The Perfect Princess (40 page)

“He lied and the letter was forged,” Richard said.

“Then why write to me at all?”

“So that you wouldn’t become suspicious. If George had disappeared without a trace, you would have made inquiries, wouldn’t you? Then the authorities would have become involved, and Frank didn’t want that.”

Dryden wasn’t finished yet. “But . . . but to come back to England as George Withers. Wouldn’t someone recognize him?”

“Did you recognize me or I you when we met today for the first time in seventeen years? And I think Frank Stapleton would take some pains to make sure that he wasn’t recognized. But there are other ways of recognizing a man. A shared history. Memories. A long
correspondence. The last thing Frank Stapleton wants is to meet you in person. That’s why you may be a danger to him.”

Caspar suddenly exclaimed, “What the devil is Rosamund doing here?”

Richard quickly crossed to the window and looked out. Two young women had entered the garden by the back gate. There were three children with them, and their gales of laughter carried to the open window.

“It’s not Rosamund,” he said. “It’s someone who could pass for her at a distance.”

Or in the ill-lit gardens of Twickenham House.

“It’s Miss Dryden,” said Caspar.

A moment before, Richard had felt the thrill of the chase. It was all becoming clear to him, and very soon he would catch up with the devil who had caused him so much heartache. But as he watched Prudence Dryden approach the house, he felt tremors of alarm ripple through him. Like Rosamund, Miss Dryden was tall and dark-haired, and on the night of the attack she was wearing a shawl, just as she was wearing a shawl now. Most of the ladies had worn some kind of wrap that night, including Rosamund.

His mind was buzzing with questions when Dryden called his sister into the study. He was aware that the usual greetings were exchanged, that Peter Dryden was explaining why they were there, but he was impatient for answers and he cut Peter off in mid-sentence.

“Miss Dryden,” he said, “I want you to think about the night you were attacked. Who was first on the scene after the shot was fired? Take your time. Think about it. You were on the ground. Prince Michael helped you up. Whom did you see?”

She glanced nervously at her brother, then looked at Richard again. “There was quite a crowd,” she said, hesitating over her words. “I remember Prince Michael ordering them back.”

He tried to relax, tried to make his expression un-threatening. “Is there anyone who stands out in your memory?”

She nodded and flashed a smile. “Mrs. Tracey, Lady Rosamund’s friend. She thought I was Rosamund and shrieked Rosamund’s name, so of course everybody thought Rosamund had been hit. Poor woman. She got quite a fright. Her brother-in-law came up then and led her away.”

“Thank you,” said Richard.

When they were outside, Caspar said, “Where to now?”

“Mrs. Tracey’s house in Manchester Square.”

When Rosamund arrived at Callie’s house, she suffered a disappointment. Callie was not there, but Charles Tracey was, so of course she could not ask Aunt Fran all the personal questions she was burning to ask.

“Oh, dear,” said Aunt Fran in response to Rosamund’s query. “Callie couldn’t remember whether you were to meet here or at your house. So she went to your house. She said if you were to come here, I was to tell you.”

“That I’m to meet her at my house?”

A look of confusion came over Aunt Fran’s face. “I think so.”

“I’ll take you, if you like,” said Charles.

When he took a step toward her, she backed away. “That won’t be necessary,” she said quickly. “I have a hackney waiting.”

Much to her alarm, he followed her out. “Lady Rosamund,” he said, “please wait.”

But she didn’t wait. She went tearing down the stairs. He caught up to her on the landing. He captured her arm, checked her movement, and turned her to face him.

“Charles,” she said, trying to sound natural, “what is the meaning of this?”

He let go of her arm at once. “It’s all over Whitehall,” he said. “Major Digby was murdered last night, along with Whorsley and some young boy. I thought you should know—that is, if you don’t know already.”

She was silent, staring at him, trying to read his expression in the landing’s half-light. She wondered how old he was. Richard’s age or maybe a year or two younger? She wondered which university he’d attended.

His eyes narrowed on her. “Aren’t you afraid?” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I know I would be if I were you.”

And suddenly she was afraid, mortally afraid. With a little sob, she turned and tore down the stairs, to Harper and safety.

W
hen she told Harper about her encounter with Charles Tracey on the stairs, he was skeptical.

“He ain’t following us,” he said. He was looking out the little window at the back of their hackney.

“No, but he knows where we’re going.”

Harper patted the pistol that was tucked into the waistband of his trousers. “If he turns up, I’ll take care of him. I have another in my pocket.” He felt in his pocket and produced another pistol. “I could let you have it, if you like.”

Rosamund’s nose wrinkled. “Harper, it’s so big, I don’t think my wrist could take its weight. And what would Mrs. Tracey say if I appeared with that monstrosity?”

“She’d be frightened?”

“She’d laugh herself silly! Why do you need two guns anyway?”

“In case my shot misses and I don’t have time to
reload.” He frowned down at the pistol he’d offered Rosamund. “The first chance I gets,” he said, “I’m going to get you one of them dainty French pieces that a lady can hide in her reticule.”

As he pocketed his spare pistol, Rosamund took a moment to study him. Harper didn’t look like much, but he was sterling. A little tarnished around the edges, perhaps, but sterling all the same. He was still skeptical about Charles Tracey, but he wouldn’t take any chances. She couldn’t ask for more than that.

When they came to the gates of the house, they paid off the hackney.

“You go on,” Harper said. “I’ll wait here, out of sight, and if Tracey shows up, I’ll send him packing.”

“I won’t be long.”

She entered the grounds by the wicket gate, and struck out along the drive. Just being here lifted her spirits. It seemed as though all the ugliness in the world had been locked out of this small acreage of paradise. She could imagine children playing on the long stretch of turf, and horses gamboling in the pasture, or feeding in their stalls in the stable. She and Richard would take long walks through the woods that edged their property, and count their blessings.

If only . . .

When she reached the house, she found the front door unlocked, and that surprised her. She supposed that the caretaker had forgotten to lock it after he let Callie in, that’s if Aunt Fran had given her the right message and Callie was here.

“Callie?” she called out. “Callie?”

A moment later, Callie appeared at the turn in the stairs. “What kept you?” she asked. “I’d almost given up on you.”

“I was delayed. Where’s the caretaker? He left the front door open.”

“I think he went to the stables to fix window frames or
something. I’m in the rose salon. I’ve purloined a decanter of sherry. I hope you don’t mind.”

The question was rhetorical. Callie drifted away and Rosamund went up the stairs after her. Richard would like this house, she thought. It was solid, unpretentious, and somewhat old-fashioned, just like him, and she wondered if that’s what had attracted her to the house in the first place.

In the rose salon, Callie was at one of the long windows, a glass of sherry in her hand. She made an arresting picture in her plum-colored pelisse against the rose velvet drapes. Light filtered through the window, gilding her delicate features and the line of her throat.

She turned with a smile. “I see you came alone. I wasn’t sure if you would. No ducal carriage, no footmen, no Miss Dryden. I’m impressed.”

“Miss Dryden has gone to her brother’s place to convalesce.”

“So I heard. This is better anyway, just we two on our own. Help yourself to a sherry.” She nodded to the decanter and crystal glass on a table at one end of the brocade sofa.

Rosamund did not have time for sherry. She came straight to the heart of the matter. “I went to Newgate today, to talk to the keeper, and I learned something interesting.” She breathed deeply. “Do you remember that a shot was fired the morning we were all there?”

Callie took a sip of sherry. “Oh, yes, I remember it well.”

“The keeper told me it wasn’t fired by one of the turnkeys, or any of the inmates or their visitors. I know that Richard . . . Maitland,” she belatedly added, “didn’t fire it, or Harper or me. You see what this means?”

Callie sighed. “It means that either I fired the shot or Charles did.”

Rosamund was surprised at how quickly Callie grasped the logistics of the situation. She’d thought she
might have to draw her a map. “Yes,” she said, “and I think Charles tried to kill Richard Maitland.”

This was greeted with a trill of laughter. “Charles?” said Callie, and laughed again. “Charles couldn’t shoot a rabid dog if his life depended on it. He doesn’t have the gumption.”

“Then who fired the shot?”

“Who do you think?”

After a long silence, Rosamund shook her head. “Not you, Callie. That doesn’t make sense. Besides, I was between you and Richard. The shot would have hit me.”

“No. You fell over the basket, giving me a clear shot at Maitland, and I took it. I must have missed him by a hair.”

Rosamund was speechless. When she began to stutter, Callie cut her off.

“That was my mission of mercy. I went to Newgate with the express purpose of killing Richard Maitland or giving him the chance to end his own life.”

Rosamund sank down on the nearest chair. The words were torn from her. “But why?”

Callie was distinctly amused. “If you had listened to me when I told you about Maitland’s trial, you would know. I watched him day after day. Didn’t I tell you that he was magnificent? Death held no fears for him. His disdain for his accusers, the prosecuting counsel, the trial itself—well, you can tell that he made quite an impression on me. I did not think that a man so far above the common run deserved to die a felon’s death. So I made up my mind to help him out of his predicament. I would have left my pistol with him. You see, I was convinced he would have chosen a hero’s death to hanging. But fate intervened.”

“What pistol?” demanded Rosamund.

“The pistol that was hidden in my muff.”

Callie moved one of the drapes aside and pointed to her bonnet and white rabbit-skin muff on the window
seat, the same muff she’d had with her the day they visited Newgate.

Rosamund stared blindly at the muff, unwilling to accept what Callie had told her. Callie would dare the devil just for the thrill of it—how many times had she thought that?—but risqué masqued balls and balloon rides were a far cry from shooting a man in cold blood. She couldn’t accept it.

“You’re not saying this to protect Charles?” she asked.

Callie tossed off the last of her sherry and went to the decanter to pour herself another. “Charles!” she said disparagingly. “He’s a weak-kneed woman. He knew I was going to leave my pistol with Maitland. I told him what I intended to do. Here was his chance to impress me with his dash and daring. And what did he do? He tried to put obstacles in my way. You remember how reluctant he was to go to Newgate, how he whined about the rioters? As I said, a pathetic, weak-kneed woman!”

She walked back to the window and sank onto the window seat. After taking another sip of sherry, she said, “When Charles saw that I meant to finish Maitland in the quadrangle, he put as much distance between us as he possibly could.” She laughed. “I think he was afraid I would shoot him if he interfered.”

“Yes,” said Rosamund tonelessly, “I wondered why Charles had separated himself from us.”

There was no need to ask why Charles had kept quiet about the whole affair. He was in love with Callie, abjectly in love, and would do anything for her.

She should be more shocked than she was, but she was remembering the little bothy on the downs, when she and Richard thought the militia had surrounded it.
I want to die a soldier’s death
, Richard said.
Let me die with some dignity
.

Just thinking of those few moments when she thought she had lost Richard forever, made her eyes burn.

She looked up to find Callie watching her. Rosamund believed her friend now—yet something about Callie disturbed her, something that lurked beneath the surface.
A mission of mercy
, Callie called it. But was it?

Rosamund shook her head. “But Richard wasn’t going to die a felon’s death, was he, Callie? He was making a bid for freedom. You said you believed in his innocence, so why would you shoot him? Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

She said the words automatically, as the thoughts occurred to her. “You didn’t want him to escape. He had to die.”

Callie cocked her head to one side. “I’ve underestimated you. I didn’t think you would work that part out. Oh, I was going to tell you anyway. When I overheard your conversation with Miss Dryden, right here in this very room, I knew it would come to this. You were going to go back to the beginning and start investigating again. And something about Newgate didn’t sit right with you. You’re right, of course. I didn’t mind Maitland cheating the hangman, but I couldn’t allow him to escape. I’d always be looking over my shoulder, wondering if he was closing in on me.”