The Duke Diaries (23 page)
V
erity arrived at the White Horse Inn on the outskirts of London in record time. It was not due to her riding skills. It was due to the outrageous amount of gold coin she pressed into the hands of an ostler ten miles from Boxwood, who mysteriously appeared twenty minutes later with a very smart phaeton and insisted on driving her to London himself.
She rather feared he had nicked the fast vehicle and even faster horses from some poor gentleman at the inn.
Did she really worry? No. What was one more broken law when the penalties she had already accumulated would have put over a hundred hardened criminals in Newgate for the rest of their lives?
And she was tired of worrying and was ready for the story to be over—until the outlaw ostler and she drew into the well-maintained yard of the White Horse. The innkeeper winked at her and insisted a penny was well worth the price for the
Evening Herald
from last night.
“And the
Morning Post
?”
He shook his head. “The
Herald
be what everyone reads now.”
Not that it mattered anymore. How much worse could it get?
A lot worse, it turned out.
Her shriek from the neat little ladies’ withdrawing room was most likely heard all the way to London.
She stormed out of the inn, grabbed the reins from her lawless accomplice. By the look on his face, and his silence during the rest of the journey to Town, it seemed he regretted not insisting on twice the rate he had gleefully taken from her two days ago.
Verity drove them straight to Carleton House, politely returned the reins to the white-faced ostler, and dismounted without any aid. Both driver and passenger hoped never to encounter the other again in their lives.
She slowed as she marched toward the royal guards fronting the prince’s new-famed residence. The size and elegance, but more than anything the cost to redesign and refurbish, and re-gild the vast majority of it before Prinny had deemed it acceptable for royal occupancy, was what drove the masses armed with rotting fruit (but no peas, it should be noted) in their hysteria to these very gates each day after the first of her entries in the
Morning Post.
And then she halted mid-stride. Stumbling forward and then righting herself, she slowly turned. There was not one single protester behind her. Where were all of the produce-wielding marauders, decrying the excesses of the aristocracy?
Was she hallucinating due to lack of sleep? It was entirely possible.
She walked to one of the guards. “I want to see the Prince Regent.”
He raised one brow.
Did they teach all males that trick? She hoped the three nice boys from her family’s school in Derbyshire would not adopt it. It was very unattractive. And rude.
A very thin man crossed the stone pavers from one of Carleton House’s eight arches. He elegantly showed a leg in deference to her. “Is that you, Lady Verity Fitzroy?”
She nodded without thought.
“Oh, we’ve been waiting and waiting for you. His Majesty was on the point of sending out a small regiment to comb the route from here to Derbyshire for you.” He again bowed low.
Yes, she was obviously ready to be placed in Bedlam.
Voluntarily
. Had the world gone mad when she had blinked at some point?
She was certain she had never met this strange little man before her. And why was he treating her like the queen reignant, or at the very least a foreign head of state.
And she had thought the tricky part would be “knocking over” a large man. She hoped that was the popular jargon of criminals in the know these days, because if she had to break the law, she wanted to do it with style. Fashion, she might not care about, but lexicons were another matter altogether.
“So glad I did not put the prince to any trouble.” He might have very different feelings when it concerned a whole lot of trouble instead. And so she curtsied to gain this squirrelly man’s favor. “Um, is he—” She should have prepared for this better, she feared. She just wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “—or rather, is His Majesty at home?” She paused.
He stared at her, a smile overspreading his face.
“Or receiving?”
Nothing.
“Taking appointments today?”
He finally put her out of her misery. “He’s waiting for you, madam.”
“He is?” She feared she’d just squeaked for the first time.
He nodded and invited her to follow him.
Fourteen rooms, seventeen corridors, four sets of stairs, and untold number of doorways later she found herself ushered into the royal bedchamber. She was so in awe that she only realized she was alone with the future king of England when she heard a heavy door close behind her and wheeled about.
Perhaps beheadings were held in private in this day and age.
“Come here, my child,” a deep voice called from an immense bed in deep shadow.
Was he ill? Why, it was half four in the afternoon.
“Let me see your face,” he said gently.
She raised her chin and boldly strode forth. She would not be described as a coward in the history books. A fool or an idiot, perhaps, but not a coward.
She stopped midway. In her fluster, she had forgotten that she was looking for
him
. That lying, living, soon not to be breathing, masquerading conniver who was soon to be known as her ex-fiancé if she had any say in the matter. And, yes, she rather thought she had quite a lot to
say
or
write
about it.
Unless of course the prince regained his senses and cut out her tongue to shut her up and her hands to shut her down.
Then again she had nothing to lose. “Where is he? I know he’s here.”
The prince smiled in a great show of munificence. “All in good time, my dear, all in good time.”
Was there anybody in the story of her life who could be original and go through their chapter without a cliché? These were the sorts of observations that her siblings never understood. Then again, most people did not either.
Except Rory. The bloody imposter.
No. He was really just a taker, instead of the giver she had originally taken him for. He took ladies’ hearts. He took people’s secrets, and worst of all, he took people’s blame that they had earned through years of toil and sweat. Well, maybe not sweat, but toil certainly.
“Take your time, my child.” A teensy-weensy hint of an edge bordered the prince’s voice. “But not all day. I have things to do, places to go, and celebratory events to attend. And if you are to go with us, time . . . vast amounts of time must be spent on your appearance.” It was very hard to make out, but Verity thought the royal head suddenly leaned forward and rolled his eyes. “I had not believed him when he said three hours would not be enough time for your headgear alone, but I fear he was right.” He paused. “Then again I should know better. He is always right.”
“Not always,” she said without thinking.
A quick grin splashed across the only part of the royal face that she could see—the lower half. “Do you have proof he has ever been wrong? I should pay you handsomely for it if you do.”
She thought long and hard. And then a little longer. “May I get back to you about that, sire?”
“ ‘Get back to me’? Is that some sort of colloquialism from Derbyshire? Strange land, the Peak District. I often wonder if the thin air affects the mind. But I should not have told you that. Your brother becomes all puckered and starched up whenever I’ve hinted at it in the past. How is Candy, anyway?”
Candy? The royal nickname for James was
Candy
? She nearly cried for the want to start scribbling again. “Uh, ‘Candy’ was doing very well last time we were together.”
“Sent a note to him, by the by. Can’t have his nerves in a bundle at this moment. Why, the bachelorhood of the majority of the royal entourage hangs in the balance. And your brother is the key chessman on the board game of my life at present. Why, the fashion in which the last month or so has unraveled has made it patently clear that we must be on full alert for a return to chaos at any moment.” He yawned. “My life is in imminent danger.”
She squinted her eyes and leaned in closer to try and see him better. “So you will still make them all marry?”
He sat up straighter. “Do you have a better idea? He said you might. Something about dangerously creative with imagination run amok.” He belched.
The devil
. Well, Mr. I-love-you-even-if-you-are- stubborn-and-your-hats-are-hideous had just veered 180 degrees south in the complicated algorithm—or was it geometry?—that ruled her particular not-so-feminine mind. She put on her best demure smile, clutched her hands in a begging position. “Oh, no, sire. I think you are absolutely correct. There is no other way out of this sad, sad affair. They all
must
marry. Except my brother, of course. Two failed engagements is enough punishment. But as for the Duke of Abshire, my
former
betrothed, the self-proclaimed author of the Duke Diaries, the usurper of my—” She stopped. Prinny was famous for being fickle.
Think before speaking.
“—my . . . my . . .”
“Innocence?” the prince offered with another yawn.
Righteousness filled her. “No. Rory would never do anything like that.”
The royal arm circled in the universal motion to indicate she was to speed up her harangue.
“Well, I think, for this particular duke . . .” All the fury that had ignited within her upon reading Rory’s proclamation that he was, indeed, the infamous and—and—and
tittle-tattling, gossip-mongering, prattling, blabby chatterer of the century . . .
dissipated in the thick air of London’s upper stories.
She bowed her head and whispered, “Did he learn how to listen from you or did Your Majesty learn it from him?”
He chuckled. “I think you already know the answer to that. I would tell you that an old dog can indeed learn new tricks but I understand that you have a queer aversion to clichés. But why haven’t you asked me why I am willing to show patience, and, ahem, quite an extensive amount of time, to the real person behind the words that nearly caused a revolution not one week ago? Is that not the real question?”
She exhaled roughly. “I fully accept any and all punishment Your Majesty decides in his royal wisdom to mete out.” She paused.
“Go on.”
“I would only ask if I could accept full punishment in a fashion that would not harm the reputation of my family.”
“Yes. Yes. Yes. And so on and so forth. And all around the mulberry bush. The answer is no.”
“No?”
“No.”
“No, there is no way not to harm my family, or no, you refuse to punish me even if I deserve and even demand it?”
“Sacrifice is tedious, don’t you think? I know you do for it’s your brother’s favorite discussion. And I agree. Martyrs are not very successful at succession.”
She didn’t dare say a word.
“But perhaps I should go against C’s request. Perhaps I should exact some sort of punishment for your immensely foolish . . . what did he call it?”
“ ‘Tittle-tattling, gossip-mongering, prattling, blabby chatterer of the century,’ Your Majesty,” she ground out.
“Indeed, Lady V. He’s an absolute genius, don’t you think? You must ask him how he memorized every nuance of your handwriting, then spent hours writing new diaries he made look ancient. But the most brilliant part of his plan was taking the blame, and earning a fortune to boot, by selling the entire set to the
Evening Herald.
”
“I would have thought that the brilliant part was how he made everyone, ahem, especially Your Majesty, into a veritable hero using my style of lexicon, and painted the columnist as a liar and a thief.”
Prinny blinked. “I see why he likes you. Courage bordering on stupidity. Shall I confide the biggest secret of all, my dear? I only tell you this in the strictest of confidences, of course.”
She blinked and then nodded, still surprised the future king wasn’t truly going to sentence her to a lifetime at Newgate for the embarrassing royal things that had been made public.
“Do you know why that anarchist for a columnist retracted all he had quoted and printed?”
She leaned in to hear him better.
“Your intended terrified the little traitor. He told him that he would hang for trespassing and stealing from the Crown if he did not print an immediate apology, admitting to changing and embellishing Rory’s nonexistent diaries to incite chaos. Rory even made him suggest he was French.”
“And he did it remarkably fast,” she said peevishly.
“Oh, he is famous for planning, don’t you know? Arranged it all in advance. He only had to corner that weasel columnist when he returned.”
She shook her head, both annoyed at her inability to plan as well as he—despite all her years of training—and also proud of Rory’s extraordinary abilities.
“By the by, Lady V, was Sussex really Middlesex’s washerwoman for an entire month when he lost a wager?”
“Every Tuesday and Friday.” She nodded gravely. “The Duke of Middlesex spent most of those days on the third story of his townhouse, facing the mews, while Sussex labored before him. The garden was fairly blue with interesting oaths I never could quite understand. Especially Fridays.”
