LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      “Shall I summon Hawkins, Uncle?” Perry asked, doing his best to keep his expression sober. “And perhaps a winch?”

      “If you weren’t so damn rich I could threaten to cut you out of my will, no matter that you’re my only surviving kin. Now, listen to me. Princess Caroline cannot be crowned queen next year when Prinney—His Royal Majesty—has his coronation. She simply cannot.”

      Perry scratched at his forehead. “You want me to kill her? Isn’t that sliding a tad far over the edge, Uncle, even for such a staunch Tory as yourself?”

      “God’s teeth! No, I don’t want you to kill her. We…that is, I want you to spy on her.”

      Perry dropped his chin onto his chest and looked at his uncle from beneath his remarkable winged eyebrows. “Oh, most definitely my hearing is gone. Your hair, my ears. What a terrible legacy of physical failings in our family, Uncle. You want me to what?”

      “You heard me. I said spy on her. You’re a spy, ain’t you? And a damned good one. That’s the part of you I want, not that other part—I prefer not to remember what else you were ordered to do during the war.”

      “A sentiment I share, Uncle,” Perry said tightly, then took a sip from his wineglass. And the man wondered why he didn’t go about, crowing of his exploits?

      “Yes, yes. Rather sordid, bloodthirsty bits, some of that, eh, although necessary to our pursuit of victory. So we won’t talk about that. The king has put it to us to find a way to discredit the princess, gain him a divorce. His Cabinet, Parliament—we’ve been ordered to find a way.”

      “And I’m that way?” Perry sat back, lightly rubbed at his chin. “Oh, hardly, Uncle.”

      Sir Willard shook his head. “Not just you. There’s plenty of dirt already been dug, enough for the House of Lords to introduce a Bill of Pains and Penalties.”

      Perry got to his feet, returned the wineglass to the drinks table. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

      “Truthfully, neither had I, but we’ve been assured it’s legal, if an ancient process, rather outside our more commonly known legal system. Liverpool found it, and you know what a stickler he is. If she beats down a vote on the thing by Parliament, she’s queen. If we prove our case, the king gets his divorce. The procedure will be announced by the end of the week, possibly as soon as tomorrow. Think of it, Perry. If this works, he could marry again, provide another heir now that Princess Charlotte is lost to us.”

      “Now there’s a vision that I would not want burned into my mind—Prinney riding atop some poor sweet princess sacrificed for her fertile womb. And again, not oddly, the request for a winch would probably not be unwarranted.”

      “You’re lucky you’re speaking only to me,” Sir Willard warned him.

      “And you’re lucky, Uncle, I don’t run hotfoot to Henry Brougham and the Whigs and tell them what’s afoot. Digging up dirt to divorce the queen? It’s unconscionable, even for you whacking-great bunch of rabid Tories.”

      “So is watching the aging royal dukes running about, deserting morganatic wives and dozens of their bastard royals in order to wed any princess they can find and put an heir on her. We look like an island of rutting idiots. The world is laughing at us. Think on it, Perry. All that stands between England and anarchy at this moment is young Princess Victoria. We saw what happened with Princess Charlotte. This cannot be allowed.”

      “So Prinney has to be shed of the queen, marry again, somehow produce an heir, possibly two or three. That’s the crux of this? You know, Uncle, I’d like to believe you, but I don’t. Our new king just doesn’t want his wife anymore, does he? Not only does he detest her, she’s more popular than he ever was. Or have you been so stuck—forgive me a small jest—here in your study that you are unaware of the spoiled vegetables and fruit that are tossed at our sire whenever he dares poke his nose outside the palace?”

      With no small effort of will, Sir Willard disengaged his impressive girth from the chair and retrieved the rendering, furiously waving it in front of Perry’s nose. “See the girl? The one behind the Princess Caroline, just stepping onto the pier, holding on to that dog? Goes everywhere with the woman. She’s your entrée into the princess’s enclave.”

      Perry snatched the paper before his uncle began beating him with it. “The queen’s enclave, Uncle. If Prinney is king, Caroline is queen consort.”

      “Don’t bother me with trifles, not with the kingdom in such a damnable mess. Meet this girl, pay court to her, do whatever you must do, but get yourself accepted into Caroline’s circle. That’s where your pretty face comes in. Caroline likes pretty faces. Watch, observe, poke into closets, read any papers you may find locked up, and fetch me something the Lords can use to bring the dratted woman down. For England, Perry. And there’s not much time. The Lords convene this Pains and Penalties business in a few weeks.”

      Perry squinted at the page. “Who is she? The artist wasn’t precisely inspired—all the faces look rather alike.”

      “She’s Amelia Fredericks, one of the waifs Her Royal Highness has brought into her motley entourage, all but adopted. Remember how Caroline set up that supposed orphanage in Kent? No, of course you don’t, that was years ago. To hide the bastard son she formally adopted at one point, we all say, but can never prove.”

      “Hiding her own son with a bevy of orphans. I’d call that inspired. This girl? She’s also one of those orphans?”

      “Yes. The daughter of one of the princess’s maidservants, I understand, who perished in childbirth. Whatever, she’s been with the princess all of her life, a close companion and probably confidante. Meet her, romance her—I wager there will be orgies, knowing Caroline—and you will be in a perfect position to report on all that lascivious behavior, anything the Lords might use to discredit her. You’re a fool, Perry, a dilettante. Not threatening at all. You’re perfect for the job. No one would ever suspect you.”

      “I believe I have, in this past minute, been insulted in more ways than I care to count,” Perry said, idly stroking the thin white scar on his left cheek with his thumb. “But tell me. If I say no, then what happens?”

      “Then we’ll send someone else, who might not have your pure heart and chivalrous ways. Why, he might feel that the only way to infiltrate the princess’s enclave would be to seduce this Miss Fredericks. Ruin her. Not that you’d care a fig, eh? You don’t care a fig for anyone.”

      “How very naughty of you, Uncle, to pink me straight in my pesky honor as a gentleman.” Perry held up the broadsheet yet again. “I read here that Her Royal Highness is quartered with Alderman Wood. My, my, he was Lord Mayor of London once or twice, wasn’t he? What happened? Was she turned away at the palace, or didn’t she chance a rebuff?”

      “Wood offered, and it avoided a circus, with the populace there to witness it. But she’s already found other quarters in Hammersmith. Right on the water. I do believe our impudent queen enjoys the notion that her many admirers—and, yes, I admit she does have them—can choose to travel across the water to make their bows to her. The woman has a love of theatrics that is most embarrassing.”

      “Unlike our new king, who is staid and retired and quite above showing himself off. Why, the Pavilion at Brighton is no more ornate than a monk’s cell, I swear it, if said monk had a fondness for silk, gilt and minarets. But, yes, I understand. Who did you have in mind?”

      “What?”

      “Whom did you have in mind to seduce Miss Fredericks? You must have all but given up on me by now. So? His name, Uncle.”

      “Jarrett Rolin.”

      Perry controlled his expression with some effort. “Rolin? I thought he left town with his tail tucked

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