James let the grin develop into a full smile. “Perhaps.”
In what could only be interpreted as a fit of pique at being ignored, Fortescue gave a huff of impatience and stood, flouncing to where the waistcoats were laid out on a table and lifting up one with a brown and cream floral pattern. “I think this is the one.” He sent James a vicious look before facing the Prince Regent with a smile, and James didn’t try to hide his amusement.
Bartlett let out a laugh, derisive and cruel, and Fortescue flushed. “You are fighting well above your weight, Fortescue.” He drained his glass, and walked on unsteady feet to the sideboard to pour himself another.
“I hated him, you know. Perceval.” The Prince Regent ignored the byplay, and focused his attention on James. “Hated him. In his time in government he blackmailed me, ridiculed me, made me a laughing stock—” The Prince Regent held out his glass, and Fortescue hurried to fill it. “The only drawback in his death, as far as I’m concerned, is that it’s fed the radicals’ desire to see me go, as well as that jackanapes.” He drained his full glass in one gulp.
There was silence in the room. None of them, not even Fortescue, was stupid enough to make a comment.
The Prince Regent looked down into his empty glass, and then up at them each in turn. “What, my wit struck you all dumb?”
James gave him a mock salute. “What about speaking no ill of the dead?”
The Prince jerked his head back as if he’d been slapped. “Everyone knew I couldn’t stand the fellow before he was dead. Why would they think I can stand him now?” He played with the empty glass in his hand, tipping it this way and that. “You know he forced me to sign a document saying I was well-pleased with the job he was doing at the beginning of February? Forced me!” He set the glass down, and James was relieved he hadn’t thrown it at the wall.
James made a sympathetic sound of agreement. The Prince Regent had wanted Perceval out of office so that he couldn’t renew the Regency Bill, and all the restrictions it placed on the Regent’s power.
He had lost the battle.
His plans to remove Perceval had backfired and he’d been humiliated. Perceval had rubbed his nose in it by forcing him to publicly praise him.
Looking at the cold hatred in the Prince Regent’s eyes, James decided Perceval had been playing with fire.
“Who will rid me of this troublesome priest?” Bartlett spoke from the window, his words jumbled and slurred, almost unintelligible.
“Get out, Bartlett, you’re drunk.” The Prince Regent heaved his bulky frame to his feet. “Choose a waistcoat for me, Wittaker, and get out, as well. I need a rest before tonight.”
James walked to where Fortescue was pouting beside the table. He chose one at random, keeping a look of bored amusement on his face. He lifted up one of cream satin with a raised fleur-de-lis pattern in the same color and turned to present it with a bow.
The Prince Regent took the item as carelessly as James had chosen it. “What was your view on Perceval, Wittaker?”
James lifted an eyebrow. “You know me, Your Highness. What do you think?”
The Prince seemed to search his face for a beat too long, then gave a laugh. “Quite so.”
James bowed and walked out. The silence behind him had the feel of men waiting until he was gone before they spoke freely again.
Chapter Twenty-one
Carlton House was sumptuous.
A butler led them through the massive white and black tiled entrance hall to a reception room heavy with gold gilt and sparkling chandeliers.
Between her aunt and herself, they had chosen a deep shade of purple for her gown. If Sheldrake had been her betrothed, she would have been in black, but with some knowing she had been thrown over before he died, they decided on dark colors without the commitment of full mourning.
Phoebe was aware of every stare, every head turned in their direction as they entered.
She must have slowed her step, because she sensed Wittaker drawing up sharply behind her, doing a complicated quickstep to not run into her.
His hand brushed her lower back. It was nothing but a light touch, invisible to everyone in the room, but her breath caught in her throat, and she had to look down at her mauve slippers so no one would see her reaction. If the Prince Regent himself had addressed her at that moment, she would not have been able to speak.
Wittaker overtook her, tall and striking in his dark evening clothes. She realized he was shielding them, drawing attention away from them as he placed himself as a buffer in front of the open stares and the sidelong glances of the small gathering.
Could someone have influenced the Prince Regent to hold this dinner tonight? It seemed a complicated and uncertain way of getting her out of the safety of her house, but whatever part Sheldrake had played in the prime minister’s death, at least some of his friends must be involved too, might have persuaded the Prince a memorial dinner would be a good idea.
That was more plausible. Although the reason for it eluded her.
If it was to ensure her house was empty, so they could search for the letter Sheldrake had sent her, they would find nothing—not even her servants. She had made sure Lewis had given everyone, including himself, the night off. No one would be hurt by accidentally running across a housebreaker if she could help it.
“My dear, you have heard the terrible, terrible news.” A thin, wrinkled hand reached out to grip Phoebe’s arm, too tight, too hard, and she looked up to find Mrs. Wentworth at her side. Sheldrake’s second cousin was dressed head to toe in lavender and her watery blue eyes were cold as a pool in midwinter.
Phoebe tried to tug free, but Mrs. Wentworth hung on, drawing even closer and patting Phoebe’s hand. “Such a shock. To be taken so suddenly.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Wentworth.” Aunt Dorothy held out her hands in greeting but Mrs. Wentworth ignored them, her grip relentless.
“And aren’t you the bold one, my dear? Showing your face at a memorial for the man who broke off with you?” Her words were sing-song, spoken under her breath and said with a knife-sharp smile. “What did you do, you stupid girl?” She turned protectively to block Phoebe from view as three other women drifted closer, scenting blood—as if Phoebe was her kill to take.
Phoebe felt a laugh bubble up inside her at the thought. Mrs. Wentworth’s scrawny neck did remind her of a vulture.
She lifted her gaze to Wittaker, and found him watching her.
He was still close by, hemmed in by two gentlemen, but only a few strides away. She had the sense that he saw it as his responsibility to save her.
The thought of it was as seductive as the touches he had given her in the garden, but she had relied on no one since her mother died, four years ago, and it would be more than dangerous to change that now.
She glanced back at Mrs. Wentworth. Vicious anger, condescension and disapproval warred on her lined, pinched face.
It was a look she had come to know well over the last year since her father became a baronet.
“I can’t think what you mean by asking what I did, Mrs. Wentworth.” She kept her tone even, and wanted to laugh at the surprise on Mrs. Wentworth’s face. “Sheldrake betrayed me. He broke his word. But despite that, he was a childhood friend. I surely knew him as well as you did, as anyone here did. I have no need to be ashamed to show my face.”
Her aunt gave her a warning look, but Phoebe had broken free of the reins. The thought of shedding this restricting life was exhilarating.
Suddenly the fear and dread that had gripped her all afternoon slid off her, and she appreciated the waste of it all.
Mrs. Wentworth sucked in a breath. “Indeed? If you hadn’t dragged your feet, if you’d married him sooner, he wouldn’t have been in the trouble he was.”
A woman nearby tittered nervously, and Mrs. Wentworth turned a dark shade of pink.
“Oh.” Phoebe could feel herself gathering speed for a wild, spectacular run for freedom. “Are you mourning the loss of Sheldrake’s l
ife tonight, or the money your son might have inherited if I had already been married to Sheldrake?”
Mrs. Wentworth opened her mouth, but before she could say anything else, a high-pitched bell rang from the doorway, and the Prince Regent stepped into the room.
Everyone turned to him, and there was a flutter of curtseys and bows through the crowd.
At last Mrs. Wentworth released her grip and edged away, to get closer to the Prince Regent.
Phoebe had never met him in person, and she shifted uncomfortably as he walked forward, rubbing the place where Mrs. Wentworth had bruised her arm. He looked closer to the newspaper cartoon parodies of him than his official portraits. And he was drunk.
Not fall-down drunk, but his eyes skittered over the gathering and he stepped too carefully when he walked. “Welcome. And dinner is served. Absolutely no standing on ceremony.”
Most people applauded, and there was a general movement to the room beyond, the crowd having been relieved of filing in in order of status.
Phoebe guessed if proprieties had been observed, it would have been the Prince Regent first, and Wittaker second, as the only duke present. Instead, Wittaker made his way against the stream of diners to her and her aunt’s side, and held out an arm for each of them.
She should object, ask him not to draw such attention to them, or keep his distance to stop tongues wagging, but after her encounter with Mrs. Wentworth, she knew they would be wagging anyway.
Her aunt was greeted by a friend, who drew her to one side, bright eyes on Phoebe before she bent her head close to Aunt Dorothy’s to talk. Phoebe didn’t miss the quick glance at Wittaker, either.
“You’re risking your reputation by being so gallant. Why?” She slipped her arm through his.
He leaned in. “I don’t have much reputation to risk.”
She couldn’t see his face, it was too close to hers, and she pulled back. “You were trying to reclaim it, though, before this. It will be harder for you to do that when this is over, because whatever ruin I’ve found myself in because of Sheldrake, I’m still considered an innocent. I’m more vulnerable than your usual victims, in their minds.”
“My usual victims?” He tilted his head, so she was looking straight into his eyes, and she could see humor there.
She smiled. “Well, I know you haven’t had any, but they don’t.”
Something changed.
He lowered his lids, but she glimpsed a darkness in him before he hid from her.
“What is it?”
He stiffened beneath her fingers. “Nothing, except, I’m no saint, and sometimes I was in character too well. I couldn’t build my reputation on nothing. Just remember that.”
Still deep in conversation, her aunt and her friend began to drift toward the dining room and Wittaker steered her after them.
Lady Halliford stood at the dining room door with her gaze focused on them. When she saw Phoebe had noticed her she looked straight through her and turned her back.
The cut direct.
“Won’t this be jolly?” Phoebe whispered in Wittaker’s ear, and when he looked at her with a straight face but laughter in his eyes, she had the satisfaction of seeing the darkness was gone.
* * *
To James, the dinner seemed interminable, although he had taken careful note of the dishes—Georges would demand an account of what the Prince Regent’s chef had produced.
He had passed much of it sunk deep into his own thoughts. Neither Miss Hillier nor her aunt had so much as looked his way, and he knew it was a protection for themselves as well as him. They had already stirred up too much interest.
As Miss Hillier had said before, they weren’t his usual victims.
He winced at the image that comment had dredged up. The early hours of the morning, two years before, when he’d found himself drunk, in a room at The Scarlet Rose, with a twelve-year old cowering on the bed.
He’d downed a jug of water and walked around the room for ten minutes to get himself as sober as possible before he’d asked her what the hell was going on.
Betty. He smiled at the memory of how she’d started out crying, then slowly, as she realized he wasn’t planning to do anything to her, sat up and began to watch him warily, and then, at last, with a little hope.
When he’d finally felt capable of a lucid conversation, they had spoken for more than thirty minutes. Then he’d taken her downstairs, threatened to shut Madame Rouge down, and negotiated his deal with her.
He had never slept with another prostitute again.
It should have made anyone looking at him too closely suspicious of his credentials as a rake, but in fact it had only increased his prestige amongst the crowd he spent his time with. They all thought he had some secret stash of girls somewhere, and vied with each other to get an invitation.
A scrape of chairs jolted him from his thoughts as the women rose to leave the men to their port and cigars. As they made their way to the withdrawing room, Miss Hillier’s aunt went immediately to her niece’s side, presenting a united front. He was pleased to see she seemed to support her niece no matter what she thought of his and Miss Hillier’s unusual relationship.
She was right to be concerned.
He needed to remember that there were rules.
He had spent so long ignoring them, or deliberately flaunting them, he sometimes forgot there were consequences to those who did not obey.
People like Miss Hillier, who society would take enjoyment in vilifying, while those same people looked on him with almost amused indulgence for the same indiscretions.
“A striking pair, aren’t they?” Lord Fairbanks leaned in from his left, his round face flushed. He turned, like James, to watch the ladies depart. “Those fair curls with the dark blue eyes. I remember Mrs. Patterson from her coming out, back when she was Miss Hillier. She’s kept her looks.” He paused, as if to consider his next words carefully. “I saw you were paying the young Miss Hillier some attention, earlier. Bit quick off the mark, aren’t you? Sheldrake’s not cold in his grave.”
James frowned at the insult. “I was merely being solicitous.”
“That what they’re calling it nowadays?” Fairbanks smiled, but it had a nasty edge to it.
James narrowed his eyes. “I was hardly propositioning her. I merely escorted her in to dinner.”
“And escorted her to Carlton House. I was in the carriage behind you, saw you followed her and her aunt’s carriage with your own.” Fairbanks leaned closer. “Not like you to do anything you don’t want to, Wittaker. So what’s in it for you?”
Fairbanks’s stare was not friendly, and James realized the man thought he was helping Miss Hillier. Protecting her now she was in a vulnerable position.
He gave a slow, understanding nod. “I have no plans to hurt Miss Hillier. In any way.”
Fairbanks shook his head. “Think I was born yesterday, Wittaker? I can read a man’s interest as well as the next person. You want her. Preferably up against a wall with her legs around your waist, and there’s no hiding it.” He looked away suddenly, his drink-flushed face turning an even deeper shade of red at the crudity of his words.
Well.
James leant back in his seat. “Perhaps I do, at that.” He spoke slowly. “But we don’t always get what we want.”
“You seem to.” Fairbanks swirled the port in his glass. “Never could understand the way of things between your father and you. He was such a principled, decent man. Never said a word against you, though. No matter what you go up to, he always said you were his son and had his regard.”
Bitterness welled up in James, strong as acid. His father had made him, and then looked like a saint for putting up with his creation. It had always annoyed James, but now, he felt the anger rushing through him, hotter and more corrosive than ever before.
Fairbanks looked away, as if he could see the tight grip James had to exert on himself. “Just see that you take care. I knew Sheldrake, and he never could look after what was given to
him. Damn fool. Miss Hillier has enough trouble without you stirring up more for her.”
James stared at him, the anger barely manageable. “Miss Hillier is in no danger from me.”
Fairbanks gave a reluctant nod and rose, moving toward the sideboard to choose a cigar from the selection the footmen had set out. James stood himself, too agitated to stay seated.
Most of the men had moved to the gaming tables that had been set up in the reception room they had gathered in before dinner but the Prince Regent stood to one side, watching the play, a whisky glass in his hand.
James wondered if he’d been sober at all today.
He caught James’s eye and inclined his head. James had sensed a palpable tension about him since they’d sat down for dinner. A nervousness that manifested in the way his hand shook as he lifted his glass, and the quick, compulsive gulps he took of his drink.
James let himself stumble a little on the way over to join him, taking a glass of whisky from a passing footman, and forcing a vacuous smile on his face.
He wanted to find out if anyone had suggested tonight to the Prince, or if he’d come up with the idea on his own. For all that it was a memorial dinner for Sheldrake, the dead man had hardly been mentioned. But that might be because the Prince Regent was three sheets to the wind, as much as anything.
He’d long ago found that information was easier to come by if everyone thought he was drunk. And if he were any judge, he would need every trick he’d ever learnt to get something useful tonight.
Chapter Twenty-two
Phoebe looked into the sly, nosey face of Miss Hepridge, who stood beside her with a cup of tea in hand, and realized she could take no more.
Mrs. Wentworth stood nearby, talking loudly enough to ensure Phoebe could hear her mention how her son was not able to attend the dinner this evening because he was over at Sheldrake’s town house, making arrangements for their imminent occupation.
A Dangerous Madness Page 11