Free Dangerous Deceptions by Sarah Zettel

in our world, are dangerous things.
    As Mrs. Howard turned to carry cup and saucer to Her Royal Highness, I saw that she looked nothing so much as resigned. This I thought strange, especially as the other rumor regarding Mrs. Howard was that she was the current mistress of the Prince of Wales.
    “Very witty, Mrs. Howard,” said Sophy with just a shade too much enthusiasm. “But then, you were not here to witness what happens when Peggy Fitzroy turns her hand to business. Molly could tell you all about it, I’m sure. Could you not, Molly?”
    “Oh,
lud,
Sophy.” Molly Lepell sighed. “If we are to occupy ourselves with telling tales, can they at least be about someone interesting?”
    That earned a laugh from the general assembly, but not, I noted, from the princess herself. She eyed me over the rim of her coffee cup, and with the arch of one carefully sculpted royal brow, silently asked me what I intended to do about all this.
    “Well, I for one would be glad to be dull for a bit,” I began, hoping no one noted my slightly desperate tone. “Too much spice is bad for the digestion and the complexion, as I’m sure Miss Howe could tell us.”
    Which turned out to be exactly the wrong thing to say. “That’s right!” cried Mary, with an air of triumph. “Our Peggy favors good English cooking. Or perhaps I should say English cooking favors her!”
    My heart plummeted. She was going to tell them about Sebastian. She was going to tell Sophy Howe about Sebastian, right there, in front of all the ladies and women of the bedchamber. Once she named him, the betrothal would be quickly sniffed out. It would be in the gossip columns by morning. Matthew would read it. Worse, he’d have it read to him. Did the princess know? I hadn’t told her. She couldn’t find out like this. I’d lose my countenance, and my place.
    I had to stop this, now. But panic blanked my wit. For a moment, I wondered if I should actually have to resort to the Faint.
    I must have done some good in my life, because at that moment my white knight appeared. He came in the form of a liveried footman who swept open the pavilion door. His stentorian voice rang clearly across all other conversation and killed it stone dead.
    “His Royal Highness, George Augustus, Prince of Wales!”

EIGHT
I N WHICH ORDERS ARE GIVEN, AND ACCEPTED, WITH A CERTAIN AND PERFECTLY COMPREHENSIBLE AMOUNT OF RELUCTANCE.
    The men of Hanover are not a tall breed and are inclined to a certain thickness about the middle. I would not suggest this extends to a certain thickness of skull. I would, in fact, take most special care not to suggest this while still in service.
    It may be truthfully acknowledged, however, that our prince is not inclined toward art, or philosophy, or any theater save the opera. Still, he carries his thick frame with a soldier’s bearing, and he does possess the art of accurately judging men’s characters, especially when it comes to discerning who is actually in agreement with his cause and who is merely flattering. If there is a form of intelligence useful to a future monarch, that is surely it.
    As the prince entered, those of us who had been seated shot at once to our feet and then dropped into deep curtsies, which is not, I assure you, as easy as it might sound, especially on a lumpy carpet covering an uneven lawn. As my gaze lowered, I saw a saucy grin spread across Careless Mary’s face and risked tilting my head toward Sophy. Sophy raised hard and glittering eyes from under her low lids, but not toward the prince. Sophy’s venom was aimed at Mrs. Howard.
    Prince George, for his part, smiled kindly all around and motioned for us to straighten as he strode to the princess.
    “And how do you find yourself this morning, my sweet?” Prince George bowed courteously over her hand. He spoke in French, the language of the court here and in Hanover where he had been born.
    “I am very well, sir, thank you.” At first blush, our hearty, martial prince and