Kasey Michaels - Shall We Dance?

“Oh, I think he might be beyond that, My Lord,” Hawkins said, then knocked on the study door, opened it, announced Perry, turned to smile at His Lordship—rather piteously—and then took to his heels.

Perry, one eyebrow lifted, watched him go, so that he staggered under the unexpected blow as a large, beefy hand slapped him once on the back, then grabbed hold of his wonderfully tailored jacket collar and all but hauled him into the study.

“At last! Damn your eyes, Perry, anyone would have thought you were dead.”

Adjusting his jacket, now that his uncle had released it, Perry smiled at Sir Willard Humphrey. “I had considered putting about precisely that rumor, but I at once realized what a definite crimp it would put in my social life. Good morning, Uncle.”

“Don’t you good morning me, Nevvie. Where in thunder have you been hiding yourself? I’ve been sending notes round every day. Twice, yesterday.”

“Really? I had no idea. Well, that’s it, then, I shall have my butler sacked the moment I return to Portman Square.” He frowned. “Damn shame, that. I have rather a fondness for Fairweather, have known him since I was in short coats.”

“Cheeky. Always were cheeky.” Sir Willard deposited his considerable bulk into the chair behind his desk, his whalebone stays creaking as he bent himself almost in two. “Reminds how much you give me the headache, boy. You’ve been avoiding me. But I’ve heard about you. Going here, going there, racketing about like a useless twit without a care in the world—or for it, for that matter.”

“Guilty as charged, especially that last little bit,” Perry said, lifting the stopper from a decanter on the drinks table and holding up the decanter to his uncle. “No? Very well, although I feel the sot, drinking alone.”

“It’s eleven in the morning, for God’s sake. You shouldn’t be drinking at all. Tea, that’s the ticket. You can’t dunk a buttered scone in Burgundy, boy.”

“Nor would I want to,” Perry said, sitting himself down on the deep green leather couch completely across the room—ignoring the pair of uncomfortable chairs facing the desk. His left leg neatly crossed over his right, the stem of his glass resting on his bent knee, he smiled again at his uncle. “So? Are you going to tell me, or am I going to be forced to guess?”

“Do you have to perch yourself all the way over there? I’ll have to shout to—oh, hang it,” Sir Willard said, pushing himself out of his chair, forced out of his seat of authority by his insufferable nephew, who only batted his eyelids as he gave a wide, closemouthed and definitely not-innocent grin.

“I sit here as a favor. You need the exercise, dear Uncle,” Perry said, then arranged his handsome features in a frown of concentration and attention. “But to continue?”

“Continue? When in blue blazes did I start? You’re a confounding piece of work, Perry, always were, always told everyone you were. If I were to tell England the truth about you no one would believe me.”

“They’d probably lock you up with your own strait waistcoat,” Perry agreed, then sipped at his burgundy. “Wait, come to think of it, you’re close to that now. Don’t you know our new good king has left off his stays? The explosion could be heard for miles.”

“You’re a fool, Nevvie.”

“True. Everyone knows I’m a fool. An amicable, titled, sinfully wealthy, well-dressed and exquisitely turned-out fool, but a fool nonetheless. Oh, and heartbreakingly handsome.” Perry sighed theatrically. “I’ve so many gifts.”

“And that’s why you’re here.”

Perry’s left eyebrow shot heavenward. “Because I’m pretty? Gad, if I’d known it would call me to your attention, Uncle, I would have dropped a sack over my head.”

“Would you stop? It’s not just that face of yours. I need you because of what the world thinks of you, in total.” Sir Willard turned round one of the chairs and wedged his bulk into it. “Let me begin at the beginning.”

“Oh, please, Uncle, I beg you, don’t do that. Adam and Eve, the apple—it’s all so tedious. Start at the middle, why don’t you? Most things start there.”

Sir Willard’s neck was becoming rather red. “The war’s been over for years, Perry. Others have come forward to take credit for their service to His Majesty in the more…covert activities of the thing. You could have medals. You could be lauded. You could—”

“Toot my own horn, while many of those who crept about in secrecy like me now lie dead in foreign soil, if they weren’t carted back here in vats of pickle juice and then stuffed into the family mausoleum? No, thank you, Uncle. I’m happy as I am.”

Sir Willard rubbed at his red, bulbous nose. “All right, all right, I won’t force the issue, not when I consider how well your ridiculous modesty suits the mission.”

Perry paused in the action of sipping on the Burgundy. “The mission? You may be right, Uncle, perhaps I should forswear spirits before noon, although that leaves only water, which, as we both know, can be even more dangerous to my health. But no, I couldn’t possibly have heard you correctly.”

“You heard me correctly, Nephew,” Sir Willard said, reaching behind him for the folded scrap of broadsheet that lay on his desk, then tossing it at Perry. “You’ve seen this?”

Perry unfolded the rumpled square featuring a rather detailed woodcut. “A poorly executed rendering of Her Royal Highness, Princess Caroline, disembarking in Dover, surrounded by, if we can believe this, both her extensive entourage and a wildly cheering crowd. Oh, and a dog. Yes, what of it?”

“What of it? She’s come back, that’s what of it. Come back to claim her share of the throne.”

“It is hers to claim, isn’t it?”

Sir Willard looked ready to tear at his hair—which would have been difficult, as he’d parted with the last of it a good two decades earlier, leaving nothing but huge bushy white eyebrows and a bald pate above them. (Sir Willard was possibly the only man in England to still be wishing back powdered wigs.)

“We in government can’t have it, Perry. She’s totally unsuited to the role of queen. My God, man, she’s been running about the world with a paramour, and a foreigner at that. In plain sight. Thumbing her nose at all of us. Putting a crown on that head would be sacrilege.”

“I think England has put the crown on quite a few heads that might not have been precisely up to the honor,” Perry said, tossing the rendering onto the couch. “May I dare a bit of treason and suggest that our recently elevated king could be numbered among them? Last I heard, you know, he was crowing to everyone that he was present at Waterloo. If he had been, which we all know he was not, there wouldn’t have been a camp stool large enough for him to hide his shivering bulk beneath when the battle began.”

“I like you better as a fool than when you’re being supercilious,” Sir Willard said. “But all right, all right, I’ll take the gloves off, shall I?”

“Do whatever pleases you, dear Uncle, it makes no nevermind to me,” Perry said, wondering if his favorite club would be serving spiced ham today. He was quite fond of spiced ham. “Anything so that I might kiss both your rosy-red cheeks in farewell and toddle off on my aimless, pointless pursuit of pleasure once more.”

He was lying, of course. Perry was very interested in whatever his uncle would soon say. It was always interesting to learn how the minds of aged men in power worked, as they so very often worked in ways that had a lot to do with the benefit of aged men in power, and the devil with the rest of the world.

Sir Willard leaned forward in the armchair. Well, he attempted to lean forward. But his bulk had rather stuck between the arms, so instead he rested his elbows on them, clasped his hands together, and pushed his melon-with-eyebrows head toward his nephew.