“Quite,” said Robbie. “I am overwhelmed.”
The king smiled. “Shall you stay for some champagne or are you off somewhere?”
“I am meeting my uncle at Tattersall’s but a glass of champagne shared with my new sovereign would suit me well before I go.”
The king stepped to the nearest wall and pulled a cord. A servant immediately appeared at the door.
“Champagne for Sir Robert and myself!”
The servant bowed and left, returning shortly with a tray holding a bottle of the sparkling wine and two glasses. Once the wine had been poured, the king lifted his glass. “To a faithful agent of the Crown.”
Robbie accepted the toast and reciprocated. “To a most generous monarch. Long live the king!”
Prinny took a long drink of his wine. “I shall have your medal and the papers brought round to your house. My servants in Brighton will be advised to expect you and see you are properly welcomed. By the bye, what are you about at Tattersall’s?”
Happy to be discussing horseflesh, Robbie said, “I have a new curricle and I’m looking for a matched pair.”
“Oh, ho! I have just the ticket. Richard Tattersall paid me a call this very morning to advise he has a matched pair of grays he wants me to see. They shall be yours, Powell!”
“But, Sir, if he meant them for you…”
The king held up his hand. “I insist; and you shall have them at my expense.”
“That is most generous of you, Sir. I gladly accept.” The prince regent had a reputation for being magnanimous with his friends. Apparently he intended to continue in that spirit now that he was king. Robbie was certain any horses selected by Tattersall for the king would be ones he would desire himself.
Prinny went back to his desk and hastily scribbled a note he handed to Robbie. “Give this to Tattersall with my compliments. I think he said their names are Zeus and Apollo.” He flicked his fingers through the air. “Something Greek in any event. That should suit a young buck. Now, go and enjoy yourself. I shall soon join you in Brighton!”
Robbie bowed. “It would be an honor, Your Majesty.”
The king’s eyes held the same sparkle Robbie had observed on prior occasions but he couldn’t help wondering if that sparkle would fade now that he officially had the full responsibility for the country. Though he moved with the grace of a much younger man and the curls of his short auburn wig were artfully arranged around his face, Prinny was no longer young. Wondering about the gay life his monarch had led caused Robbie to think of his own. He was tired of playing the spy, but how long could he play the rake?
Chapter 3
Dudley Hall, Northampton
Chastity settled into one of the two winged chairs in the corner of her bedchamber and reached for her tea on the round table between her and Rose. The sunlight pouring in from the paned glass windows cast a glow about Rose’s beautiful ebony hair. Chastity tried not to feel envious.
A glance out the windows reminded her that daffodils and crocuses were already blooming in wild profusion. At her feet, Crispin sat licking his black velvet paws.
Idly twisting one of her curls around her finger, Chastity sipped her tea and turned her thoughts to the shoes she would take to Brighton. “The brocade slippers with the green ribbon ties, I think, and the crimson ones to go with my new gown. Too, I must take the green half boots, and—”
Across the table, Rose choked on her tea and whisked her serviette across her mouth. Exasperation filled her gaze. “Really, Chas, what matters our shoes if we are to see Brighton?” In the quizzical way Rose had of wrinkling her perfectly arched dark brows, she asked, “You are certain we are to go?”
“Did I not say so?” Chastity allowed herself a smug smile. “I have been flirting overmuch with my dance instructor of late, which has had the desired effect. Mother is hurrying the preparations to see me gone, and you with me.”
Rose leaned back in her chair, smiling. “You are a devious one. But you’ll hear no complaint from me. I was ever so grateful when my parents thought a visit to your great-aunt a splendid idea. Country parties and dances are all well and good but the Brighton Season is another matter altogether, one they were eager to see me attend now that I am of marriageable age.”
“Do you seek a husband?”
Rose’s brows rose. “Of course, don’t you?”
Chastity pursed her lips and shook her head. “No. At least not now.” She considered the possibility. “Maybe never.”
“Truly?”
“As you are aware, I have no need to wed.” Although her tone was decisive as always when the topic arose, Chastity’s inner thoughts about marriage were less certain. What she really wanted was what every woman dreamed of: the love of a good man, one to whom she could give her heart. Yet she had no high hope for that. Relegated to the shadows of her sisters’ beauty and given her outspoken nature, she believed a lasting love was a dream so elusive as to be nonexistent.
“What about your suitors? William Saunders—”
“Pfft! He’s merely a childhood friend. Worse, he has grown into a man of awkward manners and foppish ways.”
“But he will inherit his father’s wealth—”
“I do not desire his wealth.” Chastity shot a swift glance at her friend. “And do not, I beg of you, even mention the name of ‘he who dangles after me like a lost puppy’. I swear he only seeks my company to be near my younger sister.”
Rose’s lips twitched. “Very well. If I may not mention Michael Townsend, what of the vicar’s son? He is very nice to look at—”
“And desirous of following in his father’s footsteps. Truly, Rose. You cannot possibly see me married to a vicar.”
Rose chuckled. “Well, no, now that you mention it. Nor could I see myself doing so.” She took a drink of her tea and set down her cup. “Perhaps if I don’t marry, we could be spinsters together.”
Chastity smiled. “Oh, you will marry, I’ve no doubt.” For a moment she considered the man to whom she would match her dearest friend. Someone worthy. “I’ve an idea.”
“Oh, dear! You have that look in your eye. What are you thinking?”
“What if I were to help you find a worthy husband? A man who would treasure you?”
“I suppose…”
“Leave it to me,” she said, warming to the idea. “Once we are in Brighton, I shall devote myself to finding you a suitable match. Not a country bumpkin or a man consumed with his own merit. No, he must be a gentleman of the best sort, a man of letters with a generous heart and wealth enough you need never worry about the future. What say you?” Chastity was always up for a challenge and to be the instrument of Rose’s happiness made the effort one she looked forward to.
“Would we still enjoy ourselves in Brighton?”
“Oh, yes! Aunt Agatha will see to it, I’ve no doubt.” While she had suggested to her mother that Aunt Agatha knew nothing of young women’s fancies, her most vivid memories of her great-aunt were of a warm, deeply affectionate woman, who delighted in making merry.
Crispin chose that moment to leap into her lap, part of his large black form spilling onto the chair seat. Her teacup wobbled in its saucer. She placed it on the table and scratched the cat behind his ears. His golden eyes closed as he began to purr. The deep rhythmic sound filled the bedchamber.
“I have never been to Brighton,” Rose said wistfully. “What a time we will have!”
Chastity ran her hand over Crispin’s soft fur, glistening in a ray of sunlight. “You will like Aunt Agatha. She is a dear. More to the point, if she remains as she was before the earl died, she is a great deal of fun. Mother has no idea, thank God.”
Robbie left Carlton House and stepped into the afternoon sun. A quick hail of a hackney and he was on his way, hoping he would not be too late to meet Jack.
He arrived at Tattersall’s to find the dirt courtyard where the horse auctions were held crowded with gentlemen from London society. On one side, under a raised roof supported by Do
ric columns, prospective buyers stood in a line watching a white horse being paraded before them while Richard Tattersall expounded upon the mare’s virtues.
Across the yard, standing next to a team of black horses, Robbie glimpsed the tall Sir Bellingham Graham, a noted whip, speaking with Sir John Lade, often a fixture at Tattersall’s. Both were members of the Four-Horse Club of expert barouche drivers and wore the yellow-striped blue waistcoats and black-spotted neckerchiefs that were the club’s insignia. Sir John always dressed in riding attire, whip included.
Bellingham was of an age with Robbie and a good friend. Lade was older, a contemporary of the king and one of his Carlton House Set. Robbie thought to join the two of them when he saw Jack striding in his direction.
“I say, old thing,” said Jack, arriving at his side, “what kept you so long?” Jack was proud of his English half, often spouting English expressions. “Old thing” was his current favorite. However, he invariably sprinkled his speech with French. That and his lace-edged cravat made him appear decidedly French. Robbie found the whole thing highly amusing.
He allowed himself a wry smile. “You won’t believe it when I tell you, dear uncle, but, henceforth, you may address me as ‘Sir Robert’.”
“Sir Robert?” Jack blinked twice. “What have you done to merit such an honor?”
“A favor for the king. And don’t ask because I will say no more.”
“Très bien,” Jack said with a smug smile. “Be secretive if you must, but I will have the truth of it eventually.”
Robbie lifted his gaze to where Sir Bellingham and Sir John were still engaged in conversation. “What do you suppose those two are talking about with their heads so close together?”
“The word is out,” whispered Jack. “Lade is selling off the team to pay some of his gambling debts.”
“A sad day when Lade parts with a team of his prized horses,” mused Robbie. Sir John Lade was known to have money problems and his notorious wife, Letty, a horsewoman of some repute, did little to discourage her husband’s bad habits.
Jack regarded the two whips. “Indeed, and the on dit is the Four-Horse Club is having difficulties as well.”
Richard Tattersall, leaving the group of prospective buyers, looked toward Robbie and Jack and raised his hand in greeting.
Robbie held up the message from the king and beckoned the horse master to him.
Tattersall strode across the yard. “Good day, gentlemen.”
“A good day it is, indeed.” Robbie handed him the paper. “For you, from the king.”
Tattersall read the scribbled note and looked up, a wide smile on his face. “Congratulations, Sir Robert. Come, I’ll show you the grays.” He strode ahead of them, saying over his shoulder, “A superb matched pair, already trained and accustomed to London’s streets.”
Tattersall had one of his assistants lead the pair around the courtyard. Robbie grew excited to think they would be his. “High-steppers,” he remarked. “Good bone and a nice slope to the shoulders.”
“I like the high-set tails,” remarked Jack.
When the assistant brought the horses to a halt, Robbie approached to get a better view of their heads. They had large eyes, well-spaced, and small ears. “I could not ask for a better looking pair.”
Tattersall shifted his gaze to the grays he would soon part with, a wistful expression on his face. “You must have done something of great import for the king to give you Zeus and Apollo. ’Tis the best pair I’ve seen in the past six months.” Turning to Robbie, he said, “Sir Bellingham has been admiring them.”
“Sir Bellingham will have to content himself with Sir John’s team,” said Robbie. “I am already quite attached to my Greek grays.”
Dudley Hall, Northampton
Chastity gasped as the chest slipped in the footman’s hands nearly plunging the precious cargo from the top of the carriage to the gravel in front of her home. She held her breath until the footman regained his hold and safely stowed the chest with the others.
Crispin resettled himself in her arms and her heart slowed to a normal rhythm. “That one is heavy,” she told Rose, “but I would not have him drop it. It carries the shoes.”
Rose faced her with a surprised look. “You’re bringing them all?”
Chastity experienced a twinge of guilt for her indulgence in the footwear she loved but, well, there really was a good explanation. “Most are my own designs and I could not bear to leave them behind. You never know what fancy will strike me to wear a certain pair of slippers. And one needs to be prepared for the weather. Among the new half boots is a pair just right for you. I designed them for rain and mud yet they are lovely. Not those plain brown things or ungainly wooden pattens most women are forced to wear.”
Rose’s eyes grew round in wonder. “You would gift them to me? Truly? And they are not plain brown leather?”
“No.” A sigh escaped her as she thought of them. “They are blue leather with crimson flowers on the shaft, boots to attract a suitor. Very pretty.”
Her friend looked down at the blue slippers Chastity had given her with embellished cross straps that matched perfectly her blue pelisse. “These are among my favorites.”
“I am glad you like them, but they are ill-suited to rain.” Chastity gazed up at the dark clouds hovering above. “The boots will serve better should the weather turn against us. It’s spring, after all.”
“I suppose…”
The door of the manor opened and Henriette, Chastity’s maid, came out carrying Chastity’s emerald green pelisse, the same color as her half boots and bonnet of green curled silk. The bright color made for the perfect complement to her round gown of ivory cambric.
“Mistress, would you wear your pelisse?”
“A good thought, Henriette. Here, Rose, take Crispin.” She handed the cat to her friend and reached her arms into the sleeves. “Even if it does not rain, the heated bricks will soon cool and the carriage will be cold save for Crispin’s warm body and the lap rugs.”
The manor door opened and Chastity’s parents and sisters came out to say their goodbyes.
“Do try and behave yourself,” said Pen.
“I always try,” said Chastity with a wink at Rose.
“I shall miss you terribly,” said a petulant Lucy, her dark curls falling to her shoulders. “Who shall teach me to ride as you do?”
“No one if we’re lucky,” said Pen.
Chastity’s mother lifted her eyes to the heavens. “Aunt Agatha will be expecting you. I collect from her letter she is eagerly anticipating having you two as guests and introducing you to her friends.”
Chastity’s father took her by the shoulders and leaned down to kiss her forehead. His hair had been silver as long as she could remember, but his eyes, like hers, were blue. He peered into her face with a forlorn look. “I will miss you, my pet. Do write. I want to know of your entertainments and the books you are reading.”
“I will.” She kissed his cheek, hoping she and Rose would be too busy enjoying Brighton to have time to read. The coachman opened the carriage door and let down the step and her father handed her in. She took Crispin from Rose’s outstretched hands and sat back in her seat. Rose climbed in beside her.
Chastity set Crispin on the seat between them and leaned out the open window to wave to her family.
The coachman cracked the whip and the carriage lunged forward.
With a sigh of relief, she rested her head on the tufted velvet. “I thought we would never leave. Just think, Rose. Tonight we shall stay in London!”
Two weeks after Robbie met with the king a small item appeared in The London Gazette:
His Majesty George IV has bestowed a baronetcy on Robert Pierre Powell for service to the Crown.
His mother, knowing of his new address, must have been watching for the notice to appear. “Oui, c’est vrai!” she exclaimed at breakfast that morning, pointing to the page in the Gazette. Her black hair was neatly coiffed beneath her small cap, t
he few strands of gray adding to her dignity but taking nothing from her beauty. She looked up from the page, addressing Robbie’s father. “Now all of London will know we have yet another son who has been favored with a baronetcy.”
“I didn’t seek it,” said Robbie, shooting a glance at Jack across the table.
Simon Powell ran a hand through his golden hair, for several years now generously laced with silver, and stared at Robbie. “I never ask you and your brothers what you do for the Crown, but given the timing, I have my suspicions. Allow me to congratulate you on a job well done.”
Robbie did not want to tell them exactly what he had done but he couldn’t fail to acknowledge the compliment. “Thank you, Father.”
With a mischievous grin, Jack said, “I believe I shall continue to address him as ‘Nephew’.” Turning to Robbie’s mother, his half-sister, Jack said, “Did Robbie tell you we are off to Brighton?”
“You’re coming with me?” Robbie asked, surprised for they had yet to discuss it.
Jack shrugged. “Bien entendu! I would not be left behind! I have the summer before the harvest in Saintonge to indulge my fancies.”
Robbie’s mother glanced between Robbie and Jack, a frown forming on her lovely face. “Try not to get into trouble in Brighton, you two. Use your time to find worthy brides. As a man of means with a title, Jack, you will be a catch no matter you share my French origin. And you, Robbie, as a new baronet from a prominent shipping family, will be well received by the parents of the young women spending the summer there even if you are in trade.”
Robbie was the only one of Simon Powell’s four sons who still lived at home due to his unmarried state and his frequent travels for the Crown. His twin brother had taken a wife the year before, prompting Robbie to consider the leg-shackled state. When a man had achieved all his goals, what was there left to do except sire an heir? Yet no woman had captured his attention, at least not for more than a few weeks.
Rogue’s Holiday Page 3
