“That’s the point, Your Highness. Negotiating with Napoleon Bonaparte isn’t what’s best for England. The man cannot be trusted.”
Prince George’s cheeks get even redder. “By all accounts, he is a man of his word. Face facts, the Bourbons are dead. They are no more. Napoleon Bonaparte is the Emperor of France.”
“Emperor—fah!” Admiral St. Vincent nearly spits his opinion at Prince George. “He’s a self-made tyrant, set on conquering the whole blasted world. A madman! You simply cannot do this, not without Parliament’s consent.”
Prince George puffs up like a vexed cobra, a fat, very dangerous cobra. His words snort out as if he’s blasting a trumpet. “You forget yourself, St. Vincent. Parliament is not my nursemaid. And by—”
Lord Harston strolls between them and interrupts.
A crafty fellow, Lord Harston. Anyone might think he and Prince George had known one another since birth. He resides at Carlton House as the Prince’s guest, and the two attend all the same gatherings and are often seen together gambling at Brooke’s. But the truth is, unbeknownst to Prince George, Lady Castlereagh strategically positioned Lord Harston in the Prince Regent’s sphere, and tasked him with protecting England’s acting monarch. He serves as the Prince’s bodyguard of sorts, while at the same time Lord Harston gathers information for Lord and Lady Castlereagh. Lady Jersey refers to him as our man inside the palace.
We were all shocked to learn that until recently, Lord Harston was secretly betrothed to our own Lady Jane. They are not engaged now, of course. He stepped aside so that Alexander Sinclair could court her. Lord Harston surprises me. He is a man full of contradictions, a dandy yet a devoted patriot, generous yet shrewd, and about as unlikely a parental sort as ever existed. Nevertheless, fate has cast him in that role, too. His sister was Lord Kinsworth’s mother, and upon her death, Lord Harston became Lord Kinsworth’s legal guardian.
“May I be of service, your Highness?” Lord Harston leans in protectively to the bristling Prince. “You seem distressed, Sir. Is anything amiss?”
Prince George sniffs and tugs on his vest. “It’s nothing. A trifle.” He replaces his puffy irritation with a genial mask. Only a mask. I still hear trumpets blasting inside Prince George, except now they blare beneath a blanket of good manners. “The Admiral here has merely forgotten himself. That’s all.”
“My lord.” Lord Harston inclines his head in a respectful greeting to Admiral St. Vincent. “I’m sure we are all friends here, are we not?”
Admiral St. Vincent does not answer immediately. “Merely expressing my concerns, that is all.”
“Of course. I know exactly what you mean. These are trying times. Trying times, indeed.” Lord Harston nods in agreement. “And I’m sure no one is more concerned about our country than our devoted Prince Regent.”
“Just so.” Prince George lifts his chin. “And now we must be off. Must mingle. We mustn’t neglect our other friends.”
The two men bow as his Highness waddles away. Lord Harston calls after him. “Save me a chair at the card table.”
“Ha-ha! Ha-ha.” Prince George doesn’t turn his great huge self around. Instead, he raises one plump pointer finger into the air. “You know us too well, Harston—too well.”
As soon as the Prince is out of earshot, Lord Harston turns to the Admiral. “I say, St. Vincent. What was that all about? Are you trying to make an enemy of the future King of England?”
“Trying to save England, so we have a future. You know as well as I do, this is a colossal blunder—this insane idea of his to break bread with Napoleon and hammer out a settlement.”
“Can’t be as bad as all that, can it?” Harston’s inner music is subtle most of the time, like a leopard weaving through tall grass. I know this cautious sound—he’s hunting. “Surely Prince George can’t agree to anything on his own? They’re just going to discuss the matter, after all.”
“If you believe that, I’ll sell you my goose that farts golden eggs.”
Lord Harston had the good grace to chuckle.
Admiral St. Vincent postures like an angry man, but he is also afraid. The slight tremor in his voice gives him away. “He has the bull-headed notion he can speak for Britain without consulting Parliament.”
“Surely not. He can’t, can he?”
“Theoretically, yes. He can. Things are changing, but the current laws aren’t definitive. What he most certainly will do is plunge us deeper into this war than we already are, not to mention the fact that he’ll divide Britain’s loyalties.” Admiral St. Vincent warms under Lord Harston’s sympathetic ear. “Napoleon knows this, and he’ll try to bribe Prinny, you know he will.”
Our man on the inside, sips his wine and casually asks, “Did His Highness happen to mention when this meeting is supposed to take place?”
The Admiral rumbles like a storm cloud threatening to thunder. “No, he did not. But he alluded to it being as soon as three or four weeks.”
“Three weeks? But Parliament will have adjourned the week before.” Lord Harston’s calm bursts apart. He tries to cover his off-key outcry by taking another sip of his wine.
“Exactly.”
“Where? Do you know if they’re meeting on French soil or British?”
The Admiral shakes his head and curses under his breath. “Refused to tell me. A secret, says he, between rulers of the two greatest empires in the civilized world.”
Their conversation has me peering into the shrubbery so intently I almost fail to notice Lord Kinsworth passing my bank of greenery. I spring back against the wall and hold my breath, praying he didn’t catch the movement in the bushes.
He strides straight for his uncle. “There you are, Uncle. I’ve been looking high and low for you.”
“Ah, well, you see there’s your problem. You should’ve hunted here in the middle.” Lord Harston doesn’t sound as jovial as his words might lead one to believe. “Lord St. Vincent, I believe you know my nephew, Lord Kinsworth.”
Lord Kinsworth bows. “At your service, my lord.”
Admiral St. Vincent gives him a cursory nod. “Splendid performance tonight, lad.” His mumbled compliment sounds cursory. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be taking my leave.” He takes a step, but turns back, working his jaw hard before he speaks. “Listen here, Harston, if you’ve any influence with His Royal Highness, I urge you to exert it. If he goes through with this harebrained scheme you know as well as I do, Britain is done for.”
Lord Harston raises his chin and draws a deep breath. “I’ll do my best.”
Lord Kinsworth stands next to his uncle, watching Admiral St. Vincent stalk away. “Working tonight, I see.”
“Always, my boy. Always. Although, I must agree with St. Vincent—splendid performance tonight. Your rendition of the Bard’s ill-fated lovers choked me up. And that spirited young filly you sang it with, she’s—”
“You needn’t repeat your warning.” Lord Kinsworth cut him off.
What warning? I frown at them through the jasmine hedge.
“Oh yes, I heard you quite clearly the first time you lectured me about her.” Lord Kinsworth’s irritation pours out. “The Barrington chit is unsuitable. A foreigner. Not to mention she’s one of Miss Stranje’s students, which means she’s trouble. Think of your offspring. So on, and so forth.”
Unsuitable? Everyone must feel as my stepmother does. Knives of anger zing through my stomach. I hate it here. Miss Stranje should never have brought me to London. No, it is not her fault. It is my father’s. He should never have brought me to England in the first place.
Trouble—he says. Ha! I choke back a vicious half chortle. Oh, yes. I am trouble. More than any of them could ever imagine. I am a typhoon about to explode. I press back against the wall, my hands knotted into throbbing fists.
Think of your offspring.
I swallow my heaving breath and hold it tight. How dare they speak of children—my future children. Those words wound me worse than anything else they said. Lo
rd Harston must think that my heritage and skin color will hinder them here in the land of pasty white English cream puffs.
My stomach churns, tumbling like mud and stones and uprooted trees in a flash flood. I feel sick. Sick enough to burst. I hate him. I do. Even if it is true, it is a heartless thing to say.
Lord Harston tries to laugh it off. “Come now, Ben. I wasn’t as dictatorial as all that.”
Ben?
That must be Lord Kinsworth’s given name. Ben, I roll the sound of it over my lips even though I will never say it aloud. We are not friends, Ben and I. We will never be friends. Apparently, I am unsuitable. I am trouble. Trouble for him, and a brown curse to my future children.
“You were tyrannical!” With a loud exasperated gust of air, Ben presses his point. “In fact, I’ll lay odds the Queen Mother is less dictatorial—”
“You needn’t fly up in the boughs about it. What I’d intended to say, before you cut me off so rudely, was that when the young lady sings, I find myself completely transfixed. She’s extraordinary. Quite remarkable.”
I peek through the bushes again, not hating him quite as much as I did a few seconds ago.
Ben doesn’t say anything. He frowns, glancing in my direction as if he senses my presence. I draw a sharp breath and jump back against the wall. I wish I could vanish from this wretched hiding place. I don’t want to hear the next flippant remark he is sure to fling into the air. Worse yet, I do not want him to catch me here. It would be impossible to sneak away now. Not this close, not without being seen. If he discovers I’ve been lurking among the potted plants, eavesdropping, I will die of embarrassment.
Fortunately, his uncle reclaims his attention. “I watched the two of you sing, it looked as if you are already forming an attachme—”
“Delighted the song pleased you.” Lord Kinsworth doesn’t sound delighted at all. “Now what do you say, we take our leave?”
“Now? The night is still young.” Lord Harston seems genuinely surprised at his nephew’s sudden desire to go home. He sets his wineglass on a passing footman’s tray and takes another glass filled with sparkling white wine. “I’ve matters yet to attend to, and I promised to meet Prinny at the card tables later. Why would you want to leave so early? It’s barely past one.”
“Stifling in here, don’t you think?” Ben tugs at his shirt collar.
“It’s as pleasant as one can expect this time of year. What’s wrong? It can’t be the heat. Come stand nearer to the window.” Lord Harston tugs Ben a few steps closer. I sink deeper into the curtains, hoping they won’t notice me.
“I thought you were enjoying Miss Barrington’s company?” his uncle asks. “It may please you to know I’ve revised my opinion on the matter entirely. Just this evening I spoke with the young lady’s father and—”
“What!” Ben demands too loudly. Luckily, his outburst overshadows my own involuntary squeak. “You didn’t?” he demands.
My sentiments exactly. Why did his uncle speak to my father? What did he say? Ben is right, it is stifling in here. I push my veil away from my neck, feeling as if I might melt into the floorboards. In fact, it would be better if I could. Anything would be better than the dread snaking up to swallow me.
He spoke to my father! Why? It takes every ounce of strength I have to keep from shouting my questions.
“Of course, I did!” Lord Harston matches his nephew’s raised voice. “When it comes to your future, I refuse to leave anything to chance. Admittedly, the gentleman was not very forthcoming. Scrutinized me as if I was a thief come to steal his prized possession. That alone gave me cause to approve her.”
Ben—er, that is I meant to say, Lord Kinsworth—is ordinarily as carefree as swallows whistling on a summer breeze. This minute, however, he roars like a stormy winter sea. “When it comes to my future—I wish everyone would leave well enough alone.”
“Lower your voice, Ben. You’re making a scene.”
He doesn’t. He raises it. “I don’t need a guardian!”
“Until you reach your majority the law says otherwise.”
Lord Kinsworth shifts to a low growl, and even from my side of the jasmine hedge, I can almost feel his jaw flexing. “You’re as difficult as my mother was.”
“My sister loved you dearly. It was her dying wish that I watch out for you, and I’ll not go back on my promise to her.”
“By all means, Uncle Gil, if you see I’m about to gallop over a cliff, grab the reins and turn me around. But that isn’t the case here. And I certainly don’t need your help with women!”
“Huh.” Lord Harston grins like an ornery camel about to spit. “I hadn’t thought so either. Not until I saw the moonstruck way you looked at Miss Barrington.”
“Moonstruck? Ha! Not ruddy likely.” Lord Kinsworth crosses his arms and steps back assuming a stance identical to his uncle’s. “I’ve never been moonstruck in my life.” Standing to his full height, he has several inches on his uncle. He must think that gives him an advantage as he presses forward. “Even if I did have a moment of weakness, I’m quite capable of watching out for myself in that regard.”
Lord Harston steps out from under his nephew’s imperious glower and lowers his guard. “Are you, Ben?”
“Yes.” Lord Kinsworth relaxes, too, and his arms fall open. “For pity’s sake, Uncle Gil, I’m tired of being choked to death. Give me some freedom.”
“Freedom?” Lord Harston squints at his nephew studiously. “That’s what you want?”
“Yes!” Ben’s answer rings out like a shot.
Lord Harston doesn’t flinch. He merely tilts his head inquisitively. “And India? What is it about India that interests you so much?”
I want to know the answer to that, too, so I strain to hear, pressing deeper into the hedge.
“I don’t know.” Lord Kinsworth shrugs. “I suppose it to be a mysterious place. Interesting. Brimming with color and life. At any rate, it’s bound to be better than old dull gray England.” He brightens, and the jovial boy in him returns. “India would be an adventure.”
“Is that what you’re after, Ben? Adventure.” Lord Harston isn’t mocking; there is not even a hint of amusement. It surprises me because ordinarily, I sense an undertow of humor in him. The two of them have that in common. Instead, Lord Harston seems sincerely interested in the answer. “That’s what you want?”
“Yes!” Ben says in a single breath as if a thousand dreams come rushing out of his lungs. “Yes. More than anything.” He braces himself against the window, staring off in the distance. “I can’t stop thinking of my father, and how he died of pneumonia before he had a chance to see anything of the world except Shropshire. As far as I can tell, he never left the estate except for a few brief excursions to London when he was my age.”
“Your father was a good man. Honorable. Reliable. Kinsworth treated my sister very well.”
“Yes, but sheep and wheat—that was the extent of his life. My father died in the same house in which he was born. After that, you know what my mother was like. She fretted over every scraped knee I got. I need only cough once, and she would start dosing me with remedies. Wouldn’t allow me to go away to school. She hired tutors instead. Every time I went out on my pony, she fussed as if I was endangering everything she held dear.”
Lord Harston turned the wineglass round and round in his hands. “Well, you were, weren't you? You were everything to her.”
“That’s not the point. You don’t know what it was like after my father died. Whenever I was obstinate enough to actually go riding, she’d send two grooms with me and wait in the yard, pacing, until I came back. She was terrified of losing me, and she was always so unhappy. Did my best to try to make her laugh, but the gloom always returned.”
“She loved your father deeply.” Lord Harston’s voice drops so low I can barely hear. “Theirs was a love match, you know?”
“A love-match.” Lord Kinsworth rakes a hand through his hair. “Oh, yes, I know. I heard that sad refrain o
ften enough—how lovely they were together. A right pair of turtle doves.”
“Well,” Lord Harston set his goblet down with a click. “Truth is, they were.”
“Except it wasn’t lovely. It was suffocating.” Ben straightens and paces. “Loving him was her undoing. And his.” Ben usually handles everything as if something amusing lurks beneath the surface. But now he sounds agitated, and it worries me. In India, I’d seen caged tigers pace the same way he is doing in front of the ballroom window.
“Ahh, now I see.” Lord Harston opens his lips as if suddenly handed the key to a vault filled with jewels. “That’s why you’re running away from Miss Barrington.”
“What are you talking about?” Ben stops abruptly. “I’m not running away.”
“No? It looked like you were.”
Lord Harston is right. It did look like it. I wriggle my face into the jasmine, gently moving aside some of the glossy leaves so I can see more clearly.
Ben slants a surprised expression at his uncle. “You were watching me?”
Lord Harston issues a loud exasperated sigh. “I thought by now you understood—it’s my job to be observant.”
“About your job—”
“Oh no, you won’t get away with changing the subject.” His uncle shakes a scolding finger. “Back to Miss Barrington. One minute you seem enthralled with her and the next you’re sprinting in the opposite direction.”
Lord Kinsworth puffs air through his lips as if his uncle has gone daft. “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t sprint.” He smirks, cavalier again. “Look around you. This is a ballroom. One does not sprint from women on the chase.”
“Oh, I see. She’s the one chasing you, is she? If that were the case, I suppose I would run, too.”
It is a barefaced lie! I am not chasing Kinsworth.
Of all the arrogant, roguish . . . I squeeze the velvet curtains in my fist, but as soon as I realize what I’m doing, I stop. The moving fabric might draw attention.
Harbor for the Nightingale Page 4