A Matter Of Delicacy

The Hunt

     I woke naturally, slipping out of a warm, deep sleep and into consciousness as easily as stepping out of one room and into another. I couldn't feel any of my bruises, and when I stretched I could do so without anything aching.
     That was, until, I knocked last night's whiskey glass off the armrest and onto the floor with a heavy thunk.
     'Good morning,' Willoughby stuck his head around the door and grinned at me, sitting up quickly with bleary eyes.
     'Oh God,' I ran my fingers through my hair and tried to pile it up into some semblance of respectability. 'I didn't mean to fall asleep.'
     'It's quite alright, you looked like you needed it,' he handed me a glass of water.
     'What time is it?' I took a long drink and washed it around my mouth.
     'Ten o'clock.'
     'Ten o'clock?!' I shot to my feet. Willoughby laughed and caught me by my arms, stopping me from firing out of the door. I shot him an incredulous look, 'I need to go!'
     'I know. And I've already got the horses ready. But you are not going to do much good on nothing but last night's whiskey.' He nodded to a tray that had been brought in, with a still-steaming plate of toast and roast ham.
     My stomach rumbled.
     'I need to go, Willoughby.'
     'You need to eat,' he shot me a crooked smile. 'Kate.'
     Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I could have just gone up in flames in that moment and not felt a thing.
     He picked up the plate and held it under my nose, and even I couldn't resist.
     'Fine, but then we go.' Gulping down the rest of the water, I made myself a sandwich with the bread and ham and saluted him with it.
     His eyes were warm and he waited until I'd taken a large bite and swallowed it down. 'Now we can go.'

     The day had the feel of damp laundry, with the promise of rain sometime soon. Willoughby and I rode over the river and towards Greenwich and Montagu House. We made good time, both of us fresh and eager to be off.
     'You don't have to accompany me home,' I called over my shoulder as we skirted along the river.
     Willoughby smiled as he trotted a few paces behind me, 'We just had a near-death experience at the hands of a criminal mastermind – I'm not leaving you on your own.'
     I turned my attention back to the road, cheeks flaring.
     Montagu House rose in the distance and I began to dream of a proper bath and a change of clothes. It looked to be a miserable day, perhaps we'd spend it curled up in the library, playing cards and reading. I'd neglected my smallsword, I thought regretfully. I'd made time to polish and oil it.
     As we turned into the courtyard of Montagu House a young footman ran towards me. He was red-faced and panting, his collar unbuttoned.
     'Miss Wentworth!' he cried, waving a note at me. Frowning, I dismounted and took the note, disconcerted at his obvious stress.
     'Everything alright?' Willoughby got off his horse and came to read over my shoulder.
     The note was brief, in the inpatient and spikey script of Lady Bruce.

Princess summoned to a hunt with the King. Richmond Park. Unusual and alarming.
Come quickly.

     'With the King?' I handed it to Willoughby, who ran his eye over it again. 'I didn't think the King the hunting type.'
     'He's not, Ma'am,' the footman fretted at his lip. 'Hasn't been allowed to go for years, not since he accidentally shot the Earl of Salisbury in the leg. Apparently, His Majesty through the Earl was a stag.'
     'So why now?' Alarmed, I took the letter back and ran over it again. 'She doesn't sound happy about it.'
     'Who'd go hunting now?' Willoughby stared at the sky, 'it's going to rain soon – why has the King been allowed to put himself at risk of a fall?'
     'Who gives the King permission to ride out when he's indisposed?' I asked the footman.
     The man looked between me and Willoughby, creases forming and re-forming between his eyebrows.
    'Quick, man!' I snapped, my hands starting to shake.
    'The Prince Regent has to sign off on it, Ma'am,' he wiped his palms on his breeches.
     Willoughby met my eye with a dread that I knew well.
     'Beresford,' we said simultaneously.
     The footman leapt out of the way as we swung ourselves back up onto our horses and pulled them round towards the gate. Willoughby craned his head back, 'send a note to the Prime Minister! Tell him what's happened and to him to meet us there!'
     The footman scarpered back to the house, and Willoughby and I rode out of the gates and to the West, praying we'd make it there on time.