Two
There were few things Gregory enjoyed more than royal banquets. Not because of the pomp and circumstance or even the quality of the food and drink, but because they allowed him to root out secrets about those in the highest perches of power. He could learn a great deal from what a man said about his underlings, whether he ate or drank to excess, and how he treated the servants—or his wife.
Gregory also often gleaned interesting information from the gossip that ran rampant at these events. Some of it was inconsequential or patently absurd, but some of it could change the course of history. The fun came in figuring out which was which.
And tonight St. James’s Palace was abuzz with discussions about the London Conference to determine the future of Belgium. The event was his bailiwick—his chance to change his own future.
Because of the recent English elections, the Duke of Wellington would soon be stepping down as prime minister, and Earl Grey would be taking his place. Even Gregory’s superior—the foreign secretary—would be ousted.
Fortunately, although in most cases the undersecretary of the foreign office would be expected to leave, too, Grey had already asked Gregory to remain in his position. Gregory had made himself too valuable to both parties for either to want to replace him. Indeed, there was talk that if the London Conference went well under Gregory’s management, he might even gain the position of foreign secretary under the new government. No more would he dwell in darkness as a spymaster.
He’d proved himself capable of moving behind the scenes. Now he wanted to be on the stage, to have a say in the ruling of his country. Fate had put the conference in his hands, and he meant to make the best of it.
“Look who it is,” a voice came from behind him. “I should have known you’d be here, too.”
He turned to see Jeremy Keane behind him, accompanied by his wife, Lady Yvette. In the past year, Gregory and the American had become friends, especially since the latter had proved an excellent source of information about his countrymen’s habits. Given Gregory’s present position, he figured it never hurt to be familiar with how an American’s mind worked.
“What are you doing here, old chap?” Gregory asked Jeremy jovially, pleased to find a fellow member from St. George’s Club in attendance.
“I had to be in town for Guy Fawkes Day,” Jeremy said. “I’m centering a whole series of paintings around it.”
Lady Yvette shook her head. “Everyone else in England is avoiding London because of the bonfires and mayhem, but of course my husband must run toward it with great glee.”
Jeremy grinned at her. “And you love that about me, admit it. My penchant for finding trouble is what drew you to me.”
“And your dashing good looks,” she said with an indulgent smile.
The couple exchanged a knowing glance that made Gregory grit his teeth. Nothing was more irritating than the sight of two people hopelessly in love. His parents had been in love once. It hadn’t lasted long, and he doubted that the explosive finale had been worth the little bit of joy they’d gained in the beginning.
“I meant, what are you doing at a royal function?” Gregory asked testily. “You’re not even British.”
Jeremy widened his eyes in mock surprise. “Do you not realize just how famous I am, sir? I’ll have you know that the king himself bought one of my paintings.”
“That explains why you were invited, but it doesn’t explain why you came. You always profess to find these affairs dull.”
“Oh, but his wife adores them,” Lady Yvette said brightly as she came up to kiss Gregory on the cheek. “So he puts up with them for my sake.”
Jeremy chuckled. “I put up with them because of the reward I know I’ll get for it later.”
Lady Yvette blushed. They’d already been married a year, yet they acted like newlyweds. It was enough to make a bachelor want to slit his wrists.
And when Warren, the Marquess of Knightford, walked up with his wife, Delia, in tow, Gregory prepared himself for more of the same. But Delia was more interested in sharing gossip than in flirting with her new husband.
“You’ll never guess who we just saw in Ambassadors’ Court,” Delia said, her eyes bright with excitement. “The Princess de Chanay. And she’s much more beautiful in person than in that awful copy of her portrait they printed in the Lady’s Monthly Museum. I don’t know who they get to paint these things, but my sister-in-law could do far better.”
Warren smirked at her. “In your opinion, Brilliana could do anything far better. Admit it. You’re biased.”
Brilliana was Niall’s fiancée. Now that he’d been pardoned and had returned to London, he’d wasted no time in getting himself engaged . . . to Delia’s widowed sister-in-law, of all people. So those two couples were quite cozily interconnected, since Niall was Warren’s cousin.
Sometimes Gregory felt left out. Which was absurd. Spymasters couldn’t afford the luxury of bosom friends. Too many secrets to keep. Indeed, he kept nearly all of their secrets, too, and not always by choice.
“Ahem,” Jeremy said loftily. “While I don’t deny that Brilliana does excellent work, I am, after all, the famous—”
“Artist,” Delia and Yvette said in unison. Then they both laughed.
“We know, you old bastard,” Warren said. “You remind us often enough.”
“Well,” Jeremy said, eyes gleaming, “at least I do something useful with my time. All you do is go to parties with Delia.”
“Since when is art useful?” Warren drawled.
“Good God,” Gregory snapped, “would you two shut up? I want to hear about this princess, and I honestly don’t give a damn about who would paint her portrait best.” He turned to Delia. “Were you able to speak with the woman? I haven’t met her yet.”
“That surprises me,” Warren said. “I thought you had taken over for the foreign secretary since he’s laid up with the gout. Isn’t she part of the Chanay delegation to the conference?”
“She is, but—”
“Honestly, Warren,” Jeremy interrupted, “doesn’t your wife keep you busy enough not to have to dabble in politics?”
Delia rolled her eyes. “He reads three newspapers a day from front to back. You might say politics is his hobby.”
“I thought brothels were his hobby,” Yvette said cheerily. “Isn’t he the one who gave that awful naughty watch to Niall?”
“Which I got from your brother,” Warren pointed out genially.
“And which Brilliana hates,” Delia put in. “But not for the naughty activity it portrays, oh no. She disapproves of the quality of the art.”
Yvette laughed. “Of course she does. She has good taste. Which apparently our husbands do not.”
“Except in women,” Jeremy said with a wink.
“Hear, hear!” Warren said, and raised his glass of champagne.
God, this lot was cloying. And decidedly uninformative. “So, Delia, the Princess de Chanay . . .”
“Oh, I didn’t get to speak to her. That great-uncle of hers hovers about her every minute. And I gather he only allows people of political importance to come near.”
“People like you,” Warren said. “Aren’t you one of the people involved in making sure the delegates don’t kill each other while trying to decide the fate of Belgium?” He gestured at Gregory with his glass and spilled some of his champagne on Delia in the process.
“Warren!” she cried. “This gown is brand-new!”
“Sorry, love,” he said, not looking remotely repentant, though he did give her his handkerchief. “I’m a bit foxed.”
“Obviously.” She dabbed at her bodice with the square of linen.
He took the handkerchief from her to do some dabbing of her gown himself. “You missed a spot.” He grinned as he dabbed all along her bodice. “And another. And this one. You missed a lot of spots.”
“You are incorrigible, especially when you’re foxed,” she said, but her lips were twitching as if she fought a smile.
He whispered something in her ear, and she laughed.
Gregory couldn’t stand it anymore. “Forgive me, but I see someone I must speak to,” he lied, and headed in the direction of the doors to the gardens.
Clearly he needed more bachelor friends. Thank God Hart had recently taken up permanent residence in town. The chap had bought out his commission so he could work for Gregory infiltrating the foreign community in London. Gregory’s sister-in-law, John’s widow, used to do some of that work for him, but now that she was in love . . .
Bah. So many damned people in love.
And Hart wasn’t here tonight, so Gregory was on his own with the happy couples. Ah, well, at least the delegates weren’t all married. The Princess of Chanay wasn’t, nor was her great-uncle, a widower. He would officially meet the princess tomorrow, but he knew the Count de Beaumonde from previous diplomatic situations, so he could probably finagle an introduction to the woman tonight. It wouldn’t hurt to observe her in a less formal setting.
It didn’t take long for him to spot the count coming in from Ambassadors’ Court with a tall young woman on his arm, who was dressed in a gown of pink silk with cap sleeves that left her arms bare.
The princess? Probably. And quite a pretty one, too—with voluptuous breasts and a surprisingly slender waist, given her slightly broad shoulders. Despite her height, she walked with grace and didn’t slouch, obviously not the least bothered by the fact that she towered over the shorter men in the room.
Something about the confidence in her walk nagged at his memory. Had they met before?
No, it couldn’t be. From what he remembered of his reports, she hadn’t been out in society terribly long, and she was famously reclusive to boot. Yet as they neared him, he realized she didn’t seem as young as he’d initially thought. Mid-twenties, perhaps? If she’d had her debut recently, he would expect her to be younger. But perhaps the people of Chanay didn’t toss their daughters out into the world as early as the English did.
Still, she looked the part of a debutante otherwise. Her elaborate coiffure—with curls the color of his favorite toffee piled atop her head and punctuated by a glittering tiara—was exactly something a maid on the marriage mart would wear. Oddly enough, the style reminded him of powdered wigs, though he couldn’t imagine why. Those had gone out of fashion decades ago.
When she came nearer and he saw her face full on, his sense that something was familiar about her deepened. Could he be thinking of the portrait Delia had mentioned? No. Delia had been right—the woman’s looks far exceeded that paltry image. Creamy skin, lush lips, a strong chin . . .
Her gaze narrowed on him with what he would swear was recognition, and he gave a start. Then she smoothed her features into politeness. It didn’t fool him. He did know her, damn it. And she knew him, too. But from where?
The count spotted him then. “Ah, just the man I was hoping to see. Lord Fulkham, how are you? You’re looking very well.”
Bowing slightly, Gregory pasted a broad smile to his lips. “So are you, sir. I hope your accommodations are comfortable?”
“Quite so, I assure you. How long has it been since we last met—five years? Ten?”
“Ten! I’m not as old as all that. I believe we last saw each other in Paris at the Treaty of London, what, three years ago?” That was the trip when Gregory had stopped in at Dieppe to meet with Hart and gone to the theater to see—
His gaze shot to the woman. Her. Good God, she was Mademoiselle Monique Servais. He would swear it. Despite her bland smile and entirely different attire, he would know her anywhere. The jutting chin, the thick lashes . . . those glorious emerald eyes.
She certainly wasn’t the princess, so why did Beaumonde have her with him? Was she the old man’s mistress?
The count caught him staring, and said, “Forgive me, I should have introduced you sooner. Aurore, this is the Baron Fulkham, undersecretary to the foreign office, whose opinion is supremely important in deciding your fate. Lord Fulkham, this is my great-niece, Princess Aurore of Chanay.”
The words rang in his ears, so discordant and utterly wrong that he burst out with, “The devil you say!” When that made the count start, Gregory caught himself and added lamely, “You don’t look nearly old enough, sir, to have a great-niece.”
Beaumonde broke into a smile. “Be careful with this one, Aurore,” he joked. “He has a silver tongue.”
“So they tell me,” he muttered, his mind racing.
He must have been mistaken about the woman’s identity. Surely the count wasn’t mad enough to pass off a known actress as a princess. Experienced in politics, the man was highly regarded for his fine character. He’d realize that if he was caught proposing an impostor for queen of Belgium, it would be the end of his position of power in his country. Chanay would be made a laughingstock.
So perhaps it was mere coincidence that this woman looked and acted like the actress. After all, Mademoiselle Servais had been in costume. And three years was a long time. He might not be remembering clearly.
Then he noted how she was gripping the count’s arm, how she wouldn’t meet his gaze, how false her smile seemed.
No, she was Monique Servais—he would stake his life on it. Though it made no sense.
“I’ll admit, Your Serene Highness,” he went on, “that I recognized you even without the introduction.” He waited until she paled, then added, “From your portrait in the Lady’s Monthly Museum.”
“Someone did a portrait of me?” she said, sounding incredulous. “I don’t recall sitting for one.”
“I believe they simply copied an older painting of you. Though it didn’t do you justice.”
She shot her great-uncle a veiled glance. “An older painting of me. How interesting.”
“It hardly deserved the title of ‘painting,’ ” Beaumonde said, avoiding her gaze. “Terrible likeness. I agree with you there, Fulkham.”
“Thank you, Uncle, but you’re biased.” The woman fluttered her fan before her face exactly as she had three years before, cementing Gregory’s suspicions. “And I daresay I can hardly trust the opinion of a diplomat like Lord Fulkham either, since such men excel at giving compliments.”
“Not always.” Gregory fixed her with a hard look. “Sometimes we manage to step awry. Especially when confronted with a woman who stoops to conquer.”
If she caught the reference to their discussion of Goldsmith’s play in Dieppe, she gave no indication. “I assure you, sir,” she said in the melodic tones he remembered only too well, “I have not come to London to conquer anyone.”
“Except those of us attending the conference,” Gregory said smoothly. “And you’ve made a good start, too.” He glanced about the room. “Judging from the way everyone is looking at you, your beauty alone has the delegates smitten.”
“You see?” Beaumonde said jovially to the woman. “He’s quite the flatterer.”
“In my line of work, it’s called diplomacy,” Gregory drawled. “And speaking of diplomacy, perhaps Her Serene Highness would wish to take a turn about the palace garden with me so I can make a more informal assessment of her ability to reign as queen of Belgium.”
“An excellent idea!” the count cried. “She would be happy to accompany you. Wouldn’t you, my dear?”
The faux princess’s eyes frosted over. “I would, indeed,” she said, then glanced at the doors, “but I believe they’re about to announce that dinner is served.”
“Not for a while yet,” Gregory said. “Trust me, I asked.” He always liked to know the schedule of an evening, the shape of the party . . . how to plan his maneuvers.
And one way or the other, he meant to get to the bottom of this mystery. Because an impostor playing the Princess de Chanay wasn’t acceptable. There was too much at stake—for Belgium and for him—with this conference.
“Well, then,” she said with a furtive glance at the count. “I would be delighted, monsieur.”
Somehow he doubted that.
Monique fought panic as Lord Fulkham expertly maneuvered them through the crowded rooms of St. James’s Palace toward the garden. Curse the count for throwing her to the wolves! And after he’d said he and Lady Ursula would always be at her side, too!
She should have known not to trust him. Ever since they left Calais she’d had the sense that he was hiding something. But she hadn’t expected him to sabotage her masquerade after he’d gone to such trouble to set it up. Could he not see that Lord Fulkham was baiting him? Baiting her?
Probably not. To be fair, he didn’t know of her former association with Lord Fulkham. He must never find out, either. Because she had to secure help for Grand-maman in her final days, and this pretense was the only way to do so.
But why, oh why, did Lord Fulkham have to be the man at the center of these proceedings? And why must he have recognized her? All his veiled remarks and his intense scrutiny—he remembered her. She was sure of it.
And why hadn’t the count warned her that there was a portrait of Aurore in the Lady’s Monthly Museum? She must finagle a chance to see it. She dearly hoped it was indeed of poor quality, and not a likeness that highlighted the few ways in which she and Aurore did not resemble each other.
When they reached the garden, her heart sank to see it so deserted. Apparently she hadn’t been the only one to think dinner might soon be served. Even the band they’d heard playing out here earlier had packed up and moved inside, closer to the banqueting room.
You can handle this, she told herself. You’re an acclaimed actress, for God’s sake. This is what you do—play roles. You’ve even played a princess before. So get to it, and show this pompous gentleman what you’re made of.
She went on the offensive. “Please forgive me if this is rude, Lord Fulkham, but I’m confused by what my uncle said concerning your part in these negotiations. I was unaware that undersecretaries were of such profound importance in English politics. I thought they were little better than clerks.”
If she’d thought to insult him, his laugh showed that she’d failed. “Some of them are. It just so happens that England has two kinds. I’m the political kind. Especially with the foreign secretary laid up in bed.” He cast her a searching glance. “You have a better knowledge of English affairs than I expected.”
She had her half-English grandfather to thank for that. He’d always kept up with politics in his mother’s country. “And you, monsieur, have a better facility for ‘diplomacy’ than I expected. I think my uncle is right. You do have a silver tongue.”
“I hope not. It would make it awfully hard to eat,” he quipped.
A laugh sputtered out of her. Curse him. She didn’t remember him having a humorous side. “You are very droll, monsieur.”
“And you are very . . . different,” he said.
She tensed. “From what?”
“From what I expected. I’d heard that the Princess of Chanay was a rather haughty young lady.”
She had no idea if Aurore was haughty. Though it would stand to reason. Weren’t all princesses haughty?
Not the way Monique played them. And it didn’t matter how Aurore really was. According to the count, no one outside Chanay had ever met the princess, so Lord Fulkham couldn’t be sure what she was like. He was merely trying to catch the woman he had met in an error.
Which meant she must be as different from Monique Servais as possible, to throw him off guard, make him doubt his eyes. Monique Servais had given him the sharper side of her tongue, so Princess Aurore must be engaging, flirtatious.
“A man like you should know better than to listen to rumor,” she told him.
“Actually, rumor is my life’s blood. There’s generally a bit of truth in every piece of gossip. It’s my job to find out which bits are true and which bits are trumped-up lies.” He led her down a path. “For example, I heard that you were partial to theatrical entertainments. Is that the case?”
Curse the fellow, he’d heard no such thing. He was just baiting her again.
She fought the urge to stiffen, keeping her grip on his arm deliberately loose. “I enjoy the occasional play, yes. Doesn’t everyone?”
“It depends. I like plays, but only tragedies.” He shot her a veiled look. “Comedies set my teeth on edge.”
She remembered only too well his ridiculous opinion of comedies. “I prefer operas,” she said lightly. “Doesn’t matter to me what the story is about as long as there’s singing. Do you enjoy the opera, monsieur?”
That seemed to catch him off guard, for he frowned. “Not at all, I’m afraid. In real life people don’t speak to each other in arias.”
“In real life people do not dress so lavishly to do their marketing, either, but one can still enjoy seeing such attire in that setting on the stage.”
“Yes, those powdered wigs are quite entertaining,” he drawled. “Especially when the actors and actresses are running in and out of the boudoir.”
She could feel his eyes on her. Clearly he was referencing Le mariage de Figaro directly. Silly man. As if that would make her lose control and spill her secrets. “Oh, I do like that kind of opera myself. Otello is so dramatic. And that scene in Desdemona’s boudoir makes me weep every time.”
He halted to eye her closely. “You’ve seen Rossini’s Otello?”
“Of course. In Paris. It was quite moving.”
A triumphant look crossed his face. “I thought you rarely left Chanay.”
Too late she remembered what the count had told her about Aurore’s secluded life. She scrambled to cover her error. “That’s true—I rarely do. But Maman took me to Paris to see Otello once when I was a girl. It’s her favorite opera.”
“You said that it ‘makes me weep every time.’ That implies you’ve seen it more than once.”
Her heart thundered in her chest. “I meant ‘every time I think of the scene.’ I misspoke. English is not my native tongue, you know.” She tipped up her chin. “And why do you dissect my words so, monsieur? Is it necessary for the prospective queen of Belgium to speak your language perfectly?”
“That’s not why I ‘dissect’ your words, as you are well aware.”
Merde, obviously he’d figured her out. She would have to tread carefully or else he would swallow her up, and with her, all her hopes for her and Grand-maman’s future. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Come now, mademoiselle.” He leaned close enough to show the hardening planes of his face. “It’s time that you relinquish this pretense. You and I both know that you are Monique Servais and not the Princess of Chanay at all.”