Royal Weddings
April 1820
London
“We never expected it to be a royal wedding!”
Lady Margaret Dawlish sat uncompromisingly upright on an uncomfortable chair in the drawing room of the Vicomte de Rocher’s town house and, ignoring the vicomte, striding agitatedly back and forth before the hearth, fixed a baleful glare on the two ladies responsible for dragging her there.
Seated on the chaise opposite, her youngest sister, Cicely, now Countess of Morwood, and Therese, Lady Osbaldestone, ignored her and watched the vicomte.
In typical melodramatic French fashion, he flung out his arms. “When they first started seeing more of each other, the Corsican Upstart was still rampaging through France. Even when Robert asked my permission to speak to Juliette, there was no certainty the Bourbons would regain the throne. Now, however—”
“Louis is safe on his throne in Versailles,” Meg crisply cut in, hoping to bring the vicomte’s dizzying perambulations to an end, “and Robert is therefore a prince of the royal house. Hence, you have a royal wedding on your hands.”
“Mais, oui.” The vicomte, a normally reserved and scholarly soul, turned to her. “Which, mademoiselle, is why we would appeal to you. You have experience in these matters—experience we—my wife and I—sorely lack. Yet it is imperative, for my honor and that of my wife’s family, too, that this wedding should be all it should be.”
Meg held his gaze for a moment, then looked at Lady Osbaldestone. Her ladyship met her gaze directly, her black eyes silently repeating the arguments she’d heaped on Meg’s head in the carriage on their way there.
It’s not just the vicomte and his wife—who, I would remind you, is English and a connection of sorts of yours—who need your help in this—it’s the entire ton, the palace, and the government to boot. We can’t have the French turning up their noses and saying we didn’t make a proper effort. Robert might be a sweet boy, and as easy to please as you might wish, but he’s now a full-blood prince of their realm, and they’ll be watching proceedings closely. The palace even sent one of the secretaries to inquire as to my advice, and your father will get a visit, too, should you refuse. When it comes down to it, there’s really only one person who can do this job. And that’s you.
She really had no choice.
After her fiancé had been killed at Waterloo, she’d turned the skills she would have brought to bear on managing his vast estates to planning the weddings of her three sisters and two brothers. And then the weddings of countless cousins. And then the weddings of several connections and acquaintances.
She did, indeed, know all the ropes, and as the eldest daughter of the Duke of Durham, she was also accustomed to protocol at the highest level.
Glancing at the vicomtesse, a petite, timorous, and retiring lady seated in an armchair beside the chaise, and receiving a pleading, almost panicking look in reply, Meg inwardly sighed and looked up at the vicomte. “Very well. I’ll undertake to organize Juliette and Robert’s wedding.” She held up a hand to stay their incipient thanks. “But you will all have to agree to do exactly as I say.”
They agreed, of course, and then they thanked her effusively. Lady Osbaldestone smiled, well pleased, while Cicely—bosom-bow of Juliette de Rocher—beamed, bounced up, and raced off to tell the affianced couple the good news.
May 1820, some weeks later
Drawing Room of Vicomte de Rocher’s town house, London
“This is the guest list.” The vicomtesse handed Meg six pages with names neatly lettered down one side, one name per line, as Meg had requested.
“Bon.” Although the vicomtesse and Juliette were English, born and bred, both frequently slipped into French, the principal language of the household, and as Meg also spoke French fluently—another reason she was perfect for this assignment—she’d picked up the habit. She glanced at the list. “Now, if you please, we’ll go over this and add the relationship to either groom or bride, and the relative importance of each person.”
Scanning the list, she could put faces to most names . . . “Who’s this?” She pointed to one entry high on the first page. “The Duc de Perigord. I can’t place him.”
The vicomtesse shifted on the chaise. “He’s Robert’s cousin. The head of his mother’s house.” She glanced at Juliette.
Who nodded. “Yes, that’s right. I haven’t met him, but he’s coming from his estates in the south of France. Robert said he’s to be his best man—his principal groomsman.”
“All right.” Meg made a note. “So he’s the senior male representing Robert’s mother’s side. Now, let’s start at the top with all the rest.”