“But you know you have influence on Father.”
Yes, the influence of a sensible woman on a man surrounded by flighty females. “Come. You know your father does not endure waiting well.”
Maude huffed in impatience, but she gathered up her needlework again and followed Victoria to Mr. Johnson’s suite. Victoria knocked.
Maude pushed the door open and barged right in.
The oppressively luxurious room included a large sitting room with a desk, a fireplace, and a comfortable grouping of chairs upholstered in embroidered black velvet. Beyond, the bedroom contained a velvet-curtained bed on a tall dais, a Persian rug, dark wood floors, and wallpaper so busy it made Victoria’s head swim.
Mr. Johnson observed her and grinned. “And they say I’m vulgar.”
“This is an interesting place,” Victoria said with careful neutrality.
“Bah. It’s decadent. I wouldn’t have brought the family if I’d realized.” He glared through lowered brows at Maude. “What do you want?”
“Nothing, Father, but to spend some time with you.”
With a curtsy, she took a chair next to her mother and pulled the needle out of her crewel, then took a stitch.
“What’s this about?” Mr. Johnson asked Victoria.
Book in hand, Effie poked her head out of the window seat. “She wants to go to the ball tonight.”
“What?” Mr. Johnson roared.
“Thank you very much, Effie tattletale.” Maude glared at her sister.
Effie made a moue of satisfaction and ducked her head back into the window seat.
“You are not going to go to some ball in some debauched foreign country where who knows what kind of reprobate will try to dance with you,” Mr. Johnson yelled.
“Don’t shout, dear,” Mrs. Johnson said placidly.
“I am not shouting!”
Victoria moved to the doorway of the bedroom, where the three maids clutched Mrs. Johnson’s gowns and cowered. “You might wish to hurry and put those clothes away so you can be gone.”
One maid, the one who spoke English, Victoria assumed, translated into rapid Moricadian, and the three started moving furiously to finish their task.
Victoria nodded in satisfaction, then returned to sit at the desk, where Mr. Johnson’s account books were open and waiting.
“We’re working-class people, but you have a chance to marry well, maybe even a title— if you have a sterling reputation.” Mr. Johnson was still roaring.
Maude, who was more like her father than she realized, stomped her foot. “Papa, I want to have fun now!”
Mr. Johnson’s color turned from ruddy to purple.
“Fun! That’s not what I want for my daughters!”
“There’s going to be music and dancing. And at midnight, a great buffet of fantastical food! And handsome men from all over the world!” Maude tossed her needlework aside. “Everyone’s going. I want to go, too!”
Mrs. Johnson continued to sew.
Victoria leafed through the pages, trying to understand why Mr. Johnson had been summoned to handle these accounts, whatever they were. It looked as if someone with a lot of wealth intended to transfer it all out of the country.
She looked back at the title page, trying to find the owner, but only a stylized sketch of a boar graced the page.
“Maude, why can’t you be more like Effie?” Mr.
Johnson gestured toward the window seat. “She doesn’t want to gallivant with strange men all night long!”
Mr. Johnson’s blatant and unflattering comparison brought Victoria around in her chair.
Maude’s face flushed an unattractive red and her resemblance to her father became marked.
Luckily, Effie slid out of the window seat and said,
“I’d like to go to the ball, too.”
Maude turned on her sister. “You can’t go. You’re only sixteen. And a tattletale!”
Mrs. Johnson placed her hand on Maude’s arm.
“Quiet, dear. Your father is thinking.”
He wasn’t thinking. He was floundering at this unexpected development. “You’re too young. It’s out of the question.”
“I’m too young in England, but I’m not too young here.” Effie so seldom asked for anything, she had the advantage here. “Please, Papa, I have that new gown you bought me in Venice, and if I don’t wear it soon, it will be out of fashion.”
“Horrors,” he muttered. His color had begun to subside.
The crisis was over for the day.
“Miss Cardiff,” he said, “you’re the only woman who has any sense in this room. What do you think? Should I allow the children to go to a ball in a strange country with a bunch of disreputable strangers?”
Victoria looked beyond Mr. Johnson to see Mrs.
Johnson concentrating on the needlework, and took her cue from Mrs. Johnson’s slow nodding of her head. “It’s not as if your daughters will be unchaperoned. I’ll be there caring for them every moment, and you and your lovely wife will also, I know, keep a watchful eye out.
Although perhaps you’ll have time for a turn around the room yourselves?”
He stared at her forbiddingly, then swung around to Mrs. Johnson. “I know what you’re doing. You women think you can handle me.”
“I don’t know what you mean, dear.” Mrs. Johnson sounded as absentminded as usual.
“All right, then, damn it. We’ll go.”
The girls jumped up and down and clapped their hands.
He turned on them and pointed a beefy finger. “But if I see you step one toe out of line— ”
Maude stopped her celebration at once. “No, Father, we’ll be absolutely perfect!”
He continued. “If Miss Cardiff has one complaint— ”
“She won’t, I promise.” Effie was still hopping on one foot.
He charged on. “We’ll come back to the rooms at once!”
“We know, Papa.” Maude grabbed Effie’s hand. “Let’s go tell the maids to iron our dresses.”
The girls started backing toward the door.
“You go ahead and work, Papa,” Effie said. “Miss Cardiff will help you.”
Right before they disappeared into the corridor, Maude said, “Who knows, Papa? Maybe we’ll find our prince at the ball.”
Mr. Johnson stood shaking his head and staring at the empty doorway. “What a couple of ninnyhammers I’ve raised.”
“That’s a natural dream for a young lady,” Mrs. Johnson said.
“And it’s not impossible,” Victoria said. “Today in the lobby, I saw Raul Lawrence, the son of the Viscount Grimsborough, and when he was in England, he claimed to be the true ruler of Moricadia.”
From the bedroom, they heard a crash .
Victoria came to her feet at the sound.
Mr. and Mrs. Johnson swiveled to face the door.
The maid stood there, the one who spoke English, a silver tray in hand, broken glassware and plates at her feet. She stared at Victoria in horror, then said, “Pardon.
I’m so stupid.” Dropping to her knees, she scooped up the broken pieces with her bare hands, cutting herself in her haste.
Victoria hurried to her. Kneeling beside the maid, she caught hold of the woman’s wrists. “Please. It’s not such a terrible accident. Don’t distress yourself so much.”
The maid, who was surely no more than twenty, seemed to take no comfort from that, but grew even more round eyed and upset.
“What’s your name?” Victoria asked.
“Amya,” the girl said.
“It was a silly mishap,” Victoria said, “and of no consequence.”
The other maids hurried over, clucking with distress as they cleaned up the mess.
Victoria wrapped her handkerchief around the girl’s bleeding fingers. “I swear, this is no reason to be unhappy. Mr. Johnson will pay the expenses.” Victoria glanced at Mr. Johnson.
He nodded his agreement.
“If there’re any repercussions, please, we�
��ll help you.”
Amya nodded repeatedly.
But she trembled under Victoria’s grip, and Victoria worried what the hotel would do that the girl was so frightened. “Amya, you mustn’t worry so much. Mr.
Johnson will protect you.”
“I am not worried for myself, Miss Cardiff, but for you.” Amya’s concerned eyes filled with tears.
“For me?” Victoria was puzzled. “But why?”
“You know … so much. I wonder— how soon can you leave Moricadia?”
Chapter Ten
Among the tumult and dust of the horse race, Raul Lawrence stood absolutely still, watching, waiting for Halcón Guerra to make his move. The colt was in his prime, a beast of unimaginable speed. The Welsh jockey knew his animal, rode him with an artistry that took every scornful European jockey by surprise.
And the horse would lose, because Raul decreed it so.
It wasn’t yet time to win.
Almost. But not quite.
Raul could see Dafydd holding Halcón Guerra back, handling him with a delicate care that sympathized and promised at the same time. The jockey kept the colt in check until the last second, then allowed him to leap ahead to finish second.
“Ahh.” In the box beside Raul, Baron Halse Huber grunted with pleasure. “My horse beat yours once again.
Perhaps you’ll see your way to selling the colt to me …
for two thousand guineas.”
Raul smiled and bowed to the portly German. “My price is seven thousand guineas.”
Baron Huber snorted. “I say. Are you insane? That price for a Thoroughbred that has never fulfilled his potential?”
“He will, and then the price won’t be so low.”
The baron brayed with laughter. “Would you care to bet on that?”
Raul covered his face with his hand; then, when he knew he had control of his expression, he pushed his hair out of his eyes. “As you wish, Baron, but do not say I didn’t warn you.” He gestured the man who recorded the wagers over, and took on not only the baron, but every other monied fool who believed he knew his way around the racetrack.
Raul had warned them all that Halcón Guerra would win, more than once.
They all laughed.
So when the time came, they would get what they deserved. Perhaps next time, they would recognize the better gambler— but probably not. Fools who bet against a professional gambler were, after all, where Raul made the bulk of his fortune.
Raul caught sight of his majordomo as Thompson stepped into the stands, and he tensed.
What was Thompson doing here? Grimsborough’s former butler had made the transition to being Raul’s right-hand man, organizing his home, his accounts, his servants, and the very, very constant task of maintaining security. For in this country ostensibly ruled by Prince Sandre, the dreaded secret police pried and prodded into every attic, every bedroom, every lovers’ tryst, and Raul guarded too many secrets to ever rest easy.
“Baron, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me? It appears the message from my mistress has arrived.” Raul smiled and bowed, and moved to meet Thompson. Clapping his hand to the man’s shoulder, he walked with him toward the stables, and when they were out of the crowds, he asked, “What has happened?”
The last three years had been good for Thompson.
He had discovered an affinity for intrigue and a love for the mountains and forests of Raul’s homeland. He still dressed like the stiffest of butlers, but it was now a disguise. In the high mountain air where intrigue ruled their lives, he had blossomed from a mere servant into one of Raul’s most important weapons in the upcoming fight. He spied, he rode, he schemed. He had grown strong and tough. He was the man to whom the people came with information, and now, in a low voice, he said,
“One of the maids from the Hôtel de Tonagra walked all the way to the castle.”
The journey was eight miles, not a far distance, but the road was rough and the climb steep. For that reason, Raul had chosen it for his home base— it was close to the capital city that he needed to conquer, yet when he chose, they could make the way very, very difficult for a force to move on them.
But Thompson’s tone made it clear the maid had made the trip for a reason, and so he asked, “Why?”
“She said an English lady, very beautiful, had seen you and claimed that you were purported to be the true king of Moricadia.”
Raul didn’t stumble, didn’t show any exterior sign of stress. But he knew the truth. Victoria Cardiff, foe, friend of his sister, and one hell of a kisser, had seen him, recognized him.
And he had recognized her.
He shouldn’t have. Victoria Cardiff had not been on his mind the last three years. He’d been busy: returning to Moricadia, locating his family, establishing his credentials with the de Guignards , finding the castle he would use as his home base, becoming the gambler to beat in the casinos. Women had not been a concern; he had used them as covers for his activities and to maintain his image.
He had no time for serious romance; he had a duty to his heritage, to his dead grandfather and his dead mother, and to the country. He took those duties seriously.
Then … there she was, Miss Victoria Cardiff, walking into the hotel. He had never in his wildest imaginings thought to see her there. How was it even possible?
When he left England, she had been going to attend the Distinguished Academy of Governesses so she could teach children or some such ghastly duty. Probably catch the eye of some young banker and decide marriage was less onerous than work, marry the banker, have his children … Of course, the husband would be boring, a bad lover, an indifferent conversationalist, the kind of man who was shocked by his wife’s hidden passions, and, being Victoria, she would put poison in his tea.
If he had thought about Victoria Cardiff at all, and he hadn’t, that would have been the fate he imagined for her.
Instead, he strode through the lobby of the best hotel in Tonagra and saw her, and like it or not, he remembered the way she looked, the way she moved, the way she kissed… .
In an instant, his focus shifted from conquering Moricadia … to conquering Victoria. He became a predator, all instinct and dominance, hunting the woman who had escaped him once.
She would not escape him again. Because she had come into his territory. She was his.
Chapter Eleven
But Raul had goals— to bring down the de Guignards, free his people, and establish his family in their rightful place as the rulers of Moricadia. It was too dangerous for him to claim Victoria, for if he did … she would distract him.
He knew that. He hated that. It was why, after seeing her at the Hôtel de Tonagra, he had disappeared behind one of the hotel’s massive flower arrangements … and watched her.
She had not so much lost her youthful dewiness as subdued it with a severe hairstyle, a painfully plain gown, a mousy hat, and an expression meant to frighten the unwary. And the way she spoke to the desk clerks, like a barrage of bullets ripping holes in their composures. She was in training to become a severe old woman in wire-rimmed glasses, with a tight line for a mouth.
But beneath her traveling cape, he caught glimpses of her figure— the lush breasts contained by some torturous device, the tiny waist he remembered spanning in his hands. He supposed he’d touched many women who were equally repressed and equally wellendowed, yet none whom he cared to save from a spinster’s fate.
Victoria Cardiff had been a beautiful challenge before, one the youthful Raul knew he could easily vanquish.
Today, only a seasoned man could see beyond the masks she wore and tear them aside.
Only Raul could find the heart of this woman.
In a low tone, Thompson asked, “Sir? About the maid?”
Raul focused on Thompson, and with equal care to any who might be listening, he said,“Is she one of ours?”
“Never before, but she knew the truth about you. She knew where to come to deliver the message.” Thompson looked grim.
“Word is getting around. My return has become more than a rumor. We knew it would.” In two months, as the leaves turned to gold, they would make their move. Raul would take back his country. Inevitably, as the army gathered, more and more people learned their intentions, and the chances of the de Guignards ’ discovering the truth were growing greater and greater. The longer they could put that off, the better. But …
“The maid’s report— it might be a trap,” Thompson said.
“No, no trap. The truth. Victoria knows Belle. She knows me. She’s heard my story.”
Thompson had known nothing about Miss Cardiff— no one knew— and he’d never seen a woman truly concern Raul one way or another, and he stood still in astonishment. He then hurried to catch up. “You remember her? From your sister’s party?”
“As do you, apparently.”
“I remember every person who attended any function in your father’s house. It was my job, sir, as it is my job now to watch your back.” Ah. No matter how informal Raul’s household was when compared to Grimsborough’s, Thompson would never lose his starch.
“I thank you for that.”
Always, Thompson focused on the issue at hand. “Do you believe Miss Cardiff’s comment was malicious?”
“Not at all. In my father’s house, she took care to assure me she dismissed my claims to royal blood.”
“Good heavens,” Thompson said blankly. “I had no idea any woman was ever rude to you.”
“Yes, well, Miss Cardiff was the first. And the last.” At the memory, a small smile played around Raul’s mouth.
“What do you want me to do about her?” Thompson asked.
“First, transport the maid back to the hotel.”
“To watch and listen.”
“Exactly.”
They entered the cool, dim stables. The familiar smells of leather, of straw, of warm horseflesh and horse manure filled Raul’s head. Wherever they were, the stables were his home. “How long will Miss Cardiff be in the city?”
“A week, maybe more. Her employer is acting for one of our nobles, transferring cash out of the country.”
“Who?” Raul paused, well back from the stall where Dafydd groomed Halcón Guerra.
Taken by the Prince Page 6