Chapter 1 #2
The Queen and the Regent were silent for a long moment. They were caught in a political trap, Charity realised.
They did not have to accept Lady Fitzroy’s story—but if they didn’t, there was a risk of offending the Tsar and embarrassing themselves. However, if they did accept it, they would be practically exonerating her in all but name. She would be free to go about her business in London.
They were beaten in this. Checkmate.
Charity watched in horror as the Queen pinched her mouth shut, biting back her true feelings. Her expression smoothed back into the unfeeling mask of an indifferent royal. She might as well have waved the white flag of defeat.
Queen Charlotte’s lashes flickered. “We are satisfied no further inquiry is necessary at present. You may resume your place, Lady Fitzroy. That is, should society be inclined to receive you.”
“You made quite an entrance, Lady Fitzroy. Let us hope your other activities here in London are… less eventful,” Prinny said, earning a slanted glance from his mother.
He motioned for the footmen to open the side doors, and the Royal Chamberlain banged his staff on the floor a final time before inviting everyone to proceed to the reception room for refreshments.
Prinny and Queen Charlotte led the way, followed by the princess and then the visiting delegates in order of importance.
Charity fought against the tide, dashing for the doors to the terrace.
Her stomach roiled with nausea. She could not be sick.
Not here. Her lungs burned with the need for fresh air.
Perry was fast on her heels, refusing to let her escape without him. Charity’s eyes stung with the threat of tears, blurring her vision. Her steps slowed enough for Perry to pull her to a stop.
“I am so sorry,” he said. “This is my fault. I feel like somehow I should have foreseen this.”
Charity blinked back her tears, fighting for control. “No one in England might have foreseen your mother’s return. It is madness!”
“If only that were true, we might have a chance of defeating her,” he muttered. “Sparkles, are you all right?”
Before she replied, a male voice growled, “Remove your hand from my daughter at once, Lord Fitzroy! Or I will remind you how gentlemen settle such disrespect.”
It was her father, his face flushed as he strode up to them. She had not seen him this angry since the day she told him she had broken off her engagement with Roland Percy.
His ire, however, was not aimed solely at her. Lord Martyn Cresswell raised his finger and threatened to poke it into Perry’s chest. “You have no place in this conversation. Take yourself elsewhere.”
“Papa,” Charity pleaded, “lower your voice. People are looking—”
“Lord Cresswell—” Peregrine began.
“People are staring at your brazen misbehaviour,” Cresswell said, cutting them both off. He swung back to Perry. “I have given you no permission to court my daughter, nor will I. Take your leave before I call you out.”
He met her father’s glare head-on with a flat stare, refusing to heed the command. Crimson climbed up Lord Cresswell’s neck, past his starched cravat.
“With respect, my lord, if the duchess wishes me gone, I shall go. But not before.” Peregrine crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for her to decide.
Though she desperately needed his strength, she tipped her face up to meet Perry’s searching gaze and nodded for him to go. She did not want him to witness her father’s tirade. Or to take the brunt of it.
Perry shook his head and stepped back, retreating out of earshot to a place where she was able to see and call him if she needed him.
Lord Cresswell wrapped a hand around Charity’s upper arm and pushed her through the doorway onto the terrace, and then dragged her on until they reached the far edge away from the door. When she pulled free of his hold, he shifted position to block her escape.
From his youthful portraits, Charity knew her father had once been a handsome man. The years and his growing dissatisfaction had taken their toll, putting silver streaks in his light brown hair and a paunch on his midsection. Still, he towered over Charity, hot breath on her face.
“Is this why you wanted your mother and me to remain at the estate? Because you wanted to parade around London like some common street trollop?” Lord Cresswell’s hands closed into fists, but he did not raise them.
“No, Papa, please, let me explain,” Charity pleaded, begging him to lower his voice. She racked her mind for the right words to say. “We mean to marry… someday.”
Or so she hoped. They had not discussed the future in such certain terms. Not while the threat of Lady Fitzroy hung over their heads. But she had to make him understand how serious she was about Peregrine.
“Marry?” Lord Cresswell goggled at his oldest child. “You cannot honestly expect me to approve of such a thing. To even contemplate it—dear God, you are a bigger fool than I thought.”
His words took Charity by surprise. For all her life, he had held her up against Peregrine Fitzroy and found her wanting.
Peregrine was the son he should have had, the heir he deserved.
Thanks to Lady Cresswell’s failure to bear an heir, the Cresswell title would pass to some distant cousin.
There was nothing Charity could do to change that.
But she had married well, risen above her station, and was able to open doors for them her father could not. Surely he would not begrudge her now.
“But I am happy, Papa,” she said, trying again.
“Happiness counts for nothing in this society. I thought I made that clear when you stupidly broke off your engagement with the Duke of Northumberland. The only benefit you bring to our family is your station. In case you have failed to notice, Lord Fitzroy is an earl, and you are currently a duchess! A widowed duchess who provided no heir! You must cling to the Atholl title, not throw it away on foolish sentiment. How many times must we explain it to you?”
Lord Cresswell was so furious, he began gesticulating with his hands.
Charity flinched as one hand swung too close unintentionally.
He drew a deep breath and forced them back down to his side.
“I should not expect more from you. A woman cannot be trusted to make the right decision,” he said bitterly.
Charity dared not glance Perry’s way. If he came to her aid, things would only get worse. And yet, she wanted him. She chose him. She was a grown woman. A widow. Was she never to be free?
Fate seemed determined to see otherwise.
The wall of her father’s anger was closing around her.
He would drag her out, force her to retreat to the family estate.
Lady Fitzroy would leash Perry. Ravenscroft and Selina would forget about her.
And the Queen—the Queen would cast Charity from society for failure to obey her commands.
Her father shook his head in disappointment. “I suppose you must give some explanation to the Queen. Tell her you are unwell and cannot carry on as a lady-in-waiting this season. Have your maid pack your things. Your mother and I will come to collect you tomorrow.”
She opened her mouth, but her father spun around and left. She steeled herself when he passed by Perry, who stood watching from the doorway to the throne room, but her father stalked past without a word.
There had to be some way to make her father see reason. She was depending on him to give Perry a chance to prove himself, so that her father might convince her mother to unbend. Now, however, her hopes for a grand reconciliation between Peregrine and her parents dimmed to almost none.
She and Peregrine had already been forced to overcome such odds to be together. And now a new worry now whispered into her ear. You must face the possibility that you cannot have both your family’s support and Perry’s love. If you cannot, which one will you choose?