He turned toward the bedchamber, leaving his father and Crispin in the sitting room, and with a weary heart, a growing sense of doom, and a woman’s walking dress still wrapped about him, he crossed the threshold as if headed for the gallows.
Chapter Seven
LUCY MUST HAVE slept several, hours upon the rickety cot in the corner of the attic room, for when she roused, bright midday sunshine fell across the scarred planks of the floor. For a moment, she gazed at the unfamiliar surroundings, and then memories came flooding back, vivid pictures of the heroic gardener and his chocolate eyes and the awful mistake of depending upon him that she’d nearly made.
Angry warmth stole through her veins. He had insisted on rescuing her, had clapped her in irons, and then, when he’d discovered her passion for reform, he’d turned cold as ice. Lucy pounded the thin mattress beneath her with one fist. Like so many others, he wanted no part of the true Lucy Charming, of her passions and dreams. Drat the man, anyway. She’d not asked for his help, had never sought his good opinion. But, oh, how she ached when she recalled the coldness that had dropped over him like a curtain as she’d expounded on the glories of reform.
Her anger, though, quickly gave way to a bone-deep weariness. She had done her best in the last eight years, since her father’s death, to be true to her heart, and now the heart she’d always depended upon for guidance had proven fallible. She’d been tempted by the promise of someone to share her burdens and her goals, someone to depend upon. She’d been tempted, and she’d succumbed, and the cost of her weakness was the even deeper sense of loneliness that settled over her like a blanket.
Lucy rolled onto her back and contemplated the cracks in the low ceiling above her head. The escapades of the last day and night had made one fact perfectly clear: She was neither a true reformer nor a true aristocrat. Had her father felt this way, she wondered, never truly accepted by the working men he championed and shunned by the privileged men he challenged? Had he, too, existed in some sort of strange netherworld? And, finally, the most bone-chilling question of all: were her stepmother’s insinuations correct? And was this very feeling the reason he might have taken such a drastic step? Lucy’s stomach rolled at the thought.
With an angry hand, she swiped at the tears that pooled in her eyes. No, her father would never have left her alone by choice. And yet, after the events of the last day and night, she understood why he might have despaired. Her future, which only yesterday she could have outlined so clearly, seemed hazy indeed.
Footsteps sounded outside the door, and Lucy scrubbed away the last vestige of her tears with the sleeve of her dress. The key turned in the lock. She sat up and braced herself for another battle with her stepmother, but let out a sigh of relief instead when Esmie appeared, carrying a tray of food.
“You’re awake, then.”
Lucy eyed her stepsister with caution. Although Esmie was not actively vicious, as Bertha and the duchess often were, she usually complied with their wishes. Her only love seemed to be for her precious books.
Esmie didn’t bring the heavily-laden tray to Lucy but set it down on a small table near the door.
Lucy swung her legs over the side of the cot. “I’m surprised to see you.”
Her stepsister eyed her speculatively. “Yes, I’m sure you are. Are you hungry?” She gestured toward the tray. “I brought you some nuncheon.”
“Does your mother know you’re here?”
“Mother? Why, of course.” Esmie looked surprised. “It was her idea.”
So, Esmie had been sent here for a purpose. The duchess was not relenting, merely changing tactics.
Lucy rose from the bed and moved toward the tray, but Esmie stepped in front of her before she could reach it. “There is one small matter.”
“Which is?” With the duchess, there were always strings and conditions, even for a matter as simple as a cold collation of bread and cheese.
“We received an invitation an hour ago. A very important invitation.” Esmie made the pronouncement as solemnly as if she were delivering a philosophical lecture.
Lucy was instantly wary. “What has that to do with me?”
Esmie shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another, an unusual state for her stepsister, and avoided Lucy’s eyes. “Actually, the invitation was addressed to you, and it as much as says that Mama and Bertha and I may not attend without you. Not that I would wish to go, but Mama and Bertha . . .”
Lucy sighed. Small wonder, then, that the duchess had sent Esmie with a peace offering. “It must be from someone quite important if the duchess is willing to humble herself by including me in the party.”
Esmie looked distressed. “It is only the event of the season, and at Carlton House, no less.” Her obvious dismay at the prospect almost made Lucy smile, except that Lucy shared her stepsister’s dismay, if for entirely different reasons.
“Carlton House?” The home of the Prince Regent was as legendary as the lavish entertainments held there, and neither she nor her stepmother had ever been included in its circle of guests.
Esmie’s frown deepened. “A bride-finding ball, no less, given by Prinny and King Leopold of Santadorra, for his son, the Crown Prince. Mama says if you will cooperate, you may attend. But she makes two conditions.” Esmie ticked them off on her fingers. “One, you must not put yourself forward to any gentlemen, and two, on no account may you dance with anyone but Mr. Whippet.”
Lucy almost laughed. Did her stepmother really know her so little? She had no use for the spectacles of the beau monde, but the despair that had settled upon her lifted at the intriguing idea that rose in her mind. What the reformers truly needed were allies—well-placed, influential allies who could introduce the necessary bills for suffrage into Parliament, men such as her father had been. And where were such allies to be found, if not at Carlton House? Perhaps it was time to make use of her family name and parentage. Perhaps—she hardly even dared think the thought—perhaps with her father gone, she might speak to the Regent in his stead.
Lucy’s heart pounded, but she refused to reveal her agitation. Deliberately, she made her face fall. “So I am to play the wallflower.”
Esmie looked truly puzzled. “You are to be included in the party. Surely that is sufficient?”
Lucy ignored her comment and tried to brush by her stepsister toward the breakfast tray. Esmie scooted back and grabbed the china teapot from among the dishes. She lifted a cup and saucer and poured. Lucy felt her knees weaken as the rich scent of chocolate assailed her nostrils.
“Have we a bargain?” Esmie held out the cup. The duchess must have promised her an entire new library, for rarely was her stepsister willing to stand her ground so firmly.
Lucy hesitated for effect, and then, finally, with a nod, accepted the cup from her stepsister.
“Are you sure we are agreed?” Esmie’s impatience betrayed her anxiety.
Lucy hesitated, drawing out her response. Even those with very little power liked to exercise it when they could. “Very well.”
Her stepsister nodded. “For once, Mama will be pleased,” she called over her shoulder as she left the room, off to claim whatever prize the duchess had promised.
Lucy sat down on the cot with her chocolate and began to plan. She was feeling rather pleased herself.
ONE O’CLOCK found Nick waiting patiently amid the mahogany splendor of the dining room at White’s. He’d regained his aplomb during the course of a vigorous scrubbing in the bath, and he was now prepared to mount a counterattack against his father. The king might believe he had devised a foolproof scheme to trap his son into marriage, but Nick was far more determined to avoid the parson’s mousetrap than his father realized. Crispin arrived a quarter of an hour past the appointed time, looking quite sheepish.
“Hello, Nick.” His friend stood awkwardly before him for a long moment and then sank down in the chair opposite. “Sorry to be late. I got caught in a throng that sighted Prinny’s carriage and pelted it with vegetables.”
Nick concealed his shudder at the thought of the mob and its potential to turn violent at the drop of a handkerchief. “I see that you escaped. Did the prince?”
Crispin shrugged. “I confess I did not wait to find out. I am sympathetic to the plight of the poor, but I doubt they would be as sympathetic toward me.”
“Yes, indeed.” Nick knew he must turn the conversation quickly, for the mere topic was enough to unsettle his stomach. “Shall we order our meal?”
Despite the familiar solace of beef and ale, neither man seemed quite comfortable. Crispin looked anywhere but at Nick, and Nick, for his part, chewed vigorously to keep his thoughts at bay. Finally, Nick pushed back his chair and threw down his napkin. A waiter immediately appeared to remove his plate.
“Give over, Crispin. Fortunately for you, I’ve decided not to hold your behavior against you, since you did manage to rid London of those thugs. But I must warn you I’m at my limit. There are intrigues afoot, and I am weary of surprises.” Since Lucy had knocked him on the head with Lady Belmont’s garden door, his life had been spinning steadily out of control. The effect was not to his liking.
Crispin tossed back half a glass of ale in one long swallow, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and looked Nick in the eye.
“I have a confession to make, Nick.”
“Spare me from confessions and reformers,” Nick muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. I suppose you’d better get on with it, before this extremely heavy nuncheon has me slumbering in my chair. What deep, dark secret must you divulge?”
Crispin’s hand nervously smoothed his cravat, which had the unfortunate effect of demolishing its smartly tied perfection.
“Yes, yes. Right. Of course. Get on with it, certainly.” He drew a deep breath. “You above all people know, Nick, that I am something of an inveterate matchmaker.”
Nick snorted. “Happily for you, you have never turned your talents toward me. What poor fellow’s life have you gone and ruined now, Crispin? No, don’t tell me. Let me guess.” Nick settled back in his chair, ready for the first time since the previous morning to enjoy himself. The prospect of some other fellow’s misery always did wonders for lightening one’s own.
“Is it Lord Warmouth? But I must tell you that he is head over heels for Dunley’s youngest chit.”
“No, not Warmouth,” Crispin answered, nervously tugging at his cuffs.
“Ah, then it must be my expatriate cousin, Prince Stephen. He has no prospects of a throne, ‘tis true, but there might be an impoverished earl somewhere willing to part with a daughter if the settlement is large enough.”
Crispin’s hands now moved to pluck at his napkin. “No, Nick, not Stephen.”
“The Earl of Ashforth perhaps? The paragon earl is said to be looking about for a bride.”
“Not Ashforth either. Besides, he has those five children, all still in the nursery. Even I cannot find any advantages for a young woman in such a match.”
“Well, then, who is it?” Nick found himself growing weary of this guessing game, impatient with his friend’s reluctance. They had often shared their amusement over Crispin’s unusual talent, for to date none of his “matches” had yet to turn unhappy, a fact in which his friend took excessive pride.
Crispin tossed the napkin into the middle of the table. “As you know, my methods are normally quite straightforward. An introduction here. A discreet meeting there. But I’m afraid this time I used a bit of concealment on the parties involved.”
Nick grinned, glad for a bit of amusement in the midst of the complications of his own life. “How very romantic of you, Cris. I hope the pair turn out happy.”
Crispin’s gaze flitted about the room. “I am sure they will—turn out happy, I mean—once they sort things through.”
So a happily ever after was not assured? Nick pitied the poor chap, whomever he was. “Well? Who is it? Don’t keep me in suspense, old man.”
Crispin flushed, and Nick felt a small twinge of anxiety.
“The thing of it is, Nick . . . what I mean to say is . . .”
“Yes?” Really, this was carrying the drama a bit far, if all they were going to do was laugh at the prospect of some poor chap acquiring a leg shackle. “Who is your latest victim, Cris?”
Crispin turned a dark red and looked as if he might strangle before he blurted out, “You.”
For a moment, the import of the word failed to sink into Nick’s brain. “Me?” he asked blankly, casting about for some explanation and then hitting upon one. “Oh, of course. The ball. But I have decided to forgive you that part in my father’s scheme. I know you meant well.” The stiff points of Nick’s shirt collar suddenly felt a bit tight, and he ran his finger around his neck to loosen his cravat.
“No, Nick. Not the ball. The girl.”
“The girl? What girl?” Nick waited, confused, and yet at the same moment aware of a sense of inevitability engulfing him.
“The girl.” Crispin paused, and Nick’s world teetered in the balance. Then Crispin said her name; two syllables that pronounced Nick’s doom.
“Lucy,” Crispin said.
“Lucy, the scullery maid?” Nick had spent last night tossing among the bedclothes, trying to escape unwanted memories of blond curls, bright blue eyes, and passion for reform.
“No, not Lucy the scullery maid,” Crispin answered slowly, as if speaking to a very small child. “Lucy, the daughter of the Duke of Nottingham. Lady Lucinda Charming, actually, not to put too fine a point on it.”
Nick sat immobile, the beef and ale in his stomach turning to lead. “Lady Lucinda?” Time stood still, and then, with a rush, reason returned. And humor. Nick burst into laughter. “Oh, I say, Cris, well done. Clever enough to fool even me for a moment. Lady Lucinda. Yes, very funny.” He chuckled again and reached for his glass of ale, draining the last bit.
Crispin paled. “I’m not joking, Nick. Not about this.”
But Nick was not to be taken in. “It won’t wash, Cris. I saw her hands, as work-roughened as the lowest servant. And her dress, faded and patched everywhere.” Nick ran a hand through his hair in relief, and yet his insides felt strangely hollow. Despite his words, he was not quite ready to joke about Lucy, because he was not impervious to the temptation she represented.
Crispin leaned closer, lowering his voice. “On my honor, Nick. She is Nottingham’s daughter.”
But Nick was not a man to surrender without a fight. “Natural daughter, perhaps. I wondered about that myself.”
Crispin leaned forward. “No, his legitimate daughter, by the first duchess.”
But Nick would not give over. Not on something this important. “Then why have I never seen her? She is older than twenty, is she not? Why has she not made her come out?”
“She did, after a fashion. The season you were squirreled away at my hunting box with that bird of paradise, just to infuriate your father.”
Nick shifted in one of White’s usually comfortable dining chairs. “Then why does she never attend any of the ton affairs?”
“Her stepmother has put it about that she is not quite right in the head. Given the rumors about her father’s death, the duchess was readily believed.”
Nick barked with laughter. “Not right in the head? I will attest to her attics being to let, but only on the subject of reform. Otherwise she is as sane as you or I.”
“Nick.” Crispin caught his eye, and in the green depths of his friend’s honest gaze, Nick read the truth he had been denying. “I’m sorry, Nick. It’s just that . . . well, you know my nature.”
Nick could see regret etched in the lines about his friend’s mouth. Crispin was contrite, and that very expression convinced Nick of the veracity of his words. Suddenly, he found it quite difficult to breathe. They sat in silence for a long moment, for both men knew the consequence of Crispin’s revelation.
“I didn’t know about her involvement with the reformers,” Crispin offered at last, “else I would
never have concocted this scheme. But when I saw the two of you in Grandmama’s garden, that feeling I sometimes have came over me, and it occurred to me you would make a very good match.”
Nick saw his friend look at him closely, watching for any signs of forgiveness, and Nick was not sure that he would be able to produce them. Because despite his good intentions, Crispin had, in the space of less than two days, ruined Nick’s life. Compromising a duke’s daughter meant marriage. Marriage meant children, and children meant an heir for Santadorra, and an heir meant returning to the country he’d sworn never to set foot in again. Even he felt that much duty to the royal line.
A thought occurred to him, one that settled like a pool of lead in his stomach. “Has she known all along?”
“Known what?”
“My identity. Was her ignorance a ruse to trap me?” He thought of Lucy and her sensual response to his kiss. How sad to think it had all been playacting designed to capture a prince.
Crispin hesitated, this time reaching for the carnation that stood solitary guard in the small vase on the table. With careful, deliberate actions, he began to shred the flower into minuscule pieces. “Actually, Nick, she has no idea who you are. No, that’s not true. She thinks you’re one of my grandmother’s undergardeners. And a rather cheeky one at that.”
Crispin’s words eased some of the tightness that knotted the muscles beneath Nick’s breastbone. So, her response to him had not been feigned after all. He had always wondered how a woman might react to him as simply Nick St. Germain rather than as the Crown Prince of Santadorra. Nick crumpled his napkin into a ball. Now he knew. She would abuse him, torment him, and force him to burn with desire, damn her eyes. And all the while she would believe him to be a gardener.
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