The Twelfth Enchantment: A Novel (32 page)

The ladies had no choice but to remain in tow behind Mr. Gilley, but if Norah yearned to be asked to dance by some fashionable gentleman, Lucy was content to witness and observe and be unobserved, for she feared any conversation must expose her country ignorance. After introductions to a near endless procession of peers and foreigners of significance and a sprinkling of navy men, Mr. Gilley fell into close conversation with a handsome man in his sixties. He was dressed quite beautifully, Lucy thought, in a plain dark suit that both bowed to and defied the current London fashions. The man’s hair receded, his face was wrinkled, and he was short, thin, and quite pale, and yet there was something appealing in his face that was hard to deny. Lucy had little doubt that, in his youth, he had been striking. In his old age, he remained charming.

After exchanging jovial words with Mr. and Mrs. Gilley, he demanded to be introduced to the ladies.

Mr. Gilley cleared his throat and turned to Norah. “My dear daughter, Miss Norah Gilley, allow me to present to you Mr. Spencer Perceval.”

Norah conducted herself with excellent grace, and curtsied low. Lucy, for her part, was taken by surprise, and gasped quite openly. She did not follow politics closely, but there was no avoiding the knowledge that she was about to be introduced to the prime minister.

When Mr. Gilley turned to Lucy, the prime minister, perhaps ready to be finished with these introductions, about which he cared so little, was already shaking Lucy’s hand.

“And this,” said Mr. Gilley, “is my daughter’s particular friend, Miss Lucy Derrick.”

Mr. Perceval squeezed Lucy’s hand hard enough that she let out a little gasp. Then he let go at once. “Forgive me,” he said. “Only, miss, I know your uncle. May I have a private word?”

Lucy felt oddly out of place in her own life. “Of course,” she said.

Mr. Perceval took her arm and led her away from the Gilleys. “I don’t truly know your uncle,” he said amiably enough. “I do, however, know of you from the reports of my agent, Mr. Morrison.”

“Do you mean to say that Mr. Morrison is a Tory?” Lucy said with surprise.

The prime minister let out a boisterous laugh. “My party is not so fortunate. Mr. Morrison is a brother of the Rosy Cross, and I am the leader of more than this government.”

And now Lucy understood. Spencer Perceval, Prime Minister of England, was also the head of Mr. Morrison’s band of Rosicrucians. It was from him that the orders came.

“Mr. Morrison is bound to report everything to me, you know, and so he has been made to tell me about you. I hope you do not find this too shocking. You are lucky to have had the experience of serving with him.”

Lucy did not consider herself lucky. “And why is that?”

“Because,” said the prime minister, “Mr. Morrison is a great hero to this country. He has, quite literally, done more for England than any man alive.”

Lucy snorted, thinking of his silly tricks, his easy charm, and how he had deceived her four years earlier. “I find that difficult to credit.”

“Most young ladies are rather taken with him. In any event, he wrote of how you have found yourself in the thick of things, and even how you aided him in his efforts to retrieve the pages to a book we seek. Perhaps
he had no choice but to impress your services, but you must know that your part is over.”

“I did not know that I had a part circumscribed to me.”

“You do,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “We all do, my dear. And please do not think I mean that we are an august group of savants and you are some meddling child, for that is not it at all. What I mean is that you have served your country and done far more than any of us would have dared to ask, and now we wish you to step aside. The earth itself is moving, Miss Derrick, and it would grieve me to see you crushed beneath it.”

Lucy did not much like being told what to do by a stranger, even if that stranger was the prime minister. “I shall certainly keep your advice in mind.”

“You would be wise to do so,” he said. “Have you any idea who are the players in this game? Have you any notion of what this Ned Ludd is?”

“No, Mr. Morrison did not tell me.”

“Of course he did not. It is not for you to know. Allow me to assure you that your ignorance is a gift. Relish it, and seek to learn no more. I say that out of concern.”

Lucy remained motionless, daring to neither move nor speak. Could it be true? Was she truly risking her life if she pursued the matter? And yet, what choice had she? She could hardly cower in fear while Emily was locked away in some unimaginable dungeon. Nor could she turn away from events of global magnitude when she had some role to play. Mr. Morrison and the prime minister, in their arrogance, decided that the future of Britain depended upon the enslavement of its laborers, but Lucy did not believe that. It was true that she did not know precisely what Ned Ludd wanted, but did it matter? Whatever his nature, was not he in the right and the Rosicrucians in the wrong, and so was she not obligated to stand with Ludd?

“By gad, Spence, do you mean to bore that poor girl all night?”

Lucy looked up, and walking toward her was—and there could be no mistaking him, even though she had never seen his face before except
in prints and woodcuts—the Prince Regent, directly in front of her, gesturing toward her with a wineglass. Lucy was about to meet the Prince of Wales himself. Yet it was not he that made her uneasy. On one side of the prince stood a remarkably handsome, well-appointed man she did not know, and on the other side of that man stood George Gordon, Lord Byron.

A
BRIEF ROUND OF INTRODUCTIONS FOLLOWED, THOUGH LUCY
would later have a difficult time remembering the specific details of what was said and who said it. For here, shaking her hand, was the Prince Regent, the man who would someday be king of England, who now was all but king. To his left was a man of almost equal fame, the notorious George “Beau” Brummell, the prince’s close friend, and the person who, through example, had single-handedly changed men’s fashions in London. Owing to Brummel’s precedent, men now wore trousers rather than breeches, close-fitting coats, and exquisitely knotted cravats. It was said that dozens of men came to his home each day simply to watch him dress, a process that was rumored to last hours. Lucy had read in one of the magazines that Brummell employed three separate tailors for the construction of his gloves alone.

And then there was Byron, dressed like the other three gentlemen in
buff pants, white shirt, and dark jacket. He, however, wore no cravat, and kept his shirt open, his chest wildly exposed. He was, without doubt, the most beautiful man in the room, and it seemed that every woman there looked at nothing but him. It therefore surprised Lucy that he looked only at her, and there was such an intensity in his gaze that it embarrassed her. Everyone in the room must see how he gazed at her, and she felt herself grow hot and dizzy all at once.

For a moment, she thought that Byron would take her in his arms there, that he would kiss her before everyone, and if he made the attempt, would she be able to stop him? Would she wish to try?

She did not have the opportunity to find out, for, after waving off the prime minister, the Prince Regent stepped in front of Byron and up to Lucy.

“I thought I knew all the young ladies of note in London,” the prince said to her. “How can it be that we have not met?”

Lucy curtsied and stammered out an introduction. Only a few days ago, she had been trapped in Nottingham, victim of her uncle’s stinginess and Mrs. Quince’s cruelty, and now, here she was, meeting the Prince Regent himself.

“Your Majesty is too kind,” said Lucy.

“Too drunk, I should think,” said Mr. Brummell, coming closer and examining Lucy as though she were a painting at an exhibition. “She is pretty enough, I suppose, but no more. I cannot see why she commands your attention.”

Lucy felt as though she had been slapped. She had seen the cruelty of fashionable life in London—the barbs and asides and whispers behind fans. Lucy never doubted that fashionable ladies insulted her from a safe distance, but she never dreamed that anyone would speak to her in such a manner to her face.

The moment hung in the air. Perhaps it was only a second or two, but for Lucy time ground to a halt as she struggled to understand how she must respond to this abuse. Should she do nothing and show herself a meek and toothless thing? She wanted to. More than anything she
wanted to walk away, but it seemed to her that there would be more than her share of struggles ahead, and she must learn to show courage when the situation called for it, not merely when she had prepared for it.

“If the prince wishes to speak to me in any manner he chooses, it is my duty as his subject to submit,” said Lucy. “You, sir, are rude.”

Brummell took a step back and put a hand to his mouth in mock horror. “It is like the cobra of India. Pleasing to behold, but deadly in its strike.”

“Shut up, George,” said Byron.

“Mon dieu!”
cried Brummell. “Your Majesty, this upstart just addressed you by your Christian name and told you to shut up. I think it is time to have him dragged away in chains.”

The prince laughed and winked at Lucy. “When there is conversation among three men named George, there is never an end to the confusion.”

“The confusion ends,” observed Byron, “when two have titles, and one is a commoner.”

Brummell touched his fingers to his chest. “The entire world is commoner than I.”

The prince laughed again and turned to Lucy. “He is a buffoon, but he amuses me. I am sorry if he injured you with his inappropriate tongue. How shall I punish him?”

Lucy looked at Mr. Brummell long and hard, and thought she saw something there very sad, like a piece of crystal—beautiful and exquisite, but so delicate that it must, in time, shatter. “I believe,” she said, “he shall punish himself in due course.”

There was an awkward moment of silence among the three. Then Byron turned to Brummell. “If this lady says such a thing to you, then you are a fool to ignore it.” To Lucy he said, “It is time to dance.”

Before she could object, or perhaps before she could have time to decide if she wished to object, Lucy was upon the dance floor with Byron, lost in a massive swirl of expensive clothes and even more expensive perfumes. One could hardly hear the music, fine though it was, over
the low hum of conversation, for every couple spoke in low and meaningful tones, and Lucy wondered who around her was planning an illicit assignation. Everyone? Was she? She could hardly think so, and yet here was Byron, and for all the terrible things he had said and done, she enjoyed his company, enjoyed being near him. And she understood all too well that his beauty was, in itself, a kind of magic.

“You have no idea how I’ve missed you, Lucy,” he said to her in a low whisper, almost a growl. “I’ve thought of you every minute.”

Lucy said nothing. Part of her found him revolting, disgusting, vile. Another part, however, saw him as something far greater.

“You are not still angry with me, I hope? You cannot be jealous of that girl at Newstead, as you had already rejected me.”

Lucy could only shake her head. That he would say such a thing, imagine that somehow she had come to see his way of life as normal as he did, struck her as amazing. However what would have seemed like madness only weeks before—spells and talismans and magical components—was now perfectly normal. Byron’s own dissolute life must seem the same to him. And if it did seem normal to him, no more than the way he lived, then did it make him evil? If he saw no harm in what he did, and no one resented him for his actions, was he a bad man or merely a different kind of man?

“That poor girl loves you, you know,” Lucy said. “It is not a simple diversion to her. It is everything.”

“More women love me than you would suppose, Lucy,” he said utterly without pride. If anything, he sounded weary.

“You need not take advantage of them.”

“How advantage? Are they not human beings, free to make choices as well as I? Poor deaf Sophie, as you would style her, is not a child. Her deafness has not injured her mind. She is a clever young lady who knows what the world is, how it condemns those who spurn its petty rules, and she made her choice with her eyes open. I made mine, and I say you are in no position to judge. Indeed, you insult Sophie by presuming to know her life better than she does.”

Lucy shook her head, half in disbelief and half in amusement. “Lord Byron, you are truly an unusual man. You could argue that up is down, and I fear I would believe you ere long.”

He laughed. “If Lucy Derrick believes I am unusual, then it must be so. Tell me, what are you doing in London with those awful people? It is one thing to associate with your uncle, which you cannot help, but Gilley is the worst sort of climber, and his daughter looks like a wily slut.”

“I shall, for the moment, refrain from responding to your insults upon my friends. I am here because it is the only way I could get to London, and so have freedom. Or so I thought. I must get to Kent.”

“To find whatever book you and Morrison wished to pilfer from my library?”

“What is between you two, if I may ask? Why do you hate him?”

“I hate no man,” said Byron, “but I think him an insufferable prig, and he never hesitates to find fault with how I live.”

“But that is enough for you to dislike him so?”

“To dislike a man such as he is its own pleasure. But now it is my turn for a question. Why were you with him? Why did you break open my house in search of a book in my library? It obviously matters to you as well as to him.”

Lucy wanted to trust him. He was so astonishingly beautiful and, in his own strange way, completely forthright. What offended her most about him was his very truthfulness, and, when looked at from a certain perspective, that could not be offensive at all. “Lord Byron, I can only tell you that it is important to me, but to say more would strain your credulity and cause me to suffer in the relating. I will also say that Mr. Morrison is no friend of mine. I may have deceived him as to my feelings, but it is no more than he deserves.”