by Edith Layton
She badly needed a touch of color. But she’d not dare wear gold, red, or any vibrant jewel colors because although bright colors might liven her appearance, they also might make her harmonize with the prince’s lavish Pavilion. She’d heard it was furnished in the latest Chinoiserie style, all dragon red and glittering gold; a gleaming symphony of exotic colors. She wanted to make an impression, after all, not fade into the wallpapers.
Of course, she didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself either, she hurriedly reminded herself. Fine thing that would be, to be seen dressed like a doxie, dancing the night away, lost in gaiety, when anyone might find out she didn’t know what was happening to her lost fiancé. So she guessed she was correctly dressed. Even so, she felt a bit flat.
She hadn’t seen the marquis or Sir Whitney for days. But this morning she’d gotten a note from Maxwell saying that he might have something to tell them this very night. The thought of possible news of her missing fiancé wasn’t what she was dwelling on now. The fact that she was going to a soiree at the Royal Pavilion amidst the famous and infamous of English society and might meet the Prince of Wales himself occupied her mind too much.
“You look like a moon princess,” her maid cooed. “Cool and lovely.”
“Thank you,” Pippa commented absently as she turned to one side and pulled in her stomach in. She looked at herself up and down, backward and forward in the glass.
Pity, Pippa thought, that she couldn’t pull in her impudent, jutting rear and full bosom so she could look even more like a Greek statue, as was the mode. At least she’d do. Again, she wished she had fashionable inky black hair and long-lashed dark sultry eyes. But that would make her a twin to a certain gentleman and she certainly didn’t want that. After all, opposites attracted. She blinked. She certainly didn’t want to attract him.
Liar, she thought, and so stopped thinking about it, picked up a blue silk fan, a silvery shawl, and went to fetch her grandmother.
Pippa took a few steps down the hall, delighting in the feeling of her whisper-thin overskirt floating around her. Then she stopped and listened. Laughter was coming from belowstairs: her grandmother’s new high-pitched giggles, and the rich sound of masculine merriment accompanying it. Pippa wasn’t a woman who cursed, but what she was thinking might have shocked even the new, jolly care-for-nothing grandmother she found herself with.
She tried to glide slowly down the stairs to make an entrance. She could have tumbled down the length of it, she thought sourly. No one paid attention. There was her grandmother, looking like a merry little elf, swathed in yards of scarlet and gold. She wore a golden necklace and more rings and bracelets than Pippa could count. She had scarlet feathers in her bright hair. Garish as it was, it suited her. Her round cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled. The flush and sparkle had obviously been enhanced by the subtle use of paint and brush. But the lady was vibrant and looked adorable.
The gentlemen were in the height of formal fashion, with no jewels or fobs or glimpses of bright waistcoats to ruin the stark black and white of their attire. But they didn’t look funereal. Maxwell wore a single signet ring on his slender hand. His friend had a simple pearl stickpin on his high white cravat.
They all looked up as Pippa came near. Her grandmother lifted a bejeweled hand and waggled a few fingers at her. The gentlemen bowed, and then turned back to Lady Carstairs again.
Many things had happened to Pippa in the last year. She’d been proposed to and become engaged, had a celebration to honor her engagement, had planned a wedding, and then she’d been left in the lurch. Since then, people had begun to look at her, and then away, so as not to seem to be staring at her. She’d hated it, but had gotten used to it. But she’d never been roundly, utterly, completely ignored before.
“You look lovely, Pippa,” Lady Carstairs finally said as her granddaughter drew near.
“Cool and collected. You’ll do,” Maxwell commented.
Pippa was silent as the moon itself as she got into a coach with her grandmother and the two gentlemen. She was so angry she dared not speak. It hardly mattered. The trio in the coach with her were laughing and talking so much they didn’t notice.
Then she began to feel sorry for herself; abandoned by her would-be lover, ignored by her once doting grandmother, and absolutely invisible to the striking gentlemen opposite her in the coach. And yet all was as it should be. She was supposed to be grieving for her lost fiancé, not out for a night of dazzling the populace. That was true but was small comfort to her. There was nothing that said an abandoned fiancée couldn’t be admired, or even noticed.
Soon enough she heard the distant assurance of the sea on the shore, and saw flaming torches and lights outside the windows of the coach. Their carriage waited in line, stopped in a drive that was illuminated by standing torches and linkboys holding torches as they escorted guests. They were in front of the Royal Pavilion, which itself was lit from every window. It seemed fantastical, a structure made of incandescent domes and cupolas in the darkness of the surrounding night.
So it was as well that she was both sad and angry, Pippa realized as she took Sir Whitney’s gloved hand and stepped down to the pavement. She thought she’d be a little country mouse, dazzled and unsure, afraid to the point of mute timidity tonight. Instead, it seemed nothing, not even all this richness and glory, could faze her. She drifted down the drive in the wake of her grandmother and Maxwell and entered the Royal Pavilion, calm as a clam, cool as an oyster, and as seething with anger as a pot that was cooking either one of those cold-blooded creatures.
The interior of the place was just as she’d imagined. Rich Eastern colors decorated the carpets, walls, and ceilings in the great front salon. It was luxurious, rich and fantastical looking, like a page from a tale of Arabian nights. And yet, impossible as it seemed, Pippa had heard this wondrous place still didn’t suit the Prince of Wales. He wanted his summer palace to be absolutely glorious and even more fabulous, so had contracted with his architect to build him something even more glamorous.
The guests at the soiree were as magnificently got up as the Pavilion. The women wore all the bright colors their prince admired, with matching jewels, feathers, and flowers at their necks and breasts and in their hair. Pippa felt wan and lost, like a ghost, not a moon princess, as she stepped inside with her party and waited to be announced. Even though the ceiling was high as a cathedral, the noise from the crowd was deafening. The company she saw was composed of bright chattering people of all ages.
They were greeted even before their cards were read aloud to the company.
“By gad!” a bald old gentleman cried out as he approached them, his two arms outstretched. “My teeth are gone, and so’s my hearing, but these old eyes can spy a beauty every time.”
Pippa hid a smile as he came nearer.
“If it ain’t Poppy herself,” the old fellow said with gusto as he took Lady Carstairs’s hand. “And lookin’ even finer than she did a dog’s age ago. How are you, my lovely? And where’s that bear of a husband? Don’t want him blackening my eyes because of what they see.”
Pippa’s grandmother giggled as the old fellow bent to kiss her bejeweled hand. “Musgrave, you rogue,” she said archly. “Talk about not changing! I’d have known you anywhere.”
“Duke of Weedon now, Poppy,” he said, thrusting out his thin chest. “Castle, acres, estates, and all. I’d have tried harder to make a match with you if I’d had the title then. But I suppose it would’ve done no good. You had your man, and what a fellow he turned out to be. Famous. Famous everywhere. Beats a duke any day. Where’s he now?”
“At home,” Lady Carstairs said. “I’m here with my granddaughter tonight.”
The old man turned his eyes toward Pippa for the first time. An almost clownish expression of sorrow appeared on his lined and age-spotted face. He took Pippa’s hand and patted it. “I’m sorry for you, sweetheart,” he said. “Fella must have lost his mind, leaving a pretty bit like you in the lurch. Hey, Po
ppy,” he said, turning to her grandmother again. “That means you and I can have a waltz together again tonight, hey what?”
Lady Carstairs tittered and looked up at her two escorts from under her painted lashes. “Of course you might,” she said, “if there is to be dancing.”
“I’ll talk to our royal host,” the duke said. “He’s got enough room here for a dozen cotillions. So, if he agrees, you’ll dance with me?”
Lady Carstairs turned her head and winked at Maxwell. “If my escorts tonight agree that you may.”
“Demmed if you didn’t always set the boys to wrangling,” the duke said. “But I have precedence so now they’ll have to let me take you into the dance first, eh what, my lords?”
Maxwell and Whitney bowed.
“But first let’s go in and find some old friends,” the duke said, taking Lady Carstairs’s arm. The others let the ancient duke lead her into the main salon. They followed as the master of ceremonies hastily announced them. That caused a stir. The older guests at the soiree converged on Lady Carstairs and the duke. Some of the younger ladies and gentlemen immediately made their way to her two noble former escorts. And Pippa stopped where she was, behind her grandmother. She stood alone, feeling out of place, which was odd, she thought, since she also seemed to be invisible.
Sir Whitney disappeared into the crowd.
“I’ll be making inquiries,” Maxwell told Pippa softly. Then he left her, stopping to have a word with a soberly dressed gentleman before he was gone and into the colorful and clamorous gathering.
The neatly dressed gentleman sauntered over to Pippa. He wasn’t precisely handsome but, rather, neat and self-assured. He bowed. “Miss Carstairs,” he said in a cool voice. “Allow me to hope that my friend Lord Montrose helps you discover the whereabouts of your errant fiancé.”
“Thank you,” she said, casting down her gaze, horrified to discover that her reputation had preceded her everywhere.
He chuckled. “Wars may come and peace may go, but withal, gossip remains Britain’s leading interest,” he said. “Never fear. Like all fresh produce, nothing withers faster.”
She was searching for something to say when she noticed that the crowd around them had fallen silent, avidly listening to them.
“Oh that,” he said, waving his slender white hand. “My audience. I am Brummell, by the way.”
Her eyes widened. The great George “Beau” Brummell, arbiter of Fashion, master of the cutting bon mot, advisor and bosom beaux to the prince himself? This was an unlooked-for honor. She couldn’t have spoken if someone had pointed a knife at her and ordered her to.
“You’ll survive this,” he added in soft tones. “You have Montrose to ensure it, I will assist. Ah, here comes someone who will make them forget everything but him. Bow prettily, and keep smiling.”
Pippa looked up and took in another quick breath. Guests were bowing at a pudgy gentleman as he passed through their midst, like tall grasses bending before a breeze. He wore a great-jeweled star on a golden chain on his wide breast. This must be the Prince of Wales himself. But surely it couldn’t be. Her grandmother had called him beautiful. The man approaching them was nothing like. His bland face was decidedly plump. His hair was gold, but growing scarce, and he had a huge pillow of a stomach and hefty thighs that his long coat couldn’t conceal.
“Ho, Brummell!” he called in a plummy voice. “I arrive!”
Brummell bowed. “As I see, sir.”
“You’ve cornered a pretty pigeon,” the Prince said. “But I’ve spied a lovely partridge. Lady Carstairs,” he said, bending slightly over Pippa’s grandmother’s hand, “it’s been years, but you grow lovelier.”
“As do you, Your Grace,” Lady Carstairs said, beaming. “You haven’t changed at all. Pray tell me your secret.”
The prince beamed.
“But first,” Pippa’s grandmother went on, her arm tucked into His Royal Highness’s, “may I present my granddaughter, Phillipa?”
“You may,” the prince said. He looked at Phillipa, pity clear to see in his mild blue eyes. “Pretty little creature. Forget him, my dear, as he forgot you. Come explore my little summerhouse, surely that will make you forget your cares, as it does for me.”
“Smile and smile and smile, whatever happens,” Mr. Brummell said into Pippa’s ear as he put her arm on his, and they followed their host farther into the Pavilion.
At least afterward she could say that she saw the Prince’s pavilion when it was just begun, although to tell the truth, Pippa realized she’d have to make up much of it. The cunning sculptures and artworks, the paintings and tables and chairs, the beds and sofas and ornate ceilings were a blur in her mind because she could only keep thinking, “I am here! In the Royal Pavilion, with the Prince of Wales! With the great Brummell himself, as well!”
There were many rooms and artworks to be seen. But in time, the little parade returned to where they had begun.
Brummel bowed to Pippa. “Thank you for your company,” he said simply, and left.
The prince patted Lady Carstairs’s hand again. “That thief Carstairs snatched you up before I could speak for you.”
“You were only a boy,” Lady Carstairs said with a twinkling smile.
“With an eye for a beautiful lady,” he said and sketched a bow.
He turned, and nodding at Pippa, he too left, following Brummel, but not before Pippa couldn’t help letting out a small yelp. She spun around, but the Prince was already fading into the crowd converging on him. Pippa glowered after the vanishing prince, wishing she could rub her rear. It hurt.
“Our prince admires you,” Maxwell said, laughter in his voice as he sauntered to her side.
“He pinched me,” Pippa whispered in fury. “I know it was him. Mr. Brummel had already left.”
“Brummel wouldn’t do such a thing,” Maxwell said. “It might ruin his manicure. Our prince is known for it. It’s his seal of approval. The only reason he didn’t pinch your grandmother is that he’s too clever. He knew he’d be up against corsets as tight as the one he wears.”
She smiled and absently rubbed the stinging spot on her rear.
“Why do gentlemen do that?” she asked softly. “They pinch a lady’s cheek and a housemaid’s rear. But where’s the fun in it? A pinch is not a caress. Surely they can’t feel anything by doing that?”
He took her hand in his, and began to walk with her. “It gets them noticed by the lady or the maid, I suppose,” he said. “And it also tells their intent. But you’ve got it wrong, whatever their titles, gentlemen don’t pinch ladies or serving maids’ rears or any other tender parts.”
She nodded, relaxing as they strolled away.
“I’ve news,” he said.
She stiffened and stopped, staring up into his eyes.
“Not here,” he said.
They walked toward a dimly lit side room. Maxwell nodded at a footman standing at the entrance. The footman bowed and stepped aside. The room was fashioned as a library, with thick scarlet-patterned draperies at the window, a huge hearth with an ornately carved marble mantel on one wall and rows of bookcases on the other. The bookcases were woefully short of volumes, but the hearth was blazing. He led her to a corner of the room where they weren’t visible from the doorway.
“What news?” Pippa asked eagerly when they stopped there.
“I found out about Ned Norwich,” Maxwell said.
She stared at him.
“And Norman Newell,” he persisted. “Now you can go home. I must leave you and go to London to find Nicholas Newman.” He smiled down at her expression. “I’ve every reason to believe that they are all your lost Noel Nicholson. One, because adventurers who use false names usually stay with those that are closest to their own names, so they’re less likely to forget who they are and more likely to know when their name is called aloud. And two, because the description fits. I’m sorry to say that it’s possible your fiancé may well be an informant for our enemies. And now more people th
an you and your grandfather are interested in finding him. Since Whitley and I both occasionally work for those people we must stay on his trail wherever it leads us.”
“You think he’s a spy,” she said flatly.
“I know he’s a liar,” he answered calmly.
She took a long breath. “Then when do we leave?”
“Oh no,” he said softly. “We do not. This is where we part, sweet. We’ll meet again. When it’s over with I’ll come to you to brag and show my abilities—all my abilities—to you. But I can’t have you coming to London with me. I have enough to do finding Noel. Watching over you as well in such a hotbed of opportunities for misadventure is too much even for me.”
She began to protest.
“Watching over you,” he said, holding up one finger, “and your increasingly adorable grandmother, that is to say.”
She chewed her lower lip, frantically searching for an argument that might move him.
“Ah, don’t mistreat your lips so,” he said, touching her mouth with his finger. “There’s a much better use for them.”
He lowered his head, and paused. She knew that if she didn’t want to be kissed she could simply move away. What was he playing at now? She didn’t care. She wanted his kiss. She put her head up, parted her lips, and closed her eyes.
His kiss was gentle, at first, seeking, rather than demanding. She put her hands against his chest, so she could change her mind in a moment if she felt she had to. But his lips felt so soft against her own, his kiss was so sweet, and his lean chest so warm against her hands that she leaned into his kiss, and sighed with pleasure. His tongue touched hers, and the excitement and sweetness of it overwhelmed her. She felt her body puckering everywhere, her only wish was to get even closer to this strange, elegant male who spoke so lightly and yet could make her feel such deeply thrilling things.