Chapter 31 #2
Hodges, however, was relatively easy to find. His footman, Owens, who had been waiting in the staging area with the other carriage attendants, pointed to a trio of men standing well away from the door. “I’ll go get Dawson and the carriage, my lord,” he added, hurrying off.
Peregrine recognised the outlines of Hodges, Lord Sidmouth, and… Red Hand standing together. It was an odd group, to be certain, but all of their postures were at ease.
“Your Grace. Fitzroy,” Sidmouth greeted them, his face looking far less furrowed with strain than it had since before the sovereigns had arrived.
“It is finished, then. Lady Fitzroy is secured, the threat contained. You have both my thanks and the Regent’s.
I was just extending my gratitude to your man and…
” he peered at Red Hand, who gave him a shark-like grin, “your other ally.”
“While Malenkov was approaching the head table, there were twelve barrels of black powder sitting in the crypts, ready to detonate,” Perry informed Sidmouth.
“You will want to secure the area until the event is over, I imagine. Twelve hundred pounds of gunpowder suggests another lackey accomplice paid to turn the other way while it was moved in. I trust you will want to inquire about who at the Guildhall might have helped them get there.”
The Home Secretary blinked in disbelief, and even Hodges and Red Hand looked suitably awed. “Twelve barrels?”
It was likely more than sufficient to shatter the stone ribs and columns, punching a hole through the floor. More than sufficient to kill the people at the table.
Sidmouth frowned fiercely at the other two men. “I trust I do not have to tell you two to hold your tongue about this.” Both men shook their heads. “Well then, I thank you again for stopping the explosion, Fitzroy. On behalf of all the sovereigns who were seated at that table.”
“I was not the one who stopped my mother’s infernal device, Sidmouth. The Regent can thank Sir Nathaniel Thorne for that service.”
The viscount’s lips pressed together as he recalled the name. “The same man he knighted at Brighton last year?” When Perry nodded, Sidmouth bobbed his head in understanding. “I will make sure the Regent is aware. Excuse me.”
He hurried off—presumably to ensure no one accidentally brought down the Guildhall—and Peregrine turned his attention to Hodges and the Irish bludgeoner, who was taking a keen interest in his wife. A respectful one.
“Your Grace. Didn’t reckon I’d ever meet the lady who could make Fitzroy turn London inside out on her account,” the Irishman said, taking his hat in his hands. He gave her a cheeky grin. “Now that I have, I see why he did.”
“You’re a brave man sayin’ that in front of Fitzroy. Braver than I’d be,” Hodges told him.
“So you are Red Hand. I confess, I had imagined someone taller—though perhaps that was simply the stature of your reputation after all I heard from Lord Fitzroy.” She gave him a wide smile so he would know she was jesting, and Red Hand blinked, looking… suitably dazzled by her splendour.
“Ah now, Your Grace, you’ll have me forgettin’ me own name if you smile like that,” he coughed into his hand, embarrassed. “But Fitzroy—I had a thought on our… debt.”
The bludgeoner leaned over to whisper in Perry’s ear. Peregrine, who had stiffened at the mention of the large unnamed favour that he had promised to Red Hand at the end of May, abruptly relaxed as the man’s words filtered through his ear.
“I can only promise what is in my power to deliver,” Perry told him. “But… I will ask.”
Red Hand nodded with a faint grin. “Fair’s fair. If he says no, we’ll work out somethin’ different.”
By that point, Owens had returned with Dawson and the carriage from where it had been parked. Hodges took his leave of Red Hand, joining Dawson on the driver’s bench as Owens helped Charity and Perry climb inside.
Closing the curtains, Peregrine pulled Charity close to him for the twenty-minute ride to Buckingham House, letting everything outside of the carriage fade away. All he wanted was to let a moment’s peace filter through him, soothing the jagged edges of the past few days.
Pleasantly, they didn’t even have to argue with the Queen’s aide-de-camp when they arrived. “Her Majesty is still entertaining in her private drawing room,” the man informed them, leading the way. “You were expected.”
A footman swung the door open, and the oddest sounds trickled out into the hallway before two sets of eyes stared back at them.
Was that laughter? From Queen Charlotte?
The Queen of England and the Marchioness of Normanby sat together, a deck of cards and bowls of strawberries and cream on the table before them, with glasses of some cordial or liqueur. But the conversation between them was lively, and from here, they appeared to have become the best of friends.
“The strain was too great. They’ve taken leave of their senses,” breathed Charity in an undertone to him.
Peregrine felt a laugh in response rise in his throat.
But then he spotted the clear glass cordial bottle sitting on the sideboard, bedecked with a ribbon.
The wax seal was broken; the bottle was open.
And beside it sat a glass with an inch of liquid in the bottom—a brilliant, bright red, like that of plums.
Abruptly, the warmth in his chest froze, and he rushed forward, ignoring the exclamations of the women. He seized the bottle from the table, lifting it to the light to peer at the colour.
A pleasant, spicy smell met his nose. Abruptly, Peregrine was thrown back six years into the past, into Grenville’s office where he had watched the man find his death at the bottom of just such a bottle.
Charity’s hand settled on his arm, and the present world snapped back into place.
Selina and the Queen were both silent in their chairs, watching him. Selina, with a hint of sadness. Queen Charlotte with sober, unshakable composure that could bring a court to a standstill.
“Lord and Lady Fitzroy.” Her lips twitched into a moue of distaste as Charity’s title left her lips, but she carried on. “Lord Fitzroy, you seem rather… unnerved.”
Things are not finished between us, Peregrine, his mother’s voice lingered in his ear, like the hiss of a reptile.
He had not imagined that his mother’s final plans tonight might be so extensive they would involve a strike at everyone on her black books. Or—was it worse? Was Selina the one who brought this poison to the Queen’s table? For a moment, he felt faint.
“Fitzroy,” Selina said, standing from the table as though she was about to hurry to his side.
He ignored her. “Your Majesty,” Peregrine’s voice was faint. “I beg you. Tell me you did not drink this cordial.”
The Queen stared at him. “Of course, I did not.”
“Nor did I,” said the marchioness, taking the bottle out of his hands. And then her voice became gentler. More compassionate. “Perry, I knew about what happened to Grenville.”
“Sit, Lord Fitzroy, before you fall over,” Charlotte suggested wryly.
Charity helped steer him towards the pair of chairs on the other side of the table, and Selina set both the partially filled glass and cordial bottle on the sideboard, looking chagrined.
“I am sorry to have given you such a shock, Perry,” she said.
“I wanted you to see the bottle. Not assume the Queen had drunk it.”
Both these women, Peregrine realised abruptly, were tipsy. And that was almost as stupefying to comprehend as the fact that his mother had got a poisoned bottle of cordial into Buckingham House.
“Branson brought it in. Do you remember him? The rude little footman? No? Well, never mind him, anyway,” Selina said with an airy wave of her hand.
The Queen agreed blithely. “He is sitting in a dungeon waiting to be questioned by Lord Sidmouth.”
“A dungeon! Do you even have a dungeon here?” retorted Selina.
“Semantics,” Charlotte said with a reproving glance that intimidated Lady Normanby not at all. “The marchioness rather strongly suggested that I not trust this gift. Based on your expression, I assume you concurred with her advice and that she may have saved my life.”
She laughed. The Queen laughed, her eyes sparkling with challenge. “I would not have drunk it, anyway. I abhor plum cordial. But if you had not sent me Lady Normanby, we would not have caught the footman.”
Selina’s lips curved, the hint of amusement glinting beneath her composure. “We had expected your arrival somewhat earlier,” she said lightly, “but one must allow heroes their dramatic timing.”