Julian shook his head. “He couldn’t help himself.”
“But—” She broke off, then waved a hand and looked away. “I can’t . . .” She hauled in a breath and, lifting her head, continued without looking at him. “I’m still finding it hard to . . . accept that, for all these years, while I’ve been imagining you the villain, it was him all along.”
Julian frowned. “You suspected?”
“Not him.” She laughed harshly. “Never him. But some of my jewelry—it’s paste, not real. Even some of what used to be real is now paste.” She glanced at Julian. “I thought he’d used the jewels to pay your debts, perhaps thinking that I would never notice the difference in the stones, and that in his mind that was better than drawing from the estate—” Her breath hitched and she swung away. “Oh, you needn’t tell me—I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been.”
He didn’t have time for hysterics, even of this sort. “Caroline—if I’m to avert financial catastrophe, I need to act quickly.”
She cast him a bitter glance. “According to Minchinbury and Draper, I have no choice but to allow you to do whatever you wish, not if I want to continue to live here in comfort with Henry, or for my son to have any kind of future at all.”
This was the downside of the older men’s well-intentioned interference. “In that, they’re correct, but what they didn’t make clear was that for my plan to succeed, you, too, need to play a part. And for that, you need to know what the plan is.”
Caroline considered him for a long moment, then settled on her feet facing him, arms tightly folded, and nodded. “All right. Tell me your plan.”
She didn’t sit, much less invite him to. So he stood and told her his plan.
When he’d finished, she stared all but openmouthed at him.
After a minute ticked by, he baldly asked, “Well? Will you do your part? Play the role you obviously have to play to carry the fiction off?”
She blinked, stared again. “I . . . don’t understand.”
His temper was getting the better of him. “It’s a simple enough question. Will you—”
“No, not that. I . . .” She lowered her arms and drew a huge breath. She paused for a second, then, her gaze on his face, said, “You’re proposing to sacrifice yourself. Why? That’s what I don’t understand—what I don’t trust. If I accept this plan of yours and actively support it, I’ll be placing myself, and even more my son and his future, in utterly insurmountable debt to you.”
He thought, then nodded. “True.”
She laughed, a broken, discordant sound, and turned away.
“Caroline.” By main force, he kept his tone even, calm. “Are you really proposing to let your pride dictate your actions even now, and to reject my help?”
She glanced at him, met his eyes.
A distant, high-pitched shriek reached him—a sound of happiness, not despair. Glancing through the window, he saw his sisters and Henry come out of the wood. They’d been for a walk and were returning, Millie and Cassie swinging a delighted Henry between them. He was only three; the reality of his father’s death hadn’t yet touched him. Two footmen and a nursemaid followed behind, talking quietly while they watched over the foursome.
Julian looked at Caroline. He was much taller; she couldn’t see what he could.
Although tempted to grasp her arm and haul her across, he beckoned to her and stepped closer to the window. “You want to know why I’m doing this?” When she joined him, he pointed at the group below. “That’s why. None of the four down there—hell, none of the seven—have done anything to deserve the future they will have if I don’t act to fix this. And there is only one way.”
He watched her watching her son and let that sink in.
After a moment, she moistened her lips and more quietly asked, “No other way?”
He hesitated, then said, “The Delbraith curse got the family into this. It’s only right that the Delbraith curse get us out of it again.”
“But at what cost?”
“Regardless of the cost. And, ultimately, that’s my decision to make, not yours.”
She continued watching for a moment more, then her features firmed and she nodded. “All right. I agree. I’ll do whatever I have to to . . . shore up the situation.”
One hurdle down. He drew breath, metaphorically girded his loins, and approached the next, the even higher and more thorny one. “Speaking of the curse, I have one stipulation which is entirely nonnegotiable. In return for acting as I must to save the family—yourself and Henry included—you will ensure that Henry knows the truth about his father’s death, that it’s never hidden from him.”
“What?” Caroline swung to face him. “You can’t be serious! He’s a baby—”
“Not now, obviously. I mean as soon as he’s old enough to know—to ask. Because he will. I don’t want you hiding the curse from him.” He held her gaze. “I’m not doing what I’m about to do only to have you encourage him to think he’s immune to the curse and so throw everything away the instant he reaches his majority.” She opened her mouth. Julian pointed a finger at her nose and spoke first. “What’s more, when I come to visit, as his guardian I’ll expect to meet him, to talk with him. You can be present if you wish, but I will speak with him.”
Caroline’s face set. “No. I won’t have you—”
“Caroline.” The steel in his voice cut her off. He held her gaze and ruthlessly stated, “Neither you nor Mama saw the curse in George. Try to ‘protect’ Henry, and you’ll make the same mistake Mama made with George. The curse will still bite, but he’ll hide it. If he does, you won’t see it. I will because I know what to look for—and I assure you that with Henry, I’ll be watching.” He searched her eyes. “Understand this—the curse is real. It’s an inherited disease—if Henry gets help, the right help, it can be managed. Pretend it’s not there and it will eat him alive, just as it did George.”
“And what about you?” Caroline produced a credible sneer. “Is your addiction so well managed then?”
He was silent for a moment, then said, “As things stand, my addiction is what’s going to stand between you and Henry and the poorhouse. Think about that before you dismiss my use of it. Also as things stand, I’m the only one living who has personal experience of the curse—who knows what Henry will face as he grows, who knows the tricks of dealing with the compulsion.” He paused for a moment, his eyes locked with hers, then more quietly said, “I know this is hard for you to accept, but as matters stand, I am Henry’s only hope for a future, both financially and personally.”
Until he’d said the words, he hadn’t realized how true they were—how much responsibility he was taking on.
Not that it mattered; in this he had no choice.
When Caroline said nothing, simply chewed her lower lip and looked shaken and lost, he stepped back and turned to the door. With his hand on the knob, he paused, then glanced back at her. “Don’t risk your son, Caroline—if you want to keep him safe, you’ll do exactly as I’ve said.”
She swung to face the window and didn’t reply.
Julian opened the door and left.
Half an hour later, having bid good-bye to his sisters and his small nephew, Julian tooled his phaeton down the long drive, then whipped up his horses and headed for London.
In the small hours of the morning, he drew rein outside the stables near his lodgings. Handing over the ribbons to a sleepy stable lad, Julian walked slowly out into the street.
Sinking his hands into his greatcoat pockets, through the quiet darkness, he strolled toward Duke Street, and finally allowed himself to think of what he was about to do, something he’d refused to dwell on during the long journey; the activity smacked too much of a dying man’s last thoughts.
Reaching his lodgings, he climbed the steps, put his key to the lock, and opened the door.
Stepping inside, he shut the door.
And his life as Lord Julian Delbraith was, quite simply, no more.
The
Treaty of the Kingdoms of Fire & Ice, Or,
THE IMPOSTER BRIDE
Gaelen Foley
Prince Tor of Rydalburg threw down his sword, chest heaving, his face streaked with dried blood and black powder. The din of battle still rang in his ears. The smell of cannon fire clung to his sweat-drenched uniform, and his shoulder ached from wielding the weapon for countless hours. But he had fulfilled his task. Another war won.
“What are you waiting for? Call the attack!” cried King Hakon. “Don’t just stand there. Finish them!”
“They are finished, Father. What more do you want me to do? I’ve already cut off their general’s bloody leg. Trust me. I know this foe. They are defeated,” he said wearily. “They just need a moment to let that fact sink in.” He couldn’t even remember the cause of this particular episode of the long-standing conflict between the neighboring kingdoms of Rydalburg and Saardova.
But his father was, predictably, unsatisfied. The older man, slightly shorter and much stouter than he, sent Tor a glare, then marched over to the artillery captain and pointed past the groaning southern army spread out across the plain below them. “Aim for the city,” he instructed. “I want nothing left of their capital but rubble—”
“Belay that order,” Tor clipped out sharply.
His father turned to him in shock. “What did you say?”
“There is no need for this. There are women and children in that city, Father.”
“You lack the killer instinct of your ancestors, son. Let me show you how it’s done.”
“Sire, hear me out! Saving face is everything to the Saardovans. If we humiliate them with destruction of their city on top of defeat, they will opt for a proud but senseless death over surrender.” Then he snorted. “They likely would’ve quit all this by now if it weren’t for their stupid hothead, Prince Orsino.”
“So?” His father scoffed. “Let them fight. We will pound them into dust. Now, give the order to the gun-crews.”
“I will not, sir.”
“How dare you defy me?” His father stepped closer, fixing him with a pugnacious glare despite the fact that he was half a foot shorter than Tor. “I gave you an order! I am your father and your King!”
“And I am your successor, and when you’re dead, I would like there to be something left for me to rule. Besides,” he added calmly, “why would I break a vase I’m about to own?”
“What?” Hakon furrowed his brow, turning as Tor moved past him to gaze out across the bloodied plain.
“Be happy, Sire,” he murmured. “I’m about to double the size of our holdings.”
“How do you intend to do that?”
“By marrying the Princess of Saardova.” He beckoned for the messenger, then put together a small contingent to ride out for a parley. “The price of my mercy.”
All that had been three months ago, and now, here they were, on the morning the wedding caravan was to set out from the lush, exotic capital of sensual Saardova, a place full of mystery and whimsy, kissed by ocean breezes.
So he’d heard. His bride was expected to arrive by tonight. Tor wanted the marriage treaty sealed up by tomorrow. Not the most romantic way of looking at his pending nuptials, perhaps, but then, unseemly emotionalism was the domain of the Saardovans.
Sentimentality was promptly beaten out of young Rydalburg children before they reached puberty. They were a warrior people of Viking origin, long since settled in their little corner of the Alps. Disciplined, hard, matter-of-fact. This practical nature had allowed King Hakon to come around to Tor’s plan once the old chieftain’s rage had puttered out.
He still fumed a little now and then about it. “A mistress, yes, but I can’t believe you’re willing to marry some sleazy southern belly dancer.”
“Now, Sire, that is no way to speak about my future wife. They say the Princess Giulietta is a great beauty.”
And a great pain in the arse, Tor admitted to himself, but he did not say it aloud.
No need to bait his father.
Besides, he was not surprised in the least by what his spies had reported. All Saardovans were famously temperamental, as fiery as they liked their food. With her royal blood, Princess Giulietta had apparently got a larger-than-usual dose of lowland spice in her nature. She was rumored to be notoriously difficult, manageable only by her chief lady-in-waiting, Minerva de Messina, the daughter of the very general whose leg he had cut off in the heat of battle.
Tor winced slightly. No doubt he had made a sworn enemy of this young woman, who was universally respected in her city as a model of womanly dignity and virtue. Or at least, what passed for virtue among that race of seducers.
He had been weighing the possible cost in girlish tantrums that he might pay if he forbade Giulietta from bringing her best friend to Rydalburg, but then his spies had told him there was no need for concern.
Lady Minerva would not be accompanying the princess to her new home. Oddly enough, she had been accepted as the first female ever allowed to enroll in the University of Saardova. Tor shrugged off this bizarre notion.
All that mattered to him was that the lady scholar was staying behind. He did not need a sworn enemy in the palace undermining him with his new bride.
Rumor had it that Lady Minerva was the only one who could keep a rein on the rebellious princess, her junior by a couple of years, but no matter. Giulietta would quickly learn how to behave herself properly once she got here.
His sister, Princess Katarina, a maiden as pure as the winter snows, would help to make a lady of her. Tor himself was also prepared to be a good, calm influence on his spoiled Saardovan bride, for nothing ever really moved him.
His own nature was cool and controlled. Let her rail away; tears; yelling; it did not signify. She might come to hate him. In fact, from what he heard, she already did. But he did not particularly care.
What mattered was that the war was over. He had expanded his territory and ended the strain it put on his people. As for this marriage, why, it was only a tool of political expediency.
No doubt it was not what Giulietta’s girlish heart and overemotional southern nature would have hoped for, but too bad. All that unseemly romantic rot was the purview of slimy Saardovans like her brother, Prince Orsino.
Falling in love? Rydalburg warriors like Tor scoffed at the notion.
It was as absurd as a female attending university.
“I know, daughter, this was not what you had envisioned for your life. But the House of Messina will always do its duty.”
“Yes, Papa,” Minerva quietly agreed.
Her father laid his hands tenderly on her shoulders and gazed down into her soulful brown eyes.
General Farouk de Messina, commander of Saardova’s beaten army, had lost a leg to Rydalburg along with the battle. But the keenest loss of all was at hand. They both knew disaster was the likely result if she did not go with her flighty royal friend.
A rare tear glistened in the general’s one good eye. (The other was covered by the eye patch.) “Defeat is bitter enough without also having to say farewell to my little girl,” he said abruptly, lurching forward on his peg leg to embrace her.
Minerva hugged him back, squeezing her eyes shut against her tears. “All will be well, Papa,” she tried to comfort him, knowing how much he blamed himself for everything. “No one could have led our forces better against those barbarians. We were outnumbered, and besides, they had the high ground. Wave after wave of those terrible cavalry charges . . .” She shuddered. “What infantry could withstand them? But at least now our people will have peace.”
“As long as Her Highness can bear to do her duty.”
Pulling back, Minerva smiled fondly at the old, sun-weathered soldier. “Don’t worry, Papa. If I have to drag Giulietta up to the altar myself, I will not let anything disrupt your treaty with the Horse Danes. Not even the tantrums of the most spoiled princess in the Mediterranean,” she added in a confidential whisper.
“Go. Before I refuse to part
with you.”
“I love you, Papa.”
“And I you.” With tears in his eyes, he kissed her on the forehead then released her and sent her on her way.
Minerva drew her silken scarlet veil across the lower half of her face and headed for the door.
She paused in the doorway, however, glancing back uncertainly. For a moment, facing the prospect of being an exile, forced to dwell in enemy territory far from home, she feared her heart might break.
“What is it?” her father asked. “Did you forget to pack something?”
“Oh, Papa,” she whispered, fairly quivering with her hidden rage. “How am I to stomach being in the same room with the man who did this to you?” she burst out. “It’s bad enough poor, silly Giulietta has to marry this barbarian, but after what he did to you—”
“Now, now,” he chided, glancing down ruefully at the sturdy wooden peg below his left knee. “It was a fair blow, and neatly executed.”
“Papa! What a dense, perfectly male thing to say. You could have died!”
He gave her a hard look. “Prince Tor had the chance to kill me when I was on the ground; he did not. Remember that.”
She let out a disgruntled sigh.
“None of us likes the terms of his treaty, Minerva, but if King Hakon had had his way, trust me, it would have been much worse. Because of the prince, we finally have a chance at lasting peace. Provided Her Highness doesn’t ruin it for the rest of us.”
“I won’t let her,” Minerva grumbled. “That’s the only reason I’m doing this.”
“I know,” he answered softly, pride shining in his leathery face. “Farewell, my dear. Now go.”
Minerva tore her gaze away from him and obeyed him, going out to where the royal guards waited to escort her back to Giulietta and the palazzo.
As she climbed down into the waiting gondola, she looked her last upon the sunny villa and committed it to memory: the brightly colored tiles of the fountain lilting in the central courtyard; the shady grape arbor where she had spent endless hours studying her books; the mounds of bright bougainvillea burgeoning against the whitewashed walls; and the swaying palm trees peeking above the red-tiled roof.
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