by Randol, Anna
Sins of a Wicked Princess
Anna Randol
Dedication
To everyone who couldn’t wait for Ian’s story
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
About the Author
Romances by Anna Randol
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Ian Maddox watched the backs of the other two members of the Trio as they strode from Sir James Glavenstroke’s office. Their little merry group of spies had been officially disbanded. Now that Napoleon was dead, the Foreign Office wanted nothing to do with three former convicts—no matter how perfectly trained.
Both Clayton and Madeline, the other members of his team, had been shocked by the news. Madeline had even been hurt.
And no one hurt Madeline.
Ian waited until his two friends were out of sight before opening the door to old Glaves’s office again. Despite everything they’d endured, the other two spies had never been stripped of the nobility that held them together at their very core.
Ian, on the other hand, had never been burdened with it to begin with.
Glavenstroke choked on a mouthful of brandy when he spotted Ian. “What are you doing here? I’ve said all that needs to be said.”
Ian suspected the man liked to think of himself as the father of the Trio. But Ian didn’t doubt he’d slit their throats if he deemed it expedient. Or rather, he’d order some poor idiot to forfeit his life attempting it.
Ian lowered himself into the leather chair across from Glavenstroke, propped his boots up on the desk, and picked up a glass of brandy, downing it in one gulp. The aged French liquor was worth more than the entire stipend received by the Trio for their ten years of service.
“What do you want, Wraith?”
Ah, Glavenstroke was nervous, then. He never called Ian by his completely dashing and thoroughly apt spy name unless he was afraid.
Good. He should be.
“I’m not a fool, correct?” Ian asked.
Glavenstroke’s eyes narrowed but he shook his head.
“Lovely. I was hoping you’d concur. That makes this much simpler. Perhaps you could tell me why I’m supposed to believe you’ll let the three spies who know England’s dirtiest secrets waltz away free.”
Glavenstroke’s head jerked like a horse fighting a bit. “You’ve proven your loyalty. I could do no less.”
“Perhaps you could, Glaves. But I suspect some of your friends will soon think better of it.”
The older man’s face reddened. “What are you suggesting?”
“When the time comes to tidy up all the loose bits at the Foreign Office, the Trio will never be mentioned.”
“Of course not. Everyone is grateful—”
Ian crossed his ankles, then reached down to flick a spot of mud from his boots. “You see, my dear mentor, I won’t tolerate it.”
“Now, listen here! I saved you from Newgate—”
“Truly, Glaves? After all this time it hasn’t occurred to you that I was still in that prison cell because I chose to be?”
“You seemed more than eager to grasp my offer when I tendered it.”
“Indeed. It seemed useful. And it was. The chance to refine my skills. Refine my mannerisms. My language. And learn all those undetectable ways to kill a man . . .”
Glavenstroke surged to his feet and planted his hands on the desk. “You have the gall to threaten me?”
“No, no. Not at all. This is simply an assurance that anyone sent after me will die bathed in their own blood.” Ian stood and poured himself another glass.
“But surely you’re loyal—”
Ian lifted the glass in a toast. “I am loyal to the Trio.” He picked up the decanter. Might as well take the whole thing. “Anyone who threatens us will die. Painfully. Make sure you spread that helpful little morsel of gossip around.”
Chapter One
“We named her Juliana after you, of course, Your Highness.” The apple-cheeked woman peeled the red, angry infant out of a huge cocoon of blankets and thrust her forward.
Princess Juliana Castanova refused to turn her head to see her aunt Constantina make another tick on the back of her fan. That made the third new baby Juliana this week and the tenth this month. If she ever did manage to regain her country and return home with her fellow exiles, there’d be some confused schoolteachers.
Yet Juliana dutifully accepted the crying creature and kissed her on the cheek. When the crying suddenly ceased, all the gathered courtiers gasped and applauded.
Juliana suspected the baby’s reaction had to do with being freed from far too many blankets in the stifling reception room, but as her aunts constantly counseled her—her people had been deprived of a country, she’d be a beast to deprive them of their monarch as well. So she smiled as if her royal blood gave her some sort of divine power over infants.
Then she quickly passed the child back.
The clock in the hall tolled the hour, signaling the end of the public audience. The rest of the hopeful supplicants were herded out the doors until next week. Not that they’d have much more luck then. Smiles, she could give. Money was in much shorter supply.
After the collapse of the monarchy in Lenoria twelve years ago, the Castanovas had been stripped of everything but their personal holdings—which weren’t considerable: a single mountain chateau and a hunting lodge on Lake Tuire. The prince regent had granted Juliana a yearly stipend when she and her younger brother fled to London. Thankfully, he’d also gifted them with this house. Otherwise, there’d be no way she could support the fifty loyal Lenorian servants who’d fled with her.
What little extra money she had was used to support Lenorian citizens in London, but there was never enough.
Juliana longed to flop in a chair and bury her head in her hands, but a princess did neither of those things. So instead she glided over to where her three great-aunts sat to the left of Juliana’s oversized and less-than-comfortable throne.
Constantina, the youngest of the three elderly women, pursed her lips as she studied the back of her fan. “Drat! That brings the total to thirty so far this year. I believe I owe you a quid. Although you’ll have to wait until next quarter for me to pay. I spent the last of my money on a new collar for Lulu. His old one was becoming terribly tarnished.” Sh
e stroked the rotund ferret curled in a basket by her chair.
Leucretia tapped a finger to her rouged, bloodred lips. Although she was the eldest sister—she’d been the twin of Juliana’s grandfather—she still dyed her hair raven black and kept the long plaits wrapped around her head. “Shall we double the wager? I say we won’t make it to one hundred Julianas by the end of the year.”
“Done! I say our Juliana has great things in store this year and will far exceed everyone’s expectations.”
If only Juliana could believe that. The Congress of Vienna was over, and her country had been divided between the Spanish and the French. The only thing that kept Lenoria temporarily intact was the lack of Juliana’s signature on the treaty.
Which she refused to give.
Yet both countries had vowed to go to war if Juliana tried to reclaim her throne.
So now she sat in London like a ninny while she tried her best to figure out a solution.
Leucretia lifted a sculpted brow. “That is possible. But there are only so many Lenorians of childbearing age in England.”
Eustace sighed at her two sisters. “You should not speak of childbearing in front of Juliana. It isn’t proper.”
Leucretia snorted. “All the babies she kisses must come from somewhere.”
Eustace’s crinoline gown crinkled as she stiffened. Her nostrils flared but she refused to argue. “You must hurry and change, Juliana. Monsieur Dupre will be here in less than an hour to continue your portrait.”
“Am I truly necessary?” Juliana asked. The portrait Dupre painted flowed almost entirely from his own imagination. It looked nothing like her.
But all three of her aunts stared at her with equal expressions of shock.
“Of course you are,” Eustace said, her jowls quivering. “Even if Prince Augustus doesn’t express interest in you, perhaps one of the other Hapsburgs might. Or if not them, I hear Czar Alexander has a second cousin we haven’t approached yet. Of course he is only ten.”
Juliana had discussed this topic far too many times to blush at her aunts’ frank examination of her lack of marital prospects. It was hardly her fault the options were so few. They needed a prince that wasn’t French or Spanish so she could gain his country’s support in her effort to regain her throne.
But strangely, she was finding it rather difficult to find someone willing to marry a poor, plain princess without a claim to her country.
“Gregory said Prince Wilhelm will be attending a house party at some duke’s country estate. We should all attend.” Constantina held down a portion of biscuit to her pet, who sniffed at it once before returning to sleep.
“Gregory is back?” Juliana asked.
Leucretia stood. She always managed to look far more regal than Juliana ever could. “And avoiding you, apparently.”
Which meant her brother was most likely in trouble or about to become so. “Which duke is hosting the party?”
Constantina had to think. Dukes were on about the same par as chimney sweeps in her mind. She never bothered to keep track.
“The Duke of Sommet?” Juliana asked.
Constantina nodded happily. “It’s been ages since we went to a grand party.”
Blast Gregory. Why couldn’t this house have a dungeon? She’d told him to stay away from Sommet. Her brother was convinced Lenoria had fallen through the meddling of outside forces. Juliana agreed. But while she’d become rather obsessed with uncovering the conspirators responsible, Gregory was far more eager to band with anyone who promised an immediate restoration to power.
Juliana knew Sommet only slightly from the Congress of Vienna, but he was a man of grandiose promises and velvet threats. He liked to think himself a man of influence. But Juliana had found he abused his influence over those weaker than himself.
Like Gregory.
Juliana had no desire to spend any time at his party. “Isn’t Prince Wilhelm fifty?”
Eustace sniffed. “Forty-five. But my own dear Albert was fifty-three when I married him.” And he’d died three years later, leaving Eustace to mourn him for the past fifty years. Not something Juliana wanted to replicate.
“Let’s try Prince Augustus first.” He, at least, was her age, even if the most flattering reports of him called him a sniveling pudding of a man. “And I’d better change if I’m to meet with Dupre.” Juliana picked up her skirts and hurried as elegantly as she could from the room before her aunts tried to change her mind. If she didn’t adore them so much, she might be able to better resist their advice. But as it was, they were so well-intentioned she had a difficult time denying them anything.
The corridor was only slightly cooler than the air in the reception room, but Juliana would take any reprieve she could get. After glancing around to ensure no one was watching, she tugged at her heavy velvet bodice. London wasn’t the best place to be in July. If the invitation to the house party had been from anyone else, she might have accepted, simply to escape the smell of the city.
Juliana retained only select memories of Lenoria, but she did remember there was always a breeze in the summer. And the air smelled of flowers and rain, not of soot and refuse.
A familiar dark head appeared then disappeared around the corner ahead. “Gregory!”
There was a long enough pause that she was certain her brother had decided to run away—in which case she’d have to give chase, even knowing the scolding her aunts would give her once they heard.
But then Gregory reappeared. He didn’t slump—he’d been raised by the same aunts, after all—but he did avoid her gaze. “Juliana. I was just going out.”
“It can wait.”
“No, it—”
Juliana lifted a regal eyebrow and her brother silenced. Being the ruler of an almost nonexistent country did have some advantages. “I hear you have been spending time with Sommet.”
Gregory flushed and brushed a heavy lock of his chestnut hair from his eyes. “He has plans to help restore Lenoria.”
“Plans that involve plotting without the consent of the current ruler of Lenoria?”
Her brother scowled, making him seem far younger than his twenty years. “What choice do I have when the current ruler won’t do anything to reclaim the country? It’s been almost two years since the war ended. We were supposed to be home by now.”
Juliana flinched, but she wouldn’t let her brother goad her. “Sommet is a manipulator and a liar.”
Gregory’s tone turned pleading. “You don’t know him like I do. His plan will work. By winter, we could be back in Lenoria. You could finally be taking care of your people. Do you think the Spanish or the French will take care of them?”
“How dare you.” Sommet might be able to manipulate Gregory with his lies, but she refused to be manipulated as well. “I give everything to my people. I spend every minute of every day agonizing over each one of them.”
“Agonizing isn’t the same as acting. And since you aren’t the ruler of anything, I don’t know why I’m listening to you.”
He strode past her down the corridor.
“Gregory.”
But he didn’t glance back.
Juliana yanked out the pins securing her heavy gold crown in place and tugged it off as she walked the few remaining feet to her room. Not feeling any less suffocated, she tossed it on her bed. “Darna?”
Her maid was nowhere in sight. Juliana knew she should sit quietly and wait for her to return. But she wanted out of the blasted gown. Curse Gregory anyway.
She was acting. She was just acting cautiously. Acting rashly for the sake of action would be worse than no action at all.
Wouldn’t it?
She reached behind her and fumbled with the buttons. Her aunts wouldn’t allow her to wear the dress again regardless. Apparently, being seen in the same dress twice would cause her subjects to lose faith in her ability to rule or some such nonsense.
You are Lenoria now, Leucretia would say. Make her glorious.
The buttons refused to come un
done. Normally she would have given up and waited for her maid, but instead, she grabbed one corner of the closure on the back of her dress and yanked.
Two pearl buttons popped loose and rolled across the floor. She glared at them, then peeled her bodice down, tugged out of the sleeves, and wrestled with the rest of the dress. The fabric was so stiff that when she tossed it on the floor, it sat there full and awkward before slowly deflating.
She kicked it once for good measure.
“Perhaps I should announce my presence before you get more naked,” a low, rumbling voice announced. “Or violent.”
She stumbled back with a shriek as a man stepped from beside her wardrobe. He was tall and broad. Handsome. Dark-haired and scarred.
And suddenly at her side with an agility a man his size shouldn’t possess.
Before she could take a breath to scream, his hand clamped over her mouth and his other arm wrapped around her waist, sealing her to the hard wall of his chest.
Chapter Two
Ian was slightly frustrated. And not from the surprisingly soft feminine form writhing against him.
No one had told him the princess was insane. Not that it surprised him. Half the royals in Europe were stark raving barmy. A little too much cooing in the same nest.
But the intelligence he gathered was usually flawless. He’d been told that Princess Juliana was formal, cold, and plain.
None of those words applied to this woman.
Her hair was brown. That much, at least, his sources had gotten right. But he’d been told her eyes were brown, not the color of burnished copper. Her face was perhaps a trifle narrow, but the sharp angles of her cheekbones lent it elegance.
And when she’d ripped the dress from her body . . . He smiled at the memory. One of the best things about being a dishonorable scoundrel was that he didn’t have to feel guilty about that entertainment.
All of his leads pointed to this woman. Over the past two years, someone had betrayed the true identities of the members of the Trio to their worst enemies. The betrayer had covered her tracks well. But eventually they had all led here.