Page 76

Harry froze. Carlton House?

“Why—to see the King? The King himself?” he asked, thinking fast.

The maid shrugged. “I expect so. Who else lives there? His lordship’s a great one, even the King listens to him. He’s gone to call there with Lady Mariah.” Someone called from behind her again and she turned to answer, leaving Harry reeling on the doorstep.

Mariah and her father had gone to call on the King—they would be out on the public street—easy targets for a man concealed with a pistol. Or perhaps more traitors lurked in the King’s own household, waiting to serve them all a fatal cup of tea.

Without waiting for the maid, he strode back around the corner of the house. Brandon hadn’t notified them of this visit; it must be a last-minute arrangement. People like Doncaster, Harry reflected, could probably call on royalty without too much ado. But why did Mariah have to go as well? He didn’t like this, not the visit itself, not the timing, and certainly not Mariah going along.

He thought of Crane’s words again—cut the lilies close and low—and fought down a surge of fear. What would it gain Crane to kill Mariah? She was just a girl. She couldn’t even inherit her father’s title. There was no reason he could think of for her to be in danger... except that she had gone with her father to visit the King.

Several hours had passed since he wrote out Crane’s last letter. Even if Jasper handed it straight out the window to an assassin, it was unlikely the event would take place today, no matter what Crane wrote. Who could know where Doncaster was, or intended to be? Surely if they intended to kill the earl, they would try in a more discreet location than the steps of Carlton House.

Harry rounded the corner and looked up and down the street with sharply critical eyes. Plenty of places to lie in wait and watch, just as he had done on several occasions. And it was easy enough to follow a carriage across town.

He turned toward Whitehall and broke into a run.

Chapter Twenty-Five

It took a long time to get ready for a visit to Carlton House. Mariah’s mother was in her room early, surveying her wardrobe with a critical eye and sending Sally running back and forth to her own chamber for hair combs and jewelry. Trying to calm her own nerves—she was taking tea today with the King of England!—Mariah gave herself into the hands of her mother’s maid without hesitation.

By the time a servant knocked on her door to say her father was ready to go, she was amazed at what had become of her. She looked very much as she always did, but brighter and prettier in every way. She wore her mother’s pearl ear drops, and her pale green silk gown with new lilac ribbons. Her hair was curled and pinned up even more elaborately than it had been for her ball, and a light dusting of powder covered the few freckles she’d acquired during her rambles with Joan. As the footman stood waiting in the doorway, she glanced at her mother, smiling in relief when she saw her Mama’s beaming pride.

“My darling,” her mother said, squeezing her hand. “You look beautiful. You do the Doncaster name proud.”

“Thank you, Mama.” She swallowed a nervous giggle, then walked carefully down the stairs to meet her father.

“I shall be invited to visit His Majesty more often,” said Papa, his eyes lighting, “for bringing such a lovely companion.”

Mariah laughed with her mother, afraid to move much more than her face. “I’m not sure I could stand to do it more often, Papa!”

He smiled and held out his arm. “Let us go, then. The King awaits.”

It was a slow journey. Carlton House was only a short distance away, but the streets were clogged with people and carriages. Mariah, whose life in London had mainly consisted of parties in other mansions and expeditions to various fashionable locations, looked around with interest as they drove into the heart of the city, where the government was seated and Carlton House stood.

Somewhere in the great crush of Piccadilly, the crowds grew denser and louder. Mariah, sitting carefully still to avoid wrinkling her gown, couldn’t see everything, but she could hear the volume rising. Risking a crumpled skirt, she leaned forward to peer out the window better.

The horses stopped. The carriage rocked a little, then lurched forward, only to stop again. She could see men in the crowd pressing forward, angry faces turned toward them. The shock made her sit back abruptly. “Papa?”

He patted her hand, but his expression was grave. “Sit back,” he said quietly. “Do not look out.” They started again, and proceeded slowly but steadily for several minutes before stopping again. The crowd was yelling now, jeering at them. Papa’s mouth compressed in irritation and he patted her hand once more. Then he pushed open the door and stood in the opening, one arm hooked inside the carriage to keep his balance.

“What is the problem?” He spoke calmly and politely, his voice carrying over the rumble of the crowd. Someone shouted back at him, Mariah couldn’t hear what, and a crude laugh rippled around it.

“I have already inquired,” Papa replied with dignity. “Surely you can reply in kind.”

Another chorus of voices rose up, some challenging, some protesting, some imploring. Someone called out her father’s name, and a few huzzahs mingled with the catcalls. Mariah listened in growing alarm as they grew louder and more strident.

“I ask only the right to drive down this street unmolested, no more than every Englishman would wish.” Papa chose to address the loudest voice, who had asked what business they were on, the people’s or the King’s.

“If only every Englishman had your fortune!” someone yelled, which was followed by a dull roar of agreement.

Papa raised his hand. He continued speaking to the crowd in the same reasonable tone, but Mariah didn’t hear him. She slid to the center of her seat and tried to make herself small and invisible, not at all tempted to peer out the windows anymore. The crowd’s discontent was palpable and frightening. There was a danger, an anger, in the hard faces surrounding them that she had never expected to see in the faces of her fellow countrymen. She had seen enmity abroad and been snubbed on occasion, but never seen such naked resentment.

And still Papa spoke, exhorting them to remember their own families, to reflect on the decency of their actions. From her seat, she could see a sliver of the crowd, a handful of faces. Papa’s words seemed to have effect; gradually the anger faded, leaving somber expressions.

Mariah realized many of the faces were thin and worn, people accustomed to a hard life. Edging closer to the window, her eyes were caught by one woman at the back of the crowd, lingering to listen to her father. Her dress was a muddy brown, and very coarse fabric from the look of it. A strip of cloth was knotted around her shoulders, the frayed edges waving gently in the puffs of breeze, and Mariah could see how thin her figure was. There were hollows in her cheeks, and when the woman raised one reddened hand from the large basket she carried to push her straggly hair from her face, Mariah could see the outline of every bone in her arm.

She turned her gaze to her lap. The silk of her dress was fresh and light under the fine kid of her gloves. The velvet of the squabs was lush and soft behind her. Suddenly, she wondered how it would look to her, if she were in the street wearing coarse, ragged clothing and carrying a heavy basket to market, to see a carriage drive past gleaming with such luxury. She curled her hands into fists, feeling again the worn texture of old linen beneath her palms and against her cheek, and closed her eyes. Harry, she thought; that woman in the crowd was the sort of girl he had helped one night with a crown. No one looks after her, he had said so bitterly. No wonder he had thought she could never understand his world.