“Lady Lucy,” she said, smiling. “‘Tis good that yer back.”
“Yes, it is very well that she has returned,” the duchess barked, “but it is no concern of yours. I am afraid that Lucy will not be able to help you today, Cook. I have need of her elsewhere.”
Lucy sputtered a protest, but her stepmother continued up the stairs, dragging Lucy in her wake. It was only when they had climbed to the attic, the duchess having ordered Bertha to return to the sitting room, that Lucy realized her stepmother’s intentions.
“No.” She strained against her stepmother’s grip, but the duchess’s hand had the strength of a vulture’s claws.
“Yes, indeed. And you will remain here until you are prepared to give a full account of your whereabouts since yesterday.”
The duchess threw open a door and thrust her into a dark, narrow room. “Here you shall stay until you divulge the secrets you have been hiding, Lucy Charming.” Her eyes must have widened in surprise, for her stepmother smiled with evil satisfaction. “You think me unobservant, but I, too, have my tricks and stratagems. Something is afoot, and I intend to get to the bottom of it.”
Lucy swallowed. Thank goodness the Selkirks had departed. “There is nothing to tell.”
“Indeed. I seem to have made a grave error in leaving you so much to your own devices. Are you prepared to tell the truth?”
Lucy hesitated. Despite Nick’s abominable sentiments about reform, she still felt the need to protect him. Likewise, there was no possibility of admitting to her stepmother what had been going on beneath her very nose for the past three years.
“Any truth I have is my own, and I choose not to share it.”
Her stepmother’s eyes narrowed. “Very well, then. I shall leave you with your precious truth, and you may dine and drink upon it. I daresay when it fails to satisfy your hunger or your thirst you will be ready enough to give it up.”
The duchess backed out of the room and shut the door behind her. Lucy heard the key turn in the lock. With a large sigh, she flung herself on the bed. She was utterly tired of the sound of doors slamming, for somehow she always seemed to be on the wrong side of them.
FOR AS LONG as he lived, Nick was never going to rescue anyone again. Especially not blue-eyed scullery maids who tasted of a volatile combination of temptation and suffrage.
Seated on a wooden crate, he leaned against the casks of port in the anteroom, the discarded walking dress wrapped around his bare shoulders for warmth. Crispin had yet to return, but when he did, Nick was ready to give him an earful.
Complete, unmitigated disaster. Day and night from Hades. Humiliation and wounded pride. And those were the good parts of his encounter with the hellion disguised as a kitchen maid.
No, that was a lie. He loosened the dress about his shoulders, warmer at the thought of her. To be brutally honest, the best bits had been when she’d been so close he could smell the unique scent of her, and he could feel her body pressed against his own. Even now, angry and disillusioned, he could scarce forget the sensation of her arms wrapped around his neck and her breasts soft and enticing against his chest.
It should be easy to let her go. Her desertion was motivation enough, but given her political views, he should have no problem relinquishing this quest for her safety. Call it reform or revolution or any manner of names, her cause was still what had killed his mother and sister, and he wanted no part of it. There was no point in trying to change the world. He knew that deep within, which was what made his penchant for rescue so ridiculous. It was like trying to empty the English Channel with a teacup. The Channel remained eternally full, and the teacup ended up dashed to bits.
Nick shivered. Long minutes, and he was on the verge of tapping a cask of port when the lock turned in the anteroom door, and it swung open.
A grinning Crispin peered around the corner. “Where is she?” he asked in a conspiratorial whisper. “I trust you made good use of this opportunity, old man. I had a devil of a time convincing Grandmama’s footmen to leave you here. The poor lads thought they’d all be carted off to a Santadorran dungeon to rot.”
Nick stood. “The footmen have no cause for concern. You, on the other hand, might think long and hard before returning to Santadorra in the near future. For you, there just might be a spot on the rack.”
Crispin laughed. “Give over, Nick. You can thank me later. Now, where is she?” He looked genuinely puzzled, and, for a moment, Nick considered giving his friend a taste of his own medicine and locking him in the coal cellar. Fortunately for Crispin, Nick knew that his friend had meant to do him a good turn, however misguided his actions.
“The girl in question is gone.” Nick strode out the door without looking back. A moment later, Crispin followed.
“What do you mean she’s gone? There’s no way out other than the door.”
“She went out the window.”
Crispin sighed. “You must have helped her, then. Are you daft?”
Nick stopped in the middle of the hall and swiveled on his heel. “Don’t push, Crispin. I’m only inches from thrashing you as it is. Yes, she’s gone, and yes, I helped her, but she lied. She said she’d come back round and unlock the door for me.”
Nick would have liked to wipe away the broad grin that stole over his friend’s face, but at that moment, two scullery maids appeared at the other end of the corridor. With a look of understanding, he and Crispin took the shortest route to the kitchen, emerging onto the street just below the main entrance.
“So, she outsmarted you, did she?” Crispin chuckled. “You must be losing your touch, St. Germain. There was a day when women actually ran toward you instead of away from you.”
Nick stood in the shadow of the stairs, uncomfortably aware of his half-dressed state. “This one may run as far away as she pleases. In fact, the farther she runs, the better.”
Crispin’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Those didn’t appear to be your sentiments this morning at Madame St. Cloud’s.”
Nick refused to acknowledge the tightening in his midsection. “This morning, I didn’t know she was a revolutionary.”
“A what?” Crispin’s jaw dropped.
“Close your mouth, man. You heard me correctly. Actually, she called herself a reformer, but we both know there’s not a farthing’s worth of difference between the two.”
“A reformer? Are you sure?”
“I heard it from the girl herself. She’s for universal suffrage. Wants the vote for all the poor working men who’ve been trod upon by the aristocracy. Thank heavens she didn’t know my true identity. She’d probably have cracked my head open with a coal scuttle and been on her way.”
Crispin snorted in disbelief. “Hardly. I’ve seen enough females smitten with your charms to recognize the symptoms. Really, Nick, I thought you’d use this chance to full advantage. She’s a lovely girl.”
Nick lifted a hand in protest. “Even if she weren’t a revolutionary, she’s a kitchen maid, and you know my feelings about dallying with servants.”
Crispin was quiet for a moment. “Quite so.” He appeared to be lost in thought, and Nick debated for a moment whether it might not be the perfect opportunity to draw Crispin’s cork for the trouble he’d caused. He was, however, standing in the middle of Mayfair with a woman’s walking dress wrapped about his shoulders.
“Where’s your carriage?”
“Over there.”
“Then the least you can do is take me home.”
The two men crossed the short distance to Crispin’s stylish barouche. Once they were inside and moving, Crispin spoke.
“Look, Nick, I didn’t intend to cause trouble. I suppose I thought there might be a chance that—”
“That what?” Nick snapped, although he knew perfectly well what Crispin meant.
“You know. You and the girl, trapped together . . .”
Nick turned away to look out the window. “Crispin?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t take any more
chances on my behalf.”
EVIDENTLY IT WAS not sufficient humiliation for Nick to arrive at the Cromwell in such an outrageous costume. He crossed the foyer of the small hotel where he rented rooms and climbed the stairs, and with Crispin on his heel, opened the door to his sitting room only to be stopped by his valet. Phipps actually looked perturbed, and not by his master’s outlandish attire.
“You have a visitor, Your Highness.”
“A visitor? Did you not tell him I was away from home?” The valet was usually adept at rebuffing the toadeaters and other social climbers of the ton.
“I did try, Your Highness, but I’m afraid he insisted.” The older man’s thin lips showed his disapproval, but Nick knew that he, as well as the unwanted visitor, was the subject of Phipps’s censure.
“I see, Phipps. Never mind. Our visitor, whomever he may be, will remove himself at my instruction, you may be sure.”
Nick was spoiling for a fight. For all his bluster, he couldn’t take out his frustrations on Crispin. His friend had meant well, and he’d had no idea that she was a public nuisance who should be locked up at the earliest convenience. Nick pushed past Phipps only to find, much to his surprise, the King of Santadorra standing before the windows that overlooked the street.
Behind him, Phipps took a deep, wheezing breath and announced, “His Royal Highness, Leopold, King of Santadorra.”
Nick smothered a curse. “Yes, Phipps. I’m aware of who my father is.”
The king stepped forward, looking well turned out in a bottle-green coat and buff pantaloons. His father’s attire only served to make Nick more aware of his own dishabille.
“Well, son, I’m pleased to see you looking so well.” The king stepped forward to examine him, one eyebrow arching in the very way Nick knew his own did. “I have been worried about you. Silly of me, I suppose. What father would worry about a son who returns home mid-morning wearing a woman’s gown!” During this speech, his father’s famously deep voice swelled to a bellow.
“Hello, Father. Delighted to see you as well.” Devil take it! Of all the times for his father to arrive unannounced. He hadn’t known the king had left Santadorra. With a calm he didn’t feel, he turned to the valet. “Phipps, would you be so good as to ring for the tea tray? I’m sure my father finds himself in need of refreshment.”
“What I find myself in need of is a son who is fit to be the heir to my throne!” The king could not hide the flush that underscored his aristocratic cheekbones.
“Yes, well, then you’d best marry again, hadn’t you, Father? I suppose it’s not too late. You are not, after all, completely past your prime.”
His father failed to even wince as that barb struck home. The older man was as tough as boot leather, and Nick would do well to remember that. He hated being caught at a disadvantage, but it seemed that when it came to his father, he was always at a loss. “Perhaps you would care for something a bit stronger than tea?” he asked, strolling to the sideboard. “Sherry? Or brandy? As I recall, that was always your favorite. Or if you like, I can send Phipps to the cellar for a particularly fine Madeira I won recently on a wager.”
“It’s not yet noon.” The scorn in his father’s voice was as familiar to Nick as his own face in the mirror. He knew he did it purposely, this antagonizing of his father, but if there was no approval to be found, then he might as well make himself deserving of the disapproval.
“Yes, well, all the more reason to start,” Nick replied. “It makes the rest of the day so much more palatable.” With a casualness he did not feel, Nick removed the stopper from the brandy and poured a large amount into a glass. He could feel his father’s eyes upon him as he arched his neck and downed it in one long swallow.
The impact almost gagged him, but no one would have ever known. He turned back to the door where Crispin hesitated, half in and half out of the room.
“You’d best come inside, Crispin. Perhaps if you are present, my father and I will behave with more civility than usual.”
“Yes, Crispin, do come in,” his father echoed, “if only to let me gaze upon the kind of man I wish my son could be.”
“Hello, Your Highness.” Crispin, that model of rectitude, bowed to Nick’s father. “I’m pleased to see you again, though you overrate my virtues.”
The king laughed and walked toward Crispin, extending the hand that he had not proffered to Nick. “Yes, well, do not let it go to your head. It does not take a great deal of character to look virtuous next to my son. I had just relented and sent him his quarterly allowance, and I understand from the bankers it is gone.”
Crispin’s smile faltered. “I think you might be surprised, Your Highness, to learn that—”
“Crispin,” Nick interrupted, “would you care for a brandy?”
“No, thank you, Nick.” Crispin glowered at him, but Nick turned away. If the king chose to think ill of his only son, then Nick was determined to let him do so. He had long ago learned not to defend himself.
“Then perhaps you had best make yourself scarce after all.” He knew he was being unpardonably rude, just as he knew Crispin would understand.
“Yes, of course.” Crispin might be outrageous at times, but he was also forgiving of Nick’s occasionally autocratic behavior. “However, Nick, there is one small matter that I really ought to—”
“We can meet for a light nuncheon, Cris. At White’s? I’m sure my father would be delighted to join us.”
“Yes, certainly, Nick, it’s just that I needed to tell you something with regard to Lucy.”
“Lucy?” his father asked. “Who is Lucy?”
“No one,” Nick snapped, and then wished he hadn’t, for his abrupt response was too revealing. “We’ll speak later, Cris.”
“But, Nick, I really believe you ought to know that—”
Nick interrupted him by virtue of grabbing his arm and hauling his friend to the door. His father trailed behind them, an interested and interfering spectator.
“Lord Wellstone does not look as if he is yet ready to depart,” the king admonished his son, but Nick ignored him.
“At White’s,” he reiterated.
“But Nick—”
“Are you sure you don’t want your friend to hear my news?” the king asked.
“News?” Nick froze in his steps. There was a note of satisfaction in his father’s voice that made him instantly wary.
“Yes, news of the Regent’s latest whimsy.”
Nick felt a prickle up his spine. His father generally had little use for the Prince of Wales, a dissipated roué who ruled in the mad English king’s stead.
“You have come all this way because of Prinny?”
“No, but I have come all this way to attend a ball at Carlton House.”
Nick stared at his father in confusion. The entertainments at the Prince Regent’s home were legendary, but hardly the stuff to draw his father all the way to England.
“What makes this ball so unique that it would entice you from your lair?”
“Why, its purpose, of course.”
“And that would be . . .”
“To find you a bride. Once you make your choice, we’ll arrange for a wedding straightaway.”
Nick felt the blood rush to his head. “You can’t be serious. You are not some medieval despot, and I am no prize to be won.”
“Indeed, I am quite serious.” His father wore the look of a victorious warrior. “The invitations went out this morning. I have just come from Carlton House where the Prince Regent and I have been consulting about the menu.”
“The menu?”
“Yes, of course. We expect to seat several hundred at dinner, but the ball will include considerably more. After all, we couldn’t invite just the young women, could we? Had to round out the company.”
Surely it was a jest. Nick looked at Crispin and saw a guilty tinge of red around his friend’s ears.
“You knew.” The accusation was soft.
“I didn’t know precisely. That
is, your father did write to me in the most general terms . . .”
Nick looked at the pair of them, first one and then the other. Betrayers, both of them.
“I will not cooperate. You might as well rescind the invitations immediately.”
“Very well,” his father said, disturbingly agreeable. “I shall give you a choice. You may choose to participate in these festivities, or you can return with me at the end of the week to Santadorra. The choice, of course, is yours.”
But it was really no choice at all, and his father knew that. When he had left Santadorra, after he had cried and mourned the lack of even his mother and sister’s remains to bury, he’d sworn to his father with the feverish passion of childhood never to return.
“And what must I do to fulfill my part in this scheme?” He felt his father’s machinations tightening like a noose around his neck. Much as he’d felt in the presence of his exasperating scullery maid. The comparison made him shudder.
“What must you do, Nicky? Ah, only something quite simple.” His father smiled with satisfaction. “All you must do, my dear boy, is choose a bride. After all, it is more than past time to ensure the succession of the Ivory Throne.”
Nick knew he was trapped. His father would not balk at enlisting the Santadorran Guards to kidnap his own son. If he failed to comply with his father’s wishes, he would feel his native soil beneath his feet before many days had passed.
“You have planned this very carefully, I see.”
“Indeed, sir, I have. Since you reached your majority seven years ago, I have left you to your own devices, but no more. Now I have taken matters into my own hands.”
Nick forced himself to breathe, for he knew his father had him at point non plus, just as he knew that the only woman he’d met in a great while who even interested him was a golden-haired chit with a penchant for reform. “Then carry out your plan, sir, and I wish you joy of it. As for myself, I expect to find none.”
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