Five
St. George’s was too crowded for Gregory’s taste this evening. It probably didn’t help that he was in a foul mood, having endured hours of watching Monique captivate everyone with whom she came in contact. Apparently, he was the only person in England who rubbed her wrong.
But he was also the only person in England who knew what it felt like to kiss her. That did soothe his damaged pride a bit.
He found Hart in the card room, finishing up a game of vingt-un with Niall, Warren, and Jeremy.
“I see I’m not the only one who abandoned the palace festivities early in the evening,” Gregory said as he took a seat.
Despite his attempts to get near Monique after dinner, he’d been blocked by one person after another. Her dance card had been full of dignitaries, and she’d danced until the count had whisked her away.
After that, Gregory had seen no point in staying, especially since Danworth had left already. What a pity. Gregory was still trying to figure out what the man’s interest in the princess might be. He intended to find out tonight, assuming that Danworth showed up here, which was a good bet.
Warren rose from the table. “We’re not staying. My brother has the devil’s own luck tonight.”
“You play him at your peril, Fulkham,” Niall added as he shoved his money toward Hart.
“Bunch of cowards,” Hart complained. “They always run when the going gets tough.”
“It has nothing to do with that,” Jeremy said with a sly wink. “And everything to do with the fact that our wives are waiting for us. Eh, lads?”
Warren grinned. “Mine certainly is.”
“I doubt that,” Hart retorted. “They probably don’t even realize you’re gone. When I left your house, Warren, they were already in the midst of a hen party fit to make a bachelor’s ears bleed. No doubt they’re still at it. Why do you think I fled in search of more entertaining company?”
Niall snorted. “Scared of a bunch of women. Who’s the coward now?”
Hart cast him a black look. “I can’t even flirt with them. You lot are liable to shoot me if I do.”
The three men laughed.
“Flirt all you like,” Warren said lightly. “Delia can take care of herself—she knows just how to skewer you with her sharp tongue, and she rather enjoys doing so. Not to mention that I enjoy watching it. And I promise none of the rest would look twice at you, except to tease you.”
“Or marry him off,” Jeremy said. “That’s the real reason he avoids them. They’ve got a list of prospective wives for him that would make his ballocks curl up and die.”
Hart rolled his eyes heavenward. “You see what I’m up against, Fulkham? Watch out—the hens have got a list for you, too. I’ve heard them discussing it.”
“So have I,” Gregory said dryly. “Fortunately, I’ve been fending off matchmakers for years now, so I’ve got the knack of it. You merely tell the lady doing the matchmaking that no one could ever live up to her charms, and while she’s preening over the compliment, you beat a hasty retreat.”
Warren, Niall, and Jeremy laughed. Hart did not. He was still nursing a grudge at the others for quitting the game so early in the evening.
“And on that note, gentlemen,” Warren said, “we’re off to fetch our matchmaking wives home. Hart, don’t beat Fulkham too badly. Leave him with his dignity at least.”
Then the gentlemen were gone. Now it was just Gregory and Hart. Perfect.
Gregory took a seat opposite Hart. “Deal me in.”
“Excellent,” Hart said, brightening as he shuffled. “Another victim.”
“I wouldn’t count on that. Vingt-un is my game.”
“We’ll see.” Hart handed the cards over to Gregory. “Stake of five pounds per hand?”
“I take it you need money,” Gregory said. When Hart looked grim and cut the cards, Gregory added, “I have a better way for you to make it than vingt-un.”
Hart lifted his head. “I’m listening.”
“I need you to do something for me. It’s important, which means—”
“Excellent compensation,” Hart drawled. “I’m in.”
“Don’t you want to know what it is first?”
“No. I still owe Warren a bit of blunt for helping me pay off my debt to Brilliana for— It doesn’t matter. Suffice it to say, I don’t want that hanging over my head, even if he is my brother and unlikely to call in the bet.”
“It’s a matter of honor.”
Hart nodded as he turned one card up.
“Very well.” Gregory turned his up, too, then shrugged when he lost the chance to deal. “Do you remember that actress we met in Dieppe? Monique Servais?”
Hart gathered up the cards. “I should say so. How could I forget the only woman to have put the great Lord Fulkham in his place?”
“As I recall, she rebuffed you, too, old chap.”
“She did not,” Hart said. “I rebuffed her by running after you instead.”
“If you say so.” Gregory paused to watch Hart deal. “To be honest, most of that night is a blur.”
It took a minute for those words to register with Hart, but when they did, he turned instantly contrite. “Oh, God, I forgot. That’s when you found out about—”
“John. Yes.”
Some weeks after that horrible night, Gregory had learned the full extent of what had happened to his brother. John had ignored the advice of his superior. Instead of waiting a week until the officer they’d been watching was away on maneuvers, he’d searched the officer’s tent for a certain treasonous letter while the man was supposedly in the mess.
Except that their suspect hadn’t been in the mess. John had been caught. Or so his superior surmised, after the fool’s body turned up in a ditch with his throat slashed.
It had been little consolation to Gregory that the officer had eventually been charged with murder, and later with treason once his tent was successfully searched and the letter found. John was still dead. Gregory had still failed him.
He thrust that thought to the back of his mind.
“So what’s this about Mademoiselle Servais?” Hart asked.
“I think she’s in town.”
Hart eyed him askance. “What do you mean, you think?”
“I believe she’s masquerading as the Princess de Chanay.”
With a low whistle, Hart dealt himself a card that brought him to fifteen. “That would be quite a feat, wouldn’t you say?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Gregory made a motion to indicate he meant to stand at nineteen. “It seems that the two women resemble each other.”
Hart dealt himself another card and passed twenty-one. Shoving a five-pound note across the table, he listened as Gregory gathered up the cards and began to relate everything he’d noticed at the royal dinner, every suspicion he’d had about Princess Aurore. Of course, he refrained from speaking of their kisses. No need to mention those.
When Hart began to pepper him with questions, their card game was forgotten. And the man’s skeptical remarks made him doubt his own theories.
Until Gregory remembered her reaction to him. “See here, Hart, if you don’t think I’m right about this, check her out for yourself. I understand that she’ll be touring Westminster Abbey tomorrow. See if you can get close enough to observe her, and then tell me your own impressions. I gather that you saw her in theater productions more times than I. You ought to be able to judge if it’s her.”
Hart settled back to fold his hands over his belly. “And if I think it is? What then?”
“See what you can learn from the servants at the town house we rented for them. We provided their staff, who will undoubtedly be more inclined to side with a countryman than with the strangers from Chanay. Anything you find out is better than what I know now, which is virtually nothing. All I have is my conviction that Mademoiselle Servais is impersonating Princess Aurore. I just can’t figure out why. If you can do so, I will pay you well.”
“All right. I’ll see what I can learn.” Hart shuffled the cards, then handed them to Gregory to deal. “Another game?”
“It depends. Have you seen Danworth here this evening?”
“I believe so. He was in the reading room having a spirited discussion about politics with some gentleman. But that was a while ago.”
“I need to speak to him, so I’ll have to leave you at present. But if you want to hang about until later . . .”
“Sorry, old chap, I’d rather saunter down to that new tavern in Covent Garden. The taproom maids are supposed to be particularly free with their favors, if you’d like to join me once you’re done.”
“Afraid not.” He’d spent enough time in such places in his youth to know that they held more danger than pleasure, especially for a man with ambition. If he wanted a woman at the ready, he’d take a discreet mistress, as he’d done in the past.
But even those days were behind him. His political career required that he have a wife, so in future he’d be limiting his encounters with the fairer sex to eligible females. He drew the line at a marriage where he had to sneak around behind his wife’s back. He wouldn’t give his enemies any opportunity to turn his prospective wife against him, which meant no infidelities.
Not that he was looking for love or anything mad like that. But he wanted a comfortable, amiable match. A pity that he hadn’t yet found a single eligible woman who struck his fancy.
Monique’s mocking gaze came into his mind, and he scowled. She might strike his fancy, but she was not eligible. He could no more marry an actress than he could a laundrywoman. Which was a damned shame.
God, what was he thinking? He’d never want to marry a woman so devious anyway, even if she did have a luscious mouth.
“Enjoy yourself,” he told Hart. “I’m sure you can find someone else here who’d join you at the tavern to dandle a taproom maid on his knee.”
“Warren used to go with me, but now—”
“Delia would have his ballocks if he did.”
“She’s got his ballocks already,” Hart grumbled. “Probably keeps them in a jar on her dressing table.”
Gregory laughed. “Watch it, man. You’re starting to sound peevish. Are you perhaps a little jealous of your brother’s wedded bliss?”
“Jealous! Never.” A flush rose over his cheeks. “I mean, Delia is pretty and all, but I have no intention of getting myself tangled in any one woman’s apron strings. I prefer a more varied diet.”
“Then you’d best steer clear of her for a while. The most determined matchmakers are always sisters-in-law.” Although thankfully, now that his own was absorbed in planning her own marriage, he’d gained a reprieve. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you about Mademoiselle Servais.”
After walking through the club, Gregory found Danworth sitting alone in the reading room. Apparently the man’s companion had left. “Danworth! Just the fellow I was looking for.”
Danworth eyed him warily. “If this is about that bill you were hoping the prime minister would champion—”
“No, no, nothing like that.” Gregory took a seat. “I’m just curious about your impressions of the Chanay party.”
“Ah. I see.” Danworth furrowed his brow, obviously gathering his thoughts before he spoke.
He was cautious that way. The third son of a squire, Danworth was one of those men who’d managed to insinuate himself into the highest echelons of society by being circumspect. He knew how to say the right things, dress the right way, and court the right connections, but without being a toady.
Aware of how much work that required, Gregory admired the man for doing it so effortlessly. He’d always suspected that Danworth’s intelligence ran deeper than anyone realized. How else could the fellow have gained the prime minister’s loyalty for so long?
Gregory drummed his fingers on his knee. “I saw that you had quite a long and involved conversation with Lady Ursula. Had you met her before?”
“No. But she was most gracious in answering my questions about Chanay and the princess.”
“What kind of questions? Is the prime minister taking a personal interest in the Belgium affair? Because the last time I spoke with him, he seemed to be willing to leave things up to the foreign secretary. Which, in this case, means leaving it up to me to negotiate.”
Danworth blinked, then appeared to be considering the question. How odd. Gregory hadn’t thought it a question that required lengthy reflection.
“It’s not so much that he has an interest in Belgium, as it is that he wanted me to clarify a rumor concerning the princess and . . . er . . . Prince Leopold. Since Lady Ursula, like the princess, is from Hanover, I thought she could confirm or disprove the rumor.”
Prince Leopold? Early on, he’d been England’s top choice for ruler of Belgium. He’d been married to Princess Charlotte, heir apparent to the British throne, until she’d died in childbirth. The Belgians had liked him for the position. And since he wasn’t French or Dutch, neither of those parties ought to have complained.
But the French had, of course. They were still eager to have one of their own princes put in place if they could get the other countries to agree. Barring that, they wanted the Princess of Chanay, since she spoke French and came from a French line.
“What’s the rumor?” Gregory demanded. This could be important in the scheme of things.
Danworth scrubbed a hand over his face. “If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone else. Since Prince Leopold is out of town, I haven’t been able to confirm it with him. So it may be nothing.”
“What’s the rumor?” Gregory repeated, growing annoyed. If anyone should know this, it was him. He was in charge of this damned business, after all.
“There’s talk—still just talk, mind you—that Prince Leopold has made an offer of marriage to Princess Aurore. If it’s true—”
“It affects everything,” Gregory said. “Yes, it certainly does.” A union between Prince Leopold and Princess Aurore would all but ensure that one of the two would be chosen as ruler of Belgium. “When did this rumor surface? Before the process to confirm Belgium’s independence began? Or after?”
“I . . . I’m not sure. I just know when I heard it. And that was recently.”
Recently. So perhaps it had begun after Monique’s masquerade, which meant the two things might be connected. Then again, as Monique had said, even the great Count de Beaumonde could hardly switch out one bride for another without comment.
“Was this offer made by the prince in person?” Gregory asked. “I was told that Princess Aurore rarely met with people outside of Chanay circles.”
That seemed to give Danworth pause. “The rumor is that it was all done by correspondence, but I cannot imagine the prince’s not at least attempting to see the woman. Still, as I said, I’m merely trying to clarify the rumor. It may be arrant nonsense.”
“What did Lady Ursula say?”
Danworth snorted. “She wouldn’t confirm or deny it, no matter how much I pressed her. She just kept changing the subject.”
“Which means there must be something to the rumor, or she would have denied it outright.”
“Or she’s hoping for such a union even if it hasn’t been brokered. Honestly, I wouldn’t take it too seriously. You know how easily this sort of gossip spreads.”
Gregory did, indeed. That was why he proceeded with caution when it came to women. Because any tales swirling around town about a man offering for the wrong woman could have disastrous consequences.
You didn’t proceed cautiously with Monique. You kissed her most unwisely.
He grimaced. Clearly she was the exception to his rule. And it was starting to grate on him that every time he saw her, he let her be the exception. That simply wouldn’t do. He’d worked too hard and long for his position—and the one he hoped to have someday—to allow his fascination with an impostor to overtake his good sense. If anyone found out who she was and that he’d known all along . . .
Damn it, that mustn’t happen. So he’d better get to the bottom of this masquerade before someone like Danworth discovered it by accident and reported on it to the prime minister. Because then there would be hell to pay. And any possibility of his becoming foreign secretary would be over.
But attacking her with the truth hadn’t worked. She’d merely laughed and flirted her way around his every remark. Even his kisses. So he needed another tack. Put her at her ease, make her think he’d given up while he waited for the evidence he hoped Hart might turn up.
Then, and only then, would he pounce.