Page 29 of Brilliance and Betrayal (The Diamond of the Ton Regency Mysteries #1)

28

“The appearance of truth, even if it be only an appearance, is essential.”

—Aristotle

P eregrine’s fever had broken a few hours later, and for the next day, he did what he could to recover as speedily as possible.

He was still not hale, but much of his stamina returned after that first feverless sleep, and the pain in his side dulled to a manageable level with the inflammation under control. McGrath’s knife managed to miss everything vital in the fight, and though it hurt and itched, the pain that movement caused was tolerable.

So after every visitor who looked in and went away, he got up and paced silently around his room, carefully studying his surroundings, both inside and out.

Someone had set out a banyan for him, but he also found a small traveling case of shirts and trousers that had been clearly brought from his estate home. At least he wouldn’t have to be wholly indecent. The duke’s clothing was much too small, but Peregrine had found a dark cloak amongst the items that he would definitely need to employ.

His clothes were too easily spotted, and there were guards, indeed. He counted two men patrolling the outside grounds, and likely, there was another stationed at every entryway. Possibly one or two more in the stables.

Those were just what he could count outside—doubtless, he might find at least one man stationed outside his door, and however many others indoors on the ground level.

There were so many, he was amused to realise no man was stationed below his window. Charity and her royal soldiers clearly reckoned on any threats coming from outside. Or perhaps they thought he was still too weak to worry about him protesting the confinement.

To be fair, all day long he had done what he could to convince them of that charade, eating sparingly and staying in bed. For the last day and a half, he staved off both Charity and her unctuous servants by mostly pretending to doze.

It had been pretending to be deep in sleep when Charity looked in on him that hurt the most. She had visited only twice and stood her ground, standing silently by the doorway for only a moment, as if just to reassure herself he was still breathing. And he wished he had the courage to talk with her, and enjoy their last moments together, but he didn’t think he could manage to pretend that nothing was amiss.

He was certain Cameron had someone watching her home, waiting for the guards to be recalled. Or for them to get lax. It would happen, eventually, if Cameron was patient enough—and why shouldn’t he be? The guards would become bored, slipping up in their vigilance, and he would have his golden opportunity to strike at one or both of them.

Tonight, he had to leave her four walls before anyone suspected he was capable of doing so.

After the last servant left him alone for the night, he took a piece of stationary from the desk and scrawled a brief note.

C,

Forgive me. I knew that if I did not leave in silence, you would stop me, so this letter must serve as both a goodbye and a plea for understanding. Only one thing could compel me to leave—and that is to do what I must to end the threat against you.

You may have been right about our fate, but I am not ready to concede defeat. Somewhere, some time, we will find happiness. Even if it must wait for another life.

—P

Folding it carefully, he left it on the bed. Then he extinguished the candle, embracing the darkness.

As the guard began to walk past his window, Peregrine readied himself. He would have perhaps a minute to drop from the duke’s balcony and hide himself behind the nearby laurel. And as the guard passed by, Peregrine stepped over the rail.

It was agony, hanging onto the bars long enough to drop to the ground softly. But he managed it—just. His boots met the damp earth with barely a sound, knees bending to absorb the impact. The laurel’s thick branches swallowed him instantly, the leaves rustling against him as he pressed himself into the shadows and slipped the dark cloak on firmly.

Peregrine stilled his breathing, ears straining for the next guard’s arrival, and within a half a minute steps began to approach. The second guard saw nothing untoward. He didn’t pause. Didn’t turn. Just kept walking, his lantern casting flickering light ahead of him.

Good.

Peregrine waited, counting heartbeats. Five, ten, fifteen. The guard’s steps faded toward the gate, and Peregrine moved, strolling out to the main road as quickly and unobtrusively as he could. He waited to pull down the brim of his hat, hiding his eyes, however, until he was halfway to the next street.

It was sooner than he expected that Peregrine could feel wetness seeping through the bandage at his waist. Fortunately, by that point, the shadow on his trail let him know he had succeeded in the first part of his plan. So he didn’t linger; as soon as he could, he flagged a carriage and sent them in the direction of the Seven Dials.

It was time to try to make a deal with a devil.

The hired carriage dropped him near his townhouse, and for a moment, he breathed in the brume, smelling of wet cobblestones, refuse, and coal smoke. He didn’t turn. Didn’t glance over his shoulder. But he could feel the man tracking him still, keeping just outside the lamplight.

Just before he began to walk into the alley, Peregrine turned towards the man in the shadows. “Tell Cameron where I am, and that I still want to talk. This time I am here alone. I think he will want to hear what I have to say.”

The large brute waited for a moment, clearly thinking, and Peregrine parted his cloak, showing the growing red stain on his linen shirt. “I will not be running off anywhere. So what does he have to lose? Tell him to come talk, and then you two can decide whether or not to finish the job.”

Peregrine’s breath was slow, measured, though his pulse hammered against his ribs as he waited for the man to respond. Finally, the cutthroat tipped his hat, and turned on his heel, the soles scraping on the pavement.

Letting himself inside of the servant’s entrance, he locked the door behind him, limiting the ways Cameron might try to have his men enter. And then he went upstairs to fetch the smaller flintlock pistol he kept in his wardrobe, placing it in the waist of his pants where his coat would hide it, before he returned downstairs to wait.

Noise outside of the front door sometime after three in the morning caught Peregrine’s attention, waking him from drowsing in the chair. He waited as the front door was pushed open, his hands empty and flat on the tabletop to show he was unarmed, his shoulders slumped.

The unassuming man who entered the building was in his early forties, weathered but composed, his mouth curved in a knowing half-smile.

“Mr Cameron,” Peregrine greeted him, looking away after just a moment’s connection. “It has been a while.”

Peregrine knew his mother’s man of business, although not very well. Even when he and his mother had been on terms, she had kept him ignorant of the breadth of her commerce, and not for his own sake, either. Marian Fitzroy was a suspicious, selfish creature who preferred being a fearsome enigma to everyone, her own children included. Keeping others unbalanced fed her vanity and sense of self-importance.

He knew that Cameron lucratively invested in a series of expensive gambling hells and brothels—at a remove—which had included the Scarlet Jack before it had burned down. But Cameron was also into smuggling. A handful of times, Peregrine’s own ‘business’ had benefited when he was able to procure certain items that were difficult to acquire during the war for others—such as nice French brandy for the Prime Minister.

When he couldn’t acquire them by other means, that had been when he had reached out to Cameron.

Cameron himself stood just inside the doorway, his weight balanced—not quite casual, not quite aggressive, just… waiting. Waiting to see what sort of game Peregrine was playing. And when Peregrine made no attempt to move or to talk further, he shut the door behind himself.

“You look like hell, Fitzroy.” Cameron’s voice was light, but his gaze flicked once to the dark stain Peregrine had left visible. “Have you been comporting yourself in activities bad for your health?”

Peregrine dropped his gaze and swallowed once, as though he were working up courage. A nobleman, out of his depth, and desperate with it. Let him believe the act. He rose from his seat, but kept his shoulders hunched—non-threatening. “In hindsight, it appears so. What do I have to do to speak with my mother?”

A beat. No reaction. Not surprise, not amusement. Cameron had expected this. Then, with mocking patience, Cameron tilted his head. "Why? Do you need to speak with her?"

Lifting his hands, Peregrine disheveled his hair. “It was a mistake, telling Percy about Matthew. But in my defence, it was an accident. I had no idea she was using him.” Matthew’s debts had been the noose his mother had tied around Sir David’s neck.

“You had found yourself on the register of people who crossed your mother a wee bit earlier than that, Fitzroy. Else you might have been told about Sir David and Matthew Green.”

Peregrine knew exactly how he had got here. But playing a lackwit was the edge of the knife that he had to walk. “I know. I made a mistake,” he repeated. “I did not ever mean to interfere with her enterprise; I only wanted to find a way to contribute more on my own terms. I was good with people, Cameron. I liked working in the political arena. Matters have gotten too far out of hand, and all I want is a chance to try to explain.”

“You wouldn’t be the first one to come begging to me, laddie ,” he said dryly, letting the barest trace of his Scottish heritage shine through. But he had come to London when he himself had been young, so his accent was barely there unless he wanted to make it heard. “I understand your sort can’t help it. Most people will offer a lot to keep breathing for just five more minutes. But see, you haven’t really offered anything to make up for your transgressions, have you?”

“For starters, I can continue with the way things were,” Peregrine gritted his teeth. “Collecting secrets and means to extort the lords, of course. We have an opportunity here, Cameron. Many people no longer believe that I am working for my mother, especially after these escapades. The royal family will take me to their bosom, and from there, the rest will follow. Surely that will be useful.”

Cameron shook his finger at him, chuckling. “Think you’re going to fish for information? I will kill you before I let you leave with anything of importance.”

“I do not want your information, Cameron, just a second chance to prove my loyalty. The only other thing I would ask is that you call off the dogs you set on the Duchess of Atholl—and only because she is one of my creatures now. She stands at the right hand of the Queen and the princess. I wager that would be closer than whatever lady you blackmailed.”

Cameron’s face was expressionless beyond the fact that he was clearly weighing things. But he was far from looking convinced. It was time to play his trump card.

“To sweeten the deal, Cameron, consider this—I have been offered the protection of The Order. I can take their offer. And then pass along the roster of all the members once they have brought me into their circle.”

"I see." Another long pause. Then, finally, Cameron smiled. It was not a kind one. “Well, I think your mum will want that. But is that all, Fitzroy? Or do you have anything else you wish her to know?”

He had to grovel convincingly. It would be his only chance to get a glimpse of the future his mother had planned.

“That I am lost without her. I have nowhere else to go, and I want to… come home.”