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The corners of Restive’s mouth curled up for an instant before he spoke. “I mean it, Lucinda. Do as I say, or I shall take you home immediately.”

“Nonsense. Mr. Pearce will take care of me.” She stormed back to the uneasy poet, just in time to see a very downcast Alfreda Wallace, now dressed properly, with Davis in his guise as Yolanda on one side, and Mr. Haraldson on the other. “Oh, good,” she breathed.

“What?” Mr. Pearce said. “Where is he?”

“Not he, she—Alfreda’s leaving, thank heavens.”

Alfreda noticed her and yanked her captors to a halt. “I hate him. I absolutely despise him.”

“Whom?” She glanced at the girl’s escort. “I’m sure Mr. Haraldson has your best interests at heart.”

“No, he’s just old-fashioned. I hate Lord Restive . I wish you joy of him.”

“For heaven’s sake, Alfreda, why must you persist in thinking I want him? He treats me like a child. I am so enraged at him that I could spit!”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Davis suppress a grin.

Oh, drat—at Alfreda, or at her? If at her, why?

She had made a point of keeping her foolish, wistful thoughts to herself.

And yet, she and Restive had understood one another just now, even while playing their roles.

Astonishingly, saddeningly so, so how could she help but have such thoughts?

“Now I’ll never, ever experience passion,” Alfreda cried. “I’ll be sent to the country to molder away for ever and ever, and it’s all your fault!”

“ My fault? You’re the one who chose to dress like a strumpet,” Lucinda said. “You’re lucky Mrs. Haraldson is available to lend you some semblance of respectability when you return home.”

Alfreda burst into noisy tears as they moved away, and Mr. Pearce said, “Mrs. Haraldson is leaving? Surely not! She will want to stay, so as not to miss—” Guiltily, he stopped.

“To miss what?” Lucinda asked.

“A-a guest she particularly wished to meet,” he said. “Why is she leaving?”

“To take Alfreda Wallace home before she ruins herself. If you ask me, a year or two of moldering in the country would be good for her.”

“Mrs. Haraldson dislikes the country. She will never give up her salon, particularly now.” He resumed glancing this way and that, his gaze always returning to the doors.

I meant Alfreda,” Lucinda said. “They’ll marry her off to a country squire, I expect—although I pity the poor man.”

“Why can’t someone else take her home?”

“Because Mr. Haraldson is willing to do so, and his wife can serve as her chaperone,” Lucinda said.

Suddenly, one minute too late, she remembered what she needed to tell Restive.

Drat, oh drat! She couldn’t run after him and speak to him now without arousing suspicion. However, she could test Mr. Pearce. “Unless,” she ventured, “Mrs. Spence might like to do so?”

“Good God, no!” he cried. “Mrs. Spence must stay to— Ah! Here he is!”

~ * ~

A n excessively portly Charles the Second strode into the ballroom. “Lord help us,” Restive murmured, as everything became clear.

No, not quite everything, but one thing at least.

Cymru. Wales. The Prince of Wales. Melrose Pearce’s cousin was an equerry to one of the Royal Dukes.

That must be the tall, rigid-looking gentleman next to the Prince, dressed improbably as a court jester; he’d somehow managed to spirit the Prince away from his usual entourage tonight.

Or aided and abetted him, possibly, for Prinny enjoyed a little private foolishness from time to time. ..

With a beautiful, spirited, intelligent young lady unhindered by propriety.

And in what better guise than that of the Merry Monarch?

Instinctively, Restive grasped the hilt of his sword cane.

Damnation. Much as he appreciated Lucinda’s help—she’d put on an excellent show just now—he couldn’t let that fool Pearce put her in danger, even to protect the Prince of Wales.

Fury at his own folly in allowing her to get involved in what was shaping up to be a catastrophe spurred him forward.

The Prince could bloody well go to the devil—

And yet duty called.

Murmurs went around the room, as one guest after another recognized the heir to the throne. He was far too large to disguise effectively, even in ermine-lined robes and an absurd wig. Therefore, he was meant to be recognized.

Lucinda caught Restive’s eye, then tossed her head again, which in any other circumstances would make him laugh. She turned to gaze as if rapt at the Prince. She was so courageous and so dear.

His loyalty to the Crown was unquestioned; so was his love for Lucinda—he realized that now.

What was her purpose here? He had to stop fretting and think about it rationally.

The Prince might flirt and fondle a bit, but he wouldn’t do her actual harm in such a public situation.

Did they want him to bring her to a private room, where they would—what?

Capture him in flagrante delicto ? And then do what?

It would do him little harm, and her a great deal. It made no sense.

Perhaps she—young, beautiful, in a revealing gown—was a means of keeping the Prince’s attention until it was too late...but for what? Was she meant to accompany the Prince outdoors? In that silver-white gown, she would be unusually visible.

Did the seditionists—or the French, or both—seek to assassinate Prinny?

Frankly, he wouldn’t be much of a loss. He was profligate, hugely expensive, and generally disliked, and he had plenty of brothers to replace him, but an attack on the monarchy would rile the populace.

They might not think much of the heir to the throne, but if foreigners dared to attack him—well, the people of England would never stand for that.

That didn’t make such a plan impossible. The French didn’t understand the English, and vice versa. But would an assassin come straight up to Prinny and shoot him, knowing he would surely die—unpleasantly—in return? Not likely. They must have a better plan.

The poet moved Lucinda in the direction of the Prince. Restive didn’t like to bet on anything at this point, but in the crowd, she should be safe enough for now.

~ * ~

W hat was Mrs. Spence’s role? Lucinda wondered. Something key, according to the blabbing poet. What a strange choice of accomplice in their plot. Could she be the Columbine? She was the right size... Where was she?

Surely Restive would work that out one way or the other. Maybe she was associated with Fortin—who played what part in the plot? Something complicated, which could mean anything.

Mr. Pearce’s anxiety, and now his haste, were focused on the Prince. And he had promised that they would go onto the terrace again...

He hurried her toward the Prince. “Have you been presented to the Prince of Wales before?”

“Presented? No,” she said, unwilling to admit that she had met him several times from childhood until a few years ago, thanks to Papa’s friendship with the man. Perhaps she could somehow turn that friendship to her advantage.

“He’s quite a wit, you know. He’s knowledgeable and well-read, and can be most charming when he chooses.”

“Is that so?” she asked, while she pondered ways of warning the Prince without appearing to do so.

“I truly believe you’ll like him,” Melrose said. “That is, once we can detach him from the crowd of those eager to be noticed by royalty.”

“As you were, as you were,” the Prince was saying genially. “Tonight, I am the Merry Monarch, and as such I command you all to dispense with formality and make merry along with me.”

“Make way for the Prince!” A tall gentleman in the guise of a court jester had caught sight of Melrose Pearce eagerly waving over the heads of the crowd.

“The King, you fool,” the Prince said. “Proper address, my dear man.” So much for dispensing with formality.

“I beg Your Majesty’s pardon.” The jester bowed deeply but not the least bit humbly. Which was perhaps appropriate for a jester—or a man who plotted the Prince’s demise. An equerry was in an excellent position to betray a member of the royal family.

Lucinda tried to search the crowd, even as Mr. Pearce hurried her along. Hopefully, Davis would return soon, as she could talk to the shepherdess without arousing suspicion.

She caught sight of Columbine, watching the Prince.

Oh! One of those improbable red curls had slipped from under her turban: Mrs. Spence for certain.

Not far away, Monsieur Fortin strode toward the terrace in his baggy Harlequin costume.

He’d seemed like such a good sort of man, opposed to the regime in France, and—

But that was the whole point of being a spy, wasn’t it? Blend in, seem to be like everyone else, whilst nursing evil designs.

And yet, Restive hadn’t indicated that—just to leave him be. But did that mean leaving Columbine be as well?

If she needed any more indication that something was to happen outdoors, she had it now. Where had Restive gone? How could she let him know?

They were almost to the Prince when she spotted Davis. “Wait! I must talk to that lady.” She hurried over to him despite the protesting poet. “Oh, shepherdess!” she trilled, hoping she sounded as breathless and silly as she felt.

Davis halted, cocking his head to one side and posing with the beribboned staff. “You wished to speak with me, ma’am?”

“Yes, I’m so very grateful to you for helping my foolish friend,” Lucinda gushed. She clasped her hands to her bosom and leaned in to whisper, “It was Mrs. Spence who obliged Mr. Pearce to bring a young lady who might be less than proper.”

“Is that so? Well, well. I’ll let Restive know.” Davis darted in to kiss her cheek and pranced off just as Pearce hurried over to pull her away.

“You let that person kiss you!” he said. “I told you before, she’s not respectable. One can tell only by looking at her.”

“She is a good, kind woman, and she’s properly covered, which I’m not. I thought you were kind, too, but you’re behaving like a brute, tugging me all over the place without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said irritably. “I thought you would be thrilled to meet the Prince of Wales.”

“You misunderstand me,” she said. “I appreciate this opportunity to meet him in an informal sort of setting.”

That seemed to placate him. “You shall like him excessively, and I’m certain he will be enchanted with you.”

Perhaps he would be enchanted by a young lady served up to him on a platter, so to speak. But he would be upset and embarrassed when he found out who that young lady was. An embarrassed Prince would be an angry and vengeful one, and she couldn’t afford that vengeful attitude to be directed to her.

She had to let him know her identity immediately—without endangering him further, but without upending the plot too soon. How? She thought of Papa and how he had dealt with the Prince, and what the Prince had appreciated about Papa, and about herself as well.

Ah. Codes.

“My cousin Pearce,” the equerry said, “and a fair companion who greatly desires to meet you, sir.” He hissed something at Mr. Pearce, who hesitated, and the equerry reached around and pulled her domino open.

“How dare you!” Lucinda said, and snatched it shut once again.

The Prince barked a rebuke at the equerry. “Where are your manners, fool? I shall speak to my brother Clarence about you.” He ignored Mr. Pearce and smiled at Lucinda, and she wished he hadn’t seen her cleavage, but it was too late for that. “And who might you be, lovely lady?”

Lucinda rose from a deep curtsey. “One who brings a message to you from the past, Your Majesty. From Sir Hector Belair.”

The Prince’s brows rose. “Alas, Sir Hector was taken from us too soon. I valued him greatly.”

“As he valued you, sir,” Lucinda said. “On his deathbed, Sir Hector expressed his gratitude for your kindness and condescension, and hoped your memories of your conversations were as fond as his.”

“Indeed,” the Prince said, “and who might—” His eyes widened. “Remove your mask, my dear.”

Lucinda obeyed and smiled at him.

The Prince grabbed her hands. “My dear little Lucy Belle!” He rounded on the equerry. “What manner of knave are you? This is the daughter of one of my dearest friends. She is a lady of impeccable morals!”

“I humbly beg your pardon, sir,” the equerry said. “My fool of a cousin—”

“Bah!” the Prince said. “Get out of my sight, both of you.” He frowned down at Lucinda. “That gown is most improper, my child. What are you doing dressed in such a way, at a masquerade of all things? It’s not suitable at all.”

“I know, sir. I’m not here by choice, but you need not fear for me. Lord Restive will see that I reach home safely.” She leaned closer. “Please, sir, I must—"

“Stallion Restive?” He snorted. “What sort of chaperone is he?”

“He is my brother’s close friend. He thinks of me as a sister.”

“Unlikely,” the Prince muttered, “and definitely not with a bosom like that.”

Ahead of them, the terrace doors were flung open, and someone announced, “There will be fireworks and a bonfire, and refreshments will be served outdoors by the river.”

“Fireworks! What fun. And I do love a good bonfire.” The Prince patted her hand. “Stay with me, Lucy Belle, and you’ll be perfectly safe.”

Lucinda risked a quick glance behind her. The equerry hadn’t gone far, and nor had Mr. Pearce, who looked miserable. She flashed him a quick smile and mouthed a thank you , in the hope it would comfort him and reassure the plotters.

There, too, were Mrs. Spence and the Harlequin, and an angular Athena who might be Lady Tollister.

With Pearce and the equerry, they formed an arc around the Prince, subtly guiding him bit by bit.

Not that he needed encouragement with a bonfire up ahead.

He surged forward, and Lucinda was drawn willy-nilly onto the terrace, clinging to his arm.