Shall We Dance? (17 page)

“I…I'm not beautiful,” she heard herself say, and wondered why she suddenly no longer so firmly believed what her mirror had told her plainly all of her days. “I'm not. You're beautiful.”

His small, lopsided smile teased at the not unbecoming scar on his cheek. “No, pet, I'm merely pretty. Pretty
is a curse as well as a blessing. But you are beautiful. True. Loyal and loving, against all odds. Steadfast. You become more beautiful each time I look at you.”

The queen. He meant the queen, of course. It was true that most everyone had abandoned Her Majesty in her disgrace, but staying did not mean that she was some sort of saint. The queen had been good to her. Others might take and take and take, but someone had to give back. That the someone was her, Amelia had never questioned.

“Please, I'm doing nothing out of the ordinary, Perry. In a way, the queen is the only mother I have ever known. She's certainly the only home I've ever known.”

Perry smiled again, shaking his head. “And you haven't been approached by Liverpool's minions, offered vast sums of money to bring damaging testimony against Her Majesty? You stay in the background, Amelia, but you are closest to her, have been with her longer than anyone else, know more than anyone else. I'm not saying you would build yourself up by helping to destroy her, but surely someone has offered you the opportunity.”

Amelia stepped away from him, turned her back. “There have been contacts, yes. In Germany, in Italy. And here, since our arrival, while we were still staying with the Lord Mayor of London.” She turned back to him. “But I would never…”

“I know, you would never betray her. Although, from our brief meeting I can tell that Her Majesty could prove a trial to love at times. Royalty excels at being unlovable and demanding, I'm afraid. I cannot begin to tell you how proud I am of your integrity, Amelia. The
world is not precisely overburdened with that particular quality.”

He traced her cheek with the back of his hand. “It shines from you, you know. That honesty, that integrity. That loyalty. Your face is alight with it, and I find that I have never seen any face half so beautiful in my life. I'm…humbled by you.”

Amelia blinked back tears. “I'm not…I'm not a paragon, Perry.”

And then she told him. She told him about her silly dreams and hopes as a child, dreams and hopes that had lasted into adulthood, even as the rational part of her dismissed them. How she had examined prints of Princess Charlotte, even snippets of the princess's handwriting, in the hope of finding some resemblance. Yes, they had all dreamed, all the orphans the queen had at times shuffled in and out of her life, but when Amelia was the only one that stayed, with even William gone now, the silly hopes and dreams had stupidly lingered.

“The queen's bastard child,” Perry said, once she had finished. “Not William Austin, but you. Considering the circumstances, Amelia, it's easily understandable that you might dream such a dream.”

“Perhaps. But that's all it was, you know. It is not possible that…well, you know. Even the king, all those who want her kept from her crown, have only approached me about things such as Her Majesty's sleeping arrangements on our travels, tawdry questions on tawdry subjects. Even they have never thought that I could be…that I could be…”

“That you could be the one person, the one sure person, who could possibly destroy her,” Perry said, pulling her close once more. “Ah, pet, you've got a lot on your plate, don't you?”

She rubbed her cheek against the fine, smooth cloth of his jacket. “This should not concern you. I'm sorry.”

He stroked her back, and she felt safe somehow. “I'll tell you what I'll do, pet. Clive and Mrs. Fitzhugh seem to have some prior association. What do you say you move him in here? Just to be someone else you might…rely upon.”

Amelia looked up at him. “I saw them together this morning,” she said, smiling weakly. “What an odd pair, don't you think?”

“True love knows best, I would suppose. But seriously, Amelia, you can put your trust in Clive, to vet whoever comes knocking on the queen's door, for one, and he could have a note to me at any time if you need me.”

“Thank you, Perry. That's very kind. You said I was beautiful, and I know I'm not. But when I say I trust you most wholeheartedly, I hope you know I mean it.”

 

“I
DON'T TRUST HIM
.”

“Yes, I do believe I remember hearing you say that the last three times you said it. Please, Nate, sit down.” Georgiana Penrose pushed her spectacles higher on the bridge of her nose, not because they were slipping but because old habits don't die quite so easily.

Nate obeyed with pleasing alacrity, then took Geor
giana's hands in his. “Georgie. I don't believe you understand the gravity of this.”

She pulled her hands free. “Oh? You mean I don't understand that my very dearest friend in the entire world could be, even now, the victim of a scurrilous, unprincipled rascal intent on using her to gain damaging information against the queen for his uncle, this Sir Willard person? That men of the Earl of Brentwood's social rank do not chase after insignificant creatures such as a disgraced queen's companion? That the fact that the earl showed his face at the queen's residence without so much as a hint of an invitation, and telling a story so ridiculous as to be absurd, could only mean that he was lying through his teeth to that very dear, gullible friend? That I'm not frantic with worry for that friend, who, I'm afraid, has already half convinced herself that she is tumbling into love with the man, who she thinks it's just fine to kiss because she saw us kissing each other? Is that what I don't understand, Nate?”

Nate pulled a face and scratched at a spot behind his left ear. “All right. You do understand. But, much as I believe I'm right—what if I'm wrong? I don't run with the earl's set, but I know he's well liked, well respected. I made some discreet inquiries last night, at my clubs—”

“How discreet?”

He considered this question for a moment. “I waited until those I questioned had been drinking deeply and were fairly well oiled, so they wouldn't wonder at why I was asking. But that's not the point, Georgie. Some people think he's a fribble, a rich fribble. But there were
one or two others, the older ones, who motioned me to move closer so that they could whisper to me, who said he was a dangerous man. I came away thinking that he did serve in the war but yet not in the war. Something very secretive, something very deadly. And not deadly for him, only for those he came in contact with.”

“An assassin?” Georgiana was definitely impressed. “Mr. Bateman has a book in his library on assassins. They blend in with the enemy, then dispose of powerful political and military people, disrupt chains of command, I think it said. It's not a very honorable thing to do, as war is supposed to have rules, so that even while we garner the benefits, some might frown on the earl for his tactics, say he wasn't being honorable. But I must say it makes more sense to this country girl to cut off the chicken at the head.”

Sir Nathaniel leaned forward and gave her a smacking kiss on the mouth. “You're such a Trojan, Georgie.”

“I suppose that's a compliment? Or are you next going to ask me to throw horseshoes with you, like the rest of your chums?”

“Widgeon,” he said, but with affection. “I know you're a female, you know. Quite the prettiest female I've ever seen. But I won't say I'm disappointed that you're also a rousing great friend. Slap up to the mark, Georgie.”

Georgiana knew Lord Byron would have perhaps phrased such praise differently, but she doubted that an ode to the twinkle in her eyes would have had half the effect of Nate's sweet, honest words. “We do…rub along tolerably well, don't we?”

He took her hands in his, looked at her with an intensity that curled her toes (a new experience for Georgiana). “I feel as if I have known you forever. How long has it been?”

“Forever,” she said, feeling a blush steal into her cheeks. “Now stop this. My mother could walk in at any moment.”

“Better Mr. Bateman,” Sir Nathaniel said staunchly. “I believe he and I will soon have something to discuss.”

“Oh, Nate,” Georgiana said, throwing herself into his arms. “You're such a widgeon, too.”

“Here, here, you'll muss my neck cloth, and it took my man a devil of a time to get it right. But if that means you like me, I shouldn't take umbrage, I suppose,” Sir Nathaniel said, his handsome young face splitting in a grin as he held her tight.

Georgiana gave him a fierce squeeze in return, then sat herself back, attempting to compose herself. “What do we do, Nate? I know you said you don't travel in his set, that the earl is older and doesn't run about like you and your friends, still being silly and frisky. How do you get close enough to him to watch him, to be certain we're right? Because we must be certain the earl is up to no good before we say anything. It is one thing for me to break Amelia's heart, but it would be the worst of all possible things to break it for no reason.”

 

“S
HE TRUSTS ME
!” Perry all but shouted as he threw his wineglass at the fireplace. “Damn it all to hell, Clive, she trusts me!”

“Wimmen. Can't count on a one of them to have a lick of sense, sir.”

Perry halted his pacing in his private study and turned, one eyebrow climbing his forehead, to look at his assistant. “Do I detect a hint of trouble in your particular paradise as well, Clive?”

Clive took hold of the chair arms and pushed himself up from the slouching position he had dropped into when they'd first closeted themselves in His Lordship's study. “Yer're a sharp one, M'Lord. Saw straight through me. Sir Willard was right. Yer are the downy one.”

“Oh, cut line, Clive. You moped all the way back here from Hammersmith. What happened with Mrs. Fitzhugh? She take a second look and toss you out on your ear?”

“Ha! Not after all the trouble she took gettin' me there, no sir.”

Perry pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “That was as murky as ink. Explain, if you please.”

“I was hopin' not to, tell yer the truth, but I suppose there's nothin' else for it. Dovey—Mrs. Fitzhugh, that is—she ain't a housekeeper. Not trained up that way, yer know. She was one of them dancers at Covent Garden for a bit, then stayed on once she was past it, sewin' up costumes and the like. Sews a fine seam, sir. Just fine.”

“Fascinating. Now you're going to tell me how she got from Covent Garden to Hammersmith, correct?”

“I suppose so.” Clive scratched a spot behind his ear. “Seems Sir Willard's got himself a chippy there. At Covent Garden.”

Perry sniffed. “Must be something in the man's diet. Either that, or I can only hope such a long-running libido runs in the family. Go on.”

“I'm goin', I'm goin'. Embarrasin', that's what this is. I should have known, yer know? Sir Willard dribbled pillow secrets to his chippy, and Dovey was listenin'. She'd already seen me, knew I was a Runner, and told Sir Willard about me, makin' him promise to set her up in Hammersmith so she could pretend to see me. Pretend, yer see, because she already did see, but was too shamed to come up to me, seein' as how she'd been tipped on her back a time or two when she was a dancer, if you take my meanin'. Sir Willard, there's a downy one. He got himself two sets of eyes and ears with one blow. And yers, o'course.”

Perry walked to the drinks table, picked up another wineglass and filled it halfway. “So your Dovey is also reporting to my uncle, who didn't bother to inform me of his coup. What has she told him thus far? You did ask, didn't you?”

“I did, sir, yes. So far, sir, she told him that she doesn't know just what Miss Fredericks does there, except that she's always at Her Majesty's beck and call, and seems to know how to give orders. Oh, and that tin case thing that the queen takes with her everywhere she goes? It's a big one, and it's in a box room just off the queen's dressing room. Big chest, traveling chest, sir. And locked up tight.”

 

B
ERNARD
N
ESTOR
looked at the tin chest, his fingertips tingling. All of him was tingling, actually, as he had to
keep fighting the feeling that if he turned about, the entire household would be standing there, having caught him out.

Not that he wasn't snooping about for the queen's own good. He had lofty reasons for doing what he was about to do. Certainly everyone would understand that.

He ran his fingers over the elaborate white painting on top of the large chest: Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales, To Be Always With Her.

The queen kept her secrets in this chest. Brougham's spies had told him that, and what Brougham knew, Bernard knew. Such a conclusion only made sense even if he hadn't been told, seeing as how it was so important to her. If he was to find the proof for his theory of the true origins of Miss Amelia Fredericks, that proof had to be here, just waiting for him to free it from the shadows.

Bernard dropped to his knees to examine the lock. Formidable. It would take more than a pilfered hairpin to shift this one. If only he could simply take a hammer to it, but he could only do that if he could find a similar lock and exchange one for the other.

Still, that would leave the queen with a key that no longer worked.

Was that his problem? He didn't think so, as once the queen understood the power he would help her wield, one broken lock would mean nothing.

Cupping the heavy lock in one hand, Bernard returned to his favorite dream, the one where he stood up in the gallery of Parliament, waving evidence that Miss Amelia Fredericks was the rightful, legal heir to the
throne, shouting, “Ah-
HA!
I've done it! The king and queen have another royal heir, and this one is a
Whig!
”