Chapter Sixteen #2
Damiano had determined to attend the fête.
They had not exactly been disinvited. All that had been received was a note to Lady Tallifer from Lord Moira, a longtime intimate of the prince, hinting that perhaps the count ought not show himself.
The fête was to honor French nobles in exile and they might feel uncomfortable in his presence after the scurrilous news report.
Aside from the insult of it, the note did not outright disinvite him.
As always with the English, hinting round a thing was meant to accomplish the aim.
Had his father wished to disinvite a person to his villa, the note would state the person was not to show themself as the guards had orders to shoot him on sight.
As he was not told he could not attend, he would simply pretend he’d not taken in the hint. Lady Tallifer had taken in the hint, she’d taken it rather hard and refused to go. She was too nervous that something untoward would occur. What if the count were stopped at the doors?
The “something untoward” that would occur was a deal more untoward than being stopped at the doors. In any case, Damiano did not think it likely. There were to be thousands attending and all he need do is have an invitation in hand and look the part of an English nobleman.
In any case, it was just as well Lady Tallifer would not be there to flutter round him.
He was determined this night was to be the night Tramondeley met his end.
He’d not found out as much about that lord as he would have wished.
He did not have any hard evidence that Tramondeley was running some sort of spy network that had access to his father’s neighborhood.
But Tramondeley wanted his likeness for a reason.
This was not a one-sided inquiry—they were pitted against each other.
It would be foolish to sit back and do nothing, just waiting around to see what would happen.
He would catch Tramondeley somewhere crowded and dark, the lord would fall and nobody would know what had happened to him until they noticed the gash in his coat and the dark stain of blood. Damiano would be well away from the scene by then.
He’d worn a heavy coat to disguise the blade underneath it. He would bide his time until the night grew late and the guests were all greased with the prince’s wine. Nobody would have their wits about them or be on their guard. Sometime during the fireworks would likely be ideal.
He’d thought to take Lady Tallifer’s carriage as he would not leave his horse to be tended to by grooms who had a thousand other horses to contend with. Lady Tallifer’s coachman could take him to Carlton House and then find a place to park the carriage.
That had been the plan anyway. As he was on Brook Street, he ordered the coachmen to travel through Grosvenor Square in hopes of encountering Lady Valor and the duke’s coach. They were nowhere to be found.
They traveled on, but found the roads jammed by the time they reached Curzon Street. It was absolute chaos, with coaches attempting to move forward and others trying to turn themselves around. He let himself out of the carriage and left the coachman to sort it out.
He was carried along by the throngs of people now on foot and making their way to Carlton House. Arriving was no more convenient, as the lines to get in were long. As he toe-tapped and the line inched forward, he spotted Tramondeley well ahead of him. And the duke. Where was Lady Valor?
Then he saw her emerge from a sedan chair. He wondered how the duke managed to secure them, as Lady Tallifer assured him that there were none to be rented on such a night.
She was looking very pretty and Damiano was once more prompted to imagine how the marquis would perceive the lady.
It would be very positive. His father had told him that he did not know what the available daughters of duke’s looked like, but if he could avoid a blonde, that would be preferable.
The marquis claimed that a combination of dark good looks and insipid fair coloring always resulted in a displeasing visage.
Brown-haired children were neither here nor there and not to be wished for.
The family line was comprised of dark-haired people—the marquis would very much approve of Lady Valor’s dark hair.
It was really an annoyance that she was arriving with Tramondeley. That lord had seemed to worm his way into the duke’s household, likely with encouragement from the duke himself.
There must be an end to it.
*
Valor had of course never set foot in Carlton House.
Neither had her sisters. She was a bit unhappy that Lord Tramondeley would be excluded from the prince’s table, but took comfort in knowing that Winsome and Serenity would be at that table on account of their husband’s positions.
In any case, there was to be dancing and fireworks before they ever got to dinner.
Lord Tramondeley’s grooms had struggled to get the sedan chairs out of the crowd but they’d done it. The lord had given a concerned glance to her slippers but she’d softly said, “They will be fine I think.”
Finally, they were at the head of the line being admitted.
Lord Tramondeley and the duke handed over their invitations.
Apparently, her father’s invitation had some particular marking on it that was recognized.
A rather fantastic fellow dressed as a Yeoman of the Guard handed the duke his invitation back to him and said, “Your Grace, once you pass through the hall you will see a room to your right. Show this invitation and you will be guided inside to meet the prince’s fêted guests. ”
He turned to Lord Tramondeley and said, “My lord, go through the hall and continue on through the octagon saloon and that will lead out to the gardens.”
Lord Tramondeley gave Valor a rueful look over having been sorted into the gardens rather than introduced to the exiled French noblemen and—women.
Valor dearly wished she could follow him out to the gardens. She felt very sorry for the French who’d had to flee their homes, but goodness she did not need to meet them. Her French was not even very good.
No matter. She and her father would escape to the gardens as soon as was gracefully possible. She was in a terrible hurry to rejoin the lord who had such a concern for her slippers and did not mind that she only walked her horse.
*
Weston gave his arm to Lord Ledderbey and they made their way forward, unfortunately leaving Lady Valor and the duke to greet the exiled French that the prince pretended were the cause of the party.
Or the king’s birthday was the reason for the party.
Nobody could quite decide, as everybody well knew the real reason was to celebrate the regency.
His mother, the queen, had made clear she would not even attend, so annoyed over it was she.
The newspapers were probably not helping the case, as they wrote about the costs of such an event.
One estimate he’d seen was of one hundred and twenty thousand pounds.
Looking about, Weston thought that alarming estimate was probably right.
It was typical of the prince, he supposed.
There were those men in the world who were like sea lampreys, sucking all the attention toward them inexorably.
They were never satisfied; it was never enough.
The prince was one of them and when one of them was in a position of power such as he was, it was an endless maw of need. No matter what it cost the nation.
Nevertheless, he was not himself in charge of the royal purse so he might as well enjoy what was on offer. He led Lord Ledderbey to a table so he might sit down.
“Ah, there my boy, I am parked. Here comes a fellow with bottles of wine. I should be quite happy here. Go off and enjoy yourself.”
“I will stay here for now,” Weston said. “It is in view of the doors and I will wish to know when Lady Valor comes through them.”
Lord Ledderbey looked about at the gardens heavy with the scent of flowers and the flickering candles in the girandoles lighting up the night.
There were wood planks laid down for a makeshift ballroom floor in the center of it all and it was supposed the prince’s ballroom would not hold everybody who wished to take a turn.
“Hardly a more conducive place for a proposal.”
Weston smiled at the hint and patted his coat pocket by way of an answer.
A footman brought them glasses of champagne. “Well I am very cheered,” Lord Ledderbey said. “In the past few years, I’ve begun to wonder if I’d made a hash of it.”
By it, Weston knew he referred to acting as guardian to him and his education. “I have been particularly lucky I think.”
“And now you know how to dance and understand the meanings of flowers, despite my lack of attention to such things.”
Weston laughed, recalling the marigolds. “And the duke is not quite as bad as we imagined.”
Lord Ledderbey shook his head. “Gracious, only months ago I was wishing him dead.”
Weston rose. “There she is.”
“Go on, my boy.”
Weston did just that. He was by Lady Valor’s side and said, “How was it in the rarified atmosphere of exiled French noblemen?”
The duke laughed. “They were, as you might imagine, rather down in the mouth. Even more so when they heard our French, I’m afraid.”
“The poor Comte de Lille,” Lady Valor said. “He is in a wheeled chair as the English weather does not agree with him.”
“So he says,” the duke said. “I put my money on the gout and he would suffer from it regardless of the weather. These foreigners are forever blaming English weather on their problems.”
Weston snorted over that assessment. They proceeded toward Lord Ledderbey’s table and were suddenly accosted by Lady Letitia, seeming to come out of nowhere. Blast, she seemed to be everywhere at once.