Shall We Dance? (21 page)

Nate had narrowed in on a few words of that explanation. “Twisting necks, you say? Killing, you mean?” He ran a finger under his neck cloth. “That's fairly dreadful, you know.”

Perry looked at his hands for a moment, once again seeing them as they once had been, as his most effective weapons. How did one explain war to someone who has never experienced it? Life and death to one who has never been in fear for his own? He retrieved a crumpled
sheet of paper from the floor. “Yes, indeed, my friend. Much more civilized to repeatedly hack someone with a sword or shatter his head with a ball from your rifle. Or blow him to bits with a cannonball. I see your point. Now, what have we here?”

“Something he didn't want anymore?” Nate suggested.

“Or something he felt he no longer needed,” Perry said, frowning over the list of names. “Even something left for me to find, something to alarm me, to send me chasing off in entirely the wrong direction.”

“All that on one small scrap of paper? What has he written?”

Perry held on to his temper with a control difficult to maintain. “Our friend Rolin hasn't been idle. He's compiled a list of names. Very inventive of him.”

“Really? Am I on it?” Nate asked, peering over Perry's shoulder. “Not that I'm the sort to hide behind a woman's skirts, but I don't think my Georgie would like that above half.”

Perry handed Nate the list, as he'd seen it enough. Perry's name was there, along with Nate's and Georgiana's and Amelia's. And Sir Willard's. And, most damning of all, was the line that read
Earl and Countess of Westham.
With a thick line drawn through the names.

Morgan and his Emma. The newlyweds, off somewhere touring the Lake District. Two people very much not on their guard; definitely not expecting to encounter a Jarrett Rolin intent on revenge.

The line Rolin had drawn through the names could be interpreted as a mission already satisfactorily concluded.

The bastard. Rolin wanted him panicked, wanted him reckless with grief. Wanted him sloppy. Definitely did not want him thinking.

A slight, not in the least amused, smile raised one side of his mouth. The man was to be disappointed, as Perry had already sent not one but two Runners searching for Morgan, and had just last night been informed that his friend and his bride were safely ensconced at Westham.

But Perry wanted this over. He'd set himself up every night, walking home from his club alone. And yet Rolin had refused to approach him. Perhaps because he now knew that Perry was aware of his presence, perhaps because this list was no more than a search for alternative, weaker targets. Morgan and Emma were crossed off as possibilities because Rolin couldn't locate them, and the others were listed because Perry appeared to have some affection for each of them.

“You're being dashed quiet,” Nate said, and it was only then that Perry realized they were back on the street. “I've been thinking, too. He's not just after you and Amelia now, is he?”

“He's not after anyone right now, Nate. He's running, and scheming impossible schemes. He won't come back here. I already have a Runner watching his estate, in the event he rabbits there. However, bent as he seems to be on exacting his revenge, he's probably more dangerous now than ever. I'm sorry to have involved you and Miss Penrose.”

“Oh, Georgie isn't going to go all female on us. Re
ally, she's as pluck to the backbone as ever you could hope. We'll be fine. How about Sir Willard?”

They stepped around the corner and climbed inside Perry's town coach, as the alleyway had been too narrow for it, and because the only way to be even marginally safe from nuisance attacks in this area of the metropolis was to arrive in the most imposing way possible, along with a coachman, tiger and three armed outriders. Ah, civilization.

“I doubt Rolin was serious about that, Nate. After all, a dead Sir Willard makes for a wealthier Perry Shepherd. Not exactly what Rolin would wish. Still, I would be remiss if I didn't warn the man, wouldn't I?”

Nate looked at Perry as he sat across from him on the velvet squabs. “You're looking more jolly than I would have supposed. You're going to enjoy telling him, aren't you?”

“Ah, Nate, my friend. Such a short acquaintance, and already you know me so well.”

“I don't know you at all,” Nate said, then sighed theatrically. “And the more I'm with you, the more I know that.”

 

A
MELIA SAT OVER THE NOTE
that, thus far, contained only the words, “My Dear Earl of Brentwood, your presence is required at the queen's residence at eight of the clock this Saturday evening for a dinner party hosted by Her Majesty.”

She didn't know what else to say. How to say it. How should she sign the note? Should she sign it at all? What
would he think when he saw it? Was it too cold, too abrupt, too much of a command?

“Oh, this is silly,” she said, sanding the page and then folding it. One of the footmen would deliver the thing, Saturday would come, Perry would arrive punctiliously, she'd speak to him—punctiliously—and she'd never see him again.

She should have known. This wasn't the first time someone had attempted to use her to get to the queen.

She should have known. She certainly was no match for him; not in lineage, certainly not in looks. He was beautiful; she was not.

But his flattery had weakened her, his truly outstanding good looks had dazzled her, and his kisses had all but destroyed her.

Not, not destroyed her. Awakened her.

It had been the truth about his perfidy, his lies, his hidden agenda that had destroyed her.

Georgiana had told her to forget him, to not be embarrassed that she had believed all his lies. After all, he'd only seen the queen the once, and no secrets had been told, no damning evidence uncovered that Perry could take to his uncle, which his uncle could take to Lord Liverpool.

And now, after all her warnings, Georgiana was actually defending the man to her, telling her she should allow him to apologize, to explain.

How could she do that? After all she had told him? After all she had allowed him?

It was at night, alone in her bed, that Amelia shivered, remembering how quick she had been to trust him,
how she had even suggested to Her Majesty that he could become a safe repository for the queen's most cherished memories and secrets.

Georgiana and Nate still visited Hammersmith every day, attempted to amuse her, coddle her, and just seeing her friend and her beloved together tore something inside Amelia. She was happy for her friend, not jealous, not really.

But was it so terrible to wish for a happiness of her own? A life of her own? A love of her own?

And still they told her that Perry had never planned to find a way to further damage the queen. They'd admitted that he had first come here on orders from his uncle to do just that, but now they were sure he had never really seriously planned to do anything more than meet with Amelia in order to make his uncle happy.

“And that other thing, Georgie. Remember, he already knew about Jar—” Nate had said to Georgiana, but she had quickly dug an elbow in his ribs, and he'd said no more.

Amelia trusted Georgiana, and had grown to like Nate very much, but she was not ready to see Perry again. Not yet. Even if he crawled here on his knees, apologizing for his lies. She did, after all, have her pride.

She'd told him her silly dreams. She'd welcomed his kisses, his caresses. She'd been about to give herself to him, body and soul, without a word of love, without a promise of anything more.

If he hadn't completely lied to her, he hadn't been completely truthful, either.

“Notes. He sends me notes. If he truly cared, he'd have beaten down doors to get to me. He'd have come here, demanding to see me. Oh, how I dread this dinner party.”

She picked up the note and went in search of a footman to deliver the dratted invitation to Portman Square.

 

C
LIVE
R
AMBERT KISSED
his Dovey, immediately noticing that she was not quite kissing him back. “Here now, love, still worrying your head about menus? I thought that was all settled the first time.”

Maryann pushed him away. “It's not that, Clivey. Mrs. Pidgeon has taken over everything, and I'm that grateful to her, seeing as how I don't know if I'm on my head or my heels thanks to that Mr. Nestor.”

“Nestor? That stick? Don't tell me he tried a nip at yer bottom, Dovey, because that fish won't swim. Not that yer're not a prime 'un and he'd be lookin' high to look at yer, so don't go cuttin' up all stiff like that. He just don't seem the sort. Never had me a butler, Dovey, but if I did, it wouldn't be him. Does he ever do anythin'?”

Maryann picked up the sheet she had been darning and sat herself down in the rocking chair Clive had fetched her from somewhere in the attics. She was always happier, these days, with a needle in her hand. “He polishes a lot of silver, Clivey. Over and over again. And he counts things. Counts the sheets, counts the plates, counts the carrots in the larder. Always walking around with that tablet of his, always poking in corners. And telling me to mind my own business or else I can just take myself off.”

Clive nodded. “He is always pokin' somewhere, isn't he? Yer don't do that, butlerin'? I thought that's what he was supposed to do.”

“I don't know, Clivey, except that Esther—that Mrs. Pidgeon—says she thinks he has a cast or something in one of his eyes, and that means he can't be trusted.” She motioned for Clive to sit down beside her. “She said she thinks it's Mr. Nestor what poisoned that dog.”

“Really? Strange, that. I didn't think anyone for sure ever said the dog was poisoned. Did yer tell her that?”

Maryann deftly wove the thread in and out, across the half-repaired hole. “I don't know, Clivey. I may have. You and me talked about it some, remember? Why?”

“Why? Because if yer did, then that's all right. But if yer didn't, if nobody did, then yer tell me how Esther Pidgeon came to think the dog was poisoned? Old dog, right? Coulda dropped over anytime.”

He got up, began to pace. “I've got too much, Dovey. Watchin' the queen, watchin' Miss Fredericks. Checkin' all the locks on all the doors. Watchin' that Nestor, because yer don't like him, and starin' down that Italian when he looks at me all crooked. Never thought much about the Pidgeon. Crikey, chasing down housebreakers beats this all hollow for easy.”

“Poor Clivey. How can I help you?”

He grinned. “Well now, Dovey, I've got this itch…”

“Not now, Clivey. Goodness, the sun's still out. And I haven't got a thing to say to Sir Willard, and he'll be expecting me to tell him something. What did I say in my note last week, Clivey?”

Resigned to not having his itch scratched until after evening prayers, Clive thought a moment, then said, “I think what yer said was that the queen won't leave her rooms and the dog died. Oh, and yer told him I'm bein' a great help to yer, sniffin' out anythin' that will help the king.”

“Yes, I remember now. Well, the queen's still locked up, the dog's still dead, and you're still here. What do I tell him this week?”

“I don't expect yer have to tell him anythin', Dovey. His Lordship's taking care of all that.”

 

S
IR
W
ILLARD GLARED
at his nephew. “Oh no, that won't work with me, Perry. You just want some of your own back, which I find to be juvenile in the extreme. Rolin? After me? Nonsense.”

Perry braced his hands on the arms of the chair and made to rise. “In that case, Uncle, I'll bid you good day. So sorry to have troubled you.”

“Sit down, damn you,” Sir Willard ordered. “You come sneaking through windows, you do your best to make a fool of me, then you disappear for nearly a fortnight, just to come strolling in here, grinning like some village idiot, delighted to tell me Jarrett Rolin wrote my name on some list and left it in a hovel along with half his wardrobe. I imagine that means you haven't found him yet?”

“Obviously,” Perry said, unsurprised that his uncle would take little time zeroing in on his nephew's failings. “What I have managed, what you and I have man
aged between us, is to involve three entirely innocent people in Rolin's quest for revenge. I'm not proud of that. Are you?”

“Ah, back to this Amelia Fredericks person. I'm told you haven't been back to Hammersmith. Did she chase you away?”

“Clive has reported to you. Of course. But those three people, Uncle? Two of them are Sir Nathaniel Rankin and Miss Georgiana Penrose. They put their heads together, remembered I am, for my sins, your only relation and concluded that you'd sent me to woo Miss Fredericks in order to worm my way into the queen's presence, into her secrets. Naturally, as Miss Fredericks is their friend, they immediately apprised her of this conclusion, and I have been rather effectively banished.”

Sir Willard steepled his fingers, his forearms resting on his ample belly. “Pardon me a moment, Nevvie, while I relish this moment. The grand Perry, lowered by a mere female. The mind boggles, and the heart, mine at least, rejoices. I'm even beginning to like the gel.”

“From what I am hearing, Uncle, you like most anything in petticoats, and preferably out of them. We will not discuss Miss Fredericks.”

“Amelia. When you were clomping around my bedchamber, all in your altitudes, you called her Amelia. You know, I thought you were being the better man, possibly even noble, staying away from her in order to distract Rolin from possibly using her to revenge himself on you. But now? Now, Nevvie, I think I'm looking at
a lovestruck idiot who doesn't have the faintest notion how to get back in his beloved's good graces.”

He leaned forward in his chair. “Go to her, boy. Grovel if you have to. I don't think I could stand to watch as you slip into some sad decline.”