by Regina Darcy
Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
BONUS CHAPTER 1:FALLING FOR THE EARL
BONUS CHAPTER 2:THE DUKE’S SECRET DESIRE
Copyright © Regina Darcy 2016
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and writer except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a contemporary work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
The king was dead. The reign that began in 1760 when George III was a young man of twenty came to an end in 1820 when the king, whose time as the ruling monarch had in effect ended a decade before when his son George became the Prince Regent, died at the age of 82. Some who remembered the king when his reign began could recall the controversies that had afflicted his time on the throne: the loss of the American colonies; the conflict with his prime ministers; the discord within his family, but nonetheless, they reasoned that times had been better then, than they were now with the self-indulgent Prince Regent on the throne. Scandal accompanied the spendthrift Prince Regent who had been self-absorbed through the turmoil of the war with Napoleon and had turned his government into an enemy and his subjects into his adversaries. The British people were not consoled by the grand architecture and elegance that defined the Prince Regent’s lifestyle.
The death of George III simply meant that his son, now George IV, was king. For the years during which the Regency had been in effect, the mad monarch was a forgotten man and his death changed nothing. London aristocracy, which derided the first three Hanover kings for their clumsy, lumbering foreign ways and mocked the fourth one, did not feel that the Georges, taken collectively, were a credit to the nation and went about their business. George III did not inspire mourning and George IV did not inspire respect.
But while members of the haute monde evaluated the disappointing George on aesthetic grounds and found them wanting, other members of the English, less blue-blooded in ancestry, less plump of pockets, were seething. While the wellborn gentlemen concerned themselves with the cut of their trousers and the knots in their cravats, and the ladies sought the latest fashions, the ordinary men and women whose wages were insufficient for their needs resented the extravagant indulgences of Society. The unrest which had boiled over into revolution in France had not been imitated in England, and the victory over Napoleon should have fortified the English. But the war had been costly and that cost had fallen upon the workers of England. Their impotent rage went largely unnoticed because the Corinthians were gambling, drinking and womanising and what happened beyond the boundaries of Belgravia was insignificant.
ONE
Only pedagogues and bluestockings, those educated, intellectual women of the 18th-century Blue Stockings Society paid heed to the discontent that they detected seething beneath the hidden horizon of the social structure.
One of those bluestockings, albeit self-proclaimed, was Phoebe Stanford, age nineteen. Raised in an England where the king was crazy and his son was Regent, she spent more time in her uncle’s library than she did in society’s drawing rooms. But her uncle, Lord Glastonburg, was an indulgent guardian and did not object to having a niece who freely engaged in political discussions with his dinner guests.
Phoebe’s parents lived in India where her father was a military officer and her mother an energetic matron whose suppers and balls were among the most anticipated events of the social calendar. But Phoebe, who had more in common with her bookish uncle than with her socially ambitious mother, had pleaded with her parents to allow her to stay in England and they had done so with a sense of relief.
Truth be told Phoebe was not biddable, like the daughters of their friends. No, Phoebe Stanford was a challenge.
Her mother told her that she was going to ruin her eyes with so much book-reading, and her father, who found raising sons to be much easier, had nothing to say to her after exhausting the subject of any potential beaux.
As she had no suitor, her London Season as a debutante the year before having been an unsuccessful venture, there was nothing to answer. But being in England rather than India meant that she was not obligated to endure her father’s stale line of interrogation. Uncle was kind and good-humoured and like her, a lover of books.
He was rather forgetful and absent-minded, and had found it to his advantage to have Phoebe in the household because she did a much better job of managing it than he had. They got on very well together.
He was in the breakfast room, lingering over his tea and reading the newspaper, when she returned. He smiled in greeting, then, as he noticed the books she carried, his interest sharpened. “Anything of note?”
“Perhaps.”
“Hmmm. . . . The History of England, From the First Invasion by the Romans to the Accession of Henry VIII.”
“Yes, there are eight volumes. I only chose one, however, in case it’s completely dull. But this should be great fun and not dull at all.”
“Hmm. . . Ivanhoe. Yes, that looks promising, and historical in its own way. Very good, my dear. You must tell me what you think of them.”
Phoebe sat down at the table and poured herself a cup of tea. It was always entertaining to converse with Uncle Glaston because his thoughts seemed to spring out of his head without any way of predicting their source, like exotic plants that blossomed without roots.
“I passed several people on my way. They were talking about the king’s death.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, of course, His Majesty. Strange to live so long and yet in the end, not to have lived at all. I sometimes wonder if the Americans haven’t got the right notion after all.”
“The right notion about what, Uncle?”
“The monarchy,” he answered, folding his newspaper, a sure sign that he was eager to be engaged in discourse. “After all, the Hanovers have hardly been stellar representatives of the monarchy, now have they?”
“I don’t know, Uncle. I only know what people say about the Prince Regent. They say he has exquisite taste in buildings and none at all in people.”
“A fair assessment, I daresay.” Her uncle removed his spectacles and frowned, his usual expression when he was evaluating his analysis of a subject. “I wonder if we’re meant to be ruled by a succession of genetic dullards.”
“What do you mean?” Phoebe replied with a frown.
“I suppose that book you’ve chosen will enlighten you as to the quality of past monarchs,” he said, gesturing toward the tome on the history of England. “When one considers the dynasties that have sat on the throne, I wonder if one can make a convincing argument for the monarchy. Or even whether we ought to put our trust in Parliament at all.”
“Who would govern us if not the king and Parliament?”
“I’ve no idea. But I am not enthusiastic about the situation as it now stands, and Prince George—King George, rather—is unlikely to be any better as king than he has been as Prince Regent.” He smiled. “Perhaps Guy Fawkes had the right idea. Barrels of
gunpowder below the chambers where the House of Lords sits and ignite them.”
“Uncle! Surely you’re not saying we’d be better off with anarchy!” Phoebe smiled at him, amused by his fanciful notions.
“As Fawkes was foolish enough to have been discovered before his plot could unfurl, we shall never know, shall we? We could transport the gunpowder ourselves and see, taking care not to be noticed so that our political experiment could proceed.”
“You are quite the radical today,” Phoebe responded with a laugh.
“If you read the newspapers, you’d be radically inclined as well,” he said, handing it to her. “There’s a great deal of discontent bubbling up from the bottom.”
Bubbling up from the bottom was an intriguing description. “What do you mean,” Phoebe asked perplexed.
Unlike Papa and Mama, Uncle Glaston approved of a young woman knowing what was going on in the world around her and he encouraged her to read the daily newspapers. It was a secret between uncle and niece, one not shared with her parents who would have been shocked at the liberal boundaries of guardianship which Phoebe’s uncle allowed.
“The Prince Regent and his set live a very ostentatious sort of existence,” Lord Glastonburg explained. “He’s a fool, of course.”
“But with very good taste,” Phoebe interjected.
“I concede his taste; I dispute his sense. For people struggling to put food on the table, the magnificence of the Royal Pavilion at Brighton is an affront. Nothing at all is being done to balance the power of the traditional ruling class with the rising power of the industrial class. One cannot simply rattle one’s ancestral jewels in the direction of the class not born to fur and pearls and expect them to scurry back to their corners.” At the bewildered look on his nieces face, Lord Glastonburg took a deep breath and changed the subject.
“Speaking of fur and pearls . . . the Duchess of Tenley has invited us to a ball.”
Phoebe sighed and then pouted. “Must we?”
“I suppose so. Your mother will wonder how you are spending your time if I don’t provide evidence, every now and again, of some social event. You must go and I must take you. We shall endure our fates and absolve ourselves of mandatory attendance for the fortnight to follow.” Lord Glastonburg replied and winked at his niece. “It will give us the time we need to plot our overthrow of the government.”
TWO
Despite his own reluctance to take part in fashionable events, Lord Glastonburg was quite generous when it came to outfitting his niece in the required manner. Her ball gown for the Duchess of Tenley’s ball was made of deep magenta silk trimmed in tiny gold roses, with dainty heeled slippers and a white fur-lined cloak which, her uncle said as they entered the carriage, gave her the entrancing appearance of a snow maiden.
“I hope you won’t be too bored, my dear,” he said. “I shall have several friends with whom to converse, but I fear that you will be left to the company of the ton, none of whom is likely to have read a newspaper since the New Year began, if before.”
“I shall dance and enjoy the music and entertain myself by uttering all the best frivolous little statements,” Phoebe replied with a twinkle in her eyes.
“Perfect.”
“And what shall you do, Uncle, to entertain yourself?”
“Oh, I shall stand by the punch bowl with several other old duffers and we’ll note the deplorable state of the country, I expect. That’s usually what we do.”
They smiled at one another in perfect understanding of the other.
Despite what her mother regarded as her regrettable bluestocking ways, Phoebe did enjoy music and dancing and was not at all averse to the pastime. As she was an attractive young woman with thick, pale blond hair the colour of moonlight, as one poetic swain had told her, and enormous, thickly lashed eyes so dark that they seemed to be black, she possessed the sort of looks that easily brought her attention and dance partners.
The trouble with dance partners, she decided, as she swirled to the music on the arms of Lord Billingham, an animated youth whose mastery of the dance steps did not include an equally adroit command of conversation, was that they could rarely accommodate the musical steps and the social requirements at the same time.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you before,” Lord Billingham said when the dance came to an end.
“Nor I you,” she replied.
“I say, would you like a glass of punch? That dance was rather a vigorous one, was it not?”
“Punch would be lovely,” Phoebe replied with a winning smile. “It was rather vigorous, yes.”
As she watched Lord Billingham set about his task, she diverted herself by watching the other dancers on the floor. One gentleman caught her eye immediately because he was not only dancing superbly but he was also carrying on what appeared to be an engrossing conversation with his partner.
“Here’s your punch, Miss Stanford,” Lord Billingham said, returning.
“Who is that couple there? The lady is wearing a beautiful shade of yellow.”
“Whom? Oh, that’s Lady Adeline Confers. She’s the granddaughter of the Duke of Tenley.”
“And her partner?”
“Viscount Sunderland. He’s just come back to England after a rather prolonged European jaunt. There’s some sort of whisper about why he stayed in Europe so long; he’s claimed it was so that he could have his shoes made in Italy again now that Bonaparte is taken care of—he’s a friend of the Beau’s you know and just as fastidious about his dress as Brummel. But the consensus is that he went away so as to bury some unknown scandal. I don’t know much more about him,” Billingham admitted. “But even a whisper of scandal can be disadvantageous to a young lady’s marriage prospect, so my advice is to steer clear of him. He’s known to have an eye for a beautiful woman, so mind what I’ve told you.”
The dance having finished, she noticed that the dancers were leaving the floor. The exquisite Viscount Sunderland bowed to his partner and seemed to be heading Phoebe’s way. She was not at all interested in attaching herself to scandal, so she quickly turned to give Billingham her most attentive stare.
“Thank you, Lord Billingham,” she said in melting tones, letting her expressive eyes and her gift for dissembling convince his lordship that she was the very portrait of sincerity. “Oh, there’s my uncle. I see he’s found his friends.”
“Your uncle—oh, with the gentlemen over in the corner? What do you know; your uncle and mine appear to be friends.”
“Really? Which one is your uncle?”
“Tall chap standing across from your uncle. He’s the Earl of Chessington. And I’m his heir,” Billingham added pointedly.
“How very lovely,” Phoebe exclaimed as if enthralled. “That your uncle and my uncle should be such chums. It’s really quite, quite impressive, is it not?”
“Most impressive,” he agreed with eagerness. “Shall we go over and let them see how capitally we’re getting on?”
“Let’s not startle them. I shall go over first to my uncle, and let him know that I’m having such a wonderful time. He of course will introduce me to his companions, and I shall say that I’m so pleased to meet him because I’ve just had the most wonderful dance with his nephew.”
“Whereupon I shall appear as if by coincidence and we shall show them how swimmingly we’re getting on. It’s a splendid plan. I do hope I can remember my part.”
“I’m sure you will manage perfectly,” she assured him.
“When shall I come by?” he asked anxiously, his forehead furrowed with the strain of recollecting his cues.
“As long as it takes to boil an egg,” she replied, making ready to leave him.
“Quite. Splendid!” he said enthusiastically, then, “How long does that take?”
But Phoebe had already left his side and was on her way to refresh herself with a brief chat with her uncle who would instantly understand the ploy, but would play along with the gambit she had proposed as if it were the most natural t
hing in the world for his niece to present a potential suitor to him.
The circle of gentlemen with which her uncle was in discussion were not young; they were, as he had said, old duffers. They appeared to be deeply engrossed in their conversation. They were talking about the government, she realised. She heard names that were familiar to her from her newspaper reading and her conversations with her uncle. Someone mentioned Thomas Spence and she recalled that there had been a conspiracy several years ago that had been named for Spence, although she could not recall the details.
“The king’s death means that the time is right for change.”
Phoebe froze. That was her uncle’s voice speaking. His voice was quiet but emphatic as if he were trying to convince the others of something of importance.
The Duchess of Tenley was known for favouring an elaborate décor for her social events. What had seemed to be excessive pretentiousness to Phoebe’s critical eye was now welcome as she crouched behind the entwined branches of a fabric tree so that she could be concealed as she listened.
The fanciful weaving of artful trees and garden shrubbery was enjoyed by couples who found intriguing ways to hide for the duration of a dance so that they could share private words and sometimes more without being detected. But the night was still early and couples were engrossed in the elaborate flirtation of the dance, leaving the stylised garden uninhabited except for Phoebe.
Someone else spoke up, mentioning a name that was unfamiliar to her; Arthur Thistlewood. Then someone else mentioned the Cabinet, and there was a general laugh as if the men were sharing a joke.
“England is ripe,” her uncle’s voice said.
It was so unlike him to express his thoughts so concisely and succinctly. Uncle Glaston tended to ponder as he spoke, which meant that a conversation might consist of a paragraph of words and a chapter of pauses.
“Past ripe,” someone else said. “Like rotten fruit.”