Harbor for the Nightingale

by Kathleen Baldwin

  But my words trail off. Her countenance has fallen serious again.

  I know my mistake. How stupid I am. Now she is thinking of the many soldiers facing the threat of Napoleon. And countless others, who have already fallen on the battlefields of Europe. Brave young men, like Georgiana’s brother.

  “Forgive me.” I rise and hug her. “I am not very good at pretending, am I? But might we not still hope that your charming Mr. Chadwick will be there? And as for me, I intend to enjoy every single minute while waltzing with Lord Kinsworth. It is something to be happy about, and heaven knows, we have enough troubling matters. Can we not spare one evening for our happiness?”

  “Yes.” She straightens her shoulders. “For this one night, we shall be blissfully happy—like ordinary young ladies.” She glances at the clock on the mantel. “And now we had best slip on our gloves and hurry, or they will close the dining room doors, and we shall not be allowed in at all.”

  * * *

  We hurry down the hall, walking briskly down the stairs, and glide into the banqueting room gallery. Lord Kinsworth is there to greet us. “There you are. I was getting worried.”

  I smile, still pretending I am any other girl in England and he is my dashing suitor. I say nothing to relieve his anxiety. After all, ordinary young ladies are seldom concerned about members of the Iron Crown murdering them in their bedrooms. When he whispers that I look ravishing, my heart flutters joyously, and I almost believe, for a few blessed seconds, that I am an ordinary young lady.

  Lord Kinsworth leans in and confides, “The Prince was still in bed when last I checked. I was told Lady Jersey and her husband will be acting as hosts for the night’s festivities.”

  “The Prince must be very ill to miss a gathering such as this?” I pose the question, even though I am afraid of the answer.

  Deathly ill.

  I wait for him to deny my allegation, but he merely nods as if he shares my opinion. A bad-omened wind snuffs out the candle inside me. I am no longer an ordinary girl; I am a poisoner of Princes.

  I wince and turn away from this disconcerting news. Across the room, Lady Jersey catches my eye. She stands at the head of the room, greeting guests. Beside her is her husband, the 5th Earl of Jersey, a tall long-nosed man, who serves as one of the Prince’s chief courtiers. His eyes are as shrewd and penetrating as his wife’s.

  No sooner do I glance away from them, but I am met with a most unsettling sight. It feels as if a cold glove slaps my face. Lady Daneska is here! Tittering like a cheap harpsichord with the other guests. Gowned in a stunning ice-blue silk, she strolls, innocent as a lamb, on the arm of a middle-aged duke.

  A serpent in sheep’s clothing.

  Two young pages blow trumpets to announce dinner and open the doors. Guests line up according to peerage rank and prepare to follow our hosts into the dining room. Lord Kinsworth is only a viscount, and so, with the large number of higher-ranking nobility present, we fall into the last half of the guests. Ben’s uncle, Lord Harston, only a baron, stands behind us in line with Sera.

  Lord Kinsworth places my limp hand on his arm and guides us into the dazzling banquet hall. “Incredible, isn’t it?”

  My feet falter, and I am too astonished to answer. The dining room is massive. It looks as if it was specially created to match my dress. Everything is gilded in shimmering gold, vibrant red draperies, exquisite turquoise walls, and huge tapestries of Chinese royalty. And the table! I have never seen such a spacious table. Above it hangs an enormous lotus blossom chandelier, held in place by a life-sized gold and silver gilt dragon coiled on the ceiling.

  “Dragons, everywhere.” Sera follows along beside me.

  “What perversity is this?” Lord Kinsworth is staring at the table. “I am not seated beside you.”

  “No?” I squint at the place cards. One look at the names on the placards and I can venture a guess at who dabbled with the seating chart. I am to be pinned between an earl I do not know and Lady Daneska. It was either Lady Daneska’s doing, wishing to keep me under her thumb, or Lady Jersey expecting me to maintain a close watch on Daneska.

  Lord Kinsworth frowns at the arrangement. But then, his customary good humor returns. He bows over my hand before taking his leave. “Be very careful, my dear. Make certain your dinner companion doesn’t slip poison into your food.”

  Is he being ironic?

  Does he think Lady Daneska would employ trickery similar to mine? I listen for any sour notes in his voice, but cannot detect even a hint of sarcasm. No, he is innocent of such thoughts. His kindheartedness is one of the traits I admire about him. Despite the Prince’s absence, Ben must still believe the herb tea I brought was intended to heal. Does that mean he is genuinely worried Lady Daneska might poison me? Or is he merely jesting? Unlike his kindheartedness, I find his incessant teasing less endearing. Too often, it leaves me confused.

  I dismiss his gibe and give voice to my own dark thoughts. “You need not concern yourself, my lord. Lady Daneska would never choose so easy a death for me.”

  “So easy as what, ma chérie?” Lady Daneska whirls up beside us and loops her arm through mine, the sore arm, the one she cut open not so very long ago. “Ah! Thiz must be your handsome fiancé, about which I have heard zo much.” She is affecting a heavy French accent even though Lady Daneska is Prussian, from the Dukedom of Pomerania.

  I smile as if we are old friends. “Yes, and he was just suggesting I be on guard lest you try to poison me. I assured him you would never choose so gentle a demise for me.”

  “Ho-ho, my dear, Miss Barrington, how very amusing you are.” Her laugh is so brittle, it sounds as if the wine glasses are shattering. She raps me on my arm. “Ah, but where are your manners. You must introduce me to your charming fiancé?”

  Why is it we must helplessly bow to English customs?

  Here stands my mortal enemy, an enemy to England. A woman, who in all likelihood, will someday run that infernal dagger of hers, which she has cleverly concealed in her elbow-length glove, into my heart.

  And twist it.

  Yet, I must yield to social conventions and introduce this beguiling traitor to a man loyal to his country, true of heart—a man I quite like. And if I survive this confounded dinner, a man I hope to waltz with. A man whose kisses I crave, whose inward songs are pure ambrosia to my soul.

  Lord Kinsworth bows elegantly to the wicked little serpent, oblivious to the dangerous hiss of her forked tongue.

  She curtseys in return, fanning her long luxurious eyelashes at him and smiling her pert little minx smile. My fists clench into two throbbing maces. I have an overpowering urge to wallop her in the neck.

  I could easily do it.

  She is exposing more than enough of her lily-white throat as she slowly rises. One quick thrust to her windpipe and she would fall gasping to her death. Except, then there would be no waltzing with Lord Kinsworth later, and God only knows what scaffold they would hang me from for killing one of Prince George’s guests.

  Sera rests a hand on my shoulder as if to remind me there are places for thrusts to the throat, and the Prince’s royal dining room is not one of them. Lord Kinsworth stares speculatively at me as if he, too, knows what I am thinking.

  I flush with hot shame. My character is slipping deeper into hell every day. Now, not only am I a poisoner of Princes, I now find myself contemplating murder.

  There is an odd quirk to Ben’s mouth, and he breaks into a grin. One of his dangerous grins, the same roguish smile bound to win him a sigh and a swoon from any female within a six-yard radius, including any young ladies, their mothers, their grandmothers, their great aunts, and, apparently, me.

  He bends close to my ear before dashing away. “Remember to save the waltz for me.”

  As if I had forgotten.

  Our hosts take their places, and we are obliged to take ours. Ben is seated four seats down and across the table from me, near enough to see, but too far away to overhear or even guess what he might be saying to Mi
ss Applewhite, the stunning English beauty seated next to him.

  “This is your doing,” I say to Daneska, feeling even more murderous than I had two minutes earlier.

  She leans close to my ear. “Lord Kinsworth is right. It would be rather easy to sprinkle a little arsenic in your food.” She titters, as if she has just shared a scandalous morsel of gossip, and indicates a large topaz ring on her pointer finger. “See, I need only flip it open over your crab soup.”

  “I, too, have a ring.” I show her the far more subtle ruby studded poison ring encircling my middle finger.

  Her eyebrow lifts only a fraction of an inch. “Ah, I see. So, you do. Shall we call a truce, ma chérie, and eat in peace?”

  I sniff. But when Lady Daneska alters her voice to a mellow contralto, as she is doing now, I find it difficult to contemplate using my poison ring. Even though mine is only armed with a sleeping potion. “Very well. Truce.”

  Except, I am no fool. She cannot be trusted.

  “And in the spirit of our truce, I will admit to you I had nothing to do with these abominable seating arrangements. Were it my choice, there are any number of guests I would rather be seated next to—your handsome fiancé, for example.” She sets her lips in a flirtatious smirk and peers down the table at Lord Kinsworth. “He is a rather delectable crumpet, isn’t he?”

  With a huff of irritation, I snap back at her. “I thought you had your own crumpet to worry about.”

  She clamps her teeth together in a bitter attempt to smile. “My darling naïve girl, no one would ever describe my beloved lord as a crumpet.”

  Beloved? I shudder, remembering Ghost’s latest cruel act. “No, I suppose not.” I do my best to sip a spoonful of crab bisque, but it tastes oddly of blood.

  I pour it back in the bowl, having lost my appetite for soup. “But I must warn you, no one who knows Lord Kinsworth would ever call him by that term either.”

  “No?” Her brow arches suggestively.

  “No,” I say flatly, refusing to let her lure me into one of her verbal gambits.

  Lady Daneska is not easily quelled. She ignores my cold retort and tilts her head, studying my fiancé with even sharper interest, holding her now empty spoon to her lips as if toying with the idea of what it would be like to kiss him.

  I squint at her, seriously reconsidering the merits of applying a sleeping potion to her bisque. Instead, I bait her. “I noticed today that your beloved is here in Brighton.”

  Her spoon lowers with a gratifying suddenness. Her inner music collides with a screech into the next note, and her smug falsetto ends in a discordant heap. “What?” she squeaks.

  What, indeed.

  I cannot keep my lips from spreading in triumph. “Oh?” I say, feigning surprise. “Did you not know he was in town?”

  “Of course, I did!” Glowering at me, she mutters a string of Slavic curse words and plunks her spoon down without any grace at all. “More to the point, how did you find out?”

  I shrug. “Sera and I were strolling along Church Street, and . . .” I did not need to say more.

  “Mon Dieu.” She winces. She now realizes what Ghost already knows; the Iron Crown will need to move their quarters. Except, we are one step ahead of her. Miss Stranje will have already posted someone to watch and see what hole they crawl into next.

  “He won’t be happy.” Lady Daneska slumps and stares at her half-eaten soup as if the chunks of crab meat are to blame for her problems.

  She simmers with such clanging annoyance I refrain from mentioning the fate of her footman spy. A moment or two later she turns to me and in a rare hum of sincerity, asks, “Why, Maya? Why is it you cannot behave like a good little girl and do as you are told?”

  A hundred answers thunder through my mind.

  Hypocrite! Pot calling the kettle black. Why can YOU not do as you are told? And it depends on who is telling me to do what. Not to mention, your notion of good and mine are drastically different. Besides, I am not a little girl.

  In the end, I give up and shrug. “Is it not obvious? My father sent me away to a reform school. What did you expect?”

  One corner of her mouth curves upward as if she finds my answer mildly amusing. “I keep forgetting you are all trouble makers.”

  “And you are not?”

  She laughs. For once, it does not sound like breaking glass. It is round and full. Genuine. Something I had never heard her do before. “Oh, my dear,” she says. “You have no idea.”

  In that moment, I almost like her. Almost. But then, she turns away dismissively and spends the next two courses chattering flirtatiously with the elderly earl seated on her left. We are halfway through our roast pheasant when a hush falls over the room. Spoons and forks are set aside. Here, at the far end of the table, I cannot tell what is happening. People toward the front push back their chairs and begin to rise.

  The head footman announces him, and Prince George strides into the room. There is vigor in his step and a broad smile on his noble face. He is flushed, to be sure, but other than that he looks remarkably robust and healthy.

  All of us stand to bow or curtsey.

  “Sit! Sit.” He spreads his arms wide as if embracing us all. “My friends! Please, sit and eat! Enjoy your meal.” Servants quickly move aside dishes and clear a space for him at the head of the table. “We are feeling quite splendid! Better than splendid. Marvelous. In point of fact, we have not felt this well for some years.”

  He strains up on his toes, stretching, searching for someone until his gaze lands upon me. “Ah, yes! There she is.” He points at me. “The young lady responsible for our recovery.” He reaches for a glass of wine and raises it aloft. “A toast to Miss Barrington, whose brilliant tea has done miracles for my constitution. Miracles!” Prince George’s hearty laughter booms across the massive banqueting hall.

  Miracles? A miracle he is well, yes.

  But for England—

  Disaster!

  The meeting with Napoleon will take place too soon for Captain Grey and the others to intervene.

  “Huzzah! To His Highness’s good health.” Lord Jersey is the first to join in. His wife seconds his sentiment and glances furtively in my direction. In a chorus of cheers, we all raise our glasses. Lord Kinsworth wears a proud smile and nods in my direction. I have pleased him—not my objective.

  How could this have gone so terribly wrong?

  That blood cleanser was so stringent it ought to have made him sick for days.

  Days!

  Unless . . . unless it was precisely what he needed. My hand shakes so violently, it is difficult to keep my wine from spilling.

  Lady Daneska turns to me as we take our seats. “Well done, Miss Barrington. Perhaps you are not so naughty, after all.”

  No. Not nearly naughty enough.

  A complete failure.

  I school my thoughts. At least the Prince is not dead or dying. That is no small consolation. Still, my heart sinks, humming the dour notes of a mournful oboe. I pick up my fork but lower it back to the plate. My appetite has turned to dust.

  How many days do I have left to live?

  Two?

  Three?

  Perhaps, as many as four?

  One Waltz Before Dying

  I eat without tasting. My eyes stare at the glittering surroundings without seeing. People chatter, clink their silver and tap their glasses, but all the sounds blur into one sad low hum. Dinner ends, and we are ushered into the ballroom. Music is playing. Something lively. A young Austrian duke that I’d met previously in London, approaches, bows, and asks me to partner with him on the dance floor.

  I want to say, no. Can you not see, I am in mourning? I have failed England. My friends are in deadly peril.

  Instead, I nod and allow him to guide me out onto the floor. I have no idea how my feet remember the steps. My mind feels like a gnat buzzing a thousand miles above my body. Even the music seems far away as if it is being played in another valley. Luckily, we are too busy skipping
and clapping for my partner to notice that I have no conversation. I smile politely when I see his lips moving, but I do not hear the words.

  Lord Kinsworth dances past us, and leans close to my ear, “Remember the waltz belongs to me.”

  His words rouse me somewhat and draw my mind closer to the dance floor. I watch his broad shoulders as he moves down the line. Sometime tonight, those arms will hold me. I will be able to waltz with him before I die. There. That is something to hold on to. My heart remembers how to beat properly, and the music seems to play a little louder, a little brighter.

  I grow steadily more aware of my surroundings. I notice Sera standing off to the side of the other guests, in deep conversation with Lady Jersey and Miss Stranje. Miss Stranje’s expression shifts abruptly. Instead of a wily hawk, she swells and darkens, looking more like the terrifying Steppe eagle from my country, feathers ruffled, beak poised, and on the hunt.

  My dance partner loops his arm through mine and skips with me in a circle. When our headmistress comes back into view. She is searching the guests with vengeance in her eyes. I can guess who she hunts.

  Lady Daneska.

  What can Miss Stranje do if she finds her? She can’t very well drag the lady out of the room by the hair. She might deliver a stern lecture, but ringing a peal over Lady Daneska’s head will do no good. She has chosen her path. As I have mine. Our dim futures aside, Miss Stranje’s former student seems to have vanished from the ballroom.

  Lord Kinsworth and his partner sashay past us, drawing my attention back to this frivolous country reel. I find myself taking an inexplicable dislike to Miss Applewhite. She, with her cherry blossom cheeks and bouncing yellow ringlets—he ought to have asked someone else to dance. She is so patently helpless, so absurdly English. Must she titter and blush at every comment he makes?