Shall We Dance? (28 page)

Her Majesty called Mrs. Bateman one of her ladies-in-waiting, and Mrs. Bateman had taken that to mean she should show up in Hammersmith every morning, to giggle and fuss and be happily milked of all the gossip she could divulge. All to the queen's complete delight.

If Amelia hadn't been so involved with her own unhappiness, perhaps she might have done something to depress Mrs. Bateman's pretensions, but she'd been willing enough to have been left to her own devices while Her Majesty was entertained.

And now, at Mrs. Bateman's pleadings, and with Henry Brougham's enthusiastic agreement, they were all on their way to the Promenade, only a day before the Bill of Pains and Penalties would first be presented to the House of Lords.

Amelia, who had been relegated to the facing seat, with Nate wedged in between Georgiana and herself, used her parasol to shade her features as she watched the queen. Her ensemble today, thank the Lord, was nothing out of the ordinary, although her rouged cheeks, painted lips and wildly curled blond wig were all, well, unfortunate choices.

Mrs. Bateman held a lace-edged parasol over the queen's head, and constantly asked after Her Majesty's well-being; was Her Majesty too warm, possibly chilled, did the sun bother Her Majesty's eyes, would she care for anything, anything at all?

“Yes, dear woman,” the queen said at last as she
winked at Amelia. “You would have the blessing of a grateful queen if you could but sit very still and sew your mouth firmly shut.”

Beside Amelia, Nate tried to smother a snort, and Amelia bit her bottom lip, turning her head to look out over the Park, as they had just entered and had come to a stop behind a long line of other equipages.

And she saw Perry.

She coughed into her gloved hand, hoping her heart, which had taken a sudden leap in her chest, then seemed to stop, would begin to beat once more. Only then did she chance another quick glance in his direction. But he was gone.

Had he seen her? How could he help but have seen her, stuck on display as she was in this ridiculous old landau, and in the company of the Queen of England.

Everyone saw them. The whole world and his wife, as Clive had said as he warned her to stay in the landau, not wander off if someone should ask her to walk with them.

As if anyone would. She knew no one. Most especially Perry Shepherd, Earl of Brentwood.

“Causing no end of attention,” Nate whispered to her out of the corner of his mouth. “Look at them, Amelia. Goggling like a bunch of loobies. Good thing I told m'mother not to give it away to my aunt Rowena about this or—oh, no.” He covered his eyes with one hand. “Could you tip that parasol over my head, Amelia?” He lifted his hand a fraction. “No, never mind. Here they come.”

“Oh, Nate, look,” Georgiana said, proving to Ame
lia that she wasn't the only female in England who didn't understand men, “there's your mama and Aunt Rowena. My goodness, I had no idea your aunt could move that fast.”

Amelia leaned forward in her seat, placing a hand on Her Majesty's knee. “Ma'am? Would you allow Sir Nathaniel's mother and aunt a moment? They'd be so grateful.”

Her Majesty, who had been quite busy lifting her chins and pretending not to notice that the entire world was staring at her, inclined her head regally. “Her Majesty is always eager to meet her subjects.”

Amelia, with great effort, did not roll her eyes at Her Majesty's formal speech that was so unlike the image she had projected in the years they'd traveled the continent—unless she encountered English travelers, at which time she either ignored them, shocked them or insisted they come sit beside her and tell her all the gossip.

“You are too kind, Your Majesty,” Georgiana said, waving to Aunt Rowena.

With the landau still trapped in traffic, most of Society had front-row seats as the two ladies made their curtsies to the queen, Aunt Rowena dipping so deeply that Amelia wondered if, once bent in half, the poor old woman would remain there forever.

“Yes, yes, rise. Get up, get up,” Her Majesty said, then deigned to speak a few words to the women before dismissing them, because now that
they'd
been allowed to approach,
everyone
seemed to be climbing down
from their curricles and phaetons, their horses, or simply hieing themselves across the grass, all of them eager to pay homage to their queen.

They came from all sides, surrounding the landau. Behind her, Clive was muttering to himself, obviously upset by this sudden crush of humanity, and with no escape possible.

“Perhaps, Your Majesty, if I may be so bold,” Mrs. Bateman said, “you might wish to join your subjects, who long to see you?”

“Here now,” Clive said, although Amelia doubted anyone else heard him, “somebody dub that loose screw's mummer before the queen takes it in her head ter—yer there! Shut that bloody door!”

“Clive,
shhh,
” Amelia warned quietly. “That's Mr. Brougham. He wouldn't do anything to harm the queen.”

“Shall we all get out, do you think?” Georgiana asked, leaning across Nate, whose eyes had gone rather wide. “Nate? What's wrong?”

“Nothing, sweetings,” he said, swallowing hard. “I'm just wondering who should help carry my remains to the family mausoleum, once Perry gets through using my guts for garters. Amelia? Stay here, please?”

“Amelia? Your arm?” the queen said, and with only a quick whisper to Nate that she was very well able to take care of herself, Amelia folded her parasol and hastened to assist Her Majesty, who already was being helped to the ground by Henry Brougham.

Somehow, someone had procured a striped satin
chair, probably from one of the houses bordering the Park, and Her Majesty was ushered to it by Brougham, Mrs. Bateman positioning herself behind it, to hold the parasol over the queen's head.

While some of the crush, cast in the role of either curious onlookers or disgusted Tories, remained at the outer fringes of the crowd, even more were lining themselves up as if the queen's drawing room had somehow been convened in the Park.

One by one or two by two, they advanced. They bowed. They curtsied. They mumbled greetings and apologies, and more than a few were motioned forward by the queen, allowed to kiss her hand.

The woman was in her glory. The sun shone down as if in approval; the air smelled sweet with the perfume from several score of fashionable creatures. Flowers were produced, masses of them, a glass of lemonade offered, and the queen's laughter, deep and full as most men's, rang out over and over again.

The chair, the flowers. Clearly Henry Brougham was not one to miss his opportunities.

Amelia felt tears burning in her eyes, happy tears, and turned away, nearly overcome by this belated show of affection, even allegiance, to the queen. She reached for her reticule to pull out a handkerchief, only to realize it did not hang from her arm, but had been left behind in the landau. As Nate was busy protecting Georgiana from the crush of people, she didn't bother saying anything before excusing herself as she gently pushed her way through the crush, back toward the landau.

“Hello there, Miss Fredericks,” a rather tall, definitely handsome man drawled, stepping in front of her to block her way. He didn't remove his curly brimmed beaver, which was placed rather forward on his head, casting his eyes into shadow. “I would ask a boon, dear lady,” he continued as Amelia backed up a pace, only to feel herself bumping into a large body that didn't budge an inch as its owner grumbled, “Here now, wait your turn.”

Amelia wasn't stupid. Perhaps she hadn't been precisely wise to leave Nate and Georgiana, but she was only going a short distance, no more than fifteen yards, to where Clive stood on the seat of the landau, watching over everyone.

And yet here she was, boxed in on all sides, and if she were to scream, call out, nobody would even listen. Or, if they did react, it would only be to tell her to be quiet.

Where was Perry? He'd run off the moment she'd seen him. Was he still close by? He certainly wasn't close enough!

She could faint. No, that wouldn't work. Pretty women could faint and be rescued in a heartbeat. Plain women could be trampled.

“If you'd be so kind as to let me pass?” Amelia said, sure she was looking at Jarrett Rolin, even though he'd never been described to her.

“In a moment. To repeat, I would ask a boon, dear lady,” he said, his voice as smooth as silk, and quite unhurried.

Amelia nodded, refusing to speak.

“Ah, I believe my name and reputation must have preceded me, Miss Fredericks. How…predictable of my friend Brentwood. And how convenient that the boon I ask is that you relay a message to him. Are you listening, Miss Fredericks?”

Now she looked up at him, anger replacing common sense. “I'll thank you not to condescend to me, sir.”

“Ah, some spirit. Perhaps that's the attraction, what brought you first to His Lordship's attention. Although I know different. Do you?”

She did, but she wasn't going to admit that to this odious man. “Is that the message?”

“Hardly. And I thoroughly hate myself for this, but I really don't care if he's tumbled you, as that was never my plan. Quickly now, as I'm sure he's nearby. The message is this, Miss Fredericks. Nobody is safe. Tell him.
Nobody is safe.
”

The sudden chill that skipped down Amelia's spine had her closing her eyes as she fought a shiver, and when she opened them, Rolin was gone and Perry was in front of her. “Oh! Did…did you see him?”

“Where's Clive? Bloody hell, is this his idea of keeping an eye on you?” Perry took hold of her arm and pulled her toward the landau. “Did I see—
Rolin?
Damn it, Amelia, he was here?”

She could only nod as Perry opened the low door to the landau and all but heaved her onto the velvet squabs. It was as if they'd never been apart; as if they were still so free and easy with each other that they could speak to each other without the slight formality, with no hes
itation or uneasiness caused by their night of—no, she would not think of that night. Not now. “Yes, he talked to me. You mean, you didn't see him?”

Perry remained outside the landau, his entire body alert, his gaze searching everywhere. “I was lucky to find you in this mad scene. Bless the woman's heart, she does know how to take her revenge. The king's going to be gnashing his teeth when he hears of it. Did he talk to you? Did he…did he touch you?”

“No, he didn't touch me. He wanted me to give you a message,” Amelia told him, longing to touch him, longing for him to touch her. Couldn't he sense that? Was she so unimportant, now that he might soon have Rolin within his sights? “He said to tell you that nobody is safe. He was terribly smug about it, too. Perry, I—”

“That son of a bitch! Clive!”

“Right here, M'Lord! I'm that sorry I—”

“Never mind that now,” Perry said, cutting off the man's apology. “Amelia…” he hesitated, clearly not ready to say anything that might end in keeping him where he so clearly did not want to be. “Amelia, please tell me you understand.”

“I do understand, Perry,” she told him as he reached into the landau, took her hand in his. “I understand that you must do what you must do about Jarrett Rolin. I had no idea things sat so seriously between you.”

“And us?” Perry looked up at Clive, who was leaning back over the driver's plank seat, grinning. “Go away,” he said tightly, and Amelia felt the springs give as both the driver and Clive quickly jumped to the ground.

“I really don't think we have anything else to say to each other, Perry,” she said quietly. “I believe we both have concluded that we made a mistake, each for our own reasons.”

He squeezed her hand. “You know that's not true. My God, Amelia, when you stepped down after the queen, when I lost sight of you in this mess of humanity?” He shook his head. “You really have no idea how important you are to me?”

She had been about to give in, give up, toss her stupid pride over her shoulder and tell him how much she'd missed him. Until he said those last words to her. “Important to you? Yes, I have a very good idea of how important I am to you. And why.”

“Amelia, no. That's not what I meant. The blazes with England, with the succession, with all of it.”

“I want to believe you, you know I do. But that's impossible, Perry, and you know that as well as I. The queen goes in front of the House of Lords tomorrow. It's too late to change that, to stop what begins tomorrow. It's too late for anything now. Or do you think this crush of false admirers will change anything? I most certainly do not. Her Majesty and Mr. Brougham are only deluding themselves to think otherwise. You can't help, Perry, even if your motives are entirely pure, and I very much doubt that.”

“I don't give up easily, Amelia,” he told her, his gaze so intense she had to look away.

“Oh,” she said, squeezing Perry's hand. “There he is. Rolin. Here, step up here and you'll be able to see him. He's taken off his hat and he's waving to me.”

Perry had vaulted into the landau before she'd finished speaking, following the direction of Amelia's pointed finger. “Where? I don't—”

And then he was gone, having vaulted over the side of the landau, sprinting across the grass expanse even as Jarrett Rolin, with a jaunty wave that ended in a salute, gracefully swung himself into the saddle and urged his horse into a fast trot out of the Park, into the crowded streets of Mayfair, as if daring Perry to follow him.

 

P
ERRY HAD DRESSED
in subdued colors, from his oldest buckskins to a brown hacking jacket his valet had twice attempted to discard, his neck cloth a simple black grosgrain ribbon ineptly tied around the collar of his unstarched shirt.

He didn't bother to avoid a large, muddy puddle as he walked into yet another inn yard as the rain that had begun hours earlier sent more moisture dripping from the wide brim of the shapeless hat loaned to him by one of his footmen. His drab greatcoat was wet through to his shoulders.