Fifteen
That night at dinner, Gregory had trouble concentrating on his guest’s chatter. After his encounter with Monique, he’d gone into nearby Canterbury to speak with the constable, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to find out if anyone suspicious had been lurking about.
Thank God he had, for the constable had informed him that a stranger from London had been in town a few days before. But it hadn’t had anything to do with the princess, because the fellow had been asking about Gregory. About his father’s death. About why no one had found it suspicious that the previous Lord Fulkham had broken his neck falling down a staircase.
The constable, of course, had told the man the truth—no one had found it suspicious because the baron had been well known for his drunkenness. Indeed, it had not been the first time the man had taken a tumble while drunk.
Still, though Gregory knew no one could ever find out the truth, it unnerved him to have someone asking about it. Unfortunately, the constable only had a name for the mysterious London investigator: Tom Smith, obviously an alias. The constable knew nothing more that could tell Gregory what this was about.
Bloody hell.
Well, there was naught he could do about it at present. He had to focus on getting through the next few days with Monique. On making sure she stayed alive . . . and that he didn’t do something unwise.
Like bed the woman.
God, even now he wanted to do so. Tonight she was at her most effervescent—flirting with Pontalba and Danworth, charming Mother, and teasing Lady Ursula and even the count in a way that seemed to startle the old Frenchman.
But she persistently ignored Gregory. Not that he could blame her. First, he’d nearly ravished her. Then they’d had a close call with Danworth. If she hadn’t acted swiftly to allay the fellow’s suspicions, Danworth would now be wondering why they’d been up there alone, seemingly hiding from the world.
But she’d made everything seem perfectly natural, despite her lips swollen with Gregory’s kisses and her coiffeur tilted off-center. He couldn’t help admiring her aplomb. For a woman who’d spent her life as a commoner, she could play the princess to the hilt.
Indeed, she was presently enchanting every person at the table, including him, with her self-deprecating remarks about her encounters with the English.
“So when I asked His Majesty about the ancient queen, he was quite insulted,” she told the other guests. “Thank heaven Lady Ursula explained to him that I meant the ‘previous’ queen and not his wife. Only then did I realize that ‘ancient’ in English may look like ancien in French, but it is decidedly not the same in meaning.” She covered her cheeks fetchingly. “How very embarrassant!”
Mother laughed. “I can only imagine. Especially since Queen Adelaide is nearly thirty years younger than the king.”
“But my explanation must have satisfied him,” Lady Ursula put in, “since he then went on to ask the princess to waltz with him.”
“Did he really?” his mother said. “I confess I’m surprised. I thought he never waltzed with anyone but the queen.” Her tone turned dry. “Or Mrs. Jordan, back when she was alive.”
“Mother,” Gregory chided. “Must you gossip about His Majesty?”
“Who was Mrs. Jordan?” Monique asked.
His mother ignored him, intent on sharing a juicy tidbit with the few at the table who’d likely never heard it. “She served as the king’s mistress for twenty years before she died and before he married. He lived with her in his own house. Why, they had ten children together! You may actually have met some of them. All the FitzClarences are his by-blows by that actress.”
As Monique’s smile turned brittle, Gregory stifled a groan. A quick glance at the count showed the man blandly nodding as Lady Ursula colored and turned a sudden, inordinate attention to her fish.
God, when those two had chosen an actress to impersonate Aurore, they should have told her about the king’s former mistress, given that the FitzClarences were in and out of the palace and royal functions with regularity.
“His Majesty has always been unorthodox,” Gregory explained. “He never expected to be called upon to rule, so since he couldn’t marry Mrs. Jordan—”
“Why couldn’t he marry her if he wished?” Lady Ursula asked. “He’s a prince.” Inexplicably she cast a furtive glance at the count. “He ought to be able to do as he pleases.”
“That’s a lovely idea,” Gregory said, not even trying to hide his sarcasm. “Unfortunately, no matter how enticing the concept, English law forbids it.”
Monique stared at him, her expression so vulnerable it cut him to the heart. “Because he was a prince? Or because she was an actress?”
“Both, I’m afraid. Royals cannot marry anyone unsanctioned by the king, and William’s father, George III, would never have sanctioned such a marriage.”
“But lords can marry actresses, can’t they?” Lady Ursula put in. “I have heard of it. Wasn’t Lord Derby’s late wife a former actress?”
Gregory tore his gaze from Monique. “His second wife, yes. Which was why they weren’t much accepted in society. It’s considered beyond the pale.”
“I don’t know,” his mother mused aloud. “The Duke of Bolton married an actress, and the Earl of Peterborough married an opera singer, which is practically the same.”
“Both were second wives,” Gregory pointed out.
“What about Louisa Brunton? She was the Earl of Craven’s first wife.”
Damn it, why must his mother press this? “Certainly it’s been done, but when you can count the number of such marriages on one hand, it clearly isn’t common. Most lords are too conscious of their position to risk such a union.”
“Which is precisely why British lords are so very dull, sir,” Monique said with forced lightness. “They follow rules rather than their passions.” When he shot her a black look, she added, “Present company excepted, of course.”
“No, no, you’re right,” his mother had the audacity to say, “at least about my son, anyway. While I would not call Gregory dull, he can sometimes be overly a slave to rules. Although he wasn’t always like that.”
Mischief leapt into Monique’s eyes. “Do tell,” she crooned.
“Well . . .” his mother began.
“Mother,” he said in a warning tone, “our guests have no desire to hear about my youthful peccadilloes.”
“On the contrary,” Danworth said, a certain glee in his face, “I would thoroughly enjoy such tales.”
The thought of Danworth spreading Mother’s stories at St. George’s made Gregory scowl at him. Besides, he was still annoyed with the man for preventing him and Monique from continuing their delightful, though unwise, encounter.
“I, too, would find it entertaining,” the count said, with a bit of a smirk. “Wouldn’t you, Pontalba?”
“Most assuredly,” the damned Frenchman drawled.
“You see, Gregory?” his mother said. “They all think you too rigid and serious, and I mean to show them that you can break the rules sometimes. That even you have a reckless side.”
Oh, God.
“Anyway,” she went on, “even as a small boy my son was quite a pistol. Seven months after his brother was born, he got jealous of the baby getting so much of my attention, so he hid poor John under his bed. When I came to the nursery, Gregory met me at the door and announced very loftily that the fairies had flown off with John, and there was naught we could do about it.”
Everyone chuckled.
“Then, even as Gregory was spinning his sad tale, John crawled out giggling from beneath the bed. Apparently, he found the whole thing a fine game. Seeing that his plan had gone awry, Gregory burst out with, ‘Ooh, look, they must have flown him back! They’re quick, those fairies.’ ”
As the room erupted in laughter, Gregory grumbled, “For God’s sake, I was four years old.”
“Almost five,” she corrected him. “And as willful a lad as I ever saw, even when your father—”
She caught herself before she could say “disciplined you.” Which had been Father’s euphemism for knocking him about.
Gregory took a long swig of his wine, wishing it were something stronger. He rarely drank spirits, but tonight he might have to make an exception.
“Then there was Gregory’s first year at Eton, when he was ten,” Mother went on. “He attended at a younger age than some gentlemen’s sons, because his father felt it would be good for him. As did I.”
Actually, Mother had talked Father into sending him away, trying to protect her son from the man’s worst abuses. And Gregory had always been grateful to her for that. No punishment for minor offenses at Eton had ever been as terrifying—or painful—as Father in a drunken rage.
“Slowly I began hearing reports of him,” Mother went on. “A polite letter from the headmaster, a not-so-polite letter from another boy’s mother . . . even a note from a local rector. And they all said the same thing. Apparently, my son had become quite the prankster.”
“You?” Monique said to him, half-incredulous. “A prankster?”
Gregory shrugged. “School was too easy. I had to entertain myself somehow.”
Mother rolled her eyes heavenward. “He sent a fake note to one of the older boys, supposedly from a maid the lad fancied, stating that she would love to kiss him in the arbor. So this poor fellow did what he thought she’d asked and got himself slapped for it.”
Lady Ursula giggled behind her fan.
“Served him right if you ask me,” Gregory muttered as he broke off some bread. “The chap was always talking vulgarly about that poor girl.” It had reminded him of how cruelly his father had spoken of Mother when he was in his cups.
Monique shot him a penetrating glance, which he ignored.
“Another time,” his mother continued relentlessly, “he put icicles in a fellow’s boots right before the lad went to don them.”
For the first time since she’d begun laying out his youthful indiscretions, Gregory smiled. “That one was funny, actually. You should have heard the whoop he gave.” When he caught sight of the rest of them regarding him with surprise, he sobered. “But to be fair, he did it to me a week later.”
“Not so amusing then, eh?” the count said.
“I don’t know,” Gregory said defensively, and downed some wine. “Certainly woke me up.”
“But the worst,” Mother put in, “was the one that nearly got him expelled when he was twelve.”
“Good God, don’t tell them that,” he growled, but he was shouted down by the clamor of the others wanting to hear it.
Mother paused for effect, waiting for everyone to quiet. “It was late October. The school called me and my husband down to Eton to tell us that our son had attempted to murder the riding master.”
When the others gasped, Gregory muttered, “Oh, for God’s sake, I did not attempt to murder anyone.” And if he had, the person would have been dead—though he shouldn’t admit that, given what had happened a couple of months later.
“It took us a while to piece the story together,” Mother went on, “but apparently, Gregory had substituted bicarbonate of soda for the usual contents of a salt cellar.”
“I only wanted to ruin the man’s meal, not frighten him out of his wits,” Gregory put in.
“Unfortunately,” Mother said, “the part of the meal that the fellow chose to salt was his favorite dish—a salad generously dressed with vinegar.”
When the others looked at her blankly, Gregory sighed. “It seems that when bicarbonate of soda and vinegar are put together, it makes a . . . rather impressive foaming effect. Which I did not know at the time.”
“Apparently no one did,” Mother said, a certain glee in her voice. “Including the subject of the prank, who thought it was an attempt to poison him, no matter how much my son protested.”
Gregory snorted. “Father recognized the truth at once. He’d had a friend who was a chemist, so he called the riding master a fool for panicking over it.”
“Yes, his father thought it rather a fine joke,” Mother said dryly. “Eton wasn’t inclined to agree, but he threw some money at them, and the problem went away.”
“Mon Dieu,” Monique breathed, her eyes wide. “I confess I am astonished. You were quite the wild child, Lord Fulkham.”
“Until then, yes,” Mother said. “But that sobered him into being more circumspect from then on.” She shot him a furtive glance. “Turned him into the rigid fellow you see before you.”
Gregory could barely suppress a hot retort. That stupid prank hadn’t been what changed him. The change had happened a couple of months later, once he’d discovered what he was truly capable of.
That had been what had taught him that emotions were volatile and must be contained whenever possible. That passion could lead to recklessness and murder.
“Well,” he said blandly, “a lad has to grow up sometime. Now, if we’re done dissecting my misspent youth, perhaps we should discuss our plans for tomorrow.”
Pontalba settled back in his chair. “I thought it was Guy Fawkes Day. Shall we not go into your local village to observe the celebrations? I’ve heard it’s rough and raucous, a delightful melee.”
Gregory frowned at him. “It is indeed, even in Canterbury. And a melee isn’t so delightful if it means risking the well-being of a princess, her lady-in-waiting, her great-uncle, a duke, and the prime minister’s secretary.”
“Don’t forget your mother,” the count added from his seat beside her. The fellow actually patted Mother’s arm reassuringly. “She should not have to endure the behavior of hooligans.”
“Why, thank you, sir,” Mother told the count with a flirtatious smile that struck Gregory speechless. “It is very kind of you to worry about me. Though I’m not sure it’s necessary.”
Gregory shook off the horrifying image of his mother being swept off her feet by the courtly count. Why, the Frenchman was at least ten years her senior! “All I was saying is, in such circumstances, I cannot guarantee anyone’s safety. Which is why the only celebrations taking place will be on the estate.”
“But we will wait for the prince to arrive, won’t we?” Lady Ursula asked.
Her continued interest in Prince Leopold’s impending visit still perplexed Gregory. After dinner, he would have to take her aside and question her more thoroughly about her relationship to the man. And this time, he wouldn’t let her change the subject, as she had earlier.
“We’ll have no choice but to wait,” Gregory replied. “Guy Fawkes Day activities generally involve fire—burning the Guy in effigy, bonfires, the occasional fireworks. All of that is far more interesting when done and seen at night.”
“Fireworks!” Monique crowed. “I should love that!”
He cursed his quick tongue. “Sorry to disappoint you, but no fireworks here, I’m afraid.” It would be too easy for someone to shoot at her unnoticed with all the noise and smoke around. “We never have them,” he lied. “But we might be able to see the ones from Canterbury in the distance.”
Mother narrowed her gaze on him. She knew he was lying about the fireworks, but at least she was keeping quiet about it. Later he would tell her the real reason for his caution, if only to make sure she fell in line with all his plans. Though he hated to alarm her unduly.
“In any case,” he went on, “everyone will have the morning and afternoon to enjoy other pleasures on the estate. We’ve got fishing and—” He caught himself before he could say “shooting.” That wasn’t wise, either, under the circumstances. “Swimming. Also, the drives around the estate provide some lovely views. Or if you prefer to ride, I have a number of suitable mounts.”
Pontalba brightened. “That sounds most amiable. I do enjoy a stirring gallop.” He looked over at Monique. “What do you say, Princess? Shall we go for a ride in the morning?”
She flashed the duke a gorgeous smile. “I would be delighted, Your Grace. Her ladyship told me there’s a man-made waterfall on the grounds, and I should very much like to see it.”
Gregory was stewing over the idea that she actually meant to go off with the duke alone when his mother said, “And perhaps the count and Mr. Danworth would accompany me and Lady Ursula into Canterbury for some shopping.”
“Good God, Mother, I just said—”
“You also just said that nothing actually happens until late afternoon. Which is true. There will be a few ragged boys dragging their effigies around asking for a coin ‘for the Guy,’ but it’s not wild, the way it is in London. And since the two most important members of your party—the duke and the princess—are going riding, why shouldn’t we have a taste of town? We’ll come back before dinner.” She batted her eyelashes at the count. “That is, if the count is willing to accompany us.”
“I would be most honored,” Beaumonde said, and took her hand to kiss it.
Gregory bristled. What the devil was going on between his mother and the count? If the damned fellow thought that buttering up Mother would influence Gregory’s vote for Princess Aurore, he had another think coming.
“Actually,” Lady Ursula said from across the table, “I would much rather just stay in your lovely house, Lady Fulkham, if you don’t mind. You have quite an extensive library, and I’d like nothing more than to explore it.”
“Of course, if you wish.”
Hmm. Was Lady Ursula’s true reason for staying behind to make sure she got to see Prince Leopold alone? This got more curious by the moment.
“That leaves me,” Gregory said. “I suppose I’ll be going riding with Pontalba and the princess.”
“Don’t be silly,” Monique said, a hint of frost in her tone. “I’m sure you have many matters to take care of at the estate after your long absence from it.”
“Not so many that I can’t enjoy a rousing ride.” He lifted an eyebrow at Pontalba. “You don’t mind if I join you and Her Highness, do you, old chap?”
Pontalba blinked, obviously aware that he’d landed in the middle of something beyond his ken. “Certainly not. Fine by me.”
Damned arse had better say that. Because Pontalba had to know that it was more important not to offend the undersecretary of the foreign office than to cozy up to the princess, no matter what the duke’s romantic interests.
“Then it’s settled,” Gregory said smoothly, ignoring Monique’s daggered glance. He was bloody well not letting her go off alone with anyone, no matter what the reason. He had to keep her safe.
This isn’t about keeping her safe, and you know it, his damned conscience said. This is about jealousy, pure and simple.
Perhaps. But he was not allowing her out of his sight if there was even a remote chance that something could happen to her. And that was that.
As she pled a headache and slipped out of the drawing room after dinner, Monique was seething. Between Gregory and her great-uncle, she felt like one of those mythical angels dancing on the head of a pin. One minute she had to pacify the count. The next minute she had to hold Gregory and his suspicions at bay. What in creation did they want from her?
She snorted. She knew what Gregory wanted from her—a convenient mistress, no doubt. Once he exposed her, he knew she’d have nowhere to go but to him.
But then, why hadn’t he exposed her right away?
Because of his cursed ambition, that was all. He needed this conference to be successful.
I risk my ambition more with every hour I let this masquerade go on.
She knew that was true. He could have exposed her that first night, yet he hadn’t. And even after she’d offered him her body . . .
I told you I will not let you barter your body for my silence.
A sigh escaped her as she climbed the stairs toward her bedchamber. He was such an enigma. He desired her, but his conscience resisted. She’d never met a man who would do that. And just when she thought she knew exactly who he was, he did or said something that reduced all her convictions about his character to rubble.
His mother’s tales rose in her mind. A prankster? The self-controlled Gregory? How could that be?
Then again, he had also enjoyed showing her a knot garden he’d known she would appreciate. Had roused her body and her mind, making her wish for what had never troubled her sleep before.
What was she to make of him?
Men! They were a plague upon women.
She reached the second floor, and as if to punctuate her very thoughts, Gregory stepped out of a room into the hallway. Had he been waiting for her? Why wasn’t he still in the dining room with the other gentlemen?
“In here,” he snapped, and pulled her into the room.
When he released her and moved away, she took the time to look around. It was clearly a study, done up in beautiful polished mahogany and brass accents. The study of a rich man, confident in his importance. In his wealth and power.
And yet . . . “Your curtains are lavender,” she said inanely.
He froze, then followed her gaze. “They’re purple,” he protested. “I like purple. Reminds me of royalty.”
She snorted. It was a very light purple—lavender or lilac. Hardly the color of royalty. It reminded her yet again that he had sides to him she couldn’t fathom, like a faceted gem with shimmering depths.
At her silence, he sharpened his tone. “It’s an appropriate color for entertaining you, don’t you think, Your Serene Highness?”
“There’s no need to mock me,” she said, choking down her hurt at the pointed barb. “I didn’t choose this. Trust me, if I’d had a choice of roles, I wouldn’t have chosen that of an ingénue like Aurore.”
“No.” His eyes blazed at her. “The role of an artless, simple girl doesn’t suit you. You play the seductress much better. As Pontalba can attest.”
His bitter tone startled her. She strode right up to him. “Are you jealous?”
“Of that self-important scoundrel?” Contempt laced his words. “Hardly.”
“Then why did you insist on going with us tomorrow morning?”
He stared her down. “Have you forgotten that you’re in danger? Do you even know how to ride? It doesn’t seem like a skill an actress would acquire.”
“On the contrary. My grandmother could ride quite well, so she learned how to perform a few horse tricks with Grandpapa’s troupe. When I was a girl she incorporated me into her act, so yes, I do know how to ride, your lofty lordship.”
“Still, you shouldn’t risk your life to—”
“We’ve already established that the duke is an unlikely assassin. And you keep insisting that I’m safe on your estate.”
A sullen scowl knit his brow. “That doesn’t mean I trust the arse.”
She thrust her face up into his. “Admit it: Your insinuating yourself into the situation has nothing to do with concern for my safety. It’s about your not wanting me for yourself, but not wanting anyone else to have me, either.”
“What?” He caught her about the waist, his eyes alight. “You have no idea what I want.” His gaze scoured her a long moment, finally coming to rest on her mouth, and he lowered his voice to a ragged murmur. “No bloody idea at all.”
When he looked as if he might kiss her, she fought the swirling need that pooled in her belly at just being in his arms and wrenched free of him. “Oh, I think I do. You want to have your cake and eat it, too. You want me in your bed, but not in your life or your heart.”
“Do you think Pontalba wants you in his life and his heart?”
The clear jealousy in his tone made her want to provoke him. “Perhaps.”
That didn’t seem to sit well with him. “Do you desire him?”
No, she thought. Fool that I am, I desire you, you thickheaded dolt. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
Strolling along the length of his desk, she ran a finger casually over the burnished wood the way she’d run her hand over his burnished wood this afternoon.
She waited until she heard his sharp intake of breath before she went on. “You know, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about the duke. I’m barely acquainted with him. That’s why I intend to ride with him tomorrow. So I can come to know him better.” Thinking of the count’s remarks earlier, she turned to face Gregory and added in a hard voice, “That’s also why I don’t want you there.”
His jaw flexed. “That’s a pity. Because I mean to join you whether you want me there or not.”
A part of her thrilled to that. But he kept using her real identity to pressure her, and it was time to call his bluff.
She strode toward the door. “I’m tired of this. If you want to expose me, do so. Otherwise, stop bullying me. Or I will reveal the truth myself and take you down with me.”
It was a bluff, too; all the power was on his side. But she felt better for saying it.
And, gathering her faux royal dignity about her, she walked out.