“Will you come driving with me tomorrow?” Lord Arthur asked.
“N-no,” said Felicity. “I am unwell and need country air. We shall be leaving in the morning.”
He went very still, and then he said lightly, “And where are you bound?”
“I had not decided.”
“May I suggest Brighton? It is quite near London, and it is possible to find comfortable accommodation out of Season.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps that would be best.” Felicity held out her hand. “Good-bye, Lord Arthur,” she said firmly. “I doubt if we shall meet again.”
He took her hand in his and smiled down into her eyes. She looked up at him with a dazed, drowned look. He dropped her hand and then placed his own hands lightly on her shoulders. His mouth began to descend toward her own. He kissed her very lightly on the lips, and then raised his head and looked at her in a sort of wonder. His arms slid from her shoulders to settle at her waist, and then he jerked her tightly against him and kissed her again, and both went whirling off into a warm sensual blackness while the clock in the hall ticked away the seconds, and then the minutes, as his mouth moved languorously against her own and passion sang in his veins.
“Is that you, Felicity?” came Miss Chubb's voice. And then her heavy tread sounded in the corridor upstairs.
They broke apart, breathing heavily as if they had been running.
“You shouldn't have…” whispered Felicity.
“Brighton,” he said firmly. “Go to Brighton.”
He turned on his heel, and then he was gone, leaving Felicity standing in the hall, her hand to her lips.
The council of war went on long into the night. John Tremayne was to ride ahead to Brighton and rent a house and then ride out to the first posting house on the road outside Brighton to give them the address. Felicity's dressmaker's dummy was to be sent to the dressmaker with the promise of double money if a court dress were made and ready in time for the Queen's drawing room.
“Brighton is certainly an excellent place to choose,” said Mr. Silver. “What made you choose Brighton, ma'am?”
“Oh, I don't know,” said Felicity vaguely. For she was sure there would be protests if she said the suggestion had come from Lord Arthur. Mr. Silver considered Lord Arthur and his friend, Dolph, to be corrupt and evil men who encouraged ladies like Miss Chubiski to drink to excess, and Miss Chubb herself had become more and more worried about Felicity and Lord Arthur. Felicity had not told her about the embrace. Miss Chubb, she knew, would be deeply shocked.
Lord Arthur made ready to go out in search of Dolph the next day to see if that young man would fancy a trip to Brighton. But the fact that he was engaged to be married to Miss Martha Barchester was forcibly brought home to him when his footman handed him a letter. With a sinking heart, he recognized the seal. He crackled open the parchment. The letter was from Miss Barchester, saying that she and her parents were staying at the Crillon Hotel. Lord Arthur would no doubt be delighted and amazed to see her so soon. His presence was expected at the earliest moment.
He took a deep breath. He must disengage himself from Miss Barchester at the earliest opportunity. But what excuse did he have? That he had never been in love before? That he had never believed in such an emotion? That his heart was not in London, it was on the road to Brighton?
But did poor Miss Barchester deserve to be jilted because she no longer held any magic for him? That calmness and stillness of hers that had so attracted him now seemed dull. He felt like a cad.
He took himself off to the Crillon Hotel, preferring to walk, and so absorbed in his worries that he did not notice he was being followed.
Mr. Palfrey had had a quite dreadful night. He had dreamed of Felicity, and on waking, the dream face and the face of the Princess Felicity merged in his mind and became one. He had to see her again, just to make sure. By diligently questioning the hotel staff, he obtained the princess's address in Chesterfield Gardens and set out there at eleven in the morning while the streets of the West End were still quiet. But after half an hour of surveying the house from the opposite side of the street, he had an uneasy feeling there was no one at home.
At last, summoning up his courage, he crossed over and hammered on the knocker. He could hear the sound of his knocking echoing away into emptiness inside. A butler came out of the house next door and stood on the step and looked up and down the street.
“Tell me, my good man,” called Mr. Palfrey, “is the princess in residence?”
“Her Royal Highness and all her staff left early this morning,” said the butler.
Mr. Palfrey stood, baffled. He had been all set to take some sort of action to ease his mind. There must be something he could do.
“Do you know where they have gone?” he asked.
The butler shook his powdered wig.
Mr. Palfrey paced restlessly up and down. Then his face cleared. She had been with Lord Arthur Bessamy. If he could find Lord Arthur, then that gentleman might lead him to the whereabouts of the mysterious princess. “Do you know where a certain Lord Arthur Bessamy resides?” he asked.
The butler turned his head away in disdain. Mr. Palfrey took two gold sovereigns out of his pocket and clinked them in his hands. The butler's head jerked round. “Just around the corner, sir,” he said with an ingratiating smile. “Number 137.”
“Thank you, fellow,” said Mr. Palfrey cockily and, returning the sovereigns to his pocket, strolled off down the street and then flinched as a lump of dried horse manure flew past his ear and the outraged butler's screech of “Skinflint!” followed him around the corner into Curzon Street.
Then he stopped. Lord Arthur was emerging from his house. He was too formidable a man to be approached. Mr. Palfrey set out to follow.
He had to scurry to keep up with Lord Arthur's long legs. Soon he saw his quarry walking into the Crillon Hotel. He followed at a discreet distance, saw the hotel manager bowing and scraping, and then saw Lord Arthur mounting the stairs.
He waited a few moments and then strolled into the hotel and approached the manager. “I am desirous to know who it is Lord Arthur is meeting,” he said, holding out the two sovereigns he had failed to give to the butler. The manager took the money, put it in the pocket of his tails, dabbed his mouth fastidiously with a handkerchief, and said, “Get out. We do not discuss anything to do with our guests or noble visitors.”
“Then, give me my money back this instant.”
“What money?” said the manager. “Here! Jeremy, Peter, throw this fellow out.”
Mr. Palfrey cast a scared look at the approaching waiters and ran out into the street. He stood for a moment and then crossed the road and skulked in a doorway.
When Lord Arthur entered the Barchesters’ hotel drawing room, he was relieved to see only Mr. Barchester. He did not yet feel ready to face his soon-to-be disengaged fiancee.
“Martha's putting on her pretties,” said Mr. Barchester. “Sit down, sit down, Bessamy. Help yourself to wine.”
Lord Arthur poured himself a glass of burgundy and sat down opposite Mr. Barchester. “I fear you will not be pleased to see me when you learn the reason for my visit.”
Mr. Barchester's shrewd little eyes twinkled in the pads of fat that were his cheeks. “I'll try to bear up,” he said. “What's to do?”
“What would you say, sir, were I to tell you that I have fallen in love for the first time in my life, and, alas, not with your daughter?”
There was a long silence. Then Mr. Barchester tilted his glass of port to his mouth and took a gulp. “That's better,” he said. “Oh, well, as to your question, I would say I have been planning new stables this past age.”
Lord Arthur looked in amazement at Mr. Barchester. One of Mr. Barchester's fat eyelids drooped in a wink. “Come now, Bessamy,” he said. “You always struck me as being a knowing cove.”
“So,” said Lord Arthur slowly, “am I to take it that if I build new stables for you, the Barchester family will not sue me for breach of promise?”
“That's right,” said Mr. Barchester cheerfully.
“You do not seem in the least surprised. I feel a cad and a charlatan for treating your daughter so.”
“She's used to it,” said Mr. Barchester heartlessly. “See that new wing at Hapsmere Manor? That was when Sir
