Page 4 of Brilliance and Betrayal (The Diamond of the Ton Regency Mysteries #1)

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“Should you be so lucky as to gain a position at court, remember this: Let your words carry not just the weight of an observation, but the promise of a solution.”

—Reflections of Grace: A Guide to Etiquette

B right smile, dear.

Her mother’s voice echoed through her mind. Never had Charity worked so hard to keep her emotions from showing on her face. Her smile was as brittle as the bones of her spine, but she dared not let it slip. The shards would slash what little was left of her composure to bits.

Instead, as she counted the turns until she reached the far end of the maze, she fought to keep hold of her anger. Anger was an emotion she had discovered while in Scotland. Wholly hers.

It had taken her some time to identify it, for all she had been taught by her mother was acceptance. Accept your place, the marriage arrangements, your wifely duties.

Acceptance saw her drummed out of London. And it would never help her settle the score with Lady Fitzroy. All acceptance could do for her would be to snuff whatever light remained in her soul.

She picked up her pace as quickly as she dared, exiting near a side entrance into the royal residence.

Charity should be looking for the princess. She was derelict in her duty, and who knew what manner of trouble the girl might be getting into? But what if there was some mark—some sign—of her encounter with Lord Fitzroy?

The bands around her chest began to constrict once more.

Hoping she did not already look mussed, she sought the nearest servant, who directed her to the retiring room set aside for women’s use. It was blessedly empty.

Charity closed the door and drug a chair in front of it. She spun around and came face to face with her own reflection. A pale, bloodless face stared back, but one fortunately unmarked.

She had expected some stain of his touch to linger. It seemed impossible that there was no trace. Not when she could still feel the hot press of his ungloved fingertips on her face and wrists.

The rosewater does not suit you.

The light, mocking echo of his voice in her thoughts made her feel exhausted.

He preferred what she wore last year? Well so did she, but little right did she have to wear it. She was a washed up widow, and had no man to fight at her side for even the smallest things, much less her own happiness.

She reached for the bar of soap and jug of water, lathering a cloth, and then scrubbed the rose scent from her wrists.

No. If she was to be honest with herself, what she was really scrubbing off with the linen cloth was the feel of his touch. She rubbed until her skin reddened and pain cleared her thoughts. Then she tossed the cloth aside and took another, dipping it into the cool water before wrapping it around her wrists to soothe them.

She forced her gaze upward until she again met her reflection. Be stark. Sharp. Hard as a diamond.

Slowly, as cold logic took hold, the pressure in her chest eased and her breathing grew less ragged.

No matter how much she hated Fitzroy, she had only herself to blame for this awkward confrontation. She should not have been caught by surprise by his return to England, even though she was only barely returned to London herself. And who could have expected he would so brazenly show for the season?

Well, matters were easily put to rights. He would not catch her off guard again. With a few whispers in the right ears and coins in the right hands, she would make sure she had word of every step he took. And then she could form a new plan.

If he thought to avoid retribution for what he and his family had done to her by claiming ignorance, he was as mad as his mother was cruel.

Charity unwound the cloth, relieved to find her wrists once again a healthy pink. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips until they bloomed with colour as well.

All that was left was to address the soap smell still clinging to her. Castille had a mild scent, not unpleasant, but rather earthy. Beside her, a riotous bouquet of fresh cut flowers caught her attention. After careful consideration, she plucked a petal from a crimson carnation and lifted it to her nose.

Spicy yet sweet, it reminded her of cinnamon. To give a cluster of carnations was to show admiration. Every flick of her wrist would remind all around that she was someone worth admiring.

She plucked a few more petals and slid their silky soft surfaces across her pulse points. She tucked them into her corset, nestling them against her heart. Blue eyes glittered in the mirror with a glint both calculating and alluring.

She slid the chair back into place and flung open the door as though she did not have a care in the world. Skirts swirling about her ankles, she strode back into the sun.

Time to find the princess. With any luck, the Queen would not notice how long Charity was away. Unfortunately, today did not feel as though it was a lucky one.

But perhaps her fortune was improving. She spotted the princess straightaway—although she was keeping questionable company. Indeed, as Charity watched, the princess raised a hand to her lips and tittered at some joke the man told. Nearby, a cluster of eavesdropping debutantes blushed in embarrassment. She sped her pace toward the fountain where Princess Charlotte stood with a glass in hand, and Charity peered suspiciously at the princess’ companion as she approached.

Lord Ravenscroft.

“Did you lose your grip on the leash of your charge, Your Grace?” he asked indolently. “I found her wandering alone near the Prince and thought someone reputable had better mind her until you caught up.”

Charity’s jaw dropped at his audacity, but the princess let out a small giggle, not offended by Ravenscroft’s suggestion that she was being paraded like a pet dog, and she quickly closed her mouth.

She knew of Lord Ravenscroft, and had been introduced to him briefly at some other event, but she always avoided speaking directly with him. He was Prinny’s creature, and he had a reputation for being a rather shocking philanderer among women old and young despite his age. Apparently his charm and rugged good looks helped ladies overlook his… less sterling qualities.

“You thought that reputable person would be you , Lord Ravenscroft?” Charity said politely, but her stiff lips made it clear what she thought.

“Lord Ravenscroft? Harm me? Don’t be absurd, Your Grace,” the princess said with a breezy wave of her hand. “I see him regularly at Carlton House—Papa practically worships the ground he walks on. He is more of an uncle to me than most of my actual relations, and at least he does not lecture.”

“—Never unescorted,” he interrupted quickly. “Lest Your Grace thinks she must find a sharp object here and do me in with it to safeguard your honour.”

As Lord Ravenscroft gave Charity a wolfish smile, she wondered if the Queen and the princess’s mother were aware that the princess was so fond of her ‘uncle’ Lord Ravenscroft. She somehow doubted they were. He did not move away now that Charity was here.

He was a little snoop, but that should not surprise her. She knew he was a favourite of the Regent—he had been in the thick of a murder investigation at Brighton last summer—and Grace had mentioned the Prince Regent called Lord Ravenscroft his magpie. Magpies were a nuisance bird that had a tendency to snatch things that did not belong to them.

Like rich gossip.

Charity decided to ignore him. “My apologies for having stepped away, Your Highness.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said with a sunny smile. “You looked quite vexed about something, so I naturally assumed you were off to settle it. I have been a model of good behaviour in your absence. You may even ask Lord Ravenscroft—he will vouch for me.”

“Well, absent I am no longer. I do appreciate your willingness, but I do not want to detain you any longer, my lord. You must have others with whom you need to converse.”

“None nearly so beautiful,” he replied without hesitation, his voice smooth and practiced. “And none half as intriguing as the princess’s lady-in-waiting. You are quite the winsome enigma, if I may say so. Come, Your Grace, Your Highness—allow me the honour of escorting you wherever your hearts desire. Perhaps along the way, I might even earn a fraction of your good opinion.”

“May he stay with us, Your Grace?” the princess asked. “He is very good company.”

What a horrifying thought. But it was true that there was nothing covetous or sly about Lord Ravenscroft’s behaviour towards the princess. Indeed, his posture was actually quite protective.

“I will allow it—if you promise we can finally do our duty to the prince,” Charity said. If she denied him, he would likely remain in earshot anyway. But perhaps he could serve as leverage.

“You do not want your grandmama to be angry with the Duchess Atholl, do you?” he added in a whisper, making the princess smile again.

“No, of course not,” she replied smoothly, though the mischievous spark in her eye dimmed as she slipped back into the role of poised duty. “You are right—I have delayed long enough. But I would be far more inclined to go if you both accompanied me. A little amusement makes any obligation infinitely more bearable.”

“He is a bit dull,” Ravenscroft agreed, earning the princess’s loyalty. “He is young, though. Virile, I imagine, which is just what an heir requires.”

The princess gave the smallest of shudders. “That is what Grandmama says, too. That he will be able to perform well and often, and provide the throne with a bounty of heirs. The whole idea of the task just fills me with… nerves.”

“It is rather hard to get to know someone when you have so many chaperones standing about,” Charity acknowledged, and Lord Ravenscroft made a sound of agreement before he offered both women an arm. While Charity weighed the risk of saying no, the princess accepted it.

“Come along, Your Grace,” Ravenscroft urged Charity, and finally, she took it also.

The trio set off at a meandering pace, slowly passing the other party attendees. Charity took note of which guests smiled at the princess and which ones instead focused on frowning at her and Ravenscroft.

“I am sure Prince William is kind,” Charity said, adding, “which you may easily discover should you spend more time speaking with him.”

“Kindness is a pleasant trait, but so is a man’s visage—or so I have it on authority from the women I have gotten to know,” Lord Ravenscroft said conspiratorially. “I say he is… well, he is not too terrible to look at. But that is my opinion as a man, so yours may differ.”

Charity cut Ravenscroft a minatory look, but said nothing when the corners of the princess’s mouth obligingly turned up again. It was true, the Prince of Orange was hardly a man to inspire love poems. He was awkward, tall and slender, his hair a drab mix of blond and brown.

“No, you are right. He is not terrible to look at,” she agreed.

“He would not be considered handsome though, would he? Not like a certain Lord Fitzroy .”

Charity’s fingers tightened, digging into Lord Ravenscroft’s arm. But the man gave her a devilish look and pointed with his chin at the fair hair and back of the lord in question. He was now speaking with Viscount Sidmouth and a few peers a stone’s throw away from the Dutch group. Fortunately, the men were engrossed in some conference and didn’t turn around.

The princess let out a brief titter as her gaze landed on him. “He does wear that superfine coat exceedingly well, does he not? What do you think, Your Grace? I could not help noticing you watching him earlier. Such a shame there is not a drop of royal blood in his veins—it would make him quite perfect.”

Blanching at the thought, Charity was too horrified to find the words to express how wildly out of the question that was.

“Not a drop of royal blood, fortunately. Alas, that man is not for you, sweet princess,” Ravenscroft said drolly. “And you should do well to stay away. Of all the names I have earned, fairly or not, ‘son of a traitor’ has not been one of them.”

“As if that is the worst of it. He would toy with your emotions, stripping you of every ounce of value before tossing you aside,” Charity muttered. “The prettiest of creatures are often the most vicious, and you should be wary of him.”

Lord Ravenscroft’s pace faltered as both he and the princess turned their heads her way. Drat. She said that out loud.

“Oh la,” the princess flicked her hand with nonchalance, brushing aside Charity’s denunciation of Lord Fitzroy. “I am to be the queen of two lands, with two armies at my beck and call. What need have I for protections when the world itself must bow before me?”

They swept by the straggling line of people idly waiting to make the acquaintance of the prince. “You will have no armies at all if you do not heed your father’s wishes and marry the man,” Charity countered in a murmur. Then she and Ravenscroft hung back, allowing the princess to close the distance.

Prince William of Orange spotted his bride-to-be approaching and concluded his discussions. He smiled honestly at the princess, but his hands were smoothing his lapel in nervous gestures.

“Good afternoon, Your Highness,” Charity could hear him say crisply. His English was flawless, though it held a faint hint of a foreign accent in his soft consonants. He bowed, the princess curtseyed, and Charity and Ravenscroft pretended they were ornaments on the lawn.

Princess Charlotte returned the prince’s smile, but it fell quickly from her face as they straightened and then regarded one another in awkward silence.

Charity bit back the urge to save them. Not only would it be inappropriate, it would also do them no good. Every meeting they had so far had gone the same. With the formal engagement announcement looming, Princess Charlotte and Prince William of Orange had to tear down the wall between them with their own hands.

The prince’s throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously. “You look lovely, Your Highness.”

The princess responded with the requisite demure tilt of the head and responded with something equally safe. The discussion, if it could even be described as such, carried on in fits and starts.

“Perhaps they need a bit of the old Dutch courage,” muttered Lord Ravenscroft, unable to bear the awkwardness any longer. “Would you care for a drink, Your Grace?” he asked Charity, but his voice was pitched to carry to the stilted couple.

Charity demurred, and Lord Ravenscroft, seeing the Prince Regent passing nearby, murmured his excuses to leave. But the important task had been done. Prince William, having heard Ravenscroft’s suggestion for a drink, signaled one of the footmen who had been assigned to care for the delegation. The footman retrieved an etched crystal decanter with a faintly golden liquid inside.

Removing the crystal stopper, the English footman made a presentation of pouring the liquid into two tulip-shaped glasses, offering them to the prince and princess, before he returned the decanter to the refreshment table.

“This, Your Highness, is Dutch jenever, the pride of my homeland. It is something similar to your gin. Jenever is a symbol of our tradition and resilience—a drink shared in both triumph and alliance,” he explained formally. “It is my favourite drink and I hope you, too, will come to appreciate it. May it serve as a token of the strength I hope our future union will embody. To our future, Your Highness.”

They both sipped. After a few more words, the prince took a longer drink. “Would Your Grace care to try?” he asked, lifting his voice to include Charity.

She did not, but it was not polite to refuse a prince’s offer. “Of course, I would be honoured to be offered a chance to sample a gift of your homeland, Your Highness.”

The prince finished his glass, and signaled the footman to return once more. The fluted glass brought the smells of grain and juniper to her nose, and she brought the glass to her lips, pretending to drink with the prince and princess.

After a few more words, they were free to mingle elsewhere. Charity discreetly deposited her still-full glass on a nearby table. These days, she seldom indulged in spirits of any kind.

Princess Charlotte’s glass was also still nearly full. She took another small sip from her glass, and then glanced at Charity, pulling a face. “Is it supposed to taste like this?” she whispered.

Charity took the princess’s proffered glass and drew in one sip, then another to get the taste. The drink was both warm and malty, somewhat reminiscent of whisky, but with a faint astringent undertone. “I have never tried it before,” Charity confessed. “It is not much like English gin, is it?”

“I do not think I care for it any more than I like normal gin,” the princess whispered.

“Set down your glass,” Charity suggested. “I can get you some wine.”

The princess waved her off and began to gossip with one of the Dutch women, and after perhaps twenty minutes, they amiably parted ways with the prince’s delegation, the princess heading back towards more familiar churning waters. She marched on ahead, looking for another one of her aunts, leaving Charity to walk behind, beside Ravenscroft who rejoined them.

“Prinny thinks this is the best match, but were you listening? The Dutch seem just as unconvinced as the princess—not to mention the rest of the ton .”

“I imagine they are no happier to imagine that their prince would abandon Holland than ours are to imagine the princess abandoning England,” Charity said softly. “At least they lack the concern that the prince might rule England in her stead.”

“Your Grace,” Princess Charlotte called to get Charity’s attention. “All this time in the sun is positively draining. Will you accompany me inside?”

Charity opened her lips to answer and found her mouth dry as a bone. She coughed to loosen her tongue. “It has been particularly bright today. I will see you to your room and send someone to let your father and grandmother know where you have gone.”

“I will take care of that,” Ravenscroft assured Charity, but then he peered closer. “Are you feeling well, Your Grace? Your cheeks are flushed. Both of you.”

“Yes, I feel fine, but I am a bit hot. Too much sun is all,” she assured him, and Ravenscroft nodded, departing.

“Too much sun, I agree. I feel a little lightheaded,” the princess admitted. “I think I will lay down for a while and rest.”

“A good plan. We are not far from your rooms,” Charity nodded. She, too, felt weary, and her eyes felt blurred with fatigue. Just as they reached the upper level, she was forced to reach out a hand to steady herself against the wall. The world tilted slightly, as though she were spinning on the dance floor.

“Duchess? Charity?” The young princess’s words brought Charity back to the present.

“I—” Charity tugged at her neckline and dragged in a breath. Another and she remembered where she was. Carlton House, with the princess staring at her. Charity shook her head and the world shifted back into place. “Sorry, for a moment I felt dizzy.”

The princess moved closer, looking up at Charity with her wide blue eyes, her pupils large in concern. “I hope you are not ill. Or did you overimbibe?”

“Of course not. I drank only lemonade,” Charity assured her automatically. But then she stopped, frowning, as the hazy disarray of the last half hour coalesced into a familiar sense of helpless, muddled fear.

She had drunk only lemonade, except?—

The memory of blond hair, standing so near the prince’s delegation flashed again in her mind. She had felt this way once before—and the next morning, she had awoken to find herself being held by strangers.