Page 14 of Rogue’s Holiday

“Who has you in such a state?” Rose inquired from where she sat nibbling on a tart.

“A rude, conceited man who trampled me, but lacked even a smidgeon of good breeding to apologize.” She would not dare to mention the very improper kiss. The kiss that still had her lips throbbing.

“My mother warned me against the London bucks. It seems you have met one.”

Chastity huffed out her frustration and dropped into a chair. “Except we didn’t actually meet. He did not bother to introduce himself though, judging by his fashionable attire, he passes for a gentleman.” A picture of his long legs encased in buckskin breeches came to her mind. “Nice boots.”

“Only you would notice his boots. Was the oaf handsome?”

“Passably so,” she admitted, remembering his stunning hazel eyes and attractive face. “But what is that to a gentleman’s manners?”

The sherry arrived. Chastity was glad to see a full bottle on the footman’s tray.

“Shall I pour, Miss?” he asked.

“Indeed, yes,” said Chastity. “A generous portion, if you please.”

The footman poured two glasses and departed.

Chastity soothed her ruffled feathers with a drink of the honeyed liquid and a tart from the pudding tray. Her peace slightly restored, she leaned back in her chair, contemplating. If fortune were with her, the man was not a guest in the hotel and she would never see him again.

Crispin jumped into her lap and she stroked his ebony fur.

A few minutes passed. “I have a thought…”

Rose looked up from the candied nuts. “Oh?”

Trying to forget the troublesome encounter in the lobby, Chastity said, “Tomorrow morning before we leave for Brighton, I want to stop at Wood’s, that fashionable shoe store we passed today. The window had several pairs of brightly-colored slippers and I’d like to get a closer look.” Seeing Rose’s frown, she added, “Worry not. We’ll still arrive in Brighton in time for tea with Aunt Agatha.”

“All right, but what about your father’s coachman? Will he allow such a stop?”

“Old Bronson? I’ve been winding him around my little finger since I was a child. He won’t mind the stop as long as he can keep an eye on the shop door.”

Aaron Ings sat in the coffee house of Grillon’s Hotel, listening to the conversation at the next table. He’d followed the bastard Powell there hoping he might hear of his plans. He’d heard more than enough. So, it was to be Brighton and they would depart from the White Horse Cellar tomorrow. That left him this night to recruit the men he needed to see his revenge upon the spy who would rob him of his brother.

He wasted no time in returning to the riverside tavern he had visited a few days earlier. The Prospect of Whitby, fondly called “The Prospect” by its customers, sat on the banks of the Thames close to its unsavory clientele, including sailors from the countless foreign vessels in port. It was the ideal place for Aaron to hire men looking for coin but with few scruples about how it was earned.

A noose hung outside the tavern in memory of the notorious “Hanging Judge” Jeffreys who showed little mercy to river criminals. Aaron didn’t need the reminder that his own brother James would soon face the noose for his plotting with Arthur Thistlewood. Ironically, it was here Aaron’s revenge would begin.

A bell over the door sounded his presence as he entered and stepped onto the flagstone floor. The stench of unwashed bodies and stale ale greeted him as a few men turned in his direction. But Aaron had dressed for the part, leaving his fine clothes and finer boots behind in his lodgings. He’d come dressed as a river pirate, one like the men he sought to hire. Men who would help him see the task done to do away with Robert Powell, the government spy.

The approach to the Royal Pavilion in Brighton always left Robbie awestruck. With the addition of an onion-shaped dome, tent-like roofs and numerous pinnacles and minarets, Prinny’s architect, John Nash, had transformed the original mansion into a Mogul’s dream. An extravagant Indian palace set down on England’s south coast where the prince regent, now king, could forget the staid palace in London and entertain his eclectic bevy of friends.

Beside him, Jack broke the silence. “C’est magnifique, n’est-ce pas?”

“That and more. I once attended an event at the Pavilion but have never stayed there. This should be a holiday to remember.”

“Ah, oui, I am counting on it,” Jack said with a smile.

His uncle might like to act as one of His Majesty’s subjects but his French accent, dress and mannerisms made clear he was half-French, more so than Robbie who had been raised in London.

At the end of the long curving road, Robbie pulled his curricle to a stop beneath the domed porte-cochère. He handed the reins to Jack and climbed down to offer his new card to a liveried footman who summoned a groom.

“We’ve been expecting you, Sir Robert,” said the footman. “Your luggage and that of Monsieur Donet have been placed in your chambers. You and your friend are to be the king’s honored guests. His Majesty said to tell you he hopes to arrive within the week.”

A groom came to relieve Jack of the reins and lead Zeus and Apollo toward the king’s stables. The Rotunda, as the stables were called, was as magnificent as the Pavilion itself. “They will be well tended, Sir Robert,” said the groom. “And the king’s stables are available to you should you wish to ride.”

“Thank you,” said Robbie before following the liveried servant into the Pavilion.