Revealed (46 page)

“Of course,” he sang jovially. “I’ve played at the Prince’s table several times; he’ll not be offended by my approach . . . and since you’re with me . . .”

This was likely true. It was a festive atmosphere, and the attendees all peers. The rules of court relaxed further with every glass of champagne. But still, some measure of responsibility must be retained.

“Very well, but at least let me go and tell Totty where I’ve gone.”

But it was too late. Broughton suddenly came to a stop and dropped to a deep court bow, revealing to Phillippa that they stood directly before the Prince Regent. He was greeted by the Prince with a bored, “Broughton. Come to lose more money to me?”

Broughton gave an alarmingly high laugh. “If Your Highness is playing, I would be honored to oblige. But I forget my manners. This is Mrs.—”

“Benning, I know. I daresy all of London does,” the Prince finished for him, suddenly deeply interested in his fingernails.

Phillippa gave her most elegant curtsy. “Your Highness is too kind,” she said demurely. “The Ball is masterful,” she complimented, “a resounding success.”

“You approve, then?” The Prince lifted an eyebrow. “I’m given to understand that your approval is hard-won and exacting.”

She could have enthused that the party was perfect, not a candlestick out of place. But the Prince did not seem interested in her answer, which made her decide to make it interesting.

“Actually, I find the linens a touch too peach in color.”

That brought the Prince’s head up from his fingernails, and Broughton shot her an outraged glance. But she held firm, meeting the Prince’s eyes with an innocent smirk painted on her lips. “But everything else passes inspection.”

The shocked Prince Regent stared blankly at her for a moment before letting out a great bark of laughter, drawing no small number of eyes to them.

Just then, an aide to the Prince came over and whispered in his ear. “Ah, it seems there are some vittles ready to be served in my box,” he reported. And the Prince was fond of his vittles. “Would you care to join me? That is, if Mrs. Benning can bring herself to eat from peach-colored linens.”

Hidden relief washed over her as she smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

The Prince led the way up to his box, Phillippa and Broughton behind him. Oh, she had done it! She had been invited to the Prince’s box! Oh, Lady Jane would be eaten with jealousy—everyone would. In the midst of her heart-pounding thrill, Phillippa had almost forgotten about the impending danger she knew swirled around them, about the havoc wreaked and the man Marcus chased.

Until, of course, that man shouldered past her.

He was headed in the opposite direction and, in the great crush of the Gold Ball pavilion, brushed against her side. He wore the same gold half mask as everyone else, and the same gold attire, but still, she knew. She knew it was the same man that she had seen in farmer’s clothes, in the Hampshire stables. His hair was sandy-colored and balding in the back, something she hadn’t taken note of before. But his posture, his walk, was exactly the same.

She stretched and turned as she walked, peering over her shoulder, marking his progress. The man wedged his way through the crowd quickly, landing at the spot where Sterling and Wellington had once stood. They had been there only a moment ago, but now they were nowhere to be seen, and the man looked as perplexed by this as Phillippa was. He looked to the left, then to the right, then behind him, out into the park. Then, before Phillippa could blink, he glanced discreetly over his shoulder, and stepped out into the night.

Oh Lord, what was she to do? Phillippa came to a halt and began to look around frantically. Where was Marcus? Where was Totty? She had to tell someone. She had to follow that man before he disappeared completely.

“Phillippa?” Broughton asked, stopping beside her. “Come along; the Prince is waiting.”

“Phillip,” she stuttered, “I have to go . . . go and speak to—to someone.”

“Not with the Prince waiting, you don’t.” He took her elbow and began to guide her into the narrow, canopied space that led to the Royal Box.

She looked down at the hand holding her elbow, then back up at Broughton’s face. It was hard and cold. “I apologize, but this is important.”

“More important than this? More important than me? Phillippa, you can’t go anywhere. What are you thinking?”

She didn’t know what she was thinking, but she knew that if she didn’t follow that man, he would disappear forever. She met Broughton’s eyes, matching ice with ice. “Make my excuses to the Prince, if you would.”

She wretched her arm free. Broughton’s face became very hot as he leaned into her, his voice a harsh whisper. “That’s all you are, Mrs. Benning. Excuses.”

He made a smart bow, turned on his heel, and walked away.

Phillippa did not regret disappointing Broughton. And she had no time to regret standing up the Prince. With all possible haste, she walked lightly back to the main floor of the pavilion and ducked her way through the crowd, past an oblivious Nora and a dancing Lady Jane. She craned her neck, looking for Totty, looking for Marcus. Once she reached the spot where the man had stood, she peered into the dark recesses of the park beyond.

The pathways were lit with torches. The immediate areas were planted, in the full lush bloom of late summer/early autumn. But beyond the Prince of Wales Circus were rolling plains, gardens not yet planted, and lakes dug but not yet filled. At the edge of the path, a dividing line between the cultivated land and the wildness beyond, Phillippa saw him.

It was an incredibly stupid idea. Hell, it was absolute insanity. But she scanned the crowd once more, looking into the faces of every footman she saw, and still could not find Marcus among them. And once the man slipped out past that line, he would be gone forever.

Her heart thudded in her chest like mad as she took that first step down into the gardens.

“You’re a complete idiot, Philly,” she whispered to herself and moved into the shadows.

It wasn’t as hard as she thought it would be to stay within sight of the man and to stay unnoticed. Several revelers passed her, completely toshed, weaving their way down the paths and through the gardens. But they paid her no mind, intent as she was on her goal. She would simply stay a good number of yards away from him, out of sight, discover where he was headed, and then turn back for Marcus and safety. But with every step in this direction, Marcus and the safety of the pavilion were a step farther away.

He turned right suddenly; she turned with him. She managed to keep things between them, a rosebush, a sycamore tree. Her gold and ivory beaded dress was made to be eye-catching, and she could only breathe a sigh of relief when they moved into a grove of oak trees, beyond the torchlit pathways. She ducked behind a tree, crouched next to some thorny undergrowth. She was less visible here, which was lucky, because she had more than one pair of eyes to hide from.

The man she had followed was standing with two other men, deep in conversation.

“You said we’d have some sport, cause some trouble. I never signed on for killing,” said the man Phillippa recognized as Lord Sterling.

“What do you think war is?” spoke a man Phillippa didn’t recognize, his speech colored by a French accent.

“One moment, if you please,” the shorter man, whom Phillippa had followed, spoke conciliatorily. He took Sterling aside a step or two, far enough for the illusion of privacy.

“Unfortunately, what we’ve done so far has only caused grumbling resentment, and we need something big to jolt people into action,” he reasoned. “Surely you can see that.”

“But not the Duke! Dammit, the man’s a hero.”

“Sacrifices have to be made,” the Frenchman said.

“You keep out of this,” Sterling snipped. “He’s not your country’s hero.”

“Lord Sterling, if you please,” the shorter man snapped, causing Sterling to quiet, pouting like a recalcitrant child.

Phillippa guessed that the Frenchman was Laurent; he had to be. His voice sent chills of dread down her spine. But who was the other man, then? The one she followed? The one who seemed to be in charge? He had removed his half mask. She had to get closer to him, had to get a good look at his face.

She must’ve stepped on a twig or rustled a branch. Suddenly all three heads came up and swiveled in her direction. Each of the men drew out weapons. The Frenchman, a gleaming silver pistol from his side; Sterling a razor-honed dagger; the other man, a penknife, blunted but deadly.

Phillippa didn’t breathe, didn’t blink. She stayed absolutely still.

The three men paused, alert, their ears scanning for another sound, another rustle.

And they were granted one.

A squirrel hopped out of the underbrush, looked at the three men for a moment, then scampered up a tree.

They relaxed their frames, pocketed their weapons. Phillippa would have sighed in relief, if she could have chanced the sigh. Instead, she watched as Laurent circled the other two men, his languid movements not concealing the controlled anger of his frame.

“It does not matter; the opportunity has been missed tonight,” Laurent said as he passed Sterling, prodding him on the shoulder. “
He
missed it.”

“I . . .” Sterling replied, his voice becoming queerly high.

“He let your Duke go.”

“It doesn’t mean he can’t get him back,” the shorter man said. “The ball will go on for hours yet. Of the three of us, he is the only one who can speak to Wellington without causing suspicion,
mon ami.”

“
Non.
He is too weak.” Laurent circled again, his hands behind his back.

“Now, just a minute,” Sterling argued. “The man had to greet other people. Dammit, my daughter is here; I have to get back to her.”

Sterling tried to move past Laurent, but the Frenchman was quicker, blocking his path.

“Move aside,” Sterling commanded shakily.

Laurent just smiled, a predatory gleam of teeth in the dark.

“Move aside, you damned Frog, or I will—” Sterling reached to his side for his dagger but found nothing there.

He looked up, shocked, as Laurent waggled Sterling’s silver-handled dagger in his face.

“Damn you both, then,” Sterling said, right before Laurent elegantly swiped the razor-sharp blade through the air.

A curtain of blood dropped from the thin line in Sterling’s neck. He fell to his knees, all strength flowing out of him in a red river. He crumpled to the ground, his head turned so that his pale eyes met Phillippa’s in the dark. And she saw the moment his life left him.

She must have made a noise. Gasped, cried, screamed. Their heads came up, their knives drawn. They looked in her direction. And this time, they found her.

Phillippa took off like a jackrabbit, her feet carrying her toward the glow of the pavilion in the distance. She just had to move, just had to get there, find Marcus. She heard the rip of her too-binding skirt on a thorny bush. She felt the pulsating, pounding of the feet of the men behind her. She would never outrun them; they were gaining on her. She opened her mouth to scream, to draw some attention to herself, but a hand clamped over her mouth as she did.

It was the shorter man, the Englishman, who pulled her to the ground. He climbed on top of her in the dirt, holding her down with his penknife to her throat.

“Who is it?” the Frenchman asked casually, as the other pulled at her mask, ripping it aside.

“Mrs. Benning . . .” the man on top of her said. “Well, well, well . . .”

“
Non.
It is the sparrow that belongs to the pigeon. She must have recognized you.” The Frenchman grinned. “I’ll take her with me.”

“Are you sure?” the shorter man asked, who, even this close, Phillippa did not recognize. She stared into his face, forced herself to memorize his features. “But she saw—”

Phillippa refused to lie there for this any longer. Using all the strength she had, she made a fist and aimed directly for the shorter man’s throat.

He recoiled in pain, dropping the penknife. She kicked him off of her and struggled to get up, to get away. But it was no use.

She felt the solid thud of the pistol’s handle on the back of her head. The ground came up to meet her, and the world went black.

“This was not in the plan.” The Englishman said, over the prone body of one Mrs. Phillippa Benning. “Neither was killing Sterling,” he admonished.

Laurent shrugged. “He was a—how you say?—liability. He would have broken.”

“I must go, lest I be discovered.” He nudged the delectable Mrs. Benning’s side with his shoe. She was out cold. “What are you going to do with her?” he asked, hiding the worry in his voice. Phillippa Benning was well-known and as well-loved as she was hated. Her disappearance would draw attention.

But Laurent just smiled. “You and I part here, I think,” he said.