by M C Beaton
Felicity walked a little head of him in silence.
“You see, you are going to marry me,” he said, catching up with her. “And I then must go and see my family to tell them the good news, and then I must find a special license because I do not want to wait. Are you afraid of me?”
Felicity turned to face him. “Oh, yes,” she whispered. “Very afraid.”
He looked at her ruefully. “I must do something to end this farce. I never thought to use force, but…”
He deftly kicked Felicity’s legs from under her, and as she fell backward on the springy turf, he crouched down beside her and pinioned her arms above her head.
“Now,” he said, “let’s kiss some of that Brasnian nonsense out of you.”
“You are stronger than I am,” said Felicity with pathetic dignity. “I can only appeal to your honor, if you do have any.”
He smiled down at her wickedly. “Not a scrap,” he said softly, and then his mouth descended on hers.
As he kissed her softly, he released her wrists, only to pull her body into his arms. Felicity planned to lie cold and unresisting in order to bring him to his senses. But her lips had a will of their own, and her body refused to listen to frantic messages from her brain and arched against his. As he felt her response he freed her mouth and kissed her neck. “Brasnia,” he whispered against her skin. “Come along now. Tell me about Brasnia or I shall forget myself and leave you with no choice but to marry me. Brasnia!”
“No!” said Felicity.
Her dress was high-waisted and stiffened, to push her breasts up against the low neckline. He kissed the top of each breast and then rolled on top of her, pressing her into the ground with the weight of his body and began caressing her mouth again with his lips, soft stroking kisses that were more devastating than any savage assault.
Felicity let out a sort of gurgling moan, and he raised his head. Her hat had tumbled off onto the grass, and her red hair had come free of its pins and lay in a fiery cloud about her face.
“Oh, I shall tell you,” she sighed, “and then you will go away and forget about me.”
“I doubt it, Mr. Freddy Channing, Miss Felicity Channing and Your Royal Highness. I doubt it very much.”
“You knew,” said Felicity. “You knew all along.”
“Of course I did, my widgeon! But I wanted you to trust me, to tell me. I hope I can recognize a pretty girl even when dressed in men’s clothes. And I was there, you know, when Palfrey thought you had plunged to your death. It was when I fished a little girl’s dress out of the sea that I realized you had only pretended to die. You might have left behind a more convincing wardrobe, you idiot.”
“I can’t think with you lying on top of me in this disgraceful way,” said Felicity.
He rolled to one side, only to gather her in his arms again. “Now, go on,” he said. “Where did you get the money to buy all those jewels?”
“They are mine,” said Felicity. “Mama left a codicil the day she died, but Mr. Palfrey did not mention it. I think he found it and burned it. I knew where the jewels were hidden. It was on the day after I had seen the baron that Miss Chubb and John Tremayne told me they had been hatching a plot. It seems outrageous now, dangerous and silly. But I had to escape.”
“So you had,” he said, smoothing her hair. “So you will make a last grand appearance as the princess at the drawing room, and then we shall be married. The princess will disappear, and Miss Felicity Channing will take her place in time for the wedding.”
“But Mr. Palfrey…?”
“Mr. Palfrey will do nothing to cross swords with me. As my wife, no one will be able to harm you.”
“Do you love me?”
Lord Arthur began to laugh. “I break my engagement, I chase you to Brighton, I make love to you on this drafty hilltop, and I ask you to marry me. Of course I love you. I think I loved you from the moment I saw you in that silly disguise at The Green Dolphin.”
“Then, why did you become engaged to Miss Barchester?”
“I did not know then I loved you. I thought you a wild, ferocious little girl who had run away and would probably never be seen again.” He gave her a little shake. “Do you love me, Felicity?”
“Yes.”
“Then, prove it. Kiss me!”
Felicity wound her arms about his neck and kissed him with all her heart. He kissed her back and kept on kissing her until the sun went down and a chill wind began to blow in from the sea.
Mr. Palfrey had been billeted at an inferior inn near Lord Achesham’s house for a week. Every day he went out and walked up and down outside the main gates leading to the mansion, and every evening he returned feeling defeated. He had written to Miss Barchester to tell her of his lack of progress. She wrote back to say that the list of guests to attend the Queen’s drawing room included the name of Princess Felicity of Brasnia. She herself was to attend, and if Mr. Palfrey had not been invited, he had only to bribe a certain chancellor, pointed out Mr. Barchester’s daughter.
Reading this welcome letter over a dinner of stringy mutton and watery beans washed down with acid claret, Mr. Palfrey heaved a sigh of relief. All he had to do was to return to London and wait. Miss Barchester was a woman after his own heart. She had encouraged him that first day they had met by saying she was sure there was no such place as Brasnia and that poor Lord Arthur had been tricked by a scheming adventuress. Should that adventuress turn out to be Felicity Channing, then she would be unmasked in front of the Queen. Mr. Palfrey had quailed before the drama of this idea, suggesting a quieter exposure of the impostor, but Miss Barchester had overridden his protests.
Miss Barchester thirsted to take her place on the center stage of society, a place she felt had been snatched from her by Felicity. Never before had the cancellation of an engagement filled her with such fury. She had initially persisted in believing that Lord Arthur had not meant a word of it. All those previous jiltings had not even dented her superb vanity. But when she had returned to the hotel to find her father gleefully poring over plans for the new stables, she knew the engagement was definitely off. She had promptly sent a message to Mr. Palfrey, summoning him back, and had said she would help him in every way she could.
Mr. Barchester had grumbled most horribly over the amount of money it was taking to send his daughter to see the Queen. For he had had to pay a hefty bribe to get her invited and then there was the horrible cost of the court gown. He decided Lord Arthur should be made to pay for this extra expense. Besides, his daughter appeared to have a new beau in the shape of that fussy little man, Palfrey. Palfrey owned Tregarthan Castle. Mr. Barchester began to dream about an ornamental lake.
Miss Chubb cried with relief when Lord Arthur and Felicity returned to announce their engagement. Only Dolph was startled and disappointed to find that Brasnia did not exist. All the long day they had waited for the return of the couple while Miss Chubb had told Dolph long and fanciful stories about the bears of Brasnia, feeling it politic to expand on Lord Arthur’s strange lies. Dolph felt cheated. Brasnia had sounded like a marvelous place, and he had more or less made up his mind to go there.
So there was one last hurdle, the Queen’s drawing room, and then they could all settle down to plan Felicity’s wedding and discuss the future of their servants.
Lord Arthur left the next day with Dolph. Felicity passed her remaining days in Brighton in a daze of happiness. She almost forgot that Mr. Palfrey was probably still in London.
But once she was back in Chesterfield Gardens, the full terror of meeting the Queen drove everything else, apart from Lord Arthur, out of her mind.
Dressing for the occasion took hours of work. The minimum amount of large feathers allowed on the headdress was seven. Carberry’s, the plumassier, had sent round twenty-four, deeming that the correct amount for royalty, but Felicity refused to wear so many and settled at last for ten standing up from a garland of roses resting on a circlet of white pearls. The mixture of jewels, flowers, and feathers required
for court dress seemed odd to Felicity, who was used to wearing the simple Grecian fashions of the Regency.
She was strapped into a tight bodice, and then an enormous hooped skirt, three ells long, was laced to her waist. The skirt was made of waxed calico stretched upon whalebone, which made it very wide in the front and behind, and very narrow at the sides. Over that went a satin skirt, and over that, a skirt of tulle, ornamented with a large furbelow of silver lace. Another shorter skirt, also of tulle, with silver spangles ornamented by a garland of flowers, went on top of all that and was tucked up at the hem, the opening of each tuck being ornamented with silver lace and surmounted with a large bouquet of flowers. Then a lady attending court was also expected to wear as many jewels as possible. Felicity had the Channing diamonds as well as the pearls about her neck, her headdress was finished at the back with a diamond comb, and diamond buckles were attached to her shoes.
Miss Chubb, also attired in court dress, was so huge that she had to turn sideways to shuffle out through the front door. Two carriages had been hired to take them to Buckingham House, for their enormous skirts would not allow them to travel together. So Felicity had no one to talk to as she waited and waited in the long line of carriages that crawled toward Buckingham House.
At last she and Miss Chubb entered the great hall of the Queen’s residence. A double staircase rose up to the drawing room above. Those waiting to be presented went up by the left-hand staircase, and those who had been presented descended on the right.
Above the chatter of voices came the booming of the guns firing a salute in St. James’s Park outside. At first Felicity and Miss Chubb had eyes only for the splendor of the display. Feathers of all colors were worn on headdresses. Jewels flashed and blazed. Ladies fidgeted and fretted, trying to protect their enormous gowns from getting crushed, and gentlemen in knee breeches and evening coats fiddled nervously with their dress swords.
As she began to ascend the staircase, Felicity sensed a malignant presence behind her. She wanted to turn around, but the great hoop of her gown prevented her from doing so. Then a familiar, tall figure ahead of her on the staircase turned and smiled, and she felt a great flood of delight and relief. For it was Lord Arthur, very grand in a dark blue silk coat and knee breeches. His black hair was powdered, and he carried a bicorne under his arm. His delight in the beauty of Felicity’s appearance stopped him from noticing Mr. Palfrey and Miss Barchester close behind her.
All Felicity’s fears left her. The masquerade was nearly over. One curtsey to the Queen among so many, and then she would be free to marry Lord Arthur.
By the time she and Miss Chubb had ascended the staircase, inch by inch, both were heartily tired of the long wait. And when it came their turn to be introduced, neither felt any nervousness at all as they sank down into low curtseys before Queen Charlotte, who surveyed them with great indifference and helped herself to a pinch of snuff.
Felicity was just backing away from the royal presence when a voice behind her cried, “Impostor!”
One look at the so-called Miss Chubiski had been enough to convince Mr. Palfrey.
There was a hushed silence.
Then Mr. Palfrey said, “Your Royal Majesty, my lords, my ladies, and gentlemen. This is not the Princess Felicity of Brasnia. This is Felicity Channing, my stepdaughter, who stole my jewels and ran away.”
Miss Barchester laughed. “She is nothing but a paper princess,” she said.
A paper princess! A great hissing and whispering set the feathers nodding and dipping. Queen Charlotte looked at the stricken Felicity with mild curiosity. Then she raised her hand. Two Yeomen of the Guard stepped from behind her throne.
Lord Arthur came to stand beside Felicity and held her hand firmly in his own.
“This is indeed Felicity Channing,” he said, “who is to be my wife. Your Royal Highness, let me tell you her story.”
“Better let me tell it,” said a portly man, waddling forward. “I am Mr. Guy Clough, tobacco planter. I carry on me the late Mrs. Palfrey’s last will, which this man”—he pointed at Mr. Palfrey—“tried to destroy.”
“Pray go on,” said the Queen. “We have become interested.”
There were screams and yells from the staircase outside, where the guests who had not yet gained the drawing room, but who had begun to hear garbled whispers of an attempted assassination by a Turk, were beginning to push and shove.
So Mr. Clough told Bessie’s story and handed the will to Felicity.
As everyone pressed forward to look over Felicity’s shoulder, Mr. Palfrey backed away. The down staircase outside was empty; no one wanted to leave until they had learned every bit of the drama. He darted down it and disappeared into the night.
“Quite like a gothic romance,” sighed one sentimental lady. Ushers moved in to keep the guests in line. But Miss Barchester stood where she was, unable to believe the turn of events in Felicity’s favor.
Queen Charlotte looked across at Miss Barchester, and her little monkey face creased in a frown. “That woman,” she said. “Have her removed.”
“It was nothing to do with me,” said Miss Barchester, turning white.
“You are only wearing six feathers,” said the little Queen. “It is an insult to us. We suggest you do not aspire to social circles until you learn to dress.”
Despite her bewilderment and distress, Felicity could find it in her heart to be sorry for the exfiancée of Lord Arthur.
Tears of humiliation were running down Miss Barchester’s cheeks as she made her way down the grand staircase.
“Let us go,” said Lord Arthur in Felicity’s ear.
Clutching her mother’s will, Felicity let him escort her down the stairs, past the goggling guests, who were still demanding to know if anyone had seen this murdering Turk.
At his hotel, Mr. Palfrey packed feverishly. He knew that the minute the initial shock of all the revelations had died down, a warrant would be out for his arrest. He was bending over his largest trunk, stuffing in shirts and small-clothes, when he heard the door behind him swing open. His heart gave a jump. But when he turned around, it was only Miss Barchester standing there, still in her court dress and with the despised six feathers, standing up on her head.
“You have ruined me,” said Miss Barchester.
“It was you who had the silly idea of challenging her in the middle of the Queen’s drawing room,” pointed out Mr. Palfrey acidly. “You had better leave, or they might arrest you as well.”
“I am ashamed. I shall never dare show my face in polite circles again,” said Miss Barchester. “I shall go with you.”
“Charmed, dear lady,” said Mr. Palfrey, still packing. “But may I point out that I have only enough money on me to take me out of the country. What I shall do when I get to the Low Countries to survive is beyond me.”
“Marry me,” said Miss Barchester, “and Papa will give you my dowry.”
“How much?”
“Five thousand pounds.”
“Nearly enough, but not quite.”
“You still hold the Channing estates. Go to the bank in the morning and draw out as much as you can.”
“But the banker will have learned of all the fuss from the newspapers.”
“Then, you must trust to the fact that men of business rarely have time to read their newspapers first thing in the morning. I shall go with you. Perhaps this Channing creature will not want any more fuss and scandal and will not prosecute. So, do not draw out all the money, only enough to keep us comfortably.”
“I must leave this hotel immediately. Where shall I stay the night?”
“With my parents.”
“They will think it most odd.”
“Not them,” said Miss Barchester bitterly, thinking that her father would only see Mr. Palfrey as a further extension to his estate. “Come, I shall help you pack.”
There was something about Miss Barchester’s stern, cold face that reminded Mr. Palfrey of his mother. With a weak little smile, he
moved over and let her help him.
Chapter Ten
Felicity was roused early the next morning by Spinks, the butler.
“An urgent message from Lord Arthur Bessamy,” he said sonorously. “We are to bar the door, close the shutters, and lock the windows.”
“Good heavens! What has happened? Has Napoleon invaded?”
“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the lord.”
“Pull yourself together, Spinks. Did not my lord explain the reason for his warning?”
“No, Your Royal Highness. But the end is nigh.”
“Don’t be silly. Rouse Miss Chubb immediately, and bring me the morning papers.”
“I do not think that is a very good idea.”
“Do as you are told, Spinks,” said Felicity sharply. “And you may now address me as Miss Channing. The masquerade is over.”
“Everything is over,” said Spinks in a hollow voice.
The minute he had left, Felicity jumped from her bed and made a hasty toilet. Miss Chubb came in just as Felicity was finishing dressing.
“What is all this?” asked the governess. “Has Spinks gone mad?”
“Something awful is about to happen or Lord Arthur would not have sent a message.”
There came a scratching at the door, and the tutor, Mr. Silver, came in, carrying the morning papers and with an expression on his face as gloomy as that of the butler.
“Is it war?” asked Felicity nervously. “Have the French come?”
“Worse than that,” said the tutor. He silently handed Felicity the newspapers and told her to look at the social columns.
Each paper carried a full account of the Queen’s drawing room, and each damned this upstart, Felicity Channing, who had dared to masquerade as a royal princess and play a trick on “our beloved Queen Charlotte.” There was not a word of Mr. Palfrey’s perfidy. Tricking her out of her inheritance and nearly murdering a maid was small beer in the eyes of the press compared to Felicity’s audacity in tricking London society. “We had long noted,” said the Morning Post, “a sad want of any royal traits in this paper princess.”
