Chapter 19 #2
When Charity finally turned to The Propagandist, he gave her a wicked grin, showing far too many teeth. “The Grand Duchess does not turn away diamonds, no matter their form. Good luck, Your Grace.” The baron bowed over her hand and departed without a backward glance.
The suite door opened then, the footman allowing her entry to the Grand Duchess’s rooms. The Tsar’s sister was alone, for which Charity gave silent thanks. She had timed her arrival to be somewhat earlier than normal visiting hours, hoping she would be received.
The Grand Duchess inclined her head, the movement precise, her eyes glimmering with private amusement. “Your Grace. How very bold of you to appear here, of all places. One might almost call it bravery.”
Her tone was smooth, graceful, but still had sly undercurrents. There was a deliberate weight to the pause—a test for Charity to show how she meant to carry herself in light of Marian Fitzroy’s accusations.
Charity sank into a deep curtsy, proper to rank, and rose with an untroubled smile.
“I hope it is a pleasant surprise, Your Imperial Highness. We had too little time for pleasantries at Hyde Park, and I lamented it to the Queen. She assured me you would not mind my calling, so I trust we have not presumed upon your kindness.”
Catherine Pavlovna tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “The Queen is generous in her assurances. Still, one must be careful; those she sends to me usually come carrying more than pleasantries. I trust you have been with Her Majesty recently?”
“I attended Her Majesty yesterday, with the princess. We spent a most delightful afternoon listening to the princess’s accounts of Hyde Park, and of you, Your Highness.
She spoke of you with such warmth that I thought any friend of hers must surely be one of mine.
And so, here I am.” Charity inclined her head toward the nearest chair, a gentle reminder she had not yet been invited to sit.
“The princess is dear to me. We should not remain strangers,” the Tsar’s sister said, her smile cunning. She gestured languidly toward a chair. “Sit, Duchess. We shall drink tea and see whether we are friends… or merely allies.”
She rang for the service, and their talk meandered through pleasantries, each word measured like a move across a chessboard. The weather, they agreed, had cooperated. The races at Ascot had been most invigorating. Eventually, they moved on to the dinner at Frogmore.
“An enlightening evening, was it not?” Catherine drawled, her gaze lingering on Charity from beneath heavy lids.
“Young William failed to display his charms to best effect. Prince Paul’s merriment was rather too infectious.
I made a point of speaking with him at Hyde Park, lest he imagine himself the cause of our dear princess’s…
altered inclinations. I assured him no lasting harm was done. ”
Charity knew her response to this remark would set the tone for the rest of their conversation.
If she got it wrong, or seemed defensive, the Grand Duchess would shy away from discussing anything deeper.
“Sometimes it is only when a man is pressed beyond the bounds of comfort that his true character is revealed.”
“Indeed.” The Grand Duchess sipped her tea, though not so quickly that Charity missed the fleeting approval.
“Who can say where the princess will turn next? Hopefully, her heart is granted some voice in the matter. You English keep the oddest customs—to sever marriage from love, as though duty alone were fit to warm a bed.”
As if the Russians were any different about arranging marriages. “You and I have both followed the dutiful path, have we not?” Charity countered, keeping her voice neutral.
“Yes, but should we not wish for better?” the Grand Duchess countered. “When I look at her, I cannot help but think of my brother, Nicholas.”
Charity held her breath. “Oh?”
“Yes, my brother Nicholas. He is young, spirited, and not without charm. He too deserves to find a good match.”
She paused as if trying to decide what to say. Catherine took her bait, sensing a chance to gossip. “What is on your mind, Duchess?”
“I should not say,” Charity dissembled, and had to bite back a smile when the Grand Duchess leaned forward, curiosity sparkling in her eyes.
“We are alone here, and friends, Your Grace.”
“I heard a story about Prince Nicholas that I could not credit—” Charity hesitated to gain the other woman’s full attention. “Rumour is that he has gained an appreciation for England’s roses. Perhaps even the pride of our garden.”
The Grand Duchess tossed back her head and laughed. “Oh, how that would vex both Prinny and my brother! Do you know, I almost hope this is true. On a personal level, I would love nothing more than to see them enjoy a flirtation, just to give the princess’s father an apoplexy.”
“Then you do not believe the rumour?” Charity asked her.
The Grand Duchess flicked her fingers dismissively.
“The failure to negotiate a marriage between the Duke of Clarence and my sister proved the impossibility of any match between the English and Russian royal families. The differences between our countries are too great. I see no cause for concern; they will never marry.”
Charity stifled annoyance. “But a flirtation?”
“Of course, I would never publicly encourage such a thing,” Catherine Pavlovna replied so slowly that private encouragement, especially where it might cause chaos, was all but implicit.
But Charity could not even privately encourage such a thing.
She could not countenance an unavailable young prince breaking the princess’s heart.
The Queen was going to be livid when she learned of this conversation, and part of Charity longed to wipe the smirk off the Grand Duchess’s face for being so callous about the feelings of a girl who clearly idolised her.
But she reined in the impulse. She could not afford to make the Tsar’s sister her enemy, especially not if doing so sent the Grand Duchess running to Marian Fitzroy’s side.
Charity had been lost in thought for too long. The Grand Duchess poured herself a fresh cup of tea and stirred in two lumps of sugar. Casually, she turned them onto a new topic. “Speaking of this year’s debutantes, how fares young Lady Lark? I assume you have seen her.”
“Not since we spoke briefly at Hyde Park. As far as I know, she is resting comfortably in her home,” Charity lied without a qualm. “Lord Fitzroy must be grateful to be able to spend time with her after her long and unexpected absence.”
“Pity her mother cannot say the same. She is most distraught, Your Grace. As a mother myself, I can empathise with her. Others may as well.”
There it was: a subtle reminder that Russia was not going to let the matter of Lark’s kidnapping drop entirely. Charity found herself on a precipice. She could turn the conversation again onto safer ground and let the Grand Duchess’s remark stand.
Or you could point out the obvious, the voice of logic suggested.
Charity lifted her napkin and dotted the sides of her lips. Then she set it beside her cup. But before she rose from her chair and made her excuses, she voiced a parting remark.
“I find it most interesting, Your Highness, that not a single highly placed individual in England shares your empathy. Any friends Marian Fitzroy had here are… well, gone. Some more permanently than others.” Charity rose then.
“I should not overstay my welcome. Before I go, I hope you will permit me to make a suggestion. A friendly one.”
“Oh?” The Grand Duchess sat up straighter.
“It might behove you to take a wider view of the world with regard to certain individuals. You may discover that those she sets her sights upon are actually innocent.” With that advice ringing in the Grand Duchess’s ears, Charity took her leave.
Across town, Perry’s solicitor appeared to be doing well in business.
His office in Marylebone was in a stately Georgian townhouse, and the letters on the black sign with his name had been gilded.
Lincoln Frank was expensive as a solicitor, but given the work he had done to help Peregrine track the last of Marian Fitzroy’s accounts and investments, the man had earned every penny.
Fortunately, Peregrine’s current request for the man was relatively mundane.
“How can I help you, my lord?” he asked after they were settled in his office.
“I need a Last Will and Testament.”
Mr Frank straightened in his chair. “I hope nothing is amiss, my lord.”
“Other than my mother returning to London?” Perry tossed back. “You are cognisant enough of the situation to understand the implications of her presence. I want you to draw up a document that appoints a succession of guardians for my sister.”
“Very well—”
“I also want to specify the bequests of my assets so that they will be used to protect Lark, and explicitly disinherit my mother.” Peregrine forced his hands to unclench. “The document must be ironclad, for my mother will certainly challenge it.”
“This can be done, but much of it will hinge on whom you wish to appoint as your sister’s guardian. The next in line for your title is a cousin.”
“Where the title goes is irrelevant. My wife will take on this responsibility.”
Perry’s announcement shocked the solicitor so much that the man jerked his hand and nearly knocked over a bottle of ink on his desk.
“Yesterday, in a very private ceremony at St James’s, witnessed by Her Majesty and His Highness, I married the Duchess of Atholl—she is now Lady Fitzroy. We are withholding the public announcement for the moment, but you may be assured that the marriage is valid and incontestable.”
The other man blinked a few times as this news settled in, but once it did, he returned his focus to his assignment. “In this case, it is best that we update all the documents relating to the estate, and have multiple witnesses attest to your signature on them. It will take me a week or so—”
“I must see it all signed and witnessed today,” Peregrine said. “I will stay here as long as is needed, so that any questions can be resolved immediately. Can you make this happen?”
“Yes, my lord,” the solicitor agreed after a short moment of consideration. “If you will excuse me, I will call in my assistants and see the rest of my schedule cleared for the day.”
Lincoln Frank sat with him for two hours, drilling methodically through everything Peregrine had. When he was satisfied with the list of instructions, he set about dividing the efforts among his team, as efficient as a machine.
Frank finally released him around one in the afternoon with the promise to have the drafted document completed by five. All Perry would have to do then was come sign it, having the clerks serve as witnesses.
Since he had the time to spare, and it was a good time for luncheon, Lincoln Frank had recommended a coffee house down the street.
That’s where Hodges came to find him, in a lather.
Perry had ridden down alone that morning so that Hodges could stay with the house. The estate was about fifteen minutes away at a brisk ride, and the road to Marylebone was well travelled. Perry judged that there was a greater risk to the estate than to himself.
It seemed he had judged correctly.
When Peregrine saw the expression on Hodges’s face, he threw down more money than his meal was worth and hurried out the door to get his horse. “What happened?” he asked the man tersely.
“Edmunds is dead. Some bastard slipped in after Quinn looked in on him at breakfast—deed was probably done not long after you’d left.”
Stunned, Perry stared at his man. “My mother infiltrated the estate? Is Lark—”
Hodges tugged off his hat, raked a hand through his hair, then jammed it back on. “Still there, still safe. Rest of ’em safe too. Thorne an’ Quinn are rousin’ the Queen’s guards, seein’ if the bloke’s still lurkin’ on the grounds.”
Peregrine hauled himself up into the saddle, kicking the horse into a canter and leaning forward in his seat. How in the hell had someone managed to invade the house and kill Edmunds with no one the wiser, especially with the guards there?
The moment they cleared enough traffic, both men pushed into a gallop back to the estate. “And what haven’t you told me?” Perry shouted over the sound of the pounding hooves, turning his head to look at his general hand.
The man was grimacing, clearly pained. “Sammy!” he growled back. “Boy was in a state. Wouldn’t look me in the eye, an’ he was twitchin’ like a rabbit in a snare.”
Perhaps his nephew had encountered Edmunds’s killer. The lad was only fourteen. He had been helping Hodges around the estate, defending the house, but he was a long way from grown. Shooting another man, even if it was an intruder, was a hard rite of passage for anyone.
Ten minutes later, they were pulling up to the front door, which was being guarded by a man in blues. They slid out of the saddles, and the guard gave Perry a curt, displeased nod of acknowledgement.
Hodges’s mount was lathered from the gallop in both directions, and he checked the beast over quickly, holding his hand to the horse’s neck. “Get Dawson to take the horses,” Perry suggested. “I want you with me when we go to see Sammy.”
Hodges nodded and took Perry’s reins, walking the horses around towards the stable.
Peregrine went past the guard and through the front door into a scene of madness.
It displeased him that none of his servants were attending the door.
Where had his footmen and Quinn been relegated?
Another guard stood in the hallway outside the nearest parlour and raised voices could be heard within.
Pushing through the door himself, Peregrine found an unexpected trio.
A red-faced guard attempted to loom over a gawky boy, shouting at Hodges’s nephew, who stood with his head hanging.
Thorne was there too, standing like a wall in front of the boy and looking like he was a breath away from striking the Queen’s man.