Page 24

“Love and warre are all one.”

—Don Quixote

P eregrine wished he could split himself into three. There was a great deal to accomplish in a very short amount of time.

Following the interrogation by the Queen, Peregrine had set Hodges’s runner—the man who had been conducting investigations on the new staff and managing Perry’s appearances in the paper—into collecting information on Duke Chandros and Lord Pembroke.

Hodges, he had assigned to looking into Mr Xavier and Mr Goldbourne.

Xavier and Goldbourne were the two members of the Order with whom he was most unfamiliar, and also the two who he had the most ready alibi for investigating, since neither was a peer.

Given Goldbourne’s position as the head of a bank and Xavier’s on the Board of Trade, should Hodges be caught, he could simply tell them he was performing a routine inquiry on behalf of a financial concern .

He was less sanguine about keeping his hand hidden from Chandros and Pembroke, if the runner was caught. But Hodges assured him the man could give an excuse about checking their affiliations for a committee seat or some such.

Idling at the estate, doing paperwork so that Hodges was free to make his inquiries, was made harder by a sneaking sense of guilt.

It ate at his soul to consider the danger he was exposing Charity to.

Flaunting her in society on his arm like a bullfighter waving a muleta should have been an action borne of desperation, an action of last resort.

Hoping he could spur his mother’s agent into some action that would reveal his identity was risky. But he was afraid that if they waited too long to try to anticipate his mother’s henchman, they would forever be on the defensive, unable to see a looming disaster before it struck.

But there were other means. He was mad to suggest they present as a couple.

His conscience was bleeding raw knowing a treacherous part of him wanted this. He desired to keep Charity close and safe, to be sure. But the unreasoning, animal part of his brain also wanted the ton to see—that she was his.

Peregrine took a steadying breath in the middle of composing a letter to Charity, up to his wrists in ink.

Dearest Duchess, Lady Barbour was delighted to be asked to arrange a small gathering tomorrow evening in your honour.

I can think of no finer host to recognise your recent admirable service to England.

It would give me the greatest satisfaction if you would allow me the honour of escorting you.

If you are agreeable, I shall call for you at half past seven.

—P. Fitzroy

Sealing it with wax, he dispatched it with one of the two new footmen Quinn had managed to acquire over the past two days, along with the cook, Mrs Evers, and Mr Croft to serve as valet.

Jack and Owen Graves were brothers, both standing a few inches over six feet, and when they planted themselves side by side in livery, they looked rather like a yoke of oxen dressed for court.

They hadn’t served as soldiers in the war, but apparently they had been part of a local militia in Norfolk before drifting towards service. Peregrine intended to have both men riding on the back of the carriage tomorrow, to make a not-so-subtle point.

He was grateful that Lady Barbour had been so accommodating for this favour. Her salons were considered quite de rigueur, and it would give him a respectable place to be seen and incite speculation.

The next day felt a hundred long. The initial reports on the four other members of the Tribune were little more than a loose collection of facts—addresses, personal information, and some bits of gossip.

In addition to his position on the Board of Trade, Xavier was paid for advising several firms. All considered him to be politically neutral.

Chandros’s reputation and financial standing was so perfect as to be impeccable; almost too clean.

Goldbourne managed his bank with a partner by the name of Hartwell, and invested heavily in speculative ventures.

His wealth was second only to his nearest banking rival, Nathan Rothschild.

And Pembroke had old family coffers and standing, but was publicly progressive.

Skimming those details occupied too little time, leaving Peregrine to pace the hallways of the estate until Quinn and Mr Croft conspired to get him washed, shaved, and dressed for his evening out.

At half past six, he departed in a deep blue tailcoat, pantaloons, and a cream waistcoat a couple of shades darker than his hair.

It was time to pretend, for all of London’s upper society, that he and Duchess Atholl were soft on one another.

The duchess’s footman admitted him at once, vanishing into the house to fetch his mistress.

Peregrine waited in the dim glow of the lanterns, staring out the window as one gloved hand idly tapped against his thigh.

Then he halted the gesture abruptly. Nerves like this?

He was a man nearly seven and twenty, not a green lad.

Soft footsteps on the marble drew his attention, and he turned, his lips parting as he watched Charity descend the stairs with the slow, deliberate grace of a woman accustomed to being observed.

She wore sapphires and a gown of ivory silk that caught the candlelight, the colors echoing his own attire.

Her neutral smile of greeting widened slightly in satisfaction as she took in his appearance. “Lord Fitzroy. I hope you do not mind that I took the liberty of consulting with your Mr Croft on your outfit.”

Clever of her. He offered his arm with faint amusement, lowering his voice for her ear alone. "I would be a fool to object, Your Grace. You wear my colors far better than I do. Shall we go?"

She set her hand to his arm, and the smell of orange blossom stirred in the air.

Like a club to the back of the skull, the perfume struck him with a suddenness that left him stunned and gasping.

This new scent was a more complex one than she had worn last year, but one that spoke its message clearly nonetheless.

Orange blossom is for joy.

Despite the thousand reasons she should keep her distance, their trials and tribulations… she had brought a fond memory of their past into the present.

She had done it for him. And he was so lost.

“Perry? Are you feeling unwell?” she asked him softly, her gentian blue eyes creased with mischief.

Scraping together his wits, he forced his feet back into motion and led her to his carriage. "I am perfectly fine," he said, his voice rough with a twist of emotions he couldn’t quite contain .

She made a slight scoffing noise, dropping his arm to allow Owen to hand her into the carriage.

She sat in the forward facing seat, leaving him enough space that he could sit beside her.

When the carriage door shut, she glanced at him with an arched eyebrow.

“I remind you this was a battlefield of your own choosing.”

"True. But I did not prepare an adequate defence against your weapons," he replied, giving her a faint grin to soften his words. “I commend you on their effectiveness, but perhaps you might save your artillery for our enemies.”

“Oh, are we supposed to be allies in this conflict?” She batted her eyelashes at him.

Now he barked a laugh. "Do behave yourself, Sparkles. I am but a mortal man."

She gave him one more searching look and subsided. The carriage ride to the Barbours’ residence was far too short, and she behaved. Peregrine couldn’t quite decide whether that was a fortunate happenstance or an unfortunate one.

Lord and Lady Barbours’ other guests were ensconced and enjoying their wine by the time Charity and Peregrine arrived.

Lady Barbour rose with a quick, beatific smile as they approached, extending her hands to Charity.

“Your Grace! It is so wonderful that you have come! We are long overdue for getting to know one another better.”

“I shall try not to take my position among the furnishings personally,” Peregrine teased Lady Barbour, who wrinkled her nose in an impishly charming fashion at him.

"I was planning on coming around to you. Eventually. Your Excellency, Countess.” Lady Barbour turned to a couple with a faintly exotic look seated on a settee.

“This is Her Grace, the Duchess of Atholl.

And this charming wastrel beside her is Lord Fitzroy, who was among the defenders at Burlington House.

"Your Grace, My Lord, His Excellency Count von Lieven and the Countess von Lieven,” Lady Barbour continued, introducing the Russian ambassador to London and his wife.

Peregrine and Charity exchanged nods of greetings with the pair.

That left still two others, both men who were vaguely familiar, though Peregrine drew a blank when searching for their names.

“Our remaining guests have agreed to set their differences aside long enough to share space on the sofa. Mr Carew, MP for Abingdon, is a silent, but strong-willed presence within the Whig party. Mr Godwin, representing the people of Liverpool, may sit on the back bench, but do not underestimate his power as a Tory,” Lady Barbour explained.

“It is an honour to make your acquaintance,” Mr Godwin said, rising from his seat. He was tall and gaunt, but his voice was firm. “Your Grace, I understand we have you to thank for our princess’s good health.”

“I did only what any loyal servant to the Crown would have done,” Charity demurred, following the Queen’s instructions to remain mum on all details.

“Please, have a seat, the both of you.” Lady Barbour pointed them toward a narrow settee.

Peregrine eyed it as they approached. Trust Lady Barbour to play the patron saint of meddling matchmakers; it would be nearly impossible to keep his distance from Charity. Indeed, as soon as he lowered himself to her side, he found their legs pressing together.