The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) (21 page)

To that end, he had applied his paint, patches and elaborately curled wig with great care, and was wearing breeches and coat of violet satin, and an ivory waistcoat heavily embroidered with a pattern of stylised leaves and flowers. As the couple arrived at the door they were stopped by the guards, who now stood to sloppy attention.

“You must relinquish your sword, sir,” one of them said, looking lasciviously at Beth rather than at the baronet. She sighed inwardly, realising that her attempt to look dowdy had failed at the first hurdle.

Her husband’s hands fluttered to his swordbelt, but he seemed incapable of unbuckling it, he was trembling so badly, and in the end, exasperated, Beth reached over and took it off herself, handing it to the guards, who didn’t trouble to hide their smiles of contempt.

“Do you have any other weapons, sir?” asked the other guard.

“Of course not. I have not come here to do battle!” squawked Sir Anthony, in a feeble and unsuccessful attempt to recover his dignity. The first guard winked suggestively at Beth, who looked from him to her husband. He was fussing over his appearance, brushing imaginary specks of lint from his coat and seemed not to have registered the fact that this servant dared to openly flirt with Beth in his presence. The guard smiled reassuringly at her, revealing a set of black and yellow teeth, and opened the door for them.

“You may enter,” he said.

She was halfway through the door when she felt the hand gently, but unmistakably squeeze her bottom. Outraged, she whirled round, and the sharp crack of her hand as it contacted with the guard’s cheek resounded across the room, causing the three men at the desk by the window to look up startled from the papers they were studying. The guard, red-faced with fury and embarrassment, backed out quickly, closing the door with a slam.

It was not the entrance she would have wished for, and the colour rose to her cheeks. She felt the touch of her husband’s hand as he took her arm, ostensibly to steady himself, but taking the opportunity to give it a reassuring squeeze, and when she looked up at him, he allowed his merriment to show for a moment, before it was replaced by the apprehensive nervousness he wanted his audience to see. Beth felt a little better knowing that he, at any rate, did not think she had caused any damage by her action.

They moved forward across the luxuriously appointed room towards the three men, who greeted them with a variety of expressions. The man on the left was elderly, thin-featured, pale, dressed in sober shades of brown. He viewed the couple with open curiosity. The second, on the right, who was eyeing them with disdain was much younger, about the same age as Alex, Beth thought, and was heavily-built, stern of feature, striking, although that was mainly because he was wearing the
feileadh mór,
the belted plaid of the Highlander, kilted to the knee, the surplus material draped over his left shoulder and pinned to his jacket by a silver brooch.

Sir Anthony’s eyes swept across the two men without recognition and came to rest on the young man standing between them. He made a low and over-elaborate bow.

Following his example Beth curtseyed deeply, and after a moment looked up at the young man, observing him discreetly from between her lashes. His dark blue frock coat and breeches were expensively tailored, and of good material. His bagwig was expertly curled and of the highest quality. But had he been dressed in rags, Beth would have known him to be Charles Edward Stuart, though she had heard no description of the prince. Every inch of him was royal. He was tall, almost as tall as Alex, of athletic build, fair-complexioned, his features regular, mouth sensual, brown eyes smiling as he eyed the unctuous dandy and the volatile young woman who were making their obeisance to him. He stepped forward to greet them and bade them rise, in lightly accented English.

Beth rose smoothly, Sir Anthony stumbled a little and almost fell on his face. The disdain in the eyes of the Highlander deepened to utter contempt, although he did not speak.

“Your Royal Highness!” cried the baronet. “You do myself and my dear lady wife the utmost honour in allowing us to enter into your presence. I am overwhelmed!”

“Sir Anthony Peters, I believe. I am always pleased to make the acquaintance of one of my father’s subjects,” the prince replied, his voice and smile full of genuine welcome, betraying no sign of the amusement or contempt he must surely feel at the ridiculous sight before him.

“Indeed! And my wife, Lady Elizabeth.” Sir Anthony fluttered a hand in Beth’s direction. “We are but newly married, Your Highness, and are visiting Rome as part of a tour of Europe.”

Prince Charles turned his attention to Beth. He extended his hand to her and she placed hers in his. He grasped it, gently but firmly, and raised it to his lips, and she felt the hardness of the skin of his palms. A swordsman then, or a horseman. Or both.

“Lady Elizabeth. Any lady is most welcome to my house, but such a beautiful one as yourself doubly so.” He smiled warmly at her, and she saw that he was neither flirting with her nor flattering her, but merely stating his honest opinion. She returned his smile. “We rarely see such loveliness as yours in Rome,” he continued. “The ladies here are of a somewhat darker beauty. That may explain, but does not excuse the behaviour of the guard towards you.” He released her hand then and strode to the door, flinging it open. The guards, caught in the act of lounging against the doorpost, shot to attention.

“Giovanni, is it not?” said the prince in Italian to the man with one flaming cheek.

The man muttered something, his head lowered.

“You will apologise to the Lady Elizabeth and Sir Anthony Peters, for your unspeakable insult to them. Immediately.”

Colour flooded the man’s face, eclipsing the marks of Beth’s blow, and his expression was sullen, resentful, but he did not hesitate. Turning to the visitors, he bowed, and spoke a few words in rapid Italian, which Beth assumed was an apology.

The prince turned back to his guests. Beth was as scarlet as her assailant. Sir Anthony stood, mouth open, stunned.

“Are you satisfied, Sir Anthony? Or do you wish to take further action?”

“What? Oh, yes, of course. I am satisfied, I mean, I thought Elizabeth had dealt with the fellow already,” he simpered, clearly feeling no embarrassment that his wife should think it necessary to fend off attackers herself when in his presence.

She looked at the prince, catching the momentary twist of his mouth that told her he shared the Highlander’s view of the baronet, and then he turned again to the unfortunate Giovanni.

“You are dismissed,” he said coldly. “Gather your belongings and leave immediately.”

He closed the door in the man’s face.

Beth swallowed nervously.

“I am sorry, Your Highness,” she said. “I should not have lost my temper.”

“On the contrary, my lady,” Charles interrupted, the steel gone from his voice. “I seek all the support I can from my father’s English subjects, and hardly think it likely that I will make a good impression if my employees insult my guests before they have even entered my presence. I am grateful to you for drawing such unforgivable behaviour to my attention. You are both most welcome. Now, how can I help you?”

“You have done more than enough already, Your Highness, by admitting us to your exalted presence. We never expected such an honour. It has quite eclipsed all the other sights of Rome, even the falls at Tivoli!” Sir Anthony gushed. He was excelling himself today, Beth thought.

The elderly man tutted impatiently, but if Prince Charles resented being classified as a tourist attraction, he was too well bred to show it.

“You have seen the falls at Tivoli, then?” he said pleasantly, seeking to put the baronet at his ease, before finding out what he wanted and getting rid of him. If he wanted anything at all that was, other than merely something to write home to his friends about.

“Well, no, not yet, Your Highness,” admitted Sir Anthony. “But I am sure there is no point in troubling to make the journey, as it would only be a disappointment after meeting your exalted person!”

The prince allowed Beth to see his amused look at this outrageous sycophancy. He had already accurately summed up the relationship between Sir Anthony and Elizabeth, she noted.

“We may as well return home immediately, as after today no monument or sight to be seen in the whole of Europe will satisfy my husband.” She smiled sweetly at the purple apparition by her side. He beamed down at her, clearly having failed to note the sarcasm in her voice. “You have saved us a small fortune in post-horses and accommodation. We thank you, Your Highness.”

Behind them, the Scot coughed politely.

“Your Highness,” he said in a soft Scottish burr. “We really must continue…”

“Oh, quite, quite!” cried Sir Anthony. “We will leave you directly. You have great affairs to deal with, I am sure. But first, I would crave a few words in private, if Your Highness would be so kind.” Sir Anthony curved his lips up in an oily smile.

“Allow me to introduce you to my companions,” the prince said mildly. He indicated the elderly man. “This is Sir Thomas Sheridan, my tutor and dearest friend. And the other is John Murray of Broughton, another friend. They are utterly trustworthy. You can say anything in front of them without fear that it will reach other ears.” His voice was still warm, but a vein of ice ran through it.
I trust my friends, therefore so will you, and I will have no argument about it,
he was saying.
Beth’s first opinion of him had not yet been shaken.

Sir Anthony looked deeply flustered.

“I intended no insult to your friends, Your Highness,” he said. He reached into his pocket. Out of the corner of her eye Beth saw Murray step forward, his hand moving towards his sword. Although Sir Anthony was not facing him, his movements became slow and deliberate, unthreatening.

“I have here a letter,” he said, drawing it out of his pocket with his index finger and thumb and handing it to the prince, “which, if you will be so kind as to read, will explain everything.”

The prince unfolded it and scanned it politely, clearly having no intention of letting its contents sway him. Then he froze, looking from the letter to Sir Anthony in utter disbelief. His eyes flickered back to the letter again, then he straightened and turned to his friends.

“Thomas, John, you will excuse me for a short while. I find I wish to humour my guests after all.” It was not a request, but a command. Sheridan moved forward.

“Charles, is this wise?” he said nervously. “You know nothing of this Sir Anthony fellow.”

“I know enough to be sure he poses no danger, Thomas. Go. I am quite capable of defending myself, although I assure you it will not be necessary.”

The door had hardly closed on the reluctant men when the prince, to Beth’s utter astonishment, leapt at Sir Anthony and gave him a quick but undoubtedly affectionate bear hug, before moving back to hold him at arm’s length. Both men’s eyes were sparkling.

“My God, Alex, it is genius!” he cried. “Never, never would I have suspected!” He eyed the over-dressed baronet from head to toe. “Remarkable!” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“You understand now why I had to see you alone,” Alex said in his normal voice, for once breaking his rule of remaining as Sir Anthony while in costume. “No one else must know who I am. It would be too dangerous.”

“No, of course, I appreciate that,” said Charles, still clearly amazed that he had been so utterly fooled. “But what a shame. It would bring John down a peg to know that he had not recognised one of his friends! He can be a little pompous at times.” He turned his warm brown gaze on Beth. “I take it then, that the two of you are in fact man and wife, or are you about to reveal yourself to be another of my dear friends in disguise?” He laughed. Beth found herself laughing with him. His undoubted merriment was infectious. He was not at all disgruntled at having been hoodwinked, as she had thought he might be.

“Aye, she is my wife, or at least the wife of Sir Anthony Peters,” Alex said. “But as ye can see, she kens well who I am. She is trustworthy, Your Highness.”

“I am the wife of Sir Anthony Peters by law, although I consider myself also to be married to Alex MacGregor,” Beth interposed. “I am a loyal supporter of King James, and also of yourself, and although it seems I am trustworthy, I was not informed of the degree of my husband’s friendship with Your Highness.”

“Ah,” said Charles. “You have been playing a trick on your wife as well as on myself. Why did you not tell her we were friends?”

“I wished her to form her own opinion of you, without any influence from me, Your Highness,” Alex replied.

“Do not worry, Lady Elizabeth,” the prince said, turning to her and taking her hands in his. “I will not embarrass you by asking you what that opinion is – not yet, at any rate. But I will, with your permission, greet you now not just as a loyal subject, but also as a trusted friend.”

Without waiting for that permission, he enfolded her in his strong embrace, before kissing her lightly on the lips and rendering her, as he had no doubt intended, his forever.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were close friends?” Beth said angrily, when they had reached the security of their lodgings on the Piazza di Spagna, a popular area for English tourists and not far from the Jacobite Court. Angus, told to keep a low profile in Rome, and not to be seen in company with Sir Anthony in case someone known to Alex noted the family resemblance and became suspicious, had gone out. “I thought that you had met once or twice, maybe, as prince and loyal subject. I had no idea you were bosom friends!”

“As I said to Charles,” Alex said, scrubbing at the paint on his face with a wet cloth, “I wanted you to form your own impression. If ye’d known we were friends, ye’d have already had a favourable view of the man.”

“I already
did
have a favourable view of him,” she said. “He’s my prince, for God’s sake!”

“Aye, that’s true. But you’re also sensible. Ye ken that being born tae a role doesna always make you fit for it. History’s littered wi’ inadequate kings. But you love me, Beth, or so ye told me yesterday.”