Most Eagerly Yours Page 4
A sharp clatter of the bell and a burst of wind and rain stopped her short. Instead of Holly stepping inside and shaking the wetness from her cloak, a tall young man stood on the threshold, holding the door open against his back. Laurel’s first thought was one of gratification. Apparently someone in this city enjoyed his books more than he feared inclement weather.
Raindrops streamed off his cloak to splatter the floor; a chilly gust fanned the pages of Ivy’s account book. The man said nothing. His bland expression betrayed no emotion. Taking in his superior height and attentive if uncommunicative stance, Laurel decided he must be a footman, though his dark, nondescript clothing revealed nothing about the personage he served.
Through the open doorway, carriage lanterns illuminated misty gold circles of rain. Black and sleek and of fine quality, the vehicle displayed no identifying crest or insignia. Laurel heard the carriage door opening, the lowering of the step, someone being handed down to the street. A figure moved into view, cloaked and bowed to the rain despite a second servant standing just behind with an umbrella.
Something about the size of that figure, and the prim, dancelike step that brought her over the threshold, sent a tingle of recognition up Laurel’s arms.
Just as two plump hands reached up to draw the hood back, a King Charles spaniel, grown squat and gray-muzzled with age, clambered through the doorway. His wet paws slid on the hardwood floor, and he gave a rapid shake that showered Laurel’s skirts with water. He raised moist, velvety eyes to her while a whine of recognition squealed in his throat.
“Please forgive this intrusion.” Though it had been several years since she had heard that high, clear voice, Laurel well remembered it. Victoria pushed her hood to her shoulders. “I did not know where else to turn.”
Chapter 3
“With my coronation still three months away, I find myself facing my first potential crisis. My dear friends, I need your help.”
Upstairs in the Sutherlands’ cramped parlor, the rain beat steadily against the windows, while a coal fire hissed in the hearth. Between sips of tea and bites of the hot venison pasties Holly had brought home from the bakeshop, Victoria explained her dilemma.
“It’s my cousin George,” she said bluntly. “He detests and resents me for occupying the throne he has long believed should rightfully belong to him.”
The years had done little to take the childlike frankness from Victoria’s features, and though she had grown taller, Willow still towered a good head above her. Victoria’s figure had acquired the curves of womanhood, yet had retained something of the doll-like proportions that had always prompted Laurel and her sisters to be so protective of her.
Downstairs, their erstwhile friend had greeted them all warmly with embraces and kisses on their cheeks. But Laurel had sensed restraint, and she felt it now in the awkwardness that hovered over the parlor.
With a pang she acknowledged that their childhood camaraderie could never be entirely recaptured. Perhaps that was as it should be. The Sutherland sisters were no longer Princess Victoria’s playmates; they were now merely Her Majesty’s subjects.
“George has openly defied me,” the queen said. “The man is a shameless reprobate with no respect for authority. I believe he is up to no good, and I tell you truly, I fear what he might do.”
Those words heightened Laurel’s sense of unreality. Surely the Queen of England could not be sitting in this shabby parlor, on the worn seat cushion of the faded settee, sipping tea from secondhand china and discussing the particulars of possible treason.
“But with or without Your Majesty,” Laurel said, “the throne could not have passed to George Fitzclarence. Not when he is, well . . .”
“A bastard, yes.” Victoria completed the sentiment with a lift of her eyebrow. “It is no secret that within the Hanover family, legitimate heirs have been as rare as daisies in winter.”
She paused, studying each of the sisters as she sipped her tea. Dash, having grown tired of begging scraps from his mistress’s plate, curled up by the fire with his chin on his paws.
A sad smile tugging her mouth, Victoria set her cup aside. “Years ago when I learned what my future held, I told you that you must no longer call me by my given name within the hearing of others. You always remembered to adhere to that rule. But we are quite alone now. There is no one to overhear, not even my footmen.”
Laurel saw her own thoughts mirrored in her sisters’ faces. Yes, they had all once been on the most familiar of terms. But that was before extraordinary circumstances created a chasm between them. The thought of treating their queen as an equal . . .
“The reason I came tonight has little enough to do with propriety,” Victoria said. “Even a queen must live by certain rules, and in being here I am breaking several. Two ladies-in-waiting in my coach are willing to lie for me no matter the reasons. My footmen as well. The rest of the palace believes me in bed with a headache.”
Her features became taut with urgency. “As I said, I had nowhere else to turn. No one must ever know I sought your help. But seek it I do, because of your promise years ago that you would always remain my friends. My secret friends.”
“We always will,” Laurel said with conviction. “You may depend upon it . . . Victoria.”
The others echoed their wholehearted agreement.
“Good. Then within this room, I am merely your childhood friend who seeks your assistance.”
Her somber tone wrapped a sense of foreboding around Laurel. “Has your cousin threatened you?”
“Not openly,” Victoria replied, “but in a manner of speaking, yes. Or perhaps he believes that reports of his impertinent remarks and outrageous behavior fail to make their way to my court. Drinking, carousing, consorting with individuals of questionable repute—it’s all quite disgraceful. Not to mention insufferably embarrassing to me personally. I believe he takes great pleasure in humiliating me in the eyes of my subjects with the hope of rendering me an ineffectual ruler.”
“Surely his antics are beneath your notice.” Willow stood to pass around a platter of tea cakes. “Perhaps if you ignore him, he’ll grow weary of baiting you.”
“I wish I could believe that.” Victoria plucked a biscuit from the tray and dunked it into her tea before taking a bite. “Two weeks ago I summoned him to court, and do you know how he responded?”
Laurel and each of her sisters shook their heads.
“By ignoring me.” Victoria swallowed, flattened a palm to her bosom, and screwed up her features in a show of anger that made Laurel flinch beneath the royal displeasure. “Me, his queen! Such brazen disobedience is beyond insolent. It is more than I can bear and more than I dare tolerate. Understand, there are many subtleties at work here. Factions exist in this country that wish to do away with the monarchy altogether, and I fear that, ultimately, George hopes to incite them to action.”
“The Radical Reformers,” Laurel said. Throughout the reigns of Victoria’s uncles and grandfather, distrust of the royal family had mounted in direct correlation to the scandals surrounding them. Unpopular foreign marriages, extravagant spending, adultery, madness . . . all had fueled a growing resentment among certain segments of the population, especially those that wished to institute democratic reforms similar to those in America.
Victoria nodded. “Precisely. And since I am young and female, such rabble considers my reign a perfect opportunity to press their views on the public.”
“If indeed your cousin is entangled in some sort of treason,” Laurel said, “should you not inform your prime minister?”
“Yes,” Ivy put in, “surely Mr. Melbourne can set things to rights.”
“Goodness, no!” Victoria flashed a startled look. “I need this dealt with quietly. Discreetly. The notion of a member of my own family scheming against me would only fuel sentiments that the Hanovers are a corrupt lot who have been plotting against each other for generations. It’s just the sort of hullabaloo that could turn public opinion against me.”
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br /> Laurel stared down into her own tea, now grown cold, then once more met Victoria’s gaze. “How can we help?”
“George is presently in Bath. Laurel, I am hoping that you will agree to go there and do a little . . . well . . . spying. I want you to find out what he is up to and with whom. And if you can, dissuade him from whatever tomfoolery he’s involved in and guide him back to me.”
Before Laurel’s astonishment had fully registered, Ivy sprang to her feet, startling Dash out of his slumber. “What about the rest of us? Surely you can’t mean for us to sit home while our sister—”
“Yes, we should go along.” Holly’s violet eyes snapped with excitement as she clapped her hands together. “It all sounds so diabolical and dangerous.”
“Ivy, Holly, please. This is no game.” Laurel knew she had to quell her sisters’ enthusiasm immediately or they would follow her all the way to Bath. “Obviously Victoria cannot send all of us, for how would it look for four unknown sisters to suddenly appear on the social scene?”
“Laurel is correct,” Victoria said. “One of you can be easily explained. A young widow from the country, recently out of mourning. A squire’s wife, perhaps, who would not be readily known among the ton. Sending more of you would only complicate matters, and should one of you confuse your stories, my cousin might grow suspicious.”
Once more she turned to Laurel. “Of the four of you, I believe you, Laurel, possess the right steadiness and experience to be successful. Will you do it? Will you help me?”
Had Laurel just this evening wished for adventure and excitement? What did she know about maneuvering in society, or about politics and treason? Good heavens, was she to transform from surrogate mother to surrogate spy in the span of a mere breath?
Could she?
The tapping of Victoria’s pointed-toed boot confirmed a suspicion. “You haven’t yet told us everything,” Laurel ventured. Her voice gentled as she added, “It might help if I knew the entire truth of the matter.”
Victoria hesitated, looking suddenly younger, apprehensive. She stilled her foot. “The reason I ordered George to court is because I’d made a troubling discovery among my late uncle’s possessions. It appears that before the wars Uncle William maintained an ongoing correspondence between a Frenchman named André Rousseau and . . . my own dear father.”
“No.” The word was a rusty squeak from Willow. Holly’s and Ivy’s mouths gaped in horrified silence. The blood drained from Laurel’s cheeks. They had all heard of this man—who hadn’t heard of the French aristocrat who betrayed his family, friends, and peers during France’s Reign of Terror and throughout the wars with Napoleon?
Victoria continued. “It appears that some of the letters have gone missing and I believe George took them, for no one else had access to the locked files in his father’s private study.” A shudder ran through her slight shoulders. “Depending on what those missives contain, he could potentially do great damage to me and to England’s future. And with my father’s good name at stake, you’ll understand why I cannot—simply will not—alert my ministers or anyone else as to the nature of my concerns.”
No indeed. A vise closed around Laurel’s throat. Treason, not merely from a discontented royal by-blow, but entrenched in the legitimate line as well? A line that led directly to Victoria herself?
“Victoria, I am not possibly qualified. . . .”
The young queen’s lost, desperate look silenced Laurel’s objections. Eight years ago, she had made a vow to her friend, her queen, and, by association, her country. She had pledged her loyalty with the whole of her heart and she must honor that vow now, when her dear friend needed her most.
Standing, she steadied her nerves and smiled down into Victoria’s solemn dark eyes. “I shall do whatever you wish of me. Most eagerly.”
Ivy tried unsuccessfully to muffle a groan of exasperation. Willow and Holly looked on as if thunderstruck.
Victoria sighed with evident relief. “Good. You will not be entirely on your own. I will arrange for a former lady-in-waiting to my aunt Princess Sophia to be your escort into Bath society. I know the Countess of Fairmont tolerably well and I trust her integrity, but she will know nothing, Laurel, beyond the fiction of your widow’s identity. She will not even know the request comes from me, for I intend to send it through Lehzen.”
Laurel nodded her understanding. She remembered Louise Lehzen, Victoria’s German governess, from years ago. Steady and stoic, often to the point of seeming humorless and stern, the woman had nonetheless remained fiercely devoted to her royal charge. If anyone could be trusted with Victoria’s secrets, it was Lehzen.
Victoria went on, “Through Lady Fairmont, you will gain an introduction to my cousin and then—how shall I say it?—you will work your charms on him until he warms toward you and you can persuade him to confide in you.”
Laurel’s stomach gave a twist. “You wish me to seduce your cousin?”
“Good heavens, no!” Victoria’s hand flew to her bosom. “I would never ask you to compromise your virtue, not even in a matter of such vital urgency. I only suggest that you give the appearance of flirting with George, just enough to lower his guard.”
As though they were in the schoolroom, Ivy’s hand came up. “Are we not forgetting one complication—Mary Wyndham Fox?”
“George Fitzclarence’s wife.” Laurel didn’t dare glance at her sisters.
“Oh, his wife has never stopped George,” Victoria said with an indifferent wave. “He and Mary are estranged. He stops home every now and again to get her with child, but he hasn’t even seen his newest son yet. However, Laurel, if your conscience prevents it, I shall press you no further.”
Ivy pulled up taller in her chair, seeming about to speak.
Laurel didn’t give her the chance. “No, I shall do it. . . .”
But if she knew little about society or the world, she knew even less about the art of flirtation. The only man, a neighboring landowner, who had ever shown an interest in her had immediately withdrawn his regard the moment he learned the size of her inheritance.
But, oh, dear. She, Laurel Sutherland, practical, ordinary, inexperienced spinster, was to go to Bath and seduce—she didn’t care how Victoria termed it; the meaning was the same—a married, debauched scoundrel.
With a resigned sigh she clasped her hands at her waist. “When would you like me to leave?”
“In a week. That will give us time to assemble a proper wardrobe for you. I will also arrange for your accommodations and provide you with ample spending money. Oh, and here, just in case.” Lifting her brocade reticule, Victoria pulled an item from inside and held it out to Laurel.
Laurel’s eyes widened as she reached out and closed her hand around the butt of a small silver percussion pistol.
“You should not need that,” Victoria told her, “but I would have you prepared for all contingencies. I leave you with one warning.”
Only one? Laurel pulled her gaze from the gleaming weapon and mustered a brave expression. “Yes?”
“Beware of George’s friends, and do not be fooled by genteel appearances. Many are individuals of the very worst sort, hardly fit to be called gentlemen. One is a rogue of particularly low morals and few scruples. I speak, of course, of the Earl of Barensforth.”
The cards shot facedown across the felt-topped table, spinning to rest in front of each player. A fourth round of vingt-et-un had begun, and although the dealer used two decks shuffled together, Aidan had no trouble keeping a mental tally of the cards already played as well as those likely to surface in the next few minutes.
He had arrived in Bath that afternoon. Despite the suddenness of his plans, he had managed to lease a town house in the Royal Crescent, at the northwest corner of town. Fitz was staying a short walk away in the King’s Circus town house he had inherited from his father.
Word of Aidan’s presence in the city had quickly spread, and invitations to numerous affairs had piled up on the silver post salver.
Turning his focus to the game, he raised a corner of the card dealt him. Ace of diamonds. He added its count value—negative one—to the running tabulation in his mind and calculated the odds of what his next card would likely be. High? Low?
A low card was practically guaranteed, he decided. He pushed a five- hundred-pound chip, double the minimum wager for the table, in front of his card. To his left, Arthur Steele, who had recently inherited the title of Viscount Devonlea, patted his perfectly slicked-back hair and doubled his wager as well.
Lord Julian Stoddard, sent down from Oxford a month ago but apparently suffering little shame over the matter, did likewise. Besides healthy good looks and a savoir faire that ladies found universally appealing, the young Stoddard possessed a sharp eye and a deceptively quick wit, leading Aidan to agree with Julian’s smug assertion that this second son of a marquess would one day gamble his way to considerable wealth.
“From what I heard,” Stoddard said as he pushed his wager to the center of the table, “Babcock floated in the thermal waters for so long that he”—he paused, his gaze lighting on each of the others in turn before he gave a theatrical shudder—“he actually stewed. As cooked as a shank of boiled mutton.”
“Oh, I say, Stoddard.”
“Good God.”
“Really, Stoddard, must you?”
“I’m only passing on what I was told,” the young man said with a defensive shrug. Pushing his chair back a few inches, he stretched out his left leg and released a soft groan.