Page 20 of Rogue’s Holiday

Chastity looked at him askance, thinking he must be jesting, but his expression told her he was serious. “Aunt Agatha tells such stories of it, I did wonder. She calls it ‘Prinny’s fantasy’.”

“And so it is,” put in the vicomte.

“Do you like what you see, Miss Reynolds?” asked Sir Robert.

She allowed a smile to form on her face as she gazed at the otherworldly Pavilion. “I like that it’s not ordinary but speaks of dreams and exotic places.”

Sir Robert regarded her for a moment before turning his attention again to the Pavilion. “You are a romantic, Miss Reynolds.”

“Not I, sir. I’m as practical as salt.” In truth, Chastity did harbor romantic notions though she would not admit that to him.

He gave her a disbelieving look and then gazed again at the Pavilion. “I expect Prinny’s Brighton home provided the escape he needed from his father’s palace of piety and pride. George III never understood his son.”

“Do you think his father drove him away?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Most certainly. Perhaps more than anyone else, Prinny’s father was responsible for his son becoming The Grand Corinthian. His mother, too, did not favor him, even though he was heir to the throne.”

Chastity pondered this for a moment feeling more sympathy for the stylish young prince who did not fit with his dour family and had sought acceptance in other places. “My great-aunt tells me Prinny is revered in Brighton. Did you know that he is expected to visit soon?”

The Rogue smiled. “I did, yes.”

His smile had the smug air of one who hid a secret he had no intention of sharing. “Come, let us continue our ride.”

They turned up the Steyne.

“Lady Sanborn says the whole town is making ready for the king,” said Rose.

“As I would expect,” said Sir Robert, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Prinny is the fire that lights the hearth of the town, the one whose presence makes the Brighton Season what it is. Where he goes, the ton follows.”

Chastity was certain Rose thought The Rogue’s smile was directed at her for she gave him a look of adoration. “Sir Robert, will you give us a tour of the king’s Pavilion?”

“I am sure that can be arranged,” he said, darting a glance at Chastity.

Rose beamed at him.

Chastity fought the temptation to roll her eyes. Over pastries and coffee that morning, Rose had spoken of Sir Robert in glowing terms. But the arrogant rogue was not the suitor Chastity had in mind for her friend. Better the continental uncle than the rakish nephew.

As they paused to take in the magnificence of the Pavilion, the vicomte spoke in his rich melodic voice. “The Pavilion makes me think of that collection of Arabian stories I once read, The Thousand and One Nights…an intriguing set of tales.”

“I shall have to read them,” remarked Chastity, which drew a smile from the vicomte, revealing a dimple in one cheek. An auburn curl fell across his forehead making him appear younger than he was. The uncle fascinated her. Clearly he was French in dress and manner, yet his English was flawless. “You make me eager to see the inside of the Pavilion. The stables are said to be extravagant, too.”

“They must be seen to be believed,” he said. “They are home to more than sixty horses. Why, the domed building itself dwarfs the Pavilion.”

Given the vicomte’s accent, Chastity had to know what place he called home. “Do you make your home in France?”

“My home is on the Isle of Guernsey,” he said, “which, I expect you know, is a dependency of the British Crown. French is spoken there as well as English. My father, the comte, has a chateau and vineyards in the west of France in what was the province of Saintonge before the revolution. My family travels frequently between France and England. My mother is English, you see. Like Robbie’s family, we are in shipping.”

“Shipping?” Chastity asked, surprised. “Do you mean the importing trade?”

“Robbie’s father and mine are both shipmasters,” said the vicomte. His lips curved up in a smile as his gaze rested on Sir Robert. “They are merchants now but once privateers.”

Chastity had difficulty thinking of The Rogue as “Robbie”, though his smile conjured images of a small boy always into mischief. She could well believe his father was a privateer. While she was aware of the role of privateers in the war with France, she would never have thought Sir Robert had ships. “You have ships?”

“More like a shipping empire,” his uncle interjected.

Sir Robert raised a brow. “Do you find that surprising, Miss Reynolds?”

“Well, yes.” She had thought him an indulged, well-moneyed London buck. She could imagine family wealth amassed through ill-gotten gains, but it had never occurred to her that he might be a man of industry engaged in something as serious as a shipping enterprise. There was certainly nothing of the sea captain about him. “Have you sailed?”