The Princess Stakes

by Amalie Howard

  An imported burgundy…an imported bride.

  The name Lockhart was now synonymous with intrigue, since the Earl of Beckforth hadn’t claimed any connection. Apparently, when asked outright if she was a relation, he had refused to answer. Had he changed his mind about his invitation for her to call? Or was he respecting her privacy? In truth, Sarani didn’t know what to believe. Deep down, it wouldn’t surprise her if he regretted approaching her. Scandal wasn’t for the fainthearted.

  As a result, the wagers on who she was were now as high as the ones that had been placed on the now-defunct Duchess Duels. Since Sarani had not been one of the debutantes in the running, the entire pot had been lost. The caricaturists had had a field day with that as well—showing her wearing a dress made of banknotes while gentlemen shook their fists at her.

  One of the more brazen caricatures depicted her at the feet of the duke. The artist had over-emphasized her features and dressed her in Eastern clothing, which had caused a swarm of hornets to erupt in her belly. It had been so close to the truth that she’d nearly brought up her breakfast, but Rhystan had assured her they were trying to sell gossip rags rather than anyone knowing the truth.

  Her identity was still safe. For now.

  Her thoughts drifted back to the scene in the carriage after the Windmere ball.

  Ravenna had been inconsolable for days, spending her evenings with trays of French chocolates for company. Sarani had joined her while she’d berated her high-handed, intractable brute of a brother who—in her words—had a stick lodged so firmly up his arse that it was a wonder he could walk. Sarani had bitten her lip to keep from laughing. The description matched several she’d come up with in the last months of knowing the man.

  Despite Ravenna not leaving her chamber in days, Sarani had finally managed to bribe her with a silk scarf she’d brought from Joor to get her to take a bath. So now Sarani sat with a book in hand on the armchair in Ravenna’s chamber, waiting for her to finish.

  “Why would he forbid me from seeing the world?” Ravenna groused, stalking from the bathroom, her hapless lady’s maid following. “He’s done it!”

  “He’s a man. They are expected to go on a grand tour.”

  “Why can’t ladies do the same? Why should we be fashioned like good little puppets whose strings will be passed from one master to the next? Tied down, hearth-bound, and miserable.”

  Sarani did not have a reasonable answer. She’d always thought the same. If the boys could do it, so could she. Though England was new to her, she’d seen quite a bit of India on travels with her father, and he had not hesitated to take her along in spite of her sex. Odd that a country that was viewed as backward by England had more progressive views of women in positions of power. Her friend Manu had exceeded all expectations and surpassed all limits as the queen of Jhansi in her own right, riding into battle like the warrior she was, not in the least bit inhibited by the fact that she was a woman.

  A wet-haired Ravenna peered at her. “What are you reading over there?”

  “Wuthering Heights,” Sarani said. “Do you know it?”

  She scowled. “I’m all in favor of vengeance right now.”

  “It’s more than just revenge,” Sarani said. “It’s about the darkest of passions, loss, and the balances of power. And in the end, perhaps it’s about allowing ourselves what we deserve.”

  “Heathcliff is like Rhystan. Hard of heart, ruthless of mind, and empty of soul.”

  Sarani cast her a stern look. “Ravenna, your brother might be a cold and exacting man, but he’s not soulless. And he loves you. He only wants what’s best for you.”

  “By forcing me to marry?”

  “By seeing you safe. I wish I had someone left to care enough to do the same.” The hard words were out before she could stop them. “I have no one left in the world.”

  Besides a cousin who wants to murder me.

  She didn’t add that last part.

  “I am sorry,” Ravenna said, her soft voice contrite. “But you cannot understand what it’s like to be forced into an unwanted position.”

  “I understand more than you know. Before my father died, he betrothed me to an odious man twice my age without my approval or consent.”

  Ravenna blinked. “Not to Rhystan?”

  “I did not know the duke then…” The lie felt sour on her tongue, but then she froze, her eyes snapping to Ravenna, who wore a guilty look on her face. “What is that look?”

  “Nothing.” She wrung her hands, her cheeks going red. “It’s not Asha’s fault but she might have mentioned that you and my brother knew each other from when he was an officer. She slipped and called you Princess Sarani. And I heard Rhystan in the coach saying something about five years ago.” She bit her lip as Sarani felt the bottom drop out from beneath her feet. “You’re the girl, aren’t you?”

  Heaven help her, Sarani quailed on the inside. She placed the book carefully down on her lap and calmed her erratic breaths. Speculation wasn’t the truth. “Which girl?”

  “I overheard my parents arguing years ago about Rhystan and some letter my father had received from an admiral or some such overseas.” Ravenna paused. “They spoke about a girl. An Indian princess with an English mother.” Sarani’s heart sank. “That’s you, isn’t it.”

  She drew a breath. “Ravenna…”

  “Don’t treat me like a birdwit. I know it’s you. I’ve seen your likeness before, you know. Did you know my brother carries a miniature of you in a locket? I discovered it when he came back for the funeral. He was quite in his cups, you see, clutching it as though it was his most precious possession and cursing it in the same breath.” She quirked her lips. “The girl was younger, of course, but I see the resemblance clearly now. I always knew she was special.” She laughed. “I’d even told Penelope about it to prove that Rhystan was mad for someone else and she should set her sights elsewhere.”

  Sarani frowned. Why would the duke have kept a portrait of her? As a talisman? A reminder of his distaste?

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Ravenna whispered. “It doesn’t even matter to me who your parents are.”

  She swallowed, meeting the girl’s eyes. “It does to me.”

  “Are you truly a princess?”

  “I used to be.”

  A pleat forming between her brows, Ravenna stared at her. “How does one stop being a princess?”

  “By burying her.”

  * * *

  Rhystan raked a hand through his hair as he stared at Gideon over a pint at the small dockside tavern near where the Belonging had been dry-docked for repairs. He’d needed a drink after the day he’d had. A robbery, of all things. The servants had been in a flurry because no one had suspected the young chimney sweep, who claimed he’d been sent by the duke himself.

  “So you’re saying that someone broke into your house in Mayfair?” Gideon asked, thick dark brows rising.

  “Stole a few loose banknotes, rifled through the study, but nothing of great value was taken.” He frowned—for a robber, his study would have been a veritable treasure trove. “Either it was a terrible thief or they were there to scout the place.”

  “You suspect trouble?”

  Rhystan took the last swallow of his whisky. “I don’t know yet. Tell the men to keep an eye out here as well. Could be simpleminded thieves.” He let out a breath. Or it could be something more. “Any more news on the ship that was following us?” he asked. He’d begun to doubt that the ship behind them had been anything but another trade ship following the same route.

  “Nothing, but another ship put into port a week ago, resupplied, and left a day later,” Gideon said with a frown. “An Indiaman vessel with not a drop of cargo and a handful of tight-lipped crew. Couldn’t pry a word out of them. Red only found out that they’d come from Bombay after greasing some palms and checking with the customs docking lo
gs.”

  “Any idea where they went?”

  “I put a couple men on a clipper to follow them.”

  Rhystan blew out a breath. “Good man.”

  “How’s the Duchess of Terror?” Gideon grinned. “Does she miss me? I reckon I could get her to soften up after a few pints. We almost had a moment at the funeral.”

  “She had you tossed out on your arse by the largest footmen we had,” Rhystan said dryly. “And banned from ever returning to Huntley House.”

  “Best day of my life,” Gideon said, raising his tankard.

  Rhystan laughed and lifted his as well.

  “And what of your bride-to-be?” Gideon asked slyly.

  “She’s well.”

  Gideon smirked. “So talkative. Cat got your tongue? Or perhaps a saucy young lass with legs for days and a smile that could fell a man.”

  “Sod off, Gideon.”

  His quartermaster laughed heartily, though the amusement was only on his end. They drank in blessedly pleasant silence for a while. Rhystan was grateful Gideon hadn’t pressed on the matter with Sarani. He could not spare her a single thought without hearing her soft moans, without recalling the sweet slick of her arousal on his fingers and itching to experience it again. If Gideon guessed how much she affected him, he’d never let him forget it. Rhystan drained his glass and ordered another round.

  “Thirsty?” Gideon sent him a knowing look, and Rhystan shot him a crude gesture. The bastard only laughed, sliding over a ledger. “Business, then. One of the ships is due to head back to China on the tea route. The other is bound for Italy. Once the Belonging is ready, I’ll begin preparing to leave for the West Indies in a few weeks.” He eyed Rhystan. “Were you planning to be on any of those?”

  The crew were getting restless, and now that two more of his fleet had put into port and unloaded their cargo, they were ready to head out to sea once more. Rhystan was more than ready to head out with them, but something held him back.

  Not something…someone.

  He studied the logs that Gideon had pushed across the table. They noted the recent custom duties for the three ships that had arrived as well as the names and voyages of his few dozen other ships currently at sea and in other ports. He couldn’t see wrapping up his finances here anytime soon, and there was still the matter of seeing Ravenna settled. A few weeks should be more than enough time.

  “Antigua. I need to see Chase.” Courtland Chase had accomplished what many men hadn’t—a life in the colonies that actually helped the locals. “The people who work for him have their own lands and businesses. I want to replicate that elsewhere.”

  “You already have,” Gideon said loyally. “Those on your former lands are thriving and buying from the locals directly makes a difference.”

  “There’s always room to do more.”

  Gideon nodded. “What about the princess?”

  “If all goes as planned and there is no confirmed threat to her safety, the lady will be happily ensconced in a Cornish village somewhere, living the life she wants.”

  “And you?”

  Rhystan frowned, well acquainted with his quartermaster’s snide tone. “And me what?”

  “What about you? Will you be living your best life when you leave the only woman you ever cared about behind?”

  With a burst of annoyance, Rhystan slammed his tankard down, drawing stares from men at neighboring tables. Gideon did not so much as flinch, only raising a sardonic brow at the uncharacteristic display of temper. “It’s what she wants. It’s what we agreed.”

  “Agreements change.”

  “I am not in need of a wife,” Rhystan snapped. “Least of all her.”

  “She’s your match, Captain.”

  “You know who she is to me, Gideon. Those were the darkest days of my life.”

  Gideon studied him and then downed the rest of his ale with a quiet nod. “Aye. They were. I pulled you out of that opium house where you were slowly attempting to obliterate yourself. But it was not only because of her. You had many other demons you were trying to drown, your father being the worst of them.” His voice gentled. “And let’s be honest here. You didn’t exactly fight for her either.”

  Rhystan crashed his fist into the table, nostrils flaring with fury as he leaped to his feet ready to send his friend to the floor. Anger that he’d kept buried for years burned through his veins like acid. “I was in hell, you bastard!”

  “And you chose to put yourself there.” In the next breath, all Rhystan’s fury died, and all he could do was stare at the ever-calm Gideon, who had not batted an eyelash. “I gave you an out, and you took it. At any point after you sobered up, you could have gone back to Joor.”

  “She was already married,” he muttered.

  No, she hadn’t been. He’d only thought she’d married. Markham had lied, which Rhystan would have discovered if he had gone back for her. The truth hit him like a kick to the gut. Gideon was right. He could have gone back to Joor. He could have spoken to her, used his fucking name for something worthwhile. Done something, anything. He was only responsible for his own actions, and he’d chosen to do nothing.

  “You’re right,” he said, sitting heavily. “Even so, I can’t marry her.”

  “Why not?”

  “This is London, Gideon. If the truth came out about who she is, it would most likely have an effect on Ravenna’s chances of making the best possible match, simply by association. You know how narrow-minded the ton can be. The gossip will be interminable.”

  Gideon stared at him, and from the growing scowl on his face, Rhystan had the feeling that he’d just gone down a few pegs—a few dozen pegs—in his friend’s estimation. “Since when does the captain I know care about gossip or polite society?”

  “Since he became duke.”

  “That’s never been you, lad. The man I know would never let a person’s circumstances determine the sum of their worth.” He stood and tossed a few coins down onto the wood. “Whoever that duke is isn’t worth a scrap of the man you were. Don’t lose sight of him, my friend, or you will truly have become your father.”

  * * *

  After dinner at home, Asha’s low notes on the shehnai soothed Sarani’s soul. Ravenna, too, if her transported expression was any indication.

  “I’ve never heard anything so hauntingly beautiful in my life. You’re very good at that, Asha,” she said, clapping with enthusiasm as the maid wrapped up a piece in the music room. “Would you teach me sometime?”

  Asha glanced at Sarani, but it was up to her. Sarani gave a tiny shrug and a smile. “It would be my honor, Lady Ravenna. Here, why don’t you hold it? Familiarize yourself with the feel of the wood and each sound.”

  Watching them, their heads bent together—one dark and the other auburn, so dissimilar in looks yet so unequivocally united in their love of music—Sarani couldn’t help smiling. Though she missed Joor on occasion, London was starting to grow on her. And it was all because of Ravenna. She’d never had a sister, and Ravenna had turned out to be nothing like she’d expected.

  The girl was unlike any of the other English debutantes she’d met. Ravenna had laughed when Sarani had told her that and said that she hadn’t met anyone besides Penelope—arguably the worst of the bunch. The blond-haired girl who had seemed excited about the Indian princes was one of Ravenna’s best friends, Lady Clara.

  To Sarani’s surprise, there’d been no more discussion of her origins or the scandal her parents had caused. She had expected Ravenna to treat her differently because she was not fully English, but it simply did not signify. Each day, Sarani kept waiting for the ax to fall, and every day, it didn’t.

  “Are you not concerned?” Sarani had blurted out once during breakfast, her voice guarded. “Given who I am?”

  “A princess?” Ravenna had returned.

  Sarani had grimaced.
“A fraud.”

  “You are no more a fraud than Penelope, who pretends she is the most eligible heiress of all when the truth is she looks nothing like her father but rather one of her mother’s old lovers. Evelyn Darkle’s father was a cobbler’s son who became a spice merchant worth a fortune. Or even Lord Beckforth, who I’ve discovered was rumored to be a pig farmer before he became earl.” Sarani had digested that knowledge with surprise, her gaze darting to Ravenna, who had paused with a sad smile to bite into a piece of buttered toast. “Or even me. A duke’s daughter without a dowry trying to decide her own fate. We’re both misfits trying to find a place.”

  Sarani blinked. “You have a dowry.”

  “I did, once.” Ravenna’s lip curled. “You didn’t think the gossip couldn’t touch us, did you? Scandal is the one thing that unites every man, highborn or lowborn. Gossip doesn’t care for rank, fortune, or beauty. If someone falls, the world will know. Mama could not keep our ruin from the creditors, and she was too proud to write to Rhystan. That was all part of her scheme, you see. Find an enormously rich, perfect heiress and all would be solved. Son would be rightfully settled as duke. Daughter would be married to a peer. Mother would live happily ever after. Never mind she had to sacrifice her last remaining son’s happiness to do so.”

  Ravenna had broken off, a tear dripping down her cheek, and then she’d excused herself from breakfast. Until Asha had offered to play the instrument for a bit of cheer later that afternoon and Sarani had sought her out, Ravenna hadn’t said a word. Sarani supposed that she’d kept those raw feelings inside for a very long time.

  She clapped as Ravenna played a few notes, her smile stretching from ear to ear. They were so caught up in the accomplishment that none of them heard the door open until the warm voice echoed through the room, making the hair on Sarani’s nape stand on end.

  “What’s this?” the duke asked.

  Ravenna leaped to her feet, the shehnai tumbling from her lap, only to be caught by Asha at the last moment. “Nothing, Your Grace.”

  Rhystan flinched at his sister’s cool address, though Sarani saw remorse blanket his expression. Likely, he knew how much he’d hurt her with his high-handedness. Ravenna understood what was expected of her…but like most intelligent, independent-thinking girls, she wanted to have some say in her own future, no matter how small.