Chapter One
London, England
June 1817
“Ido wishyou would have allowed me to resolve this,Maman.” Sophie Redwell, daughter of the deceased third Earl of Rydleshire and sister to the entirely fabricated fourth, stared out the carriage window at the dreary streets of rainy London. The weather matched her spirits. Why could Maman not have been more patient? She fixed as stern a look as she dared on her mother. “There was no need to bring this to Her Majesty’s attention. No need whatsoever.”
“The last threat we received specifically targeted the queen as well as the two of us.” Nia Redwell, dowager Countess of Rydleshire, repeatedly tapped her closed fan atop her knee, revealing her agitated state. “If the blackmailer focused solely upon ourselves, I would have allowed you to address this issue however you saw fit.” Her usually calm visage hardened into a furious scowl. “But the assassin now threatens Her Majesty. It is our duty to inform her.” She drew in a deep breath, snapped open the fan, and furiously fanned herself, leaving no doubt that she dreaded this visit as much as Sophie did.
Sophie fiddled with the beaded strings dangling from her reticule, willing the dismal day to either encourage them with sunshine or storm so fiercely they would be forced to takeshelter. The latter was her preference, of course—anything to delay what would undoubtedly be a very unpleasant audience with the queen.
She glanced down at the delicate brocade purse in her favorite shades of purple. It held the missives from the dangerous individual who had made it quite clear that they were not merely interested in selling their silence for a good deal of blunt. No, indeed. Whoever had discovered the truth about the fake fourth Earl of Rydleshire had decided they not only wanted to see Maman and Sophie hanged for the elaborate scheme but also wished to name the queen as an accomplice in perpetuating a false peer to keep the title and its entailments from reverting to the monarchy and becoming a treat for Mad King George, and now Prinny, to bestow upon one of their pets.
How the fiend had discovered that the queen did indeed know about the twenty-five-year ruse was beyond Sophie’s imagining. This newfound enemy was more dangerous than any she had ever encountered. They knew entirely too much. Names. Dates. Details so intimate that she believed the miscreant had to be either a former servant from her birthplace in Calais, France, or someone from the nearby village. She should never have shared the letters with Maman until after she resolved the matter and had the fiend permanently silenced by whatever means required. Then this visit with the intimidating monarch would be entirely unnecessary.
The fact that the queen had ordered them to join her at her secluded cottage near Kew worried Sophie even more. Very few received invites to Queen Charlotte’s favorite sanctuary. In this case, the invitation was likely to be dire. The uneasiness in her middle churned and sloshed to the point of making her swallow hard and clear her throat to keep from becoming ill. “Did you make Her Majesty aware ofallthe details of the threats?”
Maman snapped her fan shut and tucked it inside her reticule. “My letter to her consisted of nothing but our code word. I considered that safest, considering the circumstances.”
Periculum: Latin for danger, insecurity, peril. Sophie cleared her throat again, thankful she had taken nothing more than a weak cup of tea before departing from their townhouse in Mayfair. If she had bothered to eat a morsel or drink her usual chocolate, no doubt existed in her mind that she would be casting up her accounts while hanging her head out the window of the carriage. She hated feeling all jittery and sick. It was utterly ridiculous, considering her usually fearless viewpoint on most things. She was an exemplary archer. Her swordsmanship was quite impressive, and her ability to untangle secrets had always made Maman quite proud. It was a rare thing that made her nervous or instilled fear within her. Queen Charlotte was one of those things.
A shrill squeak escaped her as the carriage jerked to a halt in front of the cottage.
“Sophie!” her mother hissed with an exasperated glare. “Do compose yourself.”
“Forgive me.” She repaired her nervously chewed lips by reapplying a sparing amount of rose lip salve, then quickly tucked the tin back into her reticule before following Maman out of the carriage by way of the regally carpeted steps held in place by an unsmiling servant.
Two more of the queen’s footmen, who were of the exact same height and dressed in their elaborate livery of crimson coats with gold braiding, knee breeches, stockings, and powdered hair, stood at attention, flanking the doorway to the left of the cottage’s large center window. Neither smiled nor made eye contact, but both left Sophie with the distinct impression that they never missed the simplest detail or quietest whisper.
Another stoic man, whom Sophie remembered from a prior visit as the queen’s secretary, opened the door before they reached it. He offered them a formal bow. “Lady Rydleshire. Lady Sophie. Her Majesty awaits you in the drawing room. Follow me, please.”
He led them up a curved staircase to a room with a vaulted ceiling that softly draped at the apex with a gently curved arch. Delicately painted vines blooming with a multitude of colorful flowers crisscrossed the curves overhead and ran down the corners where the walls met. The background for the vines on both the walls and ceiling was a pale, earthy green that reminded Sophie of springtime. Even though the day was rainy, natural light streamed in from the large center window identical to the one on the first floor centered between the two doors at the front of the cottage.
As soon as they entered, both Sophie and her mother halted and offered their deepest curtsies.
“Your Majesty,” the dowager uttered in a reverent tone while keeping her head bowed.
“Come. Sit.” Regal and somewhat terrifying with her astonishingly high, upswept hair and lavish gown of pale blue silk embellished with pearls and lace, Queen Charlotte eyed them with the vigilance of a royal falcon about to descend upon its prey.
Sophie remembered the monarch hardly if ever smiled—and when she did, one better brace oneself, because a royal command that would be neither easy nor pleasing was almost always forthcoming.
“Leave us,” the monarch ordered her secretary. “And close the door behind you.”
“But Your Majesty—”
The queen had but to lift a brow to send the man scurrying on his way. The door closed with a soft thump behind him. Oneof her beloved dogs, a tiny, fluffy thing of the purest white, gave a haughty yip, as if to remind the secretary to never question Her Majesty again.
“Thank you, Phoebe.” Her Highness scratched the little Pomeranian behind its pointed ears and cuddled it closer. “I am quite certain he took your instruction to heart.”
Her other furry companion, a Pomeranian colored the shade of fresh honey, placed its tiny paws on her lap, threw out its chest, and trembled with an almost laughable growl.
“Now, now, Mercury. Jealousy is most unbecoming.” After resettling her precious pups back among the lavish folds of her gown that covered the settee on either side of her, the queen fixed an unnerving glare first on Sophie and then on the dowager countess. “Periculum?”
Lady Rydleshire straightened her back and squared her shoulders. “Yes, Your Majesty. We have been discovered and are threatened.”
The queen ratcheted her brows higher. “We?”
Sophie’s mother bowed her head. “I am afraid so. You were included in the most recent threat to expose the truth about the Rydleshire title.”
