Shall We Dance?. Kasey Michaels

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СКАЧАТЬ Willard looked ready to tear at his hair—which would have been difficult, as he’d parted with the last of it a good two decades earlier, leaving nothing but huge bushy white eyebrows and a bald pate above them. (Sir Willard was possibly the only man in England to still be wishing back powdered wigs.)

      “We in government can’t have it, Perry. She’s totally unsuited to the role of queen. My God, man, she’s been running about the world with a paramour, and a foreigner at that. In plain sight. Thumbing her nose at all of us. Putting a crown on that head would be sacrilege.”

      “I think England has put the crown on quite a few heads that might not have been precisely up to the honor,” Perry said, tossing the rendering onto the couch. “May I dare a bit of treason and suggest that our recently elevated king could be numbered among them? Last I heard, you know, he was crowing to everyone that he was present at Waterloo. If he had been, which we all know he was not, there wouldn’t have been a camp stool large enough for him to hide his shivering bulk beneath when the battle began.”

      “I like you better as a fool than when you’re being supercilious,” Sir Willard said. “But all right, all right, I’ll take the gloves off, shall I?”

      “Do whatever pleases you, dear Uncle, it makes no nevermind to me,” Perry said, wondering if his favorite club would be serving spiced ham today. He was quite fond of spiced ham. “Anything so that I might kiss both your rosy-red cheeks in farewell and toddle off on my aimless, pointless pursuit of pleasure once more.”

      He was lying, of course. Perry was very interested in whatever his uncle would soon say. It was always interesting to learn how the minds of aged men in power worked, as they so very often worked in ways that had a lot to do with the benefit of aged men in power, and the devil with the rest of the world.

      Sir Willard leaned forward in the armchair. Well, he attempted to lean forward. But his bulk had rather stuck between the arms, so instead he rested his elbows on them, clasped his hands together, and pushed his melon-with-eyebrows head toward his nephew.

      “Shall I summon Hawkins, Uncle?” Perry asked, doing his best to keep his expression sober. “And perhaps a winch?”

      “If you weren’t so damn rich I could threaten to cut you out of my will, no matter that you’re my only surviving kin. Now, listen to me. Princess Caroline cannot be crowned queen next year when Prinney—His Royal Majesty—has his coronation. She simply cannot.”

      Perry scratched at his forehead. “You want me to kill her? Isn’t that sliding a tad far over the edge, Uncle, even for such a staunch Tory as yourself?”

      “God’s teeth! No, I don’t want you to kill her. We…that is, I want you to spy on her.”

      Perry dropped his chin onto his chest and looked at his uncle from beneath his remarkable winged eyebrows. “Oh, most definitely my hearing is gone. Your hair, my ears. What a terrible legacy of physical failings in our family, Uncle. You want me to what?”

      “You heard me. I said spy on her. You’re a spy, ain’t you? And a damned good one. That’s the part of you I want, not that other part—I prefer not to remember what else you were ordered to do during the war.”

      “A sentiment I share, Uncle,” Perry said tightly, then took a sip from his wineglass. And the man wondered why he didn’t go about, crowing of his exploits?

      “Yes, yes. Rather sordid, bloodthirsty bits, some of that, eh, although necessary to our pursuit of victory. So we won’t talk about that. The king has put it to us to find a way to discredit the princess, gain him a divorce. His Cabinet, Parliament—we’ve been ordered to find a way.”

      “And I’m that way?” Perry sat back, lightly rubbed at his chin. “Oh, hardly, Uncle.”

      Sir Willard shook his head. “Not just you. There’s plenty of dirt already been dug, enough for the House of Lords to introduce a Bill of Pains and Penalties.”

      Perry got to his feet, returned the wineglass to the drinks table. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

      “Truthfully, neither had I, but we’ve been assured it’s legal, if an ancient process, rather outside our more commonly known legal system. Liverpool found it, and you know what a stickler he is. If she beats down a vote on the thing by Parliament, she’s queen. If we prove our case, the king gets his divorce. The procedure will be announced by the end of the week, possibly as soon as tomorrow. Think of it, Perry. If this works, he could marry again, provide another heir now that Princess Charlotte is lost to us.”

      “Now there’s a vision that I would not want burned into my mind—Prinney riding atop some poor sweet princess sacrificed for her fertile womb. And again, not oddly, the request for a winch would probably not be unwarranted.”

      “You’re lucky you’re speaking only to me,” Sir Willard warned him.

      “And you’re lucky, Uncle, I don’t run hotfoot to Henry Brougham and the Whigs and tell them what’s afoot. Digging up dirt to divorce the queen? It’s unconscionable, even for you whacking-great bunch of rabid Tories.”

      “So is watching the aging royal dukes running about, deserting morganatic wives and dozens of their bastard royals in order to wed any princess they can find and put an heir on her. We look like an island of rutting idiots. The world is laughing at us. Think on it, Perry. All that stands between England and anarchy at this moment is young Princess Victoria. We saw what happened with Princess Charlotte. This cannot be allowed.”

      “So Prinney has to be shed of the queen, marry again, somehow produce an heir, possibly two or three. That’s the crux of this? You know, Uncle, I’d like to believe you, but I don’t. Our new king just doesn’t want his wife anymore, does he? Not only does he detest her, she’s more popular than he ever was. Or have you been so stuck—forgive me a small jest—here in your study that you are unaware of the spoiled vegetables and fruit that are tossed at our sire whenever he dares poke his nose outside the palace?”

      With no small effort of will, Sir Willard disengaged his impressive girth from the chair and retrieved the rendering, furiously waving it in front of Perry’s nose. “See the girl? The one behind the Princess Caroline, just stepping onto the pier, holding on to that dog? Goes everywhere with the woman. She’s your entrée into the princess’s enclave.”

      Perry snatched the paper before his uncle began beating him with it. “The queen’s enclave, Uncle. If Prinney is king, Caroline is queen consort.”

      “Don’t bother me with trifles, not with the kingdom in such a damnable mess. Meet this girl, pay court to her, do whatever you must do, but get yourself accepted into Caroline’s circle. That’s where your pretty face comes in. Caroline likes pretty faces. Watch, observe, poke into closets, read any papers you may find locked up, and fetch me something the Lords can use to bring the dratted woman down. For England, Perry. And there’s not much time. The Lords convene this Pains and Penalties business in a few weeks.”

      Perry squinted at the page. “Who is she? The artist wasn’t precisely inspired—all the faces look rather alike.”

      “She’s Amelia Fredericks, one of the waifs Her Royal Highness has brought into her motley entourage, all but adopted. Remember how Caroline set up that supposed orphanage in Kent? No, of course you don’t, that was years ago. To hide the bastard son she formally adopted at one point, we all say, but can never prove.”

      “Hiding her own son with a bevy of orphans. I’d СКАЧАТЬ