With His Lady's Assistance (The Regent Mysteries Book 1)

by Cheryl Bolen

  "No, your Royal Highness, I've been able to resume my . . . clandestine activities. Now, pray tell me about the second incident."

  "I was laid up for many weeks with the groin injury. Fortunately, the musket ball did not hit any bones or vital organs. Still, it was a demmed embarrassing injury. Quite naturally I didn't wish it to be widely known. When I could finally move without pain I was riding at Kew one morning when for no accountable reason--or so I thought at the time--my horse stumbled and threw me. Luckily I've enough padding to protect my bones and was able to get up and walk away. But before I got up I saw the most peculiar thing. There on the ground was a fine wire that had been strung between two tree trunks. Someone had purposely wished my horse to run into it and throw me."

  As serious of a matter as this was, Jack could not shake the ridiculous image of the gargantuan prince mounting a horse. How did one of such proportions accomplish such a task? "And who accompanied your majesty on that ride?" asked Jack, purging the disrespectful vision from his mind.

  "Only my groom. I'd been told that the exercise of riding might stimulate the reducing mechanisms of the body and was determined to initiate a daily ride. Even had a special device constructed whereby I could more easily climb onto my horse."

  It was only with the greatest difficulty Jack was able to stifle his grin. "I beg that your Royal Highness not ride until the culprit's been caught, and I don't need to tell you the enemy can be poised to strike when you least expect it."

  "You can bet your brass buttons I'll be on my guard! Haven't left Carlton House since the incident."

  "Good. And when did that occur?"

  "Thursday before last."

  Jack steepled his hands. "Ten days. Who do you think would have reason to want your highness dead?"

  "The French, of course!"

  The prince's naivete was almost comical. "Well, of course, I would never discount our most hated enemy, but perhaps we need to examine this from all aspects."

  Jack got up, descended the dais backward so as not to turn his back on the monarch, and began to pace the room's scarlet carpet, mindful of his own reflection in the room's many massive mirrors. "There are two motives for murder," he said to the prince. "The first is for hatred. The French could be put into that category. The second is for profit. We need to draw up lists--mental lists--of, first, who hates you, and, second, who will benefit by your death."

  "I'm sure the French hate me the most."

  The prince truly brought to mind an obstinate child. "I don't doubt you're right, your Royal Highness."

  The regent's eyes widened. "And my . . . the woman from whom I'm separated most certainly detests me."

  "Princess Caroline?"

  The prince spat onto the red carpet of the dais. "Oh, yes, that one hates me."

  As her husband hates her. "But, correct me if I'm wrong, your majesty. Is not Princess Caroline better off as your estranged wife than she would be as your widow? In matters of fortune?"

  "Daresay she hates me so much she'd gladly give up my generous settlement to see me dead. Even if it meant returning to Germany empty handed." His voice dropped to a mumble again. "Would that she'd never left that cursed country in the first place." Anger flashed in his eyes. "Don't discount that she-devil! Her hatred could be lethal."

  As Jack watched his monarch, light from a pair of huge standing candelabras shone on his face. "By Jove!" the regent said, "I almost forgot--back in ninety-five Parliament voted to give her a jointure of fifty-thousand pounds in the event that I should predecease her! There's your bloody motive!"

  "That is a great deal of money. Pray, your Royal Highness, what does she receive at the present?"

  "Seventeen thousand from me annually," Lowering his voice, the prince added, "plus another five thousand list money."

  Jack's brows lowered. "List money?"

  The regent shrugged. "It does not signify. 'Tis merely from a list set aside by Parliament."

  "Then she receives twenty-two thousand a year." Surely the woman would not be so stupid she'd forgo twenty-two thousand a year for the rest of her life for a quick fifty thousand? "While I own that the princess is possessed of strong motives," Jack said, "we must be mindful of all the others who would profit by your death. Can you think of anyone else who wants you dead?"

  The regent appeared to give this question consideration, then he shot Jack a gleeful glance. "No."

  Would that he didn't have to ask the regent a most indelicate question. Jack cleared his throat. "I'm given to understand that you lived somewhat as husband and wife with a Mrs. Fitzherbert. Does that woman not bear animosity toward your majesty since you married another?"

  "Good heavens, no! I assure you the two of us have always been on the most amiable terms." The prince leaned toward Jack, his huge bulk blocking the light from the massive candelabra on his left. "She receives an exceedingly generous settlement from me."

  Since the regent had married Caroline in 1795 and it was now 1813, if the prince and Mrs. Fitzherbert had produced any children prior to 1795, those children would be quite grown now. Could one of those illegitimate children harbor animosity toward the man who fathered him? Jack's pulse quickened. There was no avoiding it. He would have to ask the regent. "Were there any children of your majesty's union with Mrs. Fitzherbert?"

  The regent's brows lowered, a tick pricked at his face. "No."

  The prince was hiding something. If this were anyone other than a royal personage Jack would demand the truth, but he had to caution himself to be respectful. Especially since he was going to be forced to bring up one more indelicate question. "There's another question I need to ask your Royal Highness," Jack began.

  "Yes, of course," the prince said, putting his weight on the arm of his throne and turning to face Jack. "Ask anything, my good man."

  Jack's heartbeat hammered. "I've seen your majesty's Royal Pavilion at Brighton and now Carlton House. Your highness has an extraordinary eye for fine things." It was no secret the prince had always lived far above his means. Jack drew in his breath. How did one ask the monarch if he made use of moneylenders? "There have been rumors . . . " He paused again.

  "You want to know about the moneylenders?" the prince said, a smile leaping to his florid face.

  Jack's fists uncoiled. He met the regent's gaze and nodded.

  "Never deal with them directly," the regent muttered. "My footmen relieve me of that chore."

  So Jack's hunch was accurate. "There have been times when moneylenders have orchestrated 'accidents' to make examples of debtors who don't pay up. Not that I'm inferring that your majesty---"

  "No, no, my good man! No moneylender in his right mind would kill the goose that lays the golden egg. I'm in debt to the demmed Jews for nigh on three-hundred-thousand quid. Were I dead, they'd not get a farthing."

  Had the regent just told Jack he was sired by Kublai Kahn, Jack could not have been more surprised. Three-hundred thousand bloody pounds? It was a staggering amount. Just as staggering was the fact that any moneylender could be possessed of such an enormous sum.

  Jack had to admit the prince's reasoning about the goose and golden eggs made perfect sense. A pity the prince was not possessed of such good sense in his financial dealings.

  "If your majesty can't think of anyone else who might hate you, we now need to consider who will benefit from your death. I suppose we can rule out your daughter."

  An exaggerated look of outrage swept across the regent's face. "My daughter and I have had our differences, but I assure you she has the sweetest nature imaginable, not to mention the fact she's always surrounded by people. Always." He glared at Jack.

  "And next in the order of succession is your brother, the Duke of York?"

  "Don't spare another thought to poor Freddie," the prince said with a wave of his arm. "We're quite devoted to one another."

  "Can you think of anyone else who would benefit from your demise?"

  "Not a soul." The expression on the prince's jowled face
looked like that of an outraged child.

  Jack mounted the dais and returned to his chair.

  "How long," the regent asked him, "do you think it will take you to settle this matter?"

  Already Jack was examining the situation from all aspects, and he thought the least likely culprits were the French. Truth be told, it was in the French interest to keep the spendthrift on the English throne. The more money he squandered, the less to fund the war.

  The fact remained that the sovereign was in grave danger. A pity Jack would not be able to stop the fiend who threatened their ruler. "Your majesty, I would do anything in my power to help you. I would not hesitate to lay down my life to protect you, but I don't think I'm the right person for this particular assignment."

  The regent's eyes narrowed. "Are you afraid?"

  "I've been in far more dangerous situations, your Royal Highness."

  "Then you lack confidence in your investigative abilities?"

  "I have a great deal of confidence in my investigative abilities," Jack said.

  "Then why won't you help me? You're the one I want."

  "I'm flattered, your Royal Highness." Jack hesitated a moment before admitting his weakness to the regent. "The person who conducts this investigation must be able to move through the highest echelons of society without attracting suspicion. I cannot do that." His voice dropped. "I'm the second son of a country squire."

  "Nonsense! You're a gentleman."

  "Who went to lesser schools. I count no peers as personal friends."

  "Oh, I see what you mean." With a great effort the regent stood up, and descended the dais, then began to pace across the room's thick red carpet.

  After some five minutes had passed, he faced Jack and exclaimed, "I've got it!"

  Jack hiked a brow.

  "I'll make you a viscount."

  "I'm afraid, your majesty, that would not compensate for my ignorance of the ton."

  The prince's lips puckered. "You do have a point there." The regent commenced his pacing again, this time mumbling. "What you need is an escort who knows everything about everyone. Can't think of a single man who fits the bill. Fact is, only one person in the kingdom is so qualified . . ." The regent spun around and faced Jack, excitement flashing in his eyes. "I've got it!"

  Jack felt completely disrespectful sitting while the monarch stood, but if he stood and looked down at the Prince Regent, that could be even more disrespectful. So he stay seated, his brows arched.

  The regent returned to his throne. "Daphne Chalmers!"

  "Who, may I ask your Highness, is Daphne Chalmers?"

  "Daffy is the elder sister--a right regular old maid, she is--to my cousin's wife. Daffy's sister Cornelia married my cousin, the Duke of Lankersham. Cornelia's twin Virginia is married to Sir Ronald Johnson."

  Good lord, was Jack going to be required to learn all these names and connections? Perhaps he did need a perpetual escort. "And it is your majesty's opinion that Miss Chalmers knows everyone in the ton?"

  "Not just my opinion. A fact. Ask anyone. The chit may not be fashionable, and she's certainly not pretty, but it's the demmedest thing. She's downright likeable. Invited everywhere, and everyone courts her favor."

  "I'm not sure Miss Chalmers will work, your majesty. If she's given to gossip, she could never be discreet about our investigation."

  "That's just it, man! I know for a fact she can be discreet." The regent cleared his throat. "Fact is she entered my box at the opera one night last year while a certain lady--a lady married to a peer--was . . . performing a decidedly indecent act upon my person. Daphne's cheeks turned scarlet, and she spun on her heel and left. And do you know what?"

  Jack's regard for his monarch sank. No gentleman would behave so recklessly in a public place--nor would a true gentleman take that kind of pleasure from another man's wife. "No, your majesty."

  "To this day, the gel hasn't told another soul. She can be the soul of discretion when she needs to be. Daphne would never gossip about something that would in any way hurt anyone. In last year's case, she no doubt wished to protect Lord S--," the prince paused. "The lady's husband.

  "If you tell Daffy I'm in danger," the regent said, "I guarantee she'll not reveal our secret to anyone."

  "If I'm to be effective in this investigation I must insist that no one be apprised of the true nature of my business--except Miss Chalmers, if you're certain she can be discreet."

  "My feelings exactly, Captain. That's why I've contrived to meet alone with you today. I'm not such a slow top that I don't know the advantage of a--to use a military phrase--surprise attack. The sooner you clear up this matter, the sooner I can resume normal activity. I'm demmed tired of not leaving Carlton House. You must apprehend the vile creature by January seventh. It's my daughter's eighteenth birthday, and we've a grand fete planned. I must attend it."

  That would give Jack six weeks. "I will do my best, your Royal Highness, but I can make no promises. Even with Lady Daphne's help, I've no assurances I'll be accepted by the ton."

  The regent eyed him. "You will--if you get Weston."

  "Weston?"

  "Finest tailor in London. You must have him dress you."

  "An expense I'm unable to afford."

  A smile transformed the sovereign's face. "Of course you can."

  Jack heard the clang of coins and looked up as the regent tossed him a large sack of guineas. Three hundred at least. Jack peered from the bag to the regent, then grinned. "Your Royal Highness will inform Miss Chalmers that your agent will soon be making himself known to her?"

  "Of course," the regent said. "Will I see you during the investigation?"

  "I can't risk being discovered." Jack thought a moment, then added, "If I need additional information, Lady Daphne will contact you."

  "Do you know where you'll stay? There should be enough money left after you visit Mr. Weston to secure gentleman's lodgings and an appropriate mount."

  "Lady Daphne can inform you of my direction."

  Assuming the daffy woman could remember the address.

  Chapter 2

  Had they been born to a lesser class, Daphne's twin sisters could have made a name for themselves on the stage. Though the two looked nothing alike (Virginia being a head taller than Cornelia), their dramatic temperaments were identical. Even now at the mature age of three and twenty and with husbands and children of their own, the twins approached life as if it were some vast stage from which they were to give a grand performance. Everyday occurrences, such as the untimely departure of a servant or Cook serving turbot that was a bit off, could send the twins into hysterics, and it wasn't uncommon for either of them to take to their beds for weeks at a time because of a perceived social slight.

  Though Daphne would never be as close to the twins as they were to each other, it was she--who was all of a year older--to whom they turned whenever a Catastrophe visited one of them. Not apprised of the nature of the present Catastrophe which had necessitated today's summons, Daphne was relatively certain it was but a minor inconvenience.

  She found Virginia draped across the silk chaise in Cornelia's turquoise bed chamber, her shoulders heaving in tandem with her sobs. Were Daphne not acquainted with the volatile nature of her sister's personality, such a pathetic sight would have set her heart pounding prodigiously. But Virginia had been equally as prostrate when a rainstorm forced cancellation of her al fresco musicale last summer and when her second son had been born without a nail on his smallest toe. (Only Daphne's profound assurances that little Will was perfectly healthy enabled Virginia to abandon her hysterics.)

  What was it today? Had the dressmaker miscalculated the length of a new gown? Had Cook burnt the sturgeon?

  One glance at Cornelia's wickedly flashing brown eyes convinced Daphne the current Catastrophe was only of minor import. Were her twin in true distress, Cornelia would not have concerned herself with rebuking her elder sister. "Pray, Daphne, how could you go out in public dressed as you are?" Cornelia a
sked, her narrowed eyes sweeping over Daphne's favorite (albeit faded) dress.

  Good lord, was there a hideous ink stain on her dress? Or perhaps globs from her hastily eaten breakfast? Daphne looked down at her dress. Green bombazine. Perfectly clean. A bit faded, but, all in all, a most comfortable dress. So comfortable, in fact, that she had been happy to wear it these five years past. That was it! Her sisters abhorred that she was not a slave to fashion. She wasn't even a stepchild to fashion. Being fashionable was for Pretty Young Things who wished to attract husbands. The only thing Daphne could ever form an attachment with was interminable nearsightedness. Which was perfectly all right with her. She had yet to meet the man whose presence she would prefer over her books. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with my dress," Daphne defended.

  Cornelia glowered at her. "The daughter of the Earl of Sidworth can afford to wear more fashionable clothing."

  Daphne edged closer to her sobbing sibling. Surely Virginia would be too distraught to condemn her kindly elder sister.

  "And worse than the faded dress is that odious cap," Cornelia continued. "You're much too young to have consigned yourself to the wearing of caps."

  "My age," Daphne said coolly, "has nothing to do with wearing a cap. I simply didn't have time to sit still while Pru dressed my hair." She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders every bit as dramatically as the twins, a practice Daphne adopted only when in their presence. "My sister needed me," she announced. Truth be told, writing a letter to her dearest friend, Miss Milstead (whom Daphne had promised to keep apprised of all London occurrences), had held far more allure than sitting at her dressing table while her maid tried to impose a compliant style on Daphne's most uncooperative hair. Her maid insisted she sit perfectly still while having her hair dressed. No writing. No reading. And it wasn't as if she could hold a conversation with Pru since her maid could speak of nothing but fashion and beauty, subjects most boring to Daphne.

  Daphne lowered herself toward the chaise and set a gentle hand on her whimpering sister's arm. "Pray, pet, what is the Catastrophe?"