Page 9 of Brilliance and Betrayal (The Diamond of the Ton Regency Mysteries #1)
8
“Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac, and its exercise is the ultimate proof of freedom.”
— Marquis de Sade
P eregrine knew he had found the perfect sobriquet for the bane of his existence. The very instant it touched her ears, she looked as if she was ready to detonate.
She was humiliated beyond reason, and here he was with a ringside view of her undoing. The delicate, beautiful, icy meddler who had come here with a plan to throw him to the wolves was instead a complete and utter disaster.
Oh, yes. This agonised, thwarted moment was one Peregrine knew he would savour for a long time to come.
Sparkles . This was as satisfying as the most illicit pleasures—and far, far more entertaining.
“Guards!” she shouted, her hands making fists at her sides. Then she turned to the footman, as if she had already forgotten his presence. “Get the guards and let them know this man is here!”
The footman traded a wary look with Peregrine, who lifted one shoulder in casual dismissal. “Your Grace, er…” the man said politely, trying to act as if their situation were entirely normal. “The guards are already aware that Lord Fitzroy is here.”
Peregrine couldn’t help himself. He gave her a jaunty bow, grinning ear to ear, which only fueled her temper.
“The duchess is just a little out of sorts from her interrupted evening,” Peregrine told the poor footman. “Would you get some tea to help settle her nerves?”
Knowing how the servants were, Peregrine suspected the footman was dying to leave anyway so he could tell everyone about the duchess’s state. But the footman gave him a sideways look, as if he wasn’t certain it was wise to leave the two of them alone.
“She need have no fear of harm from me,” he reassured the servant. “Tea, if you would, good man. And leave the door open a crack. The duchess can shout out to whoever is in the hallway if she finds herself being mistreated.”
The footman backed from the room, rushing to do his bidding and tell whoever else was awake what was afoot.
Her eyes widened, as if she suddenly intuited that she was about to be left alone. With him. “Wait—” But the footman didn’t hear her.
The Duchess Atholl covered her face with both hands for a long moment, praying for patience perhaps. Or that she could melt into the floor. And as she stood there, her lips moving silently, Peregrine prowled closer, thoroughly enjoying himself.
This was the balm he needed to his soul after finding out she had already enacted her wretched plan to frame him for some form of villainy. At her home, he had hoped that by some miracle he could frighten her into a cessation of hostilities before becoming worse, and he had miscalculated. Badly.
Now, not only did he have to deal with the ignominy of that, he also bore measures of guilt in truth. He had broken into her home and not managed to keep her silent. Worse, she had forced him to harm someone in the escape. After fleeing her bedroom and dropping back down to the lawn, he was forced to contend with her carriage driver.
It was too terrible a risk to let the duchess get to the Queen first, giving the two of them time to take matters into their own hands. He needed to get his own horse in the race, proverbially speaking.
He had needed the Prince Regent. And fortunately, he knew just where to look for Prinny, who spent most of his late nights and early mornings at his latest den of iniquity.
So he had disabled her driver and set off to find His Highness, and both had then ridden here posthaste. A part of Peregrine was still darkly amused—and impressed—that she had managed to arrive before them. Clearly, she had abandoned a great deal of common sense to do so. Her hair was still half in the tangled ruin of a braid. Instead of hiring a hack, she must have ridden here without even bothering to dress properly—and on a horse herself, if the smell could be trusted.
When he circled behind her, the duchess dropped her hands and spun to glare at him. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Oh, immensely,” he admitted, crossing his arms over his chest casually. “Your dress is very charming. I had no idea that vintage styles were making such a bold return. You are quite ahead of—or perhaps behind—the times.”
The little vixen lifted both her hands as if to shove him again… or perhaps throttle him. He provoked her by taking one step closer, inviting her to forget his warnings, and she stepped back, her face falling into grimmer lines.
“One of the former Duchess Atholl’s, I imagine?” he continued, trying to vex her. “Surely there was one in a more attractive colour. If my recollections are correct, I think you were the fourth wife? You should have had plenty to choose from.”
He had anticipated a flash of anger, a biting retort to match his own. Instead, her expression betrayed the briefest expression of dull pain, her voice low but steady. “One would think so, Lord Fitzroy. And yet, it seems my choices are destined always to bend beneath the shadow of your family’s influence. Would that I knew the full breadth of my family’s sins. The endless litany for which I must pay again, and again, and again!”
“You and I both, Duchess,” Peregrine said, letting a trace of sharpness stain his words.
She then turned her back on him with deliberate precision and made her way to the framed mirror. “By all means, continue mocking the first gown I could grab in my haste to ensure the Queen’s safety. I am sure your wit requires a soft target to sharpen your claws upon after so long away from society.”
“Safety. Oh for—spare me your melodrama!” Peregrine sneered, suddenly irritated beyond belief as he shifted his voice into a mocking falsetto. “‘Oh, woe is me, I must pretend the throne is in danger of Lord Fitzroy’s villainy so that my Queen believes my utter nonsense and I may ruin him to exact my revenge.’ No one here is in mortal peril, your poor taste in clothes notwithstanding.”
The duchess, who had been struggling to undo her snarled braid, stared at him as if he was barking mad, which put his back up even more. But she was saved from replying by the footman’s return with a tea tray. And then he bowed low to the duchess. “Your Grace, I hope you do not think me impertinent, but I thought I might also assist by bringing you… a comb.”
“Er, that is most helpful of you,” she replied stiffly. “Is the Queen expected to arrive soon?”
The footman shook his head. “It may be a while yet. The Queen is in a conference with the Prince Regent, Your Grace.”
“The Prince Regent is here? When did he arrive?”
“He came with Lord Fitzroy, Your Grace.”
“I… see. We will wait upon their pleasure then. You may go.”
Peregrine noted that the duchess looked intensely uncomfortable by that revelation, and his annoyance was abruptly diverted. Did she really expect that somehow she would keep the Prince Regent excluded from these accusations?
The duchess retrieved the comb and began to hack at the snarls of her hair, the swipes of the comb tinged with almost a determined desperation. It looked so bloody painful that even Peregrine couldn’t help but give a sympathetic wince, and before he knew it, he strolled closer. As a lady of privilege, she had likely never even brushed her own hair before.
“It will help if you begin at the bottom,” he suggested neutrally.
She met his eyes in the mirror, her voice… strange. “I hope you are not giving advice because you are waiting for me to play mother and pour the tea.”
He turned to the pot, fully able to manage himself. “Of course not. I would simply rather not stand here and watch you rip out every strand of your hair. You would probably require me to console you afterwards. How do you take your tea, Sparkles?”
She did not rise to his bait beyond a grimace, and instead continued trying to restore order to the long, flowing mass of golden hair. Unfortunately for her, she would be at it long after the royals finally made their appearance. Unbound, her tresses probably fell to her waist. At least she took his advice, and detangling progressed.
“Milk and three lumps,” she finally said.
Peregrine fixed her tea, his fingers lingering on the handle of a spoon. He could not pin down the reason for it, but something suddenly was… amiss.
Bringing her cup and saucer to her, he reviewed their biting exchange. This was practically the armistice between them that he had sought an hour ago, and this time she had given it freely. She had not even reacted to his casual prodding, and she was poorly concealing her state.
She was nervous. Uncertain. And suddenly Peregrine was very keen to know why. Forget a penny; he’d pay a pound sterling for her thoughts right now.
“Here,” he said, offering her the cup. She helplessly darted a glance down at where her hair hung over her shoulder, holding it in a bunch with one hand and the comb with the other. “Take this and give me the comb.”
“But—”
“Quickly now,” he insisted, and she gave the wooden comb over without any further complaint.
Before he could think too much about it, he briskly took her hair in his hands, sweeping it back. God, he wasn’t even wearing gloves right now. He was shattering every rule of propriety—again—but to hell with it. Decorum had already taken a holiday when he invaded her home.
“Do not read too much into this, all right?” he muttered, using the tip of the comb to deftly pull free the remainder of her braid.
She looked down, and then closed her eyes, surrendering to the necessity of having him help her. “I will not,” she said softly, her voice laced with ironic disbelief. And then she took a long sip of the tea. “This is too impossible to take seriously anyway.”
This was a terrible mistake in a thousand ways. The thick, heavy cord of her hair was smooth against the palm of his hand, its scent unmistakably hers. Not rosewater, nor some other artificial perfume. Something raw. Real. Salt and starlight mingled with the faint, inescapable essence of a woman.
“Impossible would indeed be a word for it,” he agreed dryly, lowering his voice to the point where it could barely carry even to her ear. “Even my education fails to supply the words that would describe this spectacle. Here I am, tending to the hair of a woman who would commit an offence just to see me imprisoned.”
Suddenly, she turned to face him, and he lost his grasp on her tresses.
“You think I was the one responsible for...” Her words trailed off, eyes open wide and shining with a new light of understanding, realisation becoming a stark fact.
Peregrine’s spine turned to stone as he abruptly came to a conclusion that he didn’t like in the slightest. With alacrity, he took her shoulders and spun her around again so that he could tie her tresses in a careless knot. At least her hair was no longer entirely a lumpy, disastrous mess.
Then he turned her back towards him, parting his lips to speak, though his wits lagged behind as his thoughts collided. Every assumption he’d made about what happened at the party fragmented and fell to pieces.
But before he could form words, the door standing ajar was thrust open.
Charity leapt backwards, bumping into a side table hard enough to send it rocking. On instinct, she grabbed onto the edge and righted it before it tumbled over. She chanced a look at Fitzroy to see what he had done, and found him doubled over in a deep bow in the direction of the Queen and Prince Regent.
Caught as she was, with a side table at her back and a silk-covered settee on her right, even Charity’s mother would have struggled to execute a perfect curtsey. Still, she sank low, giving thanks for the wide skirt of the unfashionable gown that hid her trembling legs.
“Get up, the both of you!” The Queen’s voice was at once a godsend and a curse, for it was clear she was not in a forgiving mood. “What is the meaning of this? Have we been summoned from our chambers only to witness the two of you pawing at one another like unsupervised children?”
Charity’s mind went blank. For the first time, her mother’s voice had nothing to offer. She averted her gaze, focusing on the vibrant red silk turban atop the woman’s head, and the matching quilted silk robe on her shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the Queen frown deeper in disgust at Charity’s cabbage-green gown.
After a moment, it was Fitzroy who spoke up. “No, Your Majesty. The late hour is my doing.”
She had hesitated to speak too long, and now Lord Fitzroy tried to placate Queen Charlotte like a consummate politician, giving her a moment to regain her wits. An unexpectedly charitable act—though it could easily be self-preservation.
But a man acting solely in the interests of protecting himself would not have touched her hair.
For a moment there, when his strong hands had pulled the comb through her tresses with such careful strokes, shivers had run along her spine. No one had ever tended to her that way. In that moment of unexpected kindness, Charity had almost forgotten that she hated him.
Charity blinked, the haze of her thoughts abruptly clearing, only to find every pair of eyes in the room fixed squarely on her. Heat crept up her neck, but he had already thrown her a lifeline. “Yes, he is correct, Your Majesty, Your Highness, and I am as appalled as you?—”
“Yes, we can see that.” The Queen marched over and plucked a long, dark-gold hair from the front of Peregrine’s black coat and held it aloft. “Is this yours, Your Grace? Or shall I conclude it belongs to one of the other blonde-haired young ladies present?”
“If it is, Your Majesty, I assure you it was entirely uninvited,” Lord Fitzroy spoke up again. “Though I suppose even stray hairs are drawn to me—it is a curse, really.”
“You are not amusing, Lord Fitzroy,” the Queen said, her voice like ice. “Be silent.”
Turning her back on Fitzroy, Queen Charlotte gave Charity a baleful look. “I think I have been apprised of the pertinent information, though it is hard to distill from a note full of baseless speculation and the wild accusations two peers are hurling at one another. Let us examine the notion that you both believe our honoured guest was poisoned. I do not wish at all to discuss how you apparently realised—too late—that you were both labouring under delusions as to the guilty party. Together. At this hour.”
Unfortunately, the notion and the delusion were related. “We both believe Prince William was given henbane, Your Majesty,” Charity confessed.
“Ah.” The Queen understood the significance, and pressed a jewelled finger to her lips, considering.
“Mama,” Prinny interrupted, swaying slightly. He raised his hand to hide a burp. “Let us all sit and talk. And maybe have a drink.”
“No more drinks,” his mother replied, giving him the evil eye while she settled onto a nearby chair. After waving for the others to sit, she rapped her son on the arm. “For God’s sake! Have a cup of tea instead, Prinny. If there was ever a time during which we required clear heads, it is now!”
Then she turned back to the silent lord. “How is your mama doing these days, Lord Fitzroy? I hope life in exile suits her.”
A line of pique formed between Fitzroy’s brows. “My mother made her plans without so much as a by-your-leave to me. If keeping me informed when my life depended on it did not rank high on her list of priorities, I cannot imagine why you suppose that has changed.”
But Charity could. Both she and Fitzroy had begun this audience at a disadvantage because they had blamed one another, and her mind was racing to try to put together a picture of the larger game at stake.
“I offer a hundred apologies for waking you up and appearing in this manner,” Charity cut in before the bickering could grow worse. “It was my error to draw Lord Fitzroy into the situation because we were quarreling over… other past matters. But rather than look backwards, we need to look forward to find the plot. You are right, Your Majesty, I am operating under a great deal of assumption in believing Prince William was dosed.”
“But the prince is still breathing,” Prinny said, his words only slightly slurred. “He is restless and keeps vomiting, but he has grown no worse.”
“A toxin is not always required to be fatal.” How well did Charity know this. “What I did not say in the letter to the Queen is that the Princess of Wales was also served from the same bottle. She did not like the drink, and only consumed a few sips. And I tasted it also. We both felt similar, though much milder effects. There is a chance that she may have been the target. Or both of them at once.”
“Someone attempted to poison the princess?” Prinny sobered at that statement. “And you did not come to me immediately?”
“I only had the proof of my suspicion, and the princess and I both recovered quickly enough,” Charity rushed to assure the royals. “Please, Your Highness, speak with Lord Ravenscroft. He will confirm I considered seeking aid earlier but he convinced me to bide my time until we could see if it resulted in real harm.”
“A subtle poison,” the Queen grumbled, standing to pace a few steps around the room. “Showing little proof and no sign of the hand that wielded it. I am beginning to understand why you took Prinny’s pet’s counsel to wait and see. Prinny, do check with your magpie and see if he corroborates the duchess’s story.”
“This does not make any bloody sense,” the Prince Regent said testily. “What is the point in giving such a weak poison to them that it risks passing without notice?”
Both royals turned Charity’s way, looking for an answer, and she swallowed hard. “To cause embarrassment to the royal families of both England and the Netherlands?”
“Or to spoil diplomatic negotiations between our two countries,” the Queen mused. “If the Dutch knew he had been poisoned, it would cause… problems.”
“It could also be a coded threat. One interpreted correctly by someone who would understand its meaning.” Lord Fitzroy’s face was calculating as he locked eyes with Charity, and she felt a touch sick.
“How do we respond to something like this?” was Prinny’s next artless question.
The Queen rounded on him in irritation, and then she turned her hot gaze on Charity. “I take it you no longer believe he is the guilty party,” she said contemptuously, tilting her head in Lord Fitzroy’s direction.
Charity locked eyes with him. She did not believe so strongly he poisoned the prince and princess anymore. But… she wasn’t certain enough of his innocence to voice it with conviction. Her kidnapping—twenty years in the waiting to get revenge against Charity’s mama—was proof that the Fitzroy family preferred to play the long game.
She let her eyes slide away. “In this? I—no, ma’am. It is improbable, but I cannot rule it out with certainty. Even if he is innocent in this, he might once again be his mother’s dupe.”
She fancied she could hear Lord Fitzroy’s molars grinding from where she stood, and it was shortly about to get worse.
“Your Majesty… I think we should ensure that he is a guest of Buckingham House for a time while we gather more information about what happened. To be sure he does not use his resources to attempt to escape while we investigate his innocence. We… we need to be sure.”
“ What! ” Lord Fitzroy fairly shouted at Charity. “You conniving hag!”
“Mind your tongue and tone of voice, Lord Fitzroy!” Queen Charlotte snapped. “Whether you are offended by the notion or not, it certainly would align with your mother’s purposes and methods. If you are afraid that questions might expose your guilt, perhaps a confession is in order. And if you cannot bear even the weight of a suspicion, then you should never have returned to court.”
Fitzroy took a long breath, but the expression on his face was ugly. “Of course I am not afraid, Your Majesty. Your Highness,” he said in a brittle voice, spots of colour showing on his cheeks. “Then I consent to be a guest. A room where I might lay my head for a few hours will be well appreciated.”
Turning, Charlotte gave a baleful look to Charity. “You, my diamond, return home at once and put on something more appropriate to your station.” The Queen and Prince Regent rose and departed, issuing instructions to the footman on their way out.
Charity stopped the guard who was waiting for Lord Fitzroy. “Can you send the footman who was serving Prince William to my house after sunrise?” she asked.
The guard nodded, and before he could carry on, the angry young lord leaned in to have his final say.
“So I was mistaken about the Prince of Orange. It seems, however, I was not wrong about your venom. You were willing to sink your fangs into me to get your petty revenge after all.”