How to Master Your Marquis (A Princess in Hiding Romance)

by Juliana Gray

  A gasp of outrage. “Stefanie! What’s the matter with you?”

  “That man!” Stefanie pulled out the revolver from her jacket pocket, Hatherfield’s revolver, the one he’d taught her to use himself.

  “Put that away!” Miss Dingleby snatched the revolver. “He’s ours, you fool. Always the impetuous one, Stefanie.”

  Stefanie fell back a single pace. “Ours?”

  “Yes, ours.” She motioned to the man, and he heaved himself over the railing and stepped toward Stefanie. His mouth, under the wide brim of his hat, was open in a large and familiar smile.

  “Don’t you recognize me, Stefanie?” he said in German, and he took off his hat.

  Shock paralyzed the muscles of Stefanie’s limbs. For an instant, she could only stare at him stupidly, not quite believing the evidence before her.

  “Gunther?” she whispered.

  In the early hours of the morning, before the verdict, when the Marquess of Hatherfield had risen and dressed, he had imagined walking out of the Old Bailey later that day, a free man, to join Stefanie in some private and predetermined location.

  He had not, however, imagined doing so wearing the hat and jacket of Mr. Nathaniel Wright, natural half brother of Lady Charlotte Harlowe.

  Astonishing how easy it had been. Men saw what they expected to see, he supposed, and as he and Wright were of roughly the same build, and wore the same hat, and flashed the same pass in the dim prison corridors to the dim prison guards, he found himself whisked through the front gates in surprisingly short order, a free man.

  But not so free. He had to return before the guards discovered the deception. More imperatively, he had to find Stefanie on the Victoria Embankment before disaster struck.

  And yet he couldn’t deny the thrill of breathing in the warm night air. The loose and unfettered sensation of independence, no guard at his back, no company at all. A free man.

  He struck off down the street, as hastily as he could without seeming suspicious. A hansom trotted by, passing like a ghost under the gaslight. “Need a taxi, mate?” asked the driver.

  Hatherfield hesitated, and then remembered he hadn’t any money. “Thanks, I’ll walk,” he said. It wasn’t far, after all. Victoria Embankment, near Temple Tube station. Nelson would join him there. Walking into a trap, the note had said. How had Nelson discovered this? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was reaching her in time.

  He’d been given one last chance to secure her safety for good. He prayed he could succeed, for her sake. For their child’s sake.

  He turned the corner of Ludgate Hill and increased his pace, a man in a spot of hurry, nothing too remarkable. The Embankment wasn’t too far away, a few hundred yards. He rounded down New Bridge Street and broke into a jog.

  The moon came into view, a flattened orb, not quite full. His heart ached at the beauty of it. The buildings rose silent around him, commonplace London buildings, and while the front part of his mind was calculating the speed at which Nelson would have reached the Embankment, the relative distance there from Belgravia versus Old Bailey, the angles of vision and the height of the river tide and the degree of likely traffic, the rear portion of his brain followed each roofline, each column and grimy doorway with a loving eye.

  How many times had he walked around London, never seeing its particular teeming beauty, never stopping to treasure that hour as he hurried to some appointment or another, some errand or task that had to be accomplished?

  And now the hour had fled, his life had fled, and he had never loved London so much.

  The Embankment trees lay ahead, silvered with moonlight. Hatherfield inhaled the brown brackish scent of the river, the pumping femoral artery of London.

  He moved quietly in the lee of the buildings, down the approach, until the shadows of the Temple gardens massed to his right. He let out a low whistle.

  A shape materialized out of the darkness. “Sir.”

  “Nelson.”

  A metal shape nudged at his hand. He accepted the revolver into his palm, a perfect fit, cold and familiar and reassuring.

  “They’re just ahead, sir. You can make them out by the railing.”

  Hatherfield narrowed his eyes. Two figures. No, three. Two men and a woman, except that one of the men was slighter than the other, carrying his head and shoulders in such a way that it could only be Stefanie.

  Stefanie.

  Hatherfield took an instinctive step forward.

  Nelson held out his arm. “Wait, sir.”

  Hatherfield stilled himself by sheer force of will. The other man was opening his arms, and Stefanie—by God!—Stefanie was stepping forward, she was allowing herself into his embrace.

  A wave of primal fury swept across his chest.

  “What the devil?” he hissed.

  “Sir! There they are, sir!”

  A cluster of shadows emerged from the gloom of Temple Tube station.

  Hatherfield broke into a run. Nelson panted at his heels, but Hatherfield was honed and fit from the rowing apparatus in his prison cell. His legs stretched out and flew, driven by fear and fury, as the shapes from the station resolved into men, and the men pounced on the three figures by the railing.

  He cocked the gun as he went, as his legs pumped faster and faster and his lungs burned and flooded with oxygen. A man had grabbed Stefanie and yanked her arms behind her back. Fifty yards away, forty. Stefanie’s scream carried through the air, and he roared from deep in his throat.

  The men turned. “Drop them!” he yelled, and he fired at the man holding Stefanie.

  A shout of pain, and the man fell to the ground.

  But the others had sprung into action. “Get the princess!” someone yelled. “No, not her, the ginger, the one in the waistcoat!” Men were moving, they were vaulting the railing down to the piers and boat landings below.

  In the blur of shifting bodies, he couldn’t find Stefanie. He heard her scream again, and the sound shot through him like an arrow. He stuffed the revolver in his waistband and launched himself over the rail.

  “Nelson!” he roared out.

  “Hatherfield?” Stefanie’s voice, amazed and frantic.

  “At the railing!” he called.

  To the boat! someone said, a woman. Hurry!

  A mad stampede, a struggle. Stefanie flashed ahead of him, carried along down the stone steps to the landing below, struggling to fight the tide. Someone had her hand. A woman, a woman in dark clothes.

  “Stefanie!” he called again, pushing aside the bodies, and then something hurtled into his back, knocking him flying.

  “Hatherfield!” she screamed, the last sound he heard before he plunged headfirst into the oily River Thames.

  Stefanie saw the water close over Hatherfield’s shoes in a flash of reflected moonlight.

  “No!” she screamed. She lunged forward to the edge of the pier, and a hand clapped over her mouth. She swung her limbs wildly, but it was no use. Arms clamped around her chest and heaved her over a heavy shoulder, and the world swirled around her in a chaos of men and shouts and water.

  “Hatherfield!” she called out desperately.

  Her abductor strode down the pier. The wooden edge of a boat swam past her bouncing vision, and down she swung to land on the smooth oak bottom with a gentle thump.

  “Quickly!” said Miss Dingleby.

  Stefanie struggled to her feet. “Hatherfield! He’s fallen in the water! We’ve got to save him!”

  “There’s no time. I daresay he can swim.” Miss Dingleby aimed her pistol at a man attempting to board. Around her, the crew of the boat were casting off rope, were picking up oars and shoving them into the chests and stomachs and hands of their attackers on the pier. Like corsairs, fending off a boarding party.

  Stefanie ran to the stern of the boat and strained to see the shifting water. “We’ve got to go back! We can’t just leave him to die!”

  “We’ll die ourselves in a minute! Did you bring your revolver?” Miss Dingleby’s hand root
ed in her pocket.

  Stefanie cast off her jacket. “I’m going after him!”

  “No!” A pair of thick hands jerked at her collar.

  Stefanie spun around to find Gunther staring down at her with a ferocious expression. Gunther, fully a man now, large and meaty. “You don’t understand! I love him! I can’t just . . .”

  Gunther picked her up and carried her to the wheelhouse. The boat had parted from the pier, the steam engine was rumbling them forward.

  “Gunther Hassendorf! Put me down!” she screamed, and with all her might she kicked him directly in the stones.

  Well, not directly. Her aim was off by an inch or two. But it was enough to make him howl with outraged masculinity, and in that instant of weakness she wriggled from his grasp and ran back to the stern of the boat, kicking off her shoes as she went.

  But they were under way, and her path was blocked by a pair of dark-haired men. The one on the left lunged forward, and in the curiously elastic second before he grabbed her by the ribs and held a slim knife to her throat, she thought, I know him.

  “Put your weapons away!” the man growled, in a thick German accent.

  Miss Dingleby raised her pistol.

  The other man kicked it out of her hand with the casual strike of a venomous reptile. He picked it up in the same arc of motion and aimed it at the advancing Gunther.

  “Throttle back the engine!” said the man holding Stefanie. His voice vibrated her spine.

  Miss Dingleby turned to the pilot in the wheelhouse. “Throttle back.”

  The pilot, white-faced, reached for the lever. The boat slowed to an idle.

  The other intruder pointed his gun at Gunther. “You.” Another man, another. “You. You. Into the water.”

  “I can’t swim!” protested one of the chosen.

  “I said, into the water, or the princess dies!”

  Gunther folded his arms. “No.”

  The second man raised his revolver. Gunther flinched and fell back, but the deadly little barrel passed him right by, and came to rest in the direction of Miss Dingleby’s bare head.

  The man holding Stefanie said, “Order the men overboard, or your governess dies.”

  “Don’t do it, Stefanie,” said Dingleby. “I’m not afraid.”

  Stefanie tried to swallow, but the blade was sharp against her throat. “You’re the men from last winter. The men who tried to kidnap me and Emilie.”

  “Don’t talk,” he said. He nudged the knife. “Tell them to go into the water.”

  “I won’t!”

  The other man fired the revolver. Miss Dingleby fell back, clutching her shoulder, and Stefanie tried to hurtle herself free. But the man only grasped her anew, crushing her against his chest. She grabbed at his arm, trying to free the knife.

  And then a blur shot past her eyes and she was free.

  She staggered forward and turned around.

  “Hatherfield!”

  There he stood, jacketless, shoeless, wet shirt plastered to his muscular chest. He punched her attacker with pistonlike shots to his jaw, driving him to the boat’s edge, and with a last flying uppercut sent him flipping over the side and into the water.

  Without a pause, Hatherfield spun about, and at that instant the other man launched himself at Hatherfield’s back.

  Stefanie’s shocked muscles burst into action. At her feet, the knife gleamed silver in the moonlight. She picked it up and rushed forward.

  “Stay back, Stefanie!” Hatherfield barked. He twisted his body and heaved upward, and the other man flew into the air to land with a groan on the bottom of the boat.

  Hatherfield hauled him up by the collar and turned to where Miss Dingleby sat, white-faced, against the side of the boat, tended by Gunther.

  “Do you need him?” Hatherfield asked coolly.

  Miss Dingleby shook her head.

  Without the slightest ceremony, Hatherfield lifted the man and tipped him over the side of the boat.

  Hatherfield tied up the makeshift bandage with a neat knot and patted Miss Dingleby’s other shoulder. “The ball passed straight through, thank God. The whiskey should help prevent suppuration, but you should see a doctor straightaway.”

  He straightened his aching frame and allowed himself at last to turn to Stefanie. She stood against the door of the wheelhouse, watching him with a peculiar expression, her eyes soft and her brow worried.

  “How did you—” She shook her head and blinked.

  Hatherfield’s hands flexed with the need to touch her. He folded his arms instead. “I had a message from Nelson. Mr. Wright happened to be visiting me in my cell, and was happy to assist me with a little temporary deception.”

  She swallowed. “Temporary?”

  “I have to go back, Stefanie. For one thing, I can’t leave Wright there to be charged with aiding and abetting.” He looked at Miss Dingleby, who was sipping her whiskey—a little internal application to complement the topical application—and watching them both with sharp eyes. “Can you tell me what’s happened here tonight? Is she safe at last?”

  “Yes, I believe so. Those men”—she nodded at the porthole—“were the ones sent from Germany to track the sisters down, the ones who escaped our net in February.”

  “And what were you doing here tonight, in this boat?”

  She set down her empty whiskey glass and met his gaze. “I have a ship waiting in the Solent to take Stefanie back to Germany. Olympia and I have tracked down and eliminated the conspirators.”

  Stefanie gasped. “Just like that? We can go home to the old pile?”

  “Yes. Your uncle awaits you at Holstein Castle. He’s sent messages out to your sisters. You’re all to return.” She dropped her gaze to Stefanie’s belly. “I suppose we’ll sort out all the sordid details when we arrive.”

  From the shadowed corner of the wheelhouse, a broad-shouldered young man stepped forward. “I will take responsibility for Her Highness,” he said, in pleasantly accented German.

  Hatherfield turned to face him. The hair bristled at the back of his neck. “And who the devil are you?”

  “My name is Gunther Hassendorf.” He held out his hand. “A loyal friend of the Crown, and Her Highness’s devoted servant.”

  Gunther. Stefanie’s devoted servant.

  Hatherfield held out his hand. “Hatherfield. A pleasure, Herr Hassendorf. I’ve heard a great deal about you from Stefanie. How is your wife?”

  Gunther looked down. “My wife is dead.”

  “I see.” He turned to Miss Dingleby and raised a questioning eyebrow. She shrugged her uninjured shoulder.

  And then Stefanie strode boldly forward and linked her arm with his. “Gunther, my dear old fellow, wish me joy. Lord Hatherfield is my fiancé. A bit behindhand with rings and all that, but I believe I’ve trapped him rather expertly. We are expecting our first child in November.”

  Gunther’s eyes widened. He looked at Stefanie’s middle, turned pale, looked up, and swiveled helplessly to Miss Dingleby. “But how are we to . . .”

  Miss Dingleby rose, with only the tiniest wince of pain. “It seems there is a change of plan, Gunther. Lord Hatherfield, we welcome you to the family. No doubt His Grace will be eager to see you wed at the earliest opportunity.” A slight emphasis on the word earliest. “Should your child prove a son, he will be the next Prince of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof. That is, unless one of my other appallingly fecund young ladies produces a boy, in which case he will merely be another useless prince, lowercase, clogging up the drawing rooms of Europe.”

  The words floated past his ears, dizzy with hope. Stefanie’s hands grasped his, next to her chest. He looked down at her blankly.

  “Yes! You see? The perfect solution. Come with us, leave England behind. You’ll be safe, we’ll be married, you’ll have everything. Banquets, sycophants, perhaps even a small crown of some sort, if one can be dug up from the attics somewhere. Our people will adore you. Children and mastiffs will follow you about.” She threw her arms
around his neck and kissed him. “I’ll follow you about, for that matter.”

  “Stefanie, it’s impossible,” he whispered. “I’m a convicted murderer.”

  She drew back. “But you’re innocent!”

  “You want me to flee like a criminal in the night? Turn my back on England? Renounce my own country?”

  Stefanie gripped his shoulders. “I don’t know if the fact’s occurred to you yet—you’re rather opaque about such things—but England betrayed you, Hatherfield. Don’t be a fool. Come with me, live by my side. Our children will grow up away from all this democratic rubbish, in peace and security and lederhosen. And you’ll finally have a decent mug of ale, which is no small consideration, in my judgment.”

  “And Wright? Simply leave him to rot in prison, for aiding my escape? He trusted me.”

  The soft hiss of steam covered his last words, as the pilot tended the engine.

  Miss Dingleby spoke. “Gunther, my dear. I believe our guests need a moment or two of privacy.”

  “Stefanie,” said Gunther softly.

  She turned to the German. “Gunther, you silly ass. I love him.”

  Miss Dingleby took Gunther firmly by the arm and led him from the wheelhouse. When the door closed, Stefanie placed her palms on Hatherfield’s chest and looked up at him with her blue eyes, her true eyes.

  “Please. For the sake of what we’ve shared. For our child, Hatherfield.”

  He stared back at her, unable to speak. The temptation lay dangling before him, glowing with promise. A heaven that, by the very act of entering it, he could not deserve.

  “I know how you feel. That honor of yours, that loyal and impractical British heart. But your time here is finished. We’ll start fresh. My people will treat you as you deserve, Hatherfield. You’ll be a prince, you’ll be my love, my darling, my husband.” There were tears, now, filling the corners of her eyes, hurting his heart. “Don’t leave us alone. You can’t even be thinking of it.”

  His throat strained. “You won’t be alone.”

  “I am always alone, when you’re not by my side.”