Shall We Dance? (11 page)

Her anger cooling as rapidly as it had heated, Caroline lifted her arm to peer piteously at Amelia. “He goes everywhere. His father dead in his grave, and he goes everywhere, is welcomed everywhere. But Brougham says I must remain here, be circumspect in all things. I cannot bear it, Amelia. I crave life. I need life. I wither and die without it.”

Amelia's tender heart was touched, as it always was, by the sadness of this woman. “We had such parties, didn't we, ma'am? Away from here.”

“Oh, we did, we did. And such adventures, Amelia! I have given you the world, and now I take it away again. England takes it away. Beware England, Amelia. England takes everything.”

“Perhaps,” Amelia said, daring to sit on the edge of the chaise, and take the queen's hand in her own, “perhaps if we cannot be out and about, ma'am, we can entertain here?”

“Brougham would forbid a party, a ball. The old king, remember? My husband can pretend to be in mourning, but I must truly be in mourning. Everything I do is watched, commented upon, condemned. I am without friends. Everyone has deserted me. He may as well have banished me to a nunnery.”

Amelia spoke quickly, before Her Royal Highness could take her hysteria out for another flight into the treetops. “Even a small party, ma'am? A very small party?”

“Here?” The queen sat up, all attention. “Not Brougham or his whiny brother. They depress me. Who could we have?”

Amelia kept her gaze steady. “Well, the Earl of Brentwood seems an amusing enough sort, ma'am. And there is my friend, Georgiana Penrose, and an extremely nice young gentleman who accompanied her here today, to visit with me. Sir Nathaniel Rankin, ma'am.”

“Your friend? A young woman, then. How I love
young people around me. So full of life. Yes, we could surely do that. A simple dinner party. Perhaps some music later—you could play, Amelia. And cards? Tame stakes, I promise you, but the gentlemen will want to play cards, surely. Yes, yes, we can do this. I can do this. And once it is known that I am entertaining, the invitations will come. You'll see! Tomorrow, Amelia, plan it for tomorrow. No! I will plan. Send me that housekeeper and Carstairs. That's his name, isn't it? Carstairs?”

And here things had been going so well….

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but Carstairs is no longer with us.”

Caroline took the glass Rosetta offered her and drank down its contents before her kohl-darkened eyelids opened. “He died?”

Amelia waited until a sniggering Rosetta had retired from the room once more. “No, ma'am. He…he was called away, quite suddenly. A family problem, I believe.”

The queen was many things, several of them less than commendable. But she was not stupid, especially in how the world worked when those workings affected her. “He left, didn't he, Amelia. He learned of my latest disgrace, and he ran away. Coward! Hypocrite English! Casting stones when they have boulders enough of their own.”

“We are better off without him, ma'am.”

“Who else? Who else have we lost to my wretched, lying, vindictive husband?”

“A few others, ma'am, none of them important, there are dozens left. Mrs. Fitzhugh and I are already finding replacements. But I would like to discuss something else, if you feel up to it, ma'am?”

“Does it matter? Bad news does not wait upon my strength.”

“Yes, ma'am. I've been thinking, and perhaps it might be best for Rosetta and her cousin Gerado to return to Italy. Where Lord Liverpool can't find them, ma'am.”

“My Rosetta? But she has been with us for so long. Even on the
polacca
on our way to Syracuse, Pergami and I. She has been invaluable to me. I could not possibly—” the queen's complexion paled beneath her rouge “—I…I will miss her.”

“Indeed, ma'am, we will miss them both. I'll make arrangements for their departure?”

“With all due speed,” Caroline said, then closed her eyes, as the laudanum had begun its work.

 

“I
T'S GONE NINE
, boy. I've been waiting all day,” Sir Willard said from his place on the couch, his wrapped foot resting on a folded blanket. “What did you do, Nevvie? Crawl here?”

“And a pleasant good evening to you, too, Uncle,” Perry said, pouring himself a glass of wine. “Waiting with the proverbial bated breath, were you? While dozens would swear you didn't care if I disappeared from the face of the earth.”

“Never mind that. Did you succeed? Did you get in? Did you see the gel?”

“Done, done and done. Anything else, or may I be excused now? I really do have other invitations to occupy my evening, and I took an unconscionable amount
of time in my bath, I'm afraid. Something about removing the stench of your nefarious plan to destroy a weak, terrified and most probably powerless woman. Tell me, do you Tories toast each other every time you pound another nail in her coffin?”

“Spare me these melodramatic transports, Nevvie. I do what must be done to preserve England.”

“To preserve yourself and your gaggle of cronies, as well as a sad cartoon of a king concerned only with emptying the country's coffers with his insane building projects, now that he can no longer fornicate.”

From the doorway, where he had been lingering nervously, Clive Rambert snorted.

“Ah, good,” Sir Willard said, spying Clive. “At last, some sanity enters the room. Speak up, man. Report!”

“Sir!” Clive said, coming to attention, although Perry was pleased to see the man stop short of a salute. “We approached the destination by water, sir, able ta make landfall with no resistance.”

“And yet, alas, it was not a perfect landing,” Perry added, saluting Clive with his wineglass.

Clive took a deep breath. “The earl here, he talked his way inta the queen's residence, sir, and I m'self am happy ta report that I have gained entry ta the kitchens.” He relaxed slightly. “Have the run of the place if I wants it, sir.”

“He's halfway to seducing the housekeeper, in point of fact. All in all, Uncle, I'd say Clive here made quite a splash,” Perry said, at last beginning to enjoy himself.

“Really,” Sir Willard said (having a quite literal mind,
and very little humor), looking at Clive. “And you, Nevvie? Who did you seduce? Is the gel hot for you?”

Perry's expression closed. “Strange. I had never before considered you to be overtly crass, Uncle. Must be the company you keep.”

“He was talkin' up Miss Fredericks a treat, sir,” Clive said quickly, “just like yer told him ta. They're going drivin' in the Park tomorrow. He did good, sir.”

Sir Willard glared at his nephew. “Now, why couldn't you have told me that? Why make me drag it out of you? Tell me the rest. Did you see the princess—the queen?”

Perry didn't hesitate to lie. “I'm afraid not, Uncle. She was otherwise engaged during my visit, I'm afraid. At her prayers.”

Sir Willard sniffed. “Praying? Chasing the knife boy around the pantry with her bodice down to her waist is more like it. What's wrong with you, boy?”

“He's goin' soft of Miss Fredericks, sir, if I may say so. Flatterin' her all hollow, but not all in fun, if you take m'meanin'? But he'll do what yer sent him ta do. He's a good 'un, at the bottom of it.”

“Thank you, Clive. Perceive me as all but unmanned by your loyalty.”

“Yer're that welcome, sir, whatever it is yer said.” Clive then turned once more to Sir Willard. “He's takin' me and Mrs. Fitzhugh up tomorrow with him and Miss Fredericks. We're ta be in the way of chaperons. In the Park, sir. Paradin' around with the rest of the toffs.”

Perry put down his wineglass. “Yes, it's true. Clive? You'll wear the dark green, please. And come to me at
three, so that I might manage your neck cloth. You will be with me, remember, and I do have a certain standard to maintain.”

“Yes, sir,” Clive said, clearly delighted. “A good 'un, Sir Willard. He's a good 'un.”

Sir Willard moaned into his own cravat. “Are either of you going to remember your mission?”

“To dig up scandal to destroy the Queen of England? How could we possibly forget such a lofty, laudatory mission, Uncle? Why, I cannot wait until the delicious moment I might slip free in the residence, to delve into locked cabinets and chamber pots.”

“Do you think it would be at all possible of you to stop mentioning chamber pots, Nevvie? We're up to our necks in chamber pots.”

“Oh, Uncle, don't say such things,” Perry said, pretending to plead with the man. “If this is true, I'll have no choice but to cut you a wide berth when we meet in Society. Upwind, as it were.”

Clive shoved two fingers into his mouth and sucked on them, to keep himself from laughing.

“I'm ignoring you, Perry,” Sir Willard said, although the top of his bald head had turned rather red. “We've enough chamber pots, we've got testimony to hear from her servants. What we're looking for, Nevvie, are letters. From the queen, to the queen. Love poems from that Pergami fellow, that sort of thing. We understand the queen takes a certain large tin case with her wherever she travels. To date, we have not been able to have a look inside. That's your precise mission. Bring me a
letter from Pergami, recounting how he longs to again make love to the dratted woman—any such incriminating drivel—and we may be able to stop this damn nonsense before it reaches the House of Lords. She'll take any allowance we might give her and consent to exile, if we can give her solid proof that we know she is not fit to be queen consort. Find whatever papers are inside and bring them directly to me.”

“Most like they keeps it in a box room, M'Lord, right?” Clive suggested, looking at Perry. “Shouldn't be so hard to find the thing with Dov—er, Mrs. Fitzhugh helpin'.” He turned to Sir Willard. “How big you say this case is, guv'nor?”

Sir Willard rolled his eyes. “How should I know such a thing? It's a large tin case, man. Find it, Nevvie, pick the lock—that is one of your many dubious talents, isn't it?—and bring me what I need. And do it quickly, Nevvie, or soon all of London will be nothing more than a tawdry circus.”

“And it's not now, Uncle?” Perry said, and took his leave, Clive on his heels.

“In a bit of a snit, the guv'nor,” Clive remarked as they climbed back into Perry's town carriage.

“Really? I can't in truth say I noticed,” Perry said, settling against the velvet squabs as his coachman prodded the horses forward. “Now, Clive, think of me as your tutor, please, as I explain to you the niceties of driving through the Park for the Promenade.”

“I'll be hangin' on yer every word, M'Lord,” Clive said, leaning forward in his seat that faced the earl's.
“Do we wave ta everyone? That would suit Dovey for a treat.”

“Dovey?”

Clive nodded furiously. “Mrs. Maryann Fitzhugh, M'Lord. But she never bracketed herself to no Mr. Fitzhugh. That's just a hum ta get her hired by you gentry coves. She was Dovey back when I knew her, afore I went ta the army. We had us a time, we did. She'd do anythin' for me, M'Lord, feelin' bad the way she is about not waitin' for me, thinkin' me toes cocked up somewheres. I'll bet she could tell us all about that there tin case the guv'nor is so hot about.”

“Yes, thank you, Clive,” Perry said, wishing away the subject of tin cases, of spying on the queen. He would also be gratified if unsettling thoughts of how Miss Amelia Fredericks would hate him once he'd betrayed her trust would stop crowding his suddenly weary mind.

 

A
MELIA LOOKED ABOUT
the crowded Park with a curious, if not delighted gaze. In her travels with the queen, she had seen many sights, in many lands, and this rather sedate parading of exquisites seemed…well, slightly silly.

There were cabriolets, gigs, drags, high-perch phaetons, town coaches, vis-à-vis, and barouches very much like the one she rode in now, although none of them quite so fine or riding behind a better, more sound quartet of horseflesh. There were many gentlemen riding on horseback (as the earl had already informed her that ladies were, for the most part, confined to riding in the mornings), there were couples strolling arm in arm.

And all of them, everywhere, were obviously there to see, to be seen, and to show off their latest finery, like peacocks on the strut.

“So this is the Promenade? I can't imagine why the queen would envy me this excursion,” she said to Perry after the barouche had moved forward only a few feet in ten minutes, as every other conveyance seemed to halt each inch or so, to greet friends. “One immense jumble of traffic for an hour, and then everyone goes home again?”

Perry smiled at her. He had a lovely smile, and she really should avoid it if she hoped to be able to concentrate on anything but him, his handsome face and the fact that she was sitting rather close to him, and that his long-fingered hand rested on his thigh, only a few inches from her own. “My congratulations, Miss Fredericks. You have just pointed out one of Society's greatest failings—a complete lack of understanding as to what makes us look like pleasure-seeking, fairly worthless fools.”

“I'm having fun,” Maryann Fitzhugh whispered to Clive, the pair of them on the facing seat. “You're having fun, ain't you, Clivey?”

Amelia lowered her chin, hoping the brim of her bonnet concealed her smile. “Oh, dear,” she said, only loudly enough for the earl to hear her. “I'm being ungrateful, aren't I?”

“Immensely so, most definitely,” Perry told her, reaching over to squeeze her gloved hand, only for an instant. “And you've missed the greatest delight so far of this daily exercise, although I'm sure there will be more.”

“And that is?” Amelia asked, daring to lift her head once more.

Perry leaned close, whispered in her ear. “The opportunity to laugh at our fellow paraders, of course. Or had you not noticed the spindly shanked exquisite who pranced past us in his red heels not a moment ago, bits of sawdust spilling out of the hem of his breeches.”