Page 4 of A Problem Princess

But damn if the royal fool hadn’t gone and given him exactly that.

GeneralClayton Elliott. That unexpected and rapid promotion up the ranks had raised eyebrows across the empire, and it galled him that others thought he hadn’t deserved it, that he’d received it not in the heat of battle but in the backrooms of Westminster. Worse—that he couldn’t say a word in his own defense to prove he’d earned it because the incident had to remain a state secret. Other gossip had been swirling about his connection to the regent, too, especially as he was now invited to all kinds of events that even a general had no business attending. Like tonight’s audience with the visiting royals from Monrovia. No mere Home Office undersecretary and son of a convicted murderer should have been considered special enough for that. The regent most likely knew it, too, and invited Clayton more to aggravate those men who were left off the invitation list than to reward him.

Clayton rubbed at the knot of tension in his nape. Always, what he had wanted most was to prove the true worth of the Elliott name. From the moment he’d left the family brewery and scraped together enough money to purchase a lieutenant’s commission, that had been his goal. His path had been grueling—nights spent sleeping on bare ground frozen hard in winters and oozing mud in summers, terror-filled days fighting on the battlefield, his life endangered at every turn, his best friends slaughtered as they fought beside him… He’d worked himself nearly to death in the army camps to earn recognition, then volunteered for every dangerous mission he could, and always with the goal of proving his patriotism and loyalty to England, proving that the Elliott men weren’t lawless.Always.The wars provided opportunity for quick advancement, and peacetime provided even more with the Home Office.

Now he stood at the pinnacle of his career with all he’d wanted held firm within his grasp.

Almost. He had yet to uncover the truth about his father, and he couldn’t stop until he put his father’s ghost to rest. In every way.

With a grimace, Clayton pounded his fist against the hackney’s roof. The time for his command performance had arrived.

“Stop,” he called out the broken window to the driver. They were still several streets from their destination, but he wanted to avoid the tangle of traffic that undoubtedly awaited them. He also wanted to avoid the attention he would draw by arriving at the royal residence in a hired hackney. “Let me out here.”

The jarvey pulled the team to a stop at the side of the avenue. Clayton jumped down to the street, tossed up a coin, and headed on foot toward Carlton House.

The traffic was as bad as he’d feared, with a long line of carriages snaking its way back toward Mayfair. Their lamps lit dim halos in the damp fog and gave the entire scene an eerie, unworldly feel, but past experience with the regent told Clayton that the inside of the royal residence would be just as fantastical. The regent would have cut no corners for tonight’s festivities. The Monrovian reception was the palace’s first public event since Princess Charlotte’s official mourning period had ended, and everyone of any importance was attempting to cram themselves into the house’s grand reception rooms.

Yet tonight’s event wasn’t even the grand ball that would take place in a fortnight to mark the culmination of the royal visit. No, tonight’s event was only a small welcome ceremony.

Clayton stopped in front of Carlton House’s sweeping entrance and stared at the gold cages erected on both sides of the portico that held dozens of swans, the hundreds of guests streaming inside, and an army of servants at the ready to help them.

A small welcome ceremony?Good Lord.

He took a deep breath to summon his courage the way he’d never had to before any of the battles on the Continent. Then he hurried up the steps, handed his invitation to the footman guarding the entrance, and stepped inside.

Two

Cordelia stared at her reflection in the mirror of the dressing table that had been brought into the blue velvet drawing room for her use and forced down a deep sigh of boredom as her dresser, Braun, fussed to perfect her appearance.

No. Not boredom.

Utter misery.

She couldn’t blame Braun for wanting to make her look beautiful given tonight’s momentous implications. After all, her English royal cousins would be laying eyes on her for the first time.

Yet she suspected she could have worn burlap rags and no one would have cared, and not because of poor Princess Charlotte’s recent death. Cordelia knew why she was here in England. As an unmarried princess at age twenty-four, she held no delusions about what was expected of her.

She wasn’t here for mourning but for marriage, and tonight wasn’t a welcome but an audition.

“The ceremony will begin promptly at eight o’clock and is expected to last two hours,” Lady Devereaux, her personal secretary, read from the notebook that contained Cordelia’s schedule for their visit. “You will be expected to greet all the guests in attendance, and your uncle wants you to pay special attention to the Duke of Wellington and the Duke of Hampton, both former generals and our strong allies in the continental wars.”

Well, at least they weren’t the royal dukes. That much was a relief.

“As well as the Dukes of Clarence, Kent, and Cambridge.”

With a roll of her eyes, Cordelia fought to keep her shoulders from sinking—or shuddering. The royal dukes. She knew they would raise their philandering heads tonight, all three wanting a good look at her as if she were nothing but a brood mare at auction.

Truly, though, wasn’t that exactly what she was?

“Supper follows immediately at ten o’clock and will be a private affair in the formal dining room with the prince regent and the royal family. Braun will put you to bed at midnight.”

Lady Devereaux paused to glance at the pocket watch she wore clipped to her skirt at her waist. Baroness Devereaux was married to Monrovia’s highest ranking general and just as regimented as her husband, which was why Uncle Ernest had selected her to be Cordelia’s personal secretary. He’d wanted Cordelia to have the best person available to assist her. Failing that, a drill sergeant.

“Tomorrow,” Devereaux continued, “you will rise at eight and dress for breakfast with Princess Sophia at eleven at Buckingham House, followed by a second breakfast with Lord Liverpool at one at St James’s Palace.”

“A second breakfast?” Her eyes darted to Devereaux’s reflection in the mirror. Good heavens, how much food was she expected to eat?

Devereaux confirmed that with a sharp nod. “At two, you will meet with the royal seamstress to make any necessary alterations to your wardrobe.”