Refuge for Masterminds

by Kathleen Baldwin

  “May I offer you a trade? You sing, and I will break into Lady Daneska’s rooms.”

  I laugh nervously. “It would be unkind of me to torture the Prince’s guests.”

  “I think you mean you would rather face Daneska’s ire than sing for these strangers.”

  Daneska will do more than show me her ire if she catches me going through her papers. I swallow hard, and the three of us descend the stairs silently, to join the others in the carriage.

  * * *

  Carlton House is magnificent, every room is a masterpiece. Here in the grand conservatory, gilded columns and arches span the length of the glass walls. Ornate golden fretwork on the ceiling dazzles the eye, making it a sumptuous feast of gold and red satin. The Prince Regent’s soirée is a maddening crush. There are so many people here I can scarcely turn around. Which, of course, means this evening is a raging success.

  Lady Jersey greets everyone with her lavish high-pitched elongated vowels. While the Prince himself is a gracious and welcoming host, friendly to all. He even greets Miss Stranje as if they’re dear friends. He seems to have invited every Lord and Lady who ranks above a viscount, and we are surrounded by royalty from Russia and Austria and several other countries. Around every corner, I hear yet another language being spoken.

  “He’s here.” Sera presses up behind one of the golden columns.

  “Do you mean Mr. Sinclair? Yes, I think I see him.”

  “No. Mr. Chadwick. What’s he doing here?”

  “I have no idea.” I look around, but for the life of me, can’t see Mr. Chadwick. “His family must’ve been invited.”

  “I’m going to find some place to hide until dinner. You stay here and distract him.”

  “How am I to do that, when I can’t even see him?” I turn back to ask Sera where he is, but she is gone. When she disappears there’s no finding Sera unless she chooses.

  I’m adrift in a sea of brightly colored satin gowns, black-coated gentlemen, and distinguished military men. Indeed, there are more admirals floating through Carlton House than there were at the battle of Trafalgar. Nearly two hundred people fill these rooms, but only one face grips my attention.

  He draws me as if we are tethered by an invisible cord. I drift without thinking in his direction. We meet in the center of the swarm. When he takes my hand, the shuffle and push of the crowd disappears. For a moment, I forget the risks I must take tonight. The plots and counterplots whirling around us seem unimportant. For one blessed moment there is only Alexander Sinclair holding my hand to his lips.

  “Lady Jane,” he says.

  His greeting is not decorated with compliments, or gushing praise. He does not compare my beauty to that of the stars, or the moon, or some rose that will one day wilt. It’s only my name, but the way he says it floods my cheeks with warmth. As if mine is the one name he has waited all night to say.

  “Mr. Sinclair.” I curtsy.

  He places my hand on his arm. “There are generals here tonight, and kings of countries I didn’t even know existed. Shall I introduce you to Admiral Elphinstone? He is Commander-in-Chief of the English Channel. Perhaps you know his daughter, Lady Margaret?”

  “I haven’t had the honor.”

  “Charming young lady.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “There you are!” Lady Castlereagh rushes up and greets me as if we are dear friends. She presses a piece of paper into my palm as I rise from my curtsy. “My dear girl.” She leans forward to kiss my cheek and whispers. “It’s from Lady Jersey. Directions to a certain room. You’ll have fifteen minutes. No more.”

  “Delighted to see you again, young man.” She smiles broadly at Mr. Sinclair. “That reminds me. Lady Jane, you must come with me. There’s a gentleman I wish to introduce to you. Oh there he is.”

  When I see who she’s waving at, my heart thrashes around my chest in a hopeless effort to find a place to hide. I take a step backward, knocking into Alexander.

  “Come along, child. Don’t be shy.” Lady Castlereagh tugs me forward, steering us toward the one man in all of London I most want to avoid. “You really must meet him. He’s the one, you know…” She leans into my ear again. “The one we trusted to watch over Prince George.”

  Good Heavens!

  “You can’t mean Lord Harston?” My feet stop cold, frozen solid. Mr. Sinclair bumps into me, and Lady Castlereagh nearly stumbles.

  She catches herself on my arm. “Why yes, my dear. Do you know him?”

  Before I can answer Lord Harston strides to us.

  “Lady Jane? It that really you?”

  I stand, too panicked to answer, wondering briefly if I might deny knowing myself. Except that seems a rather futile exercise, since Lady Castlereagh intends to introduce us.

  “Lord Harston,” I mutter, and remember to dip in a curtsy.

  “It is you.” He seems as startled to see me as I am to meet him. He bows and I stare at his reddish-brown hair. When I was a child, he seemed so very old. Now …

  I see he is actually not much more than thirty and fairly handsome. He is clean-shaven, not overly tall, but exceptionally well proportioned, and his cravat is tied to perfection, and he has an easy athletic manner that bespeaks a natural confidence.

  Lady Castlereagh smiles as if she finds this all highly amusing. “How very intriguing. Am I to assume you two already know one another?”

  “Yes. We, uh—” Egad. What am I to say?

  Alexander clears his throat, and I remember my manners. “Lord Harston, may I present Mr. Sinclair from the Coloni—from the United States.”

  Lord Harston extends his hand. “So you’re the American inventor. I’ve heard a great deal about you. The Prince Regent is looking forward with great anticipation to the demonstration of your steamship.”

  Mr. Sinclair gives him a firm handshake. “Thank you, but it is my uncle, Robert Fulton, who is the inventor. I’m merely his apprentice.”

  Lord Harston smiles. “Your humility is commendable. But I’ve been told you constructed this prototype of Fulton’s warship entirely on your own. Obviously, you paid close attention while working with your uncle.”

  “Thank you, but I didn’t do it entirely on my own. I had help.” Alexander glances sideways to me. I think he is about to credit me and Georgie for helping, but his expression twists to consternation. He stands straighter, rising to his full height, which forces Lord Harston to look up. “May I ask how you are acquainted with Lady Jane?” Mr. Sinclair asks this brash question the way a father might charge a young man for overstepping his bounds with his daughter.

  “Oh my.” Lady Castlereagh fans herself, and remains riveted to our conversation.

  I take a deep steadying breath, dreading the answer.

  Lord Harston tugs at his high-pointed collar and coughs. “She and I … we are…” He adjusts his coat sleeves. “What I mean to say is, I was acquainted with her parents.”

  Acquainted. Ha! That is one way to put it.

  Mr. Sinclair looks to me for a further explanation. I can’t very well say, yes, meet Lord Harston. He owns me. Mum and Dad owed him a rather large gambling debt so naturally they traded me off in payment.

  Instead, I stand there mashing the toe of my slipper into the Prince Regent’s marble floor, ashamed and terrified Lord Harston will tell Alexander the humiliating truth. Silently, I scream—nay, I shriek and plead—Please, don’t tell him.

  Please, please, please, don’t say it.

  “I see.” Alexander nods sagely. “So, you are acquainted.” His intonation makes my association with Lord Harston sound positively scandalous. Alexander squints at me and I know that look. It means he knows we are hiding something.

  “Somewhat acquainted,” I mumble.

  I’m surprised to look up and see a crimson blush streaking up Lord Harston’s cheeks. Or maybe the candlelight is playing tricks. Two seconds later a hard coolness washes over his features, and he rises to Mr. Sinclair’s stance. His chest puffs out and I know, I jus
t know, what he is going to do. He intends to put this impertinent American pup in his place and tell him we have a marriage contract.

  More than anything, I want to drag Alexander away, or cover his ears with my hands, or tell him to look over there, one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse has just trotted into Carlton House.

  Except there is no horseman. Only an apocalypse. The kind that ruins my life.

  I have to say something—anything. I need to keep Lord Harston from telling him the truth. “Lovely to see you again, Lord Harston.” I tug on Mr. Sinclair’s arm, all but dragging him away, but he doesn’t budge. “Come along, Mr. Sinclair.” I order. “Oh look, I see Miss Barrington waving at us. We must go and greet her at once.” I pretend to wave back.

  Lady Castlereagh turns to look. “I don’t see her.”

  “We?” Lord Harston squints at my hands wrapped possessively around Mr. Sinclair’s arm, challenging my familiarity with the American. My legs turn to sand. He takes a frightening step closer to us, almost nose to nose with Alexander. “And how are you acquainted with Lady Jane, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Oh dear,” I murmur.

  Equally terrified as to what Alexander might say. The two men stand there, neither of them backing down, each of them taking the other’s measure.

  Lady Castlereagh watches this interchange with all the delight of a child at a puppet show.

  Mr. Sinclair stands his ground. “Lady Jane is my particular friend. She assisted me on the steamship project. As a matter of fact, she drew up all the notes for the Mary Isabella.”

  My heart stops trying to waddle up my throat. His answer sounds fairly reasonable, not too terribly out of bounds. There’s no mention of kissing on the cliffs by Stranje House, or carrying me through the woods in the middle of the night. I feel it is safe to take a breath.

  “Your particular friend?” Lord Harston tilts his head, narrowing his expression to a sharp point, the end of which is aimed straight at Alexander.

  “Yes, sir. Very particular.”

  I cringe. So many gaffes in those four words. I briefly consider diving through the glass window to escape the red-hot burn of embarrassment.

  “My lord,” Harston corrects sternly. “I am a baron. In this country you’re to address me as my lord.”

  “Your pardon, my lord.” Alexander acquiesces, but he uses that tone, the one which borders on the razor’s edge of insolence.

  “Very particular, eh?” Lord Harston no longer appears to be on the verge of running Mr. Sinclair through with his dress sword. Instead, he turns to me with a great deal of warmth and a surprisingly fond smile. “Ah, yes, I think I understand. As I recall Lady Jane was exceedingly particular. Even as a child.”

  Lady Castlereagh gurgles with barely contained laughter.

  I swallow and glance at the floor-to-ceiling windows again. Truly, if shattering the glass wouldn’t hurt innocent bystanders, I would throw myself out that window, truly I would.

  Oddly enough, Lord Harston’s comment seems to appease Mr. Sinclair. “Oh, you knew her as a child. You’re a family friend, then?”

  Lord Harston laughs. As well he should. At least he doesn’t say, Lord Camberly and his wife, my friends? Heavens, no. I merely swapped their stack of IOUs for their daughter. Instead, he bows slightly to me. “I certainly hope the lady considers me a friend. After all, we are—”

  Oh no! He’s going to say it after all.

  Except there’s no time.

  “There you are, Lord Harston! I wondered where you’d disappeared to, and who is this you’re with?”

  I’m spared humiliation by a most unlikely source. In a flash, things go from mortifying to dangerous.

  “Lady Daneska.” I growl, and reach through my pocket to clutch the hilt of my dagger. She sidles up beside Lord Harston, but her eyes remain fixed on Mr. Sinclair. I wedge myself between her and him. Unfortunately, this also closes the distance between Lord Harston and me. The bounder lets his gaze drift lazily down to the neckline of my gown. Appraising, I’m sure, whether I have filled out adequately.

  Lady Castlereagh puts her nose in the air and walks away, snubbing Lady Daneska with an obvious direct cut.

  Lady Daneska doesn’t seem bothered in the least.

  “Lady Jane.” She and I both dip in short perfunctory curtsies. Never mind that she may plan to murder Alexander on the spot. Never mind that I am wedged between my fiancé and the man I love most in the world. We perform these social niceties, she and I, without thinking, because we must, because centuries of breeding make it an instinct.

  Like breathing.

  I glance up and see Lord Harston is still staring where he ought not. Mr. Sinclair tugs my elbow possessively and we both step back.

  Lady Daneska smiles charmingly. “Lord Harston, I see you have met our extraordinary American engineer.” She fans herself and I find myself wondering if she has laced the sharp tips of her fan spindles with a deadly poison. She claps it together and instead of piercing Alexander with a deadly barb, she tosses him a compliment. “Your little steamship is the talk of the town. I daresay everyone is vying for an invitation to the unveiling.” She says all this as if she is completely unaware that only a few weeks ago the Iron Crown tortured Mr. Sinclair in the hope of forcing him to build a similar craft for Napoleon.

  “What brings you to England?” I ask without the least degree of friendliness.

  She laughs, a high-pitched titter that threatens to break the window glass without my jumping through it. “Ma chère, I am here for the season, of course. What else? To attend all the festivities, soirées like this, and to enjoy your fine English weather.”

  She’s lying. I’m not sure what she’s up to, but she has no interest in English festivities, and London weather is far from fine. She’s probably hoping for an opportunity to shove one of her beloved daggers into Mr. Sinclair spleen, or the Prince’s.

  Alexander says nothing, but I feel his grip on my arm tighten. I can almost taste the hot tang of anger flowing from his fingertips.

  Lady Daneska is unable to say anything more, because trumpets blare and announce dinner. The Prince has a flare for the dramatic.

  Lady Daneska takes Lord Harston’s arm. “You’ll escort me in to dinner, won’t you, my lord.”

  “But of course, I would be honored.” Lord Harston bows to me. “I look forward to conversing with you later, Lady Jane.”

  Mr. Sinclair tilts his head. “Later?”

  I try to urge Alexander forward, and say in a hurried whisper, “It was a formality. He won’t actually—”

  “At dinner.” Lord Harston raises his hand in salute. “I strolled through the dining room earlier and was surprised to see your name on the place card next to mine. I thought it must be a mistake until I saw you with Lady Castlereagh.”

  “Oh snake’s eggs.” I moan inwardly.

  Alexander’s jaw is working harder than a coal miner, as he grabs my hand, claps it on his arm, and tows me toward the dining room. “What is that fellow to you?”

  “What? Do you mean who is he? He is the second Baron of Harston, a close friend of—”

  “Don’t dodge the question.”

  “What is it you would like to know?”

  “There’s something … I see it in your face when you look at him. Something you aren’t telling me.”

  “I don’t see how it’s any concern of yours. You’ll be sailing off to America in a week or two, if Lady Daneska doesn’t kill you first.”

  “There’s a happy thought.”

  The line to the tables is getting shorter by the minute, and I don’t want him to leave with such a sour thing having fallen off my tongue. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “You never do.”

  “Alexander—” I turn to him genuinely sorry.

  “Mr. Sinclair,” he corrects, and hands his newly printed card to the footman, who directs us to opposite sides of the table.

  Nineteen

  DINNER AND DISASTER

>   Lady Jersey devised the most perverse seating chart in the history of mankind.

  Sera is seated beside Mr. Chadwick and the two of them are blushing in turns and looking perfectly awkward. She knocks her fork off and he swoops to catch it for her. On Sera’s left sits Mr. Chadwick senior, our magistrate from back home who is boisterously trying to engage her in conversation. If I know Sera, she is considering crawling under the table and curling up in a tight ball. I smile encouragingly at her.

  I am seated next to Lord Harston. To avoid discourse with him I turn to a very talkative naval lieutenant by the name of Baker, seated on my left.

  The officer takes my hand in greeting and inclines his head graciously. “Ah, the fair Lady Jane. I had hoped to make your acquaintance. You have been highly praised by several of my acquaintances. How fortuitous that we should be seated next to one another.” Blah, blah, blah, and so on and so forth. I nod dutifully as he dithers on.

  Directly across from me sits Mr. Sinclair. When I say directly across, I do not mean it is a short distance. No, it’s not an arm’s length or even a meter. The Prince’s table is enormous. It is well beyond the width by which anyone with good manners may talk across the table.

  To make matters even more maddening, on either side of him are two young ladies of dubious intellect. Proof is in the fact that he glazes over whenever the young lady on his right chatters at him. It is only when she giggles monstrously loud that his eyes open with pure attention.

  The other lady does not seem to bore him nearly as much. Nevertheless, I question her intellect because she relies upon the low-cut neckline of her dress to engage him, rather than employing actual words. She is full of coy looks and suggestive batting of the eyes. I’ve half a notion to pelt her with peas. My brothers taught me how to fire peas from a spoon and look the other way afterward so no one would be the wiser. Perhaps, given the circumstances, it might be more prudent to simply lend the little trollop my shawl.

  Curse this misbegotten seating plan.

  If Lady Jersey were anywhere near my end of the table, I should very much like to run her through with my fork. My meat fork, mind you. Not the dainty dessert fork.