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Charity had plenty of reasons to refuse his request, not the least because it was a fool’s errand.

But the thought of sitting at home, subjecting herself to incessant questions from curious visitors brought no joy.

Besides, had the Queen herself not assigned Charity the task of determining the Grand Duchess’s motives with regard to the princess?

“I will come along, but only if I can bring along my guards. Someone drew a target on my back and now I cannot leave home unescorted.”

“Bring an entire regiment if it pleases you, Your Grace,” Ravenscroft replied. “At this point, I’d welcome a battalion if it meant she stops threatening to set the drapes on fire.”

The lobby of The Pulteney exuded an air of understated grandeur.

Its marble floors gleamed under the muted glow of gilt sconces, and a long, Persian-carpeted runner softened the footfalls of guests who swept in and out beneath the towering columns.

The light from dozens of candles flickered over the polished mahogany reception desk where a pair of clerks moved with precise, measured grace.

Lord Ravenscroft had sent a footman upstairs to request permission to pay a call, but it seemed the Grand Duchess was not in any rush. When several minutes turned into more than ten, Ravenscroft suggested they take a seat on a damask-upholstered settee.

Charity let her eyes drift across the room as she waited, acutely aware of each tick of the longcase clock in the corner.

Gentlemen in well-tailored coats strode past, murmuring to liveried footmen.

A matronly Frenchwoman argued with a bellboy over the handling of her trunk, her gloved hands flitting with impatience.

Further off, a young woman in a maid’s black dress sat perched on the edge of a chair, nervously twisting a handkerchief as she waited for a summons.

Charity noted the clipped voices in German, French, and Russian.

The Pulteney was a crossroads of Europe’s elite, each guest layered in intrigue and ambition.

At the height of its social pyramid sat the Grand Duchess.

Given her exalted position in society, none dared to contradict her, not even the Prince Regent.

Yet, now that very task fell to Charity and Lord Ravenscroft.

“Tell me you have a plan,” Charity whispered from behind her raised fan.

Ravenscroft grimaced. “Naturally. But I would rather not brandish my sharper implements unless absolutely necessary. If your dulcet tones can soothe the storm, I see no reason to unleash the full horrors of diplomacy.”

Charity had little hope of such an outcome, but just then the footman arrived to show them upstairs. He led them up the grand staircase at a measured pace, and guided them to the door of the hotel’s state suite. A maid opened the door to let them inside.

The Grand Duchess rose, gliding over to kiss Charity’s cheeks. Despite her effusive greeting, Charity harboured no illusions. The woman was every bit as skilled at wielding social graces as weapons. Was that not why she had left them waiting?

Lord Ravenscroft bowed low over the outstretched hand, brushing his lips against her knuckles with theatrical reverence.

“Your Imperial Highness,” he murmured, accent thickened to a decadent French drawl.

“How magnanimous of you to spare us a sliver of your precious time. We crave but a quiet moment?—”

“I am enchanted by your visit,” she interrupted smoothly, her smile wide.

“Do sit. Both of you. I have already rung for tea and a variety of cakes. The pastry chef here trained in Paris and Rome, you know, though I find he lacks the melancholy of true Italian baking. Still, his mille-feuille is passable.”

“We do not wish to intrude,” Ravenscroft said smoothly.

“Nonsense,” she replied, slicing the air with one jeweled hand. “Sit, my lord. I insist. And you as well, Your Grace.” Her gaze flicked to Charity with warmth that somehow still felt like a challenge. “I so enjoyed our last little exchange. It is a pleasure to resume it.”

With a sweep of her silks, the Grand Duchess led them to an intimate sitting area near a bowed window, the sunlight pooling like gold on polished wood.

“It is a glorious day, yes?” she declared.

“Such sunshine is a rare luxury in your country, I’m told.

Tell me—shall it remain so when my beloved brother arrives?

Or will the clouds return to match your politics? ”

“June is often warm, Your Highness,” Charity answered, wondering where the woman was going with inane conversation.

“We are to go to Ascot, yes? And then Oxford?” the Grand Duchess continued, her tone light but relentless, as if dictating a schedule to underlings.

“My brother is most eager to see the university—he has such romantic notions about English education.” She gave a tinkling laugh, entirely at odds with the glint in her eye.

As she spoke, a maid entered with steaming tea and delicate cakes arranged with military precision.

Without missing a beat, the Grand Duchess observed the service like a general inspecting troops.

“Ah, finally . Do try the lavender honey sponge. I find it almost distracts from the lack of real coffee in this country.”

Even after the maid excused herself, the Grand Duchess kept the topics firmly on the social niceties.

A wave of disappointment flowed over Charity as she wondered what had happened to the opinionated woman she had met a few days before.

Lord Ravenscroft, too, made several failed attempts to twist the conversation in a new direction.

She is manipulating you , the cool voice of logic explained .

Lord Ravenscroft cast a desperate glance her way, silently pleading for her to intervene.

Charity took a sip of her tea, buying herself a moment to consider the best way forward.

The Grand Duchess was clever, forthright, and unashamed.

She was also sympathetic to the young English princess’s plight.

That gave Charity an idea.

“Have you visited Princess Charlotte again, Your Highness?” Charity asked, pure sweetness and smiles.

“I have summoned her here several times,” the Grand Duchess replied with a regal pout.

“But Prinny guards her like a treasure he neither understands nor intends to share. As if confinement will temper that girl’s spirit.

He only fans the flames of her discontent. And in so doing, his own misfortune.”

“The princess is chafing at her constraints, on this we are in agreement. But do you not agree that she must learn to fight her own battles? ”

“What do you mean?” the Grand Duchess said, fluttering her lashes in innocence.

Charity lifted her shoulders in an artful shrug, and then studied the duchess from under her own lashes. “There are many ways to express discontent with the Prince Regent. Some speak with loud voices, while others choose more subtle ploys. Your Highness prefers the second, if I am not mistaken.”

The Grand Duchess stilled, her porcelain teacup poised halfway to her lips.

For a long moment, her eyes remained fixed on the delicate rim, the smile at her mouth holding steady—but the skin around her eyes tightened, a flicker of calculation ghosting across her expression.

With exquisite care, she set the cup down on its saucer with a soft clink and folded her hands in her lap.

When she looked up, her gaze was cooler, sharper.

The playful socialite had receded, revealing the steel-spined strategist beneath.

She tilted her head a fraction, studying Charity with the detached interest of a woman examining the set of a chessboard.

One brow arched with delicate amusement, but her posture was the lean of one predator acknowledging another.

“My dear duchess,” the tsar’s sister murmured, her voice silk over steel, “you do me too much credit.” Her smile was small and deliberate now, stripped of warmth and laced instead with challenge.

“But surely you know—I do not retreat simply because someone asks me to.” Her fingers toyed idly with the heavy ring on her right hand, a glint of satisfaction in her eyes.

“How very dull it would be, do you not think, if we all played by the same rules?”

Charity’s smile cooled, her fingers tightening slightly around the fragile teacup.

“And yet, Your Imperial Highness, it is the princess who pays the price.” She leaned forward, her voice calm but edged with quiet urgency.

“Prinny does not lash out at you. He vents his frustration on his daughter, curtailing her freedoms as he pushes her ever harder toward a marriage she dreads.”

She saw the Grand Duchess’s eyes narrow, just slightly, though her smile remained in place.

“There are far more powerful voices than mine at work. They are the ones driving Prinny’s actions. Perhaps if he spent more time organising more pleasant events, I would not need to take him to task.” That said, the Grand Duchess helped herself to an iced bun.

Charity cast a desperate glance at Lord Ravenscroft, who had played the silent observer during their exchange.

He stared into his cup, avoiding her gaze, until she narrowed her eyes in a glare.

She had no other avenues short of outright imploring the Grand Duchess to behave, and only a fool failed to recognise that road led to a dead end.

Ravenscroft took a measured sip of tea, as though steeling himself for battle, then set the cup aside with practiced elegance.

“Speaking of matrimonial bliss,” he said lightly, “I hear whispers that Your Highness is contemplating an escape from widowhood. Tell me—have you a particular victim in mind?” He smiled, all courtly mischief.

“You may confide in us. We are frightfully good at keeping secrets... especially the scandalous ones.”

“Should the right opportunity arise, I would consider the possibility,” the Grand Duchess murmured, her voice light as air.

“Or one might engineer the opportunity, might one not?” Ravenscroft countered, his tone still playful.

But a glint of tempered steel shone beneath the surface.

“A barren wife, a mismatched union… patience wears thin, even among the nobly born. Some have been known to test Parliament’s limits when properly motivated.

” His smile curved, elegant and razor-edged.

“Divorce may not be fashionable, but as Your Highness so wisely observed, the world would be dreadfully dull if we all played by the same rules. ”

The words landed like a blow. Even Charity, who thought herself prepared, caught her breath.

Secret liaisons were one thing. They threaded through the ton’s whispered scandals, half-expected behind closed doors.

But to seduce a married man into seeking divorce?

That was a powder keg. Parliamentary divorce shattered reputations, marked all involved, and came at a public, searing cost. Even royalty approached it with caution.

The Grand Duchess, however, only gave a delicate flick of her gloved wrist. “Dear Lord Ravenscroft, you mistake the wedding for the victory.” Her smile sharpened as she lifted her teacup.

“A wedding only sets the ship upon the water. Even beneath the fairest skies, there’s no telling when the vessel may strike the rocks. ”

And then, she bade them farewell, with a carefree wave.