The Barefoot Princess

by Christina Dodd

  “Dear heavens.” Amy was in despair. “What can we tell him?”

  “We?” Miss Victorine widened her eyes artlessly.

  “Yes, I suppose I deserve that.” When Northcliff yelled again, Amy looked toward the stairs. “What do I tell him?”

  “That we’re going to release him anyway?” Miss Victorine suggested.

  “Don’t be silly. We can’t give up now! He knows what we’ve done and without funds, we can’t escape.” Amy stood. “No. Let me handle matters.” She started for the stairs.

  “Miss. Ye might consider soothing the savage beast.” Pom nodded toward the loaded tray Miss Victorine had assembled for Northcliff’s tea.

  “Why should I curry favor with that man? He’s at our mercy.” But Amy’s defiance echoed emptily through the kitchen. Her feet dragged reluctantly as she walked to the teapot. She poured a cup, stirred in a teaspoon of sugar and a splash of cream. She placed half the buns on a separate plate for Miss Victorine and Pom, and rearranged the ones remaining. She slipped Mr. Edmondson’s letter under the plate.

  The bellows of impatience from below were steadily increasing.

  Picking up the tray, she moved carefully toward the stairs, wishing with all her might that she didn’t have to face Lord Northcliff and try to explain what had happened.

  Coal slipped down the stairs after her.

  The bellows stopped as soon as the first step creaked beneath her weight. She felt Northcliff’s gaze on her, intent on her every movement. She watched the full teacup, determined not to spill a drop. Determined not to look at him.

  As she placed the tray on the far end of the table, he said, “What a lovely picture of domesticity you make. A mobcap and a white frilly apron would complete the illusion.”

  At his sarcastically drawled tone, her gaze flew to his.

  He knew. Somehow, he knew.

  She glanced toward the stairway.

  “You’re wondering if I can hear what goes on up there. I can’t. But when you come down the stairs bearing a conciliatory tea tray and that expression”—his voice was rising—“I know something went wrong.”

  The cat slunk around the edges of the walls, keeping a wary eye on his humans.

  Amy’s spine stiffened. “But there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re our prisoner.” Yet she pushed the tea tray toward him, staying well out of reach of his long arms.

  “Yes, I am, and stinking sick of it, too.” He had a gash on his chin, the mark of a razor wielded by his own inexpert hand. “When will I be released?”

  “Have a bun. They were fresh baked this morning from Best’s Bakery in Settersway.”

  “I don’t want a bun.” He spaced annoyance between the words. “I want out!”

  “We can’t do that yet.” She perched on the arm of the chair, taking care to present a casual demeanor, as if she breathed without constriction. “At least drink your tea while it’s hot.”

  He disregarded everything except what she wanted him to disregard. “Why can’t you release me?”

  “Because your uncle won’t pay the ransom.”

  “What?”

  The heat of his blast almost knocked her off the chair.

  “Your uncle won’t—”

  “I heard you.” He didn’t so much stand as unfold to a towering height. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

  “What reason would I have to lie?” Temper sizzled along her nerves—and the barest suggestion of excitement. For whatever disreputable reason, she liked having Northcliff chomp and roar. Seeing him possessed by anger made her heart skip in her chest. Made her skin tingle. This odd, shameful mood wasn’t something she liked to admit, nor was it something she understood, but it lived in her and she lived in it. In him. “As big a boor as you have been, do you for a minute imagine I want to keep you here?”

  “I imagine you’ve enjoyed this—holding a lord’s fate in your insignificant hands. Using me as a whipping boy for all the men who have treated you with disrespect and not accorded you the homage you presume you deserve.” He paced to the end of his chain, his muscles flexing and stretching like a tiger’s on the prowl. Like Coal’s, who slid beneath one piece of furniture to the side of another, cautiously peering at them. “I don’t know who you are, but Lady Disdain, this scheme of yours was always destined to fail.”

  “So do you believe the scheme is a failure? Or that I’m lying about the ransom so I can keep you here out of spite?” She offered the choice. “Because you can’t have it both ways. Either your uncle is refusing to pay the ransom because he can’t scrape the money together—”

  “Absurd!”

  “Or I’m playing a game that includes only you and me and a gloating pleasure at seeing you chained—”

  “Do you deny it?”

  “No, I don’t deny it!” She came to her feet, too. “You deserve to be whipped, too, until you learn some manners, although I suppose it’s too late for that. But if the latter is true, if I’m keeping you here to torment you, what’s the end, my lord? When do I say, ‘I’m done with this’ and leave? Because in case it’s escaped your attention, we’ve poured our last shillings into providing you with good meals.”

  “You call these good meals?” With a sweep of his arm, he cleared the tray. The china cup and saucer shattered as they hit the wall. The buns flew into the dirt. The letter fluttered to the floor.

  Coal howled and raced upstairs.

  At the shatter of porcelain, Amy saw red. “Although Miss Victorine could ill afford the white flour or the meat or the eggs, she bought the best for you.”

  “What would you have fed me? Gruel?”

  “Gruel would have been more common fare here on the island.”

  “I am not a damned commoner!”

  “You certainly are not. The common fisherfolk and farmers work. They create. They contribute. While you’ve abdicated every responsibility and become nothing more than a wart on the noble ass of England.” She was shouting.

  He was not. With each word, his voice grew softer and colder. “You are plain-spoken, girl. Ladies do not use such language, and they most certainly don’t speak so to their betters.”

  “I would never speak so to my betters.” Amy clenched her fists at her side and in her pique her eyes became the color of a tempest-swept ocean.

  She was magnificent, and he wanted to take her and shake her. And kiss her. And take her. And show her the meaning of helplessness as she had shown him.

  A broken cry from the bottom step distracted him.

  “Children. Children!” Miss Victorine stood wringing her hands, her faded gaze darting from Northcliff to Amy to her broken treasures. “What are you doing? What have you done?”

  “He’s a selfish, conceited, arrogant jackass who deserves to starve—and as far as I’m concerned, he can crawl in the dirt after those buns and eat them in the dark and the cold. And I hope he chokes on them.” In a rage, Amy stormed up the stairs.

  Jermyn stared after her, furious that she had goaded him into a loss of temper.

  Because he had nothing to do except read. Because he was bored. Because…because his hands itched to touch her. He’d seen much more beautiful women, danced with them, and if they were in the demimonde, slept with them. But he had never met a woman who challenged him as did Amy Rosabel. Her eyes flashed when she saw him, her sharp tongue ripped his character to shreds, yet the way she moved brought his heart to his throat…and brought other parts of his body to attention.

  He could blame his incarceration for this madness, but he’d felt a stirring the first time he laid eyes on her…when she drugged him. Of course he had shrugged it off; a master didn’t indulge himself with his maids. But discovering that she was not his servant had freed his desire, and meeting her challenges had captured his attention. When she was gone from his sight, he brooded about her. Who was she? Why was she so prickly? When she was with him and spitting defiance, she made him feel alive as he had never felt before. He was half mad with lust. Perhaps
all mad to want a termagant like Amy. In fact, he was most certainly totally insane. “That woman brings out the worst in me.”

  “I know. The two of you…”

  Jermyn started at the sound of Miss Victorine’s quivering voice. He had almost forgotten she was there.

  “I should never have let her come d…down alone. Not when it’s such b…bad news.”

  Miss Victorine, he realized in horror, was crying and trying valiantly to hide the fact.

  “She truly is a sweet girl, and you…you’re a d…delightful boy, but the t…two of you are like oil and water.”

  “And somehow the oil keeps catching fire.” He kept his tone prosaic as she trudged across the floor.

  By painful inches, she lowered herself to the floor to kneel by the shards of her cup and plates. “Yes, yes, an apt simile, my lord.” She touched the broken pieces as a mother would touch an injured child, gently, with bent and trembling fingers.

  In the haze of his rage, a cool finger of guilt intruded. He remembered that most of the china on which he’d been served had been chipped, and that Miss Victorine handled it painful care, as if it needed to last the rest of her life. Or as if each piece carried generations of memory.

  “Let me help you.” He had enough chain to get that far.

  When he stepped closer, she flinched.

  And he recalled that he’d held a knife to her throat. He thrown her aside, too, with the best of intentions, but he’d seen the purpling bruises on the thin skin of her arms and seen how she hobbled.

  “Please, my lord, let me pick up the pieces.” She did so.

  He watched her, his fingers limp. He’d never before thought of himself as a good-for-nothing, yet now he felt useless and helpless. When Amy said that, he’d rejected the idea with scorn. But now he wondered—when a man acted like a spoiled boy and blamed it on another—was he not in truth a spoiled boy?

  Miss Victorine dragged the pewter tray toward her. She handed Jermyn the letter.

  He glanced at it. Uncle Harrison’s handwriting.

  He put it in his pocket.

  She picked up the buns and brushed the dirt off of hem. “I’ll take these upstairs. I’ll bring you down the clean ones, and pour you a new cup of tea.”

  And eat the dirty ones herself.

  Leaning over, he swept two of them into his hands. “No. I’ll eat them.”

  “No! Dear boy, you’re the m…marquess of Northcliff.” A big tear ran down Miss Victorine’s face and plopped into the dirt. “You should be d…dining on beefsteak and strawberries, not dirty b…buns.”

  “The one thing I’ve enjoyed during my imprisonment is the chance to eat simple foods.” He took a hearty bite and discovered he hadn’t brushed off enough of the dirt. It ground between his teeth. Gamely he ignored the grit and tried for a little flattery. “I have missed your cooking, Miss Victorine.”

  She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “I told her you were a nice boy. I told her.”

  He chewed and smiled with all the charm of which he was capable. But it seemed Miss Victorine was not comforted and Jermyn realized his charm felt rusty, like a commodity he doled out too seldom.

  “Miss Victorine.”

  She looked up, and in her eyes he saw no sign of madness or senility. But there was loneliness and a sadness so old and deep, he wondered that he hadn’t recognized it before.

  “Miss Victorine.” With his hand under her arm, he helped her to her feet. “This evening you should bring your shuttle down and show me how to make beaded lace.”

  “You don’t really care about making lace.” The pieces of the broken cup caught her attention, and her lip trembled.

  “Probably not, but I do care about your company. It’s lonely down here, Miss Victorine, and it would seem I’m to be here for quite a few more days.” He dragged the appeal from the depths of his shriveled, selfish heart. “Won’t you spend your evenings with me?”

  Miss Victorine perked up, then grew silent and sad again.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  In a soft, disappointed voice, she asked, “What about Amy?”

  “She can come, too.” And if it killed him, he would be polite.

  For Miss Victorine’s sake.

  “So.” Jermyn struggled with the tiny, palm-sized shuttle, miles of fine twine and dozens of tiny beads. His fingers were too big. Too clumsy. His rough skin snagged the thread. And if any one of his friends in London saw him sitting in the cellar with two women and a cat, doing handwork, they would laugh so hard he’d fear for the cleanliness of their linens. “What do you plan to do next?”

  “About you, you mean?” Amy pointed at his beading. “You missed a stitch.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Let me see.” Miss Victorine placed her glasses on her nose, leaned close to the light, held the lace at arms’ length, and squinted.

  He grinned at her maneuverings. “Miss Victorine, you need new glasses.”

  “Yes, dear, that’s probably true. There.” She pointed. “Unravel to there and start again, and you’ll be just right.”

  “See?” Amy muttered under her breath.

  He grunted, unraveled, and started the painful process of making lace with tiny beads…again.

  This evening the two of them were painfully civil, speaking in even tones, politely, and avoiding each other’s gazes. It was easier for him if he didn’t look at her; in that manner, he kept lust and fury in check.

  “She can’t afford new glasses,” Amy said. “That’s something she’ll buy when we get the ransom.”

  “Uncle Harrison isn’t going to pay the ransom.” Jermyn could scarcely contain his irritation. “Remember?”

  “Today I wrote another letter to Mr. Edmondson reducing the ransom.” Amy smiled as if she were confident in her strategy. “He’ll pay it now.”

  “You reduced the ransom?” Incredulously, he repeated, “You reduced the ransom?”

  “That’s what I said.” Amy worked the beading quickly and efficiently. “Just hours ago, I delivered the letter to your home and left it where the butler would find it. I saw a messenger ride toward Mr. Edmondson’s house—”

  “You reduced the ransom? As if I were an unwanted hat? Or an old hunting dog? Or a stained handkerchief?”

  “More like the old hunting dog than anything else,” Amy said pertly.

  He tensed, ready to snap back.

  “Amy!” Miss Victorine reproved. “You promised!”

  “Sorry,” Amy muttered.

  “Not a hat, my lord.” Miss Victorine shifted the cat on her lap. “Nothing so inconsequential. We made a small adjustment in our demands so Harrison could collect the moneys.”

  “Uncle Harrison has no need to collect the moneys,” Jermyn said scornfully. “I’ve allowed him to handle the family fortune.”

  “We believe he’s invested it in factories and is short on cash,” Amy said in that even tone that signified she had regained control.

  “Ludicrous!” Jermyn answered.

  “Then why didn’t he pay your ransom?” Amy asked in a sweetly reasonable tone.

  Jermyn didn’t know the answer to that. He had read the letter. He didn’t understand Uncle Harrison’s almost goading tone, or his glib refusal to give in to death threats.

  Jermyn had begun to wonder if he understood anything.

  “Never mind, my lord.” Amy offered him false consolation. “In a mere three days, you’ll be free.”

  Chapter 10

  Harrison Edmondson waved the messenger out of his office, then opened the second letter with trembling eagerness. He read the note, and his anticipatory glow was extinguished like a candle flame. “Why am I constantly surrounded by bunglers? Why is it so hard to commit one simple little murder?” He pulled out a new sheet of paper, uncorked his ink, and wrote an answer designed to infuriate his nephew’s captors.

  This time, they had better do the job they had promised the
y would do.

  Amy scanned the sheet, then lowered it in despair. “He won’t pay the ransom.”

  As if Pom had expected exactly this, he nodded. “Well. Got t’ go t’ the pub.” He donned his hat and his damp wool coat. “Me wife’s working there and I need me supper.” He strode out of Miss Victorine’s kitchen into an evening filled with a gray mist and lowering clouds.

  Amy stared after him. He had accepted the news stoically, while she wanted to shriek and pound her fists on the table. What was Mr. Edmondson thinking? Never had Amy imagined such callous indifference to the fate of a man who was, in fact, a very important lord—and Mr. Edmondson’s own nephew! “What are we going to do now?”

  “Let His Lordship go.” Miss Victorine sat at the well-scrubbed kitchen table, her hands folded in her lap. By all appearances, it seemed this refusal presented no surprise to Miss Victorine, either.

  Nor, truth to tell, was Amy particularly astonished. The first time, she had been shocked and stunned. But she’d spent three days dreading this exact moment, and now she saw no recourse but to forge ahead. Far too loudly, she said, “We will not let Lord Northcliff go!” Then she moderated her tone. “We can’t. We’ll hang.”

  “He wouldn’t hang me.” Miss Victorine sounded very sure.

  “He would hang me.” Amy was equally sure.

  Through the open cellar door, she heard Northcliff holler in a false reasonable tone, “Miss Amy, could I see you for a moment?”

  “How does he do that?” Amy exploded. “Know that I’m up here and news has arrived?”

  “He told me he can tell who’s up here by the creaking of the floorboards.” Miss Victorine stood, picked up Coal, cradled the big cat in her arms, and said, “It’s time for our nap. Wake us when you’re done.” By that she meant that Amy had gotten them into this, and Amy was responsible for dealing with the unruly lord imprisoned in their cellar.

  Amy supposed that was just. But she didn’t like it. “I’ll tell him.” She slapped the letter down. “But I’m not carrying any crockery down with me this time.”