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“I do not wish women to have power over men; but over themselves.”

—Mary Wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman

E very time she felt herself begin to drift to sleep, dark and churning thoughts seized Charity with a gnawing sense of agitation. How could Peregrine have disappeared so abruptly from Cavendish’s party? And why?

For he had. Sometime during her conference with Prinny and the Queen, while most of the distraught guests made an exodus from Burlington House, both he and the Marchioness of Normanby had slipped away. Together.

A tiny pang of jealousy had raised its head, but it had been quickly stifled by reason. Surely nothing like that lay between him and Selina. But logic opened the door to even more discomposing thoughts than mere jealousy.

I want you to use all of your power to convince Peregrine it is in his best interest to align with mine, the marchioness had told her. Right before she had told Charity that she would expose him for a conspiracy to poison William if she did not.

A plot that he had been involved in, because that had been Selina’s price for saving his life. What if the Queen had sent him back to spy upon the Order, and he had gotten himself entangled in another plot on their behalf?

Sickening dread at the possibility, along with the Queen’s disapproval, had loomed large in her nightmares. Like the boulder of Sisyphus, just when she thought she had finally managed to approach him and have the conversation so long overdue, things had found a way to roll downhill once more.

Sitting up in her bed, she sifted through her feelings which were overwhelmingly composed of worry and pique.

How could he not leave her some message?

Why had he not come back to discreetly discuss things with the Queen and Prinny, as she had?

And why was he taking up so much residence in her thoughts, when clearly he did not give a fig about the state of hers?

It was early. So early she would wake the servants if she called for them, and she couldn’t abide the idea of disturbing their rest just because she couldn’t find hers.

Whipping the covers off her legs, she bathed herself with the cold water left over from last night, punishing herself with the shocking temperatures to send the horrible thoughts scurrying.

And then she lay down again, staring at the canopy of her bed. Seeing not the lovely pink velvet, but the superfine across Peregrine’s back, a shade of blue so dark it was nearly black.

Dawn approached. She squeezed her eyes shut, demanding her mind go silent, holding her body with a brutal tension until her very teeth ached.

Then she forced them to relax, one by one, from her toes to her jaw.

And that is when sleep finally struck her like a mallet, rendering her senseless to the world.

She slept for what felt like all of five minutes when her lady’s maid bustled in, pulling the curtains wide to bring sunlight and fresh air into the space. The bright light burned Charity’s tired eyes, dragging her into the day. She reached over for the glass of water to wet her bone dry mouth.

“I only just got to bed. Why did you wake me so early?” Charity grumbled when she was finally able to form words.

“It is past noon, Your Grace. Apologies if I overstepped, but I thought you would want to be prepared before people come calling.”

The hour galvanised Charity into action better than any prodding might have done. She tossed her covers aside and leapt from her bed. “Bother. I do not have time to read the papers. Do you know what people are saying about the event last night?”

Her maid wrung her hands. “Oh, terrible business, that. Mr Pritchard said there was a riot. He said it were the sort from the stews and the shops, bold as brass, shouting for bread and justice like they expected the ton to serve it up to them on silver trays. Lady Elston fainted dead away in the supper room, I heard. Was that really true, Your Grace?”

Lady Elston hadn’t been the only one to swoon. “True enough. But what are they saying about the men? Were they arrested?”

“I don’t know much, Your Grace. Maybe Mr Pritchard can tell you more. It sounded like accounts were a bit confused.”

Charity was in desperate need of information. “Then, yes, I would like to see Mr Pritchard and the papers. Have there been… any messages for me this morning?”

“No, Your Grace.”

Was this the Order? Or was this the Whigs? And where is Lord Fitzroy now? The Queen’s disapproving voice rang in her thoughts.

Going directly to her escritoire, she penned a brief message, interrupting the brushing of her hair to ask the maid to ring for a footman .

Lord Fitzroy, If you have a moment to spare, I would be obliged to speak with you on a matter of some urgency. I trust you will find the time. —C

The seal was pressed and dry when he arrived. “Take this to White’s. It is for Lord Fitzroy. You are to await a reply,” she instructed him.

Hurrying through her toilette and dressing, Charity ate a hasty breakfast tray in her sitting room. Mr Pritchard had brought her The Morning Post and The Courier , summarizing the Tory interpretation of the previous night’s affair.

“A recruitment of radicals. Men with pamphlets and no proper coats, trying to make mischief among decent folk,” her butler had seethed at the danger to his mistress’s person. “A ploy, to upset the apple cart and gain attention for their cause with a captive audience of the royal family.”

“What about The Morning Chronicle ? What is the Whig impression of what happened?” she asked, scanning the headlines.

“The Morning Chronicle , Your Grace, has decided to romanticise the thing. They call it the voice of the people, suggesting that inaction and policy has come home to roost. As if pelting carriages and frightening ladies is some form of noble expression.”

Men had been arrested and taken to gaol, but with so many to deal with and a risk of further unrest, it seemed that the vast majority of the captured rioters had been released with fines or sentenced to short terms in the pillory.

Regular men, incentivized by drink and bold words from a handful of agitators that they should force the aristocracy to listen.

Mobilised towards Burlington House by the shouted suggestions of a few who said they knew exactly where to find the Regent and the Prime Minister.

The footman returned with bad news. “He isn’t at White’s?” Charity repeated, her voice sharp. “Did the porter say when he left? Or with whom?”

“He only mentioned that Lord Ravenscroft’s man came to collect his effects two days ago.”

“Charming,” she muttered. “Like a guest politely checking out after a pleasant stay.”

Vexed, Charity wondered why Ravenscroft had neglected to mention such an odd development.

Of all the homes in London, his abode was not where she expected to find Peregrine Fitzroy.

Try though she did, she could not imagine a situation when such an invitation would be issued.

When had the pair of them become friendly?

“Can you travel to Ravenscroft’s then to deliver the note?”

“I did seek him there. Both Lords Ravenscroft and Fitzroy were not there, Your Grace. I could not get an answer as to an expected return time.”

“It is of paramount importance that Lord Fitzroy receive the note,” Charity said firmly. “Surely if he stepped out, someone in Lord Ravenscroft’s household must know where he went. Perhaps if you went back and asked in the stables. Did he call for a horse or did they leave together in a carriage?”

The footman bobbed his head. “I asked the footman who answered the door. He told me that neither Lord Ravenscroft nor Lord Fitzroy returned last night.”

Ravenscroft was likely still stuck at St James’s, closed in chambers with Prinny and the government leaders. Charity lifted her teacup and took a careful sip of the heavily sweetened brew, considering where Peregrine might have stayed the night.

A man has needs, her mother said bitterly in her thoughts. Where else might that one find comfort and respite, except in some den of iniquity? Or perhaps the arms of the beautiful marchioness with whom he is so familiar he shortens her name.

Might he have actually stayed with Selina? He had been an overnight guest at one unexpected residence lately. Why not another?

Her mind unhelpfully flashed a vague image of splayed limbs and satin sheets, and bile burned her throat. She hated herself for the image that sprang to mind. She, who claimed to be above petty jealousy, now drowning in it. But even knowing it was unworthy didn’t make it go away.

It took conscious effort to banish that picture from her mind. If he stayed there , she told the spectre of her mother that inhabited her mind , nothing happened . Peregrine is the sort who bites the owners of the hands holding his leash.

This, Charity knew from first-hand experience. And right now, the marchioness could be considered as much his jailer as Queen Charlotte.

No, there was some rational explanation.

There had to be. Perry had to know that the Queen was looking for him.

He had to know that the Order would rise to the top of the royal suspect list. Perhaps he had escorted Selina home with the intention of getting answers.

She only hoped he wasn’t in hiding because he was somehow complicit in what happened.

The only reasonable course of action was to sit home and wait for him to get in touch. Unfortunately for her, the reasonable course was also the one most likely to enrage the Queen. For both their sakes, she had to find him as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, she could hardly send her footman to the marchioness’s home to inquire whether Lord Fitzroy was there. But there was another option. What better way to roost him from the nest than for her to pay the marchioness a visit?