Seven
Monique trod the carpet in the drawing room of the strange English town house so enthusiastically that she feared she might damage the flimsy soles of her delicate shoes. She’d wanted to wear sturdy half boots, but those wouldn’t do for a fine princess, oh no. The slippers must be kid, the stockings silk, and the gown of the finest green gros de Naples with a line of fussy pink bows and gigot sleeves.
Apparently her cousin had a fondness for pink, which was evidenced by her hat—an enormous creation in blossom silk with birds and fake apples that hurt Monique’s head. She hated all of it. It made her wonder at her cousin’s taste. Not to mention the common sense of the person who’d packed Aurore’s attire for autumn in England. Monique had been freezing ever since her arrival!
Still, the ladies here seemed no better off, wearing flimsy satins and silks in the evening. They did have lush velvet cloaks, as did Aurore, but Monique was used to dressing more warmly in Dieppe, to the heavy brocade gowns and the hot lamps of the stage. She envied the English ladies in the streets wearing sensible wool. She preferred warm clothes. Grand-maman had always laughingly told her that she’d inherited the thin blood of some ancient Italian ancestor, and Monique had never believed it more than now.
She swallowed hard. She missed her grandmother. That servant of Count de Beaumonde’s had better be treating Solange well, or Monique would roast him on a spit!
“Are you ready?” said a crisp male voice from the doorway.
She started. The count was hovering about as usual. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Her great-uncle entered. “You needn’t be nervous. You already have Lord Fulkham wrapped about your finger. The man is entranced.”
The trace of bitterness in the man’s voice gave her pause. Granted, Aurore wasn’t known for her male conquests, but she’d seemed pretty enough. Surely she would make a good match eventually.
“He’s not entranced,” she said. “He is . . . careful. He asks probing questions and demands answers.”
The count poured himself some coffee from the pot always kept at the ready for his use, even now, in late afternoon. The man drank more coffee than anyone Monique had ever met, always flavored with a finger of brandy. It did make her wonder if the brandy was the real reason for the coffee, though he never seemed intoxicated.
“Are you having trouble giving Fulkham answers?” the count asked. “Shall we go over the information I gave you before?”
“No need. He’s not interested in the exports of Chanay or in how the ministers advise me. He wants to know my opinions on governing.”
And why I am masquerading as Princess Aurore. Though she could hardly tell the count that.
She could handle Lord Fulkham. She must.
Nervously she adjusted the gold bracelet she wore to cover his love bite. It gave her a secret thrill to know it was there. Curse the man for that.
“You must play nice with him,” the count said. “Encourage him.”
She stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Being an actress with many admirers, you must realize how men are. Flatter him and soothe his fears. I’m sure you know how.”
Stifling a burst of temper, she said, “Of course.” Though she did not know how. She’d learned from her grandmother never to encourage men who wished to conquer her. Otherwise, they only became more strident, more demanding . . . more dangerous.
Or so Grand-maman said. But the undersecretary was dangerous for an entirely different reason. Because she was far too susceptible to him, though God only knew why.
“I will do my best,” she said. “But he is predisposed toward choosing a man to rule Belgium.” She wasn’t sure of that, but it made sense. Men always favored other men.
The count frowned. “He won’t continue to be so if you make him enamored of you. Men think with their . . . you know. And he is no exception.”
This time she had more trouble hiding her anger. Why did everyone assume that actresses were whores? Elizabeth Farren had been famously chaste until she married the Earl of Derby. And Monique knew plenty of women in the theater who did not take lovers, who did not want to be a man’s toy.
Well, a few women, anyway. And she was one of them, having learned that even marriage could prove treacherous to one’s future. She would find a man who would accept her profession, who understood her need to be free, who would allow her a voice in her future. Who would not tear her family from her.
It certainly couldn’t be Lord Fulkham, since he seemed determined to expose her, which would end her hopes of taking care of Grand-maman in Chanay.
One of their English footmen came to the door. “Lord Fulkham is here for Princess Aurore.”
“Send him in,” the count said.
When Lord Fulkham entered she tried not to be impressed, but it was difficult. The man certainly knew how to dress. Most of the Englishmen in the streets looked frumpy and ill-kempt. While the members of Parliament carried themselves better, their overhanging bellies and red noses testified to their overindulgence in food and drink. And the lack of hair was common enough for her to think the English a race of bald men.
Not Lord Fulkham. Looking ever so smart in his royal-blue coat, ivory waistcoat with brown stripes, and buff trousers, he emanated power in a way that other English lords did not. Their attire was fussy and extravagant. His was understated, hiding his important rank the same way his body’s lean, clean lines hid his surprising strength.
It made her nervous. She always liked to know what kind of man she was dealing with, and he shielded his true character at every turn.
“Good afternoon, Your Serene Highness,” he said in a voice like warm chocolate. A pity his eyes were like the frozen ices from Gunter’s in Berkeley Square.
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m looking forward to our jaunt through your little park.”
That warmed his gaze, and he chuckled. “The king would be amused to hear you refer to his park as ‘little.’ ”
“The princess hasn’t had much chance to see the city, I’m afraid,” the count cut in. “Too many appointments and parties.”
The ice returned to Lord Fulkham’s eyes as he trained them on the count. “We do like to keep our guests busy. It prevents them from wandering too far afield.”
“Wandering?” A frown crossed her great-uncle’s brow. “Who has been wandering?”
“I understand you were recently in Dieppe, sir,” Lord Fulkham said.
Though the count showed no surprise, her heart jumped into a frenzied rhythm. Lord Fulkham had apparently done some probing into the Chanay contingent. Either that or he was trying to provoke her great-uncle into revealing her role in the scheme. Then he would expose their former association and ruin everything.
Merde.
“I was indeed in Dieppe, not that it’s any of your concern,” the count said, as matter-of-factly as if Lord Fulkham had just mentioned a ride into the English countryside. “I have relations there, so I thought I would take advantage of being in Calais, close enough to take a steam packet there in one day, to pay them a visit. You do realize my family is from very near there, do you not?” His voice hardened. “Your spies must have told you. I was raised in Rouen. I met my late wife, great-aunt to Princess Aurore, in Paris.”
Monique fought to hide her surprise. She had not known that, though she had known the count wasn’t native to Chanay.
“What spies, sir?” Lord Fulkham said smoothly. “You are guests here. We don’t spy on our guests.”
The count flashed him a tight smile. “Of course not. And I do not spy on my English friends, either.”
The words seemed to give Lord Fulkham pause, as they were obviously meant to do. “I should hope not. That would be most unwise.”
She fought the urge to shiver at the veiled threat. Was this the world of diplomacy? If so, she wanted none of it. Thank God it would be Aurore enduring these games and not she.
Time to end it. “Lord Fulkham, I thought you had come to take me for a drive, not trade words with my great-uncle.” She held out her hand. “Shall we go? I am most eager to see this Hyde Park you spoke of.”
He forced a smile. “Certainly, Your Highness. I would be honored.”
“The princess’s maid will, of course, be attending her,” the count said.
That gave Monique pause. “I expected Lady Ursula to join me.”
The count’s hard smile answered that. “She is feeling unwell, so Flora will go.”
Sacrebleu. The sympathies of her English maid would not be with her, but with the very handsome Lord Fulkham. “Of course.”
Oddly enough, Lord Fulkham looked as if he disapproved. “Such a shame that Lady Ursula is ill. Do give her my sympathies.”
Count de Beaumonde nodded, and Lord Fulkham left with her. Before they even reached the foyer downstairs where her maid stood waiting with her cloak, the undersecretary said in a low voice, “You see how he throws you to the wolves? Why do you let him?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she retorted. “Are you a wolf, sir?”
He stiffened. “I could be. That is the point.”
“But you and my uncle know each other well, do you not? So he’s aware that you can be entrusted with a princess.”
“Hmm,” was all he would say.
But his remark made her wonder. Was he truly concerned about her? Or simply trying to drive a wedge between her and the count?
If so, he was succeeding. It unnerved her how easily her champion Lady Ursula was whisked away and a foreigner put in her place.
They set out beneath a steady drizzle. At least his curricle had a hood that protected them, although poor Flora was left to sit on the back with nothing but a bonnet and a cloak to shield her from the weather.
“It appears I picked a bad day for a drive.” Lord Fulkham handled his horses exceedingly well, maneuvering them onto the street with ease. The beasts were probably as afraid to cross him as everyone else seemed to be. “I hope it isn’t too uncomfortable for you.”
“It is fine, although England seems very rainy. Is it always so?”
“Yes. That’s what makes it so very green.”
“My country is green, but it does not have constant rain.”
He turned pensive. “True. France manages to have the best of both worlds.”
“As does Chanay.” When his lips curved cynically, she added, out of spite, “We have wonderful summers, full of sunshine and golden blooms. Can you say the same for England?”
“I can say the same for my part of England. My estate, Canterbury Court, is in Kent. We suffer some of the rain, but we have more sunny days than the north and even than London. That’s why we’re called the garden of England.”
“It sounds beautiful,” she said, and meant it. “Why do you spend so much time in town if you have such loveliness at your estate?”
His shoulders tensed. “I have duties.”
“But must your duties to England be your first concern? If you have sufficient property to live comfortably in the country, why do you and your fellow statesmen toil in the city for much of the year?”
He flashed her a rueful smile. “You sound like my mother. She wishes I would stay in the country all the time.”
“I can understand why. In my opinion, large cities are too restless. So many people, so much noise, so much dirt. I prefer the green.” And the wonderful, turbulent sea. Though if she mentioned that, he would pounce on it as evidence of her true identity, since Chanay was landlocked. “The country provides a solitude that is soothing.”
“And tedious. Not to mention silent.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer silence to this . . . this . . .” She waved her hand to indicate the major thoroughfare they’d pulled onto. “Cacophonie?”
“Not when silence hides lies.” An edge entered his voice. “In the country, with its privacy, it is too easy for brutality . . .” He caught himself. “For the brutality of nature to run unchecked.”
His shadowed features made her think he was no longer speaking of trees and fields, but of mankind. Human nature. She wondered if she could get him to say more. She would like to understand him better.
“We’re here,” he said, ending her chance as they drove through a massive stone arch into an enormous expanse of green that stretched as far as the eye could see.
No wonder he had laughed at her calling it “little.”
He steered the curricle onto a wide, muddy track. “This particular section of Hyde Park is called Rotten Row. The name became bastardized from route de Roi, since it’s used by royalty.” He shot her a bland smile. “We English always murder the French language whenever we get the chance.”
“True,” she said lightly.
“Rotten Row is where the rich and powerful of London go to see and be seen. Normally it’s quite crowded. But this isn’t the Season, and the weather isn’t particularly fine, so there aren’t as many here as usual.”
“Oh,” was all she could answer. It seemed to her to have plenty of people, even in the drizzle. Colorful carriages jockeyed for space on the muddy track, mounted riders held to the edges, and a few brave souls strolled in the grass, umbrellas held high. Apparently they wanted to “see and be seen” no matter what the weather.
But these weren’t the sort she cared about. In her experience, the rich and powerful always trampled upon the poor and the nobodies. Only too well, she remembered how the haut ton of Dieppe had treated her when she’d begun as an actress. Their praise had come with a slice of contempt.
As she’d become more successful her circumstances had changed, which had only made her more cynical. The people who’d treated her badly before now fawned over her, though she was the same person as always. So how could she take their opinions seriously?
He had not changed how he saw her. He’d never fawned. And still didn’t. It was oddly reassuring.
She gazed beyond the people in their fancy coaches to the birches and Dutch elms with their changing colors, a riot of golds and reds and oranges. “You’re right; the trees are beautiful in autumn. Even in the rain. Especially in the rain, which gilds them with drops of silver. So very lovely.”
He fixed his gaze on her. “That’s all you can say? No mention of the luxurious carriages? The costly gowns? The jewels?”
Belatedly, she realized that what she’d said wasn’t very princess-like. “How can I see the costly gowns and jewels? Everyone is inside their equipages, hiding from the rain.”
A smirk crossed his lips. “And the luxurious carriages?”
She waved her hand. “I do not care about carriages.”
“I see.” He turned off the dirt track he’d called Rotten Row and onto a less crowded path. “Even mine?”
His tone was flirtatious, so she matched it. “I like yours, of course, monsieur. It is the perfect combination of comfortable and useful.”
He stiffened. “I take it that the count told you to flatter me to ensure my cooperation in making you queen.”
Even though it was true, she bristled. “Do you not trust me to have my own opinions?”
He searched her face. “Do you? Have your own opinions, I mean?”
“Of course.”
“Then tell me what you would think of being queen of Belgium.”
That caught her off guard. She forced a smile. “I would . . . like it very much.”
“Would you? Why?”
“Because I am from Belgium. So I have a strong opinion of the proper position of the nation.”
“Ah. And what is that?”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“The position of Belgium. What is it?”
She took a moment to give the matter some thought before drawing her faux regality about her like a cloak. “Right now, the position of Belgium could be better. It is finally free, yes, but like a newborn babe, it is forced to bow to the wishes of adults with competing goals.” Much like her, come to think of it. “Belgium has never governed itself or defended itself against intruders, and now must find its way through the morass of protocols and conflicting expectations. Thus, it is important for Belgium to take command of its future aggressively before anyone—”
An explosion occurred somewhere nearby, startling the horses and momentarily confusing her.
“Get down!” Lord Fulkham ordered, and when she stared stupidly at him, not quite aware of what was going on, he shoved her off the seat and into the well between it and the dashboard. Then he cracked the whip and sprang the horses into a run.
Again came a noise like an explosion, but this time she registered what it was. A gunshot. Someone was firing at them!
Terror froze her in place. Flora was screaming as the curricle raced along, and Lord Fulkham was cursing under his breath. The whole while, Monique clung to the seat behind her with clammy hands and kept her head down, her pulse galloping as fast as the horses.
Why on earth would anyone shoot at them? Was this a common occurrence in the parks of London? What if they hit Lord Fulkham? What would she do then?
Her stomach churned, and her throat closed up. She couldn’t breathe. Oh, God, she didn’t want to die! Not now, not here, so far away from her home!
Within moments they were back on Rotten Row, where men in uniform were already riding toward them, drawn by the shots, which thankfully had stopped now that they were surrounded by crowds.
Lord Fulkham reined the horses in and glanced down at her, his mouth drawn with concern. “Are you all right?”
He lifted her back into the seat. She bobbed her head.
“Flora?” he called back to the maid, shocking Monique. Gentlemen of rank never cared about servants.
At least the maid had stopped that awful screaming. “I—I’m f-fine, sir,” she stammered just as the first uniformed soldier reached them.
Lord Fulkham turned to the soldier. “Captain, there was a man shooting from among the silver birches back by the Serpentine,” he said, sounding eerily calm. “Find him! I must get the princess away.”
“Yes, my lord,” the captain said, and rode off.
Her heart still in her throat, Monique clutched her bonnet with one hand and the side of the carriage with the other as Lord Fulkham tooled the curricle out of the park. His lips were set in a hard line, and his eyes blazed.
She had never seen him like this. “D-do you think the danger is over now?”
“I can’t be sure, and I’m not taking any chances.”
The curricle careened through the streets until he pulled it up in front of the Mayfair town house. Before the grooms could even rush out to put down the step, Lord Fulkham was out of the carriage and around to her side, reaching up to clasp her by the waist.
He lifted her down as easily as he’d lifted her onto the seat. One would think she was light as a croissant. She was not. Indeed, sometimes she enjoyed her croissants a bit too much. Yet he gave no sign of being overtaxed.
With a hoarse cry, Flora jumped down and ran up the steps into the house most uncharacteristically, clearly rattled by the shooting. Lord Fulkham kept Monique in his grasp, trapped between the curricle and his rigid form.
“Are you certain you’re all right?” he asked.
She fought for calm. “Of course. Don’t I look all right?”
He scanned her, from the top of her ridiculous hat to her collarette to her—
“Oh, God,” he said hoarsely. For the first time that afternoon, she heard a tremor in his voice.
“What?”
He grabbed the gigot part of her left sleeve and thrust his finger through two holes in it. “A bullet came through here.” His voice grew ragged. “A few inches to the right, and he would have hit your heart.”
Her heart, which had not been hit, nonetheless dropped into her stomach. “You . . . you think he was aiming for me.”
The count came out of the front door and hurried down the steps. “What happened? Flora is hysterical and babbling about gunshots.”
Veiling his gaze, Lord Fulkham released her. “We should discuss this inside.”
Her great-uncle glanced from him to Monique. “But the princess appears unharmed.”
“Only by sheer luck and her assailant’s bad aim.” His lordship grabbed her sleeve again to display the holes. “Someone shot at her.”
The blood drained from her great-uncle’s face. “Surely not!”
Lord Fulkham took her arm to compel her forward. “We should go inside now, sir. I won’t chance her being in the villain’s sights again.”
With a shaky nod, the count led the way.
Lord Fulkham didn’t release her until they were in the drawing room. As she removed her hat with shaky hands and set it on the marble-topped console table, he strode up to her great-uncle. “The princess was fired upon. We cannot let this stand.”
The count drew himself up as only an old royal could. “Of course not. If she truly was being fired upon. How can we be sure it’s not merely the result of your country’s lax rules about violence among the lower classes? Perhaps there were people in the park using their guns recklessly—or worse, criminals seeking to intimidate you so they could rob you. Or rob someone else. The shooting might have nothing to do with the princess at all. Your countrymen may merely be behaving wildly. Guy Fawkes Day is in two days, is it not?”
His words gave her pause until she reminded herself that she’d seen none of the “lower classes” in the park. Perhaps Count de Beaumonde was simply unaware of what sort of person frequented Hyde Park. And what was Guy Fawkes Day?
Although she was ready to give the elderly man the benefit of the doubt, Lord Fulkham clearly was not, for his face flushed with anger. “This is not my countrymen being ‘wild,’ damn you, and the mayhem of Guy Fawkes Day doesn’t begin until the fifth. Something else is clearly going on.”
The count crossed his arms over his chest. “Like what?”
His lordship shot her great-uncle an incredulous look. “That ought to be obvious to you. Someone is intent upon assassinating the princess. And you and I must figure out who—before Her Highness ends up dead.”