Page 30 of Brilliance and Betrayal (The Diamond of the Ton Regency Mysteries #1)

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"A gentleman may enjoy a kiss freely given, but he will only respect the one he must earn. Give too much too soon, and he shall take all and offer nothing in return."

— Lady Cresswell

C harity awoke with a start, her eyes open before her consciousness caught up. Her bedroom was swathed in darkness, with only the faintest hint of a breeze coming in through the crack in her window. She lay perfectly still, her breathing slow, while she listened to the sounds of her house.

The antique clock on the wall ticked the seconds off. From outside in the hallway came the light steps of the guard keeping watch. He paced back and forth, with hardly a break, lest he risk falling asleep, or so he had explained. She had chatted with him a few times during the wee hours when she had looked in on Perry—or wandered the grounds, unable to sleep.

Now she was again in her own bed, lying alone beneath her covers. She did not have to work hard to imagine Perry there at her side. She had only to think back on the night that had started it all—when he had broken into her room and forced a blade into her hand, defying her. Daring her to grow a backbone and try to kill him—if she could.

She would give anything to see that same spirit from him now, but he seemed almost eroded by fear and melancholy. Because of her.

The only spark she had seen from him was when he woke up from his fever.

And when you kissed him! Her mother’s scandalised voice still rang in her ears.

Yes, Mama, I kissed Peregrine Fitzroy. And believe it or not, I regret not doing it sooner.

Perry had accused her of being a title chaser at the start. And the words had stung, being far nearer to the mark than she liked. But he had not put himself into the market last season, and her own mother had rather gently but explicitly warned her to avoid the Fitzroys whenever possible.

Under those circumstances, what kind of forwardness did he believe a debutante could be expected to display? It had hurt her to acknowledge his name and his unavailability.

But when they had stood, nameless to one another, on that balcony, it had not felt so much like the end of days her mother had threatened, as the start of something else. Something that could be… perhaps a glimpse of what Grace had said she wanted for her.

And now, Charity realised… she wanted that. To seize that elusive sense of the beginning of something that could be truly magical within her own hands. Despite everything she had said to him about their fate. Despite their families.

Yes, there were obstacles aplenty determined to keep them apart, but neither of them was the type to back away from what they wanted. Was that not exactly what had brought them together? The overwhelming desire to claim what they believed themselves due?

Was it so reckless to throw her cap over the windmill and taste this? Could it be possible, if they fought for it?

She nestled deeper into her covers, her eyes closing so she could picture a different life, one with Perry at her side.

But his voice chose that moment to dash those fragile thoughts: I finally have a fatal weakness, Charity—and it’s you.

Charity wanted to bat away that line of dark thoughts, but it was like trying to cut through smoke. She had taken his power to choose from him when she made the deal with the Queen, and that knowledge twisted around her, smothering her in it, threatening a return of that familiar panic.

He was right. More right than he knew, her own voice taunted.

She had kissed Perry, clung to him, and spoken a few words to him in the day since, but she had not said a single word of her deal with Queen Charlotte. The debt he would have to repay and repay again, until either the Queen tired of him or one of them died. The debt she had remained silent about because she knew how he would react.

She had not woken him from his drowsing to tell him what he ought to know. Because she was a coward, and she was letting the problems of today be put off, hoping she would find the courage tomorrow.

You are not a coward, you are just biding your time. He is unwell, and you must find the right moment so you can explain ? —

She argued with both herself and her mother’s voice again, the same words going round in circles. Would he ever listen to her, would he understand that she had acted only to save him?

I think you know by now he will not. Perry is a man who wants to plot his own course—and not have yet another woman doing it for him.

The thought took hold and any possibility of sleep disappeared. Charity slid from her bed, the cold wooden floor shocking her fully awake. She tiptoed across her bedroom, to the unlatched door on the far wall. She had used it often enough in the last few days, going into the ducal suite to keep watch over Fitzroy, and then back into her room to catch an hour of rest. Or stare at the ceiling.

This was just like when she had nursed him through the fever, she argued. He was likely deeply asleep, and would have no idea she had peeked through the door.

The handle turned, the hinge swung freely, and moonlight streamed through the wide open window.

It was strange how familiar the space had become in the span of a few days. When she had first arrived in London, she had not set foot in the old duke’s chambers. She had turned the lock from her side, barring both the ghost of the man and the future she had avoided with his death.

But when asked in which room to put Lord Fitzroy, she had not hesitated to point them in this direction. Mr Pritchard had nearly swooned in horror, but she had ordered the guards onward, called for the fire to be stoked, and that had been that.

For the last few days, he had slept in the bed meant for her husband. The four poster dominated the space, softened only by the mound of white pillows resting against the headboard.

But the bed itself was empty, the covers rumpled, but clearly made. And with a pulse of foreboding, she knew he had not merely stepped away.

Charity cast any remaining restraint aside and rushed into the room. The crisp edge of the folded letter stood out against the deep blue spread. She nearly tore the paper in her rush to read the contents. Her anguished cry was loud enough to draw the guard into the room from the hallway.

“Your Grace?” he asked, his face turned away so he would not stare at her in her state of undress.

Not that Charity would have noticed, or even cared at that moment. She waved the letter in the air like a flag calling men to arms. “He is gone! Gone!”

“Gone?” the man repeated like he had been hit on the head. “Where did he go?”

The answer was in his letter, and it landed like a blow to her midsection. She crumpled over from the sheer pain of it.

“He went to find Cameron to strike some hare-brained deal for my safety.” She glared at the guard, expecting him to respond. “Do you know where Mr Cameron is? Has there been some lead in his whereabouts? Some word Lord Fitzroy might have overheard?”

The guard shook his head, just as bewildered.

“Then he does not know where Cameron is. He strolled out of the house to offer himself as bait,” she said bitterly.

The guard stiffened at that, but he was forced to acknowledge the truth. The only way Peregrine slipped out of the house was through the window, and he would have passed the royal guards on the way.

That would mean he believed someone was watching the house—which of course, half the neighbourhood already was. The guards had attracted a great deal of attention these last few days, and no shortage of speculation as to what they were doing there.

“Where would he go?” she demanded of herself. “He is baiting Mr Cameron. I am certain of it. Would he go back to that pub, the place where he got into the brawl?”

The guard’s head shook with such fervour that Charity knew she was on the wrong track. “He might have gone to his estate, Your Grace. There are no guards there.”

But there were his servants, and Peregrine would not want to put their lives at risk. He needed some place he knew well, somewhere quiet. Somewhere Cameron might already possibly have under watch.

“I know where he has gone. Call another guard and meet me at the stables. We have to go after him.”

“We’ll go, Your Grace. You shouldn’t be out at this hour?—”

Charity silenced him with an expression of such arched disdain that he nearly swallowed his tongue. “If Lord Fitzroy is still alive, I am the only person who has a chance of talking him out of this foolish, deadly plan. We will go together, as few as necessary, and pray to God that it is not too late.”

Charity was in far too much haste to ring for her maid. She turned to go back to her room, but a memory stilled her. Her mind cast back to the night when she had been rescued from her kidnappers. Her best friend Grace rushed to her aid, wearing trousers under her dress. The pair had laughed many times at the memory.

Now it was to her benefit. Charity strode into her husband’s dressing room and rummaged through his few remaining old things until she found something suitable. The man had been old and wizened in his final years, not much bigger than herself. A few rolls of the cuffs and a hastily tied belt would do the trick. She found a dark blue shirt hanging on the rack and appropriated that too, pulling it on over her nightrail and tucking them both into her trousers.

She did put on her own shoes, choosing her leather riding boots, her feet sliding in with ease. Getting them off again was always a devil of a job, but that was a problem for later. Having deemed herself dressed appropriately for whatever challenges the situation entailed, Charity left her room and used the servant’s staircase to get outside with the minimum of fuss.

The lieutenant of the guard had gone down to alert the others and her stable. Her poor stableman had managed to equip both her own horse and one of the ones brought by the guard. Apparently the lieutenant had taken the liberty of getting the stableman to also ready her larger carriage. But she couldn’t fault him for his forethought; Peregrine might reopen his wound.

Both men spluttered at the sight of her in men’s clothing, but again, she glared them into a silent acceptance.

“The carriage will be ready in just a few more minutes, Your Grace,” her stableman told her, as the lieutenant handed her the reins of her horse.

“I will be riding ahead. Have the rest of the guards take the carriage to the Seven Dials.” She led her horse to a stepping stool so she could climb on.

With that done, Peregrine’s foolhardy choices catapulted Charity into another frantic nighttime ride across London. The guard took the lead, clearing a path for Charity to follow, not slowing until they reached the sundial that gave the Seven Dials its name.

“Steady on,” the lieutenant told her, getting her to pull to a halt. “We should continue on foot until we can see what awaits us.”

“I will defer to you that much,” she nodded, directing them towards Neal Street. “Hopefully we will find him alone—but it seems lately our luck has been terrible.”

Charity did not know whether to celebrate or gnash her teeth when they got within sight of the house. The curtains of the front window had been left half open, allowing the glow of the candles to cast a pool of light on the pavement. She turned into a narrow gap between two houses across the way and ducked low, hiding in the deep shadows with the guard crouching at her side.

“He might as well have left the door standing wide open in invitation,” Charity muttered. She bade the guard to stay where he was, intending to walk past slow enough to glance inside, but he told her to wait. Seconds later, she caught the scuff of footsteps. Her breath caught when a lone man came into view, walking without a care in the world until he disappeared into Peregrine’s townhouse.

“That matches the description of Cameron,” the guard whispered, rising up.

“You cannot go in after him,” Charity countered, grabbing hold of his arm. “He might have a weapon, or others watching. Come, let us find another way in.”

She strode off, her steps as confident as any man, heading in the direction of the path between the houses. She had no trouble locating the gate, but came up short when searching for the key. The back door was locked and barred. She took a step back and surveyed the rear of the house, searching for another way in.

The narrow ground floor windows were out of the question. The first floor was the logical choice, but there was too much risk her entry would be heard. Her gaze caught on a rain barrel set near the fence. If she slid it over, she could reach the ledge of the first floor window. From there, with no small amount of determination, she could climb the trellis up to the second floor.

Now, to take the guard or leave him behind? She tilted her head and noticed his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He would go in swinging—or firing the flintlock in his belt.

Perry obviously had some sort of plan. Until she could figure out the shape of it, she did not want to send the guard running in.

“Go for the others,” she said in a harsh whisper. “I will wait here, out of sight, until you return.”

The guard did not want to leave her behind, but she convinced him she was safe enough. She waited until she could no longer hear his steps before executing her plan. The barrel was nearly empty, a blessing for which she gave thanks. It took some manoeuvring to get it where she needed it. Then, she climbed on top, checking its sturdiness before committing her full weight. From there, it was easy enough to make it to the window ledge. She scooted across it until she reached the trellis.

Her arms screamed in pain, her hands growing slick with blood and sweat after only a few halting steps upward. Thorns sliced into her fingers, making her grit her teeth to keep from crying. Yet, she made it up to the dark window of the second floor bedroom. By some small miracle, the window was unlatched.

It took some arguing, but she eventually convinced her leg to pull free from its foothold. She held her breath, and lurched sideways, nearly tumbling through the open window. Heart hammering, she stood stock still, listening for any sign she’d been heard.

No footsteps, no cries of alarm. She gulped in air and nearly choked on the strange smell. The room carried the unmistakable scent of an artist’s space—linseed oil and turpentine, sharp and lingering in the air. She spun around, taking the minimal furnishings in at a glance. A half-finished canvas sat on an easel near the corner. A table stood against the wall, lined with bottles and stained with pigment. She grabbed a couple of rags and used them to clean the scrapes on her hands.

She found a single taper lying amidst the brushes. After pulling the curtain, she lit the wick. A stack of canvases, turned to face the wall, caught her eye. This was what Perry was hiding? His painting hobby? She crossed to the easel and studied the work in progress. Wide, bold strokes of black and grey paint slashed across the expanse, a shocking use of colour compared to the landscapes and portraits she was used to seeing. But it was too early in the painting to make out what the background was supposed to be.

Curiosity washed away all hurry and compelled her to see a completed work. She used one hand to turn the outermost painting around, taking care not to drip wax on it.

It was a self portrait of Peregrine, she realised, her hand shaking so hard that wax burned her wrist. He had painted himself as he had seen himself in the cracked and black-spotted mirror that stood in one corner of the room, including everything faithfully, down to the frame of the mirror and the tools of his craft.

The way he included the frame of the mirror made him look trapped within the looking glass. As though that version of him was not a real person at all.

She dashed the tears away before they could fall and let the canvas settle back against the others. Now was not the time for such worries.

Looking at the locked door, she saw it had a night latch. Unlocking it, she opened the wood panel with great care and tiptoed into the hallway. Across the way loomed the doorway to the bedroom where they had slept in each other’s arms. She forced her gaze toward the stairs, moving with a halting gait until she reached the top of it. Two steps down and a board creaked beneath her foot. She froze, carefully sliding her foot to the edge. Her legs trembled with the effort, but she made it halfway down.

On that landing, she could hear the voices coming from the front room.

Perry spoke in a strange voice, pleading instead of his normal confident tone. He was begging for her protection. It made no sense. Was he not there to catch the man and see him imprisoned?

She inched lower still, following the curve of the handrail as it turned, bringing her within sight of the hall outside the parlour. She shifted forward, but a flash of motion stopped her in her tracks.

The guard she had sent off was now coming in from the front door, with another close behind. She waved her arm to get his attention and held up her hand to halt their progress.

"I see." Another long pause. Then Cameron spoke again. “Well, I think your mum will want that. But is that all, Fitzroy? Or do you have anything else you wish her to know?”

That he despised her? That he wished her dead? Whatever she could imagine fell far short of his actual reply.

Peregrine’s voice trembled as he uttered the words, “That I am lost without her. I have nowhere else to go, and I want to… come home.”

Charity lurched forward without thinking, but the guards were faster. They knocked her aside and barged into the room, shouting for them to hold. Charity stumbled forward, her only interest in reaching Peregrine.

He was standing with his back to her, but his posture was all wrong. His arms hung low at his side, his shoulders hunched, making him smaller. He rocked sideways as he looked over his shoulder, knocked off balance by the sudden arrival of both her and the guards. She longed to wrap her arms around him, but Cameron’s angry groan stopped her.

She dragged her gaze away from Fitzroy and saw Cameron lift up his gun.