“The very thought conjures images of disaster,” said her eldest sister. Horror shuddered through her sister’s voice, bruising Chastity’s ego.
The parlor door stood ajar…she crept closer. Her mother paced in front of the crackling fire, while her sister, Penelope, sat perched on the edge of the blue velvet settee, teacup in hand. Her younger sister, Lucy, was nowhere to be seen. “Is there no better option than to send her there? That is where Prinny and his Carlton Set indulge in their wild parties and outrageous entertainments.”
In the autumn, Pen would marry a staid, respectable country squire. To Chastity’s mind, she was already acting the part. No one believed Prinny, as the king was known to his intimates, was a paragon of virtue but he had always been a great deal of fun.
Chastity’s mother stopped pacing and looked askance at Pen. “The prince is now the king, Penelope, and must be respected as such.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Still, you are right as to the past goings-on at the Royal Pavilion,” conceded their mother in a milder tone. “But that doesn’t diminish my desire to see Chastity spend the Brighton Season with Aunt Agatha. Your great-aunt might be ancient, but she is a lady of unquestioned character, respected by all.” Pausing by the settee, she rested her hand on Pen’s shoulder. “Aunt Agatha could do much to shape a young woman like Chastity into a proper lady and see her wed to a gentleman of good fortune. And, while she is away, your youngest sister will be free of Chastity’s influence.”
“Yes, there is that. But do you truly think this course is wise? Many of the fashionable set flock to Brighton and Chastity is…well, not at all prudent.”
Their mother’s laugh was vibrant with amusement. “While that is true, I suspect Aunt Agatha can handle her and will derive immense enjoyment from your sister’s company.”
Chastity’s spirits soared. Of course, Aunt Agatha would enjoy her company! How could she not? Her husband, the earl, had been dead more than a year. She had no children and she and Chastity had always been of a similar mind.
From the parlor there came an audible snort. “Aunt Agatha might well consider my sister too great an assignment. Chastity is a hoyden, Mother, and, to my mind, Father indulges her overmuch. He allows her to ride that mare of hers at breakneck speed all over the countryside, leaving her groom behind, I might add.”
Chastity smiled remembering her last ride.
“I think it’s her name that’s the problem,” Pen muttered.
“You may have the right of it. ‘Chastity’ would not have been my choice,” said their mother. “But we cannot forget the estate and funds she will soon inherit if she continues to bear that given name.”
“‘The second daughter in the seventh generation,’” Pen recited. “Yes, I remember. Still, our Puritan ancestors could not have anticipated—”
Chastity waltzed into the parlor. “The second daughter in the seventh generation. How could I ever forget?”
Pen looked up, startled. “’Tis a great pity our Puritan ancestors could not foresee what a burden the name would be for someone like you,” she said, her voice sharp.
“Someone like me?”
Their mother subsided into a chair. “Enough, both of you.
Pen gave their mother a knowing look. “Recall that Chastity’s first season, which she owed to Aunt Agatha’s connections, was an unmitigated disaster.”
“Do you really think so?” Chastity asked. “I rather enjoyed it.” In truth, Chastity had not much enjoyed it, feeling as she did that she was a lesser debutante compared to the others. And the idle prattling at the many events bored her to death.
“You reject suitors like you’re casting off old clothes,” said Pen. “The only man you’re genuinely fond of is your dancing master.”
“Hmmm…” Chastity adopted what she hoped was a dreamy expression. “Had I known Mother would engage such a delightful Frenchman if I stepped on Lord Percival’s toes, I would have trodden on them much sooner.”
Her pleasure in provoking Pen faltered when she saw her mother’s pained expression. “That Frenchman is precisely the reason I want you out of Northampton, at least for a time.”
“Oh, Mother,” Chastity implored, “must I go to Aunt Agatha’s? She means well, but she’s an elderly widow and she’s never had children so she’s not at all used to entertaining young people. Please don’t send me to Brighton.” It wouldn’t do for her to appear eager to go. She leaned forward. “Would you not welcome the prospect of seeing me wed here?”
“Not to someone whose only attributes are his good looks, charm and prowess on the dance floor.”
“Worry not, Mother,” Pen said, her voice tart. “That eventuality would only be possible if M’sieur Béranger intended marriage, which I think we all know he does not.”
Chastity took hold of the back of a chair and lifted her gaze to the ceiling. “How little you understand me.” She had deliberately stepped on Lord Percival’s toes to punish him for his wandering hands during a waltz. And M’sieur Béranger was merely a diversion. She had no intention of marrying him or any man in Northampton for that matter. Most of the gentlemen she met were her mother’s choices, dreary bores every one. The few who were not were rogues she steered clear of. Marrying one of them one would be the very worst of fates.
Her one venture into love with a man of less than noble character ended badly. Though she had been only seventeen, she had given Roger Westley her heart but then discovered him attempting to kiss her younger sister, Lucy, who was only fifteen. She did not blame Lucy. She blamed the rogue who delighted in conquest, no matter it was Chastity’s sister he dallied with. Since that day, she had vowed to stay away from such men.
Besides, there were too many places she wanted to see to marry at twenty. And, since she would gain her inheritance when she turned one and twenty, there was really no need to marry at all. The thought of being her own mistress delighted her. Her own home with no one to say her nay. Of course, now that Pen was to marry, the family would expect Chastity to follow suit—providing her groom was not a certain Frenchman.
Chastity had no such intention. She was more interested in escaping her family’s country estate to travel to the seaside resort of Brighton. Her father would not argue with her mother, who reigned over Dudley Hall with a firm hand. He was content to putter in his study reading and designing men’s shoes and boots.
His ancestors had secured their fortune supplying cattle skins and bark from the family’s oak forests to the local shoemaking industry that had thrived since Cromwell shod his army in Northampton.
Her father, bored with the life of a country gentleman, often found enjoyment in creating the new designs he freely gave to the local cordwainers. That a wealthy country squire occupied himself with such pursuits might appear eccentric to some, but not to Chastity. She adored her father. He was the reason she had developed a fondness for designing ladies’ shoes, yet another activity of which her mother and sister disapproved.
Her father loved his wife despite her dominating nature. She was a woman of great beauty, as were Chastity’s two sisters. Men who came calling on them scarcely noticed her. A pale blue-eyed blonde in a family of raven-haired beauties, Chastity considered herself the cuckoo in the nest. Even her best friend, Rose, had that same cream-colored skin, ebony hair and dark eyes that captured men’s attention.
Added to her pale coloring was Chastity’s outspoken nature. In a society where most women did not know enough to form opinions, and those who did rarely stated them in polite company, this was a trait many men frowned upon. She did not consider herself a bluestocking by any means though Rose had told her the word had been whispered about. Chastity’s interests were merely uncommon. Embroidery and music were not among her pursuits. When she wasn’t designing ladies’ footwear, she preferred to read or ride.
As her mother steered the conversation to plans for Pen’s wedding, Chastity excused herself. Concealing her excitement at the thought of spending the summer
with dear Aunt Agatha in that wonderful place, she strolled toward the doorway. Northampton was a fair-sized market town but it could not compare to Brighton by the sea with its many attractions. And, with the entire ton swarming to the shore, Brighton was just the place to observe the latest footwear!
Almost to the front door, she heard her mother say, “What do you think about inviting Rose Crockett to go with her?”
“A marvelous thought,” Pen said. “Rose can keep an eye on her. And she doesn’t mind Chastity’s cat—Chastity will be taking the cat with her, won’t she?”
“Lord, yes,” said their mother. “The cat must go, too.”
Angelo’s Fencing Academy, 13 Old Bond Street, London
Robbie flourished his foil, hoping he and Jack might have time for another match before heading to Tattersall’s for the afternoon. “One last bout?”
His uncle grinned, brushing an auburn forelock from his brow. “Would I forgo a last chance to best you? Though the foil may not be my preferred weapon, mais non, I will not decline another match.” Jack was the son of Robbie’s grandfather, Jean Donet, the comte de Saintonge, and half-brother to Robbie’s mother, rendering both Robbie and his uncle half-French and of an age. Now in their early thirties, they had been friends since they were boys.
“You’re still on for Tattersall’s?” Robbie inquired.
“Bien sûr! I am always interested in inspecting good horseflesh.” Jack slashed the air with a quick salute and donned his mask, assuming the starting position, his right foot forward and his left arm, bent at the elbow, raised behind his head. “En garde!”
Robbie secured his mask and the bout proceeded.
Some minutes later, the blunted point of Robbie’s practice foil thumped the front of Jack’s padded jacket. “Touché. That is four touchés now for me.”
Jack growled in frustration and pulled his mask off his head. Running a sleeve across his forehead, he wiped away the sweat. “That sneaking coupé of yours! I fall for it every time.”
Robbie removed his fencing mask, revealing the grin that had been hidden behind the woven wire. “I think perhaps your mind is elsewhere.”
Jack nodded. “’Tis that Venus I met at the theater with you last night. I cannot get the dark-haired beauty out of my mind.”
“Tsk, tsk. Best to think of your opponent’s blade. The sword is not the weapon for a man distracted. Perhaps you should take up something else. The broad-axe, perhaps?”
Jack returned Robbie’s grin. “You go too far, Nephew. Knives, as you know, are my weapons of choice.” Jack had been taught to wield knives by his father, the comte de Saintonge, a former pirate. Robbie had witnessed Jack throw them with deadly accuracy. It was not Robbie’s skill and he admired it.
A shout from the doorway interrupted them. “Powell!” cried Angelo. “A messenger for you. From the Home Secretary’s office.”
The men who’d been standing around them observing the bout began to whisper among themselves.
Robbie gave Angelo an incredulous look. “Here?” He had submitted his report on the Cato Street Affair a few days before. What could this mean?
Angelo gestured toward the door.
“Very well.” Perhaps Sidmouth wanted to apprise him of the capture of the miscreants who had escaped. He crossed the room to the waiting messenger who told him the Home Secretary requested his immediate presence.
Returning to Jack, Robbie said, “I must go.”
Jack cocked a brow. “Tattersall’s in a few hours, oui?”
“I’ll be there. I’m in the market for a matched pair for my new curricle.”
After changing, Robbie took a hackney to Whitehall where he was ushered into Lord Sidmouth’s well-appointed office.
The Home Secretary rose from his desk to greet him. The statesman had thinning gray hair and aristocratic features. These rose above his lace-edged cravat and black suit, which pronounced him one of Lord Liverpool’s own. The Prime Minister’s Cabinet always dressed in somber fashion. “Have a seat, Powell. I won’t keep you long. It is not I who summons you, ’tis the king.”
Robbie experienced a ripple of trepidation as he doffed his beaver top hat and settled himself in the chair facing the desk. “I had hoped the conspirators could be arrested without all the gunfire…”
Ignoring his comment, the Home Secretary lifted The Times from his desk and tossed it toward Robbie. “I assume you’ve seen the newspapers. Thistlewood’s murder of that runner Smithers has everyone in an uproar.”
Robbie had seen reports of the Cato Street incident and his mother had spoken of the murder. Surely that was not his doing, however.
“We’re holding Thistlewood in the Tower, along with some of his co-conspirators, awaiting trial for treason.”
“You have found the others?”
Sidmouth shrugged. “Most. A few are still at large.”
Robbie worried the brim of his hat between his fingers. “Is the king displeased with the handling of the Cato Street Affair?”
A smile tugged at the corners of the Home Secretary’s mouth. “Hardly.”
Robbie experienced a surge of relief. “So, he is not angered…”
“Not at all. In truth, the king was smiling when he asked me to find you. Knowing your haunts, I had little trouble. Best run along to Carlton House. You are expected.”
With an inclination of his head, Robbie turned on his heels and departed, glad he wasn’t being called to account for the Bow Street officer’s death.
It was not his first visit to Carlton House, the home of the prince regent, now England’s king. Even so, the opulent rooms with their gilded and glistening mirrors, chandeliers and velvet upholstered walls never failed to captivate. Truly, it was a grand palace.
“If you will follow me, sir,” said an elderly servant attired in dark blue livery trimmed with gold lace.
Passing through several large chambers, the servant came to a halt at the door to the Blue Velvet Room. Robbie stood poised at the entrance, watching the corpulent king, now in his late fifties, sitting behind a magnificent mahogany desk, quill in hand, signing papers.
The room was on the garden side of the principal floor of Carlton House, the first of the reception rooms facing St James’ Park and one Robbie had been in before. He cast his gaze around the large room, noting the familiar blue velvet panels on the walls that provided a background for the magnificent art of the Dutch masters. One of the paintings, “The Passage Boat” by Aelbert Cuyp, was a particular favorite of his. What was notably missing from the room the king favored were any paintings of his parents.
The spring days were still cool so Robbie was not surprised to see a fire obediently burning in the fireplace, but the weather would not have mattered. Prinny’s rooms were always overwarm.
Owing to the good taste of his French mother, Robbie recognized the white marble chimneypiece as being of French design. The king had loved all things French until the Revolution that had seen that country’s monarch executed.
The dominant feature in the room, to Robbie’s mind, save the king himself, was the six-tiered crystal chandelier that hung suspended from the ceiling that was painted to look like the sky, complete with cherub. The crystals flickered in the light of the midday sun streaming into the room through the French doors.
When the king failed to look up from the papers in front of him, the servant cleared his throat and announced, “Mr. Robert Powell”. Then he bowed and departed.
Prinny looked up. “Come in, Powell, come in! You give me an excuse to leave this pile of papers I am forced to deal with.”
Robbie walked forward, wondering if, now that Prinny was king, he might expect a more formal address. He bowed. “Your Majesty.”
“I am too much in your debt, Powell, to insist on such niceties. Do sit down.” He gestured Robbie toward the gilded chair facing the desk. “I want to hear about the arrest of those men who plotted the demise of my ministers and, I dare say, myself.”
Robbie tried to b
e brief in his recitation of the events of that night on Cato Street. He omitted the fact the Coldstream Guards had been sent to the wrong place and did not describe the chaos that had briefly reigned in the stable. Nor did he mention that some conspirators had managed to escape. Others could supply the king with those details. “All their plotting came to a quick end,” he finished. That much was true.
“Well, then, there is nothing left for me but to reward you.”
Robbie started. “Sire?”
“Your quick instincts to follow Thistlewood and his band of rebels foiled a plot to assassinate the Cabinet. Think, man, what might have happened had they been successful! It could have been the beginning of a violent revolution, such as happened in France, and the end of the monarchy. I shudder at the thought. Of course, you shall be rewarded! And handsomely.”
The king glanced out the windows to the gardens, his mien thoughtful. Returning his regard to Robbie, he said, “I seem to recall that my father made your brother, Martin, a baronet for his service in France.”
“He did, Sire.”
“I can do better. What say you to becoming a viscount?”
“That is too generous, Sir. In truth, I do not see myself as a peer.” Robbie’s mother might be the daughter of a French comte, the equivalent of an English earl, but Robbie had no such ambitions. He had been a shipmaster and most recently a spy.
“All right. A baronet it shall be. You shall have the Red Hand of Ulster to wear on your broad chest, Sir Robert Powell.” The king rose and offered his hand. “Allow me to shake the hand of the man who may have spared England a revolution in the making.”
Robbie got to his feet and reached his hand to the king. “Your servant, as always.”
“It seems to me,” the king said with a look of devilish amusement, his plump cheeks reddening with delight, “that a respite from your duties is in order, and I have just the place. My Royal Pavilion in Brighton.” Before Robbie could reply, the king became enchanted with the idea. “Yes! You shall be my guest and stay in the private rooms, the summer long if you like, with my stables at your disposal. Will that do?”
Rogue’s Holiday Page 2