Kasey Michaels - Shall We Dance?

Georgiana hopped up and went to the mirror hanging above a small table. “Yes, I can see that. My brains are leaking out. You wouldn’t happen to have a comb, Nate, would you?”

AMELIA STOOD looking out one of the windows in her bedchamber, rhythmically pulling a silver-backed brush that had been a present from King Joachim himself through her still-slightly-damp hair while she watched the parade of boats. If anything, there were more of them this afternoon.

Queen Caroline had decided to take to her bed for the day, clutching a locket with a lock of Princess Charlotte’s hair inside it, twined with a lock of her stillborn grandson’s hair. The new king had such a keepsake, and Caroline had bribed at least a half-dozen individuals and threatened several more with revealing their past indiscretions, and had at last been delivered of a similar locket only three months earlier. Whether or not the hair truly had come from the princess and the young prince Amelia didn’t know, and didn’t inquire.

Still, rather than cheering her, comforting her, the locket had reduced the queen first to tears, then to anger at the world (and her husband and his family in particular), and then had settled into a deep melancholy that worried Amelia no little bit.

Do broken hearts really kill? If they did, her dear queen would be dead within the year.

Another young woman would worry for her own future, what would happen to her once the queen was gone, but this had never occurred to Amelia. She had been forced long ago to live in the present…except for those times that she lived in her dreams. Dreams that appeared more difficult to come by, as she had left her childhood behind and was now faced with more reality than it might be possible for one determined, yet virtually powerless young woman to deal with, no matter how she might wish it.

No prince would come to rescue her, mount her on his large, white charger and take her off to his castle in the clouds. No secret papers covered in seals would show her birth to have been more than it was. No aging, mourning queen would gather her to her bosom and tell her that she was, indeed, her own child, born of a great love between Caroline and some near-mystical hero out of a penny press novel she’d encountered after her banishment from her husband’s side.

Amelia had dreamed the dreams of any orphan.

But she also knew none of that was real. These boats were real. The writ of Pains and Penalties was real. That sad, rapidly deteriorating woman lying in a darkened chamber, clutching a locket to her bosom and surrounded by her powerful enemies and her zealous supporters who cared more for themselves than they did that poor, frightened woman. All that was real.

Amelia sighed, turned away from the window, and allowed her majesty’s maid to sweep her hair into a simple, upswept style, as the housemaid who had left with Carstairs had been hers. “How is your brother doing, Rosetta? Is he enjoying his new position of footman, do you think?”

“Non, Signorina. Gerado, he gets himself all about with each new thing. Too much for his brain, si? O bere o affogare.”

Amelia nodded. To Rosetta, Gerado was in over his head, and did not know whether to drink or drown. Poor fellow. It was time she broached the subject of sending their Italian servants back to Italy. Already their complaints about “this damp island,” and “this strange tasteless food” had become a daily litany.

Besides, Baron Pergami was necessarily absent. No need to have all these reminders left behind, many of them his poor relations, now was there? The queen had enough on her plate.

And when Her Royal Highness found out, as she had to do, that some of their former servants were being brought from overseas just to bring testimony against her, accepting money to do so? Mr. Brougham had taken Amelia aside and told her as much, and the information could not remain hidden much longer.

Yes, the Italians would have to go, much as Amelia would miss them. Because some of them, like Gerado, like Rosetta, had perhaps seen too much.

“I believe fussing will bring no improvement, Rosetta, thank you. Please return to the queen, who may need you, and I’ll finish dressing myself,” Amelia said as she got to her feet. After all, it wasn’t as if she had anything more pressing to do, isolated as they were here at Hammersmith.

“CLIVE, FAR BE IT from me to spoil your fun, as nobody admires a spoilsport, I’m told. But I do believe you’re courting trouble there. In other words, it might be best if you stopped flapping your arms like some flightless bird and sat down. This miserable boat rocks enough as it is, without your enthusiastic assistance.”

“Love the sea, I do, M’Lord,” Clive Rambert said, chancing a look over his shoulder at the Earl of Brentwood, the man he considered to be his real new employer. “Went by ship ta the Peninsula, and back again. Always on the lookout for one of those mermaids. My mate, Sergeant Raymond, he see’d one the onc’t. Masses of purty blond hair, and nary a stitch on her, neither.”

“And you believe this,” Perry Shepherd said, yawning into his hand. “How very droll. However, I had thought better of you than that, my friend.”

Clive sat down abruptly in the front end of the small boat Perry had rented for the trip across the Thames. “He lied ta me, sir?”

“I’m only hazarding a guess, Clive, but yes, I think Sergeant Raymond might have been tugging on your ankle with that one.”

“Well, blast me for a Johnny Raw. Spent weeks peekin’ over the side of the ship, looking for one of them mermaids.” Then he brightened slightly. “Are you sure, M’Lord? Maybe they all left the ocean, and swum themselves up here more? Lovely place, the Thames. Could be dozens of them out there, not just the one I was hopin’ for. I’d swim here, iffen I could swim.”

Perry stuck a cheroot between his teeth and put a light to it. “Then I doubly implore you to remain seated. Because, if you harbor any niggling thought that I might leap into the water after you to effect a rescue, you’d be quite disappointed as you sank to the bottom. Now, straighten your jacket, man. We’ll be there soon enough, once we’re through this press of boats.”

Clive looked down at his new jacket. He was proud of it, he really was, but he wasn’t certain if the earl thought it looked well on him, or was simply amusing himself at Clive’s expense.

The jacket was blue, very dark blue, and with two rows of brass buttons lining the front. There were pretty golden braids on the shoulders, some of the fringe actually hanging over the ends of those shoulders, to drip down his arms.

And the hat. The hat was something very special, that was for sure. One of those high-domed contraptions with wings on each side, and more gold braid. Almost exactly what the captain wore on the ship that had brought him back from the Peninsula.

“Are yer sure, M’Lord, that I can be wearin’ this? I look like a bloody admiral.”

“Please, Clive, let’s not insult officers of the Royal Navy with such comparisons. It’s as I told you—the newest thing, all the crack. Why, I saw three very important hostesses in the Park yesterday, in much the same outfit. Long skirts, mind you, and not Wellington trousers, but still, much of the same style.”

Clive’s beady eyes all but bugged out of his ferret face. “Wimmen? I looks like wimmen? Here, now, that’s not nice. Sir Willard warned me about yer, that yer’re always on the look-see for a lark, but that’s just not nice, to be usin’ me for a giggle, M’Lord.”

“You’ve never wished to captain a ship, Sergeant? I most distinctly remember, back in that most amusing shop we found, you telling me that perhaps you’d made a mistake, not going to sea, as you greatly admired the uniforms.”