Page 66 of The Wallflower Ruse

And in what better guise than that of the Merry Monarch?

Instinctively, Restive grasped the hilt of his sword cane. Damnation. Much as he appreciated Lucinda’s help—she’d put on an excellent show just now—he couldn’t let that fool Pearce put her in danger, even to protect the Prince of Wales. Fury at his own folly in allowing her to get involved in what was shaping up to be a catastrophe spurred him forward. The Prince could bloody well go to the devil—

And yet duty called.

Murmurs went around the room, as one guest after another recognized the heir to the throne. He was far too large to disguise effectively, even in ermine-lined robes and an absurd wig. Therefore, he was meant to be recognized.

Lucinda caught Restive’s eye, then tossed her head again, which in any other circumstances would make him laugh. She turned to gaze as if rapt at the Prince. She was so courageous and so dear.

His loyalty to the Crown was unquestioned; so was his love for Lucinda—he realized that now.

What was her purpose here? He had to stop fretting and think about it rationally. The Prince might flirt and fondle a bit, but he wouldn’t do her actual harm in such a public situation. Did they want him to bring her to a private room, where they would—what? Capture him in flagrante delicto? And then do what? It would do him little harm, and her a great deal. It made no sense.

Perhaps she—young, beautiful, in a revealing gown—was a means of keeping the Prince’s attention until it was too late...but for what? Was she meant to accompany the Prince outdoors? In that silver-white gown, she would be unusually visible.

Did the seditionists—or the French, or both—seek to assassinate Prinny? Frankly, he wouldn’t be much of a loss. He was profligate, hugely expensive, and generally disliked, and he had plenty of brothers to replace him, but an attack on the monarchy would rile the populace. They might not think much of the heir to the throne, but if foreigners dared to attack him—well, the people of England would never stand for that.

That didn’t make such a plan impossible. The French didn’t understand the English, and vice versa. But would an assassin come straight up to Prinny and shoot him, knowing he would surely die—unpleasantly—in return? Not likely. They must have a better plan.

The poet moved Lucinda in the direction of the Prince. Restive didn’t like to bet on anything at this point, but in the crowd, she should be safe enough for now.

~ * ~

What was Mrs. Spence’s role? Lucinda wondered. Something key, according to the blabbing poet. What a strange choice of accomplice in their plot. Could she be the Columbine? She was the right size... Where was she?

Surely Restive would work that out one way or the other. Maybe she was associated with Fortin—who played what part in the plot? Something complicated, which could mean anything.

Mr. Pearce’s anxiety, and now his haste, were focused on the Prince. And he had promised that they would go onto the terrace again...

He hurried her toward the Prince. “Have you been presented to the Prince of Wales before?”

“Presented? No,” she said, unwilling to admit that she had met him several times from childhood until a few years ago, thanks to Papa’s friendship with the man. Perhaps she could somehow turn that friendship to her advantage.

“He’s quite a wit, you know. He’s knowledgeable and well-read, and can be most charming when he chooses.”

“Is that so?” she asked, while she pondered ways of warning the Prince without appearing to do so.

“I truly believe you’ll like him,” Melrose said. “That is, once we can detach him from the crowd of those eager to be noticed by royalty.”

“As you were, as you were,” the Prince was saying genially. “Tonight, I am the Merry Monarch, and as such I command you all to dispense with formality and make merry along with me.”

“Make way for the Prince!” A tall gentleman in the guise of a court jester had caught sight of Melrose Pearce eagerly waving over the heads of the crowd.

“The King, you fool,” the Prince said. “Proper address, my dear man.” So much for dispensing with formality.

“I beg Your Majesty’s pardon.” The jester bowed deeply but not the least bit humbly. Which was perhaps appropriate for a jester—or a man who plotted the Prince’s demise. An equerry was in an excellent position to betray a member of the royal family.

Lucinda tried to search the crowd, even as Mr. Pearce hurried her along. Hopefully, Davis would return soon, as she could talk to the shepherdess without arousing suspicion.

She caught sight of Columbine, watching the Prince. Oh! One of those improbable red curls had slipped from under her turban: Mrs. Spence for certain. Not far away, Monsieur Fortin strode toward the terrace in his baggy Harlequin costume. He’d seemed like such a good sort of man, opposed to the regime in France, and—

But that was the whole point of being a spy, wasn’t it? Blend in, seem to be like everyone else, whilst nursing evil designs.

And yet, Restive hadn’t indicated that—just to leave him be. But did that mean leaving Columbine be as well?

If she needed any more indication that something was to happen outdoors, she had it now. Where had Restive gone? How could she let him know?

They were almost to the Prince when she spotted Davis. “Wait! I must talk to that lady.” She hurried over to him despite the protesting poet. “Oh, shepherdess!” she trilled, hoping she sounded as breathless and silly as she felt.