirit is strong—I know it is. Do not slip away. Please… come back to us.” She stilled, hoping for any kind of response, but all she got was silence. Yet, even that much was an improvement. She threaded her fingers through his and held on, unwilling to consider anything other than him getting better, even though his feverish skin burned against her palm.

Time blurred into the rise and fall of his fevered breaths. Shadows lengthened, candle wax pooled and cooled, yet she remained, gripping his hand like an anchor.

Then—three sharp knocks at the door.

Lord Ravenscroft cracked the wooden panel open and motioned to her to come closer. “We need to discuss next steps, Your Grace. Antoine will sit with his lordship.”

Before she left, Charity smoothed the sheet that was covering Peregrine’s chest. Ravenscroft moved aside, waiting for her to follow, and his valet took up the vigil.

Ravenscroft motioned Charity toward the narrow table near the window where a plate of food and glass of ale awaited her. The curtains had been pushed aside enough to let her see the shoulder of the man who had taken up watch outside. It was a reminder of how precarious their position was, not that she needed one. She had little appetite and told Ravenscroft as much. “I just ate.”

“That was six hours ago.”

“But Lord Fitzroy?—”

“Is in the next room.” Ravenscroft pointed again to the table. “Antoine will alert us if anything changes.”

Charity glanced over her shoulder at the closed door. “Do you trust him? Are you certain he cannot be corrupted?”

Ravenscroft drew himself up, shifting his stance as though wrestling with something, before he finally huffed out a sigh. “Antoine is—important to me.”

Charity searched his face, waiting for him to explain. Of course his valet was important, just as her lady’s maid was a key servant. But Ravenscroft’s words suggested something more. Something deeper.

Oh. Oh.

“So the answer is yes, I do trust him. Should you stay the course with Lord Fitzroy—with Peregrine —you may someday find yourself caught in a difficult situation. If no one else in your life understands, you may come to me.”

“But the women, the flirting?”

“Ah, well. Variety is the spice of life, Duchess! But… other desires are fleeting. Small mysteries, easily sated with bits of gossip. Like you, I, too, have to be useful. I, too, depend upon the goodwill of the Crown to live the life of my choosing.”

Charity mulled his words, her picture of him arranging and rearranging itself until it fit together into a coherent whole.

The question poured from her lips faster than she could stop it. “Is it worth it? All the dancing, pretending, the nights out? Surely you must have had second thoughts, at some point? And what of your title? You must have an heir.”

“I am content to let the title fall to my cousin. He is a kind man with four grown sons.” Ravenscroft chuckled. “The rest—I have the heart of a hedonist, and it is not nearly as much pretending as you think. I was more fortunate with my nature than many, because otherwise I do not know how I would have been able to play the role society expects.”

That was not news to Charity, for she had only to look at her dearest friend Grace to see that love exacted a price. Or Ravenscroft, whose affections saw him shackled firmly to Prinny for his protection.

She allowed Lord Ravenscroft to take her by the arms and guide her to the table. He pushed in her chair and then took the seat opposite.

“The pie is chicken and mushroom from the best shop in the area. Enjoy it, for the ale is more water than anything else. You eat, and I will do the talking.”

The aroma rising from the top of the flakey, buttery crust awoke Charity’s stomach. She picked up the fork and knife and waved her hand, telling Ravenscroft to continue.

“There is more news I have to share with you. After I sent Dawson to Bow Street, he brought back word that McGrath—the man who stabbed, err?—”

The man’s face flashed into Charity’s mind from the night she had been attacked, turning her stomach. “I made his acquaintance when he invaded my home.” She sipped the ale and took a cleansing breath before returning to her food.

“Well, you do not need to fear crossing paths with him again. He is dead. The prison guard found him in his cell this morning.”

“Good.” Something about Ravenscroft’s expression suddenly left her unsure. “Is that not a good thing?”

“It is a fitting end, though it gives rise to a whole host of new questions. How did someone get to him in a private cell? Someone ordered his death and paid someone handsomely to do it, all on a moment’s notice.”

“Was it Cameron?” she ventured.

Ravenscroft shook his head. “Bow Street has his office under watch, but there has been no sign of him. He has gone to ground. McGrath said that there was a larger plan, involving others. It looks like he was correct. McGrath’s death was ordered by another pair of hands.”

Her fork fell from her hand, landing on the ceramic plate with a clatter. Charity raised her hands to her face and covered her eyes. Life, death, more adversaries crawling out from London’s underbelly. It was too much to contemplate.

She would start with the most urgent matters. “Does anyone know where we are?”

“As best as I can tell, no, though that luck will not hold for long. The doctor is out seeing patients now, and I have paid him handsomely to keep the surgery closed. But by tomorrow, we will need to move, one way or another. The question, however, is where to go.”

“Are you sure the townhouse is unsafe?” Charity asked.

“His mother surely knows of its existence. Same with the Fitzroy estate. I would offer my home, except I was with Fitzroy at the fight. We need someplace with a lot of guards, few entry points, and loyal staff.”

Atholl House met the latter two criteria, but the cutthroats had already made quick work of getting access to it. And Selina’s offer was too dangerous to entertain—even if Peregrine hadn’t warned her repeatedly that her prices were too high.

“I can go to Prinny,” Ravenscroft offered.

Prinny would almost certainly agree, but Queen Charlotte had him wound around her little finger. Not to mention, she would send them all to the devil if they left her out yet again.

No, if they were to approach a royal, it had to be her visiting the Queen.

But the Queen was looking for someone to blame for all that had happened. There was a risk she might see some benefit to despatching Lord Fitzroy, particularly now that they had confirmation his mother was involved. Charity took a few more bites of the cooling food, wracking her mind for a worthwhile option.

“Prinny is the wrong place to start. We need something of value to offer Her Majesty, if we are to convince her that his is a life worth saving. I have the start of an idea, but I am not sure whether it is enough.”

Suddenly, the front door crashed open, and Will Hodges entered. Ravenscroft stood quickly, putting himself between the man and Charity, giving Peregrine’s driver a wary, hostile glare.

“What do you want, Hodges?” he asked gruffly. “Why are you even still here? You have overstayed your welcome, and you may want to take your leave while Fitzroy is still senseless.”

Charity looked from one man to the other. Unlike Ravenscroft, Hodges’s face was shuttered. “What has happened?”

“Fitzroy’s driver used to be a sellsword, Duchess. Did you know? And apparently he feels free to accept commissions while pretending to be a loyal man.”

“I am a loyal man, Your Grace,” Hodges gritted, keeping his eyes on Charity. “My job has always been to protect his lordship. With my life, if need be. That is the order I was given, when the Marchioness of Normanby sent me to war behind him, and that is the oath I follow still.”

Charity could feel Ravenscroft’s surprise that Hodges would name his other employer so casually. But Charity knew there was nothing casual about the way he dropped Selina’s name.

Hodges had driven her to the marchioness’s home, and he knew the name would hold meaning for her. The way he was holding her eyes was improper, but it was a telling look. This was a risk. An explanation. Not an excuse.

Ravenscroft sneered at the man. “I suppose you believed this did not divide your interests. Does she know you are here? Did she order you to stay on the doorstep?”

Charity lifted a hand towards Ravenscroft to calm him down. “It is the oath he follows still,” she repeated Hodges’s words thoughtfully, growing curious. “Does he have any idea what you are?”

“Your Grace, he never asked me for my references. I keep duller knives in my pockets, if you take my meaning. We saw one another at work long before the Nive, and he offered me a position proper.”

The man could clearly see the doubt on their faces. “I can see what yer thinking. Well, if you still can’t imagine what sort of trouble he thought might come looking for him in London, especially after all this, you’re not nearly as clever as the lady or his lordship.”

Ravenscroft and Charity shared a glance.

“She is still paying you to protect him here? In London?” Charity struggled to make sense of it. “Why would you accept her money to do what he is paying you for himself?”

“Hell.” Hodges swore softly and paused a moment, as if summoning the energy to speak more words. “If I’m to be damned for it, it may as well be in full and not by halves. Once I got back, I tried to end the contract with Lady Normanby, but she changed her terms for protection. He asked me on as a general hand—and I suspect a guard. But she wanted me to make inquiries into the staff and keep away trouble before it could end up on his doorstep, too. That has a cost.”

Charity knew nothing about such things. But she had an inkling now of why Hodges might not have felt his loyalties were divided. “And you did it knowing you would be sacked if he ever found out about it.”

Hodges grunted. “Aye. I’d do it again, too. I like working for his lordship, but the man has too few people watching his backside. And now he’ll have one fewer. He’ll want me gone now, and her ladyship won’t have no use for me anymore, which is why I’m spilling my guts.”

Charity had heard of honour among thieves, but until this moment, she had not fully grasped it. Hodges might have used the marchioness’s resources to help Peregrine, but it was clear where both his concerns and loyalty lay.

Ravenscroft flicked a glance her way and Charity gave a subtle nod of agreement. She paused for a moment. “Tell me Hodges. Lady Normanby wanted me to let Fitzroy know she was willing to provide him aid. What do you think about her offer?”

The corner of Hodges’ eyelid twitched—which in a way, told Charity everything. “I’d suggest you let his lordship decide.”

If only he was hale enough to. But Charity was worried that if—no, when , she told herself sternly—he came around, it might be too late to put protection in place. She had to go back to considering the Queen.

Charity was close enough to the woman to foresee exactly what the Crown would demand, assuming they could be convinced to extend their protection. What could she offer that the Queen did not already have?

Perhaps access to Selina’s secret society. Yes, the marchioness wanted Fitzroy, but had she not also said she wanted Charity to become her friend? Charity had brushed aside the idea, thinking the Queen would question her allegiance. But now, that played to her advantage.

First, she needed to be certain that the Crown was truly in the dark. Fortunately, she had ready access to someone who would know.

“Lord Ravenscroft, tell me, what does Prinny know of the marchioness and her so-called friends?” she asked.

“I always assumed she was like me,” he replied. “A master at using her every resource to gather information, which she passed along to whomever held her loyalty. If it is more, that is far more serious, and certainly warrants further study.”

“That is what I hoped you would say.” Charity glanced around, searching the space for her wrap and gloves. When she found them lying on a shelf, she sent Hodges out to flag down a carriage. “I must go to Buckingham House, alone,” she added. “You should visit Prinny before he is too wroth with you. Antoine and Hodges can remain here to keep up the watch. I will be back as soon as I can, with help in tow.”

And she would, though she wished she was more certain about the viability of her plan.