by Eloisa James
Berwick had waited for her. “I was just investigating the gutters,” she told him.
“The windows are slanted to reduce wind pressure,” he told her, setting out again. “The west wing is just ahead. This is the main gallery. All chambers in this wing lead from this hall; yours is the second from the end on the left. I have given you a room facing the courtyard, as even in this clement weather, those facing the outside can be a trifle chilly at night.”
The gallery was punctuated at regular intervals by doors, on either side of which sprouted pilasters. After one glance, Kate broke out laughing; at the top of each pilaster was a cherub, a frivolous, laughing cherub. And they were all different. On one side of her door was a naughty child with flower petals in his hair, and on the other, an irritable little priest with starched wings instead of a neck cloth.
Kate stood in the middle of the corridor, turning around to make sure that she saw every one. Finally she glanced down again to see Berwick patiently waiting, not in the least annoyed.
“How on earth did this come about?” she asked.
“As I understand it, a young son of the Pomeroy family traveled in the 1500s to Italy and found himself enamored of Italian sculptors. So he stole one and brought the poor man here. The sculptor was so irritated by his kidnapping that he turned everyone in the household into a cherub, and when he was finished, escaped in a butter churn and was never heard from again.”
“He absconded with a sculptor?” Kate asked, fascinated.
Berwick nodded. “This is your chamber, Miss Daltry. Please do not hesitate to ring if there is anything we can do to further your comfort.” And he showed them where the bell cord was to summon Rosalie, and how the tin bath was cleverly secreted under the tall bed.
He cast one look around the room, frowned at a vase of roses as if warning them not to droop, and took himself off.
“Oh miss,” Rosalie said, “didn’t it take us an hour to walk here, then? And that cold stone went straight through my slippers. My, but I’d hate to live here.”
“Really?” Kate said. “But it’s so interesting. Like living in a fairy tale.”
“Not a fairy tale I’d like,” Rosalie said. “The place must be horribly damp in the winter; just feel the stone over by the window. Ugh. And I expect it smells when it rains too. I prefer Yarrow House, with nice wood paneling to keep a body warm, and a proper water closet. I do love a water closet.”
“But this is the kind of place that people committed crimes to build,” Kate said, rather dreamily. “I wonder what the Pomeroy family was like. From what I saw of one portrait we passed, the men had long upper lips and hawk noses. Perhaps he was the one who stole the Italian sculptor.”
“That’s not a nice thing to do,” Rosalie stated. “Though I did see an Italian at the fair once that was so small he would probably fit in a butter churn easy-like. When do you suppose those footmen will be bringing up your trunks, then? I’ll say this, the room has wardrobes enough for Miss Victoria’s garments, and that’s handy.”
Berwick was nothing if not efficient; there was a brisk rap on the door and in came a string of footmen carrying the trunks, as well as cans of hot water ready to be poured into the tin bath.
A few minutes later, Kate settled into that bath with a sigh of pure joy. All in all, she’d done less so far that day than she had for years, since her position was not the sort that allowed one to relax of a Sunday—or even Christmas Day, for that matter. But somehow it was as exhausting to travel in a coach as it was to ride a horse.
“I don’t wish to hurry you, Miss Katherine,” Rosalie said after a time. “But Mr. Berwick said that once the bell rings, you must make your way down all those stairs to the silver drawing room, wherever that is, though I believe he left a footman to guide your way. Still, I’m worried about the fit of this gown.”
So Kate reluctantly climbed from her bath, though she wouldn’t allow Rosalie to dry her. “I’m not a child in the nursery,” she said, positively wrestling the maid for the toweling cloth. “I’ll do it myself.”
“It isn’t proper,” Rosalie said, yielding.
“Why on earth not?” Kate demanded. “Why shouldn’t a lady dry her own body? If you ask me, the impropriety is in having someone touching you all over.”
“You’ll just have to accept it,” Rosalie said. “Ladies don’t towel themselves. Not ever.”
“Lord almighty,” Kate said with a sigh. “I suppose it’s too late for me to try to become a lady. It would take a magic wand at this point.”
“You are a lady,” Rosalie said stoutly. “It’s in your blood.” She braided Kate’s hair and pinned on a frizzled wig in a delicate shade of violet, with a jeweled comb to hold it in place.
Her gown was cream-colored and sewn all over with pearl embroidery. Rosalie had stitched pockets into the bosom and filled them with mounded wax, so Kate looked miraculously endowed in the front.
“It’s not terrible,” Kate said, viewing herself in the glass.
“How can you say that?” Rosalie demanded. “You look wonderful, miss. Just beautiful!”
Kate turned to the side. The gown was caught up under her jutting (wax) breasts and the cloth fell lightly to the ground, with just the tips of her slippers showing. They too were embroidered with pearls.
“I’d put you in a pair of glass slippers,” Rosalie said, almost to herself, “but they’re only good for one night, and it’s just a family dinner. They won’t be inspecting your toes.”
Kate turned herself square to the glass and forced herself to look critically. “I look like my stepmother,” she said finally.
“You don’t!”
“I look as if I’m trying to be young. Virginal.”
“Well, but you—” Rosalie stopped. “You’re no old biddy, miss! You should be—”
“No,” Kate said flatly. “I look as if I’m past my first blush, which I am. I don’t even mind that, but I don’t want to look as if I’m pretending. Do you see what I mean, Rosalie? The way my stepmother pretends to be thirty.”
“You make yourself sound haggish!” Rosalie protested. “You’ve no more than what, twenty years?”
“Twenty-three,” Kate said. “And I’m tired. I suppose there are some twenty-three-year-olds who would carry this off with aplomb, but I’m not one of them. I look . . . wrong.”
“Well, miss,” Rosalie said, “one of the seamstresses spent four hours altering that gown, and I shaped the wax inserts myself, and that’s what you’re wearing.”
Kate gave her a swift hug. “I’m being a beast, and I apologize. It doesn’t matter anyway, does it? I just need to simper at the prince, so that he will approve Victoria’s wedding.”
“And go to the ball,” Rosalie said. “I brought three ball gowns, but I hadn’t yet—”
“We’ll discuss that when the time comes,” Kate said firmly. She’d already made up her mind there would be no wax breasts at the ball. But why give Rosalie a sleepless night worrying over it?
Ten
I saw Dimsdale’s Golden Fleece this afternoon,” Gabriel told Wick just before the evening meal, “and we can forget the idea of trading my Cossack Fleece for his English one.”
“Really?” His majordomo cocked an eyebrow. “After meeting your esteemed relative, I cannot help but think that the young lady may succumb to your charms, impoverished though they are.”
Gabriel gave him a wry smile. “I’m not that desperate. My uncle nearly ran down their carriage because he thought he heard his dog barking. The yapping came from a pack of mongrels the size of fleas. And the Fleece was as unattractive as her dogs: overdressed, overly bold with her eyes, and overly gaunt. I have minimal standards, but I have them.”
“I like her,” Wick said thoughtfully. “And she has only three dogs.”
“They’re the kind that spin in circles and bite their own tails. Which is what I would do if I had to spend much time with her. She looked at me as if I were a disreputable banker. I think she did
n’t like my hair.”
Wick grinned. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Disapproved of you, did she?”
“Soundly.”
“Well, you’ll have to get through dinner with her, because I’ve put her at your right and I’m not switching places at this point. I have you dining in the morning room and the rest of the horde in the dining room proper. There are more arriving tomorrow, so I’ll have to switch to the great hall for meals.”
“You don’t mind all of this, do you?” Gabriel asked, looking at the boy he’d known his whole life, now grown to a man.
“I was made for it.”
“Well, I’m glad I got a castle for you to muck about in.”
“You should be glad for yourself,” Wick pointed out.
“I’m not,” Gabriel said. “But I have a brotherly pride in the fact I spared Augustus the sight of you.”
“Not very nice of the Grand Duke,” Wick said, pouring himself a small glass of brandy and tossing it back. “Throwing out his own brothers like that.”
“Augustus would prefer to forget that our father left quite so many counterfeit coins with his own face around Marburg.”
“I don’t look like Augustus,” Wick said, revolted.
“That’s because he resembles my mother, whereas the two of us take after the old devil himself.”
Wick’s mother was a laundress, and Gabriel’s a Grand Duchess, but the distinction never bothered either of them much. They were born mere days apart, and their father had promptly brought Wick into the nursery to be raised with his legitimate children, not to mention a pack of other assorted half siblings.
“He was a ripe one,” Wick said. “I always liked our papa.”
“Did we see him enough to judge?” Gabriel asked. “Here, give me some of that brandy.”
Wick handed over a glass. “We saw him the right amount, I’d say. Look what happened to Augustus, after he had to spend every day with him.”
It was true. Gabriel and Wick shared a bone-deep conviction that being the last son and an illegitimate son were far better fates than anything closer to the crown.
“I know why you’re brooding over Dimsdale’s fiancée,” Wick said. “It’s because you’re nervous about the impending arrival of your own.”
“She’s got the look of a shrew,” Gabriel said. “I’ll admit, it gave me a qualm about Tatiana.”
“I know,” Wick said, “you want beddable and biddable.”
“It’s not as if you’re looking for anything different,” Gabriel said, stung by something in Wick’s voice.
“I’m not looking for a wife at all,” Wick said. “But if I were, I wouldn’t want biddable.”
“Why?”
“I’m easily bored.”
“I wouldn’t mind a bit of shrewishness,” Gabriel said. “But the Fleece has no figure. I could tell, even though she was bundled in a shaggy traveling costume. She doesn’t look as if she’d be fun.”
“Wives aren’t supposed to be fun,” Wick said, putting down his glass and straightening his neck cloth. “Time to go down and jockey everyone into the proper places. The cook that we brought over is threatening to leave. Plus I had to hire three more downstairs maids. Thank God your bride is on the way; I don’t think we can afford another such event.”
“We’ve got enough money without her,” Gabriel said, stung.
“More or less. I have a bad feeling that repairs to this castle won’t come cheap.”
After Wick left, Gabriel sat for a while, staring at his desk. It was inestimably better in England than in Marburg. There he was in constant danger of being dragged into some sort of political intrigue, or any of the other military frivolities that kept his brothers’ eyes bright and shining.
It was wonderful to own a castle. It really was.
Without really noticing, he pulled over the copy of Ionian Antiquities that had arrived two days before and started reading it. Again. Which was foolish because he had the whole issue memorized.
Of course he couldn’t run off to Tunis. He tried to wrench his mind back to the present. He had to go to his chambers and submit to Pole’s ministrations, put on an evening coat, and greet his absurd nephew. He should be happy to have an estate, and be able to house the menagerie, and his uncle, aunts, illegitimate half brother, the court jester . . .
If only he could stop dreaming of being in the heat of Tunis, finding out for himself whether that dig truly held the remains of Dido’s city. He had loved the story of Carthage as a schoolboy, caught by the determination of Aeneas sailing away to found Rome, leaving Dido behind, and then living with guilt after she threw herself on a funeral pyre.
Ionian Antiquities would publish again in a mere . . . in a mere twenty-three days.
He got up with a sigh.
Time for dinner.
Eleven
We’re eating with the family,” Algie said nervously. “ ‘In family’ they call it.”
“En famille,” Kate corrected him.
“I suppose that’s the language they speak over in Marburg. I probably won’t understand a word.”
“Actually, that’s French,” Kate said.
“French? I learned that at Eton.” There was a pause. “More or less . . . do you suppose that’s what they speak at the table?”
“I shall translate, if need be,” Kate told him, thinking that it was a good thing she had come rather than Victoria, who didn’t speak a word of French. Thankfully, she herself had learned the language before her father died. “Do you know anything of the prince’s entourage?”
But Algie knew nothing of his mother’s family and had never, it seemed, bothered to inquire.
The meal was served in a delightful room that, although Berwick referred to it as the “small morning room,” was bigger than any single chamber at Yarrow House.
The prince himself sat at the head of the table, of course. He was wearing a midnight-blue evening coat over a violet waistcoat with gold buttons. In fact, her wig and his waistcoat would go very well together.
All in all, he looked magnificent and outrageously expensive. And bored.
She wouldn’t have minded watching him from afar, but in fact, Kate was rather horrified to find herself seated at the prince’s right hand. She sat down in a haze of embarrassment, acutely conscious of her diamond necklace and diamond-encrusted comb. She was tarted up like the daughter of a rich cit, thrusting herself into company in the hopes of a wealthy husband.
Which, she reminded herself, I am not. My father was the younger son of an earl. An earl. And never mind the fact that her father had died without leaving her a dowry, or that he had married a woman of ill repute, or that . . .
Or all the other ways in which her father had disappointed her. Blood is blood. I am an earl’s granddaughter, she told herself.
With that, she raised her chin and straightened her shoulders. The prince was talking to a stout lady on his left, who was discoursing with deep earnestness on . . . something. Kate listened hard, only to realize that the lady was speaking German, and he was responding in French. The gentleman to her right was occupied, so she nibbled her fish and listened to the prince’s French replies.
The lady said something; the prince characterized her comment as a wild guess. The lady replied; the prince broke into German, so Kate watched him under her eyelashes, since she couldn’t understand enough to eavesdrop.
The first thing one noticed about him was that he was a prince. That was stamped on his face. She couldn’t call it simple arrogance, though he was certainly arrogant enough, she thought, cataloguing the harsh line of his jaw.
She thought it had more to do with the way that he looked so easily commanding, as if he’d never seen anything in the world that he couldn’t have for the asking. She considered it for a moment. A prince would never have done any of the things she had found herself doing in the past years. The time she’d helped with the birth of a calf came to mind as a particularly odiferous and unpleasant chore.
A prince would not have three small dogs locked up in her chamber at this very moment.
A prince . . .
She took another bite of fish.
“What are you thinking about?”
His voice was like velvet, accented and deep.
“I am contemplating the fish,” Kate told him, dishonestly.
And he knew it. There was a devil in those eyes, and they registered her fib. “I would guess,” said he, “that you are thinking of me.”
Everything English in her rose up in protest at his effrontery, at the nerve of him saying such a thing.
“If it will make you happy,” she said sweetly, “I was indeed.”
“Now you sound like my majordomo.”
“Ah, Berwick is English, is he?”
That caught his interest. “As it happens, Berwick grew up with me and I’ve known him my whole life. But what would it mean if he were English?”
Kate shrugged. “We never ask people if they are thinking of us.”
“Why not? Since you are unable to inquire, I was thinking of you.”
“Really.” Kate gave the word all the coolness with which she addressed the baker after he overcharged for loaves of bread.
“Your wig,” he said, with another one of those wicked, sideways smiles. “I’ve never seen a purple wig before.”
“You must not often travel to London,” she told him. “Or Paris. Tinted wigs are all the fashion.”
“I think I would prefer you without a wig.”
Kate told herself to be quiet, but she simply couldn’t. “I can’t imagine why you think that your preferences are of any interest when it comes to my hairstyle. That would be as odd as you assuming that I have interest in your hair.”
“Do you?”
The effrontery of the man knew no bounds! Kate felt all the irritation of the dispossessed. Just because he was a prince, he apparently assumed that everyone was fascinated by him.