Shall We Dance? (24 page)

“Georgiana says you're going to kill him.”

“Really? That has to have come from Nate. I'm afraid he sees me as a rather dangerous fellow.”

“Which you are,” Amelia said, stopping in front of a stone bench and sitting down. “Sir Willard and his Tory friends wouldn't have sent a fribble to spy on the queen, now, would they? And I doubt very highly that fribbles make dangerous enemies like Mr. Rolin.”

Perry looked at her for a long moment, then sat down beside her. “No wonder the queen keeps you close, Amelia. One day, I promise you, I'll tell you anything and everything you may want to know about me. But for now, can I ask only one thing? Will you trust me?”

She avoided his gaze, because even here, in near darkness, the heat from those cool, green eyes could only confuse her. “I did. I told the queen we could trust you. I…I almost handed you exactly what your uncle and Lord Liverpool would have paid a king's ransom to see. I told the queen you'd keep her secrets safe.”

“Ah, pet,” Perry said, slipping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close against his side. “You must have been devastated when you heard what Nate thought was the truth. I can't even ask you to forgive me for that. And, sorry as I am to say it, we're far from done with intrigue.”

Amelia remained where she was, because she'd longed to be in his arms again, even when she'd hated him, hated herself for wanting those arms around her again. “Surely there can't be more.”

He tipped up her chin with his hand. “We're talking about mine uncle, pet. Surely there can. The thing of it is, I don't know if he's all but dared me to warn you so that the queen agrees to forgo the crown without the bother of a trial, or if he's told me because he's finally been sickened enough by all of this and wants a stop put to it. A complex man, mine uncle.”

Amelia smiled. “And his nephew is as uncomplicated as a spring rain.”

“Point taken,” Perry said, helping her to her feet. “We can't be gone long or else Her Majesty will miss me.”

“You enjoy that, don't you? That you've become important to her.”

“She's important to you, Amelia. And, God help her, she's such an incredibly pathetic and sad creature. How could anyone not wish to protect her?”

“Thank you,” Amelia said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I know that was hardly flattering of you to say, but she is pathetic. Frightened. And very sorely used, by everyone. She has been, since the first time she stepped on shore to be bride to the most selfish, hateful creature ever spawned. I've a book, you know, one that was written to mark the death of Princess Charlotte. If only half of what I've read in it is true, your new king should be flogged.”

Perry squeezed her hand. “I can't order him flogged, pet, but I can help put another spoke in his wheel, which is why I'm going to tell you what Sir Willard told me, and to hell with his motives for doing so. The Italians, Amelia. They've been paid to give testimony against Her Majesty.”

Amelia nodded. “Yes, I know. More than thirty of them, Mr. Brougham says, all brought here from Italy to testify. But he isn't worried.”

“No, not those witnesses, pet. Two others. Two others who are still in Her Majesty's employ. Brother and sister, I believe.”

Amelia clapped both hands to her mouth, her eyes going wide. Rosetta and Gerado? Gerado, who hadn't
the brains of a flea. But Rosetta! Rosetta, who saw everything, heard everything.
Knew
everything.

“But…but they've been with the queen since the beginning, ever since Pergami— Oh, no!”

“Amelia. Listen to me,” Perry said, guiding her back into the shadows. “I've made arrangements. Clive and I will get them away from here tonight. I've got men who will take them straight to Dover, and wait with them until they're aboard ship. Tonight, pet. We have to do this tonight.”

“This will be the end of her,” Amelia said quietly. “She won't let anyone near her after this. As it is, she's ordered her chamber doors locked and hides inside like a frightened child. How will I tell her? How can I possibly introduce new servants into the household?”

“How about Clive's Mrs. Fitzhugh? I know she's not all that suitable, but Clive trusts her, and she'd never do anything to upset him.”

“Mrs. Fitzhugh? Oh, dear, the peppermints. No, not Mrs. Fitzhugh. Perhaps Mrs. Pidgeon? She used to serve the queen, years ago. Yes, that should work. Oh, Perry,” Amelia said, collapsing into his arms once more. “When will this be over?”

He stroked her back, pressed a kiss against her hair. “Soon, pet. I promise you. Soon.”

“It was all to have been settled long ago, you know. I've seen the letter he had directed written to her, in the book I told you about. But the king lied then and still persecutes her. He won't rest until she's dead.”

“And you won't leave her.”

“No, I won't leave her.”

“Not even to find your own happiness?”

Amelia walked to the French doors, waited for him to open them. “You already know the answer to that, Perry.”

“Yes, for my sins, I do.”

 

O
NCE THE SMALL PARTY
was over, and it ended the moment the queen got deep enough into her cups to begin weeping for her “dear, lost Charlotte,” Nate and Georgiana took their leave, and Perry took up Clive and went off to the servants' quarters while Amelia herself undressed the queen and put her into bed.

In order to keep herself from thinking about what was happening with Gerado and Rosetta, she then retired to her own chamber, unlocked the cabinet beside her bed and retrieved the book on Princess Charlotte she'd promised herself she would not read again.

Turning the pages, she located the copy of the letter, supposedly from husband to wife, written over twenty years earlier:

How cold. How heartless. Even if the heir should die, he would not, not even for the sake of England, deign to return to his wife's bed.

And uninterrupted tranquillity? So much for the word of a future king, as he'd made his wife's existence a hell, keeping her from her daughter, twice petitioning Parliament for a divorce.

Paying servants to testify against her…

Amelia closed the book and knelt on the floor, to put it back in its hiding place. And saw the queen's chest of treasures. Was the original of that outrageous communication locked inside? Would Her Majesty keep anything so terrible?

Curiosity was a mortal failing Amelia hadn't escaped, and she'd often wished a peek inside that locked chest, hoping to see her own name. Until tonight. The queen had enough people poking about in her life, digging at her secrets.

Amelia closed and locked the cabinet, not willing for the chest and the book cataloging two sad, destroyed lives
to be stored together. She placed the book on the bedside table and climbed into bed, snuffing the candles before she lay back in the darkness, too exhausted to think, even to weep.

 

P
ERRY WATCHED
as a cursing, weeping Rosetta was pushed, hands tied, into the traveling coach by the men he'd commissioned to take the woman and her brother to Dover, then rubbed at his chin, for the fiery servant had attacked him with some expertise, actually landing a solid punch before Clive, less inclined to be gentle with females, dragged her off him.

“Planted you a wisty facer, didn't she, M'Lord?” Clive said as they watched the coach disappear into the darkness. “What was it she kept screechin' at yer?”

Perry smiled, then winced at the soreness in his jaw. “The dear woman was explaining her perfidy, Clive. Without the references as to the sexual proclivities of my mother, I should say it comes down to
Meglio fringuello in man che tordo in frasca.
”

“Oh, well, that explains it, don't it?” Clive said in obvious disgust.

“She said, my friend, better a finch in hand than a thrush on a branch. You would be more familiar, I think, saying that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. It would seem the woman had decided to take the purse offered her, rather than put her hopes in the queen's ability to survive a trial.”

“Can't say as I blame her,” Clive said as they returned to the door leading to the kitchen. “Was there something else yer needed from me tonight, M'Lord?”

“Just that you turn your head, Clive, once you've told me which is Miss Fredericks's chamber and pointed out the servant stairs.”

“Oh. Like that, is it?” Clive's grin disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “I didn't say anythin', M'Lord. Not a word. Third door down on the left, M'Lord, and the stairs are right over here. Not a word.”

Perry considered explaining to Clive that he was only going to Amelia's rooms in order to tell her that the servants were on their way to Dover, but he knew the man wouldn't swallow such a crammer. Nobody would. So he merely nodded to Clive, climbed the narrow back stairs and turned down the hallway…only to quickly plaster himself to the wall, because Nestor was out and about, and looking damned suspicious.

He waited until the man had, after looking furtively up and down the hallway, disappeared behind a door at the very end of the hall.

Perry followed after him.

He dropped to his knees and peered through the large keyhole, to see the butler also on his knees. As Perry doubted either of them were about to offer up their evening prayers, he watched a little longer, at which time the butler removed a small hammer from his pocket and took the impressive lock of a large, tin traveling case into his other hand. He raised the hammer…and Perry stood up, opened the door, slipped inside, closing that door behind him.

“The queen's going traveling, Nestor? Is the lock
broken, or is that what you're here to accomplish?” he asked silkily, and the hammer, unused, dropped to the floor.

Nestor looked behind him, saw Perry and turned in one motion, arms outstretched as if he planned to tackle the earl. This effort failed, and a moment later Nestor's back was pressed against the row of shelving, his feet dangling a good foot above the floor, the forearm pressed against his windpipe making it painful to breathe.

“Who sent you?” Perry whispered, his face mere inches from Nestor's. And when the butler didn't answer fast enough, Perry lifted him a little higher, slammed him against the shelves once more. “Who?”

“No…nobody, My Lord. Nobody sent me. I…I can't breathe.”

“No, you
won't
breathe, Nestor. Possibly not ever again. There's a difference between can't and won't, and that difference lies with me.”

Nestor's eyes were popping out of his head and his forehead was turning blue. Even this didn't satisfy Perry, who was of a mind to exterminate the little bastard the way he would step on a bug.

“If I put you down, will you tell the truth?”

Nestor tried to nod his head, even as he clawed his hands at Perry's forearm, but nothing he did had any effect.
“Mmmmuff!”

“I'll take that as a yes,” Perry said, releasing the man, who crumpled to the floor, coughing and spitting. “Now. Who sent you? And I warn you, I usually don't ask twice, and I never ask a third time.”

Nestor continued to choke, even as he held up one hand, as if begging His Lordship's indulgence while he coughed his guts out through his nose. “It…it's me. My…my idea. Come to…come to help the queen…”

That stopped Perry. He knew the place was crawling with Sir Willard's hirelings, all of them out to help discredit the queen. That someone would have come here to help Her Majesty had never entered his head. Well, there was Nate, but that had more to do with Aunt Rowena than any sort of protective instinct toward the queen.

Perry reached down and picked up the butler by the collar of his ill-fitting livery. “Quiet now,” he warned tightly. “Let's the two of us nip downstairs to Mrs. Fitzhugh's parlor, shall we? You look like a man who could use a restorative glass.”

Nestor nodded furiously, and Perry, after checking the hallway to make sure they could move along it undisturbed, pushed Nestor ahead of him, toward the stairs…sparing only a moment to slip the hammer in his pocket…and take a long look at the queen's infamous tin traveling trunk.

 

H
E'D BEEN SO CLOSE
. His hand had been on the lock, the hammer raised, poised to come down…to unlock the queen's secrets.

Now Bernard Nestor was cowering in a chair as Clive Rambert held a pistol over him, Mrs. Fitzhugh peeked at him from underneath her nightcap, and as His Lordship smiled at him with all the good humor of a tiger about to rip out his throat.

“Nestor here has taken it upon himself to save the queen, Clive, which, somehow, has led him to attempt to break into Her Majesty's traveling trunk,” His Lordship said amicably. “Isn't that right, Nestor?”

“
That
trunk, M'Lord?” Clive asked. “So Dovey was right? You said there was somethin' shifty about him, didn't you, love?”

Bernard attempted to look earnest, definitely not shifty, and not simply so frightened he was sure he'd soon soil himself, and with Mrs. Fitzhugh watching. “It isn't what you think! Nobody sent me. You can murder me, you Tory dogs, but I labor in the service of my rightful queen!”