Susanne Marie Knight

by A Noble Dilemma

  Grosvenor Square was not far from Carlton House, happily situated between Pall Mall and The Mall. On this Sunday afternoon, the twenty-third of October, the fine weather contained only a hint of the blustery wind that would soon become November’s calling card.

  Not only did David enjoy the drive, but the company also. Bethany proved to be an informed companion as well as an attractive one. Seated next to him in the one-horse cabriolet, she did her fair share of gawking at the shops along Old Bond Street and Piccadilly as they neared the Regent’s residence. She could be forgiven for showing such blatant interest, since she was so new to the amusements…and perils of London.

  When she laid her dainty gloved hand on his arm, a strange glow warmed his heart. “Sir, we just passed Hatchards. I have heard the shop offers every book under the sun. Perhaps after our visit with his Grace, we can could stop by this bookseller?”

  He hated to put a damper on her enthusiasm, but certain laws of the universe could not be altered. “Hatchards is closed on Sunday, Miss Branford.”

  “I know.” She lowered her head, allowing him to have an excellent view of the back of her beribboned bonnet, and also a delicate sliver of skin on her neck. “But if we could look at the books displayed in the window?”

  He snapped leather reins to steer the horse away from a street peddler pushing his weather-beaten cart. “Is there any particular book that strikes your fancy, Miss Branford?”

  She glanced over at him. “You’re very perceptive, my lord. I wish to purchase a certain novel. Emma is its name. I have heard it is dedicated to the Regent himself.”

  He had indeed heard of this novel, and of the unnamed author, “a Lady,” who had written the popular Pride and Prejudice. But popular or not, for a lady to have the audacity to lower herself by public writing was unthinkable.

  Reprehensible.

  He hardened his voice to show his disapproval. “I am acquainted with that book and with its anonymous author. A true lady would never dream of embarrassing her relations by such a shocking occupation.”

  Bethany clasped her gloved hands together. She did not reply.

  “And to toady up to the Regent in that extravagant fashion.” David shook his head. “Unconscionable.”

  “The author was not toadying.” Bethany sat up straighter in the cabriolet and folded her arms across her chest. “Indeed, in the dedication, she mentioned the title, ‘His Royal Highness’ three times. Surely, this exaggeration implies a mocking tone, not an obsequious one.”

  David tipped his hat to her. To be truthful, he had noted the dedication with its unobtrusive set-down.

  “To His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, this work is, by His Royal Highness’ permission, most respectfully dedicated, by His Royal Highness’ dutiful and obedient humble servant, the Author.”

  The author in question had a very sharp wit.

  He grinned. “You know your literature, do you not, Miss Branford?”

  “Yes, I believe do, my lord.”

  A cold drizzle from the skies dampened his reply, changing the previously fine weather to foul. Most likely a downpour would soon follow. He quickened the horse’s pace over cobblestone streets and soon the carriage approached the magnificent frontage of Carlton House. The portico of six Corinthian columns with its overhanging enclosure, called a porte-chère, allowed him to drive the cabriolet under it so that they could enter the Regent’s home without getting wet.

  Pulling on the horse’s reins, David stopped the carriage, then turned to Bethany. “Here we are.”

  She nodded. By the pull of her lips, he could discern she was displeased.

  But why? Was she provoked with him?

  Shrugging aside his observation, he handed the reins to a stableboy, then stepped down from the cabriolet. He moved quickly to the other side and helped Bethany alight.

  Her tiny hand felt so right in his, almost as if they had been made for each other.

  David frowned. First and foremost in his thoughts was what, exactly, Prince Augustus, the Duke of Sussex, had in mind concerning Miss Bethany Branford.

  Bethany crossed the threshold into the entrance hall with her gaze glued to the high domed ceiling. This area, almost the size of a house in itself, was so vast that an ordinary voice echoed about the Ionic columns and marble flooring like an aimless, lost soul.

  A footman, bewigged and dressed in a liveried red coat, bowed, then took their outer garments.

  Another footman, identically dressed, also bowed. “This way, milord, miss, if you please,” he intoned.

  David extended his arm out for Bethany to take. “Shall we, Miss Branford?”

  Overwhelmed by her surroundings, she didn’t dare speak. She just nodded.

  The servant led them through a richly decorated octagonal vestibule, up the most spectacular staircase ever designed — at least, that was her opinion — then through sumptuous corridors, and finally into the Golden Drawing Room.

  She inhaled sharply. The room, a feast for the eyes, glittered with gold from the fluted Corinthian columns guarding a private alcove to the grand pedestal displaying a huge ornamental vase, and the gilded rosewood frieze encircling the ceiling. Large mirrors reflected the room’s glory, making the shimmer of gold seem to extend forever.

  In the alcove, his Grace, the Duke of Sussex, sat ensconced on the carmine red sofa. “Good day! Good day to you both.” He waved his hand, which caused the Spanish lace extending from his jacket cuff to whip about his wrist. “’Tis excessively good of you, Ingraham, and you, Miss Branford, to visit me. I declare I am overcome by your kindness.”

  After greetings were exchanged, the Prince flung out his hand again. “My manners have gone begging. Please, you must sit! Be comfortable.” He turned to the footman. “Jenkins, some refreshments, if you please.”

  In front of the sofa was a round tortoiseshell table with two tub-shaped chairs facing the prince. Bethany settled in one and David took the other.

  She glanced over at David, but he seemed disinclined to speak. Nervously fingering a lock of hair that framed her face, she took a deep breath. “We are very honored to be here, your Grace.”

  The Prince slapped his knee. “The honor is mine, Miss Branford. And, by the bye, I must give thanks to the Regent for allowing me to reside at Carlton House for the nonce. Very generous of my brother.”

  David lifted his eyebrow, as if there were more to the Prince’s words.

  Prince Augustus obliged them. “I daresay you are aware that George and I are not on the best of terms.” He shook his rotund face like a bulldog. “No, I cannot blame the Regent. ’Tis to be expected, I wager, what with me backing his unfortunate wife. Poor, poor Caroline.”

  He tsk-tsked.

  Rumors about Princess Caroline and her dreadful behavior abroad had been circulating around England for years now. Bethany flushed just thinking about all she had heard.

  She was not in a position to take sides, however. Both the Regent and Princess Caroline were known to be extremely difficult people.

  Then again, who was she to judge? After all, she had her own secret.

  She bit her lip.

  They engaged in polite conversation, which allowed Jenkins time to return with a tray laden with delicacies. Prince Augustus lifted a dainty Sèvres teacup to his lips. “Now ’tis time for me to talk plainly, to not mince words.”

  He took a moment to clear his throat.

  Bethany braced herself. Whatever was the prince going to say?

  “My dear Ingraham, I would like to request the honor of Miss Branford’s services.”

  “Services?” David asked.

  The Prince nodded, which wobbled his double chin. “Yes, I have a few recollections about my early years on the Continent that I wish written down. Miss Branford would be an excellent secretary, I feel most assured of it.”

  This was news to Bethany. She set down her untouched teacup. “But your Grace, why do you believe I can adequately record your memoirs?”

  �
��Indeed, yes,” David chimed in. “I am not at all certain I wish to have Miss Branford sullying her hands with correspondence work.”

  The Prince smiled beatifically. “I am convinced Miss Branford is the soul of discretion. So new to London and all its cursed ways, she does employ a sympathetic ear. Who better than she to listen to a weary old gentleman so disappointed in love, eh?”

  David did not approve. She could discern that fact by the fisting of his hands.

  She hurried to smooth over this uncomfortable situation. “Your Grace — ”

  “Your Grace.”

  Another voice entered into the mix. Bethany looked over at the entrance to the Golden Drawing Room to see the footman, Jenkins, standing by a gilded column. “Your Grace, Lord Castlereagh is downstairs in the Great Hall. He wishes to have a word with Lord Ingraham.”

  “Indeed? The Foreign Secretary?” David stood, then dropped his linen napkin on the tortoiseshell table. “If you both will excuse me. This must be important state business. I shall return as quickly as possible.”

  The Prince nodded his acquiescence, and Bethany watched David leave the grand room. She gulped down unease. For some reason, she was apprehensive.

  Prince Augustus slapped at his knee. “Upon my honor, it took Castlereagh the devil of a time to get here.”

  “Sir?”

  “No need to look alarmed, my dear Miss Branford. I arranged for the Foreign Secretary to join Ingraham in a talk whilst you and I have an intimate coze.”

  Goodness!

  The Prince laughed, patted his budging stomach, then leaned back against the sofa’s plush cushions. “You see, Miss Branford, from our conversation yesterday at the Duchess of Margrove’s party, I deduced you are a writer. An aspiring author — one with very delicate sensibilities. Although ’tis true I am looking for a secretary to chronicle my thoughts, I would like to be your patron.”

  “But why, your Grace? I don’t understand.”

  “You must be aware of the Regent’s support of another lady author.” I am certain you know Sense and Sensibility, along with Pride and Prejudice, and her newest, Emma. You may, however, not be aware of her name. Miss Jane Austen, it is, and my brother is a staunch follower.”

  Knowing this secret made Bethany smile. Miss Jane Austen — what a very fine name.

  The Prince flipped open a gold snuffbox, then took a pinch of tobacco. After his sneeze, he continued, “Eleven years separate my brother and I, and yet, we have a rivalry between us as if we had been twins. As such, I would like to afford you the opportunity to write without being in the shadow of disapproval — Ingraham’s disapproval, to be precise. You must know he would not encourage your desire to publish.”

  She lowered her lashes. “Yes, I know.”

  “Excellent! Capital! I daresay between the two of us, we can pull this off. Ingraham will not refuse me. We shall contrive our little daily meetings, which will give you time to compose to your dear heart’s content.”

  Prince Augustus smiled as if well satisfied with himself and the world. “Ingraham will not be the wiser, my dear. You may count on that.”

  Bethany couldn’t help wringing her hands. She’d entered the Golden Drawing Room feeling guilty that she kept a secret from David. And now look at her. Now she conspired to keep yet another secret from him.

  As much as it pained her to admit, she wished she’d never left Northumberland.

  The Foreign Secretary was a busy man, that went without saying. Robert Stewart had held his office for four years. His grave demeanor exuded dignity and integrity. Life in any public office tended to age a person, and Lord Castlereagh was no exception. He waited in the monumental Great Hall next to an Ionic column.

  David quietly approached. “Sir, good day to you. The servant said you wish to speak with me?”

  “Ingraham! The very fellow I have been looking for.” His tentative smile enlivened his face. Even with the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders, Castlereagh was still a handsome man.

  After a sturdy handshake, David asked, “How may I help you, sir?”

  The Foreign Secretary paced a small area on the marbled flooring. “You are wide awake on every suit, Ingraham. Been to France, served on the Congress of Vienna and managed vital European matters for me. I value your opinion.” He halted. The gap in conversation grew longer, uncomfortably so. The man seemed lost in thought, pursing his lips, wringing his hands. He turned around and faced David. “Ingraham, I cannot dissemble anymore. I need advice about Emily.”

  “Emily.” David blinked. For a moment his mind went blank, then he realized who the man was talking about — Emily Stewart, the Viscountess Castlereagh, one of the Lady Patronesses of Almack’s. Here was a prickly moment. How could he offer marital advice? “Er, how may I help you concerning your wife?”

  Castlereagh’s sigh was heartfelt. “You know my Emily. Bright shining star that she is, ’tis a wonder she married a dullard like myself.”

  Again David waited. He loosened the fabric that had suddenly tightened on his cravat.

  “At any rate.” Castlereagh paused to run his fingers through his choppy hair. “She tells me she has tired of London. That she longs for the country. Says she has had enough of politics. You know how she loves to be in the thick of things. What am I to make of this change of heart?”

  What, indeed? How could any man understand the vagaries of womankind?

  David tried his best to come up with something that would help his friend. “Er, your wife is known far and wide as an admirable hostess. That is true, however, for the moment, she may be done with diplomatic intrigue. Perhaps all she requires is a brief respite in the country. I advise you to take her at her word.”

  Castlereagh rubbed his chin as he frowned. “Could it be as simple as that?”

  “Sometimes — although I will admit not very often, but sometimes it is.”

  “By Jove, I do believe you are right!” Castlereagh slapped David on the back. “I knew I was doing the right thing in seeking you out.”

  Relieved, David extended his hand for a shake, then escorted Castlereagh through the hall to Carlton House’s entrance. After another handshake, David then headed for the magnificent staircase. He took the steps two at a time. With Castlereagh’s little dilemma out of the way, he could concentrate on his own.

  The devil surely was on his heels. Why would the Duke of Sussex wish for Bethany to serve as his secretary? In this instance, it could not be as simple as what Augustus had said. There had to be an ulterior motive.

  But what?

  And why? Why Bethany?

  With his expression set, he reentered the Gold Drawing Room. His footsteps, muffled by the fleur-de-lis patterned carpeting, masked his approach to the private alcove. He braced himself. Truth be told, he was expecting the worst. As he walked around the grand pedestal and huge ornamental vase, he heard the clink of a porcelain teacup hitting its saucer and a tingle of infectious laughter.

  Bethany noticed him first. Her hazel eyes lit up and her rosebud lips curved into a smile. “Here you are, sir. We were just wondering about your visit with Lord Castlereagh.”

  “And ironing out the details of your trifling employment with me, Miss Branford,” the Duke added.

  “Indeed?” David took his seat. “You will not take offense running those details by me, your Grace?”

  He observed Bethany’s heightened color. Was there some secret attached to this business?

  Augustus scratched his long, pronounced nose. “Not at all. Not at all, Ingraham. Miss Branford and I have set the time at two in the afternoon until four, starting tomorrow. For propriety’s sake, one of your housemaids, Elsie, will play chaperon.”

  “I see.” David glanced again at Bethany, but this time she appeared composed.

  The Duke continued, “By the bye, Ingraham, we shall hold court in the Library, should you desire to stop by.”

  David played his hand close to the vest. “I might decide to do that, your Grace.”
<
br />   Of course he had every intention of stopping by. And very often, too.

  “Capital! I am pleased we are of a like mind.” Augustus made an enigmatic smile.

  Blast. What the devil was the old codger up to?

  Perhaps Bethany discerned his impatience for she glanced at him, nodded, then turned to the Duke. “We must thank you for your hospitality, your Grace. It is time for Lord Ingraham and I to take our leave now. I do look forward to starting on your memoirs tomorrow.”

  If David wasn’t mistaken, that regal rogue give her a wink.

  Double blast.

  A bow and a curtsey later, David and Bethany, made their way down the staircase in silence. He hasn’t known Bethany Branford long, but he did know this: his houseguest had not dissembled. She was, without a doubt, looking forward to tomorrow’s engagement with the duke.

  Chapter Eight

  Bethany was as merry as a cricket! To have a royal prince as a patron — surely success for her writing was just around the corner. Here she was on her way to Carlton House for her first opportunity to write without restraint. Without constantly looking over her shoulder.

  Despite the well-sprung carriage she and Elsie traveled in, a nasty bump in the uneven road jolted her back down to earth. When one was grounded, one had a tendency to fret. And so she did: fret.

  Prince Augustus hadn’t even read anything she wrote. How could he be so assured of her ability? Here was a puzzle she would have to solve if only to soothe her own mind.

  The hour was still early — only fifteen minutes past one o’clock. To while away the time until her appointment, she requested the coachman stop at Hatchards, bookseller and lending library. Yesterday, she hadn’t gotten the chance to peruse the stately store’s windows. A downpour of sleeting rain had prevented David from granting her wish. It was just as well, she supposed. Today, Monday, she could go inside the shop.

  Once the carriage came to a halt, Bethany hopped out, heading past the colorful window displays, and through one of the dignified double doors. Although Hatchards was relatively new, the heavy scent of wisdom permeated the air. It was as if all the knowledge accumulated on pages from shelved books had oozed out into the large main floor and up the staircase into the next level.