Page 5 of Brilliance and Betrayal (The Diamond of the Ton Regency Mysteries #1)

4

“The smallest threats make the loudest noise, the gravest move in silence.”

—Peregrine’s notes

A s he returned to the party, Peregrine shook off his anger quickly, but some unease remained. He was used to trusting his instincts, and those instincts insisted the duchess was going to cause him trouble.

He could deal with her later. For now, there were appointments to keep. He took care to keep his steps an indolent saunter.

His meeting with Charity had been so brief, gossip rags could speculate on no more than the remotest possibility of a stolen kiss between him and Duchess Atholl. If they did so, he did not care. Baseless speculation was all they would have.

Peregrine might be something of a flirt, but he had no standing reputation as a libertine. Not only because he had been away for nearly a year, but even before he had gone to war, it had been a while since he kept a formal mistress. In the interim, he had seldom indulged in liaisons. And when he did, they were with women who controlled their servants with an iron fist, and thus could manage their affairs nearly as discreetly as the dead.

In fact, the last such woman was prowling across the lawn in his general direction. Selina.

Sina was rumoured to be something of a merry widow, but if she kept a string of suitors, no one knew who they were. Many of the rumours of her promiscuity could be dismissed as petty jealousy and her outrageous flirting. Sina did nothing to quell these rumours, for they served as a useful distraction from what she was really about. Though she was thirty now, she was still a lush beauty, curvy at the top and hips, and with glossy raven locks and piercing green eyes.

Once, he had optimistically thought they might suit, but she had dashed his hopes for something more quite early on. She was the daughter of a duke, and would have never consented to marry a mere earl. But she would dally with one, particularly if he was young and handsome. So Sina had been something of a friend, a lover, and occasionally a useful ally, but she was dangerous in every capacity.

Should he forget that last, he had the reminder from a year before, when her servants had rushed into the bedroom to let her know the Royal Army was on the move, hunting all the members of the Fitzroy family. The marchioness had kicked him from her bed and into the street without a moment of hesitation.

Others might hold a grudge about that sort of thing. Fitzroy let it pass, understanding why she had done so. Machiavelli wasn’t the only one who believed that loyalty should only last as long as pragmatism allowed.

But he wasn’t about to forget it.

“Why, Lord Fitzroy!” she greeted him, as though they had run into each other by coincidence, when he knew it was nothing of the sort. Sina would have been watching for the duchess’s exit, and timed her arrival accordingly. “I have seen you conversing with quite a number of people. Are you having a pleasant time?”

“Most pleasant, Marchioness Normanby,” he agreed, allowing a small smile to creep into his face. “Did I not see you earlier with the Regent’s mistress?”

Selina’s lips curled, and she wrapped her kid-gloved fingers around Peregrine’s arm just below the elbow. Obligingly, he crooked his arm as if they were just another chatting pair of old friends, catching up. “You did. Let us take a turn and you can tell me about your clandestine meeting with the Duchess Atholl.”

He leaned over, patting her hand. “If I didn’t know you as well as I do,” he said in an undertone, his lips as near the shell of her ear as he could make it without seeming flirtatious, “I might almost think you were jealous.”

“Jealous? Never . But I do confess I am perishing of curiosity,” the marchioness admitted with a fleeting, sly grin. “Was she not the girl who the new Duke of Northumberland went on a knight’s quest to prove himself for?”

“Do you actually expect me to pretend that you do not already know the answer? How boring, Sina. I already thought this party could not possibly be any duller.”

“There is still time yet.” But Selina let the topic drop, and they chatted about gossip and inconsequential matters for several minutes, ambling through the party at an interminable pace in the general direction of the area where the Dutch stood, along with the many English lords and ladies waiting to exchange words with the man who might be England’s leader one day.

When he angled his steps towards the group, Selina tugged his arm.

“Oh! Let us give our regards to Viscount Sidmouth,” she said, veering off their path to greet the Prince Regent’s Home Secretary.

As if he needed a reminder of what he owed her. Though Sina had abandoned him on that terrible day last year, she had arguably made it up to him by keeping him out of the ignominy of a trial—and his neck from the noose—once it became clear that his mother had escaped.

She had a certain pull with members of the Home Office, and that had come at a price. Sina’s discreet favours were expensive, but carrying one debt was a bit better than being dead.

Viscount Sidmouth had been hobnobbing with the foreign secretary, Lord Castlereagh, and Earl Grey, who looked irritated at the interruption. But all three men bowed over the marchioness’ hand and nodded their greetings to Fitzroy.

“There is nothing to be done for it,” Castlereagh said to the earl, as both men departed the cluster. “The Bourbon monarchy will be restored.”

“Grey is… most vocal about Ponsonby’s uselessness and the Regent’s choice to return France to authoritarianism,” Sidmouth explained, his voice dry. “But here, let us talk about more cheerful things. I would not wish to trouble the lady with such drab political talk.”

“My dear Viscount Sidmouth,” Selina said smoothly, “how can talk of the future of our neighbouring countries be anything but exciting? Peace in France will bring so many opportunities back to us, it hardly matters whether the Bourbon monarchy or someone else ushers it in.”

“Truly said, Marchioness. The war has been an unpleasant business for everyone. I suppose you would know that firsthand, Lord Fitzroy, being so newly back from the peninsula? And you were with Wellington, I hear.”

“Not Wellington so much as his lieutenant general, Rowland Hill. I was glad to see he has been promoted. Hill was a good commander, and very good to his men,” Peregrine said.

“And you survived the Nive,” Sidmouth added, giving Peregrine an assessing look. “I assumed your chances of survival were slim at best when we sent you out, but it seems that God—or luck—decided to let you remain among the living.”

Peregrine let his eyelashes fall briefly in respect for the many dead of that battle, deflecting the worst of Sidmouth’s savage query. “Both, it would seem. A lot of good men fell under Soult’s counterattacks.”

Sidmouth made a small noise of agreement. “England weeps. But it seems that you made a mark. I know you were with Hill; he speaks rather fondly of you and your… level head. You appear to be better suited to the task of war than many gentlemen.”

“Yes.” Peregrine gave Sidmouth a bland smile, careful that no irritation or unpleasantness leaked into it. The Home Secretary, clearly still suspicious of him, was practically dancing around what he really wanted to know: how Peregrine fared following the bloody offensive that shattered many nerves. “I am proud to have been useful to my king and such able commanders.”

Likely, Sidmouth hoped he would go to war and find a grave there. There was proof enough he was at least hoping for Peregrine to find a little suffering.

Even if he had, it would be a cold day in hell before Peregrine confessed his private thoughts to anyone. And even if snow fell in those fiery pits, he would sooner call Hill ‘daddy’ than show any signs of wounds, real or in his head. Wounds were advertisements of weakness. Invitations to strike.

“My lovely marchioness,” Peregrine said as he turned to Sina, “since we are so close, shall we give our greetings to the Dutch prince?”

“That would be lovely. Would you introduce me? I have not yet had a chance,” Selina said, giving Sidmouth a wide smile of farewell. “Thank you for your time, Viscount.”

“Was that really necessary?” Peregrine asked her mildly once they were out of earshot. “I do not need to be reminded of what I need to do.”

“It was, my sweet. I know you are a man of integrity. But you are not the only person here who needs their memory prodded regarding matters.”

“I shall not ask with whom else you are playing your games, Sina.”

“Good,” she said cheerfully, fluttering her lashes as she turned her face to look up at him. “Because I will not tell you. Not unless you wish to become one of us. I rather wish you would. We could accomplish so much together.”

“Someday, perhaps.” Peregrine smiled back at her, not giving any hint of the hard, cold rock in his stomach at the thought. “For now, promise me that the prince will fare no lasting ill.”

Selina held his gaze, unblinking, so that he could see she answered honestly. “He will be fine.” Taking up her fan, she flicked it open, wafting air at her neck.

He glanced at it, seeing the tiny ornamental vials dangling from the handle. They were so small, they were hardly more than beads.

“He will feel wretched, of course,” Selina added in an undertone. “But otherwise it will be harmless to him.”

“It is the one we agreed upon, yes?” Peregrine pressed her. “Sina, I am deadly serious. I will turn and leave right at this moment if you are planning more, and if this falls upon my head, I will make sure you pay for the treachery with my dying breath.”

“As we agreed. I would happily swear it upon my life, Perry. It is croton, and he will live.”

She continued to hold his eyes, no tension in her posture whatsoever, and Peregrine relaxed, believing her. Like most of the others here, Sina knew that predators abided by one another because they maintained certain codes of conduct.

She would never tell a straight lie. Which meant the Prince of Orange’s life wasn’t in any real danger—though the same could not be said about his dignity.

Prince William of Orange was about to be poisoned, by Sina’s hand, and Peregrine was abetting it.

A favour to be repaid later. That had been part of the terms of the deal for helping influence Sidmouth into sending Peregrine to war. She was calling due now. Unlucky timing for him, to remind her of his existence at the very moment she was looking for assistance in such a perilous task.

Because his mother hadn’t raised him to be a fool, Peregrine had set terms of his own. The first had been that this would call their debt quits, since a life risked must certainly be worth a life saved. Second, she must do the deed herself, though he would assist by introducing her and then playing the decoy.

The third term had been the choice of poison. His infernal, backstabbing mother had also taught him a thing or two about that.

He had chosen croton oil, and Sina had agreed. It would suit her purposes admirably by causing the prince to purge himself in an embarrassing fashion.

For his part, Peregrine had chosen it because it was fast, easy to dose, somewhat safe, and easy to conceal, unlike many alternatives. Assuming she did not make a hash of the deed—and Selina’s involvement would ensure that she wouldn’t—the odds of the prince’s vomiting being attributed to poison instead of overindulgence were small. Particularly given his reputation.

And if it was somehow suspected… There would be reasons to look inward for the perpetrator of such a crime. Croton oil was a purgative in many Dutch apothecaries’ arsenals, and the prince’s physician was not exactly a proponent of their recently-freed vassal nation becoming immediately beholden to England.

Peregrine would take any and all steps to ensure suspicion fell upon the man, if the worst should happen. He did not wish to have gone to war to end up in a noose anyway.

“I hope you understand why I ask,” he said softly.

Selina patted his arm, not taking offence to his doubts. Had their roles been reversed, she would be just as distrustful. “I know full well what would happen were I to cross you, particularly in such a stupid way.”

They had idled through this party, waiting for the prince to drink in earnest, as he had been wont to do at previous social events, and to judge by the sound of it, he was well on his way. The prince’s voice was slurring the slightest amount and had increased in volume.

A throng of people waited nearby to make his acquaintance, waiting politely as the prince animatedly continued his colloque about horse breeding with whatever unfortunate gentleman was facing him. The fact that he could hear every word made Peregrine wonder if the prince’s fortitude would sustain him through his drink until they could approach.

“Do you suppose he might cast up his accounts on Sir Wembly’s boots?” Selina said, just loud enough that the gentleman waiting ahead of them snickered.

Peregrine did too. “I reckon the Duke of Northumberland would make a wager of it, and he would not need to drink an entire bottle to do so. Let us hope the prince does. It will thin the herd.”

As it happened, the procession waiting to greet the prince moved along relatively quickly. Perhaps his well-wishers were being prudent about saving their hearing. But as they drew nearer, an itch began to form at the back of his brain. The prince’s colour, which had been unremarkable when they began waiting, was now high.

Something was already wrong with the prince.

Before he could even begin to guess at what his unconscious mind had already tallied, a memory sprang to mind, and in it was the golden-haired woman who had been a thorn in his backside this afternoon.

In his memory, her cheeks were flushed, and she was fairly glowing with warmth, her hand hot in his. She smiled politely, but her eyes did not focus well. The pupils of her gentian eyes were huge, the colour lost within the darkness. She wobbled. Stumbled and bumped into Lady Grace, forcing him to catch her before she fell to the dance floor.

The Duchess Atholl had rather explicitly thrown in his face the fact that she had been poisoned at his party. Right before she had informed him she would see him destroyed. And before the Prince of Orange began to exhibit many of the same symptoms as one also poisoned by henbane—as she had been.

Swiftly, he turned, tugging on the arm Selina held, pasting a bland smile upon his face. “Marchioness, we may come back to greet the prince in a moment. I see someone else I would like you to meet first. Will you come?”

“But of course,” Selina murmured, hiding her confusion well. She held her tongue while they navigated away from the Dutch contingent and had a brief, meaningless conversation with Lord and Lady Braithwaite that lasted less than a minute.

Finally, they were standing in a place outside of easy eavesdropping, but he still left his words vague. “I believe someone has beaten us to the task.”

She avoided looking back in the prince’s direction, but the marchioness’s eyes widened significantly, and then narrowed in hard thought. “I understand your meaning. Are you certain?”

“Do you doubt me in such a matter?”

Selina scrutinised his face again and then shrugged her shoulders. “Very well. I do appreciate you offering to introduce me to the prince, Lord Fitzroy, but I find all of a sudden I am quite exhausted. Perhaps I shall go home to rest. I can meet him another day. Will you call upon me next week?”

Without letting his cheerful expression slip, Lord Fitzroy gallantly bowed to her. “Of course. Your company was a pleasure nonetheless, Marchioness Normanby.”

Selina glided towards the exit, making her departure. Leaving him there so she would not be a suspect in any fallout, should it come. And as he let his eyes wander over the assembly, he couldn’t help but notice that the duchess herself was nowhere to be seen.

Gone. She had been in the company of the prince not a half an hour ago, some twenty minutes after she had threatened to ruin him .

That was the sort of timing that hardly seemed like an accident.

Rage at her perfidy spilled into his veins like burning vitriol. Slowly breathing through his nose, he shoved the emotions back, walling them off to be dealt with later. It took all of his concentration to keep his face from showing anything more than a pleasant, neutral expression while he wrestled with his urge to hunt her down and deal with her at this very moment.

Harming any one of the gentry would be a grave offence, but a foreign prince? That was treason. The sheer audacity of it was stunning.

There was no choice for it. Peregrine had to wait out this interminable party. Should the worst transpire, staying at the scene of the crime might be enough to serve as his alibi. It would also help if he stayed within observation distance of unimpeachable peers like General Hill. Or even the Home Secretary.

The diamond hadn’t simply fired a warning shot across his bow. She was engaging in guerrilla warfare.

Unfortunately for her, Peregrine was far more experienced on almost every battlefront she might choose to employ. And now, he had sufficient time and motivation to consider the next move.