Amanda Scott (26 page)

“Good gracious, Sylvie,” Joan said, laughing as they moved out of the throne room and back into the circular drawing room, “he looked as though he’d like to eat you.”

“Don’t encourage the man, whatever you do,” Reston said in a tone purposely lowered to avoid carrying his words beyond the two ladies to Mr. Lacey or Lady Ermintrude. “Your rank will not protect you from him, and he can be most offensive to those who do not appreciate his attentions.”

“I doubt she needs such a warning, Harry,” his wife said in a similar undertone. “Sylvia is no green girl, you know.”

“Sylvia is a very pretty girl,” retorted her husband, “and if she knows how to snub the Regent, she is unique. The only person I know to have done it successfully is Beau Brummell, who snubs everyone and who is not a mere female. And even he treads on thin ice. A young girl wouldn’t stand a chance. What’s more to the purpose, my dear, is that it don’t become you to dispute such matters with your husband in public.”

“Oh, pooh, as if I care a pin for that.” But she smiled at Sylvia and said no more.

The Reston party moved on to mingle with their friends as more and more people arrived. No one who was anyone was absent, unless like Lord and Lady Greyfalcon, they were in mourning. Dancing in the crimson drawing room began at ten o’clock, and for some fifteen minutes prior to that time the musicians could be heard tuning their instruments, the sound drawing the guests slowly but surely into the room. The grand promenade began precisely on the stroke of ten, and Sylvia found herself partnered with a perfect stranger for the opening minuet, but after that, Lacey came as he had promised to claim her for the country dances.

By midnight she had danced every dance and was well nigh parched, for the temperature of the room was high, and the Regent forbade the opening of any windows. His fear of the night air being well-known, no one dared to disobey this edict. Thus, when Lady Joan suggested that they visit the famous conservatory, Sylvia agreed immediately.

“Just to get out of this room would be enough,” she said.

“Oh, no, you must see the conservatory, mustn’t she, Harry?”

Lord Reston smiled. “Indeed, she must, if only so that she might tell our royal host that she has already done so. That is one of his favorite seduction ploys.”

They passed through the hall into the two-story vestibule with its portrait gallery of the Prince Regent surrounded by his Whig heroes: Charles James Fox, the Duke of Devonshire, the Duke of Bedford, and Lord Lake. The flashy crimson-and-gold upholstered benches and curtains were, Sylvia thought, completely in keeping with the rest of the furnishings she had seen. By comparison, Greyfalcon House seemed almost drab.

The lower vestibule was even more flamboyant than the area above, and to Sylvia’s dismay, the rooms appeared to be warmer than those she had left behind. There was a hothouse atmosphere long before they reached the conservatory.

“The low ceilings are to blame,” Reston said when she complained of the heat. “When we get into the conservatory itself, it will be better.”

And so it was, though she was still conscious of a dampness in the air, but once inside the conservatory, she forgot every discomfort. There must have been twenty chandeliers casting a warm glow over the myriad plants beneath the high fan-vaulted ceiling of the Regent’s neo-perpendicular extravaganza of cast-iron and translucent colored glass.

“This is where the fete supper was held last year,” Joan told her. “The principal supper table, which was two hundred feet long, ran the whole length of the conservatory and on into the dining room there at the far west end of the building. Down the middle of the table flowed a stream of water, supplied by a silver fountain in front of the Prince and enlivened with mossy banks, miniature bridges, and goldfish.”

“Yes,” Sylvia said, “I saw the broadsides afterward. ‘Gudgeon fishing à la conservatory’ was my favorite. The ladies in all their finery waving fishing poles over the table.” She chuckled, looking up and down the hall, trying to visualize the event. From where she stood, she could look down the length of the lower ground floor to the west end. The floor was black-and-white marble all the way, and all the arched doorways were lined up, giving a tunnel effect, with the tunnel growing smaller and smaller in the distance.

More people seemed to have had the same idea about visiting the conservatory, and it was rapidly becoming as crowded as any of the rooms above, so Sylvia agreed at once when Reston suggested that they return to the festivities.

“I daresay that although supper will not be served until two, there will be a punch table in the circular room by now.”

He was proved to be correct, and Sylvia accepted with enthusiasm the cup of arrack punch he procured for her, then stood back to allow Joan to be served next. A white-gloved hand on her arm startled her, and she nearly dropped her punch. Another hand on her wrist steadied her hand, and she found herself looking into the Regent’s protruding blue eyes.

“Sir!” But when she attempted to curtsy, he stopped her.

“No need for that, my dear. I startled you. Here, step away from this mob. I wish to become better acquainted.”

She looked around in near panic for Joan or Reston, but both had apparently been swallowed up by the crowd attempting to reach the punch bowls.

“I seem to have been separated from my party, sir,” she said steadily. “Perhaps you can see Lord Reston. I am a trifle short to peer over shoulders.”

“It will be easier to allow them to find you, Miss Jensen-Graham. Goodness, what a mouthful that is. I shall do myself the honor to call you Sylvia. Come away out of this crowd. Have you had the opportunity to visit my conservatory?”

“Yes, sir, I have. It is very beautiful.”

He was, nonetheless, gently guiding her toward the door and short of digging in her heels she knew no way to stop him. There appeared to be no one of her acquaintance in the vicinity, though there were people everywhere. She smiled at the Regent, allowing him to take her into the pages’ hall.

There was no one there at that moment except for four young boys in livery who stood stiffly by the wall waiting for someone to send them on an errand. The Prince ignored them. Sylvia was grateful for their presence.

“Now, then, my dear, tell me about yourself. Damme, but I cannot think why we have not had this opportunity before.”

“I am rarely in London, sir,” said Sylvia. “I prefer country life.”

“Like it myself. You must come to Brighton one day and see my little country house.” He chuckled. “Not so little actually, and a trifle expensive, come to that. Those damned fellows in Parliament always carping over what it costs. I ask you, m’dear, ain’t it worth it? Look at this place. Think a man could build a place like this with coppers?”

“No, sir, I suppose not, but perhaps the men in Parliament think there are other, more important uses for the money.”

“Important! What could be more important than preserving our great works of art? Feed the poor, they say. Well, I tell you this, ma’am, the poor have always been with us and will always be with us. No one can feed all the poor. But we can preserve such magnificence as this, and, damme, we will. Now that that damned Perceval is gone, maybe someone with a brain in his head will take his place.”

“Mr. Perceval’s death was a sad tragedy, sir,” said Sylvia stiffly. “He was a man with a wife and family, after all, and did not deserve to have his life cut short in such a despicable fashion.” She spoke impulsively and without thought. When she realized what she had said, she could not wish the words unsaid, but she was grateful nonetheless that he did not seem to take offense.

Indeed, he nodded approvingly. “You appear to think just as you ought, my dear.” He glanced briefly at a small group of latecomers who chose that moment to pass through the little hall, then turned pointedly back to Sylvia, saying pontifically, “I, too, have considered the poor man’s family, and you will no doubt be pleased to know that I have made arrangements for them to be well-looked-after. I sent orders to Parliament only this morning ordering provision made for Mrs. Perceval and her family, and an annuity of two thousand pounds was granted to her, together with a sum of thirty thousand pounds to her family. They are numerous, you know.”

“Yes, twelve children, I believe, but—”

“Ah, you are thinking ’twas still not enough to repay the loss of a great man,” the Prince cut in with a broad gesture, “and, damme, I agree with you. Not nearly enough, I said. And so, my dear, there will also be a monument to his memory in Westminster Abbey and a grant to his eldest son, who carries his name and who is just on the point of entering Oxford or Cambridge—I forget which—of an annuity of one thousand pounds to begin the day of his father’s death. And, in the event of his mother’s death, there will be an additional one thousand pounds per year for the lad from a grateful nation. There, what do you think of that?”

So smug was his attitude, as though he had personally awarded the money from his own coffers, that Sylvia’s teeth had begun to grind together halfway through his speech, and now, quite blind to the pages and deaf to any sound that might herald new arrivals, she retorted, “I think, sir, that ’twas the very least you could do, considering your own responsibility for the family’s bereavement.”

The Regent’s shocked expression brought home to Sylvia the enormity of what she had said, but before she could speak, he exploded. “What’s that you say?
My
responsibility? You dare to speak so to me! Damme, madam, what can you mean by such—”

He was interrupted by a voice a good deal less agitated than his own, and one, moreover that Sylvia was astonished to hear. “Good evening, your highness,” Greyfalcon said, speaking over her shoulder. “May I suggest that we adjourn to a more private place to continue this conversation.”

The earl’s calm tone had the effect of drawing the Regent’s attention to him, and of sending a surge of relief through Sylvia’s body at the same time, but when she turned to face her rescuer, she encountered a look of such blazing anger that she was not by any means certain that she had been rescued at all.

T
HE PRINCE REGENT HOVERED
on the brink of throwing one of his famous temper tantrums, but another group of chatting, laughing guests chose that moment to pass through the hall, and he thought better of it. Favoring the earl with a glare, he muttered grumpily, “Very well, Greyfalcon, though I intend to get to the bottom of this, and I can certainly do so without your assistance. I quite fail to see what my discussion with Miss Jensen-Graham has to do with you.”

“She is presently a guest in my house, sir, so you will understand that I feel some responsibility for her.” He glanced at Sylvia as though to assure himself that she would not be so foolish as to dispute that point, but she was still feeling the effects of the earlier look he had given her and had no intention of speaking. Having satisfied himself on that account, Greyfalcon turned back to the Regent. “Is there perhaps a room where we might discuss this matter without the rest of your guests becoming party to the conversation?”

“The plate room is nearest,” said the Regent, indicating a narrow door in the southwest corner of the hall. “The pages have orders to discourage people from entering. I suppose it will be better there than if we were to traipse about together looking for a more private room. Come along.” A page leapt to open the door and shut it behind them when they were inside.

The plate room was as well lit as any other room in the royal residence. Its walls were lined with glass-fronted shelves containing a vast array of silver and china that on any other occasion would have drawn Sylvia’s attention to the exclusion of anything else. At the moment, however, she scarcely noticed her surroundings, merely following in the Regent’s wake until he drew up near one of the red-velvet-covered, gilt-legged benches and turned to face not her but Greyfalcon.

“I assume you heard what your ward had the impertinence to say to me.”

“She is not my ward, sir, but only my guest,” the earl said, “and yes, I am sorry to say that I did hear what she said.” He glanced again at Sylvia, and his gaze slashed at her like the flick of a whip, making it all she could do not to flinch. He turned back to the angry Prince. “I hope you will act with your customary generosity, sir, and forgive her for speaking so stupidly.”

“I should rather hear why she dared to say such things to her Prince.” His highness turned a grim eye upon the culprit, folded his plump arms across his plump chest, and waited.

Sylvia glanced at Greyfalcon, but he showed no inclination to say more on her behalf than he had said already. She was on her own. “If it please you, sir,” she said slowly, looking directly at the Regent, “though I spoke hastily and thoughtlessly, I said no more than I believe. No doubt it was unbecoming in me to have said what I did; however, you are known as the first gentleman of Europe and thus a man of honor. Can you honestly deny that you or your aide, Major Teufel, had anything to do with Mr. Perceval’s assassination?”

The Regent regarded her in amazement, his eyes seeming ready to pop out of his head. Then he looked at Greyfalcon as though he expected that gentleman, since he had taken responsibility for her, to reprimand her for making such a speech. The earl shrugged, and there appeared a glint in his eyes of sardonic resignation. The Regent looked away again, and for the first time, he seemed unwilling to meet Sylvia’s glance.

“What do you know of Teufel?” he muttered at last.

“I have met him,” she said quietly, “and I believe he had a certain amount of influence over Mr. Bellingham.”

“Well, you needn’t make a song and dance about it,” blustered the Prince, “and I certainly hope you will have the good sense to refrain from saying such things to anyone else. I shan’t deny that Teufel carried influence. Damme, he was my aide, so of course he had power, and perhaps he exerted some of that power over the Bellingham fellow. And I’ll not deny, just within these walls, mind you, that he might have overstepped himself.” He glared at her, pushed out his lower lip, and straightened his shoulders. “Mistaken loyalty to his master, don’t you know. But he’s been punished for it already. Damme, I’ve sent him back to Hanover with a flea in his ear.”