Bewitching Season (18 page)

lives. Not for the first time, Persy wished that they were all safely back at Mage’s Tutterow and that

there was no such thing as the London season.

“Biscuit, my dear? They’re my own receipt.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Persy took a cookie from the Lowestoft plate held out by the lady-in-waiting.

That afternoon, she and Pen were perched on the edge of a low Chippendale settee beside Princess

Sophia, at her special request. The elderly princess had poured out their first cups of tea with her

own hands while the lady-in-waiting silently passed plates of cakes and biscuits. The princess’s

sitting room was elegantly old-fashioned, but a strong smell of moldering plaster attested to Papa’s

description of Kensington Palace as run-down.

Princess Sophia was also elegantly old-fashioned, in a gown and headdress reminiscent of her

youth at the turn of the century. Her gray hair was tucked into a mobcap, and a gauze fichu was draped

and tucked over her shoulders. Her prominent blue eyes, legacy of her Hanoverian ancestors, were

soft and dreamy behind a pair of thick spectacles, but hadn’t missed a detail of the girls’ faces or

costumes.

“Very like your dear grandmama,” she had said, peering into their faces as they rose from their

curtsies after being ushered into her apartment by a slightly scruffy footman. “You have her coloring

and build. Well, she is a handsome woman, so you are lucky girls.” She motioned them down to the

sofa. “How do you like the season so far?”

“We’ve not seen much of it yet, ma’am. We go to our first ball tomorrow night,” Pen explained.

Persy remained silent, but the princess’s attention swiveled to her at once.

“Don’t worry, child. You will be fine. How I would have liked to go to balls when I was your age.

But Papa did not think it proper.” The elderly woman looked wistful as she removed her spectacles

and polished them with her napkin.

Persy took a sip of tea to hide her awe. “Papa” was His late Majesty, King George III.

“At least my niece Victoria is being allowed to attend a few. ’Tis proper for her to become used to

such occasions,” Princess Sophia continued. “After all, she will be the head of society as well as

queen someday. She should have some idea of how to conduct herself in public and not spend so

much time with her governess in the schoolroom.”

“Indeed, ma’am.” It was strange to hear someone speaking of their goddess as if she were just a

girl like themselves. Persy tried to imagine a small, regal figure seated in a schoolroom like their own

at Mage’s Tutterow, doing sums and parsing French verbs with a governess. It was impossible.

Just then, the door into Princess Sophia’s sitting room flew open. Two men strode in, followed by

the sheepish-looking footman. Or rather, one of them strode. He was tall, with dark side-whiskers and

a narrow, shrewd face. He grinned familiarly at Princess Sophia and just sketched a bow as the

footman intoned, “Sir John, Your Highness.”

“Ah, you’ve got company. I hope you don’t mind our popping in,” said the man described as Sir

John. He sauntered over and inspected the cake plate.

Persy saw Pen blink, and understood her sister’s concealed surprise. This Sir John’s manners were

surprising, to say the least. Did one just “pop in” on a member of the royal family? And wasn’t it up

to the princess to address him first?

But Princess Sophia seemed untroubled by the man’s breezy air. “How kind of you, Sir John. Will

you not stop for tea?” she asked as he chose a biscuit and bit into it.

“Not today, ma’am. Michael and I have business to attend to. You know.” His eyes slid over Pen

and Persy, and Persy wished they hadn’t. His examination of them was brutally thorough. Persy felt

almost insulted by his close attention and the unpleasant quirk to the corners of his mouth as he

crunched his cookie.

“My dear girls, may I introduce my excellent friend and advisor, Sir John Conroy? Sir John, these

are my new friends, the Honorables Penelope and Persephone Leland. Their grandmama is the

Duchess of Revesby.” Princess Sophia had a peculiar expression on her face as she spoke, a sort of

knowing simper. It wasn’t attractive, and Persy averted her eyes from it. But looking at Sir John was

even worse. Then she remembered. Hadn’t Papa talked about a Sir John Conroy who was part of

Princess Victoria’s household?

“Pretty things, aren’t they, ma’am? I could wish our dumpy little Victoria had more of their looks.”

Sir John was still staring at them. Then he turned to the man who had accompanied him into the room

and remained quietly at his side, half a pace back. “My secretary, Mr. Michael Carrighar. What do

you think, Michael? Will they do?”

Mr. Carrighar bowed. He was much younger than Sir John, in his early thirties perhaps, with deep

auburn hair and a sad smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes. Persy nodded to him, then nearly gaped at

him. His eyes were two colors—one blue, one brown.

She reached for her teacup and hoped he hadn’t noticed her momentary lapse of manners. Beside

her Pen muttered, “‘Dumpy’—how dare he?” from the corner of her mouth.

“Indeed, sir, I think they’ll do.” The man’s accent was strange, and Persy realized that he must be

Irish. She looked at him again and saw that he stared quite openly at her, a slight line of concentration

between his odd eyes. His stare was almost as disconcerting as Sir John’s, but for different reasons.

It was as if he were trying to see into her very soul. She tried to look away but couldn’t. His strange

eyes probed and searched her. It was a horrible feeling.

Sir John grinned. “Twins named Penelope and Persephone, eh? Two P’s in a pod.” He prodded his

secretary in the ribs.

“Oh, Sir John, you are too clever.” Princess Sophia giggled. “Now, pray do not tease my friends. It

isn’t nice.”

Mr. Carrighar finally looked away. “They’ll do quite well,” he repeated softly.

Persy felt weak with relief when he turned his gaze. She glanced at Pen, and saw that her face was

pale and concerned as their eyes met.

Sir John’s unpleasant smile widened, and he clapped Michael Carrighar on the shoulder. “Well,

we’ll just be going, then, ma’am,” he said, still smiling. “Business calls, and the duchess is expecting

me. How delightful to meet two such fine young ladies, eh, Michael? I hope we see you again soon.

Very soon.” He snatched another cookie then bowed to them and to Princess Sophia.

“Give my regards to the duchess, and tell her I shall visit her later this evening,” Princess Sophia

admonished him as he swept toward the door, dragging Mr. Carrighar in his wake. “And my love to

Victoria, of course.”

“If I see her, I will. But I doubt she’ll care to hear any words of love from this messenger, even if

they’re from you, ma’am.” Sir John paused at the door as he spoke, gave them all one last grin, then

left.

With a little sigh, Princess Sophia turned to Persy. “More tea?” She frowned. “Are you well, my

dear?”

“I—I don’t know,” Persy whispered. What had just happened? What had that man done when he

stared at them so intently? She involuntarily touched her forehead, convinced for one irrational

moment that he had stripped the skin on it with the sharp blade of his regard.

“Please bring a handkerchief and some eau de cologne. I think our guest has the headache,”

Princess Sophia murmured to the hovering lady-in-waiting, who nodded and glided from the room.

“Please don’t go to any trouble over me. I’ll be all right in a moment,” Persy protested feebly.

“It is no trouble at all. I am quite a martyr to headache myself, so I know how dreadful it can be.

Now, just sit back and rest while Mary gets the eau de cologne. It always works for me.” She patted

Persy’s hand, and when the lady-in-waiting brought the cologne, bathed Persy’s forehead with it

herself.

“Poor Victoria has been troubled by them too, lately. I always do the same for her if I happen to be

near. Perhaps it is your age,” she said soothingly. “All the excitement around the season—it is not to

be wondered at.”

Pen ventured a question. “Sir John is part of the princess’s household?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. I do not know what her poor mother would have done all these long years

without his strong arm to lean on. He and his family have been dedicated to her and Victoria ever

since my brother died. Such a clever man—Sir John, I mean. He could have gone far in the army, if he

so chose. But my brother begged him on his deathbed to look after his wife and child, and he gave up

all prospects of a brilliant military career to keep his promise. So sad.” Princess Sophia sighed and

gazed into her teacup for a moment. “But Victoria is a dutiful child. I am sure she won’t forget the

enormous debt she owes Sir John for his years of selfless devotion to her and her mama, once she

becomes queen.” Her thin lips curved downward. “I’m
sure
she will not forget,” she repeated.

“Has the other man—Mr. Carrighar—been with the princess a long time as well?” Persy asked.

“No, not at all. I believe he is some connection of Sir John’s from Ireland. He has been here four or

five months, perhaps. Sir John mentioned he had been a tutor at some university or other over there.

Rather a strange young man, but Sir John assures me he’s an invaluable help to him. Did you notice

his eyes? They give me quite a turn whenever I see him. Perhaps it was that that gave you your

headache. I recall having a dreadful one right after I saw an albino woman walking in the gardens

once.”

She prattled on, only pausing now and again to redampen the hanky on Persy’s forehead or refill

their cups. Only after quite an hour and a quarter had passed would she let them go.

“I cannot remember when I have had such a delightful visit. You must come see me again next

week, girls, and tell me about the balls you have been to,” she said as they prepared to leave.

“We couldn’t think about taking so much of your time—” Pen began.

“But I want you to come. Perhaps”—Princess Sophia looked up at them shrewdly—“perhaps I

could prevail upon my niece to stop in as well. I am sure she would be pleased to meet girls so

exactly her own age. I will have to ask the duchess if that will be all right.”

“Oh,” said Persy, almost forgetting to breathe. Beside her Pen gave a little gasp.

“Next week, then.” Princess Sophia gave them a regal nod as they curtsied and thanked her once

again.

Pen looked as though she were scarcely able to contain herself until they were in the carriage with

Mama’s maid Andrews. “Wait till we tell them at home!” she bubbled. “Invited again! And maybe

we’ll meet the princess!”

Unlike Pen, Persy was quiet all the way home. Only when they were back in their room, dressing

for dinner, did she break her silence.

“There was something not quite right about that Mr. Carrighar,” she said to Pen as she fastened her

dress. “Did you feel it? I felt as if he was trying to look inside my head. That’s what gave me the

headache. I fought it, but I’m not sure I was able to keep him out.”

Pen shivered. “Me too. It reminded me of the time I lied about turning Charles’s hair purple with

that dyeing spell. Ally looked at me the same way, and I knew she could see that big black lie I was

trying to hide.”

“It did feel like he was using magic to examine us somehow … .” Persy trailed off and shook her

head. “And we didn’t even get to look for Ally while we were there.”

“We’ll be back there next week,” Pen reminded her, but her optimistic tone sounded forced.

“Do you think we’ll have any more chance then than we had today? No, Pen. We’ve got to do

something!”

“Like what?”

Persy pounded her fist into her pillow. It was dreadfully unladylike but she didn’t care—there was

no Ally to remonstrate with her. “I don’t know!” she cried. “Something!”

In her dim room at Kensington Palace, Miss Allardyce set down her fork and gently wiped her mouth

with the fine linen napkin, then took a sip of wine. Across the table from her, Michael Carrighar

peered at her plate.

“You didn’t eat much,” he said, sounding disappointed.

“I am sorry, Mr. Carrighar, but I don’t have much appetite. Captivity can have that effect on some

people.” Miss Allardyce kept her voice cool.

“But I … that is, the cook went to a great deal of trouble over your dinner.”

Miss Allardyce regarded him over the top of her glass. Mr. Carrighar had been most puzzling since

luring her into that carriage on Oxford Street more than two weeks ago and bringing her here to this

room girded with enchantments that would not let her leave, no matter what spell she tried. Although

he refused to give in to her demands, her entreaties, or (though she disliked remembering it) her tears

and set her free, he had been unfailingly polite at all times. She had not always been as polite in

return when he tried to persuade her of the necessity of helping his employer, and remembering that