Shall We Dance? (29 page)

He'd been on the move since dinnertime, and it was now past three in the morning. He'd spent that time greasing palms in every posting house and inn he knew of that rented saddle horses, for he already had made it his business to know that Jarrett Rolin no longer owned any horseflesh of his own, or had any friends from which to borrow a nag.

The White House in Fetter Lane was a target of last resort, as it was too large, too well-known, too heavily
frequented by those wishing to ride in one of the more than two dozen coaches that left here every day, even though the buildings were fast falling into disrepair.

Then again, Jarrett Rolin had always been one to take foolish chances, and that audacious wave this afternoon could have been an invitation for Perry to find him. But why?

Even in the middle of the night, the stables were bustling, and Perry had to wait until a team of coach horses was led into the yard before he could corner a young hostler and cross his palm with a coin.

“A bay gelding,” he said when the boy eyed him suspiciously. “About fifteen hands, no more, the tail cropped. Do you know it?”

“Oi suppose Oi could, guv'nor,” the boy said, swiping at his runny nose. “Yer wants it?”

Perry did not react outwardly, although inside, his weary body discovered fresh energy. “Not the horse, boy. The man who rode him today.”

The boy's gaze slid toward the inn, then shifted back to Perry. “Cove might be 'ere. Mayhap Oi glimmed 'im a time or two.”

Another coin found its way from man to boy.

“Rum touch, that 'un,” the boy said, biting on the coin, because this one was gold. “See'd a sticker on 'im whenest 'e wuz climbin' inta the saddle. Wanna knows where?”

“I know where he keeps it, thank you,” Perry said. “It's his location that I lack.” When the boy frowned, he added quietly, “Have you any idea how quickly those coins can be back in my purse, boy?”

“Fetched 'im m'sister when 'e asked, but Oi won't do that agin. Betts won't walk straight fer a week, if yer get m'meanin'. Top o'the stairs, last door down.” When Perry turned to head for the inn, the boy called after him, “The sticker, mate! Keep yer glimmers out fer that!”

Perry pulled open the door to the inn, staring down a very large man who had tried to push through the doorway ahead of him before he thought better of it. Hat pulled down, shoulders hunched, he affected a slight limp as he entered the tap room and stood with his back against the wall, searching the dimness.

He hadn't had to bother. No one even looked at him, to be able to remember later that a tall man with a limp had been here just before they discovered Rolin's body. Nothing here but a few drunken youths with more dash than brains, a scattering of whores taking shelter from the rain, a few travelers asleep on the settle near the fire, their bits of baggage in their laps. A lone barman was half asleep behind his table.

Backing out of the tap room, Perry counted to five, made sure he wasn't observed and then quickly mounted the stairs to the top floor.

He listened at the door to the last room on the hall and heard the muffled groans that came from the other side.

“Bitch! I said
all
of it!”

Jarrett Rolin's voice.

The sound of a slap. Another moan, this one louder, and definitely female.

Perry shrugged out of his greatcoat, then carefully tried the latch, which opened with only a small
click.
A
single fat, smoking candle revealed Rolin's outline as he stood in front of the uncovered window, his pantaloons down around his ankles, a woman kneeling in front of him, his hands roughly gripping her head.

“Now there's a sight to make me wish I'd forgone dinner this evening,” Perry drawled, and the woman, Rolin's hands no longer holding her head, fell back against the floor, then quickly got to her feet. She spat in Rolin's direction, then brushed past Perry, a torrent of curses tumbling from her bloody mouth.

“Brentwood. A rare flower of young womanhood that, don't you think? You're early, old fellow. I hadn't expected you before the morning. Obviously. Shame you spoke, you could have watched, learned something,” Rolin said, the epitome of calm in his near nakedness.

“You've always been such an inspiration, Rolin,” Perry said. “If one had aspirations for the gutter. Now, you will oblige me by getting dressed.”

“I would not think of obliging you in anything, Brentwood, unless you wished me to assist you on your way to hell. However, with that door open, I am feeling the draft.”

“How droll. But, anything to oblige,” Perry said, kicking the door closed behind him, then tossing his greatcoat onto a rude dresser beside it.

Rolin was being too calm—obviously the bastard had a plan. Very well, he'd play along. He'd played many a game himself, in France, in Spain; very deadly games. This could prove diverting.

Perry kept his hands visible, his pose only vaguely
threatening. “You say you were expecting me? You know, Rolin, I believe I am suddenly faced with a dilemma. Having found you, I no longer have any idea what I should do with you. Would the application of sweet reason work to convince you that the continent or America would make for much more comfortable surroundings for a man of your…unfortunate circumstances?”

Rolin was buttoned into his pantaloons once more, and turned to lift his jacket from the back of a chair. “That's not an appealing plan, actually. I have another, better idea in mind, which is why I became bored with skulking about and showed myself, hoping you'd find me so that we could have a small talk. How did you find me, by the way? You saw the rented excuse for horseflesh, correct?”

Perry took two steps to his left, away from the flickering light of the candle, moving slowly, keeping his body lightly balanced on the balls of his feet. “No, I saw you. Then I simply followed the smell. So, you won't leave the country? What do you want?”

Rolin folded his coat over one arm. “Afraid of me, Brentwood?” He held up one hand, holding thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “I was this close this afternoon. This close.” He allowed his arm to drop to his side.

“Any closer to her, Rolin, and we wouldn't be having this conversation. You'd already be dead.”

“Good, I was right! Acceptable enough, but no raving beauty, is she? There is, however, I will admit, something about the woman, a certain purity, a rather commendable courage. She would have made an
interesting conquest. That was naughty of you, to warn her away from me. And then it occurred to me. How much is this woman worth to the esteemed and quite wealthy Earl of Brentwood? It's why I decided we two needed to talk. You're right, Brentwood, I suppose Paris could hold some appeal. But, alas, not in my current embarrassed circumstances.”

Perry watched Rolin's hands without really looking at them. “And I suppose, as I am largely responsible for that embarrassment, you've concluded that I should fill your pockets and wave you off at Dover, believing you'd stay where you were put? I wish that were possible, Rolin, I truly do. But I can't trust you, can I?”

Rolin smiled, clearly believing he held the upper hand. “Now, now, don't be hasty, we're still negotiating. An allowance was more in line with my conclusions. Revenge gains me nothing save your sorrow. I think I'd rather see you grovel than grieve. It's more profitable. Put simply, I agree to stay away as long as the allowance arrives promptly every quarter. And, with that allowance, it wouldn't profit me to see you dead, now would it? And you can't kill me, you know, not now. I don't think Miss Fredericks would approve. Lord knows I wouldn't. Besides, I'm weary of our dance, aren't you?”

Perry had mentally cataloged every piece of furniture in the small room, knew its position, had calculated that it would take but two strides to reach the candle, throw the room into darkness. “War was easier,” he said, carefully coloring his voice with defeat. “God, we English are entirely too civilized.”

“Yes, we are, aren't we? Some of us. Some of us less so. The allowance, Brentwood. May I suggest three hundred pounds a quarter? I have, as you know, rather expensive tastes.”

Perry pretended to consider this for a moment, then gave a single, slight shake of his head. “As long as we're negotiating, I think I'd rather beat you into a jelly and then sell you to a ship bound to some very distant port. Do you think you have the makings of a common seaman, Rolin?”

Rolin smiled. “I could still come back. You'd never be able to stop looking over your shoulder. No, I've considered everything and made my choice. Much better the allowance, old fellow. My word as a gentleman.”

Perry cursed under his breath. His first instinct had been the right one, even if Amelia would never understand, could very possibly move even farther from him if she learned he had blood on his hands. And God knew he was sick of killing.

But sometimes there was no other choice.

Perry decided to push. “Gentlemen, are we? Then what do you say we adjourn to someplace more suited, and settle this like gentlemen?”

“A duel? Now you're simply being silly. What purpose would that serve? The loser would be dead, and the winner would have to flee the country. Either way, your Miss Fredericks would be unhappy. Give over, Brentwood. There's nothing you can do but pay the allowance. It's why I've never bothered to fall in love. Females complicate everything.”

Perry knew he could pretend to play the game, pay Rolin to leave the country, then have him taken care of at some later date. But if he knew this, so did Rolin, unless his greed had outstripped his intelligence. It might, but Perry doubted anyone could be that stupid.

“All right. The allowance it is,” he said, relaxing his body, as if no longer considering himself to be threatened in any way. “Come back to Portman Square with me, and we'll work out the particulars.”

“Certainly,” Rolin said, shaking out his coat, brushing at it with one hand. “Lead the way, Brentwood. I just want this over.”

“I couldn't agree more.” Perry smiled as he retrieved his greatcoat from the dresser. How much better that his decision had been made for him. He very deliberately turned his back on Jarrett Rolin….

 

F
OR A SOCIETY
that for the most part had turned its back on Caroline of Brunswick decades earlier, the ladies and gentlemen of the
ton
had raced back to Mayfair in droves, in hopes of catching a glimpse of the disgraced queen on her way to Westminster.

Perhaps their queen had gained appeal thanks to the general dissatisfaction with her husband, the new king.

Their appetites possibly wheted by Brougham's tactical maneuver of putting Her Majesty on display in the Promenade the day before, lords and ladies unabashedly lined the streets along with shopkeepers and hawkers and crossing sweepers as the queen's gilt-and-crested coach proceeded toward Westminster.

Mr. Brougham had certainly outdone himself by demanding all the trappings accorded royalty, Amelia thought as she sat in the rear-facing seat and watched Her Majesty smile and wave to the cheering throng.

The coach, flamboyant in both color and size, was drawn by no less than six matching bays, and a gaggle of soldiers wearing the queen's uniforms rode on fine horses along each side of the carriage, ostensibly to hold back the cheering crowd that threw flowers as the queen passed by.

Pageantry and chamber pots. Amelia didn't know whether to laugh or cry…or be incredibly angry.

She didn't bother searching the crowd for some sight of Perry, because Nate had come to Hammersmith early that morning to tell her that he'd received a note in the earl's own hand relating to the necessity of his absence from London for at least a day.

She'd pressed Nate until he'd shown her the note. There was no mention of Jarrett Rolin, but only the request that Nate inform Amelia that he was well. She'd spent the night nearly mad with worry, and he hadn't even bothered to write to her directly?

“Amelia! Is it too much to give your queen your attention?” Her Majesty demanded, bringing Amelia back to the moment.

“No, ma'am. Forgive me. I was…I was so caught up in marveling at this truly wonderful tribute to Your Majesty. With each cheer, each corner we turn to be met by yet another street lined with those who love you, my heart grows lighter. You will triumph, ma'am. You have already triumphed.”

“Yes, yes, let us all go swimming in the butter boat,” the queen said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Placate the old woman, while praying she doesn't find yet another way to disgrace herself. Only answer me, Amelia. Are you quite sure this is the correct ensemble? I feel impossibly dowdy.”

Amelia looked at the nearly black gown with its insert of lace at the bosom that extended halfway up the queen's neck, then at the pure white turban covering most of Her Majesty's dyed black hair, hung over with a long sweep of black silk—the entire effect being nearly nunlike. True, the queen did look every day of her age, but at least she looked respectable, and very much in mourning for the late king.

The past fortnight had put some sparkle back in the woman's eyes, as well. As the date for the trial approached—the Tories could call it what they wished; to Amelia it was still a trial—many of the queen's acquaintances had arrived in London and had begun making their way to Hammersmith.

Lord Guilford, Lady Charlotte Lindsay, Lord Glenbervie, Sir William Gill, all respected by their peers, had visited and had promised to testify on the queen's behalf.

With them they'd brought gossip, much juicier than Mrs. Bateman could know, much of it in a very derogatory vein about the King of England and his longtime “companion,” Lady Conyngham.

Her Majesty had laughed until tears ran down her face when they had recited for her one of the rude but popular verses being heard everywhere about the ever-
more-rotund king and his pudgy companion, and demanded they repeat it again and again: