by A. W. Exley
“He looks overwhelmed.” She found it hard to believe they were a similar age, but then her life had a more brutal beginning and dealt her harsh lessons in looking out for herself.
Skittles sipped her champagne and leaned closer to whisper. “Although we all mourn the prince regent, his death has let Bertie slip the parental leash and he is relishing the freedom. I think he will be quite the patron for some lucky demimondaine.”
Although only a year younger than her twenty two, he appeared childlike. Life had not yet marked him physically, and everything around him was new and open for exploration. As the heir apparent, he could have whatever he wanted; he had only to reach out his hand and take it.
The call came to go through for dinner and Cara sat opposite Nate. The prince sat to Skittles’ right, in place of honour. He was being favoured.
Must have cracked open his pocket book.
The women were evenly dotted around the table, so each reigned supreme with their direct neighbours. The grin never left Cara’s face. Not only was she welcomed here, but the people surrounding her at the table talked. Really talked, about issues that mattered in the world, not the best doily pattern to crochet or the right shade of silk for a needlework aquilegia. They discussed politics and argued long and hard about the civil war in America. Some agreed with the abolition of slavery. Others, like those with plantations paying for their place at table, saw the merits of owning their workforce. The women were outspoken and passionate in their opinions and the men listened.
Acceptance by the ton came at the cost of becoming a decoration. To be seen and admired at the appropriate occasions and never, ever, having a voice. Deep within her, Cara set free the last tiny sliver of desire to ever be accepted by the matrons. She watched the childhood indoctrination disappear out the window and into the winter night, then embraced her new place. This was her society.
After dinner, they adjourned to the parlour, the wide double doors to the billiards room flung open so the party could continue. The women did not hide away from the men, they joined them in brandy, cigars and raucous laughter.
A young buck stumbled toward them. Fortified by the courage he found in the bottom of his glass, he gave Nate a nudge. “I say, Lyons, it’s not the done thing to bring your wife to these shindigs. As lovely as she is.”
Nate narrowed his eyes at the man.
Cara tightened her grip on his arm, murmuring, “Play nice.”
His gaze shot to her. “What is your definition of nice?”
“Don’t stab anyone; I’m pretty sure this lot will bleed like stuffed pigs.”
He dropped a kiss on her neck. “I will try, just for you. His father holds Boudicca’s Cuff. The artifact pays for his place here and I need to find where it is, so I can steal it back to line our pockets instead.” He joined the men. “Don’t blame me because you chose badly, Simmons. You should have left your horse in the stable instead of marrying her.” He plucked a glass of brandy off a silver server and moved to join a small group of men.
The courtesans moved like dancers among them, clothed in rainbow colours. Laughter swirled toward the ceiling. Tiny flashes of red, orange, blue, and green danced over them all as light fractured from the myriad crystals hanging off the heavy chandeliers.
Cara touched Skittles on the arm. “Would you introduce me to Edward?”
“Of course,” she said. They approached the gangly prince. “Bertie, this is a friend of mine, Lady Cara Lyons.”
“Your Royal Highness.” She curtseyed.
“Lady Lyons.” He took her hand and raised it up, his touch damp and clammy on her skin. “It is so lovely to meet you at long last.”
“I am flattered you know who I am.” She reclaimed her hand by using it to take an offered crystal flute.
“Of course.” Once the words were out, colour rushed from under his collar, making her wonder what exactly he had heard about her. “You were present when my father died.”
“Ah. Yes. A terrible event.” The prince’s sacrifice removed Victoria from under the artifact’s thrall. “I only wished Nate and I could have stopped the tragedy from occurring.”
“Your presence gave my mother comfort.”
“What little we could do, sir.” She remembered how the queen clung to her dead husband in the pouring rain; there was no solace to offer. She cast a glance at her husband across the room. Tall, broad and darkly handsome, she saw beneath his cold façade to the river of heat that ran below. A shiver ran through her body. No level of comfort could ever console her should he die. Although she wouldn’t have long to grieve; she would follow him to the grave in such an event.
“Speaking of your father, I’m trying to locate an antique he had in his possession. The queen gave us permission to look in his room, but we could not locate it.” She drew him to the side of the room, not wanting the gossiping ears to swallow up every syllable. “It’s an old fiddle, or more accurately a lyre, dating back to Roman times. Do you recall seeing it amongst his things?” She held her breath, waiting to hear that he knew of the deadly weapon.
He gave a casual shake, his fingers stroking her wrist. “No, I have no interest in musical instruments or dusty antiquities; I enjoy much earthier pleasures.”
If you don’t stop touching me you’ll be in the earth. She cast a glance at Nate. He looked up and his brows drew together at the sight of the prince’s attentions. She sent a promise along their bond and he nodded, leaving her to deal with the young man.
Frustration bubbled under her skin at the false lead. The guard was sure that items were removed from the consort’s rooms. “Such a shame, I know you were close to your father and had hoped it would jog some memory.”
Emboldened by all the alcohol he had consumed over the evening, his hand crept higher, to stroke the inside of her elbow. “My father’s man might know something. He was always pottering around in his suite and would know of his knickknacks and such.”
A ping of hope flared in her mind. “Oh?” She resisted the urge to pull her arm back and let him continue his caress, hoping it was enough of a trade for more information. She gritted her teeth; her demons became agitated by the unwanted contact, but she needed to make it through the next few minutes. “Who is that, his man?”
“Dalkeith, he moved to my household after my father’s death. Very capable chap, knows what it means to serve royalty.” He gave a wink and leaned in closer. “Now that you have me all stirred up, I am reminded; Dalkeith did ask if he could select a memento from father’s rooms.”
Bingo! She contained herself from letting out a whoop of excitement. They were back on the scent in their hunt. “Would you mind terribly if I could ask him what he selected? It would mean ever so much to me to have the lyre for my collection.” She dropped her lashes and licked her lips.
“For you, dear lady, of course.” His whole demeanour brightened and he leaned so close his breath feathered her skin with an alcoholic burp. “Lyons is a dashed lucky bugger, although there is a certain convenience to a married woman.” His suggestion hung heavy between them. “I have yet to decide where to lay my royal favour.” He raised his hand to stroke the side of her face. “I will be king one day, a woman can climb no higher than me.”
Nate will squash him like a bug if he ever hears that suggestion. It’s time to derail his train of thought. “These rumours about the queen’s legitimacy are horrid; it must be a terrible strain for you. I do hope they die down.”
He drew back his hand and curled his fingers into a fist. Blue fire burned in his eyes and his nostrils flared. “The peddlers of those rumours should be put down like the curs they are. How dare they defame my mother and attempt to usurp my position as Prince of Wales.” He tried to keep his tone low but spittle marked his lower lip as he spat out the words. “Dalkeith is right, those behind this slander deserve to burn.”
Burn. Her brain sprung to attention. “Burn? A harsh sentence for unfounded gossip, surely?” She tapped his arm with her fan, trying to make l
ight of his growing rage.
Red anger flowed into his cheeks. “They deserve God’s fury for daring to suggest I am not the legitimate heir to the crown. Let the Lord strike them down for their vicious slurs against their anointed ruler. I am the first in line, the crown will be mine one day and no gossip will take it from me!”
The other guests cast glances in their directions, the prince unable to keep his voice low.
“Of course, little minds with nothing else to occupy them, sir,” she murmured. She took one fist and unfurled his fingers, trying to calm his ire. “You will be a mighty king when your time comes.”
“They will not strip this from me, not now I am off my father’s leash and free to enjoy my position. I have not waited this long in the shadows to be labelled a bastard and cast into penury.”
She remembered Nolton’s cold promise of evidence against Victoria’s mother and wondered how much Bertie knew. The comment about the rumourmongers deserving God’s fury was too much of a coincidence and the prince had the most to lose should the rumours be proven.
“Society is the brighter for your star joining us, sir.” Cara caught Skittles’ eye and gave a subtle eye roll, hoping the courtesan would intervene before Nate threw the prince out a window. “Do tell me you will be a regular patron at Skittles’ wonderful soirees? I have so enjoyed our tête-à-tête.”
She danced her fingers up his arm, gave him a wink and just like that, the runaway train slammed in to a wall. The prince’s eyes widened and he took a deep breath. He clasped her hand.
“How kind of you, Cara. I can call you that, can’t I?” The harsh light vanished to be replaced by the puppy dog looking for validation. “And do call me Bertie, all my close friends do.”
“Bertie.” She smiled and flicked open her fan, using the small object as a shield. Made of enamelled metal, each segment was finished with a razor tip she could thrust into a man’s gut should he become too forward. Nate shot her a look that said he expected the accessory to be intimately acquainted with part of Bertie’s anatomy by now. Ignoring her husband, Cara fixed her attention on the prince. “Do let me know when it’s convenient for me to chat to your man about the lyre, I would be ever so grateful.”
“Bertie,” Skittles called and wrapped her hands around the prince’s forearm. “Cara has monopolised you enough, do come and talk to me about your adventures at university in Edinburgh and Cambridge. I hear you are quite the rogue.” She bit her lower lip, leaving the skin glistening and wet.
The prince swallowed, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, his mind fixated on the beautiful courtesan. He drifted from Cara without a backward glance.
She gave a soft huff at his retreating back. “So much for my appeal.”
An arm encircled her waist and pulled her to a warm chest. “If he hadn’t left you I was going to be forced to call him out.” Hot breath washed over her skin. “When he started pawing at you, I thought you might have opened him up with your fan. Are you all right?”
She leaned against him and remained silent for a moment, waiting for her demons to slink back to their dark corner. “Yes. Old fears are back, but I know I can conquer them again.” Her brain searched for a light-hearted topic. “It’s really not fair you know. You commission these wonderful toys for me, and I can’t find an opportunity to use them. I still haven’t skewered anyone with the stiletto in my parasol and now I’m not allowed to use my fan.”
“I like knowing you’re armed.” He nuzzled under her ear. “Although I could have saved some money and just bought you a champagne bucket.”
She laughed. “Even unarmed, I am never defenceless.”
“Remember that. You are never defenceless nor unprotected,” he whispered his words low so only she would hear. “The prince looked quite agitated, whatever were you talking about?”
“He is rather disturbed about the allegations about his mother’s illegitimacy. His new man has suggested those behind the tale deserve to burn with God’s fury.”
Nate swore against her skin. “Rather coincidental choice of words.”
The prince’s words chased each other around her brain. “Too much so. Dalkeith used to be Albert’s man and Bertie said he removed a couple of objects from the prince’s rooms.”
“Bertie?” He stiffened behind her.
Cara turned to see a frown settle over Nate’s face. She stifled her laugh. It wasn’t the coincidences that had him worried but her use of the nickname for the prince. “You know I do believe I could wrangle an invite to the prince’s private chambers, to discuss this further.”
Nate growled low in his throat. “I don’t think that will be necessary. We just need to have a conversation with Dalkeith once we figure out what Fraser wants in Leicester.”
London, Wednesday 12th February, 1862
ara christened the baby airship Bobby, because it bobbed up and down like a balloon. The men shook their heads, raised eyebrows, and muttered about having to call the diminutive dirigible Bobby, which just encouraged her to find nicknames for everything and everybody. Her attempt to match man and endearing epitaph shut them up lest any of them end up called Snookums.
They ate a quiet breakfast, each lost in their own thoughts. Cara was conflicted between rushing to Lowestoft to interrogate Jackson about his intentions toward her friend and her need to protect Nan and Nessy from whatever imaginary conspiracy Inspector Fraser thought they were involved in. She took out her growing frustration on her boiled egg. With a sharp knife, she slashed it in half and toppled off its head. Wielding a slice of toast like a sword, she rummaged around in the egg’s cavity.
Nate watched over the top of the newspaper and kept quiet.
More surprising, he maintained his silence when she gave a cry and lobbed another piece of buttered toast against the wall. It stuck and then dribbled down the dark blue paper leaving a sticky trial.
“I’ll kill him if he has taken advantage of her,” she said, as the butler picked up the toast and placed it on an empty tray. Watching the man clean the mess of the wall made her stay her hand from any further childish outbursts. “Sorry,” she said as he took the offending toast away.
“Let’s put out one fire at a time,” Nate said. “Shall we leave? I’m sure we all want to hear what Fraser has to say that involves your family.”
Rugged up in warm clothes, they climbed into Bobby and headed for Leicester. Cara pressed her face to the window and watched the snowscape below. The dirty grey of London gave way to the crisper view of the country. Farmers forked bright yellow hay off the back of wagons to feed hungry sheep and cattle. Children in brilliant blue and red woollen coats built snowmen and pelted each other with snowballs while their parents worked. The farther north they flew, the more the ground greened. Grass poked through its winter blanket, ready to shake off the cold and embrace spring in a few more weeks.
Inactivity chaffed; her body needed to do something, anything, to burn off the building edge of anxiety. She couldn’t even prowl around the tiny, swinging carriage. At least the Hellcat allowed her to circumnavigate the outside deck. She shuffled back and forth along the bench seat, took one stride to the bolted-down table and back again.
Nate sat immobile in the corner. Arms crossed over his chest, he watched her from under half lidded eyes. “Now I understand why you dove out a window if you father confined you to your room. You seem incapable of being restricted to a small space.”
“I can last a whole hour sitting with Malachi; he is helping me with my Latin.” A mischievous grin touched her lips.
One black eyebrow arched. “He might be ancient but I will call him out if he gets any ideas about you.”
Close to the estate, plumes of smoke rose as the Enforcers’ slow and ponderous steam carriage chuffed up the curving driveway. Cara guessed they had an early start to make such good time. The airship passed over the top and split the cloud in two before they set down in the garden. Little Bobby only needed the help of two workmen to be made secure to the b
ollards. Cara and Nate ascended the stairs in time to meet Fraser and Connor at the front door.
“What have you been up to?” Cara managed to whisper to her Nan as they showed the men into the front parlour. “Why does Inspector Fraser want to see you?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, dearest.” She kept the smile on her face but the worry etched itself between her brows. “Tea, Duffie,” she yelled down the hallway to the cook. “And bring some plates of those divine smelling savouries you are concocting down there, the scamp is far too skinny.”
Nessy gave Cara a hug. “You need curves, girl. Men love curves to explore, don’t you, Nate?” She gave the viscount a wink.
“Don’t worry about what he likes,” Cara whispered to Nessy as they took their seats. “I’m more worried about what you two have been up to.”
Nate hung back in the hallway until Fraser and Connor crossed the threshold. Only then did he trail behind and enter the room; his focus never moved from the object of his disdain. He took up position at the window with one hip resting on the sill and arms crossed over his chest. Cara saw the slight bulge in his sleeve, hiding the knife strapped to his forearm. Despite her urging, he never carried a gun. He preferred a blade; he said it made any encounter more personal.
Connor stood in a corner and tried not to bump an Aspidistra off its delicate stand. Each move elicited a clank or whirr from the gadgets dangling from his bandolier. He leapt back when a leaf touched him and the sudden movement set off a glow stick. “Sorry,” he muttered as he tried to cover up the bright green light. He thrust the stick into his pocket and glared at the plant.
Fraser took an indicated arm chair, across from the women. The orange tomcat claimed Cara’s lap and fixed Fraser with his golden gaze; a sneer curled his lip and exposed his fang. Finally, he and Nate had a foe in common.
Everyone stared and waited as the inspector extracted his notebook and pencil.
“Thank you for coming, Lady Lyons,” Fraser said. He rubbed the back of his neck, where Nate threw visual daggers, as though he felt the cold stare behind him.