The Paper Princess

by M C Beaton

  “Eh, what? Oh, very well, m’dear,” sighed Mr. Barchester, who had long ago given up arguing with his strong-willed daughter.

  Chapter Eight

  It was the fashionable hour in Hyde Park. Spanking carriages darted along in the hazy spring sunlight. Dust rose from under hundreds of painted wheels. A carriage, particularly a lady’s carriage, was not so much a means of transport as a sort of moving platform for the display of wealth. The more expensive the horses and carriage, the less used. No first-rate carriage horse was expected to travel more than fourteen miles a day at a maximum speed of ten miles per hour. In the wealthiest establishments, a large, expensive retinue of coachmen, grooms, and stable boys was maintained so that milady or milord could drive out in grand style for one and a half hours a day, six days a week. Some of the ladies, beautifully attired in the most expensive fashions of the day, drove themselves with a liveried groom sitting on the rumble seat behind, or, occasionally, following on horseback at a distance that was great enough to appear respectful but not so great that he could not afford immediate assistance with horse or carriage in an emergency.

  All of the servants were dressed in colorful livery with gay vertically-striped waistcoats, though the footmen wore horizontal stripes indoors. Their coats were ornamented with silver or gilt livery buttons. The stable staff wore highly polished top boots, while the footmen wore white silk stockings that were usually padded out with false calves if their legs were thin. The coats of arms on the carriages were miniature works of art, and the whole display had an air of idle opulence.

  But underneath all this atmosphere of languid elegance, each member of society was in deadly earnest. Mamas studied the faces of the eligibles for signs of interest while their daughters giggled and fluttered, and used fans and eyes to the best effect. Parvenus cut their country relatives dead as they fawned on the notables.

  And Lord Arthur Bessamy was discovering, to his amazement, that one could make love to a lady with one’s whole body without touching her or moving an inch. His eyes caressed the smooth pearl of her cheeks, his arms, correctly holding his cane and his gloves, were, in his mind’s eye, clasped tightly about the slimness of her waist. His lips burned against hers in his imagination.

  Felicity sensed a wave of sensuality emanating from him without quite knowing what it was, without knowing why her whole body seemed drawn to him, why her lips felt hot and swollen, and her breasts strained against the thinness of demure muslin.

  Dolph was in good spirits, cheerfully waving to everyone he knew. Miss Chubb was downcast, her eyes red. Felicity had overheard Miss Chubb having the most terrible row with the tutor, but when asked about it, Miss Chubb had only sniveled dismally and refused to explain.

  Felicity grew more uncomfortably aware of her own reddening cheeks and treacherously throbbing body. Lord Arthur was engaged to be married, she told herself firmly, and then wondered why that thought made her feel so depressed. When they stopped as a carriage full of Lord Arthur’s relatives pulled up beside them, Felicity was glad of their company, glad to have Lord Arthur’s disturbing attention taken away from her. But her peace of mind did not last long. One faded aunt with a long, drooping nose and pale, inquisitive eyes, said, “Bessamy, you have forgot your manners. Introduce us immediately to Miss Barchester—or do you mean to keep her away from us until the wedding?”

  “This is not Miss Barchester,” said Lord Arthur equably. “Allow me to present Princess Felicity of Brasnia.” He then introduced his relatives to his party. Two aunts, two uncles, and two small female cousins bowed to Felicity and stared at her in open curiosity. “Charmed,” said the inquisitive aunt who had been introduced as Mrs. Chester-Vyne. “Do you mean to reside in London for long, Your Highness?”

  “Only for a few weeks of the Season, Mrs. Chester-Vyne.”

  “I am very good at geography and have a knowledge of the globes,” piped up a small cousin with a face like a ferret. “I have never heard of Brasnia.”

  “Nor I,” said Mr. Chester-Vyne, who looked remarkably like his long-nosed wife.

  “Dear me,” said Lord Arthur. “Never heard of Brasnia? I am ashamed of you all. It is quite lovely this time of year. They have the Festival of Manhood about now. All the young men in the villages are stripped quite naked and lashed…”

  “Here, now!” protested Mr. Chester-Vyne. “Ladies present.”

  “Stripped naked and lashed,” went on Lord Arthur firmly, “until the blood runs. They are then sponged clean by the village maidens who are bare to the waist. A most touching ceremony, and quite colorful.”

  “Bessamy!” said Mrs. Chester-Vyne awfully. “We have no wish to have our sensibilities bruised by macabre tales of a barbaric race. Walk on, John.”

  The coachman raised his whip, and the relatives drove off with many a backward offended glance.

  “By Jove!” said Dolph. “You have found out a lot about Brasnia.”

  “Not I,” said Lord Arthur cheerfully. “I merely wanted to be shot of them. You must tell me the truth about Brasnia someday, Princess.”

  “Yes, I must, mustn’t I,” said Felicity in a small voice. She took little consolation from the fact that the encounter with Lord Arthur’s relatives had had the same effect as a bucket of cold water being poured over her.

  “Going to the opera tonight?” she realized Dolph was asking.

  “We have no plans for this evening,” said Felicity.

  “Then, you must come with us!” cried Dolph. “Lord Arthur has a box, and you would be delighted to take the ladies along, now wouldn’t you, Arthur?”

  A vision of his fiancée’s pale, cold face rose before Lord Arthur’s eyes.

  “You simply must come,” he said. “Catalini is singing. We shall call for you at eight.”

  “I don’t think I should attend,” sniffed Miss Chubb. “I know Mr. Silver will be quite furious with me.”

  Felicity looked at her in surprise. “What on earth has our tutor to do with where we go?”

  “Mr. Silver,” said Miss Chubb heavily, “thinks I behaved in a most unladylike way after the balloon ascension.”

  “Then, I suggest you put Mr. Silver firmly in his place,” said Dolph.

  “Then, you will come?” asked Lord Arthur, saying to himself, just one more evening and then I shall behave myself.

  Just one more time, thought Felicity.

  “Yes,” she said. “And do not look so worried, Madame Chubiski. I shall talk to Mr. Silver most sternly if he makes any trouble.”

  Mr. Palfrey was sitting at the toilet table in a room in Limmer’s in Conduit Street, arranging his hair with the curling tongs, when a hotel servant arrived to say he had managed to secure Mr. Palfrey a seat in the pit at the opera.

  Mr. Palfrey tipped him generously. His heart lifted. He was glad he had come to London. It was wonderful to be away from accusing Cornish eyes. Let the fuss die down, and then he could return to his search for the jewels. Somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, flashing fire in the green depths, lay the Channing diamonds. He had studied them minutely in that portrait at the castle until he felt he knew every stone.

  As usual, he fussed a great deal over his appearance. Then he realized his cumbersome traveling coach was not suitable for a short journey, and besides, it was round in the mews and would take an age for the horses to be harnessed up. He debated whether to walk, but fear of arriving at the opera with muddied heels and possibly dirty stockings made him ring the bell and request a hack.

  It was nine o’clock before Mr. Palfrey reached the opera house. The seats in the pit were simply long wooden benches, and they were already packed to capacity by lounging bucks and bloods by the time he arrived. He retreated from the pit and tipped an usher, who told him that a certain Sir Jeffrey Dawes would not be using his box that evening, and Mr. Palfrey would be able to use it.

  Comfortably ensconced in a side box, Mr. Palfrey immediately raised his glass to his eye and scanned the house. He let out a slow breath of pleasure
. This was where he belonged, not hidden away in some castle in Cornwall. Fans fluttered and jewels glittered on men and women alike.

  His eye, magnified by the glass, traveled along the row of boxes opposite—and then he let it drop with a squawk and turned quite white under his paint.

  “Shhh,” hissed a dowager venomously from the box next to his.

  Mr. Palfrey sat trembling. Surely that had been Felicity Channing in the box opposite!

  Catalini’s lovely voice soared and fell. She had the power to make all these society members look at her and listen to her—a rare feat, as most attended the opera because it was fashionable to do so and were usually not in the slightest interested in what was taking place on the stage.

  Mr. Palfrey took a deep breath and raised his glass again.

  It was Felicity! And a Felicity blazing and flashing with diamonds, the Channing diamonds that he had come to know so well from studying that portrait at Tregarthan Castle.

  Now he shook with rage. Just wait until those servants and yokels in Cornwall heard about this!

  He could barely contain himself until the opera was over. Two people had left Felicity’s box, but she was still there herself with a male companion. Mr. Palfrey did not recognize Lord Arthur. What if they did not stay for the farce? It would be hard to reach them.

  He rose to his feet and scurried along the corridor behind the boxes, shaking off the clutching hands of the prostitutes.

  In his rage and confusion, he opened the doors of several wrong boxes before he hit the right one.

  “Well, Felicity Channing,” he said in a voice squeaky with outrage. “And what have you to say for yourself?”

  The little figure with her back to him remained absolutely still. The man beside Felicity rose to his feet. Now Mr. Palfrey recognized Lord Arthur.

  “What the deuce do you mean by this outrage?” demanded Lord Arthur, towering over Mr. Palfrey. “This lady is the Princess Felicity of Brasnia.”

  “Princess, my foot!” screeched Mr. Palfrey, “that’s my stepdaughter, the minx. And those are my jewels.”

  He made a move forward to grasp Felicity’s shoulder and then gasped as Lord Arthur pushed him back.

  “Leave immediately,” said Lord Arthur, “or I shall call you out.”

  “But that is my stepdaughter,” cried Mr. Palfrey. “She pretended to die in order to trick me.”

  “Your Royal Highness,” said Lord Arthur, “before I throw this fellow downstairs, do you wish to take a look at him? Perhaps he is a former servant of yours whose mind has become deranged.”

  “Servant!” shouted Mr. Palfrey. “Do I look like a servant?”

  Felicity stood up and turned about.

  She looked coldly at Mr. Palfrey. “I have never seen this man before in my life,” she said steadily.

  Her eyes were cold, and her expression haughty. All in that moment, Mr. Palfrey began to fear he had made a terrible mistake. The diamonds on her head and at her throat blazed with such a light that he could no longer be sure they were the Channing jewels, for their prismatic fire nearly prevented him from seeing the individual stones. But it was the beauty of the girl in front of him that took him aback. For Mr. Palfrey had convinced himself that Felicity was plain. In his memory, she was a drab little thing with carroty hair, not a regal goddess like the lady facing him.

  He became aware that everyone in the house had begun to stare at Lord Arthur’s box. Lord Arthur looked on the point of suggesting a duel.

  “Pray accept my apologies,” babbled Mr. Palfrey. “The resemblance is astonishing. You remember me, do you not, Lord Arthur? You were there when my poor Felicity was found missing.”

  Lord Arthur continued to regard him as if he were something that had crept out from under a stone, but Felicity spoke again, her voice strangely accented. “No doubt,” she said, “grief over the death of your stepdaughter has sadly turned your brain.” Then she sat down again with her back to him.

  Stammering apologies, Mr. Palfrey bowed his way out.

  “I have the headache,” said Felicity. “I wish to go home.”

  “First Madame Chubiski with a headache, and now you,” said Lord Arthur. “Come along. You are looking very white. Did that silly little man upset you?”

  “Yes. What is all this about his stepdaughter, my lord? And do you know him?” Felicity trembled as she waited for his reply. For if he had not known she was an impostor before, surely he knew now.

  “I met him once,” said Lord Arthur in a bored voice. “His stepdaughter, also called Felicity, was running away from him. She fell over a cliff in a storm.”

  “How terrible!”

  “Indeed, yes. I trust you do not have such dreadful happenings in Brasnia.”

  Felicity wanted to cry out to him that she was sure he had not believed one word of her nonsense, but there was still a little element of doubt, still a little hope that he believed her. She did not know why it was, but she felt uneasy and breathless and uncomfortable with him, and wretchedly lonely and afraid the minute he went away.

  In the carriage ride home, with Lord Arthur riding on the box—for it was a closed carriage and she would have been compromised had he traveled inside with her—Felicity wondered desperately what to do. Thank goodness Miss Chubb had felt ill and had left with Dolph. Those two would surely have made up Mr. Palfrey’s mind for him. She would need to leave London. She would need to get away, for she was sure that if Mr. Palfrey saw her with Miss Chubb, then the game would be up. And it would be folly to continue to see Lord Arthur. He was engaged to another woman.

  To her dismay, Lord Arthur followed her into the house in Chesterfield Street.

  She turned in the hall to tell him he must leave and then her eye fell on the enormous gold-crested card. She picked it up. It was an invitation to the Queen’s drawing room in two weeks’ time.

  “The royal summons, eh?” said Lord Arthur, reading it over her shoulder.

  “Do I have to go?” asked Felicity.

  “It would certainly look most odd if you did not.”

  Felicity thought rapidly. Two weeks. She would leave town in the morning and return just for the Queen’s drawing room, and then Princess Felicity of Brasnia would disappear forever.

  “Will you come driving with me tomorrow?” Lord Arthur asked.

  “N-no,” said Felicity. “I am unwell and need country air. We shall be leaving in the morning.”

  He went very still, and then he said lightly, “And where are you bound?”

  “I had not decided.”

  “May I suggest Brighton? It is quite near London, and it is possible to find comfortable accommodation out of Season.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps that would be best.” Felicity held out her hand. “Good-bye, Lord Arthur,” she said firmly. “I doubt if we shall meet again.”

  He took her hand in his and smiled down into her eyes. She looked up at him with a dazed, drowned look. He dropped her hand and then placed his own hands lightly on her shoulders. His mouth began to descend toward her own. He kissed her very lightly on the lips, and then raised his head and looked at her in a sort of wonder. His arms slid from her shoulders to settle at her waist, and then he jerked her tightly against him and kissed her again, and both went whirling off into a warm sensual blackness while the clock in the hall ticked away the seconds, and then the minutes, as his mouth moved languorously against her own and passion sang in his veins.

  “Is that you, Felicity?” came Miss Chubb’s voice. And then her heavy tread sounded in the corridor upstairs.

  They broke apart, breathing heavily as if they had been running.

  “You shouldn’t have…” whispered Felicity.

  “Brighton,” he said firmly. “Go to Brighton.”

  He turned on his heel, and then he was gone, leaving Felicity standing in the hall, her hand to her lips.

  The council of war went on long into the night. John Tremayne was to ride ahead to Brighton and rent a house and then ride out to the
first posting house on the road outside Brighton to give them the address. Felicity’s dressmaker’s dummy was to be sent to the dressmaker with the promise of double money if a court dress were made and ready in time for the Queen’s drawing room.

  “Brighton is certainly an excellent place to choose,” said Mr. Silver. “What made you choose Brighton, ma’am?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Felicity vaguely. For she was sure there would be protests if she said the suggestion had come from Lord Arthur. Mr. Silver considered Lord Arthur and his friend, Dolph, to be corrupt and evil men who encouraged ladies like Miss Chubiski to drink to excess, and Miss Chubb herself had become more and more worried about Felicity and Lord Arthur. Felicity had not told her about the embrace. Miss Chubb, she knew, would be deeply shocked.

  Lord Arthur made ready to go out in search of Dolph the next day to see if that young man would fancy a trip to Brighton. But the fact that he was engaged to be married to Miss Martha Barchester was forcibly brought home to him when his footman handed him a letter. With a sinking heart, he recognized the seal. He crackled open the parchment. The letter was from Miss Barchester, saying that she and her parents were staying at the Crillon Hotel. Lord Arthur would no doubt be delighted and amazed to see her so soon. His presence was expected at the earliest moment.

  He took a deep breath. He must disengage himself from Miss Barchester at the earliest opportunity. But what excuse did he have? That he had never been in love before? That he had never believed in such an emotion? That his heart was not in London, it was on the road to Brighton?

  But did poor Miss Barchester deserve to be jilted because she no longer held any magic for him? That calmness and stillness of hers that had so attracted him now seemed dull. He felt like a cad.

  He took himself off to the Crillon Hotel, preferring to walk, and so absorbed in his worries that he did not notice he was being followed.

  Mr. Palfrey had had a quite dreadful night. He had dreamed of Felicity, and on waking, the dream face and the face of Princess Felicity merged in his mind and became one. He had to see her again, just to make sure. By diligently questioning the hotel staff, he obtained the princess’s address in Chesterfield Gardens and set out there at eleven in the morning while the streets of the West End were still quiet. But after half an hour of surveying the house from the opposite side of the street, he had an uneasy feeling there was no one at home.