Page 6 of Brilliance and Betrayal (The Diamond of the Ton Regency Mysteries #1)

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“I hope all that brings you joy turns to ash within your hands.”

– Lady Fitzroy, to Lady Charity

I nside Carlton House, Charity’s breath quickened, shallow and uneven, as a cold knot of unease coiled in her stomach. She clenched her hands tightly, trying to still the tremor in her hands. The jenever had been the only drink Charity had touched besides lemonade, and she had not been the only one to drink it.

The princess had, too.

“Your Highness, are you absolutely sure you are feeling all right?” Charity asked, trying to remain calm.

The princess frowned at her. “I—I think so. I only have a bit of a headache and I would like to lie down.”

If the bottle or glasses had indeed been drugged, all Charity could do was be thankful the girl had stopped after a few sips rather than following the lead of her future husband and drinking more.

She pulled herself together as best as she could. “Do you have a pitcher of water?”

Princess Charlotte nodded her head and pointed to a side table near the settee. Charity poured them each a tall glass, sipped hers first to make sure it was clean, and then handed the other to the princess. “Drink all of this and then go lie down. I will ring for your maid so she can loosen your stays.”

“But I am not thirsty…”

“Your Highness, please, do as I ask. If you are unwell from the heat, the water will help you recover faster.” Charity pulled the bell to ring for the lady’s maid and then urged the young woman to take a few more sips. All the while, she did the same, going so far as to refill her glass a second time.

The maid arrived within moments, and only the faint dizziness kept Charity from dashing back down the stairwell, all thoughts of departing the event forgotten. But she only got as far as the next empty room when the black, crushing wave of dread overcame her.

Tingling sensations gnawed at her extremities, making her feel as if she was nearly floating, losing her grasp on her own body. Charity clutched the doorframe hard to ground herself, letting her nails bite into the wood, trying to breathe through the suffocating weight settling in her lungs.

In this state, she could not quite convince herself that she was not dying.

She had had fits like this before. Bouts of womanly hysterics, as her physician had contemptuously called it. He had recommended darkened rooms and laudanum, but Charity could not abide by the idea of dosing herself with laudanum any more than she could wine or spirits.

Compose yourself! Such displays are unbecoming of a lady and will do you no favours in the eyes of society.

Her mother’s voice was harsh, but it helped her begin to sew herself together. Her mama was not wrong. Hysterics would prevent her from doing what she must. She had to stop the prince—or anyone else—from drinking more of his jenever.

She had to let someone else know it had been poisoned.

Take stock of yourself , she ordered her thoughts. You can breathe if you slow your breaths. You can feel things if you calm your nerves. This feeling of calamity is all of your own making.

And the feelings began to recede. She was still off balance, but the feeling seemed to be growing no worse. It would have to do. She had to get back to the fête.

But when she reached the terrace, she found she was too late. Lords and ladies crowded onto the stone expanse, making no attempts to hide what they were doing. Titters of gossip filled the air.

“—sick all down his waistcoat!”

“Prinny was right there! Nearly knocked him down when he tumbled over!”

“The man is a disgrace, I say! A disgrace! Not fit for our heir.”

Men in their tall boots and top hats blocked her view. She shifted from side to side, searching for a gap in the crowd where she could pass. Duchess though she was, everyone was far too distracted by the spectacle to consider ceding her space.

“Let me pass,” she said to the two men in front of her, but in the ruckus, they ignored her.

Strident calls from the far end of the crowd to make way finally forced the throng to move, clearing a small path to the doorway where Charity stood. It was then that she got her first view of the problem.

Prince William of Orange hung from the strong arms of two of his aides, barely upright. Thin yellowish stains of bile traced a trail down the front of his navy coat and across his fine leather boots.

“Step aside, man!” a guard called again to a leering lord more interested in viewing the spectacle than making way for the group to pass. A pained groan from the ailing prince proved more effective than the shouted orders. The gentleman all but leapt backwards to avoid being vomited upon, and many ladies turned away, their hands covering their mouths and eyes in horror as their own faces turned slightly green.

You are too late. Your weak constitution failed to prevent this tragedy.

Charity snarled inwardly and scooted sideways, turning in time to see the Dutch prince pass. His eyes gazed without seeing, the pupils wide. He stretched an arm her way and called for her to help, slurring incoherent words that were neither English nor Dutch, at least not from what Charity could tell.

Her heart longed to answer, but she forced her limbs to still and her face to remain impassive. There was nothing she could do for him except arouse even more attention.

Shouting that he had been poisoned was entirely out of the question. Worse, it could incite panic, particularly when she lacked any proof. And what could she possibly say? That she recognised the symptoms of his malady because she had once been a victim of it?

Still, sorrow tugged at her in the face of the man’s obvious anxiety, but she firmed her backbone. Either he would recover with time… or he would not. Either way, there was naught she could do about it.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, glancing around in confusion and belligerence. Then his knees gave out, and his aides hoisted him higher, carrying him over the threshold and away from prying eyes. The crowd closed ranks behind them, everyone staring until the group disappeared down a corridor.

Charity nearly leapt out of her slippers when someone took her hand and wrapped it around a warm elbow.

“Your Grace. Are you feeling better? You missed the most exciting display of talent for diplomacy,” Lord Ravenscroft murmured beside her. “The Prince of Orange managed to empty this party even faster than he emptied his cups.”

The crowd outside was rapidly dispersing, people practically planting their bootheels in each other’s backs to share their first-hand view of the scandalous behaviour. By morning, there would not be a soul left in London who had not heard of how the Prince of Orange had gotten so foxed after meeting the princess he had to be carried back to his den.

“I am much improved,” Charity said automatically as she turned to Lord Ravenscroft, taking a moment to assess herself. Some of the spinning feeling in her head was slowing. Her stomach felt sour, but it was certainly nowhere near as bad as the prince’s.

“I should have looked before I asked. Darling, you look like you have been exhumed. Are you haunting me, or is this just your new aesthetic?”

“Never you mind,” she said peevishly, and then she leaned in to Ravenscroft. “What exactly… are people saying has happened?”

He gave her an odd look. “Besides the fact that the Dutch prince’s aides have the strongest backs in London? That if the Dutch cannot control their heir, getting the gentry to talk favourably of the wedding will be impossible? Or are you asking about the part where it is a terrible insult to the royal family, and so on and so forth?”

“No,” Charity said, making a gesture of frustration with her free hand. “Rather something like perhaps he ate something that disagreed with him. Was anyone else ill?”

Lord Ravenscroft let his lashes fall, half-hooding his eyes. “They are saying that the Prince does not hold his jenever as well as his other countrymen, Your Grace. No one else has shown an inclination to redecorate the lawns. Whyever do you ask… my dear Duchess?”

Charity was tempted to brush Lord Ravenscroft off and go in search of the Queen or someone else of higher status. The Prince Regent was not exactly known for being a good judge of personal character, particularly if it involved a gambling hall. However, if the duchess found herself rich in other assets, she was dreadfully poor in trustworthy allies at a moment she was beginning to question her very wits.

She hesitated for a moment, warring in indecision over the best course of action.

“Walk with me?” she finally asked, disentangling herself and heading back indoors.

Lord Ravenscroft shook his head when Charity turned toward the door to a drawing room, instead guiding her to a smaller sitting room off another corridor. He closed the door behind them and twisted the key to lock it.

“There is no need for that,” Charity called, already wondering if she had misjudged him.

"Of course I would thoroughly enjoy ruining you, Your Grace, but then everyone would think I am slumming it—and my reputation is already hanging by a thread."

Rather than be offended, Charity was nearly amused. “One would think I could make you more respectable, not less.”

“That is exactly what I mean by ruining it,” Lord Ravenscroft gave her another wolfish grin. “But never mind that. I demand you stop beating around the bush and explain why you are suddenly so curious about the state of other people’s constitutions.”

Charity wrung her hands again, and finally decided to be out with it. “I think someone drugged the prince.”

Lord Ravenscroft did not laugh off Charity’s bald statement, or even look amused. “That… is a very serious charge, Your Grace. Are you quite sure?”

“No,” she whispered. “I am not certain at all. I cannot prove it, and I cannot be sure, but I believe that it was the jenever he served that might have been tainted.”

The older man’s eyes were piercing. “How is the princess? She drank it also.”

“No worse off than I appear to be. She may have had one or two sips more.”

“You drank it also?” Ravenscroft pushed close to where Charity stood, taking her face in his hands as he peered at her more closely. “Your eyes are still somewhat wide, but you are no longer flushed.”

“Two sips,” Charity confessed. “The princess did not like the taste and asked me if it was proper. I did not taste anything odd, but I was not familiar with the drink.”

He let her go then, pacing the room with his hand to his mouth. “How very troubling. What were you going to do?”

“I—I am not certain. At the least, I was going to try to get the prince to stop drinking it. Then… I thought I might tell the Queen and Prince Regent.”

“You were going to swing at shadows with an accusation that could see people imprisoned and executed?” Ravenscroft was aghast. “You saw nothing, can prove nothing more than you had a sip and felt a little unwell which could have been the result of any number of things.

“No one would dare poison a drink at a high society event, and the servants at this all belonged to the Prince Regent. They would not dare harm the princess. The prince himself was drinking like a fish. If you level accusations of poison, the first one on the chopping block would be the footman. You do realise this?”

She paled. Charity had given no consideration whatsoever to the servants who might be entirely innocent in the scheme. Now she felt even more foolish about the idea.

When she said nothing, Ravenscroft sighed, running a hand back over his head. “Gracious. I am glad I cleaved to you when I did, before you could blame the prince’s state on a harebrained notion like poison!”

“I am still certain it was poison,” Charity grit out. “But… I take your point about who might suffer.”

The wrong people, that would be for certain, rather than Lady Fitzroy’s son, whom she still believed was involved somehow.

“Oh, well. If you’re certain, then it must be so. Perhaps you would be willing to share with me why you are so certain?”

Flames burned in the pit of Charity’s stomach at his scathing sarcasm, but he had a point. In order to convince Lord Ravenscroft to take her seriously, Charity was going to need to explain why. Did she dare trust him with the truth of her disappearance from the Fitzroy ball the year prior?

When faced with an attempt against two thrones, any risk to her reputation paled in comparison.

“The sip I took of the princess’s drink left me feeling strange. You commented on our flushed cheeks; well, that was just the start. Before you say it was the sun, hear me out. This—this was not the first time I have been exposed to what I think may have been put in the prince’s drink.”

Lord Ravenscroft’s eyebrows rose, but he did not seem to be inclined to argue with her. He waved a hand to encourage her to continue.

“At a ball last year during my debut, I was served a punch that had been laced with a tincture of henbane. It had… similar effects. My mouth was… dry. I was lightheaded. Red-faced. Confused.” Charity squeezed one hand with the other, grinding her knuckles against one another so that the slight pain would keep her focused.

There was no sign of Ravenscroft’s indolent smile as she told him all that Lady Fitzroy had done to her, from the drugged punch to the kidnapping and the final escape, with the help of her friends.

“This is why the Queen came up with the falsehood about sending Percy on a knight’s quest. To save your reputation.” Ravenscroft deduced. “And why he was engaged to you instead of that charming little moppet I met in Brighton.”

“I owe them everything,” Charity said simply.

“You are not the only one who does,” Lord Ravenscroft volunteered unexpectedly. “I certainly owe him for my life, at least. Well then, Duchess, perhaps I might repay my debts in part by not being a thorn in your backside like I had half planned on being.”

Charity gave him a sideways glance, and he grinned again. “Plaguing the Queen’s ladies is one of my favourite sports. Surely you understand. All right. Tell me the facts as you know them, and we can come to a plan of action.”

“The prince’s drink had been decanted. It would have been easy to tamper with. It was also reserved for him and the princess, as he had brought it as a gift. And Lord Fitzroy was at the event—and near the prince.”

“Ah, here we go. Even should the poisoning be credible, Lord Fitzroy’s involvement is hardly the sort of thing one could take upon faith.”

She resisted the urge to back down. “His mother had a guard murdered at a state affair for the Swedish Ambassador. And she stole directly from the Prince Regent. Her son ?—”

“—Has behaved impeccably today,” the magpie interrupted. “I should know; I spent a great deal of time watching him. And I know you did as well, which is why I am reminding you now rather than telling you the truth.”

“I am relieved I am not the only one here who questions the presence of Lord Fitzroy,” she muttered under her breath.

“Many are watching him with suspicion. Some are no doubt betting on when he will show where his true loyalties lie. But to poison a visiting royal immediately upon his return? He might be daring, he might even be untrustworthy, but he doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who is missing half his wits.”

“Unless he has no intention of staying in London.”

Lord Ravenscroft shook his dark hair. “Wishful thinking, Your Grace. Fitzroy is a war hero now. He had opportunities aplenty to make an escape during the Battle of the Nive, and if he wanted to quit England entirely, that was the time to do it.”

Charity hated that the man was right. Everyone had assumed Lord Fitzroy would never return to London. It would be far easier to live a quiet life in the country, or on the continent, than to return to where his family’s name had become synonymous with treason.

Lord Ravenscroft crossed the room and laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Look. I believe you were unwell, as was the princess. I will also grant that it is not impossible—nor even improbable, that someone did taint the man’s drink. But you cannot start slinging stones without being sure you are not going to hit a friend. I have picked up twitters about his own delegation having some unhappy feelings about the marriage negotiations. An enemy could as easily be within the prince’s house as without.”

He began to pace again, thinking. “But then again, if the enemy is a Dutchman, we would know straight away. Subtlety is not exactly their strong suit.”

“What do you think we should do?” she asked him.

Shifting his weight back and forth as he thought, Ravenscroft finally shook his head. “What is done is done. If he was poisoned, the prince is already feeling the effects. It is too late to stop him. So… now we have to wait. Either he will recover with no harm done, or he… will not, and other factors must be considered. I assume you were given such a common herb instead of something more noxious for a good reason?”

“Lady Fitzroy… told me to my face that I could not suffer if I were dead,” Charity said flatly.

“Ah. So we can expect that the prince will likely recover. Assuming, of course, that you are right about the poisoning… and the substance. So there is no harm in waiting to see what transpires, to see if more information makes itself available.” Ravenscroft returned to the closed door and twisted the key to unlock it. “Go home, Your Grace, and get some rest. Tomorrow will out the truth. Either the prince will be fine or he will be dead. If he is dead, you can take your thoughts to the Queen after she begins demanding answers to so many uncomfortable questions.”

She nodded stiffly and left, saying no more. But a nagging feeling that Fitzroy must be connected to the poisoning lingered. He must be. Because if he wasn’t, it meant Fitzroy had taken up residence in her thoughts for all the wrong reasons.

Either way, she thought she might pen a note to the Queen. Just to be safe after all.