Page 38

“For still I prophesy, though still unheard.”

—Dryden, Fables, Ancient and Modern

S t James’s Palace bustled with activity, even at midday.

Carriages lined the road in a restless queue, surrendering passengers slowly.

Their own unmarked carriage jolted forward.

Charity leaned closer to the window. For all its bustle, the palace seemed to her less a seat of grandeur than a fortress.

Perhaps that was why the Tories were currently flocking to its grounds—both for a degree of protection, and in the hopes that they might reassure the crown enough to save them from catastrophe.

With the press having wind of the Lord Chancellor’s actions, Prinny would be furious and want an explanation.

They would badly need the Regent’s royal backing in order to contain things.

As she peered out of the window, Viscount Sidmouth passed by, apparently having abandoned his carriage in his rush to get inside. The tightness around his mouth and the twitch in his temple gave him the bearing of a man who had found himself, unexpectedly, knee-deep in filth.

“There goes a man who is about to have a thoroughly unpleasant day. I do not envy him in the slightest,” Peregrine said, watching the seasoned peer go by.

“Scandal within a party is bad enough, but to have a senior minister accused of misdeeds must have the party leaders reeling. Given his late arrival time, my guess is that Lord Sidmouth has been out gauging public sentiment to report to the Regent.”

“His news does not appear to be positive,” Charity replied. “Come, it is our turn.”

Their carriage rolled to a halt, its wheels grinding softly over gravel. Jack sprang down from the back and came swiftly to open the door. Peregrine stepped out first, then turned to offer his hand. Charity accepted, more for steadiness than protection. A reminder that she did not face this alone.

The possibility of a future between them?

She could not say; there was still so much to overcome.

But this accord, and his readiness to keep her close, kindled the fragile hope that maybe they might make a true attempt…

someday. If they survived his mother’s efforts.

If they could keep their duties with the Crown and Atholl from intervening between them.

If, if.

For now, they had a nebulous something she would hold with all her power. Even if it was not nearly enough. She wanted more. But she also did not want to let these moments together go to waste because she was too impatient. Too demanding.

She would not force the issue. Not right now.

She smoothed a hand over the pale green muslin of her gown, acutely aware it was not quite up to palace standards.

But time had been pressing. She trusted the Prince Regent would forgive her wardrobe under the circumstances.

With luck, she would not have to see him at all, assuming Ravenscroft had been able to follow his instructions.

Inside, the palace felt like the eye of a storm. Suited men filled every shadowed corner, their faces flushed. The Tories hissed accusations and pointed fingers; the Whigs, by contrast, looked positively jubilant.

Several turned to stare as she and Peregrine entered, their curiosity thinly veiled. Peregrine acknowledged a few with brief nods but did not pause until they crossed paths with a passing footman. He hailed the man and inquired after Lord Ravenscroft’s whereabouts.

“He is waiting outside the throne room, my lord. Shall I fetch him for you?”

“No, we will make our own way,” Peregrine replied. After the footman continued on, Peregrine whispered to Charity, “Let us hope he can get us in to speak with Prinny.”

Ravenscroft did not look pleased to see them. He was deep in conversation with a member of the Dutch delegation when Peregrine and Charity drifted past, catching his eye. Peregrine gave a slight nod to suggest that he join them when he could, and they moved on without interrupting.

The door to the throne room opened now and then, revealing gray-haired men in heated murmurs, their faces grim beneath powdered wigs.

Beyond them, Charity glimpsed the Prince Regent slumped in his chair, hands folded over his expansive waistcoat.

He looked thoroughly disheveled, though it was hard to tell whether that owed more to the day’s events or to his usual excesses.

She and Peregrine retreated into an alcove. It was hardly private, but at least it was less exposed. Neither spoke, finding no use for idle words while the palace seethed around them.

It was ten full minutes before Ravenscroft managed to break away.

He blew a hair out of his eyes, took a breath to reassemble his dignity, and crossed to join them at last. “What in God’s name are you doing here?

” he asked, dispensing with any form of greeting.

“Did I not make myself painfully clear in the note?”

Peregrine lifted a hand to forestall further protest. “We did not get your note. The duchess and I have been out conducting other investigations this morning. So am I to assume then, based on your temper, you have had no luck in getting us a private word with our mutual acquaintance?”

Ravenscroft huffed a laugh. “I have not even been able to get a private word with Prinny . He spent the wee hours cosseted up with Lady Vivienne, and then the Tories practically dragged him out of bed the moment the papers hit the doorstep. I came straight here the instant I heard, but every foreign dignitary in London seems determined to pin me to a wall and demand answers I do not have.”

“What have you told them?” Charity asked.

“Given my general state of ignorance, nothing of consequence, I assure you,” he muttered.

His expression soured into a glower as he stared past them, jaw working.

Then he blinked, visibly reining himself in, and turned back.

“I do not suppose either you or the canary has anything enlightening to offer?”

“For Heaven’s sake. Not here, Maggie,” Peregrine said under his breath, casting a glance toward the knot of people only steps away. “And not until I have confirmed a few details with our friend. Are you quite sure there’s no way to get a message in?”

Ravenscroft’s glare said more than words ever could.

After a beat, he smoothed his expression back into something resembling his usual insouciance and turned to Charity, ignoring Peregrine.

“You will have to take the direct route , if you take my meaning. I would wish you luck, but as we have all discovered, that is rather thin on the ground today. So instead, I will simply urge you to be quick about getting to the bottom of things, preferably before I am driven around the bend.”

Charity laid a gloved hand on Ravenscroft’s arm and gave it a gentle squeeze.

He sighed then, some of the tension leaching out of him, and gave her a half smile of thanks for the momentary reminder that he, too, was not dealing with things alone.

If no one else, she understood the challenges associated with the role he played at court.

“I suppose we must throw ourselves on the Queen’s capacity for reason,” she breathed, looking for a footman to find out whether Her Majesty was in the palace grounds.

Peregrine sighed slightly. “Marvelous.”

Queen Charlotte was not in her presence chamber, but as luck would have it, she was there, still hidden away in her private apartments. Charity followed the footman down the long gallery, her slippers silent against the thick carpet, while Peregrine’s boots thudded faintly beside her.

She had walked this way before, many times, in fact, but never with such a weight pressing on her chest. The corridor felt narrower than she remembered, the portraits of long dead queens along the walls crowding inward, their painted eyes tracking her progress.

She stole a glance at Peregrine. His expression was unreadable, but she could feel the tension in him. They were both aware how much they were risking by coming here unbidden, to beg a favour they had not earned.

The footman paused before the door to the Queen’s apartments and bade them to wait while he went to find out if Charlotte would see them. Charity swallowed hard and nodded.

“She will want to know why we are asking for Selina. Do we tell her about the spy within the Order?” Charity said in the quietest voice she could.

“Tell her about others no more than you must,” Peregrine murmured beside her, his voice pitched just as low. “Goldbourne must be the focus. Otherwise he will slip the net.”

The door creaked open behind them. Charity turned, smoothing her skirts, lifting her chin, preparing her words. Whatever they had been before, they would have to be something sharper now. Steadier. Smarter.

“Her Majesty will see you now,” the footman said in a hushed tone.

Be brave, darling, her mama whispered. You are about to step into the lioness’s den.

Charity led the way, Peregrine close behind, as they entered Her Majesty’s private audience chamber. Despite the pale shades of the decor, of the delicate, feminine furniture filling the space, the Queen’s dour expression cast a pall that not even the brightest sun could defeat.

She sent her retainers out with a flick of her wrist, but did not invite Charity and Peregrine to take the now vacant chairs.

She had eschewed her preference for cushioned armchairs in favour of a small settee upholstered in lavender.

Beside her sat abandoned a wooden embroidery frame with a half-completed picture of a clutch of yellow daffodils.

Charity could not imagine Queen Charlotte doing anything so domestic as sewing. But it was a useful reminder. The Queen had been raised much like herself, to occupy the woman’s place in the household. And it had not diminished her power.