Page 8 of Brilliance and Betrayal (The Diamond of the Ton Regency Mysteries #1)

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“You may discover that shared affection—or even a well-placed spark—makes certain intimacies far more enjoyable than you were led to believe.”

— Lady Grace Percy, Duchess of Northumberland

C harity could feel his heartbeat beneath her palm. It was strong. Steady, if a trifle fast. Unlike her own, which was so erratic that she felt faint. It took her a moment to make sense of his words.

The rage and fear still lurked, but confusion was rising to the surface. The ivory handle of Lord Fitzroy’s knife felt slippery in her hand, and she tried to drop it. His fingers tightened again, keeping the knife in her palm, his face lined with tension as he stared into her face.

“No, I will not let you put it down. You have said your piece, and now I am saying mine. This has nothing to do with the Queen—this is about you and me, and you have but two choices. Kill me, or leave me to my own devices.”

“I despise you,” she informed him, but even to her own ears, the words sounded trite. What she really wanted at this moment was for him and his mother to disappear from the face of the earth so she would never have to hear the name ever again.

“I know.”

He thought he had her cornered. The expression on his face was one of grim satisfaction, and it roused Charity’s temper enough that she wanted to scratch his eyes out.

“This will be the only time I offer you the chance. Take your courage into your own hands, or we set aside our public quarrel. But I shall not be forsworn, Shining One. If you decide to cross me later, there will be no place on this earth you can hide from my wrath. Not in London, not your own home.”

Charity had no idea how he had secured an invitation to Prinny’s event, but it must have caused him quite the consternation to find her there. Why else was he so ready to threaten her in her own home, if not to cow her into silence and make her ignore whatever his schemes were here in England?

She must somehow be a threat to his larger plans.

Sneering in his face, feigning more bravado she did not feel, she realised she had to get him to divulge more. “Some might call it a public service if I stuck you with your own blade.”

“Too bad you appear to be too craven to earn the accolades. Shall we call it a draw?”

“There is no peace between us. I will not let you keep me silent,” she warned him, and then she tried to throw him off balance, arching abruptly so she could get out from beneath him. But the villain was as heavy as a boulder, and he settled deeper, even though he was considerately not sitting on her with all his weight.

He inhaled a breath, leaning forward over her again. His expression would nearly be playful, if it weren’t for the set lines at his mouth. “Why, Duchess… are you inviting me to play a different game?”

His weight on her stomach was—she gasped once, then again, trying to stay her panic. Finally she shoved him with the hand still resting on his chest. “You’re—suffocating me, you ogre!”

Fitzroy immediately rolled them on both of their sides, the weight of his thigh pinning her legs beneath the tangled bedding. But this was worse somehow. More intimate. For now their faces were inches apart, and she could clearly see the devil dancing in his eyes. “Better, darling?”

Yes.

Charity froze as a new part of her psyche woke up in hot interest. No! she shouted at it in her thoughts in horror. In rage, she pulled the weapon from between them and sent it in an arc that would sink it into his exposed thigh.

But he caught her hand before she could complete the deed, halting the path of the blade. “The instructions were for you to kill me cleanly, not maim me.”

“You do not deserve a clean death,” she said, glaring into his face, and he lifted a brow indolently. “And anyway, you are too late to stop me.”

The demon might try to look unconcerned, but Charity felt the pace of his heart pick up beneath her hand—God. Why was she still touching him? She tried to pull her hands away, and he let her.

When he asked the next question, she knew she had tipped the scales back in her favour. “What precisely am I too late for?”

“I already sent a letter to the Queen with all the details.” She gave him a sweet smile.

His gaze flickered as he searched her face, probably looking for the telltales of a lie. “Did you? I think you are bluffing.”

“Unfortunately for you, it is the truth. And Lord Ravenscroft also knows.” That was still somewhat true, although Ravenscroft did not believe there was sufficient evidence to implicate Fitzroy.

But her words hit home. His smug, stupid handsome face grew uncertain, and Charity relished every moment of it.

“You took the Prince Regent’s magpie into your confidence? And yet I do not appear to be locked in a tower.”

With more nonchalance than she felt, Charity hurled his knife into a corner and simpered at him. “I did send her a note late, but did not mark it as urgent. If she did not read it last night, she will surely do so this morning. Don’t worry. Once she reads what you did to Prince William, you will find yourself in the tower then.”

Fitzroy flinched slightly as his dagger clattered to the floor, his eyes widening in surprise—and then something different passed over his face, so quickly Charity almost missed it.

Fear .

The tension was thick enough to choke on, and with neither of them drawing breath, Charity’s manse was so silent she could hear the footfalls of a servant getting out of bed to investigate the noise. Briefly, she glanced at the ceiling before she flicked her eyes back toward Lord Fitzroy’s face.

Whatever fleeting humanity she had seen in his expression was gone, replaced with flatness. “Strange. I never imagined the pretty debutante I met last year had such a streak of cruelty inside of her.”

Pain thrummed along her nerves, inflicted by his words alone. How could anything this man said to her hurt this much?

“Perhaps that is because then I did not have it!” she shouted, forgetting the wandering servant. “Get out!”

Swiftly, he rolled away, off her bed and onto his feet. He stared at her a moment, and inclined his head mockingly.

Then he was gone—disappearing out her window.

Charity kicked her legs free from the bedcovers, which had somehow turned into a knot worthy of a sailor's pride. The guards must be alerted. Where would he go? Fitzroy might already be galloping for the coast—or, worse, toward Buckingham House. She cursed herself for mentioning that infernal note. What would the man do to stay at large? Truly, there was no telling.

By the time she reached the window, Fitzroy was nowhere to be seen, and furious pounding had begun in the hallway. “Your Grace!” The words were male, muffled by the thick wood. “Open the door!”

Only one step towards the door, she realised she was scandalously indecent. “Wait!” she called, “I am not dressed!”

She dashed into her dressing room. The first gown her hands encountered—a faded green affair, a relic from a previous wife, with a pattern that could charitably be described as "early cabbage"—was tugged on over her shift. Corsets were for occasions when one wasn’t saving the monarchy from a tedious villain.

Finally, Charity strode back to the door, only to discover it resisted her as stubbornly as an obstinate mule. The knob turned, but the door refused to budge.

"What on earth—" She hadn’t locked it. As she jiggled the knob again, she peered at the lock. The keyhole gaped at her like an empty, toothless mouth.

She was trapped.

Panic rose, swift and merciless. Her heart pounded like a child with a new drum. The walls pressed closer. She would die there. Alone. In cabbage green.

Get a hold of yourself, Charity. Her mother’s voice scolded from the distant recesses of her mind. At least die in a more flattering color.

And then a man’s voice, dark and smooth as cognac, pushed her mother’s shrillness aside.

You are not trapped, you ninny , the smooth voice of Fitzroy drawled in her thoughts before terror could turn her brains to mush. Call for the housekeeper’s set of keys.

“Mr Pritchard!” she shouted. “Fetch the other keys!”

His footsteps receded, and Charity began to pace back and forth, slowly dissolving into madness. Finally she dashed for the window, sucking in a breath, and shouted again. “Help!” she bellowed. “Someone help me! I am locked in my room, and the fate of England may depend on my immediate departure!”

A muffled voice called from below. “Your Grace?” A figure stumbled into view in the courtyard below, holding a lantern as if it were a particularly disagreeable cat.

Finally !

“I am locked in my room!” Charity called down. “Did you see which way he went?”

“Who?” the man shouted back, clearly at odds with consciousness.

“Never mind! Wake the house, fetch the spare key, and ready the carriage!” she ordered. The man saluted, nearly dropped the lantern, and vanished.

It took another five minutes, but finally footsteps thundered in the hallway, followed by a chorus of concerned voices. Charity abandoned the window to press her ear to the door.

“Stand aside!” bellowed Mr Pritchard, her unflappable butler, his voice cutting through the clamour. Keys jangled, and with a scrape as sweet as a Mozart concerto, the lock turned. Charity flung open the door to find half the household staring back at her.

The maids blinked, frilly caps askew, and the footmen gaped, their hair in various stages of dishevelment. Charity drew herself up.

“Someone broke into my room!” she announced.

All eyes shifted to the butler’s key in the lock. Then back to her.

Her fists clenched. “He locked me in! Now move. I must get to Buckingham House.”

Her dramatic declaration had all the effect of a feather duster against a hurricane. It was only when Mr Pritchard clapped his hands like a schoolmaster that the staff scattered. He bowed low and gestured for her to step through.

“If Your Grace would care to pen a note, I will have it dispatched at once. Perhaps you would like a drink while we await the constables?”

“I do not want a drink, Mr Pritchard!” Charity snapped, her composure fraying like an old hem. “Nor the constables. I know the identity of the intruder, and I must alert the Queen. This is a matter of state!”

“Er, of course, Your Grace. But might I suggest we first locate a pair of shoes?”

Charity glanced down and found, to her horror, her bare toes peeking from beneath her gown.

“Shoes,” she muttered. “Yes. Fine. That would be lovely.”

While her lady’s maid laced her boots with record speed, Mr Pritchard returned, his expression grim. “There is an issue with the carriage, Your Grace. Thomas Driver is, alas, too deeply ensconced in his dreams to be of service. I do not believe it to be a natural sleep, I am afraid.”

“Damn you, Fitzroy!” Charity cursed, startling the maid into dropping a bootlace. “Saddle my horse. I will ride myself.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” Mr Pritchard intoned with the air of a man who refused to be surprised by anything. At least, he wouldn’t be surprised by anything anymore.

When she emerged from her room, she found the hallway blessedly clear of all but a single footman. He remained at attention when she walked past, standing rigidly with his eyes forward despite the cowlick in the middle of his hair.

The main staircase grew by lengths and bounds, giving plenty of time for the framed portraits of past dukes and duchesses to frown down upon her distasteful ensemble. She had read enough family diaries during her winter in Scotland to know that she was hardly the first member of the family to undertake questionable activities. She was, however, the first to do so with the intention of seeing the Queen of England.

Charity decided to take that as a mark in her favour.

As her boot heels clicked on the marble floors, still dressed in cabbage green and without a corset, Charity could not help but think that Fitzroy had better run fast. Because if they caught him, she might just kill him now after all.

When she arrived at the mews, she found both her horse and another saddled.

Mr Pritchard cleared his throat. “I took the liberty of asking Lewis to accompany you. He is the strongest footman in the house and has plenty of experience sitting a horse.” He offered her a boost into her saddle and then waved for the footman to lead the way out.

Charity wasted no time. She kicked her heels against the horse’s flank, urging it forward with the same crisp intonation her mother used when reprimanding tardy footmen. The horse launched into a gallop, nearly bowling over an unfortunate servant who dove for the safety of a hedge. Hooves thundered against the cobblestones, the clattering echo bouncing off the silent buildings as Charity hurtled into the night.

Her cloak betrayed her almost immediately, slipping from her head and flapping behind her. Strands of hair escaped her nightly braid, whipping into her eyes and mouth. She spat them out with a growl of frustration, tugging the reins to steer her mount down the correct street.

Behind her, Lewis proved moderately useful, his voice ringing out to clear their path. “Out of the way! Her Grace approaches!” he bellowed at a cart that was inching along like a slug enjoying its twilight stroll.

The gates of Buckingham House loomed ahead, growing larger with every pounding stride of her horse. The stately residence glowed faintly in the moonlight, its imposing facade framed by the shadow of iron gates and lantern-bearing guards. The latter appeared unimpressed by Charity’s midnight dash, their faces set in expressions of mild irritation, as though wondering what sort of nonsense this was at such an hour.

Charity reined in her horse, which skidded to a halt with the enthusiasm of a dancer executing a dramatic final pose. She slid from the saddle, her knees wobbling in protest. For a moment, it seemed they might betray her entirely, but sheer indignation forced her upright. Fury, it turned out, was an excellent substitute for muscle strength.

“Make way for Her Grace, the Duchess of Atholl!” Lewis shouted with such authority that even the guards hesitated. They moved to block her path anyway but didn’t bother disguising their curiosity, their gazes sweeping over her windblown hair, askew cloak, and undoubtedly wild expression.

Charity fought the urge to yank her cloak over her head like an embarrassed child. A year ago, she’d stood in this exact spot under eerily similar circumstances. Twice now, a Fitzroy had sent her galloping to the Queen’s doorstep in the dead of night, like some sort of nocturnal carrier pigeon.

Not this time. This time, she would see it through to the end. Fitzroy would be dragged to the gallows, kicking and screaming if need be, and she wouldn’t leave until his fate was as firmly sealed as the wax on one of the Queen’s letters.

With a sharp toss of her head, Charity straightened her spine and strode forward, cloak billowing behind her like the cape of an avenging heroine, to where the Queen’s aide de camp stood waiting at the door. Like Mr Pritchard, he refrained from making a comment about her cabbage dress and wind-blown hair. After a half bow to acknowledge her position, he ushered her inside and led her to a sitting room where she could wait.

“I will let Her Majesty know you are here, Your Grace, and return with an answer as to whether she will see you.” Before he departed, he nodded his head at something across the room.

Spinning around to follow the direction he had indicated, Charity found a framed mirror hanging on the wall. She made a vain attempt at putting herself to rights, sending a silent prayer to the heavens that the Queen would grant her a second midnight meeting.

She was still wrestling with the unruly strands of her blonde hair when the scrape of the door opening announced his return. She spun around, expecting to see the Queen’s butler, but instead found the last person on Earth she wanted to see.

Peregrine Fitzroy leaned against the doorway, with not a stain of dirt marring his dark clothing nor a scratch on his shiny, black leather boots. Every hair was perfectly placed, his face radiating a suave confidence, as if he had never shown another expression to her earlier.

He let his eyes wander down her body, top to bottom and then back up again, and a trace of wicked amusement at her disheveled state lit his smile, causing him to show even white teeth.

“Well hello, Sparkles. Fancy meeting you here.”