Royal Revels (18 page)

“That’s right. And if you’re not home when I get back, I’ll nip over to the constable’s office and rescue you.”

“This will not be necessary, however,” Réal assured him.

“I know it well. You’re top of the trees, Réal. There’ll be a
grande récompense
in it for you.”

“
Pas nécessaire
,” Réal said with a shrug of indifference, while he suppressed the urge to inquire: “
Combien
?”

Undeceived by this show, Belami told him the price, which brought a reluctant smile to Réal’s saturnine countenance. “I’ll tell Chubb,” he said.

Belami wished him luck, gave his shoulder a tap, and called to his groom to leave. Réal’s only regret in the otherwise savory affair was that he had to entrust his grays to the second groom. But he had jawed his stand-in driver so mercilessly that no harm could come to the team at the Red Herring. It was a heavy responsibility, being Belami’s first lieutenant, and a delightful one.

Chapter Twelve

A light showed at the front window of the little house on North Street. Belami left his carriage in the road and went to tap lightly at the door. Lady Gilham waited alone for him with her cape on the chair beside her.

“I sent the servants to bed early,” she whispered. “I must be home before seven, when they usually arise.”

“Sorry I’m a little late. The prince held an impromptu party.”

“Did anything interesting happen?” she asked with so casual an air that he suspected her keen interest.

“We were subjected to half an hour’s royal caterwauling, but that is hardly unusual. Mrs. Morton is asleep, too, is she?” he asked.

“Hours ago,” she assured him as he held her cape for her. It was an elegant affair in blue velvet, with a fur-lined hood.

“I hope she’s not a light sleeper?” he asked, mindful of Réal.

“She doses herself with laudanum three nights out of four. She had a megrim tonight and has been out like a candle since nine o’clock,” she answered. The tension eased insensibly out of his shoulders. With Morton asleep and the servants in the attic, he foresaw no trouble for Réal.

“How convenient.” He smiled and felt the occasion called for at least a kiss on the cheek, which he hastened to bestow. Her arms went around his neck, and she pulled his head down to hers.

A tantalizing fragrance of musk perfume emanated from her throat, her hair, her wrists. Her soft white hands stroked his neck, and her lips were soft and warm beneath his. She let her head fall back and said softly, “I can hardly wait. Let’s go, darling.”

She extinguished the lamps and locked the door on the way out. He helped her into the carriage and sat beside her on the banquette. Without a moment’s hesitation, she climbed onto his lap and began kissing him passionately, with low moans of desire and crooning words of pleasure.

“I’ve been so lonesome, Richard. You have no idea what it’s like after you’re used to being loved. Oh, but Sir John wasn’t like you. He was old and horrid. You’re so handsome, so manly. Kiss me again,” she breathed into his ear. “I’m on fire with wanting you.”

The fire proved contagious. He wrapped his arms around her, and she molded her soft femininity against his harder masculine body. He felt her seductive curves with his hands, admiring the sharp inclination where her waist diminished to swell below in a graceful billow. The perfume and her rapturous cooings went to his head, inciting him to wild imaginings. Guilt mixed with it, to give her a nearly irresistible aura of sinful pleasure.

“It’s not far. We better wait till we get there,” he said reluctantly, holding her hands to prevent them from further invasions of his privacy.

“I didn’t take you for such a patient man, Richard!” Her laugh was intimate. She had an adorable laugh, throaty and low. He found himself kissing her white throat again, inhaling her heady perfume.

“You’ll be well worth waiting for,” he said huskily.

They continued this bantering lovemaking till the carriage pulled in at the Red Herring, a half-timbered inn, low and sprawling. There was no one outside to see them, he noticed with relief. The host was waiting inside and bowed them into the chosen parlor, where the table was laid for dinner.

“Are you planning to eat first?” Lady Gilham asked, adopting a moue of disappointment. “Let us go right upstairs.”

“I haven’t had a bite since tea, and it was only a bite then. I’m ravenous,” he said, taking her wrap and feeling like a fool.

“I’m ravenous, too—for you,” she said, turning in his arms and lifting her hungry lips to his.

What could a man do? He kissed her for an unconscionably long time and enjoyed it in a painful sort of way. “I won’t be any good to you till I’ve eaten,” he said in a wooden voice that reeked of insincerity, even to himself.

With a glance at the clock on the wall, he realized this had to be a very long meal. It was only eleven o’clock. “They have a marvelous raised pigeon pie here,” he said heartily.

“They have marvelous feathered ticks too,” she murmured temptingly, tilting her head a little to one side. She strolled off to the window and pulled back the curtain to look into the yard. Fearful of being seen, he twitched it away.

“I’ve ordered champagne. Come, let us drink to each other,” he suggested.

She was coaxed to the table, where a glass of champagne was pressed into her fingers. She was much inclined to share a chair with him, but the waiter knocked at the door, and Belami darted to it. For a long time he discussed dinner—was the mutton good, not too dry or not underdone? Would the lady care for some ham or perhaps a little
ragoût
? A fish dish to start with would be nice.

“Whatever pleases you, Belami,” she said sulkily. He frowned at her use of his own name.

“Let’s start with a turbot then,” he said. He hated turbot. The only fish worse than turbot was cod.

When the servant departed ten minutes later, Lady Gilham had taken her own chair at the table. “I didn’t realize it was a dinner partner you wanted,” she snipped.

“Confucius says the preliminaries are often more enjoyable than the main event,” he said in a rare moment of tactlessness.

“Confucius has never shared the main event with me,” she said, lifting her glass and directing a long, sultry gaze down the table.

“Then he is to be pitied,” Belami answered, getting back into stride. “I only meant I want this evening to last as long as possible and to be enjoyed in more than one way. I want to know you, Moira, before I make love to you. My eyes tell me you are a beautiful, desirable woman, and my heart craves to know what cruel twists of fate have...”

“Brought me so low?” she asked, her expression sardonic.

“No, brought you to me, to be cherished,” he said with a yearning eye.

She gave one quick, suspicious look, but was lured into fabricating an exciting background for herself, encouraged by much champagne and much admiration till the turbot arrived.

Back at North Street, Pierre Réal donned a black face mask, removed the
passe-partout
from his pocket, and inserted it into the door without a sound. The lock twisted and the door pushed inward. He waited, heard no sound from within, and entered on cautious feet. The dining room was on the right, with a pale moonbeam lighting the table, which was set with china and silver. He silently lifted the settings from the table and placed them carefully, one by one, in a canvas bag. The cups felt heavy for fine china, but in the darkness and with an eye frequently turned to the door, he took little notice. When the table was stripped, he took the bag to the front door. A dark arm reached out from the shadows and removed it without saying a word.

Réal went to the staircase and climbed stealthily, listening for the betraying squeak of dry boards. Belami hadn’t informed him which chamber was milady’s, but there was only one door open and he walked stealthily to it. The elegance of the chamber indicated that he had guessed right. The dressing table was adorned with containers that glinted in the moonlight—glass and silver. He felt around with his fingers in the shadows till he felt a snuffbox and lifted the papers from beneath it. The top one was all he glanced at. It began with the words “My dearest Moira.” He shoved the lot into his jacket and looked around for the shaving equipment. It was on another stand across the room. These items went into another bag. He could not find the dressing gown or slippers.

Réal was a perfectionist. It stung him to have to leave without all the items mentioned. He stood still, listening for sounds from the sleeping house. It was perfectly silent. Only his own breath hung on the air. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and the furnishings had taken on a more visible form. There was a chair with some light clothing on it in one corner. He tiptoed forward and lifted a silken garment of some sort. On the pocket, he felt heavy gold threads. On the floor sat a pair of slippers. He picked them up, stuffed garment and slippers into his bag, and uttered a silent prayer of thanksgiving to God, for Réal was a devout Catholic. His heart was bursting with joy and pride as he crept quietly down the stairs and out the front door, locking it behind him. He sped through the night to the carriage, waiting half a block away.

He took the ribbons himself and whipped the team into swift motion. His orders were to leave the goods in Belami’s other carriage in the stable, then return the hired carriage and team. He placed the letters in the canvas bag with the bedroom items and dispatched Chubb to the coaching house, while he sat in triumph in the driver’s seat of the carriage that held the goods.

“A good job, Chubb, if I say so myself,” he admitted when Chubb returned from his errand. “We’ve earned a wet,
n’est-ce-pas
?”

It was no ale or inferior brew that was awaiting them, but a bottle of milord’s finest claret. Belami would be very angry if they didn’t reward themselves.

* * * *

The Prince Regent was encouraged by his initial introduction of dear George into society. He knew forces were building against his scheme. That Banbury tale about Maria having had her ring stolen, for instance. His enemies wouldn’t have invented that unless they feared he would succeed. The thing to do was to take George to London and let the world see what a fine son he had produced and what a future king was theirs, if only they had the fortitude to demand him. He could count on the support of the Duchess of Charney, the Countess de Lieven, and all of Lady Hertford’s many enemies.

Simultaneously, he would arrange wide coverage of Princess Caroline’s exploits abroad, let the world see that neither she nor any offspring of hers merited the throne of England. A bright, golden future spread like a mirage before him, where he was once again the dashing Florizel, beloved by his people. With a contented smile at his party of well-wishers, he bowed himself out of the chamber. His guests could now depart or remain partying till they were surfeited.

He blew the Duchess of Charney a kiss, bowed to the Countess de Lieven, gazed one last time on dear Georgie, who didn’t happen to be looking at him, looked straight past that upstart Lady Donwin, and retired to his private chambers.

Lady Donwin was unaware of the latest snub. She was looking around for Deirdre Gower, and found her behind a pillar, yawning into her fist.

“Lovely party, Miss Gower, but where is your fiancé? I haven’t seen him around this last hour,” Lady Donwin said.

“He had a headache, and Colonel McMahon told me he went home. I hope he’s feeling better,” Deirdre said. “I fear he’s catching cold.”

“It’s only the heat and noise. I feel like a loaf in an oven myself. Do you know, Miss Gower, my coming here tonight has jogged my memory about that ring business we were discussing this afternoon. I remembered the name of the saucy servant who I think stole it. It was Moira Morton—that’s who it was. I remember someone saying ‘that mean Moira Morton has stolen it!’ I think it was the Duchess of Devonshire, for the voice had a lilting accent.”

“Moira Morton,” Deirdre repeated, while a little frisson scuttled down her spine.

“The name would mean nothing to you, of course. Maria never did like her, perhaps because she was rather pretty in the same style as Maria herself. A blond, blue-eyed hussy. Not that I mean to say Maria was a hussy!” she exclaimed. “Belami seemed interested in it. I can’t imagine why,” she finished vaguely.

“I’ll tell him. Thank you so much,” Deirdre said, and walked to the edge of the room and sat down. The name Moira had first sent that ripple of significance down her spine. It was Lady Gilham’s name, Dick said, but obviously Lady Gilham hadn’t even been born at that time. And she wasn’t either blue-eyed or blond. Moira Morton would be an older woman by now. The name Morton was also floating around in her mind, but it took her a moment to attach it to Lady Gilham’s companion. But Morton was her married name—unless she took the mature woman’s prerogative of calling herself Mrs. without benefit of a husband. She was the right age and coloring, which was a coincidence. And was her name Moira as well? Another coincidence. Dick would find this highly interesting. He had the utmost suspicion of coincidences. She’d write him a note first thing tomorrow morning.

While she sat pondering, a page boy came up and said, “Miss Gower?” She nodded, and he handed her a note, unsealed but twisted into a bow. She unfolded it and read, “Mrs. Fitzherbert has just arrived at the Red Herring Inn. She will be departing early tomorrow morning. If Belami wishes to speak to her, he must do so tonight.” It had no signature and no salutation, but the message was enough to send Deirdre into a flutter. Her heart raced painfully fast. She must get this note to Belami at once, but something inside her wanted more than that. She had been left too much out of this case. She wanted to go with Dick. Her aunt, of course, was the stumbling block. As she sat racking her brain, Pronto ambled up to her.

“Sitting all alone, eh, Miss Gower? How would you like to stand up and jig it with me?”

Instead of answering, she handed him the note. He read it, pursed his lips into whistling form and emitted a breath of air, while his eyes bulged to an enormous size. “Where did you get this?” he asked.