“This way,” Beck said.

By the sound of it, they were followed by a small army. Caroline buried her face in Beck’s shoulder again so she’d not have to look at the Arse of Alucia. And so he wouldn’t smell her breath or see how parched her lips were. This was, without a doubt, the height of humiliation, particularly as she took such great pride in her looks.

Beck opened the door to her room and strode to her bed, depositing her there, then pulling the cover over her. Caroline dared not look around her. But then she did, and no less than four men were staring down at her with various expressions of concern and horror. It was worse than she thought.

“I’ll fetch Dr. Callaway, shall I?” Montford asked.

“I think you ought,” the prince said, and touched the back of his hand to Caroline’s cheek without asking her permission. “She is burning with fever.”

“All of you, out,” Beck commanded. “I’ll not have her infect you.”

“I’ll go,” Montford offered.

“I’ll go with you,” said Sir Charles Martin.

“Martha! Where have you been?” Beck said gruffly as Martha came into view. “Why wasn’t I informed she was so ill?”

“Oh dear God,” Caroline said, and rolled onto her side, away from the spectacle.

“I didn’t know, my lord,” Martha said, and sat on the edge of Caroline’s bed, smoothing back her hair. “She was sleeping when last I looked in on her.”

Caroline grabbed Martha’s hand and held on for dear life. “Make them go,” she whispered.

Martha stood up and said, “Allow me to tend her.”

“Yes, well, see that you do,” Beck said.

Caroline didn’t know how Martha managed it, but she felt the room clear of muttering men. A moment later, Martha returned to her side. “I’ll get a compress,” she said soothingly. She disappeared again. Caroline’s eyes closed, but she felt she was not alone and opened her eyes to see the Arse of Alucia looming over her.

He touched a hand to her cheek and winced. “I’ve never seen you so quiet.”

Caroline wanted to roll her eyes, but they hurt. “I’ve never seen you so sober,” she muttered.

He smiled again, his blue eyes shining with delight.

“Please, Your Highness, allow me to tend her,” Martha said from somewhere beyond the bed.

The prince disappeared, and Martha sat lightly next to Caroline and pressed a cold cloth to her head. “Am I dying?” Caroline asked weakly. “Did you see them all? Assembled as if they expected me to go at any moment. If I am to die, Martha, please see that I’m buried in the yellow dress with the green sprigs. I worked so hard on those bloody green sprigs and I’ll have everyone take one last look at them.”

“You’ve a fever, that’s all, milady. Men are generally unduly alarmed when confronted with illness and all matters female. Pay no mind to their histrionics.”

“Thank you, Martha,” she said with a sigh. “Will you have someone bring me soup?” she mumbled, but could feel herself falling down that hole of dead sleep.

“Yes, miss,” Martha said from someplace far above her.

The weight on her bed lifted, and Caroline heard Martha quietly go into her dressing room. She rallied enough to push herself up and looked across the room to the mirror at her vanity. “Oh my Lord,” she whispered, and fell back against the pillows. Of all the days for that bloody prince to show up.

Caroline tucked a pillow up under her head and was sliding away again when the door swung open violently and Beck appeared at her bedside. He frowned at her. “You have worried me terribly,” he said accusingly.

“Are you friends with him now? Fast friends?” she asked. “You and Leopold?”

“Are you still nattering on about that? You must be delirious. To begin, he is His Royal Highness to you. And what does it matter if he is my friend?”

“It’s awful,” she whimpered. The worst of it was that her brother would never understand how disloyal he was being to her by befriending that man.

Beck sat on the edge of her bed and roughly caressed her damp head. “Dr. Calloway is being summoned,” he said softly. “Now see here, Caro, you mustn’t give me a fright like this. You really must mend yourself. We’ve already been through this, on the ship.”

Caroline didn’t care about mending herself now since those gentlemen had seen her in such a dilapidated state.

Martha appeared with a basin and a cloth, and Beck stood up so that Martha could take his place.

“You really must endeavor to mend yourself, Caro,” he added uncertainly.

With her back to Beck, Martha rolled her eyes.

Beck leaned over Martha, put his hand on Caroline’s leg and squeezed softly. “The house would be quite empty without you.”

“I won’t die, Beck. How could I? You’d be utterly lost without me,” she said as her eyes slid closed. “Now will you send everyone away? And I do mean everyone. I should not like to see him again.”

“She’s delirious,” Beck said, his voice fading. “She doesn’t know what she is saying.”

Oh, Caroline knew very well what she was saying, but she didn’t have the strength to explain it.

CHAPTER NINE


A soiree was hosted by the venerable Lord Russell, our new prime minister, to celebrate his party’s victory. The gathering included their Lordships Hill, Eversley and Wellington, as well as His Royal Highness Prince Leopold. Noticeably absent from the celebration was Lady Russell, who has not been seen much about since her return from Alucia. Rumor has it that the new prime minister’s celebration went on until the bright light of the following day, at which time several of the guests were seen departing the mansion, with perhaps the notable exception of a prince, who was said to have gone missing just after midnight. Speculation is that he was not alone when he went.

Lady Caroline Hawke, a perennial guest at such gatherings as this, was not on hand, as she recovers from an illness brought on by bad seas and poor London air.

Ladies, a concoction of one part arsenic to every two parts honey will soothe the sorest of throats and fevers.

—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and


Domesticity for Ladies

LEO TOSSED THE Honeycutt’s Gazette aside, and a hotel footman deftly stepped in to pick it up from the table. Leo scarcely noticed him, as the servants at the Clarendon Hotel had been trained to be almost invisible.

Leo had taken half a floor at the hotel on Bond Street, noted for its catering to aristocrats and dignitaries. His father preferred his second son to reside in a house, preferably with an Alucian ally, but Leo preferred the hotel. It was in the heart of London, and there was enough room for his staff, which included his palace guards, Kadro and Artur, his valet, Freddar, who doubled as a houseman in Leo’s private suite of rooms, and his private secretary, Josef Pistol. It was Josef who kept his ear to the ground around town and who’d brought him Honeycutt’s Gazette this morning.

Josef was sitting with Leo now in the library, on armchairs covered in rich leather and stuffed within an inch of exploding. They’d been served tea, and Josef was making quick, efficient notes about the week ahead in his leather-bound journal while Leo drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair, mulling over the bit of gossip from the gazette. The news was more than a week old, and yet, it still rankled Leo.

“Will you be calling on Lord Hawke today, Highness?” Josef asked as he jotted a note.

Leo wondered what else Josef wrote in that journal, always dashing off something across the page. “Yes, presently. Who watches me so closely, do you suspect?” he asked, gesturing in the direction he’d tossed the gazette.

“All of London,” Josef said blandly, as if he’d had to remind Leo of this several times over.

Obviously, Leo knew that his coming and going was noted and reported in morning papers. He was a prince and therefore a grand prize in the marriage mart. And in more than one country. He wasn’t surprised that it was widely known he’d been a guest at Lord Russell’s home. But what he did not expect was that anyone, besides Russell himself, would know how he’d slipped out that evening. He’d taken such care of it, too, asking the butler if he could use a service door. Evidently, he was not very good at skulking about.

Frankly, Leo was discovering that the only thing he was even passably competent at was enjoying himself. But when it came to serious matters, he was utterly inept. In other words, his worst fear was being confirmed—he was rather useless. This had been proven to him over the last fortnight, when, in an effort to at least educate himself about what Lysander had told him, he’d blundered through every turn.

“The carriage will arrive at half past two, Your Highness,” Josef said, and closed his notebook. “Shall I send someone to fetch flowers?”

“Flowers?” Leo asked. He was still thinking of the on-dit, of that night at the Russell house.

“For Lady Caroline.”

“Oh. Je, of course.” Hawke had only rarely left his home during the course of his sister’s illness. Leo had gone round every day, not only because he considered Hawke a friend, but because he needed desperately to speak to Hawke’s new chambermaid again, and that, he was discovering, was a hell of a lot easier said than done.

It galled him that he was so inept that he couldn’t even manage a meeting with a maid. He had made three attempts to find her, and just when he thought he had, Lady Caroline had stumbled upon them, swaying from side to side with a ghostly look about her. Everything about her looked gray...except her remarkable green eyes, which had seemed more incandescent than ever.

Since the night she’d thwarted him by knocking on death’s door, Leo had tried in vain to speak to the Hawke maid, but even as Lady Caroline lay bedridden, she was making that impossible. Every time he called at the house on Upper Brook Street, he felt obliged to sit with Hawke, who fretted like an old woman over his sister, even though the doctor had told him she ought to recover completely. And still, Leo could not manage to talk his way out of that study. Every excuse he offered—to fetch water for Hawke, for example—would prompt Hawke to wave his hand and yank on the bellpull. Or when Leo insisted he needed a chamber pot, Hawke pointed to one in the corner.