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“A lady may step to the edge of society, but she must never lose sight of the way back.”

— Lady Cresswell, to her daughter

P eregrine turned and looked over the balcony, cocking his head one way, then the other. Then he looked through the windows back at Cavendish’s party.

“What is it? What should we do?” Charity asked him.

“The people shouting are outside, and it sounds like they are somewhere out on the street. Probably nothing more than some rowdy drunkards being loud. But let us get you inside, to be sure.” He pulled the door open, guiding her through it and back into the anteroom.

She glanced around. It seemed that none of the guests looked like they had noticed anything untoward going on outside. “Should I tell the Queen?”

“It is probably nothing,” he murmured. “But?—”

A clamour suddenly erupted, this time on the inside of Burlington House. There was a horrific, distant noise of the wooden doors crashing open, and a sound like a roar flooded up the main stairwell, followed by horrified screams.

Peregrine grabbed Charity by both arms, pushing her into the safety of the corner behind him.

And just in time, too. Suddenly the anteroom was filled to the brim with hysterical guests pushing into the space, fleeing whatever was behind them.

He braced himself, giving Charity space to breathe even though he was being forced up against her.

Finally, the crush eased as people found sanctuary on the balcony and in the dining room. Charity peered out from behind Peregrine’s back, trying to figure out what on earth was transpiring. The din began to sift itself into recognisable words, spoken in harsh tones and lower class accents.

“Bread, not banquets!” "Let honest men work without paying bribes to the Crown's lackeys!" "We fought their war, and now there’s no bread, no work, and no care for the common man!"

“Protesters!” Charity gasped. “From the lower classes?”

“So it would seem.” Peregrine grunted as an elbow took him in the side. “Do you see the Queen or Prinny?”

“No…”

Though the aristocrats kept trying to edge away, the more they did, the more space they left for rioters. People in the rougher garb of shopkeepers and tradesmen began thrusting crude pamphlets at the guests.

Seeing a break in the crowd, Peregrine seized Charity by the wrist and tugged her forward, slipping further away, into the dining room. “Go stand with the royals,” he ordered, spotting the Regent and Queen standing together at the same time she did, surrounded by a ring of women and elderly men.

“But—” Charity turned back, but Peregrine had been parted from her by other women pushing in to seek the relative shelter of the dining space. He joined the barricade of able-bodied men that tried to cordon off the dining room from the mob. So in the end, she did as he told her.

Moving deeper into the room, she peered over her shoulder.

She could see rougher looking men than the shopkeepers take up a different kind of chant.

“They mean to sell our princess the same as our grain—foreign and dear!” one hard looking man intoned, rallying the people around him. “ Tory lords, and royal leeches!”

“Reform for the people!” another howled. The crowd yelled in agreement. And then the very atmosphere of the group changed, becoming somehow darker and more violent as more and more disparate voices took up the same refrain.

“Lords and leeches!” “Reform!” “Work, not war!”

These were Whig arguments. Party lines and criticisms of both the Tory government and the Crown. Her blood felt abruptly cold. Had Cavendish planned this? Surely he would not do something so foolish.

She scanned faces, seeking the Whigs she knew. Not that she knew many outside of the peerage well , but she had at least known the Duke of Bedford and Lord Grey. But then Charity was bumped from behind, and she brushed against someone, trying to catch her balance.

“Lady Holland,” Charity gasped, placing the face who turned her way. “I apologise for bumping you.”

“I can only forgive you, given the circumstances, Your Grace,” Lady Holland murmured, joining elbows with Charity for stability as both women were unsteadied again. “What a terrible evening,” she added bitterly. “But then again, perhaps it was an inevitable one.”

Whatever did that mean? “Are you saying this riot was orchestrated? ”

Lady Holland looked at Charity sharply. “I mean that one cannot spend years stoking the fires and neglecting the cleaning, and then act astonished when the chimney smokes. England is changing,” she added ruefully. “And change can be quite terrible. But more so to some than others.”

Charity looked out at the crowd, seeing that many of the tradesmen and shopkeepers had shown signs of uncertainty. “Do you believe their cause is just?” Charity asked her.

The Whig wife’s eyelids flickered. “I think it takes no great intellect to understand why they would strike out.” She pointed with her chin at men in the anteroom who were ignoring the cries about reform, helping themselves instead to the food.

“If your belly was empty, would you not resent us for what we have, that you do not?”

That was an uncomfortable thought to Charity.

She had never known hunger that couldn’t be satisfied.

“I suppose I could understand that desire to sate hunger,” she said lightly, feeling as though the world were spinning a little bit.

“But I do not understand how the princess’s marriage hurts or helps them. ”

“One always hopes a marriage will benefit the nation, but it is a delicate thing—offering an English rose to foreign soil,” Lady Holland remarked.

“They love the princess because she is a symbol of liberty and she stands in opposition to the systems that hurt them. To her father. If she goes abroad…” The lady’s voice trailed off.

Then she would not be able to stand against the Regent.

Charity glanced back at the clustered royals, looking for the Royal Guard—but she saw none.

Ahead, and on the far side of the anteroom, there were only elderly aristocrats in their superfine coats, faces pale with fear above their perfectly knotted cravats.

A few ladies had clustered behind the men, most cowering and clutching at each other in terror.

The loudest man of the group of rioters, a broad, burly specimen who stood a full head above the others, stepped forward and addressed Prinny from behind the line of men standing at the doorway into the dining hall.

He pumped his fist in the air as he roared, “Can’t turn a blind eye towards us now, can ya, Yer Highness? ”

And in front of the brute, she spotted the pale blonde of Peregrine’s hair as he blocked the way with his body.

"We fought for you on the Continent, and you repay us with starvation and low wages. Let this be a warning! Turn your eyes on England or we’ll bring the fight to your doorstep!"

“This is terrible,” Charity whispered, mostly to herself. “How do we stop this?”

Her question had been rhetorical, but Lady Holland heard and answered anyway.

“This is not a cluster of people speaking all with one voice. I do not pretend it would work, and you will likely think me indecent for uttering the words, but empathy might soothe wounded dignity, making it harder for the fire of anger to catch hold in their hearts.” She made a fierce face.

“Although I still believe compassion might have prevented this in the first place.”

Charity thought quickly on that, especially as her eyes fell on Sir Thomas Graham standing near the ring of men guarding the way in.

Lady Holland was right. These were men with very disparate agendas.

Some only wanted their grievances to be heard.

Others… they seemed more interested in pushing others towards fighting than to any other cause.

“Thank you, Lady Holland. You have given me something very much worth thinking about. Excuse me for a moment.”

Taking her arm from Lady Holland’s, Charity began the slow process of pushing her way towards the dining room’s entryway, against the flow of bodies trying to push inwards.

It was a snail-like effort, and Charity was inadvertently prodded, elbowed, and disheveled as she fought to reach the Lieutenant-General who she knew had been elevated to the title of a baron just a few weeks previously.

“General Graham,” she said in a voice just loud enough to carry to his ears. “Things are growing more tense.”

The older veteran of the Sixth Coalition looked over his shoulder at her, and Charity met his eyes. “Your Grace, things are not safe here. You really should move towards the wall and bide your time. Some of the servants have gone to seek aid from Whitehall to mount a response to this unrest.”

Armed foot guards descending upon Burlington House?

The thought was chilling. “I shall move to safety soon, General,” she murmured.

“But I have a fear that if we cannot somehow calm these men, the mob might become whipped towards bloodshed. If not before the guard arrives, then most certainly after.”

“I agree. It would be unfortunate, but it may not be able to be helped, Your Grace.”

“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps nothing can be done. But will you try? These men seem frustrated that they are not being heard. If you were to speak… calmly and visibly… perhaps we might find a way to somehow remind them that everyone here is an Englishman first, and not an enemy. That peace sometimes brings opportunities of its own.”

Turning further towards her, Graham’s mouth turned down. “I cannot promise them bread or reform, Your Grace. I cannot even promise them they will be heard.”

“Is there any harm in trying?” she asked him. “If we can fracture the unity joining their causes, some may decide that retreat is the better course of action for now.”