Dangerous Deceptions (8 page)

“Have you changed your favorites, Miss Fitzroy?” drawled Sophy with pretended surprise. “I believe you previously favored delicacies drawn from the Italian.”

“Not everyone has the appetite for such rich and varied dishes as you, Sophy.”

“Or such an eye for profitable business as you, Peggy,” she replied calmly.

“Miss Fitzroy is much involved in her own business these days,” muttered Molly Lepell without looking up from the handkerchief she was pretending to embroider. I winced. I had hoped for a quiet moment alone with Molly, to apologize and explain. That now seemed at the least highly unlikely.

Mary Bellenden did not even give me time to frame a meek reply to Molly’s barb. “Perhaps I shall enter into business myself.” Mary tossed her head. “It does seem to bring one such
tasty
rewards.”

That earned me a fresh round of pursed mouths and wide-eyed looks. But Sophy was not to be deterred. “You sound as if you know something about it.”

“Mary knows all about everything,” I put in as pleasantly as possible. “I wonder that she doesn’t turn to writing verses for the popular press.”

“Perhaps I shall.” Mary raised her hand and struck a dramatic pose.
“And oh! The blushing dawn does rise above the rooftop. Where she looks in vain for the face she sees not—”

“For the fairest maids still lie abed, and for shame of
business
hide their heads,”
added Sophy.

“Safe from those with no business to mind, but in minding others’ pass their time,”
said Mrs. Howard quietly.

A smattering of laughter and applause rippled through the gathering. For my part, I turned and stared.

This was my first look at the famed Henrietta Howard. Mrs. Howard’s return to court had been much anticipated in the newspapers, all of which described her as “the loveliest and most charming woman to be found the length and breadth of Britain.”

I will pause here to make sure my readers understand that I do not peruse the gutter press looking for my own name, as some of my sister courtiers do. Rather, it is to keep informed as to what those outside the court believe about those of us within it.

Mrs. Howard did not return my overtly curious glance, but concentrated instead on stirring the cup of coffee she was fetching for the princess. I had to agree with the general assessment that she was a beauty. Her long, fine neck broadened into a pair of sloping shoulders and a generous bosom. Her hair was a rich chestnut color, and she wore it simply, which emphasized her oval face and wide-set eyes. Despite her quiet display of wit, I doubted she would prove as interesting a companion as Lady Montagu, who had recently departed for Turkey under something of a cloud. That cloud, incidentally, was caused by a careless verse. Words, in our world, are dangerous things.

As Mrs. Howard turned to carry cup and saucer to Her Royal Highness, I saw that she looked nothing so much as resigned. This I thought strange, especially as the other rumor regarding Mrs. Howard was that she was the current mistress of the Prince of Wales.

“Very witty, Mrs. Howard,” said Sophy with just a shade too much enthusiasm. “But then, you were not here to witness what happens when Peggy Fitzroy turns her hand to business. Molly could tell you all about it, I’m sure. Could you not, Molly?”

“Oh,
lud,
Sophy.” Molly Lepell sighed. “If we are to occupy ourselves with telling tales, can they at least be about someone interesting?”

That earned a laugh from the general assembly, but not, I noted, from the princess herself. She eyed me over the rim of her coffee cup, and with the arch of one carefully sculpted royal brow, silently asked me what I intended to do about all this.

“Well, I for one would be glad to be dull for a bit,” I began, hoping no one noted my slightly desperate tone. “Too much spice is bad for the digestion and the complexion, as I’m sure Miss Howe could tell us.”

Which turned out to be exactly the wrong thing to say. “That’s right!” cried Mary, with an air of triumph. “Our Peggy favors good English cooking. Or perhaps I should say English cooking favors her!”

My heart plummeted. She was going to tell them about Sebastian. She was going to tell Sophy Howe about Sebastian, right there, in front of all the ladies and women of the bedchamber. Once she named him, the betrothal would be quickly sniffed out. It would be in the gossip columns by morning. Matthew would read it. Worse, he’d have it read to him. Did the princess know? I hadn’t told her. She couldn’t find out like this. I’d lose my countenance, and my place.

I had to stop this, now. But panic blanked my wit. For a moment, I wondered if I should actually have to resort to the Faint.

I must have done some good in my life, because at that moment my white knight appeared. He came in the form of a liveried footman who swept open the pavilion door. His stentorian voice rang clearly across all other conversation and killed it stone dead.

“His Royal Highness, George Augustus, Prince of Wales!”

EIGHT

The men of Hanover are not a tall breed and are inclined to a certain thickness about the middle. I would not suggest this extends to a certain thickness of skull. I would, in fact, take most special care not to suggest this while still in service.

It may be truthfully acknowledged, however, that our prince is not inclined toward art, or philosophy, or any theater save the opera. Still, he carries his thick frame with a soldier’s bearing, and he does possess the art of accurately judging men’s characters, especially when it comes to discerning who is actually in agreement with his cause and who is merely flattering. If there is a form of intelligence useful to a future monarch, that is surely it.

As the prince entered, those of us who had been seated shot at once to our feet and then dropped into deep curtsies, which is not, I assure you, as easy as it might sound, especially on a lumpy carpet covering an uneven lawn. As my gaze lowered, I saw a saucy grin spread across Careless Mary’s face and risked tilting my head toward Sophy. Sophy raised hard and glittering eyes from under her low lids, but not toward the prince. Sophy’s venom was aimed at Mrs. Howard.

Prince George, for his part, smiled kindly all around and motioned for us to straighten as he strode to the princess.

“And how do you find yourself this morning, my sweet?” Prince George bowed courteously over her hand. He spoke in French, the language of the court here and in Hanover where he had been born.

“I am very well, sir, thank you.” At first blush, our hearty, martial prince and his learned wife did not appear to be well matched. But to my eye, there was a mutual understanding in evidence whenever they met. It was partly affection, but there was more to this marriage. This royal couple needed each other, and they were not entirely sorry for it.

I saw this now, even though not ten feet from me stood Mrs. Howard, cloaked in all her rumors.

“It’s good, it’s good,” the prince was saying. “I, unfortunately, find myself dull this morning. I wish you could come riding with me . . .” He shrugged. “But perhaps you could lend me your Mrs. Howard instead?”

The whole air of the gathering became charged with that subtle current created by the formation of fresh gossip. The princess surely felt it, but it caused her not a moment’s hesitation. “Of course, sir. I am sure Mrs. Howard can have no objection to riding out with you.”

We all now strained our lowered eyes for a glimpse of Mrs. Howard as she made a fresh curtsy.

“I thank Your Highness for the kind invitation,” she said. “I fear, however, I would only delay your enjoyment, as I am not dressed to ride.”

In response, His Royal Highness smiled benignly but firmly at her. “You could be ready in a trice, I am sure.”

I might only be able to see the world in slivers and glimpses, but my ears were wide open, and I clearly heard that resignation in Mrs. Howard I’d taken note of before. “Certainly, sir, if you wish it.”

His Royal Highness waved, indicating that he did indeed wish it. Mrs. Howard dropped her curtsy another fraction of an inch and backed out of the pavilion. Careless Mary, in the meantime, trod discreetly on my foot and rolled her eyes. How she could do that from under lowered lids was beyond me, but she managed it most effectively. I could not tell, however, if she meant to indicate her delight at this apparent confirmation of the rumors about Mrs. Howard. It might have also been because Sophy Howe looked ready to expire from jealousy.

I ignored them both and looked to the princess. Her Royal Highness continued to converse smoothly with the prince about who was likely to be present at the next drawing room. I told myself the rumors could not possibly be true. The alternative was to believe that this strong-willed, clever woman was also an ordinary, put-upon wife, and that was too depressing a possibility to entertain.

“It’s good, it’s good,” said the prince again. “Now, I am off. Do not stay out too long, my sweet. The day is chilly.” He took his wife’s hand and kissed it, looking for all the world as if he were doing anything except going off to ride with another woman.

To say that the silence that followed his departure was awkward would be committing a gross understatement. Glances shifted sharply sideways, and the air was thick as porridge with unspoken words and witticisms about the prince coming for a lady right under his wife’s gaze. I personally did not know who to think less of: the prince, for the fact that he had done this, or Sophy Howe, for so plainly wishing it were she he’d come for instead.

My contemplation of this awkward conundrum was cut short by the princess herself. “Come here by me, Margaret Fitzroy. I would speak with you.”

“Yes, of course, Your Highness.” I did not look back at Mary Bellenden. I was sure she was smirking and mustering her next set of witty remarks. For the moment, however, I did not have to endure them. Protocol dictated that all the other ladies pretend to be doing something else to lend a patina of privacy to the conversation.

I settled on the stool beside Princess Caroline, but she did not begin to speak immediately. Instead, she contemplated me as if I were a particularly complex piece of statuary. I, of course, could not speak until spoken to. I had to stare at my folded hands and work on not fidgeting. Doing this under the gaze of a woman who has the power to send persons who displease her to assorted unpleasant locations is an improving but exhausting exercise. I do not recommend it to the social novice.

“Your dinner last night,” she said finally. “It was successful?”

Now she spoke in her native German, a language in which I was reasonably fluent, more so at least than those gathered around us.

“It went about as well as could be expected, Your Highness,” I replied, a remark that had the benefit of being polite, noncommittal, and true.

It also earned me a fresh frown, and I blushed. By now I should know better than to try such a maneuver with my mistress.

“It sounds as if you might have had unexpected company as well. Is this so?”

I didn’t even consider lying. “Yes, ma’am. I did.”

“It was not Mr. Reade?”

“No, ma’am!”

“Someone else, then?”

“Yes.”

She sighed, and for the first time that day, I saw her looking tired. Guilt, ever at the ready, stepped up and presented itself. “You have far more important things to do than providing food for gossip, Miss Fitzroy.”

“Yes, ma’am. I do know it.”
Tell her,
urged some part of me.
Tell her about Sebastian now.
“I . . . please believe me, this was not my idea.”

“Then you will have ideas to spare as to how to finish it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She waited for me to go on. I almost did, but I let the moment fall away. I could not tell her here, not now, when I understood so little and could do even less about it. I owed my living, and my life, to this woman. I could not cause her to regret giving me either.

For her part, my mistress evidently decided I could be allowed my little secrets, for now. Her tone became brisk and far more sympathetic. “Now, I understand you will be visiting Mr. Reade this afternoon in regard to his commission?”

“Yes, ma’am. He writes that it is finished.”

“Good. Then you will have time for another commission afterward. There are rumors being put about that the king intends to stay in Hanover permanently. We need these confirmed as soon as may be. You will write your Mr. Tinderflint. Quietly, of course.”

There are those among my readers who might find it odd that the princess was resorting to such circumlocutions to obtain this information. If anyone could make an inquiry of the king, it would surely be his daughter-in-law. Unfortunately, the sniping between palace residents neither began nor ended with the maids of honor. The Prince of Wales did not get along with his father the king, and the king did not get along with him. That some members of the cabinet and government actively exploited this rift should not surprise anyone. Like ambassadors, they were ready to tell their own set of lies in answer to any given question. As was King George himself.

“I will write today, ma’am.”

“Good.” Then Princess Caroline’s face softened. “Do not neglect this other matter, either, Miss Fitzroy. I dislike discord for its own sake, but especially where it interferes with necessary business.”

“That, Your Highness, is a sentiment I entirely share.” I let my eyes drift toward Molly Lepell, knowing full well my mistress would make note of this lapse of attention. That I had succeeded in gaining her attention was signaled by a fresh arching of the royal brows.

I steeled my nerve and hoped my mistress felt up to taking a hint. “But your hands are quite blue, Your Highness,” I said, in French, becoming a perfect model of maidenly concern. “May I fetch you a shawl?” I gave several wide-eyed, rapid, and exceedingly innocent blinks for added effect. The tight twist of Her Royal Highness’s smiling mouth accused me of overplaying the scene.

But she did let out a guttural “ooof,” and massage her rounded belly. “Oh, very well, Margaret. You seem to have designated yourself my duenna for this day. Go. And take Miss Lepell with you.”