A Wild Night's Bride (The Devil DeVere #1)(20)

“We’ll go through the Palace Gardens,” she said.

“But there are some fifty Yeoman of the Guard at St. James,” Ned said. “How the devil do you propose to get by them?”

“There are only twenty at night,” she corrected him. “And there is a private entrance through the Chair Court that is little known and only used by the Royal Family. Since they are not currently in residence, it should be lightly guarded.”

“How can you possibly know this?” DeVere asked.

“I was a member of the Royal Household for almost four years. Although I spent the majority of my time at the Bower Lodge and the queen’s house at Kew, I have been to most of the royal residences.”

“You have?” Ned looked astonished. “How? I mean in what capacity?”

“If you must know, I was once a nursery maid to the royal princesses.”

“A nursery maid?” Ned seemed more puzzled than ever. “But you are an actress.”

Phoebe lifted a brow. “What do you imply, sir?”

“Only that such positions are not come by easily, and the queen takes great care in selecting her servants, especially those to the children. Only a gentlewoman...”

“I secured the position through my aunt who was wet nurse to the Prince of Wales. Is it so impossible to believe I might have been gently bred?”

Ned flushed. “That’s not what I meant—”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I don’t know! I’m just confounded to understand what would lead a young woman from the Royal Nursery to the Covent Garden stage.”

“Dismissal, perhaps?” she offered drily.

“But why?” Ned asked.

“Does it really matter, Ned?” DeVere interrupted. “So you know the lay of the land, do you?” he asked Phoebe.

“I have been to the private apartments at St. James on several occasions.”

DeVere laughed. “Damn if I don’t find that another capital stroke of luck.”

They approached stealthily from the garden side, where they concealed themselves behind a tall yew hedge formed into a miniature maze. As predicted, there was, indeed, only a single Yeoman at the gate. “Although there’s only one, I doubt he’ll be inclined to let us pass,” Ned said with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

“We only want for a diversion.” Phoebe chewed her lip.

Ned looked to DeVere. “You are the master of mayhem. Any brilliant ideas?”

“If we want him to leave the gate, we must provide proper motivation,” DeVere answered.

“Such as?” Phoebe prompted.

“Let us keep to the basics, my pet. Men are primarily moved by either their stomachs or their cocks. If we cannot tempt the one, it must be the other.”

Ned glared. “What are you suggesting?”

“Our little chambermaid can take the blighter off by offering him a hand job.”

“The hell she will!” Ned barked before Phoebe could answer for herself. “Think of something else!”

“Come now, Ned. She’ll be well-compensated for her trouble. He laughed. “Hell, for a thousand, I might be tempted to do it myself.”

“Damn, but you’re dangerously close to lighting my fuse this night!”

While Ned and DeVere heatedly argued other possible means of entry, Phoebe looked to the gate where a stroke of fortune had sent the guard off to relieve himself. “Or,” she interrupted, “we might simply wait until he has need to answer the call of nature—like now.”

Happily finding the door unlocked, Phoebe and DeVere snuck inside with Ned in his Yeoman’s uniform bringing up the rear. “This way,” she beckoned in a whisper. “And take off your shoes. At the top of the gallery is the guard room.”

The centuries-old palace at St. James was a dreary place during the day but extraordinarily eerie by night. Its stone walls and floors failed to emanate any warmth, and its long passageways resounded with eerie echoes. Luckily they had not far to travel, having entered the gate nearest the staircase leading to the state apartments.

Dousing the lamp, they ventured stocking-footed up the grand staircase. One at a time, they slinked through the long gallery which had once served as the armory and upon whose walls were still mounted every conceivable kind of weapon. Phoebe suppressed a shiver at the menacing gleam of an executioner’s ax on prominent display. With her heart racing, she scurried past the guardroom where several Yeomen dozed while others played at cards and dice and held her breath until reaching the safety beyond in the adjoining chamber.

After the trio slipped through well-oiled doors, Phoebe rekindled the lamp to reveal the “old” presence chamber. “Look at that,” Ned said on a drawn breath, pointing to the carved shield above the huge fireplace, a remnant from the Tudor reign. On the foreground were the initials H and A united by a lovers’ knot, and in the background, a fleur-de-lis of France, the arms of England, and the rose of Lancaster. The relic only made Phoebe think again of the headsman’s ax.

“Come,” she whispered hoarsely. “Just beyond are the state apartments.”

Three sets of softly treading feet passed through the elaborate chamber that once served as Queen Anne’s drawing room and past the larger-than-life portrait of George III, staring with blatant disapproval at the errant intruders and into the throne room.