Would she be witness to a murder right then? What would Bernadotte’s companion do when his prince collapsed?
Was dying of arsenic quick or prolonged? What it terribly painful?
Perhaps she’d been hasty in choosing to stay in the cage, which seemed far less gilded with every step. She wanted to fly back to the ballroom, but the burden of potentially saving a life—and her country—would not let her retreat.
Help me get out of this moment alive, Julia prayed to the skies.
Moments later, the two men turned to face her and Hayward, likely hearing their approach. They walked right up to the men, and Mr. Hayward greeted them. “Your Highness, what a pleasure it is see you again,” he said to Bernadotte, bowing.
What should have been a moment of excitement for Julia—meeting royalty from another nation—was instead one in which she had to do her utmost to not faint right there on the path.
What have I done?
She offered the Crown Prince a curtsy and hoped she’d have the strength to rise from it.
Somehow an unexpected strength came into Julia’s limbs, helping her to not only rise from her curtsy toward Bernadotte, but to stand tall and smile as if nothing whatsoever was untoward.
Mr. Hayward conversed with Bernadotte and his companion, and as he did so, gradually shifted position, taking a step forward, then waiting for Bernadotte to respond by stepping to the side or backward, and so on until Mr. Hayward stood in the corner looking out instead of the others. The move was deliberate, she was quite sure; from their vantage point, she could see most of the gardens and the ballroom beyond. It was Bernadotte who now could not see who might approach him from behind.
Julia herself stayed somewhat out of the corner, able to see toward the ballroom, but would Bernadotte realize his precarious position? Perhaps not; why would he suspect his life would be in danger in England, when he’d recently allied his nation with theirs?
Keeping one ear on the conversation, which so far consisted of banal talk, Julia gazed about the gardens with the eyes of an immature, starry maid. She held her champagne flute close, however, ensuring that it would not be tampered with.
“Ah, you there,” Mr. Hayward said, raising his voice.
“Yes?” A footman replied.
“Come bring us a round of drinks. Crown Prince Bernadotte and his companion are parched. Besides, we need to toast the new alliance between our countries.”
“Sounds delightful,” Bernadotte said with a nod.
The footman bowed. “Right away, sir.” He left on his errand, taking Julia’s peace of mind with her. In a few moments, Mr. Hayward would take a new champagne flute from the footman’s tray, then offer his own poisoned champagne flute to Bernadotte. What could she do to stop him from drinking it?
Still wearing a faux smile, she kept the footman in the corner of her vision, tracking his movements to know how much time she had to invent a way to keep Bernadotte from drinking from his glass, but she could not think clearly enough to conjure any ideas at all.
Behind the footman, a silhouetted figure crossed the path, glanced their way, and then stopped. Julia moved her focus from the footman in the background to the other man. Andrew. Her heart soared with relief. He was near. If he drew closer, she’d be able to tell him of the poison. A gentleman would find speaking to royalty much easier than a gentle lady. Andrew, however, could prevent Bernadotte from drinking, whether by saying something to the Crown Prince, or by physically preventing him from drinking the poison, neither of which she could do.
She surreptitiously slipped her hand free of Mr. Hayward’s elbow so she could attempt to make a word sign with it, her left hand being occupied by her own champagne flute. Shaping her hand into a fist with the thumb facing up, she waited until she felt sure that Andrew was looking at her, then moved her hand toward herself. Help.
Could he see her signal by the light of the lanterns? Would he understand?
A weight struck her, bringing with it a new question. After the way she’d left him without an answer after he’d exposed his heart to her, would he come to her at all? He wouldn’t imagine that her plea was of its dire serious nature.
Over Andrew’s shoulder, she noted the footman returning with a tray containing two champagne flutes. He would be here any moment. Julia turned her attention to Andrew again, intently, and signed once more. Help. Then again. Help.
His figure straightened slightly. He’d seen and understood it. He turned his head and sipped from his own drink. When he looked over again, she put her opened palm to her chest and moved it in a circle in the air, as if marking a sore spot on her skin. At least, that’s what she hoped Mr. Hayward would assume, but she was really signing, Please.
From that distance, she could not tell enough from Andrew’s face to hazard a guess at what he was thinking or feeling, but her please elicited a much stronger reaction than plain help had. With one hand, Andrew casually made a sign of his own, not looking at her for more than a moment as he signed, Now?
Relief washed through her, and she found herself nodding several times in succession instead of answering with a hand sign. But she’d apparently given too much attention to Andrew, for she missed the footman’s arrival. She turned back to the circle to see that Mr. Hayward had already handed Bernadotte his own drink, and he was taking a new one for himself.
Don’t drink it! She wanted to yell the words but couldn’t without looking mad.
Andrew was casually walking her way—coming, yes, but not rushing as she’d hoped, likely because she did not appear to be in danger. For the moment, she was not.
“A toast,” Mr. Hayward said, holding up his new drink. Bernadotte and his companion, who was not in military dress, did the same, and Julia found her own glass rising to meet the others.
What to do? Think. Think!
“To allies and to peace,” Mr. Hayward said, and he held out his glass.
Bernadotte echoed Mr. Hayward’s words. “To allies and to peace.” His companion did the same, and the two of them clinked glasses before drawing them to their lips.
“Oh!” Julia exclaimed loudly and stumbled forward, purposely knocking the champagne flute from Bernadotte’s hand. She landed in a heap on the ground. She heard someone curse—Hayward, no doubt—then scuffling steps, and at last, a kind voice.
“Are you hurt?” Andrew asked.
She wanted to throw her arms about his neck and never let go. To kiss his cheek—his lips. Again and again. The thought was as pleasant as it was surprising. She remembered what had nearly happened and did her utmost to play her part to the hilt.
“I—I—” She weakly pushed herself to a sitting position, then pressed the back of her wrist to her forehead. “I feel rather faint.”
“Let’s get you inside.” Andrew helped her to her feet, Julia putting far more weight on him than was strictly needed and gasping in imaginary pain when she tried to walk.
“Could you carry me, Mr. Gillingham? I fear I may faint away again.”
“Of course.”
Goodness, how I love him.
Had she truly just thought that word? And had she meant it in the same fashion as he’d used the term earlier that evening? Not the love one feels toward a sibling or a friend but something much deeper and richer? This was something that warmed her toes and made her want to be held by Andrew every day for the rest of her life.
“Thank you,” she said, feeling herself blush. “I think that would be wise.”
Andrew slipped a hand under her knees, and with a swoop of her skirts, she was in his arms. She reached out her hand, her glass outstretched toward Mr. Hayward, who looked so frustrated that the veins in his neck seemed to bulge above his cravat. “Would you take my glass, Mr. Hayward? I must apologize for this display. I am most embarrassed.”
Bernadotte was the one who answered. “Do not worry for a moment. It’s wise to go back inside and rest.”
She nodded weakly. “I will, thank you.”
Andrew nodde
d to Bernadotte, his companion, and Hayward, then turned and headed toward the ballroom with Julia in his arms. She didn’t dare relax at all until they were some distance away, and then she rested her head on Andrew’s shoulder. She savored the closeness, though she could tell that for his part, Andrew was tense. Why, she did not know; he didn’t know what she’d just thwarted, so he couldn’t be worried over her safety or that of Bernadotte.
The scent of Andrew so near again brought back the moment between them here in the gardens. And then she knew. Of course he was acting strangely; this was their first interaction since she hadn’t expressed a reciprocation of his affections. He didn’t know how to behave with her anymore.
Please don’t forevermore call me Miss Hughes, she thought, even as she remembered, with a disturbing start, what she’d just foiled—and the terrifying reality that Mr. Hayward would likely try to assassinate Crown Prince Bernadotte again.
“Pray tell, what was that all about?” Andrew whispered—a delicious sound.
Her reaction sent a combined thrill and sense of wonder through her. How had she not realized sooner that she loved Andrew—how handsome and attentive and, well, how everything he was? She’d never before viewed him in such a light, but after he’d confessed seeing her in romantic terms, the same feelings had rushed upon her—feelings that she now realized had always been there but that she’d never acknowledged or given voice to.
This was not, however, a moment for relishing the warmth of his breath on her cheek.
“Are they watching us?” she whispered back. She wouldn’t raise herself up enough to look over his shoulder but instead kept herself looking frail and injured, though she was neither.
“I believe they are,” Andrew said, though he now spoke with his chin up; no one observing from behind would know that he was speaking to her. “I cannot know for certain without turning to look. Would you like me to?”
“Definitely not.”
As they approached the doors to the ballroom, she wondered what people would say or think when Andrew carried her inside. The best possible scenario still involved dozens, if not hundreds, of people whose attention was drawn by the sight—the absolute last thing she wanted when a spy and assassin was wandering about. She preferred to find a hiding place in the shadows, where Mr. Hayward would be unable to find her. Granted, that assumed he would surmise that she’d learned of his plans. While she felt a modicum of assurance that he would not, she had no intention of testing the hypothesis.
Right before they reached the doors, she swallowed against a tight knot in her throat, which was filled with about twenty conflicting emotions, from fear to excitement to fatigue, and said, “I can walk in on my own, but I would prefer to leave the ballroom right away, in favor of a place to rest elsewhere in the pavilion.” There had to be someplace they could go that would be available to the public yet not in such display of the attendees of the ball.
“Of course. I’m sure we can find a suitable location.” He sounded dreadfully stiff.
She would have to find a time and a place to discuss the matter with Andrew, but not now, when Bernadotte’s life—and with it the life of the country—remained in danger. Someone else, someone trustworthy, needed to know of Mr. Hayward’s intent. That someone needed to be male if the message were to be received with any seriousness.
“There’s something I must tell you in private,” she said as they reached the door.
Andrew stared straight ahead, not looking at her, and they stepped through the doors. “Oh?” The single syllable cut her to the center. He likely expected to be rejected more overtly than he already had been.
“It’s about Mr. Hayward,” she said, hoping to ease his mind on that account.
In response, however, he straightened his back even more. “Of course it is.” His tone said volumes more.
“Not in the manner you likely think,” Julia said quickly. She slipped a hand about his elbow and gently tugged him to the side of the ballroom, toward a set of open doors that led back to the grand hallway. “Come.” Would he hear the lightness in her voice that she tried to place there? Unlikely, seeing as she didn’t feel light herself in any fashion except for relief at being near Andrew and away from Hayward. She had far too many other things to worry about.
He followed her lead to the right, then made a point of acting as if heading out to the corridor had been his idea. “Where would you like to go?”
Honestly? Home. Far, far away. However much she wished she could flee, doing so was not an option at the moment, even if she had a phaeton at the ready. Not when she had information critical to the nation’s welfare. As an alternative, she would have liked to wander the streets of Brighton, but even that wasn’t an option right now.
“It’s also about the Swedish Crown Prince, Charles Bernadotte.”
“Now that I did not anticipate.” Andrew’s voice had become inscrutable. “Does this also involve the third man you spilled champagne on? Four, if you count the footman, though I’m unsure if he was struck.”
“Did I spill on them all?” She’d thought that the drink had simply splashed on the path, and she hoped that the glass had shattered so it couldn’t be used again. Even after a washing, it might contain traces of the poison. She shook her head. “That’s inconsequential.”
They walked along the luxuriously decorated hallway. Now that it wasn’t crowded with guests queued to enter the ballroom, the area looked very different—the chandeliers brighter, the carpets softer, the wallpaper more elaborate. She felt her mouth open slightly in awe, but then jerked herself back to reality. Gawking at the Prince Regent’s Royal Pavilion could wait.
She drew Andrew into an alcove set apart with thick drapes that were held back with golden hooks that had carved dragon heads. Anyone standing behind the drawn curtain wouldn’t be entirely hidden, but they would be largely out of sight and in enough shadow that with any luck, they would go unnoticed by guests walking by.
Inside the alcove, she pulled Andrew to the side, to be more concealed by the curtain. The closeness made her insides flutter and her heart race. She wanted to kiss him right then and there.
Perhaps that should take place after I’ve confessed my love for him, she thought. And after we know the Crown Prince is safe.
She had to push the feeling and the desire aside and focus on the matter greater than herself. “There is an assassination plot to kill Crown Prince Bernadotte tonight.”
“I—” Andrew’s voice cut off, and he pulled back slightly. “Beg pardon?”
“At the beach. You were right. Something did happen that I didn’t tell you about.”
The confusion in Andrew’s face shifted to concern. He gripped her shoulders protectively and looked straight into her eyes—a gesture that sent warmth to her toes. “What happened? Please tell me.”
For the first time since seeing Durham that night, she didn’t feel unsafe or alone in her quest. The tension inside her bubbled over, and Julia found her eyes welling up with tears despite her attempts to hold them at bay.
Andrew pulled her into an embrace. “Whatever it was that scared you, it’s over now. I’ll be sure you’re safe.”
Holding him tight in return, she asked, “You knew I was afraid?”
“Of course I did.” He pulled away slightly and looked into her eyes, which required him to bend his knees slightly. “Did whatever happened at the shore have anything to do with your pretended fall tonight?”
Her nose wrinkled. “Was it so obviously false?”
Half of Andrew’s mouth curved upward. “Probably only to those who know and love you as I do.”
For a brief moment that contained a lifetime, Julia let herself soak in his words as if she were in a hot bath. He thinks I do not love him in return, but I think I do. Oh yes, I do. I do! Yet he still is protective and wants to care for me, no matter that I all but rejected him this very eve.
“Are the two connected?” Andrew asked again.
“The . . .” Her
emotions were so heightened that her thoughts were muddled, and she couldn’t remember what two things he referred to.
“The shore and your fall tonight.”
“They are very much connected, I’m afraid.” Julia ordered herself to focus on the immediate concerns, which were far larger than a young man and a young woman who happened to be falling in love.
She recited the essentials of what she’d heard and seen at the shore, though she left out her initial inclination to think of Mr. Hayward as an exciting, handsome hero. Those feelings had long since been extinguished anyway.
“And that’s the same Mr. Hayward who claimed the second dance with you?”
“One and the same.”
“So he’s a smuggler, and likely dangerous.”
“Yes, but there’s far more than that, I’m afraid.” Now for the especially difficult part. “I heard him talking with his servant—Durham is here, dressed as one of the pavilion’s footmen. Not thinking that I overheard or understood, they spoke about plans to poison Crown Prince Bernadotte.”
“Whatever for? He’s our ally now.”
“Not Hayward’s, apparently.”
Andrew’s brows drew together as he thought. “Wait a moment. The other day, Caroline was reading the Brighton society paper aloud, and there was a mention of the holiday of a wealthy Englishman, and I believe he was named Hayward. He had a French mother and spent much of his childhood on the continent and spoke the language impeccably.”
“That would explain his French sympathies,” Julia said.
“That is upsetting,” Andrew said, now stroking his chin in thought.
“I learned that Bernadotte’s alliance is hurting France. He has military strength and a new weapon that Napoleon needs. Now he’s lost the Swedish army and the new weapon. The tide of the war will turn in favor of France. But without Bernadotte, the alliance won’t stand, and Napoleon could conquer after all.”
“We can’t let that happen.” Andrew raked a hand through his hair, mussing it up so it settled in the slightly haphazard way she loved.
A Week in Brighton Page 14
