Chapter 19
“Dear Lord, if this is how you treat your friends, it is no wonder you have so few!”
― Santa Teresa de Jesús
Charity sat tall in the Atholl family barouche the next day, for once happy for the world to take notice of her.
Did she look different, she wondered? Her white gloves hid the plain gold band on her finger from view.
Yet she felt strongly that if someone studied her closely enough, they would see a change.
The Queen’s reprieve was over and needs must. Perry had to see his solicitor. She was to make her way to the Pulteney to pay a call on the Grand Duchess of Oldenburg.
Begrudgingly, the lovers had said their goodbyes with promises to meet as soon as they could both get free. In the company of the palace guards, Charity had returned home long enough to change clothes before leaving for the Pulteney.
That morning, she had taken her butler Pritchard and Miller into her confidence, only of necessity.
Announcing their nuptials to the wider world must wait until all the legal matters had settled.
And perhaps with time, their friends would grow easier with the idea of calling her Lady Fitzroy.
She had not missed how carefully even the Queen and Prince Regent had sidestepped addressing her by the title, as if it was something stained.
Perhaps cursed.
Though she had not voiced her request to Perry, she dearly hoped they would be able to make the announcement of their marriage while his mother was still in London. She wanted to witness the expression on Marian’s face when she discovered there was someone else usurping her title.
The hotel was within sight when the carriage rocked to a halt in the middle of the road, rousing Charity from her reverie. “Sorry, Your Grace,” her driver said, turning around in his seat. “There’s some kind of hold-up in front of the hotel.”
Charity hid her wince at the old title. Even though now she felt like a pretender, she would not be able to correct everyone.
Not yet. “Has something happened?” Charity leaned sideways, attempting to see around him.
Her stomach tightened, her mind envisioning the worst—and that Marian Fitzroy was somehow involved.
“Make way!” The mounted guard accompanying her moved ahead to free space for her to pass. He waved his arm to urge the carriage onward.
The driver clicked his tongue at the horses and shook the reins, ordering them back into motion. The carriage rolled forward until they arrived in the free space in front of the hotel entrance.
“No stopping!” a voice barked, the words bitten off in a harsh, guttural accent that grated against English ears.
A Cossack stepped into view, boots planted wide across the cobbles.
He wore a long dark coat belted at the waist, with a fur cap pulled low over sharp eyes.
One hand rested on the hilt of his curved sabre, the other raised in warning.
His expression was as hard as flint, his teeth bared in a grimace that made it clear he would brook no disobedience.
Behind him, more Cossacks formed a loose cordon before the doorway. Their heavy coats and fierce stares set them apart from London’s polished guardsmen. They looked as though they belonged on some distant steppe, not on the pavement of Piccadilly on a warm summer day.
“What is the meaning of this?” the royal guard demanded from his saddle, his scarlet coat blazing in the sun.
“She does not enter,” the Cossack snapped, his English thick and broken. “Orders for Tsar’s protection. None pass.”
“This is English soil,” the guard shot back, his voice carrying the clipped edge of command. “By order of the Crown, you may not bar my way.”
The Cossack stepped closer, his boots grinding against the cobblestones. “No one passes. Russian guard—Russian Tsar—Russian rules.”
Steel rasped faintly as hands shifted to sword hilts. Horses snorted and stamped, the smell of sweat rising from their flanks. A thin ring of onlookers had gathered, holding their breath as the two men glared across the narrow space.
The mounted guard leaned forward in his saddle, pointing down with his gloved hand.
“You forget yourself, sir. This is not Russia, but England. Out of courtesy, we have allowed you to bear your weapons. Should you raise them against me, that welcome will be rescinded. Who, then, will guard your ruler? Now, stand aside.”
The Cossack squared his shoulders, knuckles white on the hilt of his sabre. His chest heaved with sharp breaths, his voice low and dangerous. “We stand until Tsar says no.”
The air was tight, every sound magnified—the creak of leather tack, the scrape of a boot, the hiss of a drawn breath. It would take only a spark.
The sharp clatter of hooves echoed in the air. A rider pushed through the crowd, his tall frame straight in the saddle. The Propagandist was there, watching the tableau.
Von Gentz’s voice carried easily, amused rather than alarmed. “Warriors, surely you do not mean to quarrel over a paving stone in London? If so, I regret to inform you, the spectators have not paid their admission, and I have yet to print the broadsides.”
Neither guard answered. Their grips stayed tight on their weapons, though their postures relaxed a fraction. It seemed they both recognised the Austrian.
He let his eyes slide over the guard and the Cossack both, with a smile that was almost kindly. “Russia stands until the Tsar says no, England stands until the Regent says go. Meanwhile, the pavement grows weary of bearing so much pride. Allow it a little rest, eh?”
The Cossack’s knuckles relaxed, letting go of his weapon, but he still blocked passage with his body.
“Do you know who this is?” The Propagandist said to him, his voice finally betraying a trace of irritation. “She is the Queen’s counsellor in all but name, and confidante of Princess Charlotte. If one wants to grease the wheels of diplomacy, one must not obstruct the road.”
With a flourish of his gloved hand toward Charity’s carriage, he stared hard at the Cossack. “What say you, brave soldier? As a fellow guest here, I may enter at will. Shall I escort the duchess across the puzzle you cannot seem to solve?”
The mounted guard jerked his chin toward the Cossack, refusing to yield first. The Cossack’s lips curled, but he shifted back a pace, the scrape of his boots loud in the hush.
Only when both sides had stepped away did von Gentz nudge his horse forward, smiling as though the whole thing had been a parlour game. “There. The knot untied, without a drop of blood. Come, Your Grace.”
He leapt down from the saddle and handed the reins over to a waiting footman.
Then, he opened Charity’s carriage door and offered her his hand to descend.
The clash had ended without violence, but nerves were still taut.
Baron von Gentz flourished his hand again, encouraging her to be brave.
Or perhaps it was in challenge, testing her mettle.
She took the Baron’s hand and gathered her skirts with her other, then carefully made her way to the ground. The Cossacks loomed over her, though they did clear a path to the entrance.
“Mind your step,” the Baron said as she tucked her arm through his. He patted her hand in reassurance and then glanced down at her gloved left hand on his arm in surprise.
He had felt her hidden ring.
Her hands had been visible at the Frogmore House dinner, and surely he had noticed the lack of any wedding band then.
Gentz studied her face covertly, his lips curling, and suddenly Charity regretted her earlier musings.
She did not want Gentz to notice this. But he had, and he forbore to mention anything further about it.
Being privy to the secret seemed to please him greatly.
“Where will Duchess Atholl cut her path today?” he asked, eyebrow arching at her title as though the words were a jest.
“I am grateful for your assistance, but I do not want to further impose on your time, sir,” she replied. She also did not want to find herself subjected to his sly questions.
“You wound me. I would think a friend of Lady Normanby would know that clever women do not impose—they collect. Influence, secrets, stray allies. You will find me a willing coin in your purse, so long as you spend me with wit.”
That drew her attention to the older man sharply.
Only Selina had ever referred to secrets as currency in Charity’s company.
He was offering to smooth her path in exchange for whatever he could gather along the way.
Charity could not find a means to extract herself without a scene, so she told him she was there to see the Grand Duchess.
“Ah, dear Ekaterina. Then it seems you do have enough sense to play at a higher table.”
Charity ignored his barb. Gentz was like a bird pecking at whatever crumbs of information she would carelessly drop. “I do as the Crown wills. When did the Cossacks decide to stake a claim to the hotel as Russian territory?”
“A few hours after the promenade in Hyde Park. And you should know it is not just there; they are sending the Cossacks everywhere they go for precautions, including to the next destination at Oxford. I did not have the pleasure of seeing you at Hyde Park, Your Grace, but I spoke with Lords Fitzroy and Ravenscroft. I thought they might offer to introduce us properly, but it seems you were… otherwise occupied?”
Careful, Peregrine’s voice warned her.
“I left early,” Charity said, forcing herself to take the steps slowly. “A megrim.”
“Is that so?” he asked politely. “I have never tried a touch of royal company as a cure for one.”
Fortunately, they arrived at the door to the Grand Duchess’s suite before she had to respond. Charity extracted her arm from his and gave her name to the footman.
“I will see if the Grand Duchess is receiving guests,” the footman said, leaving.