A Matter Of Delicacy

The Puzzle

     The ride back to Montagu House was a mess of thoughts and emotions, very few of them good. On the one hand, there was the deep and sickening guilt of having caused such a mess, being distracted like that by Mr Willoughby, and indeed by being noticed in the first place. It was sloppy, I knew that, and I berated myself for a good ten minutes, scrunching my skirt into rough handfuls and clenching my teeth together. I should have hidden better, disguised myself more thoroughly, made sure I was so hideous that no one would look at me for more than a second. I should not have taken that girl's bluebell, should have known that the moment she had seen me I was too open, was unsafe. Instead, the brief time I had had at Princess Caroline's house had made me value my appearance too much and looking back I knew I had avoided a full disguise because of my vanity.
     What was happening to me?
     Running around in my head, hand-in-hand with the guilt, were the hundreds of questions about the day, about the break-in, about the men I had seen. Beresford, a solid English name to apparently go with a solid English character. Everything I had seen about him, his dress, his mannerisms, his speech, suggested wealth and good breeding, a comfortable life. Perhaps the younger son of a noble, forced into a more unsavoury business to keep himself in money and housing? A noble himself, hiding under a more common name to hide a sadistic pleasure of the business of assassination? A plotter working for a higher power? Or perhaps a con artist like me, just a chameleon wearing the face of a dependable English gentleman. He could be anyone.
     And Paulette? A French name but also a woman's name. But he had a thick, solid English accent with no trace of French in it and from what I remembered he even had a thicker, country twang to it; perhaps no French connection at all. Maybe the child of an immigrant? He had held himself stiff and slumped like a badly trained servant, standing like a gentleman and not doing it right. Perhaps a commoner brought in as hired help? But no one would bring in an unknown third party in a job this intense and secret. So probably a long-term associate of Beresford's, they had certainly worked together seamlessly, suggesting a long time in each other's company. Perhaps they were both hired? That would make sense in such a tender topic; it would cut out any possibility of a connection between the employer and employees. But then how did they know Montagu House well enough to direct a street acrobat into the Princess's bedroom.
     I sighed and rubbed a hand across my face, still feeling the grit I had picked up off the wall of the Cathedral embedded in my skin. What would the Princess say when she heard about this? What would Lady Bruce say? What would Father say?
     And nagging away at the corner of my mind was the question, what was Mr Willoughby, sitting so politely quiet opposite me, thinking right now? I glanced at him subtly out of the corner of my eye. He sat perfectly still, almost mannequin-esque on the cushions, one hand tightly gripping the pommel of his cane and the other resting on his knee. He was dressed in his morning suit, a light tan coat and a delicately embroidered waistcoat underneath, silvery white with dark green vines curled across it. The colours made his hair look lighter than usual, highlighting the flecks of blonde among the brown.
     'Do I pass the test, Miss Wentworth?' He said suddenly, his eyes twinkling at me.
     I gaped and turned away, my cheeks flaring up. He chuckled, adjusting the grip on his cane.
     'I didn't know you saw me,' I said haltingly. 'I'm sorry.'
     'Don't be,' he smiled. 'I was curious myself with your silence, and your dress, and your actions at St Paul's, and we've been sitting in silence for almost half an hour so I was intrigued to see if it would continue.'
     'Yes, I'm sorry about that as well, I have a lot on my mind.' I looked out of the window and saw we were almost at the House, the streets around here were familiar from morning rides I had been on with the Princess.
     'Yes, I can tell,' He said, smiling warmly at me. 'Is it anything that perhaps I could help you with?'
     'Oh I doubt it, but thank you, Mr Willoughby.' Now that the adrenaline of the stake-out had worn off the idea of someone finding out about me sent me into a panic. My mind reeled around for a legitimate excuse for my dress, my actions, my location and came up with nothing believable. But if the carriage got to Montagu House and I got out he would be left thinking all kinds of bizarre theories about me, and intrigue was not a word I liked to play with.
     'Mr Willoughby,' I began haltingly, still unsure as to where this was going. 'I understand you must be quite confused about what I've been doing today...'
     'Not at all Miss Wentworth. You see, I am fortunate enough to have been raised well, and therefore asking why a young woman of good breeding, noble character and excellent patronage is to be found skulking around St Paul's Cathedral wearing a pauper's clothes and snooping on strangers with no means to get back home would be, first and foremost, incredibly rude, and second, none of my business. Therefore, I will remain silent on the matter until you feel you trust me enough to explain it, should you feel the need.' He finished with a twinkling smile, 'you have no need to fear Miss Wentworth; I shall not breathe a word of this to anyone.'
     I relaxed into the cushions, breathing a small sigh of relief. Of course, I had no reason to truly believe him, he could be like any other courtier; mockingly honest until opportunity or scandal made their knowledge advantageous. But for some reason the playful smile, the solid grip on the cane, the lack of questions, all reassured me. I trusted him.
     And I hated it.
     'Here we are, last stop,' he rapped the head of the cane against the roof of the carriage and out of the window I could see the high iron bars around Montagu House, the tall pillars and the dark red brickwork. A surge of relief at being back went through me, despite holding the house in such scepticism. It meant safety to me now.
     We pulled up in the gravel courtyard and I was out before the coachman had even got down from his stool, leaving him gaping after me with one foot suspended over the ground. Mr Willoughby called after me. Stopping outside the door, I turned to face him with my head bent, 'thank you for the lift, Mr Willoughby, it was very kind of you, but I really must be going now, the Princess is expecting me.' Dropping a messy curtsy to him I hurried away into the house, leaving him mid-bow on the steps.
     Upstairs, I ripped the homespun dress off my shoulders and left it in a pile on the floor. Pulling on my father's shirt and my jodhpurs I grabbed my sword from the desk by the window and almost ran to the small dingy drawing-room that had been set aside for my practice. There some footman had placed large wooden poles and a few sacking figures on spikes, and it was on them I rent my frustration, stabbing, and slashing at them until sweat ran down my forehead and I fell to my knees gasping.
      I had failed in a mission because of a man. I had been left speechless and helpless without a weapon, escape plan, or excuse, in the eyes of a pretty face. I hadn't done that since my first practice mission when I was fifteen and even now my cheeks flared at the thought. I shifted so I was sitting on the dark mahogany panelled floor, leaning against one of the mannequins. I was cold from the sweat, my hair sticking to my face and neck and large patches on my shirt had gone see-through.
     I could not let that happen again. The mission, the life of the Princess, was at stake here and I couldn't be the one to get her killed because I had been distracted. If that meant that Mr Willoughby, with his twinkling eyes and warm smile and gentle care, had to be cut out of my life then so be it – the mission had to come first.
     As I pulled myself to my feet the scar across my knee twinged and I had to clutch at the wooded rail for stability. No more dancing, no more polite conversation, no more card games, I was out of the court game now. All that I had to focus on was the Princess and in that, I knew where I stood. These distractions had been a bad idea from the start, why had I, the Princess, Lady Bruce, Father, thought it was ever a good idea? All it would lead to was a mistake and one that could cost England its Princess.
     No more Willoughby. As I resolved myself to it and limped towards the door my heart felt safe, not shattered to a million pieces. I had enjoyed his company while I had it but I could survive. I had not fallen for him and with hard work and no contact, it would be easy to push him to the back of my mind and to focus. I could do it. The Princess needed me to.
     I nodded firmly to myself, sheathing my sword and leaving the training room, letting the door swing firmly shut behind me.