Page 9 of Rogue’s Holiday

Her friend looked down at the blue slippers Chastity had given her with embellished cross straps that matched perfectly her blue pelisse. “These are among my favorites.”

“I am glad you like them, but they are ill-suited to rain.” Chastity gazed up at the dark clouds hovering above. “The boots will serve better should the weather turn against us. It’s spring, after all.”

“I suppose…”

The door of the manor opened and Henriette, Chastity’s maid, came out carrying Chastity’s emerald green pelisse, the same color as her half boots and bonnet of green curled silk. The bright color made for the perfect complement to her round gown of ivory cambric.

“Mistress, would you wear your pelisse?”

“A good thought, Henriette. Here, Rose, take Crispin.” She handed the cat to her friend and reached her arms into the sleeves. “Even if it does not rain, the heated bricks will soon cool and the carriage will be cold save for Crispin’s warm body and the lap rugs.”

The manor door opened and Chastity’s parents and sisters came out to say their goodbyes.

“Do try and behave yourself,” said Pen.

“I always try,” said Chastity with a wink at Rose.

“I shall miss you terribly,” said a petulant Lucy, her dark curls falling to her shoulders. “Who shall teach me to ride as you do?”

“No one if we’re lucky,” said Pen.

Chastity’s mother lifted her eyes to the heavens. “Aunt Agatha will be expecting you. I collect from her letter she is eagerly anticipating having you two as guests and introducing you to her friends.”

Chastity’s father took her by the shoulders and leaned down to kiss her forehead. His hair had been silver as long as she could remember, but his eyes, like hers, were blue. He peered into her face with a forlorn look. “I will miss you, my pet. Do write. I want to know of your entertainments and the books you are reading.”

“I will.” She kissed his cheek, hoping she and Rose would be too busy enjoying Brighton to have time to read. The coachman opened the carriage door and let down the step and her father handed her in. She took Crispin from Rose’s outstretched hands and sat back in her seat. Rose climbed in beside her.

Chastity set Crispin on the seat between them and leaned out the open window to wave to her family.

The coachman cracked the whip and the carriage lunged forward.

With a sigh of relief, she rested her head on the tufted velvet. “I thought we would never leave. Just think, Rose. Tonight we shall stay in London!”

Two weeks after Robbie met with the king a small item appeared in The London Gazette:

His Majesty George IV has bestowed a baronetcy on Robert Pierre Powell for service to the Crown.

His mother, knowing of his new address, must have been watching for the notice to appear. “Oui, c’est vrai!” she exclaimed at breakfast that morning, pointing to the page in the Gazette. Her black hair was neatly coiffed beneath her small cap, the few strands of gray adding to her dignity but taking nothing from her beauty. She looked up from the page, addressing Robbie’s father. “Now all of London will know we have yet another son who has been favored with a baronetcy.”

“I didn’t seek it,” said Robbie, shooting a glance at Jack across the table.

Simon Powell ran a hand through his golden hair, for several years now generously laced with silver, and stared at Robbie. “I never ask you and your brothers what you do for the Crown, but given the timing, I have my suspicions. Allow me to congratulate you on a job well done.”

Robbie did not want to tell them exactly what he had done but he couldn’t fail to acknowledge the compliment. “Thank you, Father.”

With a mischievous grin, Jack said, “I believe I shall continue to address him as ‘Nephew’.” Turning to Robbie’s mother, his half-sister, Jack said, “Did Robbie tell you we are off to Brighton?”

“You’re coming with me?” Robbie asked, surprised for they had yet to discuss it.

Jack shrugged. “Bien entendu! I would not be left behind! I have the summer before the harvest in Saintonge to indulge my fancies.”

Robbie’s mother glanced between Robbie and Jack, a frown forming on her lovely face. “Try not to get into trouble in Brighton, you two. Use your time to find worthy brides. As a man of means with a title, Jack, you will be a catch no matter you share my French origin. And you, Robbie, as a new baronet from a prominent shipping family, will be well received by the parents of the young women spending the summer there even if you are in trade.”

Robbie was the only one of Simon Powell’s four sons who still lived at home due to his unmarried state and his frequent travels for the Crown. His twin brother had taken a wife the year before, prompting Robbie to consider the leg-shackled state. When a man had achieved all his goals, what was there left to do except sire an heir? Yet no woman had captured his attention, at least not for more than a few weeks.

The Powells were related to nobility on both sides of the family tree, which, together with their wealth, gained them invitations to every ball in London. The patronesses of Almack’s Assembly Rooms might adore the Powell men, but the young debutantes appeared to Robbie like frightened does. They could never hold their own among the remarkable women in the Powell family.

“Mother,” Robbie gently chided, “I go to Brighton to enjoy myself. As the king told me, I deserve a holiday.”