If occasionally, very occasionally, she had even recalled the forbidden thrill, the sweeping passion, the dangerous edge of his ardor … well, she was over that now. She hadn’t thought of Raul Lawrence for a year, or at least not for many months, and when Mr. Johnson had announced he had been hired by a gentleman in Moricadia who wished to have his financial advice, Victoria’s gasp had not been an indicator of dismay on her part.
Although right now— once more, she looked at the fallen log— perhaps her trepidation had been for good reason.
“Miss Cardiff, if you would.” Mr. Johnson gestured her to him.
Rising, she walked to his side.
Mr. Johnson was a big, barrel-chested man with a florid face and a loud voice, common to the depths of his bones. He was also so shrewd about finance that his knowledge bordered on genius, and while their two-year journey through Europe had ostensibly been to see to his daughters’ education and polish, he’d used the time to consult with men of wealth and property about how to increase and preserve their wealth and property. His work had proved an education for Victoria, for once he discovered her mathematical skills he used her as an accountant, and while he did, he explained the complexities of the European economy.
For a young woman who had been raised in hopeless servitude, his instruction provided the first glimmer of light in the long blight of her life. She knew she could never work as Mr. Johnson did; she knew she was not a financial genius, and in any case, women were not encouraged in such intellectual pursuits. Yet Victoria absorbed his every word, asked questions, and ultimately learned how to invest her salary. If all went well, her savings meant that someday she could function as an autonomous woman, travel for her own pleasure, perhaps buy a small home of her own in the English countryside… .
Okay, that was rather depressing— to realize that by the time she achieved such an independence, her likely companion would be a cat. She liked cats, but to dwindle into old age alone …
She shook herself.
Better that than to be like her mother, a slave to the man she called her husband.
Mr. Johnson flung himself into speech as he flung himself into everything: bluntly and without introduction. “I see, Miss Cardiff, you already comprehend my problem.”
She inclined her head, not comprehending at all but knowing full well that Mr. Johnson would enlighten her.
“The accident was no accident, but sabotage, the work of desperate men who wish to topple Moricadia’s government.”
Appalled, she asked, “But why?”
“Because of some mumbo jumbo about a true king coming to free the people from their onerous overlords.”
Raul! Victoria’s jaw sagged. The blood drained from her face. Raul Lawrence!
“Yes.” Mr. Johnson took her shock to be a civilized person’s amazement at such superstition. “Not that the people here aren’t exploited. I did my research before agreeing to this job, and the people are indeed oppressed. But ignorant, too. Rumors claim the ghost of the last true king has been seen riding the roads, taking his revenge on the ruling tyrants. They say it’s a sign that the new true king is ready to depose the de Guignards .”
“The de Guignards ,” she echoed faintly.
How was it possible that she had come to Moricadia to hear … this? This tale that sounded so much like Mr. Lawrence’s own conceit?
It wasn’t possible, of course. Mr. Lawrence couldn’t be a deposed king. Perhaps he was a liar, although he hadn’t seemed the type to …
Well. One minor kiss, or even a dozen rather intense kisses, didn’t mean that she knew the man. She most certainly did not. He might well be a liar.
“The de Guignards are truly dreadful rapscallions, keeping the Moricadians in poverty in both the countryside and in tenements in the lower parts of the cities. So I suppose it’s not surprising the rebels have stirred up the people.” Mr. Johnson stroked his mustache.
But a more likely scenario was that Mr. Lawrence must have heard this myth when he was a boy and took it too much to heart, for according to the tales Belle had told, Mr. Lawrence had claimed he was the true ruler of Moricadia, and when he returned, he would take his country back from the usurpers.
“Stirred them up so they’re attacking visitors to their country?” she asked. “You told us this country thrives on the money they make off their visitors.”
“Yes, in the gambling houses. The mineral hot springs. The racetracks. If the rebels drive off their tourists—well, I’ve taught you what happens then.”
“Yes. If they drive off the tourists, the government will be deprived of their income, and they will fall.” She glanced at the Johnson family. Victoria had grown fond of them. “Do you fear violence?”
His shrewd, heavy face settled into worry lines. “Perhaps. Prince Sandre was the victim of a humiliating joke.
His cousin Jean-Pierre has taken control of the government, brought in mercenaries. His master of the dungeon is known for his inventiveness. Yet it is Jean-Pierre who is feared, and for good reason. The man is cruel clear to the bone.As soon as the men clear the lead coach off the road, I want you to take Mrs. Johnson and the girls to the Hôtel de Tonagra. Check them in, get them settled, and I’ll follow when the coach has been repaired.”
“Of course.”
“Here.” He offered her a pistol. “It’s loaded. There’s one shot. If you must use it, make it count.”
She stared at the gray metal barrel, the polished wood butt. Before they left England, Mr. Johnson had insisted she learn to shoot. He said he needed someone of good sense who could handle firearms. Obviously, that did not include his wife and daughters. Maude was vain and selfish. Effie was young and silly. And Mrs. Johnson was a peahen who babbled so constantly Victoria didn’t know how Mr. Johnson bore it. Yet he adored her, adored his children, and he would do anything to protect them from the dangers of the world.
Living with the Johnsons had been a revelation for Victoria. No matter their faults, no matter their annoyances, no matter their fights— and there were many—they were a family, united against the world and led by a loving father.
It was good to know men like him existed.
It was difficult not to be jealous.
But these two years had been a time of deepening maturity for her. Traveling through Europe, educating and polishing the Johnson children, becoming fluent in languages, and discovering a way to support herself when inevitably she grew old: Those events had changed her life. She was not the same girl she had been, given to occasional storms of anger and frustration. She was not helpless anymore. She controlled her own destiny, and now Mr. Johnson trusted her with his family’s lives.
Taking the pistol, she hid it in her skirts. Nodded to him. “I’ll manage with one shot.”
“Good girl. Once we get to the city, we’ll be safe.” He patted her on the top of the head, his attention already back on the horses and men dragging the coach out of the way. “Keep your guard up. Around this place, the trees have eyes.”
Chapter Eight
The hotel lobby was warm, lofty, elegant, decorated with potted plants and vases with flowers, and with red carpet rolled from the door across the long marble floor to the elaborate polished wood desk. There, two men dressed in the height of fashion stood behind a leather book placed on a stand. They frowned, disapproving of this young, single woman who dared to breach their respectable establishment, but Victoria took no heed of their censure; in her two years spent traveling through Europe with the Johnsons, she had been forced to deal with a great many surly foreigners.As she walked between the two rows of pale pink marble columns, she glanced about her, examining the lush artwork, the stylish dining room through the broad arched doorway, the man standing on the bottom step of the curved stairs… .
It was him. Raul Lawrence.
Her gait slowed.
Bad luck. The worst. Impossibly bad. The first person of quality whom she viewed here could not be the one man she wished never to see again.
She was mistaken. That wasn’t Mr. Lawrence. The resemblance was striking, but … no. He did not look the same.
Good clothes: black trousers and black coat, carefully fitted, shining black boots, a formfitting white shirt. But his body: leaner through the hips, bulkier at the shoulders, in some indefinable way tougher … Long, dark hair pulled back in a severe style that bared his face.
Skin molded closely to the broad forehead, high cheekbones, firm chin.
It couldn’t be him. Mr. Lawrence had been a youth, angry and wild. This was a man, focused, intent.
Another glance, one that lingered this time.
But his lips … Ah, it must be Mr. Lawrence, for she remembered those lips only too well; they were as full and velvety-looking as before. And the way he watched her: head tilted down like a bull about to charge, his green eyes veiled, smoldering … and still promising sin.
She jerked her gaze away from his, faced forward, kept walking steadily toward the desk.
She should greet him. After all, it had been three years since their encounter, and he was her best friend’s brother.
But he had stared at her in a manner that bespoke a heated remembrance of those moments on the balcony, of the angry words they had exchanged.
She stopped at the desk.
The clerks looked down their noses at her. “Welcome to the Hôtel de Tonagra, Miss … ?”
She said crisply, “My employer, Mr. Johnson, sent his family ahead with me to check in.”
The noses became level. One man turned to pull a sheaf of paper from the shelves behind him. “Mr. Johnson and his family are here? Now?”
“Mrs. Johnson and the children are here. Mr. Johnson’s traveling coach was hit by a falling tree. You may wish to send help.” She viewed the two men coldly. “I am Miss Cardiff, their governess. The ladies are waiting at the door in the second coach. You may also wish to send assistance to them. They are badly shaken by the accident that so threatened their father.”
She wasn’t surprised to see the men jump into action.
She knew how to use her voice to force obedience out of hotel clerks across the continent. “The luggage coach is following close behind,” she added.
One man picked up a whistle and blew it twice.
Servants rushed from doors and cubbies toward the entrance and the waiting coach. There. Victoria had completed her mission for Mr. Johnson. Now to deal with Mr. Lawrence and his reaction to her— and her reaction to him. She hoped Mr. Lawrence didn’t carry a grudge.
Yes, that evening three years ago, she had been sharp-tongued in a manner that embarrassed her now. She had let her temper get the best of her in a way she had never done since. She had said things that, in the lonely, dark hours of the night, she had regretted.
But he had done things, too. Said things. Rude things.
Unforgivable things. Surely he remembered that— although in her experience, men were not fair in their recollections or their opinions.
Still, as she had walked into the Hôtel de Tonagra, she had effectively given him the cut direct. She hadn’t meant to. She had been so shaken by his unexpected appearance that the good manners she impressed on the Johnson girls had left her, and she … Well, she was rude.
Unacceptably rude.
She had herself under control now. She would nod to him as soon she turned, and smile politely. She would beg pardon, give the excuse that she was so shaken by the incident on the road and so involved in doing her duty, she had failed to note him.
He would pretend to believe her.
The incident would be over.
But when she turned toward the stairway, a man and a woman stood there, he in a green plaid suit, she in a rose satin gown, observing the bustle of the Johnsons’ arrival.
Victoria looked around the lobby, seeking that lone, dark-clad figure.
Raul Lawrence was nowhere in sight.
“Did you see that gentleman?” she asked the desk clerk. “The one who stood on the stairway when I walked in? He was tall, clad in black. He had long, dark hair and green eyes.”
The desk clerk scrutinized her as if she had spouted two heads. “Miss Cardiff, I have been observing the lobby all day, and have seen no one who fits that description.”
“No one?” She leveled her gaze at him. “Surely gentlemen in black suits are not so rare.”
“Here in Moricadia, our guests take the waters, party, gamble. They relax, and they dress accordingly.”
He glanced significantly at the colorful couple who had taken Mr. Lawrence’s place.
“Yes, but …” Other guests wandered in from the dining room, confirming his statement. Everyone, young and old, babbled cheerfully in different languages, wore bright, fashionable garb, and observed the Johnsons’ arrival with avid interest.
Mrs. Johnson appeared at the entrance and waved her handkerchief at Victoria. “Miss Cardiff! Miss Cardiff! Come at once. We need you to direct the servants.”
As Victoria hurried toward the family, she continued to look around.
But she could see no sign of Raul Lawrence.
Had she so thoroughly offended him?
Or had she imagined him after all?
Chapter Nine
Maude rushed into the suite Victoria shared with her charges, her cheeks bright with excitement.
“Father wishes you would come to help him.”
“Does he?” Victoria smiled at the pretty, plump girl with the carefully coiffed brown hair and the sparkling blue eyes. “Is he recovered from the accident?”
“You know Father. He’s fuming, but he’s healthy as a horse. He says he needs help with his figures.” Maude twirled the curl that rested on her shoulder. “You’ll put him into a good mood, won’t you?”
“I can’t promise that. But I will certainly assist him with his accounting.” Victoria nodded to the three maids who had unpacked under her direction. “Take our traveling clothes and have them cleaned and pressed, and have them returned by tomorrow morning.” She’d learned to be firm with the foreign chambermaids, give them time limits, or they took advantage of the foolish English tourists.
These girls curtsied and nodded, and the spokeswoman said, “Yes, Miss Cardiff. It will be as you say.”
Then, turning to the others, she translated … something.
Victoria hoped it was her message, but despite her gift with languages, she hadn’t been able to comprehend the Moricadian speech. She had thought it would be similar to Spanish or French, but instead it seemed distinct, not derived from Latin at all, but from some far older tongue, a language created when the world was young and all of mankind was primitive and savage.
Victoria stood, straightened her collar and cuffs, and prepared to attend Mr. Johnson. When she turned back to Maude, the girl was holding her needlework frame, ready to go. “You want to listen while your father and I do a stranger’s accounting?” Victoria asked. “When instead you could take your maid and explore this glorious hotel?”
“I like to spend time with my parents,” Maude said quickly.
Victoria sat back down. “All right, what’s going on?”
“Why would anything be going on?” Maude did innocence badly, and when Victoria continued to interrogate her with her gaze, Maude collapsed on the sofa.
“Oh, all right! There’s a ball.”
“When?”
“Tonight!”
“Where?”
“Here at the hotel. They have one here every Thursday night for their guests. Everyone comes and dances until the wee hours of the morning.” Victoria shook her head, but before she could speak, Maude rushed on.
“Oh, Miss Cardiff, this is our last stop. Next, we’re returning to England, and when that happens, I shall have to be that most boring of creatures, a debutante. I can’t have fun. I can’t dance with too much pleasure. I can’t talk knowledgably about my travels or drink wine or kiss a prince in the darkness. Because my father is an accountant, and
for me to marry well, I must be exemplary.
You know it’s true, Miss Cardiff. You know how dreadful it will be. I’m beautiful and I know it, and I will make a good match, I promise, but let me have one evening of champagne and laughter and dance. Just one, and I swear I’ll be good for the rest of my life.”
It was as if Maude spoke directly to Victoria’s heart.
A mere three years ago, Victoria had felt exactly this same way before a ball. She had given in to temptation, enjoyed a few hours of youthful joy, then … Ah, but there was no reason to think Maude’s desires would turn out to have the same consequences as her own.
Except … this country might soon suffer a revolution.
But Mr. Johnson said they were safe in the city, and he believed it. If he didn’t, they wouldn’t be here.
The question was— did Victoria agree with him? She had seen Raul Lawrence today; she knew she had. If he was in the heart of the city, if he was the center of the revolution, then they were in danger.
But he’d been here three years. What had he been doing in that time? Had he discovered that being mythical royalty was more difficult than he imagined? That leading a bunch of uneducated natives to overthrow their cruel overlords involved more than he planned?
Or had he discovered the good life— he certainly had been dressed well— and given up on his dream?
Seeing Victoria’s hesitation, Maude produced her ultimate argument. “I just want to dance with young, handsome men who are interested in me not because of my father’s money, but because I’m pretty! Is that such a crime?”
Victoria smiled. Trust Maude to make Victoria pointedly aware of the difference between them: Victoria had wanted freedom; Maude wanted to be admired because she was pretty. Still, who was Victoria to judge Maude to be more foolish?
“You may ask your father if he will consent to the ball.” Victoria rose again.
“And you’ll back me?” Maude jumped to her feet.
“The answer will be in the capable, loving hands of your parents,” Victoria said firmly.
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