“All right, but what about your father’s coachman? Will he allow such a stop?”
“Old Bronson? I’ve been winding him around my little finger since I was a child. He won’t mind the stop as long as he can keep an eye on the shop door.”
Aaron Ings sat in the coffee house of Grillon’s Hotel, listening to the conversation at the next table. He’d followed the bastard Powell there hoping he might hear of his plans. He’d heard more than enough. So, it was to be Brighton and they would depart from the White Horse Cellar tomorrow. That left him this night to recruit the men he needed to see his revenge upon the spy who would rob him of his brother.
He wasted no time in returning to the riverside tavern he had visited a few days earlier. The Prospect of Whitby, fondly called “The Prospect” by its customers, sat on the banks of the Thames close to its unsavory clientele, including sailors from the countless foreign vessels in port. It was the ideal place for Aaron to hire men looking for coin but with few scruples about how it was earned.
A noose hung outside the tavern in memory of the notorious “Hanging Judge” Jeffreys who showed little mercy to river criminals. Aaron didn’t need the reminder that his own brother James would soon face the noose for his plotting with Arthur Thistlewood. Ironically, it was here Aaron’s revenge would begin.
A bell over the door sounded his presence as he entered and stepped onto the flagstone floor. The stench of unwashed bodies and stale ale greeted him as a few men turned in his direction. But Aaron had dressed for the part, leaving his fine clothes and finer boots behind in his lodgings. He’d come dressed as a river pirate, one like the men he sought to hire. Men who would help him see the task done to do away with Robert Powell, the government spy.
The approach to the Royal Pavilion in Brighton always left Robbie awestruck. With the addition of an onion-shaped dome, tent-like roofs and numerous pinnacles and minarets, Prinny’s architect, John Nash, had transformed the original mansion into a Mogul’s dream. An extravagant Indian palace set down on England’s south coast where the prince regent, now king, could forget the staid palace in London and entertain his eclectic bevy of friends.
Beside him, Jack broke the silence. “C’est magnifique, n’est-ce pas?”
“That and more. I once attended an event at the Pavilion but have never stayed there. This should be a holiday to remember.”
“Ah, oui, I am counting on it,” Jack said with a smile.
His uncle might like to act as one of His Majesty’s subjects but his French accent, dress and mannerisms made clear he was half-French, more so than Robbie who had been raised in London.
At the end of the long curving road, Robbie pulled his curricle to a stop beneath the domed porte-cochère. He handed the reins to Jack and climbed down to offer his new card to a liveried footman who summoned a groom.
“We’ve been expecting you, Sir Robert,” said the footman. “Your luggage and that of Monsieur Donet have been placed in your chambers. You and your friend are to be the king’s honored guests. His Majesty said to tell you he hopes to arrive within the week.”
A groom came to relieve Jack of the reins and lead Zeus and Apollo toward the king’s stables. The Rotunda, as the stables were called, was as magnificent as the Pavilion itself. “They will be well tended, Sir Robert,” said the groom. “And the king’s stables are available to you should you wish to ride.”
“Thank you,” said Robbie before following the liveried servant into the Pavilion.
“Refreshments will be served in the Red Drawing Room and from there you will be shown to your chambers.”
As they passed through the Long Gallery, Jack gazed up at the painted glass ceiling from which hung huge bright Chinese lanterns.
“Do the lanterns with their red tassels speak to you of China?” Robbie asked.
“Indeed, they do. And the walls, painted with bamboo trees against that pink background make it appear like a grove of bamboo. If I had not seen Versailles, I would be overly impressed.”
“You still might be. You have yet to see the dragon hanging above the Banqueting Room.”
In the Red Drawing Room, Robbie and Jack quenched their thirsts and then followed the footman to their bedchambers, which they were pleased to learn were located across from the king’s chamber. “We’ll not lack for comfort here,” observed Robbie.
He left Jack at the door to his chamber and proceeded on to his own room. The first thing he noticed was the canopied four-poster bed adorned in bright blue silk, the same color as the eyes of the maid he had kissed in London.
His valet, standing in the corner, had been busy. Robbie’s chest was placed against the wall and his clothing for dinner laid out on the bed. “Good man, Tiller,” said Robbie to the wizened old seaman, who had once sailed with Robbie’s father. When Tiller was no longer able to climb the rigging and Robbie began taking on assignments for the Crown, he offered Tiller the position as valet.
“Aye, Cap’n,” Tiller said, stepping forward. “’Twas my pleasure.” The valet’s gaze traveled around the well-appointed room. “Seems ye and yer uncle have found favor with the king. I’ve been all agog since I arrived.”
“His Majesty has been generous,” said Robbie.
Jack entered Robbie’s chamber and thanked the valet. “My clothes for the evening were set out in perfect order, Tiller.”
In response, the old sailor beamed a toothy smile. He had told Robbie on numerous occasions that he enjoyed his new role. And why not? He received full pay even when Robbie was on assignments for the Crown and didn’t take him along. And he found amusing Robbie’s many disguises. But of all his attributes, Robbie valued most Tiller’s loyalty to him and the Powell family.
Jack rubbed his hands together, a sign Robbie recognized as impatience. “Say, as long as we have a bit of time, I’d like to take a stroll around the grounds and see the stables you were telling me about.”
“While you are doing that,” said Robbie, “I have an errand to accomplish. I must call on Lady Claremont’s friend.” Robbie wasn’t looking forward to his visit to The Girl Who Needed Watching but since he had promised The Grand Countess, he’d best meet her.
Jack took his leave and, with a sigh, Robbie faced his valet. “I must change into a gentleman’s attire for my next stop.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
As Tiller pulled the needed items from Robbie’s chest, he thought to ask, “Have you been provided accommodations?”
“Aye, Cap’n. They gave me a snug cozy chamber just next door. If ye be needing me, ye have only to call.”
Once Robbie had changed into appropriate clothing for a meeting with Lady Sanborn, he advised Tiller his time was his own until evening.
The valet dipped his head. “Thank ye.”
Robbie glanced in the mirror, assured he was respectable enough for a countess.
Chastity pulled back the sheer curtain from the tall arched window to glimpse the wide swath of green lying in the center of the dirt road that was the Old Steyne. An immense fountain formed an oasis in the middle of the park in front of her aunt’s house. They had arrived only minutes before and Rose, wanting to see her chamber, had gone upstairs with the maid. Chastity had lingered behind, wanting to hear more about Brighton from her great-aunt before she was forced to undertake so mundane a task as changing for dinner.
Aunt Agatha lived at number 54 in what, at one time, had been the Duke of Marlborough’s house. When her husband, the Earl of Sanborn, died, she leased the large, two-story mansion to be close to all that Brighton offered. A well-furnished house to begin with, according to her great-aunt, in the last year she had redecorated it in brilliant colors. The parlor in which Chastity stood featured two red velvet sofas, a red and blue Axminster carpet and a gilded fireplace over which hung a painting of the late earl as a young man. His powdered wig, white satin waistcoat and blue velvet frock coat trimmed in gold braid spoke of an earlier era.
On the other side of the room, a vase of red t
ulips graced a round pedestal table. Oddly, Chastity was more at home here than at her own house in Northampton. There, she experienced the constant comparison with her beautiful mother and sisters; here she was free to be herself.
From behind her, Aunt Agatha said, “You have grown into a lovely young lady, Chastity. I must face the fact you are no longer a child but a woman full grown.”
Chastity turned to smile at her great-aunt, convinced the compliment was overstated. “Lovely” was not a word she would have used to describe herself, but she adored Aunt Agatha, so it was with a smile she said, “Thank you.”
The older woman had changed since they were last together. The glimmer of mirth in her brown eyes had not been there shortly after the earl’s passing when her eyes had been full of sadness. Then she had worn a widow’s somber clothing. Now she wore a deep marine blue silk gown, a bronze shawl and a turban of bronze and blue silk adorned with an aquamarine jewel and a yellow feather. Even her graying brown hair did not affect the impression Chastity had of an actress in a whimsical play. Her slippers, which Chastity had noticed as soon as she’d entered the house, were a unique design of marine blue silk with appliqués of yellow and bronze flowers.
“You’re not sad to be a widow, are you, Aunt?”
“Oh, no, child. My mourning days are behind me. I lead a full life in Brighton. I think of the earl as having gone ahead of me to Heaven. I will see him again one day. Meanwhile, as Lady Sanborn, I am having great fun. I’m invited to all the soirées. I have my rose garden to tend and a wonderful collection of books to read, which you are welcome to enjoy, and I sometimes invite neighborhood children into my parlor in the afternoons to hear a story. As well, I have many friends with whom I take tea. My next-door neighbor is one of them. Maria Fitzherbert and I have become particular friends.”
“Mrs. Fitzherbert, the king’s Catholic wife?”
“Well, yes,” Aunt Agatha said, rather sheepishly, “although no one in Brighton pays any mind to her faith. She and the king parted nearly ten years ago, which I collect he must deeply regret, particularly after he was forced to wed that German princess he so dislikes. Maria Fitzherbert is still greatly respected here.” Her great-aunt sighed. “I can’t think his many mistresses make up for the loss of the devoted and loving wife of his youth. Maria is a very special woman. I consider it fortunate to call her my friend.”
A beautiful young widow, virtuous by all accounts, who had charmed and then dared to marry the Anglican prince, had to be interesting. To defy the opinions of a whole nation for love and then to be forced by Parliament and royal decree to part. It was as romantic and tragic as a play by Shakespeare. It thrilled Chastity to think of the fearless young woman, who chose love against all odds. “Will Rose and I get to meet her?”
“Undoubtedly. We dine together often.”
Chastity turned back to the window. The wide thoroughfare in front of her great-aunt’s house that constituted the Steyne kept up a steady parade of men trotting by on their horses and fashionable women walking together while children played around them. Flowers bloomed in every front yard rendering the sunny spring day delightful. After all the rain, it was a welcome change.
A short distance away was the Royal Pavilion and, in the other direction, the shore they had passed on their carriage ride into Brighton. The cool breeze wafting in through the open window smelled of the sea. Chastity breathed in the salty air, so different than the country air in Northampton that spoke of farms, animals and tanneries.
She turned at Aunt Agatha’s words. “The earl and I spent our honeymoon here in Brighton. When Sanborn died two years ago, I thought it appropriate I should return to where we had been so happy.”
“I think it’s a fine place to live,” said Chastity.
The sound of steps caused her to look toward the open door. Featherstone, her great-aunt’s butler, appeared on the threshold, his wide girth filling the doorway. Red hair and side-whiskers prominently framed his ruddy-cheeked face.
Aunt Agatha raised her head, casting her gaze in his direction. “Yes?”
“A gentleman caller, my lady.” The butler approached and handed his mistress a card. “Sir Robert Powell from London.”
For a moment, Aunt Agatha’s face took on a puzzled look, but then her thin lips curved upward in a smile. “Oh, yes. The gentleman Muriel Claremont said was on holiday in Brighton.” She looked at the card and then fixed her eyes on Chastity. “You must meet him, my dear.” To the butler, she said, “Do show him in.”
Featherstone bowed and left, returning shortly with a tall man. To Chastity’s utter shock, he was the man who had nearly knocked her over in the lobby of Grillon’s Hotel and stolen a most improper kiss. Today, he looked positively civilized being attired as a gentleman in dark blue tail coat, gray pantaloons, mustard-colored waistcoat and neatly tied white cravat. His black shoes were nothing out of the ordinary but at least they were well polished.
The cad. She could feel a frown forming on her face. What is he doing here?
His face sported a wry smile as his eyes met hers. Striding into the room, he bowed before her great-aunt. “Sir Robert Powell, my lady. At your service.”
Sir Robert Powell. Egad, the cad is a knight.
Aunt Agatha offered her hand. “You are the very thing we need to add to our company, Sir Robert. My dear friend, Lady Claremont, speaks well of you and your family.”
He shifted his gaze to Chastity. She glared back, dismissing his manners as feigned for the benefit of her great-aunt. Perhaps he could call them forth as need dictated, like the paper flowers pulled from the sleeve of a stage conjurer.
Aunt Agatha glanced at him and then at Chastity. “Do you two know each other?”
“We have never met,” Chastity said shortly. “He ran into me in London.” Which, all things considered, was true.
“It was a very brief encounter,” he said with amusement dancing in his eyes. “Alas, I regret we were not introduced on that occasion.”
“Well, then, Chastity, may I present Sir Robert Powell?” At the mention of her name, a flicker of surprise appeared in his hazel eyes. People often reacted that way as her name was of Puritan origin; old-fashioned and not much used among the gentry. But for the legacy attached to it, she would have begged her parents to change it.
She forced a smile. “Sir Robert.”
He bowed slightly only to wrinkle his brow. “You’re Chastity? But I thought—”
“Miss Reynolds is my great-niece, Sir Robert. Did you have some other impression?”
“I did. Lady Claremont mentioned that your great-niece was visiting you and asked me to call upon her, but she led me to expect a much younger woman, a girl really.”
“Upon my word!” exclaimed Aunt Agatha. “How ever did Muriel get that idea? No, no, Sir Robert. Chastity is nearly one and twenty. The perfect age.” For what, Chastity’s great-aunt did not say, leaving her to wonder. “Of course, I still think of her as a girl.” Aunt Agatha flicked her aged and bejeweled hand in the air. “As one gets older, everyone seems very young.” Gesturing to one of the sofas, she said, “Won’t you join us for a drink?”
“Thank you, I’d be delighted.”
As soon as Chastity settled onto the sofa next to her great-aunt, Sir Robert took a seat opposite them, crossing his long legs in front of him. Here was a man at ease, like a panther lounging in the sun.
A footman entered, likely dispatched by the efficient Featherstone, to pour sherry for Chastity and Aunt Agatha and a brandy for Sir Robert.
At that moment, Rose swept into the room, coming to a halt when she saw they were entertaining company.
“Miss Crockett,” said Aunt Agatha. “Come, meet our guest, Sir Robert Powell, who has just come from London.” To the man Chastity now thought of as The Rogue, Aunt Agatha said, “Miss Crockett is my great-niece’s good friend and has traveled with her from Northampton.”
Sir Robert got to his feet and greeted Rose in gentlemanly fashion. Chastity was t
empted to utter, “Tsk.”
Rose blushed the color of her carmine gown and offered her hand.
Taking it, he said with a smile, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Rose’s blush deepened and she cast her gaze downward.
Oh, for goodness’ sake. Was there no end to the man’s sham charm?
Chastity narrowed her eyes on her friend who lowered her lashes in coy fashion. Oh, for the love of God. Surely Rose was not taken in by the man’s good looks and suddenly acquired manners.
Rose gracefully subsided onto the sofa next to Sir Robert and accepted a glass of sherry from the footman while surreptitiously stealing glances at the man beside her. She had no idea of the character of the man she was admiring.
“How long will you be in Brighton, Sir Robert?” asked Aunt Agatha.
He shot Chastity a glance. “I’m not certain. Several weeks, I should imagine.” Then, with another look at Chastity and a smile she thought overconfident, he added, “Perhaps the entire summer.”
Conceited oaf!
From the corner of her eye, Chastity glimpsed Crispin strolling into the parlor, his tail flicking from side to side, which told her he was agitated. Seeing Chastity, he came and sat at her feet, his golden eyes fixed on The Rogue.
“Your cat?” he asked, leaning toward her as he studied Crispin.
Crispin rose on all fours, arched his back and hissed. Oh, very good, Crispin. “Why, yes, he is,” she said politely.
“Now I wonder what made him do that,” said Aunt Agatha. “He’s been ever so sweet since the young ladies arrived.”
Chapter 5
Robbie warily eyed the huge black cat, hoping it wouldn’t suddenly lunge for his throat. In an effort to make conversation, he calmly asked, “Has he a name?”
Rogue’s Holiday Page 5
