Nero's Fiddle (33 page)

London, Tuesday 11
^th
February, 1862

ara’s message to Amy was to the point:
What the hell is going on with you and Jackson?

The reply made her want to bash some heads together until the truth fell out.
With Jack. Will explain all when I see you.

Her friend couldn’t drop a bomb like that without a full and detailed explanation. She left her mourning a broken engagement and now she was doing unspeakable things with Nate’s former bodyguard. She screamed and tossed the paper but instead of exploding it fluttered to the ground. Events left her no time to fret; they returned from their audience with the queen and searching Prince Albert’s rooms and had to begin dressing for the oncoming evening.

“What do I wear to a soiree at a courtesan’s house?” she asked as she prowled through the bathroom to the spare bedroom she used as a dressing room. Her mind needed to concentrate on how to approach Prince Edward, not about unseen events unfolding at Lowestoft.

“Something scandalous,” Nate answered.

“That’s most of my wardrobe according to the
ton
,” she muttered. Emily, her maid, threw open the doors to the robe, so they could pick a gown.

In the end, she felt nostalgic and picked the grey silk chiffon with silver stars and no back. The dress Nate had commissioned for her to wear the night she first appeared on his arm. The gown clung to her frame and moved with her. Perfect for an evening amongst the demi-monde.

“It’s probably too modest,” she said to Emily as the maid pushed the diamond pins in to her hair. She rose from her seat and picked up her fur-trimmed coat.

“I think you look gorgeous, milady,” the maid replied, dropping a curtsey as she took her leave.

“So do I,” Nate said from the doorway. “You will outshine them all.”

“You’re not bad yourself.” He didn’t just wear formal clothes, he commanded them. The tight cravat and stiff lines moulded to him and his will. He appeared a master of everything, including fabric. A smile spread over her face. “The only possible improvement would be if it were pirate day.”

“I’ll schedule one just for you.”

The way he said the words, with his tone low, licked over her skin and a hot shiver slid down her spine. “I think we should leave now, or not at all, because what you are conjuring up in your mind won’t get us any closer to Nero’s Fiddle.”

Skittles held court in Mayfair, a mere stroll away for Nate and Cara. He indulged her by walking through the frigid evening, Brick trailing behind. Cara looped the train of her skirt over her arm so the hem didn’t drag through the slush, although the street sweepers kept the footpath clear of snow in the wealthier suburbs.

Even before they approached her doorway, it was evident where the courtesan lived. Light, warmth, and laughter spilled out onto the street. The neighbouring houses appeared dour and subdued.

The butler showed them through to an elegant and warm parlour. Amongst twenty five men, there were only four other women present, courtesans not keen on sharing the spotlight, even with their sisters. Their coats were taken and Nate kissed Cara’s hand before singling out one man for his attention.

Always business before pleasure.
She wondered what he discussed tonight that could not wait.
Although I guess this is business before business, since we need to corner Bertie.

Conversation flew and buzzed around the room. Each woman held court with her own group of men. Skittles detached herself from the throng and approached.

“Lady Lyons.” She kissed both cheeks and drew her into the warmth. “Always lovely to have your company.”

“Please call me Cara, I hate formality.” A glass found its way into her hand.

“Cara it is then.” Skittles tucked her hand into the crook of Cara’s arm. “Do you think you and Nate will start a new trend of husbands and wives entertaining together? You are quite a scandalous pair, appearing in public together all the time. Perhaps you should strike off on your own?”

Given Nate’s over-protective urges, she doubted he would willingly let her out alone at night; he much preferred to keep her in his line of sight. “I doubt there is any danger of the
ton
following our lead. Most men can’t stand to be in the same city as their wives, let alone the same room.”

Laughter danced from her throat. “True, most men come here to forget their bonds of matrimony for a few hours.”

Cara cast around the crowded parlour. “I hear the Prince of Wales is here this evening.”

Skittles gave a light chuckle. “Young Bertie is indeed trying to find his feet amongst us.”

She gestured to the tall, thin lad on the edge of the group. Cara had quite overlooked him. His open expression drifted from one décolleté to the other. He drained his champagne in one gulp, set the glass on the tray and took up another.

“He looks overwhelmed.” She found it hard to believe they were a similar age, but then her life had a more brutal beginning and dealt her harsh lessons in looking out for herself.

Skittles sipped her champagne and leaned closer to whisper. “Although we all mourn the prince regent, his death has let Bertie slip the parental leash and he is relishing the freedom. I think he will be quite the patron for some lucky demimondaine.”

Although only a year younger than her twenty two, he appeared childlike. Life had not yet marked him physically, and everything around him was new and open for exploration. As the heir apparent, he could have whatever he wanted; he had only to reach out his hand and take it.

The call came to go through for dinner and Cara sat opposite Nate. The prince sat to Skittles’ right, in place of honour. He was being favoured.

Must have cracked open his pocket book.

The women were evenly dotted around the table, so each reigned supreme with their direct neighbours. The grin never left Cara’s face. Not only was she welcomed here, but the people surrounding her at the table talked. Really talked, about issues that mattered in the world, not the best doily pattern to crochet or the right shade of silk for a needlework aquilegia. They discussed politics and argued long and hard about the civil war in America. Some agreed with the abolition of slavery. Others, like those with plantations paying for their place at table, saw the merits of owning their workforce. The women were outspoken and passionate in their opinions and the men listened.

Acceptance by the
ton
came at the cost of becoming a decoration. To be seen and admired at the appropriate occasions and never, ever, having a voice. Deep within her, Cara set free the last tiny sliver of desire to ever be accepted by the matrons. She watched the childhood indoctrination disappear out the window and into the winter night, then embraced her new place.
This
was her society.

After dinner, they adjourned to the parlour, the wide double doors to the billiards room flung open so the party could continue. The women did not hide away from the men, they joined them in brandy, cigars and raucous laughter.

A young buck stumbled toward them. Fortified by the courage he found in the bottom of his glass, he gave Nate a nudge. “I say, Lyons, it’s not the done thing to bring your wife to these shindigs. As lovely as she is.”

Nate narrowed his eyes at the man.

Cara tightened her grip on his arm, murmuring, “Play nice.”

His gaze shot to her. “What is your definition of nice?”

“Don’t stab anyone; I’m pretty sure this lot will bleed like stuffed pigs.”

He dropped a kiss on her neck. “I will try, just for you. His father holds Boudicca’s Cuff. The artifact pays for his place here and I need to find where it is, so I can steal it back to line our pockets instead.” He joined the men. “Don’t blame me because you chose badly, Simmons. You should have left your horse in the stable instead of marrying her.” He plucked a glass of brandy off a silver server and moved to join a small group of men.

The courtesans moved like dancers among them, clothed in rainbow colours. Laughter swirled toward the ceiling. Tiny flashes of red, orange, blue, and green danced over them all as light fractured from the myriad crystals hanging off the heavy chandeliers.

Cara touched Skittles on the arm. “Would you introduce me to Edward?”

“Of course,” she said. They approached the gangly prince. “Bertie, this is a friend of mine, Lady Cara Lyons.”

“Your Royal Highness.” She curtseyed.

“Lady Lyons.” He took her hand and raised it up, his touch damp and clammy on her skin. “It is so lovely to meet you at long last.”

“I am flattered you know who I am.” She reclaimed her hand by using it to take an offered crystal flute.

“Of course.” Once the words were out, colour rushed from under his collar, making her wonder what exactly he had heard about her. “You were present when my father died.”

“Ah. Yes. A terrible event.” The prince’s sacrifice removed Victoria from under the artifact’s thrall. “I only wished Nate and I could have stopped the tragedy from occurring.”

“Your presence gave my mother comfort.”

“What little we could do, sir.” She remembered how the queen clung to her dead husband in the pouring rain; there was no solace to offer. She cast a glance at her husband across the room. Tall, broad and darkly handsome, she saw beneath his cold façade to the river of heat that ran below. A shiver ran through her body. No level of comfort could ever console her should he die. Although she wouldn’t have long to grieve; she would follow him to the grave in such an event.

“Speaking of your father, I’m trying to locate an antique he had in his possession. The queen gave us permission to look in his room, but we could not locate it.” She drew him to the side of the room, not wanting the gossiping ears to swallow up every syllable. “It’s an old fiddle, or more accurately a lyre, dating back to Roman times. Do you recall seeing it amongst his things?” She held her breath, waiting to hear that he knew of the deadly weapon.

He gave a casual shake, his fingers stroking her wrist. “No, I have no interest in musical instruments or dusty antiquities; I enjoy much earthier pleasures.”

If you don’t stop touching me you’ll be
in
the earth
. She cast a glance at Nate. He looked up and his brows drew together at the sight of the prince’s attentions. She sent a promise along their bond and he nodded, leaving her to deal with the young man.

Frustration bubbled under her skin at the false lead. The guard was sure that items were removed from the consort’s rooms. “Such a shame, I know you were close to your father and had hoped it would jog some memory.”

Emboldened by all the alcohol he had consumed over the evening, his hand crept higher, to stroke the inside of her elbow. “My father’s man might know something. He was always pottering around in his suite and would know of his knickknacks and such.”

A ping of hope flared in her mind. “Oh?” She resisted the urge to pull her arm back and let him continue his caress, hoping it was enough of a trade for more information. She gritted her teeth; her demons became agitated by the unwanted contact, but she needed to make it through the next few minutes. “Who is that, his man?”

“Dalkeith, he moved to my household after my father’s death. Very capable chap, knows what it means to serve royalty.” He gave a wink and leaned in closer. “Now that you have me all stirred up, I am reminded; Dalkeith did ask if he could select a memento from father’s rooms.”

Bingo!
She contained herself from letting out a whoop of excitement. They were back on the scent in their hunt. “Would you mind terribly if I could ask him what he selected? It would mean ever so much to me to have the lyre for my collection.” She dropped her lashes and licked her lips.

“For you, dear lady, of course.” His whole demeanour brightened and he leaned so close his breath feathered her skin with an alcoholic burp. “Lyons is a dashed lucky bugger, although there is a certain convenience to a married woman.” His suggestion hung heavy between them. “I have yet to decide where to lay my royal favour.” He raised his hand to stroke the side of her face. “I will be king one day, a woman can climb no higher than me.”

Nate will squash him like a bug if he ever hears that suggestion. It’s time to derail his train of thought.
“These rumours about the queen’s legitimacy are horrid; it must be a terrible strain for you. I do hope they die down.”

He drew back his hand and curled his fingers into a fist. Blue fire burned in his eyes and his nostrils flared. “The peddlers of those rumours should be put down like the curs they are. How dare they defame my mother and attempt to usurp my position as Prince of Wales.” He tried to keep his tone low but spittle marked his lower lip as he spat out the words. “Dalkeith is right, those behind this slander deserve to burn.”

Burn.
Her brain sprung to attention. “Burn? A harsh sentence for unfounded gossip, surely?” She tapped his arm with her fan, trying to make light of his growing rage.

Red anger flowed into his cheeks. “They deserve God’s fury for daring to suggest I am not the legitimate heir to the crown. Let the Lord strike them down for their vicious slurs against their anointed ruler. I am the first in line, the crown
will
be mine one day and no gossip will take it from me!”