With His Lady's Assistance (The Regent Mysteries Book 1)

by Cheryl Bolen

  "Excellent!" she said. "You must go to her tomorrow. And I shall go to Windsor."

  "Why do you wish to go to Windsor?"

  "To make inquiries. Someone there had to see something, see someone there who didn't belong. I mean to find out who."

  He glared at her. "You will not go to Windsor."

  "Why?"

  "Because you're a lady. And because that vile person might still be there, might harm you."

  She sighed. "I'll own I thought of sending a footman, but from the beginning of this investigation you and I have agreed that no one else could be trusted, not even my parents."

  "The fact that no one else can be trusted doesn't mean I'll allow you to risk your life."

  "It won't actually be me."

  He gave her another of those stares one would give to a delusional person. "I'm afraid you've lost me again."

  "I shall borrow servants' clothes."

  He began to laugh. "And shall you ride to Windsor in your father's grand coach and four in your servants' garb, my lady?"

  "Of course not! I'll . . . ride a horse."

  "I've not met the servant who has her own Arabian."

  She gave him a haughty look. "Then I'll ride a nag."

  "Unchaperoned?"

  "Of course! Whoever heard of a maid being chaperoned?"

  "But you're not a maid! You're a confidante of the Prince Regent. You've been placed in a position that's not only delicate but also dangerous. If the person who's behind all these diabolical attempts should find you in Windsor, you'd never be allowed to return to London. Alive."

  "Oh, very well. Perhaps the day after tomorrow you can travel to Windsor."

  "A much better plan."

  She sipped her Madeira. Of course she was going to Windsor tomorrow. She just wasn't going to tell Jack about it. At least not until she returned.

  Chapter 22

  "Ye shouldn't go off to the East End alone, milady," warned Daphne's maid early the next morning. "Wicked things could befall ye there."

  A smile touching her lips, Daphne surveyed herself in the looking glass. Pru had done well gathering up the scullery maid's castaways. The faded brown worsted dress was frayed at the cuffs and threadbare at the elbows, and Daphne deemed it perfect. Fortunately, the scullery maid was tall and thin. Her clothing fit Daphne as if it had been made for her. Unfortunately, the girl's well-worn boots did not. Only barely managing to squeeze her feet into them, Daphne hoped she would not have to walk for any great distance. "I declare, Pru, no one will take me fer a fine lady dressed as I am."

  The freckle-faced maid's mouth gaped open. "Milady! How did ye learn to speak like the lowly born?"

  Daphne's eyes twinkled. "You truly believe I can pass for a person of lesser birth?"

  "Oh, yes, milady! Indeed I do."

  "Splendid!" Daphne turned from the mirror to face Pru. "Tell me again how you will explain my absence to my parents."

  "I'm to tell them ye've gone to spend the day with yer aunt."

  How fortunate Daphne was to have no less than nine aunts, five on her mother's side and four on her father's. Even if her parents chose to seek her, she likely would return before they made their way down the list of her parents' sisters. "Now if ye would be so kind as to lend me the shawl yer mum knitted for ye." Daphne was enjoying her play acting immensely.

  Pru draped the brown shawl over Daphne's shoulders. "It be wickedly cold out there. Ye should really wear yer woolen coat."

  Daphne eyed Pru, a rueful expression on her face. "You know I can't--if I'm to appear poor."

  The maid shrugged.

  "Pray that I can sneak out without being seen," Daphne said.

  "I beg that ye be careful, milady. There's cutthroats in the East End. I don't know why ye've such a bee in yer bonnet about going there to 'elp out the less fortunate."

  "I believe it was something the vicar said last Sunday." Daphne strode toward the door of her bedchamber.

  As she tiptoed down the stairs she felt wretchedly guilty for lying to Pru about today's mission, but spies had to keep their secrets. And Daphne meant to be a good spy. Like Jack.

  No, don't think about Jack. Would she ever become inured to the pain of losing him?

  She left the house--unseen--through the servants' back entrance. As she hobbled toward Piccadilly in the ill-fitting boots she mused over this recently acquired penchant for prevarication of hers. She only hoped she could keep all her stories straight. She had told Pru she was disguising herself in order to go to the East End to do charitable works. A fine lady in a fine carriage there would be too easy a target for thieves and murderers. Then there was the visiting-her-aunt tale contrived for her parents. And, of course, she had outright lied to Jack when she told him she wasn't going to Windsor today.

  For she very much intended to take the post chaise to Windsor this very morning. She was rather excited about riding a public coach. It would be an entirely new experience, and she liked all the new experiences that had been revealed to her since Captain Jack Dryden had come into her sphere.

  All except for the broken heart.

  * * *

  He had registered at the Pulteney Hotel under the name of John Rich. Now he paced the Turkey carpet of his chambers there, awaiting a reply to the note he had sent this morning to the Comtesse de Mornet. What could possibly be taking her so devilishly long to answer?

  Since the matter he wished to discuss with her was of a private nature, his note had asked permission to meet alone with her. Sending her the letter had seemed the best way of ensuring a clandestine meeting between them at the earliest possible opportunity.

  A knock sounded, and he raced to open the door to a young man in livery who held out a silver tray upon which reposed folded velum with his name written in feminine hand. The comtesse's response. He gave the servant a shilling and took the note to read in front of the window, where the light was brightest. He broke the comtesse's seal and scanned the letter.

  My Dear Monsieur Rich,

  I have told my servants to tell all callers that I am feeling ill today. My servants have instructions to only admit you. Please call at three, but come on foot. Your carriage must not be seen.

  I do not need to tell you that if the Duke's carriage is at my residence, you must not come. However, I do not expect him.

  Affectionately,

  Monique de Mornet

  Smiling bitterly, he wadded up the letter and hurled it into the fire.

  * * *

  The walk from the Pulteney to the comtesse's was but a short distance. Upon entering the block in which her townhouse was located, Jack made a mental note of the conveyances there. There were but two, and neither was in front of the comtesse's. At the opposite end of the block a crested black coach stood, and not quite directly across from the comtesse's residence a white-footed chestnut was being tethered by a young ostler. From long practice, Jack's gaze skimmed the street for anything suspicious. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then he glanced at the comtesse's stately white townhouse. A dark figure moved at a third-floor window. If Jack wasn't mistaken, it was a man peering out the window, but he moved away before Jack had time to really look.

  How curious. It couldn't be the Duke of York because that gentleman always traveled in his coach that bore the royal crest. Perhaps it was only a servant, maybe a servant who had been told to be expecting a gentleman at three o'clock.

  When the servant who answered his knock was wearing black, Jack was relatively assured that must have been the man awaiting him, the man who had peered at him from a room on the third story. "A Mr. Rich to see the comtesse," Jack told him.

  "If you would be so kind as to follow me," the man said in a heavy French accent.

  Jack entered an opulently decorated hallway that was adorned with gilt mirrors and glittering chandeliers and followed the butler up one flight of iron-banistered stairs, then another. The first door they came to on the third floor was the comtesse's bedchamber.

  He step
ped into the heavily perfumed chambers but had some difficulty seeing if the comtesse were there, owing to the fact the red silken draperies that cloaked the windows had not been opened. The soft thud of the door closing behind him, Jack strode some ten feet into the sumptuous chamber and detected a movement in the huge, canopied bed that was draped in red velvet.

  "Monsieur Rich!"

  As he drew closer he saw that the comtesse was in the center of the bed, mounds of lacy pillows behind her, her legs stretched out in front of her. Though she still wore her night shift--a gauzy scrap of scarlet--she most definitely had not just awakened. The deft hand of an obviously talented hairdresser had been at work for the comtesse's sparkling golden locks spiraled about her lovely face.

  "Good day to you, comtesse," he said, fighting to rid his voice of the iciness this woman elicited.

  "Forgive me for not being properly dressed," she said, her voice almost a purr, "but I did not get to bed until dawn."

  He coaxed himself to peer seductively at her. "There's nothing to forgive. I've never seen you lovelier."

  She patted the mattress beside her. "I should like for you to sit next to me, Monsieur Rich."

  He favored her with a sultry smile as he moved to the bed.

  "Shall I ring for something for you to drink?" she asked.

  "Perhaps later." He grinned at her. "It suddenly seems very hot in here."

  A lazy smile played at her mouth as her eyes traveled over him. "Should you care to open a window?"

  "I prefer staying exactly where I am." He trailed a finger down her bare arm.

  "I take it your Lady Daphne has decided she does not wish to wed the South African diamond miner?" she began.

  He nodded. "It's just as well. I seem to have had a change of heart."

  Her brows lifted. "What kind of change of heart, cheri?"

  "I seem not to be able to get one very fetching comtesse out of my mind."

  She set her hand upon his thigh. The things he had to endure for the blasted regent! "I am very glad to hear that," she murmured, her fingers digging into the muscles of his thigh.

  Their eyes locked for several seconds, then Jack placed his hand behind her neck and lowered his face to hers until their lips softly touched.

  A kiss from this woman lacked the purity and sweet potency of one of Daphne's kisses, kisses that had enslaved him. Nevertheless, he must convince this woman otherwise. He groaned with feigned satisfaction just before he pulled back and eyed her with fiery intensity.

  The comtesse pouted. "I wish you would not have pulled away. I was immensely enjoying your kisses, Monsieur Rich."

  "I must own it was difficult for me to do so."

  "You are afraid the Duke of York will come?"

  "That would be a bit of a problem."

  "But, Monsieur Rich, I can assure you that will not happen. The duke he is to be the guest of honor today at a dress ceremony of the Horse Guards. I read it in this morning's newspaper."

  Jack nailed her with a simmering gaze. "I am indebted, then, to the Horse Guards."

  "I pray," she said in a husky whisper as she edged closer, "that you continue what you were doing."

  Jack sighed. "Would that I could."

  Her lovely eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

  "I never was good at sharing. Even as a child."

  She did not speak for a moment, then she cupped a jeweled hand to his cheek and spoke in a low voice. "You object to sharing me? You object to my relationship with the duke?"

  "I do not object to your relationship with the duke. What I object to is having a relationship with a woman who is not mine. Exclusively." He took both her hands and brought them to his lips for what he hoped was a tender kiss, then settled them back in her lap without removing his hand. "I'm a very rich man, Monique. If you were mine, there is nothing I would not give you."

  "You are asking me to be your . . . mistress?"

  He drew in his breath. This wasn't in the script he and Daphne had planned, but he decided to make his offer impossible to turn down. Unless she was completely committed to being the mistress of the King of England. "I wish to make you my wife."

  She slumped back against her pillows, her lovely mouth slightly open. "Your offer it is very tempting, very flattering, and exceedingly difficult to turn down."

  Drawing in his breath, he hoped like hell she wasn't going to accept his offer. He forced a smile. "Then you accept?"

  She shook her head. "I cannot."

  He had to stifle a sigh of relief and act as if he were gravely disappointed. "You are that committed to the royal duke?"

  "I made him a promise. I have never so regretted that I cannot break my promises."

  Jack got to his feet. "Then it seems we have nothing more to discuss."

  "I could offer you something else, but I know you are too puritanical to accept."

  His eyes locked with hers. "Not puritanical. Principled." He bowed and left the room.

  A few minutes later he was walking along Piccadilly toward Sidworth House. So Daphne's feminine intuition had proven to be right! No courtesan would ever miss the opportunity to be respectably wed to a man of staggering wealth, especially if she were already attracted to that man, which--with all due modesty--he was certain of. The only thing that would cause her to turn him down would be a hunger to be the king's mistress, a hunger in which she had already heavily invested.

  He wondered who she had hired to execute the murders. Was it a fellow countryman of hers? A servant? Definitely not someone hired off the street. Whoever was behind these attacks on the regent and his daughter had been completely discreet. Despite the many weeks that had passed since the regent's injuries, no one in London had learned of the attempts on his life.

  Perhaps when Jack went to Windsor tomorrow he could learn something that would lead him to the assassin.

  Presently he found himself rapping at the door to Sidworth House. He was most impatient to apprise Daphne of what he had learned.

  When the butler told him Lady Daphne was not in, Jack could not mask his disappointment. "May I leave a message?" he asked.

  The butler showed him into the morning room, where Jack sat at the desk and scribbled out a note that instructed Daphne to notify him--at the Pulteney--as soon as she got home. He told her he had some interesting information to share.

  As he was giving the note to the butler, Lady Sidworth saw him. "Mr. Rich!"

  "Good day, my lady."

  "I expect you came to see Daphne."

  "I did indeed."

  "A pity she's not here. She's off visiting her aunt."

  It wasn't until Jack was half way back to the Pulteney that he grew suspicious of Daphne. One of her aunts? Wasn't that the ruse she used when she purposely wished to be vague?

  The rest of the afternoon he was uneasy, hoping like hell his suspicions were unfounded.

  Night fell, and Daphne still had not responded to his note.

  His anger turned to anxiety. Surely she hadn't gone off to Windsor and endangered herself.

  He must go to Sidworth House and find out.

  Chapter 23

  As the crow flies, Windsor was no great distance from London. Daphne was of the opinion that a bird could make the journey in an hour. A pity she was not a bird. By the time her post chaise had stopped some half a dozen times, she decided she did not at all like public conveyances.

  Still, she arrived in Windsor before ten in the morning, and began walking toward the castle which rose on a bluff high above the village.

  On the high street she began making inquiries. "Pray, sir, where was the dear princess when the wicked creature shot 'er?" Daphne asked the green grocer who was sweeping debris out the front door of his establishment. She was inordinately pleased at how well she mimicked those masses whose morbid curiosity drew them to floggings, hangings, and any manner of distasteful events.

  The proprietor stopped, leaned upon his broom, and smiled as he eyed her. "'Twas just down the street from 'er
e."

  "I should ever so much like to see the place," Daphne said.

  "Well, my lass, follow me, and I'll shows ye just where it 'appened."

  He preened with self-importance as he led her down the cobbled street.

  "Did ye actually get to see the princess yesterday--after she was struck by the musket ball?"

  "I managed, but 'tweren't easy. There was soldiers and what-not circling around 'er as the dear girl lay right on the street almost bleeding to death."

  "How dreadful!"

  "You've never seen such terror. Me missus locked the door and ran upstairs to hide beneath the bed, she did."

  "I don't doubt it. It must 'ave been terrifying."

  He paused and gaped at the uneven stone road. "See, right there, you can still see the princess's blood."

  You could indeed. Fortunately Daphne was not prone to vapors over such a sight, for nothing had been done to wash away the now-dry, now-brown blood that had pooled there the previous afternoon. Stooping over the rust-colored stain, she effected a perverse interest in the gruesome sight. "Oh me goodness, I can't believe that be Princess Charlotte's blood! Bless 'er."

  The green grocer stood there as proudly as one who had single-handedly apprehended the gunman who injured the princess. "Twere a terrible sight, to be sure."

  "And no one saw the vile creature who did that to the princess?"

  He shook his head.

  Daphne had gotten the information she needed from this man. If she asked him too many questions, suspicions would be aroused. She would find someone else to aid in her next line of questioning. "'ave ye ever met the princess yerself?" she asked, by way of changing the subject.

  He shrugged. "Not actually met, but I've seen 'er up close must be a few dozen times."

  Her eyes rounded. "And ye've seen the king and queen up close, too?"

  "Indeed I 'ave. Many a time. Dear King George, bless him, even said 'ello to me once."

  "I would faint dead away, I would!"

  He chuckled.

  "Well, I appreciate ye showing me this awful sight," she said, "but I dare not keep ye away from yer business fer so long."