The watered silk fell over her panniers with the gentle swish. The bodice plumped her breasts and pushed them forward. She raised an eyebrow to Corbin.
“Perfect,” he said. “Delectable yet legal. And since you do not clash with my coat, I shall allow myself to stand next to you on occasion.”
Jemma smiled at the glass. There was a small tendril of joy in her heart. “Crimson lip color tonight, Brigitte,” she said.
“Naughty,” Corbin observed.
An hour or so later, that is precisely how she looked. Her curls were powdered and adorned with green roses that glinted mysteriously from their emerald depths. Her eyes laughed above a small patch that drew attention to her crimson mouth. She looked naughty—not overtly available, not scandalous, but mischievous.
“You’re perfect,” Corbin said, rising to his feet.
“And you’re a miracle!” Jemma cried, giving him a kiss.
Corbin’s smile was smug. “I have always found it best to create my own entertainments,” he remarked. “This evening should be truly interesting, Duchess.”
Chapter Two
The Right Hon. William Pitt’s country home
Cambridge
March 26, 1784
The Duke of Beaumont had been trying to extricate himself from the Prime Minister’s house for the better part of an hour. A group of men, among the most powerful in the kingdom, had spent the last fortnight discussing strategies and laws, ways to thwart Fox’s schemes and defeat his proposals, the case for and against every conceivable argument that a man could voice.
Elijah had spent the weeks fighting long hours for the causes he believed just, such as the ongoing effort to halt England’s slave trade. He’d won some battles and lost others; it was the nature of politics to weigh inevitable failure against possible gains.
“I will convey your concern to His Majesty,” he said now, bowing before the Prime Minister, the Right Honorable William Pitt. “Tactfully, of course. I agree that it is perilous to hold a royal fete in such proximity to the hulks.”
“Tell him that those floating monstrosities were never meant to be prisons,” Lord Stibblestich put in. He was a florid man with eyes that glinted from the little caves shaped by his plump cheeks. His body was no more than brawny; his face was bloated in comparison. Even his nose appeared engorged in contrast to his shoulders.
Elijah bit his tongue rather than indulge the impulse to snap at Stibblestich. His Majesty was fully aware that the decommissioned warships anchored in the Thames were never meant to be used as prisons. The hulks were aging warships, as tired and broken down as the English navy.
But the presence of hundreds of criminals housed on those ships was a problem that His Majesty was not yet pleased to face. And in truth, Elijah knew it was the Parliament that should be finding a solution.
“There was an attempted prison break just last week,” Stibblestich added shrilly, apparently under the illusion that he was saying something original.
“My butler informs me that your valet is recovering from his stomach ailment,” Pitt said to Elijah, ignoring Stibblestich. “I will send him to London as soon as he is able to travel.”
“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Elijah said. “I know that Vickery is also grateful for your forbearance.” He bowed again and turned to go. His carriage would go straight to the king’s yacht, the Peregrine. Where…
Where he was due to meet his wife. Jemma.
Tired though he was, exhausted by a fortnight of late nights spent arguing, trying to get his own party to understand the unethical side of their deliberations, he couldn’t wait to be aboard. Tucked into the corner of the carriage, he fell asleep, waking only when the wheels started jolting over London’s cobblestones.
He pulled his watch from his waistcoat and glanced at it. He had forty minutes to board or the Peregrine would launch without him. The king had a mind to take his revels into the middle of the Thames and then float downstream, the yacht blazing with light and music pouring through the open windows.
At that very moment the carriage lurched and came to a halt. Elijah summoned his patience. London streets were crowded, and obstructions were common.
He waited two minutes before he banged on the roof. “What the devil is going on, Muffet?” he shouted.
“We’re through Aldgate, but the street is blocked ahead, Your Grace!” came the shout back from his coachman.
Elijah groaned and pushed open the carriage door. The grooms were off the vehicle and standing at the horses’ heads. A crowd was milling about the street, making it hard to see the source of the disturbance. “What’s going on?” he demanded, pushing his way to the front.