Brice shrugged. “I think her father is a distant relative. Something like several cousins removed.”
“Interesting.” Stephan knew that Caroline’s father had been knighted by King George for fending off an assassin of Admiral Nelson at the blockade of Valetta during the Second Coalition. Britain had supplied gold to bring other countries to fight against the French then. Ironically, it seemed someone in England with power was now doing the sameforthe French. “I wonder if Sir Reginald and John Nash ever speak to each other.”
“I would not know,” Brice answered. “Caroline has never mentioned it.”
More recently Stephan had also learned—through Brice’s methods of getting certain lords foxed in gaming dens—that Sir Reginald had curried favor with the prince by managing to keep Mrs. Fitzherbert and Lady Jersey from discovering each other on a certain evening. That supposedly was why the prince had approved elevating Caroline’s status to countess by way of marrying Tisdale.
That was a large enough pill to swallow, but if the regent’s favorite architect of the moment had any encounters with his distant cousin and decided to mention it to Prinny, Caroline’s fate could very well be sealed. She would be forced to marry the damn earl out of protocol.
Or maybe not. Stephan was not one to turn down a challenge.
As he and Brice stepped into the shade of the perforated stone screen that served as an awning of sorts, the main door swung open even though they had not knocked. A properly liveried footman who stood as stiffly to attention as his collar was starched inclined his head slightly and stepped aside to allow them entrance. Stephan wouldn’t have been surprised if the man had clicked his boots together in the manner of the regent’s Germanic Hanoverian relatives. As flagrant with flaunting decorum and his father’s rules as Prinny was, he insisted on his household staff being nothing less than completely formal and proper. Another piece of hypocrisy that Stephan detested and another reason he’d decided not to show up in the proper frockcoat and cravat.
If the footman noticed his lack of formal apparel, he gave no indication of it but gestured them into the entrance hall. In contrast to the odd shape of the small receiving room, this room was large and squared. A dozen straight-backed chairs lined the sides, and at the far end three sets of light blue satin curtains, matching the blue brocade on the walls, formed a triumvirate entrance to the long gallery that ran the length of the original building. Stephan’s father had brought Devon and himself here shortly before his low-born mother had died. She’d wanted a detailed explanation of the gallery and decor. If he remembered correctly, the gallery had a number of optical illusions, including mirrors along the sides of the hallway which reflected multiple images back and forth and a skylight of blue stained glass that cast an ethereal glow to the room during the day. His mother had pressed for more details which he, as a young rake more interested in pretty maids passing by than the design on the wallpaper or carpet, couldn’t provide. Even now, several years later, he flinched at his thoughtless behavior.
He refocused his thoughts and presented his calling card, although he did not see a salver on which to place it. With a wry glance, Brice produced one, too.
The footman took both cards with a celerity not expected of someone who moved like a wooden puppet. “I shall summon the butler,” he said, spinning sharply on his heel and marching away.
“Dare we sit?” Brice asked.
Stephan eyed the spindly-legged chairs with a degree of caution. “I think I will stand.”
Brice nodded. “Probably a good idea.”
The butler appeared a few minutes later. Tall and reed thin, with a hawk-like beak of a nose and steel-gray hair pulled severely back in a queue, the man gave the impression of a descending bird of prey as he approached.
“I am Quigley,” he said in a clipped tone and peered from one to the other. “Which of you is the Marquis of Kendrick?”
“I am,” Stephan said, already not liking the haughty tone the man used.
“Welcome to Brighton, my lord,” the butler said.
The man had not taken note of Brice, which irritated Stephan. Not that he was particularly surprised. Upper-ranking servants always addressed the highest titled aristocrat present, but it weren’t as though Brice weren’t standing right beside him. Stephan gestured. “This is Lord Barclay. I believe the prince is expecting both of us.”
“Of course.” The butler gave a cursory nod in Brice’s direction. “His Royal Highness has not yet arrived, but we do have a number of guests about to partake of lunch. If you will follow me.”
Not leaving them much choice as he made his way through one of the three doors into the gallery, they followed. Stephan noted, with a twinge of guilt, that the design on the wallpaper was of cherry blossoms, and oriental vases stood on large commodes on either side of a white marble fireplace. Had they been here the last time he visited?
They made their way up the short flight of stairs at one end of the gallery. The butler stopped in front of a door to the right. “The tea room, my lords. Since guests are still arriving, a buffet has been provided.”
“Thank you,” Stephan said and scanned the part of the room that he could see from the doorway. There was no sign of Caroline. Perhaps she had not arrived yet.
“If you require something else, please advise one of the footmen,” the butler replied and turned sharply on his heel to take his leave. Stephan wondered if all the male servants practiced that move. He hoped not.
Brice took a step inside and then nudged him. “She is here.”
Stephan didn’t even attempt to act like he didn’t know who Brice meant. He frowned. “Where?”
“To your left. By the window.”
Stephan forced himself to glance slowly in her direction, not wanting to appear overeager. He needn’t have worried. Caroline stood turned partially away from him, gazing out the window. From the rigid set of her slim shoulders, her raised chin, and the tightness of her mouth, he doubted she was enjoying the view.
Seconds later Stephan realized why. Her father walked toward her with Lord Tisdale beside him.
Chapter Six
Caroline wondered if anyone had ever jumped from the Pavilion’s second story before. At the moment, jumping offered the only means of escape from the tea room and Lord Tisdale. She let her glance sweep the ground. There were shrubs below the windows. Would those bushes soften her fall? Or if she hit the grass, could she roll quickly to lessen the impact?