Page 36

“Corruption, the most infallible symptom of constitutional liberty.”

—Edward Gibbon, The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire

P eregrine watched the light creep in behind the curtain.

The pair of breeches he had refused to shuck had rucked uncomfortably sometime in the night.

His left arm had gone completely numb. The duchess was sleeping hard in the crook of his shoulder—and she might be drooling on him again, if the small drop of wetness he could feel on his chest was any indication.

But in all, it was… rather nice, actually.

Peaceful in a way that felt strange. Curiously domestic, to steal a phrase from the woman beside him.

One who had so ardently responded to his tutelage last night, and then decided to repay his generosity with torment by purposefully shrouding him in a blanket of her long, loose hair instead of tying it back when she went to sleep .

It was amusing that she had decided to punish him so. He had been willing to teach her many of the pleasures of the flesh, but he would not let her cross that final threshold with him yet. She had no idea how unnecessary her torture was.

Little witch. He would show her how sensual such torture could become, next time—if there was one. Keeping himself from making presumptions was hard. It felt like tempting Charity’s cruel mistress fate to intervene once more.

The night had been a sleepless one for many reasons, and exposing some of his worst secrets even marginally to Charity had left him feeling rather raw. But it was part of a conversation long overdue.

It had been painful to put the burden of knowledge on someone else. And he couldn’t imagine ever accepting the words she said without reservation. Still, it had given him a small sense of hope. Perhaps not all was entirely unforgivable.

Charity rolled over at almost nine, after the barest tap sounded at the bedroom door.

His hearth was cold. Quinn had kept any staff from disturbing him, but most likely was leaving supplies.

Freed, he used his fingers to gently comb her hair into a mass less likely to snarl, and pulled the covers over her more securely before he rose, finding his housecoat, and opening the door to his sitting area.

Someone had left a generously laden cold tray, along with a wrapped pitcher of hot water and a teapot. Beside the door was a coal scuttle, giving him the option to build the fire.

But what caught his attention was the way that the morning papers had been laid out, with the headline of the front page of the Morning Post visible to see. “Whispers In Whitehall? Eldon Buries Bad Debt!”

To actually name Eldon, the papers must have had some proof.

Leaning over the table, Peregrine lifted the Morning Post to see the Times beneath it.

It also sported the story, although in a briefer, less sensational way.

Both papers suggested that an inquiry and Eldon’s dismissal as Chancellor was simply a matter of time.

Setting the Morning Post back down on top, he scanned the rest of the gossip column’s version. The column speculated on something that the Times would not.

“Could it be that Eldon’s shame has something to do with the brother of Lord V— and Lord S—? Mr V— had reputedly left for the countryside on the 18th of May. One cannot help but notice, the same day Lord S— reputedly expired from wounds sustained in an unfortunate hunting incident.”

Peregrine considered that, and his time spent in the bay window of White’s the next evening sprang to mind. Tremayne had made his request for a favour, asking him for the loan of his townhouse.

That now felt like something other than random chance.

Before he could speculate further, the door exiting to the hall cracked open, and Quinn entered. “Good morning, my lord. Is there aught that you need?”

Peregrine felt the corner of his mouth turn up slyly. “I believe you have already done an exemplary job of anticipating my needs and wants this morning.”

His butler allowed himself a brief, self-satisfied expression, seeing Peregrine’s hand on the paper. “I thought you might find it interesting, my lord. Seems that the men of government can’t go a week without causing a stir.”

“Indeed,” Peregrine mulled that over, deciding that introducing himself to his unnamed guest might be a wise course of action this day. Assuming, that was, that the townhouse was still being occupied. Neither Tremayne nor his solicitor mentioned whether or not the person had moved on.

“It is chilly this morning,” Quinn observed, no inflection in his voice whatsoever. “The adjoining rooms have been freshened and a fire has been laid in them. As have some other effects for Her Grace.”

Startled, Peregrine straightened, and Quinn gave him a studied look. “Perhaps I have overstepped.”

“No. Not at all. I just—” Peregrine trailed off, feeling foolish.

Admitting to a crawling sense of unease about putting Charity in the room that Marian Fitzroy had called hers made him sound like a child with an overactive imagination.

It would be only for the morning, and it was not like Charity was moving into the vacated chambers that traditionally belonged to the lady of the house.

But he needed to say something. “Just a brief feeling of superstition.”

“Ah.” Quinn said, as if this explained everything. And perhaps it did. Quinn was quickly becoming privy to some of the darkest secrets of the Fitzroy estate, especially with Edmunds staying under his roof.

“Most of the dowager Lady Fitzroy’s personal effects were already stored, and I thought it would be convenient since the adjoining room was empty. But I can set Her Grace up in another room, if you like,” he offered.

“Do not trouble yourself, Quinn. What you did was considerate and logical. How does our other guest fare?”

“Edmunds is quiet, at least,” his butler said dryly. “And for now, content to be kept locked in his room. But we will have to figure out a more permanent solution soon.”

Peregrine silently scratched the back of his head, uncertain what that solution would be.

Quinn nodded. “Do ring when you are ready for Mr Croft.”

His butler left, and Peregrine peeked back into his bedroom.

The duchess had wound herself up in the coverlet like a person-sized croissant planted smack in the middle of his bed.

Amusement flared, and he was suddenly possessed by the completely inappropriate itch to paint her that way and present it to her as a gift.

Immortal proof that the lovely, untouchable ice queen had her moments of flawed humanity.

He hadn’t felt like painting anything in over a year.

It was astonishing how quickly he could almost see the strokes of white and yellow ochre building on canvas, blending it with blacks, cobalt, and a hint of burnt sienna.

The contrast of warm light and cooler blue shadows on the sheets and her skin, where thick locks of her hair lay over it as she basked in the morning light.

But it would be deeply wrong to paint it without permission, he admonished himself. And then the urge was further tempered by contrition. Soundly asleep or not, she was cold. So he unlocked the door to the adjoining suite—which was toasty warm—and picked up the awkward bundle of covers.

“Perry?” Charity asked sleepily. “Should I get up?”

“You may sleep in, but I am getting up. Someone robbed me of all my covers,” he teased her, and Charity made a rude face at him, blinking as they entered the adjoining suite.

“It is warmer in here, and you’ve been given everything you can possibly desire, including ink and paper so you can write your household for a change of clothing. ”

“I should have Miller come by, yes,” she admitted, wincing as she lifted her hand to her messy hair.

He refused to feel sympathy for her on that score, and dropped her playfully into the center of the bed. “I would say take your time. But, don’t take too much time. Things… appear to be afoot involving Lord Eldon.”

“Oh?” That got Charity moving, and she struggled out of the bedding and over to the desk to jot down a quick note. She had appropriated his linen shirt again as a kind of night rail, and Peregrine had to stifle a quick thought that it was a bit of a shame it was not just a little shorter .

He retrieved the papers and a second banyan, draping it over her shoulders as Charity handed over the sealed message. “For Atholl House—if someone can be persuaded to deliver it?” she asked.

When he poked his head into the corridor, Owen and one of Charity’s guards blinked at him.

“Er. Which of you gallant souls would care to run a note to Her Grace’s residence?” he asked them, holding up her missive. The guard, predictably, bristled at him, so he gave the letter to Owen.

When he returned, Charity was looking at the papers, reading both headlines. “Covering up debt for members of the Tory party! And concerns of embezzlement? Rather serious.”

“Especially since they apparently have proof enough to print. What do you think the odds are of the Morning Post having a second delicious scandal involving a high-level government figure? And so soon after Ravenscroft and I managed to convince them not to print the one that would implicate Sidmouth?”

Her lips pressed together. “Someone seems to be making subtle trouble for the purpose of ensuring the stories are leaked to the press. Goldbourne has to be working for your mother, if he is behind all of these,” she murmured, looking between the two papers.

“But what does he have to gain from it? I cannot imagine why else a banker would be involved or care that these men are brought down by scandals.”

“Goldbourne does not exactly have to be a willing accomplice,” Peregrine reminded her grimly. “Blackmail was always one of Marian Fitzroy’s favourite tools. But we would be mistaken to assume there is no financial gain for him.”

“Lord Eldon’s Treasury has obvious benefits, but in the Home Office?” she asked dubiously.