A Matter Of Delicacy

The Beating

     In the past, whenever I'd been knocked unconscious, I'd slowly swum awake over the course of perhaps ten minutes. Sounds would start becoming clearer, like I was listening to a conversation from deep underwater and rose steadily towards the surface. The light would start to play through my eyelids, fluttering in the shadows until it either became blinding, or I was slapped awake. It was never a particularly comfortable process, but it was peaceful in its way.
     This time I was jerked out of my achy oblivion by a bucketful of freezing cold water slamming into my face, leaving me gasping and shocked and disoriented. I shook the fluff from my head and groaned as a bag of rocks rattled in my skull and knocked against my eyes. My head hurt, my face hurt, my knee hurt. I felt like one of those women from the witch trials, rolled down a hill in a barrel full of boulders until she was battered to a pulp. My shoulders felt twisted, and I realised I was tied up, my wrists bound tightly behind me and lashed to a chair. My feet were the same, and they'd even wrapped one around my waist for safety.
     'Apologies,' a distinctly unapologetic voice said, 'but time was getting on and I was impatient to properly meet you.'
     Beresford.
     I blinked at him, the edges of my vision still scuffed and blurred. But no, it was definitely him, in all his stocky, well-dressed, unrumpled glory. He'd clearly taken to his role as tormentor well; sat casually against a table, resting one ankle across the other and his arms crossed over his chest like he was waiting outside a coffee shop for an acquaintance. There was an eager enthusiasm to his face, like he'd known all along that this would happen.
     Paulette was filling the bucket with water from a metal trough in the corner, and I finally managed to get a clear look at the place. We were in what looked like a cellar, dark grey stone floors and walls, a pile of neatly stacked barrels in one corner and light from what must have been a tiny window behind me falling across the floor. I tried to analyse the hazy shadow I was casting; what time was it? How long had I been out?
     Willoughby was stood to my right, arms crossed in front of him and his eyes – how could I ever have thought they sparkled? – flicking between the rest of us. His very presence ached, I could feel the pounding of the broom against my jaw where he'd hit me, the press of his hand against my back as we danced, the brush of his fingers on mine, the grip of his hand around my throat.         The empty fall inside my heart that confirmed everything I had so desperately tried to ignore: he'd tricked me.
     How do you want to play this, Kate? My father's voice rose into my mind. Whenever we were strategizing, whenever I was in a knot that needed untangling, whenever a plan had gone awry. How do you want to play this?
     I could play dumb, double down on the silly little Katherine Wentworth from Munich act, the one that had fooled Lord Ashgrove and Lord Lynton and so many mindless courtiers I'd met in my journey so far.
     But it hadn't fooled Beresford, I realised. At the King's ball when we'd danced together his whole manner had changed mid-dance. He'd known who I was, but how?
     'What gave me away, Beresford? Surely it wasn't my dancing, I was quite proud of that one.' My voice was cracked and raw and my throat felt like I'd been force-fed a bowl of sand, but it didn't wobble.
     He had the decency to raise an eyebrow at his correct name, and I had a little glow of pride at the thought of surprising him, even in my current state.
     'Oh come now,' I turned my face into my shoulder and tried to wipe the crusted blood from my nose, 'don't keep me waiting. Was it my accent? I always thought my German was pretty good. Did I get the steps wrong? I was wearing gloves so I know you didn't see my calluses.'
     Paulette rolled his eyes but Beresford just grinned, 'you did well, Miss Wentworth, I was almost about to cross you off our list, what with that stupid orphan act of yours. It was almost convincing.'
     'Then what was it? Please, don't leave a girl wondering.'
     He smiled slowly. 'Your face. In that first spin your eyes were boring into my back so hard I thought I might have been stabbed. No lady would hound a target like that unless they knew he was one.'
     I nodded slowly. Dammit.
     'Plus, you don't have the arms of any reasonable court woman, and that scar on your inside elbow can only have been made by the burning barrel of a pistol, so I put two and two together.'      He pushed himself off the table and stalked over, bracing his hands on the armrests on either side of me and leaning close. I felt Willoughby shift next to me and studiously ignored him.
     Beresford stared into my eyes, 'what did Ashgrove tell you?'
     I almost laughed out loud, but managed to restrain myself to a wide-eyed grin, 'that's what I'm here for? Ashgrove? That drunken fool?'
     'Fool or no, what did he tell you?'
     'Nothing of note, more's the pity. I nearly made myself sick with the sweetness of the face I sent him.'
     His hand flashed faster than I was prepared for, and my neck jarred to the right, a searing palm print on the left side of my face. I groaned as the pain waved down my throat, my jaw throbbed against the new beating, my eyes watered. I had to hand it to him, he didn't wait around.
     It hit me suddenly that he was in as much of a fix as I was, if he was resorting to violence so early in this interrogation. He was in a hurry. What was he after?
     I decided to change tack. My face still smarting after his slap I looked back up at him, 'is Beresford even your real name, or is that a disguise too?'
     He blinked slowly, 'I'm surprised you don't know that one already, Miss Wentworth.'
     'You've kept me so busy these last few months I've barely had time. All those secret meetings across the city.'
     'Ah yes,' he nodded over my shoulder. 'Willoughby told me he found you skulking at Saint Paul's. Said you were in quite the get-up.'
     I shrugged, 'I try my best.'
     'And again at Vauxhall Gardens. Tell me, how did you know we were there?'
     I stilled, watching him, trying not to give anything away. Forget how I knew about them; how did they know I'd been there? I'd been so careful.
     The prickly feeling. That itch I'd felt when I'd been eavesdropping. I'd felt it at the King's Ball and had assumed it was Beresford but ... also at Vauxhall. And just as it had got to its worst Willoughby had found me. Had it been him? Had he known about me for that long? Had he been following me at Vauxhall? Had he been skulking around somewhere in the dark of the Pleasure Gardens watching me watch them?
     I felt violated. I felt foolish. I'd always thought a pretty face a dangerous source of attention, but maybe it had made me overlook the blindingly obvious.
     I turned and looked at Willoughby with completely fresh eyes. He turned away with such indifference it felt like a gust of cold air had run across my shoulders, freezing me in my soaking servant's dress.
     'I followed Lynton,' I said, turning my attention back to Beresford. 'He left the card party in such a hurry, and I knew he and the Prince Regent were close. How's your employer doing, by the way? Assassinate any wives recently?'
     Paulette picked up the dripping pail of water again but Beresford stilled him with a hand.                 'You're lying, Miss Wentworth. Lynton left before you even knew he was going, and he was at the Gardens before you'd even managed to leave Montagu House.' His voice turned low and silky, 'how did you know we were there?'
     I couldn't let slip about Mother Quinn. I knew this deep in my bones, in my very soul. They could not know about my debt. 'Blind guess?'
     Again the hand flashed and again my head snapped to the side, opening a split on my lip and igniting another roar of pain in my jaw. I gasped and gripped at the ropes around my wrists, pressing all my pain into them
     'This doesn't have to hurt, Miss Wentworth, we're just after some answers.'
     'Oh, trust me,' I ran a tongue over my bloody teeth and grinned at him, 'I'm having a wonderful time.'
     He chuckled to himself and drew back, wiping his hand on a handkerchief. My face ached, my knee was throbbing and every time I shifted pain lanced down my shin and up my thigh. I remembered how they'd kicked at it, the press of Paulette's boot, how Willoughby had brought the broom handle down with a practiced blow.
     It was almost as if they'd been aiming for it . . . like they'd known it was injured.
     I glanced at Paulette but he just drew his pasty face into a wide, closed-lipped smile that was more of a gargoyle's grimace. Beside me, Willoughby was a statue, barely even breathing. To see him here, with these men, after everything . . .
     So much for being 'captivated' by me, I nearly snorted to myself. I am literally his captive.
     'How did you come to be in the Princess' service?' Beresford has moved around to the other side of the table and was now lounged on a rickety chair, observing me genially.
     I thought back to what was common knowledge at Court and decided this was a safe course of discussion. 'Considering how many attempts had been made on Her Highness' life it seemed prudent for more personal protection to be acquired.'
     'And she chose you?'
     I tilted my head to one side, 'I'm hurt, Beresford. You act as if my reputation doesn't speak for itself.'
     'There are plenty of bodyguards to be had in this city alone, and most with gloves bloodier than yours. And yet she went outside of London to find you.'
     'I'm good at my job.' I spat a gob of blood onto the tile, 'and, I'm sure you'll agree, a certain subtlety was required.'
     'Who was your last client?'
     I pressed my lips together and quirked an eyebrow at him. He had the audacity to hold his hands up in surrender, 'I had to try.'
     A flick of his hands and another wall of water crashed into me, startling the smile off my face and the air out of my lungs. It was freezing, and soaked me through to the skin all over again. Paulette chuckled to himself and went to refill the pail. I scowled at both of them, trying to blow a rat-tail of hair out of where it had stuck to my browbone.
     Beresford dug a pipe out from his pocket, motioning for Willoughby to continue the interrogation. I felt him move around in front of me and he leant over, pushing the strand out of my face and wiping the drops off my brow. When his voice came it had the same warm burr that I'd heard outside Buckingham House. Not the cut-glass sophistication I'd got used to, but a looser, easier tone with a hint of Scottish in his vowels.
     'Who trained you?' he asked gently.
     'Who trained you?' I bit back.
     He crouched down and laced his hands together. 'How much did you know of the threat of Princess Caroline's life before you took the assignment?'
     'Enough.'
     'How much is she paying you?'
     'Not enough.'
     'So how many reasons can there be for your loyalty?'
     'More than enough.' I shot him a bloody-toothed grin. 'Yours, on the other hand, I'd love to know more about.'
     He dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it to me. I shot a suspicious glance between it and him . . . but nodded. He dabbed carefully at my split lip and ran the cloth along my teeth. It came away pink.
     'What do you know about our employer?' He murmured, folding the handkerchief carefully and wiping at the corner of my nose.
     'I know he's failed to prove any wrongdoing on her part so has resorted to assassination. It's medieval really.'
     'Does she have any current lovers?'
     I snorted, 'trust me, the only snores coming from that bedroom are her own.'
     Paulette snarled in frustration but I heard Beresford chuckle. I glared at him over Willoughby's shoulder, 'are you going to untie me? Perhaps we could talk properly, one soldier to another.'
     'Oh, I think you'll do fine just there, Miss Wentworth,' he continued packing his pipe with tobacco, not even deigning to look at me.
     'Does the Princess know who's after her?' Willoughby's voice was low and insistent.
I met his gaze fiercely, trying to ignore the icy water dripping off my chin and running down the back of my neck. 'She's not as big a fool as you seem to think.'
     'And the court?'
     'I can't speak for the King and his courtiers, nor the Prince Regent's. But Montagu House worked it out long ago, and London talks.' My heart thudded as Mother Quinn's words slipped out of my mouth, and I hurried to change focus. Switching my gaze back to Beresford and Paulette I raised my voice, 'must be embarrassing for him. All the money in the world and he still can't get rid of her.'
     Beresford's eyes met mine and I could feel the warning in them; he was getting impatient.
     'How did you know we were at Vauxhall?' Willoughby held my gaze when it flashed to him, eyes holding onto my very soul.
     'Don't,' I said through gritted teeth looking away.
     'How did you know?'
     'I followed Lynton. He wasn't that far ahead of me.'
     He sighed and dropped his head, looking almost genuinely sorry. 'that's not true Miss Wentworth, he was there half an hour before you arrived, I saw you.'
     'And I didn't see you, which has never happened before. How did you learn to do that?'
     Beresford broke in, 'answer the question, Miss Wentworth.'
     'How did you know where we were, was it someone at Montagu House? Did you hear it from someone?' Willoughby lent forward, too close, hand resting on the armrest I was tied to.
     'I... followed ... Lynton,' I hissed.
     'Get out of the way,' Paulette shoved Willoughby aside and grasped my knee in one of his huge hands, squeezing it in a vice-like grip. Pain flared and I groaned despite myself, hunching my shoulders and flexing hard against the restraints.
     'Who told you where we were?' He snarled at me, 'who's your source?'
     'I don't have a source, I followed Lynton.' I swore violently as his thumb dug into the cartilage around my scar, sending waves of sickening pain throughout my whole body.
     Willoughby placed a steadying hand on my shoulder and spoke calmly, 'we don't want to hurt you, we just want answers. Caroline doesn't deserve your loyalty, what has she ever given you?'
     'It's hardly my fault if you don't accept the answer I'm giving you!'
     Paulette backhanded me sharply, wrenching my whole upper body to the side and cutting into my eyebrow. I cursed, spat out more blood, and glared at him.
     Suddenly Beresford was there as well, all three men up close to me, hands twisting the rope around my wrists so tight it cut into my skin. Their voices start to blend together into an unholy harmony and my own replies become slurred and disoriented.
     'What did Ashgrove say at the card party?'
     'Nothing of note...'
     'How did Princess Caroline know to contact you?'
     'I don't know ... she never said... I didn't feel like I needed to know...'
     'Who told you we were at Vauxhall?'
     'I told you... I followed Lynton.'
     As I mumbled answers the blows started coming, a slap here and there turned into sharp punches to the stomach, blows to the knee, strikes to my jaw, twists of the rope. I groaned through clenched teeth and pulled my shoulders, trying to make myself as small a target as I could. I started shivering, my vision flashed, I felt blood start to drip off my chin and soak into my dress.
     Don't mention Mother Quinn, my thoughts were blurred. She'll find out. London talks.
     London talks. The memory of that sentence, so sinister at the time, felt like a lifeline. My brain began to tick.
     'How did you know about Vauxhall, Katherine?' Beresford nodded to Paulette who landed another blow into my stomach, sending waves of pain across me. I lurched to one side and vomited onto the floor, spattering my skirts. Coughing and retching, I forced my voice into coherence once again.
     'It was the groom.'
     'What?' Beresford and Paulette leant close and stared at me intently, while Willoughby swiped a pen and paper from the table.
     'The groom from the stables,' I gasped, spitting an acidic mix of blood and vomit onto the tile. 'He heard Lynton tell the driver where to go and told the gardener, who told a porter, and he told a scullery maid.' I shifted in my chair and moaned as my whole body quaked in pain, 'I pay them to come and tell me any gossip about the courtiers, so I knew within the hour.'
     Please believe me, please believe me, I prayed in my head.
     'What was his name?'
     My mind whirled, 'why do you need to know that? I just told you how I knew, you don't need to go after the boy.'
     Another punch almost sent the whole chair tipping backwards and I couldn't stop my croaked cry.
     'His name, Miss Wentworth.' Beresford grabbed my chin and forced me to look at him. A small part of me hoped I die from this and it can all be over.
     'Please,' I whispered, 'you don't need to hurt him, he doesn't know anything, he was just gossiping.'
     A slight raise of the eyebrow.
     I let the weight of my head settle into his hand and closed my eyes, feeling the blood on my face, the freezing water in my hair, the throbbing of my jaw, the sting of the cut on my brow and, finally, a tear rolling down my cheek.
     'He's just a boy. They all just think it's exciting that an old man is spending time at the Pleasure Gardens . . . that's all.'
     Silence. I could hear Beresford and Paulette breathing, and Willoughby silent by the table, paper still clasped in his hands. His eyes flicked between all of us.
     'I swear it,' I finally croaked.
     The throb of nothing in the air lengthened, only the steady drip, drip of water and blood onto the floor. Beresford straightened. Paulette looked over at him. They shared a glance.
     I sagged in my chair, every part of my body screaming. Did they believe me? Did my ploy work? Was I convincing?
     'Get rid of her,' Beresford turned away from me and made ready to go. Paulette jerked his head to face his partner and shot him an alarmed look.
     Willoughby stilled, 'what do you want me to do?'
     Now that it was all over, Beresford almost looked bored. He took his coat from where it hung on the back of his chair and swept it over his shoulders, 'she's more a physical threat than anything else; even if she did have any evidence, which she doesn't, it's not like she could do anything. He's the heir to the throne – he's untouchable.'
     I felt a chill descend into my aching stomach as I realised what he meant . . . and that he was right. It didn't matter what I knew – it would never come to anything even if I did get out.
     He continued, tapping the spent tobacco out onto the floor and dusting the pipe off on the same bloody handkerchief that Willoughby used to clean my face. 'So, the only threat she poses now is to our attempts on the Princess. That, my friend, is easy to remedy.' He pocketed the pipe and smiled at Willoughby as if he'd just invited him to dinner. 'I'm sure you'll figure it out.'
     Willoughby glanced at me, restrained and battered and dripping wet. I was about as threatening as a sick kitten.
     'It's done.'
     A wave of dread and pain washed over me and my vision swam, becoming faded and dark as Paulette shoved a dark sack of cloth into Willoughby's hands. 'Don't make a mess of it,' he snarled.
     Beresford headed towards the door, his sidekick in tow, 'it truly was an honour to meet you, Miss Wentworth,' he called over his shoulder. 'I'll remember you fondly, if not for very long.'
     By the time the door slammed closed behind them I was already sliding gently out of consciousness, the acrid taste of blood and vomit in my mouth.
     Willoughby turned towards me with the sack in his hands and a deadened expression in his face.
     I was powerless to stop any of it.