The Paper Princess (12 page)

“No, sire?” said Felicity in a shaky voice.

“Can't go anywhere with Boney strangling Europe. Brasnia, now let me see ... ?”

The color flew from Felicity's cheeks. She was about to be found out.

The Prince shook his heavy head so that the curls of his nut-brown wig bounced and shook. “We have never heard of the place. Where is it?”

“On th-the R-Russian b-border,” stammered Felicity.

“And your father, King ... ?”

Felicity closed her eyes in despair. She tried to think up some lie, something to say—anything! But it was as if terror had frozen her brain.

“I fear Princess Felicity is overcome with the heat of the rooms,” came Lord Arthur's voice. “Let me explain, sire. Brasnia is a small principality, not a kingdom. It is a very small country, about the size of Luxembourg. Princess Felicity's brother, Prince Georgi, is the ruler.” His voice dropped to a boring monotone. “It is mainly an agricultural country, growing maize-corn, wheat, and oats in the fertile plains surrounding the River Zorg. The river itself produces excellent fish, one of which is the curpa, a local delicacy that has to be cleaned by experts because it contains a deadly poison. Anyone who is unlucky enough to take this poison endures severe fits of vomiting and the flux prior to death. What is even more peculiar is that the vomit is bright green in color...”

“Gad's Oonds!” cried the Prince, holding his fat stomach. “Enough! Enough! We do not wish to hear another word.”

He nodded curtly to Felicity and hurried away. His voice carried back to Felicity and Lord Arthur.

“What on earth is up with that fellow, Bessamy? Used to be a wit. Now about the biggest bore in Christendom. We are bored. We wish to leave...”

The Prince's petulant voice faded away as he disappeared out the door of the saloon with Lord Alvanley at his heels.

Felicity looked up nervously at Lord Arthur. Either he had gone raving mad or he had mistaken Brasnia for another country—or he knew the truth about her. And Felicity was very much afraid he knew the truth.

But he merely smiled, a charming smile that lit up his eyes. “You must have accepted many social engagements for the weeks to come, ma'am.”

“N-no,” said Felicity breathlessly. “I mean, I have not accepted any invitations as yet. Madame Chubb

... iski is going to look through them all and choose which ones we should attend.”

“So, you had not planned to go to the balloon ascension at the Belvedere Tea Gardens in Pentonville tomorrow afternoon?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then, you and ... er ... Madame Chubiski must allow me and Mr. Godolphin the pleasure of escorting you there tomorrow at three o'clock.”

“S-so soon? I had planned to stay quietly at home for a few days.”

“Why not, Your Highness? Such poor creatures as myself and Dolph will not be able to come near you once you start the social round. Besides, we could talk about that fascinating country, Brasnia.”

“Yes, we could, couldn't we,” said Felicity miserably. She felt he was teasing her, playing with her. Well, she might as well accept his invitation and learn whether he planned to expose her.

“We shall be pleased to go with you,” she said.

He looked down at the downcast little face under the flashing tiara. “Then, I shall go and tell Dolph the good news.” He stepped back from her, bowing as he went, but before other guests could close in round Felicity, he suddenly said, “My goodness. How I have misled our Regent. I was thinking of another country altogether. I fear I had forgotten that I do not know Brasnia at all.”

Felicity looked at him sharply, but could see no guile or mockery on his face.

He bowed again.

At that moment, Miss Chubb finally reached Felicity's side. She hoped nothing had gone wrong. But Felicity was already talking to some of the other guests. She looked relaxed and happy—happier than she had looked all evening. Miss Chubb smiled with relief. For one moment, she had thought Lord Arthur must have said something to upset Felicity, but it was obvious from Felicity's manner that nothing had gone wrong at all.

“No, I shall not wear that wretched tiara again during the day,” said Felicity the following afternoon as she and Miss Chubb made ready for their outing. “It makes my head ache.”

“But you are supposed to be a princess,” protested Miss Chubb.

“I am sure princesses do not go about encrusted with jewels. Hand me that rope of pearls. They are magnificent enough on their own. And see, I have this pretty straw bonnet ornamented with silk flowers.

Surely that is smart enough for an afternoon occasion? Besides, the
Times
has been quite critical over the flamboyance of my dress.” Felicity picked up the newspaper and read, “PRINCESS FELICITY, DESPITE HER BEAUTY, PORTRAYS A CERTAIN EASTERN EUROPEAN BARBARISM IN

HER DRESS. TOO MANY JEWELS CAN ONLY BE CONSIDERED
NOT TASTY.
You see?”

“I suppose so,” said Miss Chubb. “You seem to have been accepted by everyone. Lord Arthur worries me, however. All that nonsense he told the Prince Regent about Brasnia...”

“But I told you, he said he had made a mistake. I thought he might be mocking me, but there was no mockery or teasing in his face. All the same, it is as well to make sure, which is why I have not cried off.”

“Do not waste too much time with Lord Arthur,” said Miss Chubb anxiously. “He is engaged, or had you forgot?”

“I am not interested in him. He is too old and sophisticated and makes me feel uncomfortable. I have not told you, my dear Miss Chubb, but I have decided I do not wish to be married
at all!
”

Miss Chubb looked bewildered. “Then, what is all this agony about? All our preparations, not to mention the horrendous expense of that rout?”

“Well, I thought, you know, that after a few weeks of the Season, we should both retire somewhere in the country and be quiet and comfortable. But it would be pleasant to have a little fun first.”

“Fun?” echoed Miss Chubb in a hollow voice. She remembered her own stark terror when the Prince Regent had been announced, the worry and fret over the preparations, the skeleton of exposure as an impostor always standing in the closet waiting to leap out.

“Yes,
fun,
” said Felicity firmly. “Now let us finish dressing, or we shall be late. It is nearly three o'clock already.”

But at three o'clock exactly, she and Miss Chubb descended the stairs just as Lord Arthur and Dolph arrived.

Felicity was wearing a blue muslin gown embroidered with little sprays of golden corn under a pelisse of gold silk. The Channing pearls glowed around her neck, and her jaunty straw hat was worn at a rakish angle on her red curls.

Miss Chubb, hoping to make up for Felicity's lack of display, was wearing a black velvet gown on which blazed an indeterminate number of jeweled brooches and pins. She was wearing a black velvet slouch hat that made her look like a highwayman.

She looked so worried and gloomy that Dolph, surveying the acres of black velvet, asked her whether she was in mourning.

“No, I am not,” said Miss Chubb sharply, “and do not make personal remarks, young man.” Dolph was crushed into silence. He bowed his way out of the house backward toward the carriage, tripped on the top step, and somersaulted onto the pavement. Spinks, the butler, picked him up, and said gloomily,

“Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.”

“Where on earth did you find such a biblical butler, Princess Felicity?” asked Lord Arthur as he drove off.

“I hired him in London,” said Felicity, and added primly, “I am fortunate in having such a God-fearing staff.”

“What is the religion of Brasnia?”

Miss Chubb surveyed Lord Arthur with dislike. “Orthodox Brasnian,” she said repressively.

“Oh, don't let's talk about Brasnia,” said Felicity hurriedly, “or you will quite spoil my day. My poor country. So much turmoil. So many revolutions.”

Miss Chubb emitted something that sounded suspiciously like a groan.

“By George,” said Dolph. “Got the Jacobites over there as well?”

“You were not listening, Dolph,” came Lord Arthur's amused voice. “Princess Felicity does not want to talk about Brasnia!”

While Felicity was on her way to the balloon ascension, a portly gentleman called Mr. Guy Clough, a Virginian tobacco planter, was landing at Bristol. After a decent bottle of port at a good inn, he began to feel much recovered from the rigors of the voyage. He fished in his pocket and drew out a small oilskin packet and looked at it thoughtfully. A minister, the Reverend Hereward Harrington, had given him the packet before he sailed and had told him the strange story of the repentant kitchen maid, Bessie Redhill.

Mr. Clough debated riding over to this Tregarthan Castle and confronting this Mr. Palfrey with the evidence of his crime. But a man who could half kill a servant and have her transported might not hesitate to shoot any bringer of bad news. Also in his capacious pockets, Mr. Clough carried several letters of introduction to people in court circles. The Prince Regent was also Prince of Wales and Duke of Cornwall. Tregarthan Castle was in Cornwall. Then it would be better to get word to the Prince of the evil that had taken place in his duchy and let him cope with it. Mr. Clough was a lazy man and preferred to put any action off to the last minute. He returned the will to his pocket and proceeded to forget about the whole thing.

* * * *

By the time he returned to Cornwall, he was sure the whole business would have died down.

The Belvedere Tea Gardens were crowded to overflowing. Felicity was glad of the crowd and the noise. Lord Arthur had talked generally about ballooning, plays, operas, and the balls to be held during the Season. He had not mentioned Brasnia. But there was a feeling of waiting about him, and every time his eyes fell on Felicity, they lit up with amusement.

When they had set out, the weather had been fine. But now a thin veil of clouds was covering the sun and a chill wind had sprung up. Lord Arthur solicitously produced bearskin carriage rugs for the ladies.

The great balloon had been already filled before their arrival, and its huge red-and-yellow-striped shape rose well above the crowd. The pilot balloon was sent off, then two carrier pigeons. The crowd, who had become bored with the long wait—for it had taken over two hours to inflate the balloon—cheered the pilot balloon and the pigeons wildly, glad to see some action at last.

Another cheer went up as the balloonist, a Mr. Peter Green, was escorted through the crowd. And another cheer rose as the cords were cut away and the gas-filled balloon began to rise.

Felicity's eyes filled with tears as she watched it. Lord Arthur's overwhelming masculine presence was making her extremely uncomfortable. She felt she would like to float away, like Mr. Green, far away from the troubles and worries of her masquerade, far up into the clouds, far away from staring, curious eyes. Lord Arthur silently handed her his handkerchief, and she stifled a sob and blew her nose. Silence fell on the crowd as the balloon began to climb and climb. Then sand fell down from it like white smoke, the wind caught it, and it began to bear away steadily to the east. Felicity, like the crowd, watched and watched until the balloon grew smaller and smaller in the distance, until it finally appeared into a bank of cloud.

And then all chaos broke loose. A crowd of people had been sitting on the wall of a house that bordered the tea gardens. As they swayed and shuffled to get down, the wall broke. There were terrified screams, and the crowd went mad. They pushed this way and that against the carriages. Lord Arthur's light curricle tilted wildly. Miss Chubb was thrown out, and Dolph leapt down after her to try to rescue her from the stampeding crowd.

Lord Arthur's groom was holding the horses’ reins and brandishing his whip as he tried to keep the crowd clear of the terrified horses.

“We're going to be crushed with the carriage,” cried Lord Arthur. He jumped down and lifted Felicity into his arms and began to force a way through the crowd, booting, kicking, and cursing as he cleared a path. He looked back over his shoulder. His groom had cut the horses free and was leading them safely away—just in time, for the curricle had been upended.

“Nearly safe,” said Lord Arthur in Felicity's ear. His arms were tightly around her, and above one hand he could feel the swell of her bosom. Her light body seemed a throbbing, pulsating thing. The effect of holding her so close was making his head swim. He looked down at her. She had her arms tightly around his neck, but her eyes were downcast.

He carried her clear of the crowd and stood for a moment, filled with an overwhelming reluctance to free her.

“Look at me, my princess,” he said softly. Felicity turned bewildered eyes up to his face and saw a light burning in those black eyes that made her tremble. He suddenly held her very tightly against him, smelling the light scent she wore, and feeling the trembling of her body.

Then he set her down, and, turning a little away from her, he said in a rough voice, “There is a posting house quite near here. If you can walk that far, I shall hire some sort of carriage to take you home. You had better hold my hand. There are a great many unsavory people about.”

It would be all right to hold her hand, he thought. Any man, holding a beautiful young girl in his arms would have felt the way he did. But mere hand-holding was safe enough. He took her hand without looking at her. But a burning sensation seemed to run up his arm.

By the time they had reached the inn, he realized he wanted Felicity more than he had wanted any woman in the whole of his life. And he was engaged to be married.

“You are holding my hand very tightly,” said Felicity in a small voice, “and we are well clear of the crowd.”

He released her hand. He had meant to ask for a private parlor so that she might be able to have some refreshment before he escorted her home. But he knew he could no longer be alone with her without wanting to touch her.