How fortunate to not have a third dance called for with another partner; she could stroll the room without interruption, and she hoped others might look upon her and note that she was on the arm of a wealthy gentleman. Julia could scarcely believe her situation. Women from relatively humble situations rarely found themselves both invited to a ball at the Royal Pavilion, where she would see the Prince Regent himself, and walking the room on the arm of a man who had prestige and influence.
Mr. Hayward nodded to all manner of guests: those with money, those with titles, and those who had influence in parliament and business. Her prior self-consciousness over her inexpensive, simple gown and her worn, stained slippers had all but vanished. She found herself able to walk with her head held high.
After nearly a full circuit of the expansive room, Mr. Hayward led her to one of the many refreshment tables. He fetched two tall glasses of punch, served in beautiful crystal goblets.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the proffered drink.
He nodded. “Come.” He led her to the rear side of a column, where they were partially blocked from view. He lifted his glass. She did the same, and then they sipped the golden champagne—perhaps from a bottle he had smuggled across the Channel. He subtly pointed out various individuals in the room.
“See that man over there with the long, pointed nose?” he asked with a slight tilt of his head, indicating the direction for her to look.
Julia nonchalantly took a sip of her drink as she scanned the room and turned back to him. “Thin face, long nose, wearing another country’s military dress?”
“That is Charles Bernadotte, Crown Prince of Sweden.”
She felt her eyes widen. “Truly?” She tried not to be too obvious as she looked at him and then away again, though she wanted to stare. The Prince Regent was known for hosting other royalty, but something seemed strange about this circumstance, though determining why took her a moment. A memory of her father reading a newspaper aloud and commenting on the latest battles with Napoleon returned to mind, and she understood her confusion. “Isn’t Sweden an ally of France?” Why would the Prince Regent invite an enemy to his Royal Pavilion?
“Ah, that is the intriguing part. He’s an enemy no longer.” Mr. Hayward wore a rather pleased look, as if he knew he’d revealed information that she would be impressed by. “The latest reports say that he has removed his support from France and is now combining forces with England.” He took a sip of his champagne.
“Fascinating.” Julia turned to sneak another look at Crown Prince Charles. Or would that be Crown Prince Bernadotte? She didn’t know the Swedish protocol for such things but was glad to know that he was an ally, not an enemy.
“People say that his choice may be the factor that utterly defeats Napoleon.” He made a humphing noise.
“Wouldn’t that be a relief,” Julia said.
The wars had been going on for so long, and at a high price for the country in many respects: money, supplies, and most importantly, casualties. Countless men of several nationalities had been killed or seriously injured due to Napoleon’s greed. ’Twould be good to end the bloodshed and vanquish the madman responsible for it. Would the Swedish Crown Prince’s change in loyalties be key to changing the tide of the war?
Hardly daring to hope, she sighed. “We’ve thought that Napoleon was a hair’s breadth away from surrender many times already. I hardly dare think such a thing is possible.”
Mr. Hayward brought his glass to his nose and sniffed, then took a sip. “This time, I fear the rumors may be true.”
“How so?”
Before answering, Mr. Hayward leaned close, so he could whisper in her ear. “I have communications with men from all fronts of the war. They say that the Crown Prince commands a battery with a new weapon: rockets that can fire long distances with accuracy that exceeds any cannon or rifle.”
“Why, such a tool could definitely turn the tide.” Julia could not remember how long she’d lived with the fear that her father might be compelled to fight or that Andrew would feel the need to enter the military. She’d lost several cousins to the war and more than a few neighbors. Few British families had gone through the years of Napoleon’s reign and conquests unscathed. They all bore marks of war on their souls.
“Fascinating idea, isn’t it?” Mr. Hayward said. He gave her a half smile, clearly pleased with her reaction. Is that why he’d told her the secret—so she’d be impressed? He already had her admiration, and yes, this new information only increased it.
A footman came to them and stopped, holding out a tray to collect their glasses. Mr. Hayward tipped his head back and downed the last of his drink, then reached out for her glass, only to realize she’d hardly partaken from it at all.
“I’m finished,” she said, surrendering her glass.
Mr. Hayward set both on the tray. Instead of moving on as Julia expected, the footman spoke to Mr. Hayward under his breath. “Haven’t been able to get close enough.”
She knew that gravelly voice. The sound brought Julia’s head around, and she peered at the man after having hardly noticed him before. He stood short of stature, with a crooked nose and dark hair. He was shaved clean, his hair was pulled back in a black ribbon, and he wore servant’s clothing that was clean and pressed. Even with those changes, however, there was absolutely no mistaking: this was Durham.
“No excuses, man,” Mr. Hayward said through his teeth, so quietly in a room humming with music and activity that she didn’t quite trust her hearing.
Yet the corner they stood in, and the stone of the column, amplified his voice. She could hear them both, though their whispers indicated that neither suspected she listened or understood. She made a quarter turn and pretended to be fascinated with the dancing couples on the dance floor, though she kept her ear attuned to the whispered conversation only inches away, behind the column.
“I ain’t makin’ no excuses,” Durham said. “Jus’ reportin’ back to yeh. I’ll keep tryin’, but he keeps waving away any drink I try to offer. I ain’t sure I’ll be havin’ any success here. We may need another way.”
Another way to what? Julia controlled her face, certain to smile and nod at guests as appropriate, though her mind was entirely consumed with Mr. Hayward and Durham behind her. She glanced over and noted that Mr. Hayward’s jaw worked in annoyance. She quickly looked back to the dance floor.
Mr. Hayward gave Julia a look, as if seeing whether she’d heard anything. She deliberately focused across the room and watched blue, yellow, and green skirts brushing the exquisite marble floor, then turned her face to meet his, giving him what she hoped appeared to be an expression as innocent as a doe’s. She couldn’t let Mr. Hayward know she’d heard a word of the interaction—not for the world.
She wanted to learn as much as she could about their plans for defeating Napoleon, which she’d convinced herself was their aim. From experience with her father, she’d learned that not letting on as much as she actually knew tended to work in her favor. Chances were good that the same would apply to Mr. Hayward, so she pretended to be that cotton-headed girl she disdained—she knew nothing, and she’d heard nothing.
Mr. Hayward cleared his throat with a cough, and with his fist before his mouth, as if covering a cough, he murmured to Durham, “The position you’re in gave you ample access.”
“I can get the arsenic into ’im,” Durham said. “Truly, I will. I just need more time.”
Alarm shot through Julia, and she turned fully forward, hoping that Mr. Hayward wouldn’t realize that she’d seen or heard a thing. Arsenic? In the Crown Prince’s drink?
“Hush!” Mr. Hayward hissed, grabbing Durham hard on the arm. The old man sucked air between his teeth at the viselike grip. Mr. Hayward leaned in, nearly spitting in his face. “You keep your mouth shut, or I’ll make sure you’re silenced—permanently. Do I make myself clear?”
Durham nodded, face white as a sheet. Julia suspected her face looked about the same. She swallowed nervously
. At last, Mr. Hayward released Durham’s arm with a shove, and through his teeth said, “Give me the envelope.”
Durham reluctantly reached into his coat and drew out a small envelope of waxed paper, which Mr. Hayward palmed and slipped into his own pocket. Hayward released him, and the man scuttled away like a scared beetle.
As she watched him weave through the onlookers, chandelier light caught something gold, which she realized was the chain of the pocket watch that Mr. Hayward had given to Durham as “assurance.” If she’d had any doubt of this being the same man as at the shore, the sight of the pocket watch removed all doubt. Now that she noted Durham, he was obviously out of place here. The Royal Pavilion possessed opulence and elegance in such quantities that even the servants looked highborn and cultured. Not Durham. His boots were too new; they had no sign of wear whatsoever, not even a hint of having been shaped by the left or right foot. They’d been purchased solely for this performance; she was certain of it. His suit was as fine as any, but his bearing and stride spoke louder of a poor, uneducated upbringing than any woolen suit could overcome.
What better way to hide a convict than as a servant? Julia suddenly realized the genius of Mr. Hayward’s actions. Provided Durham performed his duties, he’d be largely unnoticed, invisible, no matter how many elite members of the ton and aristocracy were in attendance. He would have remained unnoticed by her, too, had he not spoken directly to Mr. Hayward.
Servants are much like women—we must both keep our peace and remain silent.
Silence was not a quality Julia naturally possessed, a fact that provided her father with no end of frustration and worry and one that provided Andrew with no end of entertainment. However, now that she knew, even vaguely, about Mr. Hayward’s plans to do away with Bernadotte, she determined that so long as she remained in his presence, she would have to cultivate the art of remaining silent.
Doing so now, while keeping her arm through that of a man who appeared to be not a patriotic hero but in reality a villainous traitor, would be both an education and a motivation to learn the skill of silence well, posthaste.
Her life, and that of Crown Prince Charles Bernadotte, might well depend upon it.
Mr. Hayward coughed, then tugged on his coat, straightening it out. Clearly distracted, he turned to Julia. “Thank you for the dance, my dear,” he said, but though he’d glanced at her, his eyes scanned the large room. He stiffened almost imperceptibly, a reaction only a person very near, with deep-seated curiosity, would note. Someone like Julia. He blinked and looked back at her, then bowed slightly. “Perhaps we can dance again later this evening. For now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Oh, please don’t go,” Julia said, giving her best impression of her younger sister’s energy and enthusiasm—things few people could say no to. She took Mr. Hayward’s arm and began walking along the edge of the dance floor, bringing Mr. Hayward along with her. She’d heard some alarming things, which gave her three things to accomplish: first, ensure that Mr. Hayward did not suspect that she’d noted anything untoward between him and Durham; second, do her utmost to learn more about his traitorous plans regarding the Swedish Crown Prince; and third, stop any attempt on his life.
Mr. Hayward slowed their progress, stopped altogether, then attempted to unwrap her hand from his arm—an effort Julia found herself remarkably good at thwarting, simply by pretending to be ignorant of his intentions.
“You must excuse me, milady,” he said, looking about the room again instead of at her. His eyes flashed briefly—so briefly that she wouldn’t have seen it if she hadn’t been studying every tiny muscle on his face. Based on their proximity to the doors leading to the gardens, Julia suspected that someone Mr. Hayward wanted to follow or speak to had gone outside. The longer she held his arm, the more restless he became.
She stepped closer to him, then, again pretending to be Caroline, gazed into his eyes with what she hoped looked like dreamy attraction and said, “Care to take a turn about the gardens? It’s so lovely tonight.”
He broke his stare at the doors long enough to glance at Julia, who kept the sweet dreaminess on her face for his benefit. She found doing so far easier than maintaining a neutral expression, which she feared she’d fail at after hearing his traitorous intent. She simply could not allow even a hint of her real feelings to be revealed. The guise seemed to be working even though her heart had sped up, beating fast and faint, making her lightheaded.
“Very well,” he said. “A turn about the gardens would be a pleasure.” He looked at her in a way that an hour before, she would have found flattering but now found unnerving and duplicitous.
I could let him go into the gardens alone, then try to tell someone about Durham, she thought as they headed for the doors. Fortunately, the gardens were filled with guests; so long as she kept Mr. Hayward in areas lighted by lamps and near other guests, he couldn’t hurt her.
For the second time that night, the chilly sea air raised the hairs on the back of her neck. This time, however, Julia couldn’t help remembering her father’s oft-repeated declaration that her curiosity would one day land her in trouble. He’d been referring to how easily she got distracted on explorations and his fears that she might twist an ankle while admiring the clouds, or that she’d fall off a cliff and break a leg while studying fossils.
Father had never imagined—nor had she—that she might one day risk her life by following a traitorous man into the Prince Regent’s gardens. They walked a few paces from the door, and both looked about, Mr. Hayward seeking whomever he’d spotted before and Julia attempting to discern who that might be while appearing awed by the grandeur of the pavilion.
Some steps on gravel made Mr. Hayward’s head come around, and Julia noted two men turning a corner around some shrubs, one of whom was in formal military dress. Bernadotte?
“Care for a drink?” Mr. Hayward said suddenly. Without waiting for a reply from Julia, he whirled around and approached a footman with a tray of drinks standing just outside the doors. After selecting two glasses of champagne, Mr. Hayward returned to her side and held out one for her. “Here you are.”
“Thank you,” Julia said, taking the delicate fluted glass. She pressed it to her lips but then remembered Durham’s mention of arsenic and pulled the rim away again without a sip. She smiled, however, pretending that she’d had some and that it was delicious.
Mr. Hayward, she noted, did not partake of his drink. He gestured with it toward the very section of the gardens where the two men had withdrawn. “Let’s take a stroll.”
“Sounds lovely,” Julia said.
With each step she took into the darkness of the night, farther from the lanterns, the more her insides knotted up. Perhaps she’d been hasty in thinking that accompanying Mr. Hayward outside would yield information she could use to thwart his plans. Her fingers tightened, the glass of the champagne flute feeling cold against her skin.
Instead of a slow, casual stroll, Mr. Hayward walked at a brisk pace, which only made the evening air feel that much chillier. A salty ocean breeze made her shiver. She almost asked him to slow down but knew he wouldn’t comply. He wanted to catch up to Bernadotte, of course, and wouldn’t risk losing him along the path.
She had to be ready to intervene to save Bernadotte’s life. But how? She could hardly overwhelm Mr. Hayward. Her best and likely only option was to continue her pretension about being like her younger sister: acting foolish in intellect and childish in maturity, while being the opposite of both.
She began chattering on about the pavilion, using all of the many details and rumors that Caroline had shared and seemed impressed with. Mr. Hayward made appropriate noises and comments like “Mm, I see,” and “Is that so?” but she doubted he heard a word. Goodness, she hardly noted a word that came out of her mouth. She simply had to keep talking, to stay with Mr. Hayward as long as possible and to learn all she could.
At a fork in the path, they paused, and Mr. Hayward listened, trying to determine which dir
ection to go. As they stood there, she looked about and prattled on about the beautiful gardens and how much it all must have cost. As she went on like a dim-witted child, she prayed he did not note her watching him carefully, especially the moment she pointed out a shrub she’d never seen elsewhere, when at the same moment, he pulled the envelope out of his pocket and emptied the powdery contents into his champagne flute. Her stomach twisted.
“Let’s go to the left,” he said, slipping the now-empty paper into his pocket. The pavilion was large compared to most buildings, but not compared to an estate with sprawling landscapes. The gardens here were strictly limited to the pier on which the pavilion had been built upon. That meant a smaller area in which to take a walk, which should have been a comfort—Julia would never be too far from the ballroom and the murmuring crowd inside. Regardless, the gardens felt more like a cage, and Julia a bird unable to escape the gilded bars.
“Yes, let’s,” Julia answered, and they went to the left. She glanced over her shoulder toward the ballroom doors, knowing that the golden light spilling outside marked the door to her cage—that she could conceivably excuse herself and return to the ball—but she decided instead to stay with Mr. Hayward. She could not bear to think of him succeeding in poisoning the Swedish Crown Prince, or the guilt she would bear if his death meant losing the war to Emperor Napoleon.
Fortunately, Mr. Hayward didn’t detect the slight hesitation in her reply, so they continued along the path until they reached a quiet corner created by some trees. The men at the end of the path, both of whom wore another nation’s military dress, were almost certainly Crown Prince Bernadotte and one of his men.
A Week in Brighton Page 13