“It sounds beautiful,” she said, and meant it. “Why do you spend so much time in town if you have such loveliness at your estate?”
His shoulders tensed. “I have duties.”
“But must your duties to England be your first concern? If you have sufficient property to live comfortably in the country, why do you and your fellow statesmen toil in the city for much of the year?”
He flashed her a rueful smile. “You sound like my mother. She wishes I would stay in the country all the time.”
“I can understand why. In my opinion, large cities are too restless. So many people, so much noise, so much dirt. I prefer the green.” And the wonderful, turbulent sea. Though if she mentioned that, he would pounce on it as evidence of her true identity, since Chanay was landlocked. “The country provides a solitude that is soothing.”
“And tedious. Not to mention silent.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer silence to this . . . this . . .” She waved her hand to indicate the major thoroughfare they’d pulled onto. “Cacophonie?”
“Not when silence hides lies.” An edge entered his voice. “In the country, with its privacy, it is too easy for brutality . . .” He caught himself. “For the brutality of nature to run unchecked.”
His shadowed features made her think he was no longer speaking of trees and fields, but of mankind. Human nature. She wondered if she could get him to say more. She would like to understand him better.
“We’re here,” he said, ending her chance as they drove through a massive stone arch into an enormous expanse of green that stretched as far as the eye could see.
No wonder he had laughed at her calling it “little.”
He steered the curricle onto a wide, muddy track. “This particular section of Hyde Park is called Rotten Row. The name became bastardized from route de Roi, since it’s used by royalty.” He shot her a bland smile. “We English always murder the French language whenever we get the chance.”
“True,” she said lightly.
“Rotten Row is where the rich and powerful of London go to see and be seen. Normally it’s quite crowded. But this isn’t the Season, and the weather isn’t particularly fine, so there aren’t as many here as usual.”
“Oh,” was all she could answer. It seemed to her to have plenty of people, even in the drizzle. Colorful carriages jockeyed for space on the muddy track, mounted riders held to the edges, and a few brave souls strolled in the grass, umbrellas held high. Apparently they wanted to “see and be seen” no matter what the weather.
But these weren’t the sort she cared about. In her experience, the rich and powerful always trampled upon the poor and the nobodies. Only too well, she remembered how the haut ton of Dieppe had treated her when she’d begun as an actress. Their praise had come with a slice of contempt.
As she’d become more successful her circumstances had changed, which had only made her more cynical. The people who’d treated her badly before now fawned over her, though she was the same person as always. So how could she take their opinions seriously?
He had not changed how he saw her. He’d never fawned. And still didn’t. It was oddly reassuring.
She gazed beyond the people in their fancy coaches to the birches and Dutch elms with their changing colors, a riot of golds and reds and oranges. “You’re right; the trees are beautiful in autumn. Even in the rain. Especially in the rain, which gilds them with drops of silver. So very lovely.”
He fixed his gaze on her. “That’s all you can say? No mention of the luxurious carriages? The costly gowns? The jewels?”
Belatedly, she realized that what she’d said wasn’t very princess-like. “How can I see the costly gowns and jewels? Everyone is inside their equipages, hiding from the rain.”
A smirk crossed his lips. “And the luxurious carriages?”
She waved her hand. “I do not care about carriages.”
“I see.” He turned off the dirt track he’d called Rotten Row and onto a less crowded path. “Even mine?”
His tone was flirtatious, so she matched it. “I like yours, of course, monsieur. It is the perfect combination of comfortable and useful.”
He stiffened. “I take it that the count told you to flatter me to ensure my cooperation in making you queen.”
Even though it was true, she bristled. “Do you not trust me to have my own opinions?”
He searched her face. “Do you? Have your own opinions, I mean?”
“Of course.”
“Then tell me what you would think of being queen of Belgium.”
That caught her off guard. She forced a smile. “I would . . . like it very much.”
“Would you? Why?”
“Because I am from Belgium. So I have a strong opinion of the proper position of the nation.”
“Ah. And what is that?”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“The position of Belgium. What is it?”
She took a moment to give the matter some thought before drawing her faux regality about her like a cloak. “Right now, the position of Belgium could be better. It is finally free, yes, but like a newborn babe, it is forced to bow to the wishes of adults with competing goals.” Much like her, come to think of it. “Belgium has never governed itself or defended itself against intruders, and now must find its way through the morass of protocols and conflicting expectations. Thus, it is important for Belgium to take command of its future aggressively before anyone—”
An explosion occurred somewhere nearby, startling the horses and momentarily confusing her.
“Get down!” Lord Fulkham ordered, and when she stared stupidly at him, not quite aware of what was going on, he shoved her off the seat and into the well between it and the dashboard. Then he cracked the whip and sprang the horses into a run.
Again came a noise like an explosion, but this time she registered what it was. A gunshot. Someone was firing at them!
Terror froze her in place. Flora was screaming as the curricle raced along, and Lord Fulkham was cursing under his breath. The whole while, Monique clung to the seat behind her with clammy hands and kept her head down, her pulse galloping as fast as the horses.
Why on earth would anyone shoot at them? Was this a common occurrence in the parks of London? What if they hit Lord Fulkham? What would she do then?
Her stomach churned, and her throat closed up. She couldn’t breathe. Oh, God, she didn’t want to die! Not now, not here, so far away from her home!
Within moments they were back on Rotten Row, where men in uniform were already riding toward them, drawn by the shots, which thankfully had stopped now that they were surrounded by crowds.
Lord Fulkham reined the horses in and glanced down at her, his mouth drawn with concern. “Are you all right?”
He lifted her back into the seat. She bobbed her head.
“Flora?” he called back to the maid, shocking Monique. Gentlemen of rank never cared about servants.
At least the maid had stopped that awful screaming. “I—I’m f-fine, sir,” she stammered just as the first uniformed soldier reached them.
Lord Fulkham turned to the soldier. “Captain, there was a man shooting from among the silver birches back by the Serpentine,” he said, sounding eerily calm. “Find him! I must get the princess away.”
“Yes, my lord,” the captain said, and rode off.
Her heart still in her throat, Monique clutched her bonnet with one hand and the side of the carriage with the other as Lord Fulkham tooled the curricle out of the park. His lips were set in a hard line, and his eyes blazed.
She had never seen him like this. “D-do you think the danger is over now?”
“I can’t be sure, and I’m not taking any chances.”
The curricle careened through the streets until he pulled it up in front of the Mayfair town house. Before the grooms could even rush out to put down the step, Lord Fulkham was out of the carriage and around to her side, reaching up to clasp her by the waist.
&
nbsp; He lifted her down as easily as he’d lifted her onto the seat. One would think she was light as a croissant. She was not. Indeed, sometimes she enjoyed her croissants a bit too much. Yet he gave no sign of being overtaxed.
With a hoarse cry, Flora jumped down and ran up the steps into the house most uncharacteristically, clearly rattled by the shooting. Lord Fulkham kept Monique in his grasp, trapped between the curricle and his rigid form.
“Are you certain you’re all right?” he asked.
She fought for calm. “Of course. Don’t I look all right?”
He scanned her, from the top of her ridiculous hat to her collarette to her—
“Oh, God,” he said hoarsely. For the first time that afternoon, she heard a tremor in his voice.
“What?”
He grabbed the gigot part of her left sleeve and thrust his finger through two holes in it. “A bullet came through here.” His voice grew ragged. “A few inches to the right, and he would have hit your heart.”
Her heart, which had not been hit, nonetheless dropped into her stomach. “You . . . you think he was aiming for me.”
The count came out of the front door and hurried down the steps. “What happened? Flora is hysterical and babbling about gunshots.”
Veiling his gaze, Lord Fulkham released her. “We should discuss this inside.”
Her great-uncle glanced from him to Monique. “But the princess appears unharmed.”
“Only by sheer luck and her assailant’s bad aim.” His lordship grabbed her sleeve again to display the holes. “Someone shot at her.”
The blood drained from her great-uncle’s face. “Surely not!”
Lord Fulkham took her arm to compel her forward. “We should go inside now, sir. I won’t chance her being in the villain’s sights again.”
With a shaky nod, the count led the way.
Lord Fulkham didn’t release her until they were in the drawing room. As she removed her hat with shaky hands and set it on the marble-topped console table, he strode up to her great-uncle. “The princess was fired upon. We cannot let this stand.”
The count drew himself up as only an old royal could. “Of course not. If she truly was being fired upon. How can we be sure it’s not merely the result of your country’s lax rules about violence among the lower classes? Perhaps there were people in the park using their guns recklessly—or worse, criminals seeking to intimidate you so they could rob you. Or rob someone else. The shooting might have nothing to do with the princess at all. Your countrymen may merely be behaving wildly. Guy Fawkes Day is in two days, is it not?”
His words gave her pause until she reminded herself that she’d seen none of the “lower classes” in the park. Perhaps Count de Beaumonde was simply unaware of what sort of person frequented Hyde Park. And what was Guy Fawkes Day?
Although she was ready to give the elderly man the benefit of the doubt, Lord Fulkham clearly was not, for his face flushed with anger. “This is not my countrymen being ‘wild,’ damn you, and the mayhem of Guy Fawkes Day doesn’t begin until the fifth. Something else is clearly going on.”
The count crossed his arms over his chest. “Like what?”
His lordship shot her great-uncle an incredulous look. “That ought to be obvious to you. Someone is intent upon assassinating the princess. And you and I must figure out who—before Her Highness ends up dead.”
Eight
Gregory stared the count down, fury scorching him like a wildfire. Because as the oddness of the count’s reaction sank in, he began to realize what this was actually about.
The bastard had intended Monique to take the place of the real princess so that if someone attempted to kill Princess Aurore, Monique would die instead. Why else have a masquerade?
But did Monique see that? Probably not, or why would she have gone along with it? She couldn’t possibly have realized it in the beginning—although she might be starting to recognize the truth now.
And the fact that she was being used as a pawn infuriated him the most. When he thought of those holes in her sleeve, his stomach roiled.
But apparently not the count’s, given how his hard gaze skewered Gregory. “Why on earth would someone wish to assassinate my great-niece?”
“I can think of any number of reasons,” Gregory snapped, “the main one being that she is the top candidate for ruler of Belgium.”
“Still?” she asked, then paled as she clearly realized what she’d inadvertently implied: that his knowledge of her masquerade might have put her out of the running. Swiftly she tried to recoup. “I wasn’t sure how my presentation went yesterday, and you were most aggressive in your questioning of me today.”
Now was his chance. He could unmask her in front of the count, who clearly wasn’t going to acknowledge the masquerade or reveal whether he knew that Gregory knew of it. Gregory could just lay everything out in the open—voice his suspicions and put an end to the danger for her.
And risk ruining himself in the process. Because if by some slim chance he was wrong about her identity, the count would have him removed from the conference. The man had powerful friends, especially if Prince Leopold was sniffing around Princess Aurore.
Even if Gregory was right about her, he still couldn’t prove it. And the count wasn’t going to admit it based on Gregory’s three-years-old memories of an actress in a theater, dressed in costume and makeup and the rest.
So confronting him might merely result in the count’s denying him further access to the “princess.” Gregory dared not chance that, for her own sake as well as his. Especially now that she was in danger.
Better to play it safe. “I questioned you aggressively,” he told her, “because that is my job. But everyone knows you are first choice. Which is precisely the problem. Anyone could resent that—the French, the Dutch, even some Englishmen who want Prince Leopold in that position.”
The count, damn his hide, was already shaking his head. “You are utterly wrong. This incident has nothing to do with the London Conference or the choice of a ruler for Belgium. Your country merely has no control over its citizens. It was a random attack by criminals. My great-niece should probably not be taken out into a public park again, not because of some attempt on her life, but because your countrymen are mad!”
“It’s more than that, and you know it.” Gregory glanced over to where Monique stood shivering, clearly still unnerved by what had happened. “Are you willing to risk her life to prove me wrong?”
The count blinked. “Well, no, but I don’t think—”
“I have a suggestion for how to protect her that will satisfy your concerns as well as mine.”
Beaumonde eyed him warily. “Oh?”
“You mentioned Guy Fawkes Day. You are right about its becoming quite a wild event—lots of people starting bonfires, creating mayhem, and making nuisances of themselves in the name of the holiday. So most events involving the conference will be suspended for the next five days, and many of the English members of the conference are retiring to the country in an effort to avoid the celebrations. You and the princess should do so as well.”
“Leave London?” the count said, clearly outraged. “That hardly seems wise when events of the conference are still going on.”
“Nothing but social events. And it hardly seems wise to me to risk your great-niece’s life so she can dance at some ball where anyone could fire upon her!” When the Frenchman blanched, Gregory fought to govern his temper. “My estate, Canterbury Court, is in nearby Kent. You and your retinue are welcome to visit while the conference is in recess. I can think of no better way to protect Her Highness than to remove her from the reach of the ‘lower classes’ you denigrate.”
Beaumonde drew himself up stiffly. “I can take care of my great-niece.”
“Of course you can,” Gregory said. “But under these circumstances—”
“Under these circumstances,” the count said, “it is better that Aurore stay here than in some isolated part of the countryside.”
Patience, man. Do not let him rattle you. “At my estate, I can control who comes in or out,” Gregory said evenly. “She won’t be surrounded by hundreds of people—any one of whom could pick her off with a rifle and escape undetected in the crowds. It will be much easier to make sure she remains safe.”
“His lordship is right.” Monique surprised him by chiming in. “What if this villain truly was trying to shoot me?”
“He wasn’t,” the count said firmly. “I can’t believe it.”
“You can’t take the chance,” Gregory countered. “Because if she was the target—”
“I tell you, there was no target!” The count began to pace the drawing room. “This is a . . . what do you English call it? . . . ‘tempest in a teapot.’ ”
“Hardly that,” Gregory said, frustrated by the man’s refusal to see the truth. He turned to Monique. “What do you think?”
She looked nervously from him to Beaumonde. “I—I’m not sure.”
Damn it, the man clearly had some hold over her that made her reluctant to gainsay him. But the thought that she could lose her life because of the count’s stubborn refusal to admit the truth—or because he had some plot afoot that might actually involve her being assassinated—chilled Gregory’s blood.
He ignored the count to say to her, “Your Serene Highness, I should like to speak to you alone, if I may.”
When she looked startled, the count narrowed his gaze on Gregory. “Why?”
“Before she makes a decision that could lead to her death,” Gregory said bluntly, “I should like to be sure she knows what she’s getting into.”
Beaumonde scowled. “I hardly see why that is necessary. She trusts me to make such decisions for her.”
“Perhaps she shouldn’t,” Gregory said without measuring his words.
The count drew himself up in clear outrage, but before he could retort, she laid a hand on his arm. “Of course I trust you, Uncle.” She cast him a look of wide-eyed worry that would bend any man to her will, even the rigid count. “But you were not there when it happened. It was terrifying. So I should like to discuss the matter with his lordship alone to determine for myself if he is overreacting.”
The Secret of Flirting Page 10