The Rogue (22 page)

Surprised
delight had coursed through her. She had pressed her ear to the door
to hear more—she wasn't accustomed to eavesdropping, but after
all, the topic concerned her greatly—only to freeze with icy
horror as she listened to the rest of the conversation. Now, she felt
sickened by what she had heard.

Uncle
Harold was a traitor—and worse yet, he was planning on turning
Mr. Damont traitor as well!

Jane
turned to run as lightly as possible from the hall, only to stop cold
before reaching the stairs. She had no one to turn to—no one to
tell. How could she go to her aunt with this story?

Aunt
Lottie would think her malicious or mad, but she would certainly not
believe her. Her cousins—they were too young and innocent to
hear such things. Besides, what could they do against their own
father?

Mother
would know what to do.

Yes.
If Jane posted a letter first thing tomorrow, she ought to hear back
from Mother very quickly. Jane ran carefully up the stairs, doing her
best to let no one hear her passing. Once safely in her and Serena's
room, she pulled out her writing case and began.

"Dear
Mother, I have just learned the most disturbing thing…"

Serena
dawdled over her evening biscuits and milk, unwilling to go upstairs
to bed just yet. She'd been up to her room a few moments ago, only to
find Jane bent avidly over her writing desk, pen scratching wildly,
ink everywhere.

When
Jane first came to visit, Serena had been very happy, especially when
it meant that she was moved into the largest, nicest bedchamber with
her cousin. It had used to be Augusta's room and Augusta had lorded
it over all of them that she no longer had to share a bed.

Jane
was usually good company. Serena liked to hear about her life in
Northumbria, although it was difficult to get Jane to talk about her
years in the Dowager House.

Serena
pictured someplace brooding and romantic, with windswept moors and
towering dark clouds. Jane had laughed at her when she'd said that.

"There
is wind and there are clouds indeed, but I doubt you'd find it so
romantic when you were trying to keep your bonnet in place."

Sometimes
Serena suspected that Jane purposely suppressed all romantic urges,
just to be practical. Serena wasn't fond of practicality.
Practicality meant doubling up bedrooms and the youngest daughter
getting the most elderly of the gowns and cheap shoes from Shepherd's
Market that looked just like the expensive ones from Bond Street but
fell apart after a few wearings and pinched horribly until they did.

Finally,
Serena couldn't force herself to maintain interest in her stale
biscuits and left the room to dawdle her way down the downstairs
hall.

The
door to Papa's study opened a few feet ahead of her and a familiar
figure hurried out with barely a polite nod in her direction. Serena
sighed. It was only Papa's man of business, that small, round-faced
fellow who came and went at all hours.

The
study door remained open, so Serena peeped in to see if Papa was in
an expansive mood. She saw him leaning back in his chair at his desk,
blowing rings of smoke over his head and smiling slightly.

Encouraged,
Serena tapped timidly on the doorframe. "May I come in, Papa?"

Papa
smiled warmly at her and Serena relaxed. She knew Papa favored her
over the others, but she was also fairly sure that was because she
was careful never to nag at him for more gowns and shoes. One had to
be careful to catch Papa in just the right mood, or he could be as
gruff as a bear.

She
ran to him and twined her arms about his neck, laying her head on his
shoulder fondly. "You are working very late, Papa."

"And
you are up late yourself, Angel," he said, patting her clumsily
on the shoulder.

Serena
closed her eyes, breathing in the smoky, sandalwood Papa scent that
surrounded him. Such moments came rarely and Serena treasured every
one. Some girls had loving papas and some did not. Serena knew she
should feel fortunate that every once in a while, her papa was
actually hers. She only wished such moments came more often.

"Why
aren't you in bed, Serena?"

She
sighed into his shoulder. "Oh, Jane is writing another letter. I
think she is upset about something, for she is nearly breaking the
nib of the pen."

She
thought she felt him stiffen. "What would Jane have to be upset
about? She seemed fine when I spoke to her this afternoon."

"I
don't know. I looked over her shoulder but all I could see was a line
about overhearing something."

Papa's
hand dropped from her shoulder and she felt him shrug her off.

"Get
off to bed now, Serena," he said shortly.

Sighing,
Serena straightened. She would have liked another few seconds—but
never mind. If she was good and sweet and careful not to nag, then
sooner or later she would be welcomed back on that broad shoulder
again.

The
next morning, Ethan dawdled on Pall Mall. The Royal Guard was in high
evidence near and around the Prince's residence. Carlton House didn't
have literal gates, of course, but there may as well have been a moat
with no drawbridge before him, so vast was the gulf between mere
Ethan Damont and George IV.

Finally,
he tossed his cheroot into the gutter and took a breath. It was a
ridiculous errand, one he was sure Maywell had sent him on for one
reason only.

"Time
to teach the merchant's son his place," he muttered to himself.
A conservatively dressed, bespectacled fellow scurried by at that
moment and cast Ethan a curious glance. With a twist to his lips,
Ethan watched him approach the Guard and be whisked indoors. "Now
why didn't I wear my royal underling suit? Oh, that's right," he
muttered to himself. "It's being cleaned."

He
sauntered forward. The Royal Guard were a tall lot, all muscle and
rigid spine. The two men standing on either side of the entry were no
exceptions. Ethan blew out a low breath. What did they feed these
blokes, elephant's milk?

He
stood his tallest, which helped some, and pasted an arrogant smile on
his lips, which helped more. "Hullo, lads. I've come to ask for
a private audience with the Prince Regent."

They
didn't laugh, he gave them that much.

"Your
name and business, sir?"

Ethan
swept off his hat and bowed facetiously. "Ethan Damont. I am no
one of any influence or importance whatsoever. I've no business at
all. I'm simply here on a whim."

The
guard on the right glanced back over his shoulder at the gatekeeper,
who bent to busily check something. After a rustle of pages, the
gatekeeper raised his head. "He's on the list. Let him through."

Ethan
blinked. "I'm what?"

The
Royal Guard stepped apart, creating a space in the wall of muscled
imperturbability. A bemused Ethan wandered through, his mind racing.
What list?

Once
within the doors, he stood quite still, too stunned even to look
about him for a moment. Then he came back to himself enough to blink
at the grandeur around him. He stood in an entry hall that could have
held his own fine house and had room for part of the garden as well.
Gilded molding created panels on the walls that each held an
individual mural depicting—apparently—the visitor's
entrance into heaven.

Well,
that had yet to be seen, hadn't it?

A
bewigged, beribboned, and begilded servant stepped up to him. "If
you'll follow me, sir."

Ethan
nearly whistled. The man's white satin livery with gold-thread trim
was blinding. Various obnoxious comments concerning its resemblance
to cake icing rose to Ethan's lips, but he said nothing as he was led
down a grand hallway that was wider than his house. Eventually the
servant stopped before an ornately carved door and stepped through.
Ethan could see only the man's shiny rear end as he bowed deeply.
"Mr. Ethan Damont!"

Someone
murmured something in the room and Ethan found himself gestured
inside. He imagined he was going to find himself before some officer
of the Crown who would demand an explanation.

Instead,
he entered the room to find himself face-to-face with the face on the
coin—the face of the Prince Regent of all the British Isles,
George IV, who was smiling genially at him, Ethan Damont!

"Hello,
Ethan," His Royal Highness said in an oddly familiar voice.
"Rescued anyone else from a dungeon lately?"

Ethan
gaped, breathless with shock. Finally, his numb lips formed one word.

"Codger?"

Jane
carried her letter downstairs this morning instead of allowing the
chambermaid to do it. She meant to see it posted straightaway.

Just
as she reached the bottom of the stairs she saw Robert, dressed to go
out, collecting the rest of the outgoing post from its customary spot
atop the table in the entry hall. "Robert, are you going to post
those?"

"Yes,
my lady. Is there something you'd like me to post for you?"

Jane
started to hand him the heavy letter she'd composed to Mother. It had
taken several sheets of paper to tell all the details she'd held back
before concerning Mr. Damont. She'd included everything this time,
from their first meeting under the elm to yesterday's bewildering
encounter in the second parlor. She'd laid herself naked in her plea
for help, but Mother would understand. Mother
must
understand. Jane had no one else to turn to.

Robert
reached out to take the letter. After a moment, Jane released it
uneasily. Then she scoffed at herself. She was seeing conspiracy
everywhere. What could happen between here and the Post Office?
Robert certainly wasn't going to read her letter. He was no wicked
henchman. Robert was a pleasant, rather nondescript fellow who
carried parcels and tea trays and letters to the post.

Nevertheless,
Jane watched him leave the house, then moved to the window in the
front parlor to watch him march purposefully down the street toward
the Post Office. Only when he was finally out of sight around the
corner did Jane relax her vigil. The letter was well on its way. Help
would soon arrive.

"Codger,
eh?" The Prince Regent's eyes flashed at Ethan with amusement.
"Most people call me 'Your Highness' or even 'Your Royal
Highness.' On occasion, a few people whom I hold in great affection
are permitted to address me as 'George.' " He waved Ethan toward
a velvet chair and sat himself down before a vast tray of breakfast.
"You, my dear Damont, are the only person on earth who has ever
called me 'Codger.' "

Ethan
stumbled toward his chair, unable to take his eyes off the prince.
The last time he'd seen the man he knew only as Collis Tremayne's
stout old uncle—whom Ethan had immediately dubbed "the
Codger" with his usual irreverence—had been after he'd dug
the battered and bruised old fellow out of his iron manacles and
released him from the cellar of a munitions factory owned by a
traitor.

"Good
God," Ethan gasped. "That munitions fellow, the one who
beat you up and chained you—"

The
prince nodded. "Louis Wadsworth," he said around a mouthful
of food. Ethan supposed if one was the leader of the British Empire,
one didn't have to bother with table manners. The Prince pointed his
fork skyward. "In the tower now."

"Too
bloody right," Ethan breathed. "Did he know—"

The
prince shook his head. "No more than you did. It was a priceless
moment when he figured it out—rather like just now." The
Prince smirked at Ethan. "I thought you'd figure it out sooner
or later, although to be honest, I rather thought it would be
sooner."

Ethan
barely noticed the dig. His mind was swirling with the knowledge that
he was sitting in the presence of the Prince Regent, watching him eat
sausage and toast, and surviving having called him a codger. It all
left him rather breathless.

"I
think I need to sit down," he said weakly. "Oh, that's
right, I am." He took a breath. "Perhaps I need to lie
down."

The
Prince chuckled. "So, Damont, what brings you here today? If you
didn't know that it was me you rescued a few weeks ago, what
possessed you to waltz up to my guard like that?"

Something
clicked in Ethan's mind. Maywell had known. Somehow, through some
channel, Maywell had known what Ethan had not.