Page 28 of Lady Liar (A Series of Senseless Complications #5)

E ven Lady Marchfield was startled. “Lady Pembroke!” she said. Then she looked around the room as if she were a cornered animal.

Verity and Winsome had leapt to their feet and curtsied. Valor, fortunately, had long ago hightailed it out of the room the moment Lady Marchfield had arrived and was hiding abovestairs with Sir Galahad.

“Lady Marchfield, Lady Verity,” Lady Pembroke said, eyeing Winsome.

“That is Lady Winsome, Lady Pembroke,” Lady Marchfield said. “She is not yet out. We are honored by your visit. Naturally. Might I ring for tea?”

Verity thought it might be the first time she’d ever seen her aunt rather awed by rank. Lady Marchfield seemed perfectly comfortable meeting Lady Pembroke at Almack’s, but it was somehow different to find the lady arrived to one’s drawing room.

“No,” Lady Pembroke said. “I will not stay long.”

Lady Marchfield was going very red in the face. “Now if it is about that ridiculous caricature making the rounds, I can assure you…”

Verity’s aunt trailed off and she did not have the first idea of what Lady Pembroke could be assured of. The print was terrible and now it seemed to have come to the attention of one of the leading ladies of society. It must have—why else would she be here?

Verity waited to be told her voucher to Almack’s was rescinded, or that she ought to leave Town, or she did not know what. Whatever it was, it would be awful. Queen Charlotte’s Lady of the Bedchamber had not arrived to congratulate her on her recent accomplishment of being named Lady Fiction.

“The queen requests Lady Verity to attend her. Now, presuming that is convenient.”

Verity sank down in her seat, hardly realizing that she’d done so. The queen wished to see her? Why? Could she say it was not convenient? Was that allowed? Why could not her father be here? He would know what to do. He’d left for his club hours ago. Could they send Thomas or Charlie to fetch him?

“Oh dear,” Lady Marchfield whispered. “I suppose I’d better escort her.”

“No need, Lady Marchfield,” Lady Pembroke said, “I am fully capable of that myself.”

She would go. She would have to go. She glanced at Winsome with the hopeful idea that perhaps it was not as bad as she felt it must be. Winsome’s horrified expression did nothing to reassure her.

Verity felt very much like flying from the room and hiding in a closet.

She could not do it, though. “I ought to change my dress,” she said shakily.

She thought she ought to, but change into what?

What did one wear when one was brought to the queen?

An angry queen, no less. Certainly, Her Majesty was angry, why else would she send Lady Pembroke for Verity Nicolet?

“That simple muslin will do very well, Lady Verity,” Lady Pembroke said. “Let us be off. Lady Marchfield can inform your father that you are safely in my care, and I will personally return you here.”

Verity found some comfort in the idea that she would be returned home, because really, she felt herself on the way to a hanging. Winsome had sidled up to her. She squeezed Verity’s hand and whispered, “It will be all right.”

Just then, the doors burst open, and Valor hurried through them carrying Sir Galahad. She stared at Lady Pembroke and sighed. “I thought it might be Lady Pegatha. She thinks my dog is tremendous.”

“Valor!” Aunt Marchfield hissed.

“Indeed, he does look tremendous. Lady Pegatha knows what she’s about,” Lady Pembroke said. “Lady Verity?”

Verity stood. She had no choice but to go forward and face whatever must be faced. As she proceeded to the great hall to don her pelisse and bonnet, she noted Charlie wide-eyed as Thomas went to fetch those items. She supposed she was rather wide-eyed herself.

Her sisters might have run into difficulties here and there and caused some amount of talk, but none of them had been taken to the queen to answer for themselves. No, that achievement must be Verity’s alone.

She remembered what Mrs. Right always said about facing something that needed courage—however frightening it might be, it would not last forever. Time would pass, the moment would pass, and calm would reign once more.

Lady Pembroke said she would bring Verity back home. All she had to do was get through the time until she was safely back through her doors. She could convince her father that they must leave Town and then disappear into the Dales.

She had to force herself to get into the carriage as Winsome weakly waved from the drawing room window. Just then, she wished Buckingham House was as far away as her home in Yorkshire. She wished it would take days and days to get there.

As it was, not a quarter hour passed by before they arrived. During those fifteen minutes, Lady Pembroke was inscrutable. She said nothing and simply looked out the window with a look of complacence, watching the world go by.

The gates were opened, the carriage trotted round the central fountain and came to a stop.

They were met by the Earl of Dartmouth standing on the steps.

Why? Why was she so important that the Lord Chamberlain himself met the carriage?

She was only a silly young lady making up even sillier stories.

Why should he concern himself with it? Why should anybody? Why did he look so grim?

“This way, Lady Verity,” he said gravely.

As she followed him down the corridor, she began to wonder if all this was because The Royal Society had been noted on the print.

Perhaps it was some sort of crime to embarrass anything that had been given a royal seal?

It very well could be. In fact, it was bound to be.

To insult something that had been given the royal nod must be an insult to the palace itself.

But she did not create that print! Why did they not drag in whoever had done it?

Perhaps she had not created it, but she had caused it.

Verity felt a terror begin to overtake her. Was she going to prison? Or perhaps she would be banished from London. Just this moment, she would not mind running home to the peace of the Dales.

Two footmen, who appeared far more stern than Thomas and Charlie ever did and were dressed in exquisite royal equipage, threw a pair of massive double doors open.

“I leave you here,” the Lord Chamberlain said.

The room was of large dimensions. Everything in it seemed oversized, the chandeliers seemed to stretch five feet across, each of the sofas could accommodate ten people. Largest of all, though, if not in size than in effect, was the queen.

She sat in a gilded chair, cushioned in a lively Indian print.

She was, perhaps, not the most handsome woman, and she was past her middle age.

However, none of that dampened the effect of her—she was a queen and it seemed to radiate from her very being.

Her eyes were a little sharper, her chin a little higher, her expression eminently composed.

Lady Pembroke pushed Verity through the doors, took her by the arm, and marched her in front of Queen Charlotte. Verity curtsied low.

“Lady Verity Nicolet, Your Majesty,” Lady Pembroke said, rising from her own curtsy.

“Ah, Lady Pembroke, you always carry out my requests so efficiently. Well, I suppose we had better have tea.”

Tea? Verity watched a footman slip out the door to fetch it. It seemed they listened closely to everything the queen uttered and then ran to do her bidding when they heard a comment about what was wanted.

Queen Charlotte had nodded, and Lady Pembroke sat down. Verity remained where she was. What was she supposed to do? Stand or sit?

“Sit down,” Lady Pembroke said softly.

Verity curtsied again and hurried to a place on the sofa. To her amazement, a cart wheeled in. Tea. When it had just been asked for not a moment ago. The kitchens must keep water on the boil all day, waiting for a summons.

The accoutrements of the tea tray were rather astonishing. The teapot itself was silver and enormous. It was accompanied by a very large and tiered silver tray, stacked with pastries that appeared flaky and had layers of cream.

“Ah, mille-feuilles,” the queen said. “Always a favorite.”

So that was what they were. A bit fancier than the apple cakes to be found in her father’s house.

Verity continued to stare at the pastries, as she did not know where else to look.

She had not been addressed, nor told why she was there.

She certainly had not been told why she was to have tea.

She had grown more and more certain that she’d broken a law about respect for anything given the royal seal.

But if that were the case, why should she be given tea?

Perhaps she was not to be given it, though. Perhaps it was only for the queen and Lady Pembroke. Nobody had ever told her what to do in such a situation. Of course, that was probably because nobody else had ever been in such a situation.

Another footman had come behind the one who’d wheeled in the tea service.

He carried a silver tray with three delicate China cups and saucers.

So she was to have tea? It was all so confusing and she wished something would be said.

Most of all, she wished Mrs. Right was by her side, holding her hand and ready to do battle in her defense against all comers. Even the queen.

The cups had been set down. Rather than the queen pouring, one of the footmen poured. That was probably because of the size and weight of the teapot. Or maybe it was royal protocol. She did not know.

The footman finished his work, the wheeled cart was removed, and the footmen went to stand by the doors once more.

“Well, Lady Verity? What do you have to say for yourself?” Queen Charlotte said.

“Say, Your Majesty?” Verity repeated, playing for time.

Queen Charlotte reached into the myriad folds of her silk robes and pulled out the print. “About this?”

Yes, of course, that. What to say about it, though? As she was certain the real offense was involving The Royal Society in her nonsense, that was what she must apologize for.