Courtship and Curses

by Marissa Doyle

  “But when do you leave? One does not just up and make a journey like that on a moment’s notice—”

  Parthenope tugged Sophie’s arm, so that they turned slightly away from Aunt Isabel’s tirade. “Let’s leave them to it. No one will dare hurt your father when your Aunt Isabel is there. Shall we stand guard on the prince or go looking for miscreants and assassins?”

  “I trust His Royal Highness had the wit not to invite any of those tonight,” someone said behind them, “but one never knows.”

  “Perry!” Parthenope dropped Sophie’s arm and whirled. “What are you doing here?”

  Sophie turned too, her heart feeling as though it had fluttered up into her throat, but curtsied smoothly enough as he bowed. Peregrine wore a black coat and plain linen and white stockings with his knee breeches, like the Regent’s friend Beau Brummel. The splendid dark simplicity of his clothes set off his cool gray eyes even more noticeably.

  “That’s not a very gracious greeting.” Peregrine’s mouth quirked humorously, but Sophie noticed that the smile never reached the rest of his face. “I’ll overlook it for now, though, as I have quite an excellent reason for being here. Probably better than you have, coz.”

  “Pooh,” said Parthenope. “I’m here as a guest of Lord Lansell.”

  “And I’m here as a new secretary to Lord Palmerston.”

  Sophie was unable to repress a gasp. “In—in the War Office?”

  “That would be where Lord Palmerston works,” he agreed.

  Parthenope grabbed his arm. “But—but you can’t! I thought you wanted to be in the Foreign Office?”

  Sophie wished she could grab his arm as well, to have something to hold on to. First Brussels, and now this—what other bombshell of news would drop on them tonight?

  “I would have preferred the Foreign Office, but can hope to transfer there in the future, once we’ve got Napoléon at bay again.” He hesitated, and looked at Sophie. “Your father—”

  “Sophie, tell him—you can’t work there, Perry!” Parthenope looked as though she was close to tears.

  “Stay here and watch my father. Don’t let him drink anything, if you can.” Sophie patted her shoulder and turned to Peregrine. “Will you walk with me? I think that perhaps we ought to talk.”

  He bowed and took her arm. “The garden?”

  There would be less opportunity to be overheard there. Sophie nodded and let him lead her through the crowd toward one of the open doors.

  Could this be what had kept him so busy the last week, and so distracted? Quite probably, but why choose to enter the War Office when his heart was in diplomacy, not battle? Yes, he could surely transfer when the war was over … if it ended.

  He was silent as he led her as quickly as she could manage from the ballroom and into the cool, dark blue dusk of Carlton House’s back garden. Torches set in high wrought-iron sconces lit the scattered supper tents and refreshment rooms, and from another small templelike structure on the far side of the ballroom, the sounds of an orchestra playing marches could be heard. Here and there party guests—mostly couples—flitted about in the torchlight arm in arm, or stood together in the shadows in close conversation. The tents, the music, the torches, the equerries and servants in their hussar uniforms, all lent the gardens a romantically military air that Sophie knew was false; a real camp of soldiers preparing for battle would be anything but romantic. But she couldn’t help feeling a tension in the air—was it only hers?

  Peregrine paused. “Over there. We can use one of the supper tents.”

  He led her toward a tent in the far corner of the garden. It was unlit, but a nearby torch threw enough light into it to show rose-colored draperies and a display of regimental colors on the walls. Haphazardly stacked chairs and tables piled with candelabra and folded linens, in readiness for the prince’s next grand party, occupied much of the space. Peregrine seized a candle from one of the candelabra and lit it at the nearby torch, then came back, set it in the candelabrum, and to her astonishment, took her in his arms.

  “Sophie,” he murmured, and kissed her hair.

  Sophie tried to make herself think of frozen ponds and drifting snowflakes, but everything below her ears seemed to be thinking of warmth and melting instead. It would be wonderful to bury her face against his shoulder and just drink in the feeling of having him so close to her, but this would not do. There were too many questions to be answered.

  “Peregrine, what—”

  He drew back slightly and laid a finger gently on her lips. “I’ve spoken to your father—did he tell you? He seemed happy to give me his consent to speak to you.”

  A half hour ago, she would have let her head drop back onto his shoulder and enjoyed the moment. But this was now. She turned her head to evade his hand and said, “The War Office—why? Why did you go there?”

  He looked surprised. “Is that what you want to talk about? I went there in order to find out who’s trying to kill your father and the others, of course.”

  His voice was so matter-of-fact that it took her a moment to comprehend his words. “Then you do believe Parthenope and me?”

  He hesitated. “I didn’t at first. But the more I thought about it, the more it troubled me. Parthenope and I may have a history of—of disagreement, but I know she’s no fool. And neither are you.”

  “And what if you get hurt or killed?” Sophie demanded.

  His arms tightened around her. “I promise I won’t. But it’s better than you or Parthenope coming to any harm.”

  “No, it isn’t. Besides, why should we? We don’t work there.”

  “Which is why I need to be there. It’s rather difficult for you to investigate it from the outside, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, but you don’t know—” Sophie stopped.

  He frowned. “What? Is there something else? Has something else happened?”

  Sophie thought furiously. She couldn’t tell him about the poison in Papa’s champagne, could she? No one knew about that except her and Parthenope and the person who’d put it there. And she couldn’t tell him about the magic.…

  Or could she? He’d finally come to believe that there was some kind of plot—but would he believe that magic was behind the actual attempts, camouflaged to look accidental?

  “No,” she said slowly. “But I don’t like the idea of you putting yourself into danger.”

  He smiled and touched her cheek gently. “And I repeat—what kind of man would let a pair of defenseless females face danger, if he could prevent it?”

  A little stab of annoyance made her speak sharply. “I’m not as weak and defenseless as I might look, as I believe we’ve already discussed in the past.”

  “Of course you’re not defenseless,” he said quickly. He hesitated, then said, “And besides, I have a feeling I already know who is responsible. My joining the War Office may aid in drawing our villain out, but I’ll need your help especially to catch her.”

  Her? “You think it’s someone I know?”

  He nodded and looked past Sophie at the jumble of furniture. “Maybe we should sit—I’m afraid this might not be easy for you—”

  Sophie shrugged impatiently, but let him lead her to a chair. “We’re talking about my father’s life, for heaven’s sake! Who do you think it is?”

  He stood before her, hands clasped behind his back, and looked down at his feet as if he wasn’t looking forward to telling her. “Your houseguest, Madame Carswell.”

  For a moment, Sophie wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. “Mada—Amélie? You think it’s Amélie?”

  “Sophie, think about it. Who has been there at all of the attempts?”

  Why hadn’t she foreseen this possibility? Because it seemed so utterly ridiculous? “Yes, Amélie has been there at all of them … and so have I. So why don’t you think I’m responsible, then?”

  “Because you are not French, and she is,” he explained patiently. “We’re at war with the emperor of France. I know I spouted some nons
ense about the Allies and the Americans, but truly, nobody else has a reason to want to remove important members of our War Office except someone sympathetic to Bonaparte’s cause. Except that I think it’s far more than that she sympathizes with him. I think she’s an agent sent to do just this.”

  “But she’s not French anymore. She’s been British ever since she married Papa’s friend—”

  “Do we know that? All we have is her word that she’s John Carswell’s widow—”

  “My father, who was Mr. Carswell’s friend, seems to think she is as well,” Sophie replied frostily.

  He shrugged. “Very well. But before that, she was French. Her father was in India as an official of the French government. Why shouldn’t she be loyal to her home country?”

  Good God, he had an answer for everything—a wrong answer, she was sure, but— “And what if she is still fond of her home country? Wouldn’t you be?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “Which is why I suspect her.” He knelt by her chair and took her hand. “I know it’s hard for you to believe—”

  “You’re quite right, I can’t believe it. She has been wonderful to me—to us. Even Aunt Isabel likes her—”

  Peregrine was shaking his head. “Of course you all like her. How could she remain in your house without making herself as agreeable as possible? Do you think all spies walk about rubbing their hands together and acting like a villain in a farce? There’s no reason she can’t be trying to kill your father and be kind to you at the same time—”

  “She hasn’t just been kind, as you call it,” Sophie said angrily. “Do you have any notion of what Amélie has done for me? She’s helped me understand that I don’t have to be ashamed that I’m a cripple. That being lame doesn’t make me stupid or ugly or half-witted. That I can wear pretty dresses and go to parties and be just like any other girl. That while I’m limited in a few things, I can be just as good as anyone in others, or better. That isn’t being kind to me—it’s making me see I don’t need to agree with how other people might see me, or accept their ‘kindness’—or their ‘protection.’”

  “Of course you are. That’s obvious to everyone—”

  “No, it isn’t. Was it obvious to Susan Halliday and all the others like her who’ve been rude or condescending or just looked straight through me because I make them uncomfortable with my limp and my cane? Was it obvious to you?”

  He had the grace to look shamefaced. “They’re wrong to behave so.”

  Sophie swallowed back a sarcastic retort. “If it weren’t for Amélie, I would still be hiding behind the potted palms at every party I go to. She is not trying to kill me or anyone else. You have to take my word for it—we must keep looking for who really is responsible.”

  This was madness, but how could she say, “I know it’s not Amélie, because whoever’s doing it is using magic, and I would know if she were a witch”?

  “It’s not Amélie,” she said more calmly, measuring her words to lend them weight. “I know it isn’t.”

  He sighed and took her hand again. “How do you know that?”

  “Because … because I do.”

  He was silent for a minute. “Because you don’t want to believe it?” he finally said.

  “No!” she cried, snatching her hand away. “Do you think I’m such a—such a gull that I’d convince myself of something just because I don’t want to believe the truth? Don’t you think I’ve had enough experience in my life facing difficult truths? I’ve lived in the same house with her for many weeks now. I know it isn’t Amélie.”

  “Then I will believe you, if you tell me your proof.”

  Her annoyance withered. “I—I can’t. If I could, I would. Can’t you just believe me?”

  “Can’t you just trust me?”

  “Of course I trust you!” She held her hand back out to him.

  He didn’t take it. “Just not enough to tell me how you know it’s not Madame Carswell.”

  Peregrine’s words fell on her ears like a glove thrown down in challenge. “No—I don’t know! Oh, you don’t understand!”

  “No, I don’t.” He climbed to his feet and stood over her, close enough that she could see the agitated rise and fall of his chest. But when she looked up to meet his eyes, she couldn’t read the expression in their cool grayness. “Sophie, I have to do what I think is right. And quarreling with you isn’t helping. When you feel you can tell me how it is you are so sure that Madame Carswell is innocent of trying to murder your father, I will be happy to listen to you.”

  “I—”

  “But I have to say that it doesn’t make me feel exactly comfortable to know that the young woman I—I had every intention of making my wife can’t trust me with her secrets.”

  She stared at him, trying to think of something—anything!—to say. But it suddenly felt as if her thoughts were squeezing through a tiny hole in her mind, one word at a time, so that she couldn’t string them together. Peregrine seemed to blur and waver as he stood before her, and with painful slowness she realized that her eyes were full of tears.

  Because he was right. She should be able to tell him why she thought Amélie was innocent, but she didn’t trust him enough to tell him about her magic. Not yet. She still hadn’t gotten over how he’d hurt her at the start of their acquaintance, and now she still wasn’t sure she knew him well enough to trust that he wouldn’t regard her as unnatural or evil … or if her magic failed, as freakish or insane. And if she couldn’t tell him about it, could she, in all conscience, let him continue to court her?

  “Sophie?”

  His voice sounded as if it were coming from miles away, which she supposed, in a way, it was. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and sniffed … but no. She wasn’t going to sit here and cry at him. At least she could be dignified about the matter.

  She set her cane and stood up, ignoring the hand he held out to her. “You’re right, Lord Woodbridge. I can’t stop you from suspecting that Madame Carswell is some kind of Bonapartist assassin. And I can’t tell you why it’s quite impossible that she is, because what you said is true. I can’t trust you with my—my secrets.” She paused to steady her voice and looked down at her hands clutching the crook of her cane, because she didn’t dare look at him. “Perhaps it would be best if … if we agreed that under the circumstances—”

  His voice broke across hers, and each word sounded chipped from January ice. “So you’re willing to stand by and wait until another War Office member—your own father, perhaps—is killed? Or will it take two or three of them dying to bring you to your senses and stop you from clutching your secrets like a—like a cane? And in the meanwhile, will you enjoy seeing England’s ability to make war on the emperor compromised?”

  “Why, you can’t—” she gasped, feeling as if all the air had been sucked from her lungs.

  In the candlelight she could see the lines of his face shift as his jaw clenched, relaxed, clenched again. “I can, and I will, because I have evidently made a grievous error in judgment. Forgive me, madam, for taking up your time.” He bowed, a short, cold salute, then turned on his heel and stalked from the tent.

  “Peregrine,” she said, but her throat had turned hot and scratchy, so it came out in a low croak. He wouldn’t hear her … and anyway, did she want him to? She’d made her choice. She was even certain it had been the correct one. So why did it feel as if her heart had been yanked from her chest and cut into thousands of tiny, bleeding slivers?

  She leaned heavily on her cane for support. If only she could make the clock run backward … but what good would that do? They would still reach this point of impasse.

  She had hurt him terribly, she knew. Perhaps it would have been kinder to stab him with a knife than say to him what she had. But she was hurt too. Had it been necessary for him to say those horrible things about her wanting to kill Papa?

  Suddenly that tent was the last place she wanted to be. She blew out the candle and stumbled out into the dark, but not to find Peregrine. All sh
e wanted now was to find Papa and claim a headache, and ask if she could go home. Parthenope would surely—

  Oh God, Parthenope. How was she going to tell her that she and Peregrine would not—Parthenope had spent the last two months doing her best to bring them together … and now this. Parthenope would forgive her—eventually. But just now she could not face her, as much as she loved her.

  At the perimeter of the brightly lit supper tents, she paused, wishing the flickering torches wouldn’t make her eyes water so. At least, that’s what she preferred to believe … not that tears were running down her face for any other possible reason. She was dabbing at them with the corner of her shawl because it was too hard to juggle cane and fan while fishing a handkerchief out of her reticule when something—a movement off to her left, caught her attention. A man stood there, his back to Sophie, a few feet behind one of the tents, which seemed jammed full of guests, to judge from the noise and the laughter issuing from it. As she watched, he raised his hand and seemed to say something.

  “Monsieur?” Sophie called. “Monsieur le Comte?” She took a few tentative steps toward him. Who had he been talking to?

  The Comte de Carmouche-Ponthieux started and whirled around. “Lady Sophie!” He wore an odd expression that she could not quite decipher in the torchlight.

  “I didn’t know you would be here tonight, sir,” she said. “My aunt will be so pleased to see you.”

  “Marie is here?” he asked. “I did not think—” He leaned toward her and frowned. “But you are not well, mademoiselle. Will you take my arm? May I help you?” He gave her his arm, then without comment handed her a large, snowy handkerchief.

  Sophie took it with a murmured thank-you. He waited while she used it, then said, “You have gotten lost, perhaps, in this very large garden? May I escort you to your family?”

  “Thank you, that would be … no, wait. Could you find Aunt Molly for me? I have a—a dreadful headache, actually, and I should like to go home, if she wouldn’t mind—”

  He inclined his head. “At once. I shall call my own carriage, and drive you both back to your house on my way home. I too am finding the evening somewhat … disappointing.” He smiled and shrugged. “You will be all right to wait here? Can I not take you into the tent to sit down?”