by Amanda Scott
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, looking now at his broad chest, at the snowy white shirtfront, then at the intricate neckcloth. When he said nothing, she let her gaze continue upward to that firm chin, to the narrow lips parted slightly over even teeth, then to the straight nose and finally the deep-set, hazel eyes. What she encountered there nearly stopped her breath entirely. He was watching her intently, although there was no sign of anger. She wasn’t precisely certain what she saw, but it was disturbing. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, then swallowed carefully. “I ought to have told you, I suppose.”
“Yes.” His voice was very low.
“But I must confess I was a little afraid to do so, and the princess said no one would know.”
“Prinny always knows. He has spies in her household.”
“Spies!”
“Of course. She is his daughter, and she is not a particularly obedient daughter.” Amusement crept into his eye again, and Gillian responded with twitching lips.
“I see.”
“No doubt.” His tone was ironic, but he lifted his hands from her shoulders with an excess of care. “It is part of the reason I was reluctant to allow your friendship with the princess.”
“You feared she would teach me to be disobedient?”
He chuckled appreciatively. “No, you little minx, the thought didn’t so much as cross my mind, oddly enough. I doubt anyone could give you lessons on that subject.” He hesitated for a moment, an odd expression on his face, then stepped back, speaking more firmly. “In future, I would appreciate it if you would avoid visits of that nature. If the Princess Charlotte is the sort of friend you insist she is, then she will understand. She cannot wish for you to incur Prinny’s displeasure.” He looked directly into her eyes, that enigmatic, expression still lurking behind the surface sternness. “Or mine,” he added softly.
Her hands were trembling. Firmly, she pressed them against her skirt, but no matter how she tried, she could not continue to meet that steady gaze. “I … I will speak with her highness, my lord,” she muttered. “May I have your permission to retire now?”
In answer, he stepped past her and opened the door, saying nothing until she had put her foot upon the bottom stair. “Miss Harris.”
She turned, one gloved hand upon the polished rail. “Sir?”
“Pleasant dreams.” Then, before she could reply, he turned back into the study, leaving her to stare at the huge door when he had shut it gently behind him.
Gillian stood for a moment, gathering her wits, trying to understand the man she had just been with. One moment, he seemed almost friendly, the next, censorious. And just as she thought she had gained the confidence necessary to deal with him, he had reduced her, with seemingly little effort on his own part, to the status of a naughty child. It was incomprehensible.
With a sigh, she turned back up the stairs, half expecting to find Mrs. Periwinkle awaiting her in her bedchamber. But there was no one there except Ellen, who seemed quick to read her mood and to realize her mistress would not welcome idle chatter. So it was that Gillian was quickly tucked into bed and the candles extinguished. Despite a lingering sense of confusion and disorientation, however, she soon drifted into slumber.
When she awoke the following morning, the sun splashed golden rivers across the blue carpet, bringing a smile to her face. It looked like being a beautiful day. And she had no special plans until the evening. Remembering that the royal sovereigns were to embark at nine from the Whitehall Stairs for a trip by water to Woolwich, it occurred to her that the Princess Charlotte might very likely welcome a visit. It would be as good a time as any to have the little talk Landover had suggested.
Gillian smiled to herself. More a command than a suggestion, if one were to be precise. But once she had had her chocolate, she slipped on a dressing gown and went in search of Mrs. Periwinkle. It had seemed obvious that private conversation with the Princess at Warwick House would require some advance planning.
“So, if you please, Cousin Amelia,” she was saying a few moments later, “if you could induce Miss Knight to show you the gardens or something, it would enable me to speak plainly with her highness.”
“‘An honest tale speeds best being plainly told,’” agreed that lady with a smile. “I shall do my possible, my dear. I confess I had feared to find you not so cheerful this morning. Do these smiles indicate that Landover treated you gently? It was her highness of Wales who stirred his wrath, was it not?”
Gillian nodded with a grimace. “He still treats me like a child!”
“Then you should be grateful, my dear. ‘Men ne’er spend their fury on a child,’ as the bard so shrewdly wrote. I admit I am glad to see you submit to his wishes instead of flouting them. Much more comfortable for us all.”
With a sigh and a tiny smile, Gillian confessed that she’d rather flout Landover’s decrees. “It is just something about the man, cousin. He brings out the worst in me, makes me want to fly out at him, to enflame him to anger. But then, sometimes, his anger makes me feel small, childish and selfish, makes me dislike myself. The visit to Connaught House was not my doing, yet he made me feel as though it were, as though I had somehow betrayed his trust by not making the princess stay at home.”
“And could you have done so?”
“No.” She glanced up to find Mrs. Periwinkle’s eyes twinkling. “Well, I couldn’t have stopped her going,” she insisted defensively. There was a silence. Gillian shrugged. “But I daresay I needn’t have gone with her.”
“Honestly said,” applauded Mrs. Periwinkle. “And now that you have acknowledged the fault, I shall apply balm to that wriggling conscience of yours. I have been part and parcel of this world for more years than I care to count, my dear, and I tell you most truthfully that it takes a very strong soul to deny a royal request. And don’t make the mistake of believing it will be any the easier now. No doubt her highness will agree to help you avoid Landover’s displeasure, but that is not to say she will not request your company the next time the notion strikes her to do so. She has not been trained to think of others first, you know.”
Gillian nodded. “But how am I to deal with that when the time arises, ma’am? Shall I be strong enough then, do you think, to deny such a request?”
Mrs. Periwinkle shrugged elaborately. “You must follow your own conscience, my dear. Decide which is more important to your happiness, to submit to Landover or to Charlotte.” And with scarcely a pause to allow contemplation, she turned the subject to the important matter of Gillian’s dress for the upcoming Burlington House masquerade. Gillian suggested that she might like to go as Helen of Troy.
“A domino and a loo masque will suffice, my dear,” her mentor said firmly. “One does not wish to be thought demi-mondish.”
“Cousin Amelia!”
“Pish tush. Stop being missish, Gillian. You know perfectly well that half of the females at a do like this one will be lightskirts and birds of Paradise. If that Harriette Wilson and her sisters do not show up, you may call me a monkey.”
Gillian’s eyes widened. Harriette Wilson was one of the most infamous courtesans in London! And she, Gillian, might actually stand up in the same set with her. It suddenly occurred to her that the masquerade was going to be quite an event, and considering his reaction to the last one she had attended, she would not be surprised if Landover suddenly took it into his head to forbid her attendance.
What with worrying about that possibility and thinking about other matters, it was not until after breakfast, when she was in her own bedchamber making final preparations for her visit to Warwick House, that Gillian found herself thinking again about Mrs. Periwinkle’s advice regarding the Princess Charlotte.
It was really the first time the older lady had offered advice, she realized. Oh, she had suggested details of fashion and dress and had made observations about various people and situations. She had even outlined certain concrete rules of behavior, such as no waltzing at Almack’s or galloping in Hyde Par
k, but those were rules laid down by others. This was different. This was the sort of advice Gillian might have got from her own mother, had that dear lady survived long enough to offer it.
But it was not like Cousin Amelia to offer such advice. Then, with a niggling discomfort, Gillian realized that she had never asked her before. Rather had she treated her cousin like a sort of glorified paid companion. She had even, if the truth be admitted, treated her a little patronizingly. It had certainly never occurred to her that Cousin Amelia might care about her, might even wish to help her make her way in the complicated world of high society. It had all simply been a state of affairs not to be analyzed, merely to be accepted, and not always, she admitted unhappily, accepted graciously.
By the time she joined her companion in the landaulet for the journey to Warwick House, Gillian had determined to turn over a new leaf. She would become a paragon, just as Landover wished. She would do nothing to upset dear Cousin Amelia. She would show Landover he need not worry about her embarrassing him with the Regent. She would be strong.
It was not nearly as difficult as she had expected to have private discussion with the princess, who urged her dearest Miss Knight to show Mrs. Periwinkle over the famous gardens and then, with the influential Notti safely out of the way, promptly dismissed her other ladies-in-waiting. But just as Gillian was congratulating herself upon a successful strategy, the princess made it clear that she had her own reasons for ensuring their privacy. To Gillian’s careful explanation of Landover’s desire that she not visit Connaught House again, the princess returned quick agreement.
“But of course, my dear Gillian. It would never do for my father to forbid your visits to me. And he has threatened to do so, thinking you urged me to visit my poor mama.”
“Good gracious!”
“Not to worry,” grinned Charlotte. “I explained the matter, and he knows enough to believe me. Yet, now he has spoken to Landover, who has spoken to you, so it would be most foolhardy to do such a thing again. And we, we are not fools, my dear Gillian.”
“No indeed, your highness.”
“But it is not of Mama that I wish to speak.” The princess clasped her hands together and peered into Gillian’s eyes. “I have met the most wonderful young man.”
“Young man, your highness? But surely—”
“Ah, you think of Orange, do you not?” Gillian nodded. “Well, I think of him less and less. There are several others to take my mind off him, after all. But Leopold, ah, now there is a man!”
“Leopold?” Gillian had a sudden horror that the princess might have fallen for one of her grooms.
“Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg.” The name purred from her lips. Her expressive blue eyes lit with pleasure, and she made a little gesture with her hands. “He is … how can I describe him? He is beautiful. We are kindred spirits. He is the sort of man I have always wished to know.”
“But who is he, highness? I confess I have not heard his name before this.”
“He is a member of Alexander’s entourage. I met him at Catherine’s hotel.”
“Is he staying at the Pulteney, then?”
“No.” Charlotte seemed to hesitate, then went on bitterly, “He has been poked away over a greengrocer’s in the High Street of Marylebone. But that is nothing to the purpose,” she added quickly. “After all, his highness of Orange occupies an attic in Clifford Street, hardly an auspicious address for the man my father would see a future King of England.”
Gillian could see no good to be accomplished by pointing out the fact that since William of Orange was staying with his own tailor, the Clifford Street address, attic or not, was still far superior to an unknown grocer’s in Marylebone, so she merely asked if Prince Leopold was very handsome.
Charlotte’s sigh spoke volumes. “Did I say he is beautiful? And my dearest, most delightful Catherine says he bears a most distinguished record for war service. She made particular mention of his famous cavalry charge at the battle of Leipzig, where he took several thousand prisoners, and for which he was rewarded with the Order of Marie Thérèse. I care little for that, of course, except that it means he is brave as well as beautiful, but I can tell you, my dear Gillian, that in his uniform he is magnificent!”
Later, in their carriage, Gillian confided a portion of Charlotte’s artless conversation to her companion. Mrs. Periwinkle snorted. “In his uniform! I’ve no patience with uniforms. Oh, I’ve no doubt Prince Leopold looks exceedingly well in his, but to my mind, young impressionable girls like the Princess Charlotte ought never to be allowed to meet handsome young men in uniform. All that glitter and dash blinds them to the fellow underneath. And that one! I can tell you I hope she isn’t thinking Prinny will allow her to replace Orange with Saxe-Coburg, for he won’t. Not in a thousand years!”
“But why not, ma’am? After all, they are both princes.”
“Don’t you be fooled by a title, my dear. I’ve heard of your Prince Leopold. He’s a pauper, the third son of a ruling duke. His eldest brother will inherit, the second will join the church, and Leopold must make his way as best he can. I’ve no doubt of his war record, nor of his figure in uniform, but his income is barely two hundred a year, while as to status and rank, he has none—hence the greengrocer’s attic. And Charlotte has mice in hers if she thinks to have him for her king. That I can promise you.”
Silence fell while Gillian digested all that Mrs. Periwinkle had told her. She could not be surprised that the older lady had Prince Leopold’s statistics right on the tip of her tongue. With her connections, she could no doubt recite the pedigree and income of nearly every eligible nobleman in Europe.
Her companion frowned suddenly. “I wonder if this has been her grace of Oldenburg’s game all along. The Tsar has got another sister back in Russia, after all, and though ’tis said she’s as plain as ditchwater and well past the age mark as well, if Orange is looking for royal connections, he could do worse. And if Charlotte does send him packing—”
“Could she do that, ma’am?”
Mrs. Periwinkle shrugged. “I should have thought not. After all, Prinny is her father and can dispose of her any way he chooses. Yet, perhaps it will depend upon who is able to influence him most. He does wish for popularity, and he does seek the Tsar’s approval. I can tell you this much, my dear—I would not risk a wager on the outcome of all this nonsense.”
Gillian chuckled, but her mind was busy the rest of the day. She had much food for thought what with trying to understand Landover’s behavior and, in her own small way, to unravel the more basic intrigues that seemed to be afoot amongst the visiting sovereigns, as well as to wonder what effect these might have upon the future of England’s crown princess. Of course, she could not begin to fathom the latter intricacies, but it made for interesting fantasies at least, especially in view of the fact that Landover had promised she would actually meet Alexander and the King of Prussia at the Marquis of Stafford’s dinner that very night.
They did not arrive at Stafford House until nearly eight o’clock, the dinner having been planned for a late hour in order that the sovereigns might have time to rest a bit after their return from Woolwich. Gillian had dressed with care in an exquisite puff-sleeved, low-scooped gown of white silk, daintily embroidered with silver lilies at the hem and nipped in under her breasts with silver ribbons. She wore a collar of pearls, and her dark hair was confined at the top of her head in a twist woven with silver ribbons and seed pearls. Dainty pearl drops in her ears, a simple silver filigree bracelet over one white glove, and satin pearl-rosetted slippers completed her outfit. The look in Landover’s eyes as she descended the grand staircase told her her selection was a success. Even Sir Avery seemed suitably impressed.
For once, they would not be part of a larger party, although they would meet the Harmoncourt contingent as well as other friends later at the Cholmondeley ball. But for the dinner itself, they would, as Mrs. Periwinkle put it, be attending en famille.
In the carriage, Gillian was p
articularly conscious of Landover’s presence. Memories of the night before, when she had expected to be scolded and had met instead with gentleness, seemed to hover between them. She felt unaccountably tongue-tied and was grateful for Mrs. Periwinkle’s spirited chatter. Suddenly, she realized that her companion was recounting Princess Charlotte’s confidences about Prince Leopold. Flushing, she glanced at Landover, fearing he might not approve of her having passed such things on to Cousin Amelia. But he seemed to have got the idea that the information had come to the older lady firsthand.
He smiled, saying lightly, “It seems her highness is no more immune to infatuation than any other young girl. You will no doubt agree, ma’am, that it would be kindest to say naught of this to anyone else, since nothing can come of it. Her highness could only be hurt by such rumors.”
“Of course, Landover. You know you may trust me. I only mention it to you because I felt you should know what was going on.” She glanced pointedly at Gillian.
“And I appreciate that, ma’am.” He, too, turned to Gillian. “You will heed me, miss, and say nothing to anyone. Such tittle-tattle can only do mischief. You, too, sir.”
Sir Avery nodded, but Gillian’s eyes snapped. She nearly gave Landover a piece of her mind for daring to think she would indulge in idle gossip about the princess. But remembering her resolution, she swallowed the angry words threatening to spill from her lips and merely said, “Of course, my lord.”
He seemed suddenly amused, and his eyes were still twinkling when he helped her from the carriage to the carpeted flagway. Gillian pursed her lips, not daring to meet his eye lest she lose her temper after all. Landover bent his head near to hers.
“Afraid I should send you home if you speak your mind, miss?”
Her eyes flew wide, but she gritted her teeth. “I do not indulge in petty gossip, my lord.”
“Nor do I in petty revenge, child. ’Twould take more than sharp words to make me send you home tonight, looking as beautiful as you do. ’Twould be to deny me the pleasure of the congratulations I shall receive for having you on my arm.”