Page 9

“And if the numbers shift, then the chance of violence is reduced. I suppose there is no harm in trying,” he replied tersely, running a hand over his jaw as he thought. And then he lifted both hands, bellowing for attention.

The volume of the protestors dropped immediately, and heads began to turn. This included Peregrine’s, who did not look at General Graham. No, he gave Charity a hard, narrow-eyed look instead.

Graham lifted his voice. “Friends! Countrymen! I hear you, and you know who I am. I have fought beside Englishmen in every corner of Europe. Men who asked for nothing but fair treatment and a decent future. You have every right to ask the same.

“But this—this is not the way to be heard.

Not with broken glass and shouted threats.

You want bread, work, reform? Then we must stand united as Englishmen and look towards the future.

Let the men behind these doors see that you are not rabble to be feared—but people to be reckoned with.

The men who will help build England as a great nation in peacetime.

“We are not at war here tonight. Do not give anyone reason to treat you like an enemy. Leave civilly, now, before the guard or Bow Street arrives so that there does not need to be any risk of violence. Know that your message has been heard.”

Charity smiled thinly as she could see many of the rioters begin to consider how precarious their position was.

Dissension began to form, and suddenly groups of people in threes and fours broke ranks to leave before the threatened guardsmen arrived.

Mostly it was the peaceful ones… but Charity also noticed some of the very toughest looking men depart.

As if their work was done.

“It may be working,” Charity murmured with a fervent prayer of thanks.

“A good idea, Your Grace,” the lieutenant general told her. “But things are not over yet. You should take yourself back away from trouble if you can.”

“I will, General Graham,” she promised him. “Thank you for doing what you could.”

Charity slid away, towards the wall. There were still many unhappy men who were arguing with individual members of the aristocracy, but it was quickly becoming apparent that the full boil of the riot was losing steam.

As she waited, she wondered about what had sparked this incident, and whether it was nearly as simple as it appeared.

A riot was hardly likely to convince Prinny to change his position. But Lady Holland also had a point. There were a hundred ways that the mounting pressure might have been eased before it had come to this.

The shopkeepers and the tradesmen—their anger was real. A weapon that someone could harness to their use. And perhaps someone had, but to what end?

Glancing down, Charity spotted a flyer from one of the protestors lying on the floor, and she bent to pick it up, noticing the list of demands upon it and cruel denunciations of the failures being blamed on the Tory party.

She forced her gaze from the flyer and scanned the room, searching for the leaders of Parliament. Plenty of them were present, many clustered about Prinny and his usual entourage. Their faces were red, brows beaded with sweat. But only half of them were looking at the crowd of rioters.

It did seem plausible the Whigs might be involved.

However, when Charity followed the direction of those accusatory glares coming from the Tories, the Whig gentlemen being targeted didn’t look pleased, as they might if they had orchestrated the riot.

Most appeared positively ill. They, too, understood that there would be hell to pay—and that they were likely to be left holding the bill.

Finally, new shouting from the front of the house heralded the arrival of Bow Street and the guards. Immediately, what remained of the malcontents devolved into chaos, and the young men who had been guarding the room shifted their focus to helping corner and hold the uninvited.

Not unexpectedly, Charity could see Peregrine was making himself useful in restoring order to Burlington House.

But this second descent into another kind of violence, however restrained, was proving too much for some.

A few women—and even some of the men—swooned and collapsed into nearby chairs.

These were being fanned by their near neighbours.

And as people began to filter out, Charity caught sight of Queen Charlotte. The Queen had her back to the wall and her fan in hand, but she was not using it to cool herself. Instead, over the silk fabric, her wise eyes studied the scene with what looked like a curious sense of detachment.

Charity wondered if Queen Charlotte’s stillness was strength or something colder—calculation cloaked in calm. After a long moment, the Queen flicked her fan closed and stalked out of the room.

She did not need to see into Charlotte’s mind to know what questions she was asking herself. They were the same ones circling through Charity’s thoughts. Who had opened the doors to such a bedraggled group? How had they made it so far into Burlington House?

Someone stepped up beside her, a hand brushing her arm, dragging her from her reverie. Charity startled as a whisper in a familiar voice called her name. Lord Ravenscroft stood at her side, his brow creased in concern.

“Your Grace, the royals are summoning us. I presume it is to thrash us for not having clairvoyance about this evening. Where is Lord Fitzroy? I hope he is not starting a second riot somewhere even less fashionable.”

“He was…” Charity’s voice trailed off as she glanced to where she last saw him, but his blonde hair was nowhere in sight. “I saw him trying to restrain some of the stragglers.”

“Well, he is busy then, I suppose,” Lord Ravenscroft huffed, but did not waste time going off to search. Instead, he led Charity away from the dining room, in the opposite direction from where the guards had herded the crowd.

“Lord Cavendish offered Prinny use of his private study. Tell me quick now, did you or Fitzroy know this was going to happen?”

“Did I know?” Charity stopped abruptly, right in the middle of the corridor. “What could possibly make you think that?”

“I saw Fitzroy follow you onto the balcony. I wondered if perhaps he was issuing a warning.”

With grim clarity, Charity remembered the expression Peregrine had greeted her with when he realised she was there.

And the tense discussion that had followed.

“Not at all,” she said sardonically. “Our interaction was due to happenstance, not design. Had he known I was standing out there, the only reason he would have come out would have been to push me over the rail.”

“Nonsense. He seems fiercely protective of you, in spite of everything.” Ravenscroft gave her an assaying look. “But I suppose he might have been moved to jump dramatically, to prove some point.”

Charity felt her lips twist wryly as she took Ravenscroft’s arm. “I do not think the height of the balcony would have suited such needs.”

A pair of matching guards stood watch outside the door of Lord Cavendish’s study. They must have recognised Lord Ravenscroft, for they allowed them to pass without question. Ravenscroft gave a quick rap on the door, and a footman opened it from inside.

The room was unmistakably masculine—leather, velvet, dark wood, and power. Charity felt like an interloper, an intruder in a den where decisions were made far from women’s ears.

The footman must have dragged the chair from behind the desk, for it stood near the fireplace, acting as a throne for the Queen. Prinny was too full of nervous energy to sit. Instead, he paced a track into the plush carpet.

The room was thick with tension. A handful of Tory figures lingered nearby, chief amongst them Lord Liverpool. They clutched crystal glasses of brandy in their hands while they whispered amongst themselves, waiting for Prinny to determine the next move.

Lord Ravenscroft nudged Charity towards a far corner of the room where they would be out of Prinny’s way.

The Prince Regent waved his hands in the air, filling the room with his displeasure. "This is the Whigs. I know it. It can be no one else—for none other would be so damned foolish as to embarrass us all so publicly."

He turned sharply on his heel and paced back the other way. "They have been out to embarrass me since I ascended the throne. This is why I turned my back on them. They want a revolution without understanding the cost."

Lord Liverpool cleared his throat. "Your Highness, as much as I would like to lay the blame at the Whigs’ door, I must raise a concern.

I know every man in attendance tonight—as do you.

Even the most committed Whig would never dare allow a mob into a gathering such as this.

We could easily have lost control. We are beyond lucky no blood was shed. "

"No blood shed yet ," Prinny growled, silencing the Prime Minister. "One or two, perhaps. But a mob? Through Burlington House?" His voice rose with each word, flaring like a match to dry tinder. "Are we meant to believe the servants are blind—or complicit?"

At that, Lord Cavendish gave a pained moan. "It was certainly not I, Your Highness, nor any of my staff. I brought only my most loyal retainers from my country estate. I refused to hire unknowns. Still, I shall question them all, rest assured—but I do not believe the answer lies with them. "

A knock at the door cut the conversation short. The footman opened it, admitting the butler.

He bowed his head toward Lord Cavendish before explaining why he had interrupted. "The Bow Street Runners have arrived, my lord, and have taken the remaining men into custody. Guards are now stationed at every entrance. Nothing further will occur tonight."

"Bow Street?” Prinny bellowed, “I want them in the Tower—not the local gaol. What is the punishment for such a crime? Surely threatening the Crown with violence must warrant hanging—at least for the ringleaders."

"We would only make martyrs of them, Your Highness," Lord Liverpool replied. “Allow the courts to deal with them. A few nights in the gaol may yield important information.”

“The Prime Minister is right, my son,” Queen Charlotte said, breaking her silence.

“Though I, too, demand answers, we are more likely to get them in time. In particular, the names of whoever put those men up to this. Now, go to the safe confines of St James’s, and take the Tory leaders with you.

There is the matter of the press. Word will get out, no matter what we do.

We must be prepared with a response." She fixed Prinny with an imperious stare.

Though full grown and crowned with titles, Prinny still withered beneath his mother’s stare like an errant schoolboy. "Mama, you are right. But I do not like the idea of leaving you here."

"It is late. Have my carriage brought ‘round and I will go straight to Buckingham House. We can meet again tomorrow, and you may tell me what has been decided."

Prinny kissed his mother on the cheek—a rare show of filial affection. It was testament to how shaken he truly was. Then, he did as she bade him, guiding all the men from the room.

"You may leave us," the Queen said to the footman still stationed by the door. He nodded and departed, leaving the women entirely alone.

Under the full weight of Queen Charlotte’s fierce gaze, a chill gripped Charity’s spine, tighter than even the one caused by the first sight of the invading mob. "Was this the Order? Or is Prinny correct? Was this the Whigs?"

"I cannot say for sure, Your Majesty."

"And where ,” she continued, “is Lord Fitzroy now?”

Charity held her tongue.

The Queen tilted her head, turning her gaze toward the fire. “I dislike the fact that he has been using the slack in his leash to follow his whims. He should have been following my command and bringing the enemy within reach to heel."

"It is not outside the realm of possibility that Lady Fitzroy’s hand is behind this," Charity offered, hoping to deflect some of Charlotte's anger.

Instead, it had the opposite effect. "If that is the case, then Lord Fitzroy is doubly worthless to me. He was meant to prevent precisely this sort of thing—not stand beside you, as wrong-footed as everyone else."

Charity’s heart pounded, the Queen’s disappointment heavier than any rebuke.

Queen Charlotte rose from her chair, a grimace flickering as she placed a hand on her hip, rubbing at her side. “The only reason I have not called for Lord Fitzroy’s head on a platter is because no one else can identify the members of the Order."

Charity’s breath caught. No one, perhaps, except for me .

The elder royal fixed Charity with a final, warning stare.

"The clock is ticking, Your Grace. Bring me the names of those responsible, or bring me Lord Fitzroy himself.

If he cannot provide me the information I demand—the information I need to hold this country together—then I misjudged him more deeply than I thought. And you. "

The Queen flicked her wrist to wave Charity off. Charity bobbed a curtsy and backed from the room, hurrying to do the royal bidding.

Trembling, she worked her way through the crowd. But Perry was nowhere to be found, and Charity couldn’t help but note that another person conveniently absent was Selina, the Marchioness of Normanby.