Shall We Dance? (9 page)

Amelia felt her eyelids widen. “You wagered five hundred pounds that you could find a way to have an audience with the queen? Are you out of your mind?”

“If one lends any credence to rumor, yes, I suppose I am, as I do already carry the title of a useless fribble,”
His Lordship said, smiling. “So, am I to be tossed out on my ear, madam, to float away?”

“You should be,” Amelia said, folding her arms beneath her breasts. “I don't appreciate being made a May game of, you know.”

“That was crass of me, I agree. Cruel. And yet so very close to the truth. Or have you traveled only among the blind, Miss Fredericks? For only a blind man could fail to appreciate your unique beauty. Indeed, once I'd seen your likeness in the newspaper, no other ploy save nearly the complete truth could possibly have occurred to me.”

“You're doing it again, you know, attempting to flatter me. I do have access to mirrors,” Amelia said, part of her wanting this silly, grinning, lying man gone; another, more romantic side of her believing that there could not possibly be any harm in a light flirtation with this remarkably handsome man. She'd flirted before; one could not be in the company of the queen and her varied coterie of admirers without being the object of some flirtation.

The earl's smile widened. “Do I do it well? The flattering, that is?”

“Exceedingly well, yes,” Amelia admitted. “Oh, why not? We're needfully informal at the moment. It's only a cup of tea, and the queen enjoys the company of silly gentlemen. And your man—Clive, is it? He really should have some tea or hot soup before he catches his death. It's chilly here, on the water.”

“Even more so in the water, I would imagine.”

“Of course. I think the queen will find you amusing. We haven't had a court jester since Italy.”

“I live only to serve Her Royal Highness,” the earl said as he extended his arm once more.

Amelia took it, and, together, they entered the queen's residence.

 

C
LIVE ENTERED
the kitchens behind the footmen, blinked against the dimness after the bright sunlight, looked around and dropped his jaw to half-mast (which was fitting, him being a nautical man and all, at least in his clothing).

“Maryann?”

Maryann Fitzhugh, who had been gathering up cups from the scarred wooden table, turned all at once, the cups dropping to shatter against the stone floor. “Clive? My stars—Clive Rambert!”

“Maryann,” Clive repeated, his soft tone so unlike him that any of the men who'd served with him would have wondered if the man was sickening for something. “How long, Maryann?”

“Years, Clive. Years and years.”

“Yer were going ta wait, Maryann.”

“I did, Clive. I waited.”

“Mrs. Fitzhugh?” Esther Pidgeon said, entering the room. “I've settled my things in my room. Rather small, but it shall do nicely. Mrs. Fitzhugh?”

“Mrs. Fitzhugh, Maryann? Is that how yer waited?”

“It's not what you think.” Maryann's face paled. “I had no choice, Clive. You got away. You left.”

“I went ta war, Maryann,” Clive said, slapping his wet hat against his thigh.

“Excuse me,” Esther said. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Fitzhugh?”

Maryann shook her head. “No, no, Esther. Nothing's wrong. Clive? You're all wet.”

“Noticed that, did yer? I coulda been all dead.”

“But that's the whole thing. For so long I thought you were.”

“Oh, so you two are acquainted? Isn't that nice. Shall I order…that is…fetch tea?”

 

“Y
OU'RE QUITE SURE
you don't want me to ring for tea?” Amelia asked as she sat on one couch and Perry sat on its twin, which faced it across a low table. “There is, of course, no possibility that you will see the queen today. She is not receiving.”

“My loss, I am sure,” Perry said, casting his gaze about the drawing room. “Do you suppose there is some way for me to prove that I've at least been here?”

Amelia blinked at him. “You want to take something of the queen's?”

“In point of fact, yes. I should like to take you, Miss Fredericks, for a drive in the Park. Tomorrow at five, in time for the Promenade?”

“At which time you'd have your fellow bettor hidden behind a tree, to see us drive by, therefore proving that you have won your monkey?”

“And so many say they dislike intelligent women,” Perry drawled, making his way to the drinks table he'd
located tucked in below a bank of tall windows. This was going well; this was going better than well. And he only felt a little bit guilty. “Sherry, Miss Fredericks?” he asked, holding up a crystal decanter.

“Yes, thank you,” Amelia said, then cocked her head to one side, as if inspecting him. “So. You're a fribble, is that the term you used? Perhaps even a ne'er-do-well?”

“A totally useless lump, yes, but not a ne'er-do-well. Perhaps more of a ne'er-do-anything,” Perry said, handing her a glass. “Wealthy, titled, incurious about the world and how it works, bored into near insensibility by politics, but utterly fascinated by the cut of my waistcoat, the speed of my horses, the precise mix of my sort—snuff, that is—the quality of my dinners. Do I look ashamed, Miss Fredericks? Mine uncle vows I should.”

“Your uncle is sadly disappointed, I'm sure, My Lord, as you look quite—quite satisfied, with who and what you are.” She shrugged. “But I do believe the world needs butterflies, as well as worker bees.”

“And worker bees need their queen,” Perry slid in with what he thought was near brilliance on his part. “Evidence of that truth can be found in those who have made their way here today, to honor her, to welcome her, to place their hope in her. At least,” he ended, frowning, “that's what Clive tells me. He, you understand, is a worker bee. I thank you again for your concern for the man.”

“He was all wet, My Lord,” Amelia said, putting down her still-half-full glass. “I could do no less.”

“And I can do no less than to beg you to please allow
me to take you to the Promenade tomorrow, Miss Fredericks. And not for any wager. You are fairly isolated here, I know, and I would correct that.”

“You would, would you?” Amelia answered, running her gaze up and down his body in a way that would make a lesser man fear for his motives. Impressive young woman, Perry decided; handsome in her way, and quite intelligent. Very pretty eyes, that just might see too much. “Will you also be truthful with me?”

Perry sat down, spreading his coattails neatly, and crossed one long leg over the other. “I am nothing if not truthful, lies being so fatiguing to recall when necessary.”

“All right, then. Why are you here?”

“The wager, Miss Fredericks, remember?”

Amelia frowned, and Perry felt his first pangs of guilt. It took him some moments to recognize this response, as he had so seldom experienced that particular emotion.

“You really are as silly as you say?”

“Oh, more so, Miss Fredericks, more so. I vow to you, we have yet to scrape the first layer off my shallow self. Fortunately, there are only two of them. The silly layer and the feckless one, I believe it could be termed. Indeed, I am quite a worthless fellow.”

“So you say, again and again.”

“Yes, this compulsion to confess my lapses to you amazes even me. Perhaps I should set aside an hour this evening, to think upon this phenomenon. But no, I can't. I'm already promised at the theater. Ah, well, perhaps another time?”

“Amelia? I have not been informed that we have a visitor.”

Perry immediately leaped to his feet and bowed deeply to Queen Caroline, scarcely able to believe his luck (although he'd always been lucky; otherwise, he would not still be aboveground). “Perry Shepherd, Earl of Brentwood, gloriously honored, at your feet, and at your command, Your Royal Majesty.”

He watched as the queen entered completely into the room, her rather garish dress and ridiculous and rather soiled blond wig vying for attention with her rouged cheeks and kohl-darkened eyes. “Amelia? Why was I not informed that the earl has come to see me? Are you keeping secrets from your queen? Am I to trust no one?”

“Your Majesty,” Amelia said, dropping into yet another curtsy as she answered the questions. “His Lordship has just now arrived, by boat, ma'am, and I sought to offer him refreshments and ask the purpose of his visit.”

“Vetting him for me, were you? Very well, Amelia. Oh, sit down, Brentwood. God knows I'm going to. Amelia? You've dispensed the boons?”

“The fruit and cakes, ma'am? Yes, I have seen to it. The people were delighted.”

“I know, I watched through my spyglass, from behind the windows. I watched, Amelia, as you allowed Brentwood here to escort you into my house without my permission.” She turned to wink at Perry. “I am much smarter than my husband knows, Brentwood. Are you smart enough to know he's a fool?”

“I fear, ma'am, that I pay little attention to weighty matters. But,” he added, smiling, “I would have had to have been locked in a box in a cellar not to know that our king is not in good odour with many of his subjects.”

“In good odour? Ha! They loathe him, Brentwood. He is guilty of every crime, every evil, every failing—and yet he comes attacking me? I tell you, Brentwood, I tell you, I cannot bear this, simply cannot—”

“Ma'am?” Amelia interrupted, offering the queen her nearly untouched glass of sherry. “Perhaps it was unwise to leave your chambers? You did say you were unwell.”

Queen Caroline snatched the glass from Amelia's hand and downed its contents in one long gulp, while Perry did his best to pretend an interest in the rather depressing hunt painting hung over the fireplace.

The next thing he knew he was on his feet again, as the queen had risen, looking about distractedly as Amelia took her arm, urged her toward the hallway.

“My Queen,” Perry said, bowing yet again (dear, dear, but there was a lot of bowing and such to deal with when in an audience with one's queen).

“Not just yours.
England's
queen, Brentwood,” the queen countered, flecks of sherry-colored spittle gathering in the corners of her mouth. “I am England's queen, and he tells them I am England's whore.”

“Oh, look, ma'am, here's Rosetta, come to tend to you. Would you like me to attend you, as well?”

“A splendid idea, Miss Fredericks,” Perry said quietly, realizing that the queen was all he'd heard and
more. “I am sure someone will direct me as to where to locate Clive, and then we will be gone. Until tomorrow, for the Promenade?”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Amelia said as the queen leaned heavily against her and the two women departed the room, leaving Perry very much alone.

His uncle would probably tell him to take advantage of such an unexpected stroke of luck, and go investigating in cabinets, in corners, in drawers.

But Perry had never planned to do any such thing. He'd accomplished what he'd wished to accomplish—he'd gained entry into the queen's domicile. He never intended to do more, no matter how adamantly his uncle requested more of him. It was only important to keep his uncle from summoning the thoroughly unscrupulous Jarrett Rolin to take his place.

Besides, he already had seen enough, more than enough. The queen was more than candid, more than indiscreet. She was on the verge of losing her mind, if she had not already crossed one bridge too many in her hatred for the king.

Henry Brougham had to know, as he had access to the woman. Many of the most powerful of the Whigs had to know. Yet they would fight this Bill of Pains and Penalties. They would stand behind their queen, in the hopes that her success would mean their return to power.

It was sad, that's what it was, and Perry felt very much in need of a bath, not because of his Tory uncle who would only be delighted if Perry brought him evidence of the queen's supposed adultery, but because of
how all of England had their own plans to use, and then most likely discard, this poor, ruined queen.

Perry picked up his hat, cane and gloves and walked into the hallway, to look up the winding staircase. In the middle of all of this intrigue and selfishness and, yes, madness, Amelia Fredericks shone like a beacon of true devotion to her queen, with no notion of personal gain.

He admired that; he admired loyalty. He admired the fact that she seemed to ask for no reward, and not expect one, either.

Spying for England, working to defeat Napoleon, had been what Perry had sought to do, and the thought of recognition, of reward, had been repugnant to him.

He recognized Amelia as a kindred spirit in that regard.

But he was not so simple as to believe that one slim girl could protect the queen from those who would destroy her, or from those who would “save” her for their own benefit. His uncle was a very powerful man, with powerful friends. Liverpool could be formidable.

Brougham? The man had ideals, which made him vulnerable. He did not have the instincts of a shark detecting the scent of fresh blood in the water. But, ideals or not, Brougham, too, seemed more than ready to use Caroline for his own ends, or else he would have urged her to accept the allowance and exile that had been offered her, rather than convinced her to return to claim her crown.

In truth, Miss Amelia Fredericks stood alone in her defense of her queen, if someone did not offer to stand beside her.

“
Tch
,
tch
. You may have made quite a dangerous mistake in sending me here, Uncle Willie,” Perry said quietly as he swung his cane up and onto his shoulder and went off, unimpeded by any servants, in search of Clive Rambert.

 

“Y
ER'RE NOT
Mrs. Fitzhugh?” Clive asked, leaning closer to Maryann, glorying in the heady smell of peppermint, gently backing her up against the stones of the far side of the wall just outside the kitchens.