Monsale snapped the book shut and with a polite smile firmly nailed to his face, turned to greet the prince. He bowed low. “Your royal highness, it is both an honor and a pleasure to see you here this evening.”
Prinny held out his hand and a perplexed Monsale took it. Unsure as to what he should do, he bowed once more. Normally, the prince barely gave a grunt in his direction. To be spoken to was most unusual. Requests for money normally came via the prince’s private secretary.
Obviously, the rest of the invited guests are not nobility, and if that is the case then their purses won’t be substantial enough for Prinny to be bothered wasting his time with them. Which means I am going to be stuck with him.
There went his evening.
“Did you see the recipe for wow-wow sauce? It looks fabulous,” gushed the prince.
Monsale blinked. “I beg your pardon. Wow-wow sauce?”
Prinny laughed, as did the rest of his small retinue. “Yes, it’s an invention of Doctor Kitchiner’s.” He pointed at the cookbook. “Recipe three hundred and twenty-eight. It has port, wine vinegar, mushrooms, and all manner of other things. Hence, its name. You keep saying wow, every time you find another ingredient.”
“I see,” replied Monsale.
He wasn’t sure as to what was more unsettling. The oddly named recipe or that the Prince of Wales was being friendly toward him. Monsale’s nerves were on edge.
What does he think he has over me? It must be something. There must be a reason for him being so nice to me. What could it be?
It couldn’t possibly be anything about the movement of tax-free goods from France to England. Prinny had long been one of Augustus Jones’s best customers. And while the Prince of Wales might have done some rash things in his time, Monsale was certain he wouldn’t ever be so foolish as to mention that he had dealings with smugglers. And most certainly not in public. If it ever came to light that the future king had been stealing from the government coffers, a bloody revolution might well follow.
No. It had to be something else.
There were many things Monsale, and his friends had done over the years which might see them hauled before the courts. Or in his case, the House of Lords.
Deuce. Am I about to be arrested?
Monsale’s senses kicked up to high alert. Was this the night when he might finally have to make use of his flee box, empty its precious contents, and make a run for the continent? Into a life of exile.
He swallowed deep, fighting to keep control. To force down his fear and show no emotion.
Don’t panic. Monsale had a finely tuned network of well-paid sources working deep within the palace and the government. People who should be able to warn him if anyone was about to make a move and seek to have him arrested.
I bloody well hope so. They cost me a small fortune.
He got a hold of himself; this was not his first time dealing with an unknown threat. The occasion called for a light touch. Cheerful banter and the appearance of not having a care in the world.
But all the while his mind was racing. What had gone wrong?
Oh god, why did I venture out to a social event like this on my own?
Balls and major functions were far safer. He could hide in the numbers.
I really ought to take Lady Naomi up on her offer to dance. No one would be so gauche as to attempt to arrest me in the middle of a waltz.
A trickle of sweat slid down Monsale’s back as the Prince of Wales stepped closer, a sly smile sat on his lips.
“So, Monsale, will we be seeing you at the royal gala next week? I have some wonderful entertainments planned for the guests. I just need to press-gang Doctor Kitchiner into helping with the food,” said Prinny.
His laughter at his own feeble jest, had the hairs on the back of Monsale’s neck standing to attention.
“I am sure he would be more than happy to serve his future king. If you like I could have a quiet word with him on your behalf— right this very minute. I live to serve your royal highness,” replied Monsale.
It was common knowledge in London that Prinny loved to be constantly reminded that he was one step away from sitting on the throne. And while the regency made him king in all but name, he was still a prince in waiting.
When the prince smiled sweetly at him a second bead of sweat trickled down Monsale’s back.
What the devil are you up to?
