Dangerous Deceptions (27 page)

I told myself I must not let what I had seen or all my fears get the better of me. I might not be able to save my post or the dog by hurrying, but perhaps I could get back inside before Matthew gave up on me entirely. If I hurried, if I kept my wits, I could reach my rooms and his arms. Then I could fall apart. Matthew would wrap me in his embrace. Matthew would listen to all that had happened. I had to see him, to be with him, to be reminded that there was a person who cared.

“Just a little farther,” I said to the dog and myself, and made myself hurry with tiny, quick dancing steps, just like I’d been taught.

The gardens of St. James’s Palace faced the Mall, and tonight those gardens were nearly as full as the streets with merrymakers. I ducked between crowds of gentry, cits, and women with their personal goods on sale and on full display. Once again my hooded cloak worked in my favor, since it prevented the crowd from noticing the presence of a maid of honor. Guinevere’s unsteady whine had turned to unsteady panting, which worried me extremely. I told myself such rapid breathing might very well be normal for such a small dog. It was not as if I’d ever paid attention to her habits.

When I finally reached the doors, a yeoman lowered his long arm to bar the way. I tipped my face up and lifted Guinevere, who’d begun to wriggle uneasily, a little higher. I don’t know whether the man recognized me or the dog, but he shoved the door open and stood aside, touching his cap to us.

For once, the dim, chill interior of the palace felt like a haven. I found the stairs and climbed them, not entirely sure of my way, but I kept moving nonetheless. I could see lights up ahead, which meant an inhabited corridor and a chance to get my bearings. I’d go to my room. I’d send a note to Molly for Her Royal Highness. I’d say that Guinevere had taken ill unexpectedly, and Olivia had gotten worried. I’d apologize profusely. Maybe I’d offer to resign. I’d ask Matthew what he thought. Because he was surely still here. He had not left me yet.

Unfortunately, it seemed Guinevere had become annoyed by my inexpert handling. Her uneasy wriggle became a sudden squirm, and I lost my hold. The dog plopped heavily to the floor, but heaved herself up again. She attempted to scamper away, but was hampered by her own belly, which she could not seem to quite lift off the floor. Considering that a moment ago I’d feared for her life, I should have been delighted. Instead, I said some things I would regret extremely later and lunged after her, but found myself as hampered by skirts, stomacher, and dim light as the pregnant dog was by her bloated belly. I missed and lunged again. So intent was I on the dog that I barely saw the pair of red shoes with gilded buckles. When I did, it was too late. I collided with their owner and bounced back.

The man I bounced off was, as it happened, the Prince of Wales.

“Now then, now then, what’s this? What, eh?”

The curtsy I executed then was my fastest and my most clumsy. I wobbled so violently on the way down that His Royal Highness put out a hand and caught me by the elbow.

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness!” I gasped as he lifted me up. He had the strong and steady grip of a good horseman and held me smoothly, even as he peered uncertainly at my face.

“Miss Fitzroy, ain’t it?” His Royal Highness said. “What’re you doing out of bed, then, eh?”

“I’m sorry, Your Highness.” An annoyed yip startled me back into my lost wits, almost. “I . . . it . . . the dog got away—”

“Ah, that would explain everything.” Unhampered by corsets and skirts, Prince George reached down his surprisingly long arms and scooped Guinevere up. “Have you been leading your people in a dance, then, little one?”

Guinevere gave an angry yip, and I bit my knuckle. Images of blood flowing from the royal hand filled my mind. But the prince just chuckled and peered more closely at her. “Something wrong with you, eh?”

“She’s not . . . well, sir,” I said, thinking of broken bones, injured spines, a chill, a cold, and how on earth was I going to explain this to anyone at all?

“No, I think she’s quite well.” He tipped her into the crook of his arm and cupped one broad hand over her belly. “She is whelping, though.”

Whelping? My cousin’s beloved, the royal lap dog, was having her puppies
now?
It was too much. Wit, will, and all good sense fled screaming down the corridors of my soul and left me standing there to give out a single cry.

“OH!”

“Now, don’t panic, Miss Fitzroy.” His Royal Highness deposited Guinevere into my arms. “Take her to your rooms. She knows what she’s about. I’ll send the Master of the Hounds up, just to have a look, eh? Off with you.” He gave me a gentle push to urge me along. I was so terrified, I forgot to curtsy. I also forgot to wonder why the Prince of Wales on the night of the public dining was wandering about the corridors of St. James’s entirely unattended, which, like Guinevere giving birth in my arms, was not something that should have been allowed to happen.

I’m not certain how I found my way back to my room, but I did. Guinevere’s distress was almost as great as my own by the time I shouldered the door open.

“Libby! Bring a blanket! Libby!”

“Peggy! What the holy hell’s happened!”

Matthew!
I swung around, still holding Guinevere at arm’s length. This was not, I will admit, the best position in which to be carrying a dog about to drop her puppies, but I couldn’t seem to make myself do anything else. Matthew had just leapt out from behind my writing desk. He’d been pacing, I thought. Pacing and waiting for me.

“You stayed—you’re wonderful!” I told him before whirling myself and Guinevere back around to Libby, who threw open the closet door. “She’s giving birth! We need a blanket!”

Libby screamed and retreated. Matthew stripped my cloak off my shoulders. I think he meant to lay it down, but then he caught sight of my disheveled dress.

“What have you been doing!” Just then he sounded far more like Uncle Pierpont than was good for any of us.

Guinevere lifted her head and howled. I ignored Matthew and hated both myself and the dog for doing so. Holding Guinevere in one hand, I grabbed the cloak from Matthew and tossed it to the ground. I dropped to my knees as if in desperate prayer. Just then, Libby emerged from the closet, a ragged length of cloth in her hands. She shrieked as she saw me holding Guinevere over the extraordinarily expensive velvet and dove forward to throw the towel down. Guinevere growled and tried to nip my fingers. I set her down hurriedly, and she whined and circled and flopped onto the towel. Libby hugged my gray velvet to her chest, shot me a glower that could have blistered paint, and retreated to the closet, banging the door shut behind her.

“Peggy . . .” Matthew loomed over me.

“I’m sorry,” I gasped from my position at his feet. “I’m so, so sorry. I cannot tell you how sorry I am. I never meant . . . I didn’t—”

Then Matthew was on his knees as well, gripping my shoulders tightly. “Peggy. Stop it,” he commanded. “I need you to make sense.”

“I want to! And if my life would make sense for ten seconds altogether, maybe I could! But I have just learned that Mr. Tinderflint helped ruin my uncle some ten years ago, Lord Lynnfield is somehow blackmailing my uncle, and now the royal lap dog is giving birth in my room and His Royal Highness is very kindly sending the Master of the Hounds to deal with it, and they’ve left me with no time to explain to my beau why he shouldn’t be angry at me!”

Matthew lifted his hands off my shoulders and clapped them to his head. Staring at me, blank faced and pale, he settled back onto his heels. I reached out. I had to find something to say, to erase that look on his face. His fear and distrust were too much to bear. I had to make them go away at once. Because if I didn’t, I would lose Matthew, the one person I could not live without.

It was in this moment, a knock sounded at the door.

TWENTY-FIVE

I think I may have screamed. I certainly did stagger to my feet. Likewise, I stumbled across the floor and ripped open my door with such violence that Molly Lepell—who stood on the other side—jumped backwards.

“Oh, Peggy,” said Molly, recovering from her surprise with professional speed. “I came to make sure you were all right—” Guinevere howled over the end of her sentence. “What is the matter with that dog?”

“She’s whelping. I thought you were the Master of the Hounds.”

From the way Molly furrowed her brow, this was evidently not explanation enough. At that moment, however, I did not particularly care.

“Oh,” she said. “Perhaps I should come back later.”

“Perhaps you should,” I agreed.

Guinevere howled again. “You’re certain you’re all right?” Molly’s glance traveled from the dog to Matthew. “I brought one more . . . for that matter we talked about.” She held out a slim jewel case.

“Of course. I’ll take care of it. Goodbye.”

I closed the door in my friend’s face. I told myself I would apologize later, that she really didn’t want to know anything about the disaster that was currently occurring in this chamber, and that it had already been a very bad day.

I faced Matthew. His brow was puckered up even more tightly with consternation and confusion than Molly’s had been.

“Dare I ask?”

“No.”

I crossed to my closet door. I opened it to find Libby standing right at the threshold, as expected. It was, after all, the best place to hear what occurred in the outer room. I handed her Molly’s jewel box and shut the door again. I looked at Guinevere. She was panting once more. How long did it take to give birth to puppies? Was there something I should be doing? Perhaps boiling water or writing announcements? I shouldn’t just be standing here with my arms at my side and my beau watching me as I watched the panting dog, with my so-faithful maid listening at her door.

“What should I do?” asked Matthew, echoing my own thoughts.

“I don’t know,” I whispered without looking up from the fluffy white heap that was Guinevere. “Truly. I don’t know.”

I heard Matthew’s shoes sound against the floorboards as he moved toward me. He put his hands on my shoulders and turned me around.

“Should I go?” he asked.

I looked up at him, struck absolutely dumb by the question. I heard myself answer yes. I heard myself weeping no. I heard myself laughing at the awful ludicrousness of our farcical quartet of maid of honor, swain, servant, and birthing dog. In the end, I asked the only question I could.

“What do you want to do?”

Matthew drew back, slowly, carefully, as if he feared one of us might break. I was breaking anyway. I could feel it. The slow fractures had begun deep inside, like river ice when spring finally comes.

“What do I want?” said Matthew. “I want you to be safe, Peggy. I want to keep you safe beside me, always.” He was breathing hard now, so deep and ragged that his shoulders shook with it.

I was shaking as well. He could see that I was shaking, but he made no move to come close again. “You shouldn’t be worried about me,” I said. “You should be angry and jealous.” It would be so much easier if he were. Then I could get angry back at him. I could endure the pure pettiness of my own anger, and his. But his concern, his deep care for me during what I knew was only the most recent disaster, how should I endure that? “You should think me shameless for lying and scheming and flirting with a man you know I have reason to hate.”

“It’s not the men. You don’t give a fig for any of those popinjays, much less . . . Sandford. But do you think I could forget for a moment what happened to us at Kensington Palace?” I’d never seen a man so close to weeping. Those fractures in my heart shuddered again. “You think I don’t see it every night before I fall asleep—those men with their swords and you with blood on your hands and that mad desperation in your eyes? Every time I see you, I think how I almost lost you forever, and sometimes I want to rip out my own heart, because I can’t stand the pain!”

There are moments when we are made aware of what is real. It is clear as glass and hard as flint, unmistakable and unclouded. I took a step toward Matthew. I took another. I raised my hand and laid it against his cheek. I felt the shape of his bones beneath the warm skin. I felt the stirring of my blood and the rasp of his fresh stubble against the softness of my palm. I felt the life of him and, yes, the love in him. He didn’t have to speak the word. Not now. I was close enough to breathe in his breath, and I did breathe, deep and slow.

I did not dare make any other move. I wanted so much. I wanted to pull him close and fall into one of those wild, condemned embraces, giving him all and taking all he had to give. I wanted to hold perfectly still and spend the rest of my life standing in this place, touching Matthew and letting Matthew touch me.

“I’m trying,” I said, aware that once again I was making no sense. “But there are too many problems and they keep piling up. I’m running from one to the next, hoping to get them sorted out, but no one will give me any answers, and everything I do seems to make things worse. I just . . . I just need more time,” I said. “And you. If I know you are there, nothing else will really matter.”

“Oh,” he said softly. “Well, if you’d just said that in the first place, we could have avoided all this unpleasantness, couldn’t we?”

I felt myself staring. I felt my jaw drop open. It was not my most attractive expression, and certainly not one I ever meant to show Matthew, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. “Are you forgiving me?”

“Is there something to forgive?” he asked, and that wonderful cheeky, mischievous grin spread across his delightful, infuriating face.

I grabbed him. I kissed him. I would have wrapped my whole self around him if it weren’t for the maddening and inescapable fact of my skirts and hoops.

“One day, Matthew Reade,” I said when we were both gasping for breath, “I’m going to push you too far.”

“But not today.” He touched his fingertips to my swollen, tender lips. “And I suspect not tomorrow, either.”

There was a great deal more kissing and holding to follow. There might even have been some tears. Definitely there was laughter, which confused Mr. Taylor—the bandy-legged, tobacco-chewing Master of the Hounds—when he at last stumped across my threshold.