For a moment Princess Josefina looked as though she wanted to say something more, but instead turned the conversation to the weather. Eleanor studied her face, her expression. Her brother was infamously difficult to decipher, and this woman didn’t look to be much easier. Unless she was greatly mistaken, though, Princess Josefina found Sebastian at least as interesting as he found her.
Sebastian looked up from the newspaper after his fourth attempt to read the same sentence. “What are you doing?”
At his elbow Peep sat in front of her own large plate of breakfast. She wasn’t eating, however. Rather, she adjusted a spoon across a knife and aimed it toward her cup of tea. A large sugar lump sat in the bowl of the spoon.
“Watch. I think I have it this time.” With her curled fist she smacked down the raised end of the spoon. The lump of sugar catapulted into the air past her cup and thudded into the back of his newspaper. Again. “Drat.”
“Don’t hit it so hard,” he advised, and went back to reading.
According to the London Times, yesterday Princess Josefina Embry of Costa Habichuela had graced Carlton House with her presence, sharing luncheon with Prinny and the Duke of Harek. The day before she’d journeyed to Greenwich for a tour of a Royal Navy ship. Londoners of all stations were mad for her, with girls throwing rose petals at her feet, and men handing her letters proposing marriage. Every citizen with a spare shilling seemed to be rushing to invest in “Englandshire,” as the public had begun referring to Costa Habichuela.
“Balderdash,” he muttered under his breath.
“What, Papa?”
“Nothing, sweetling. I was just reading about Princess Josefina.”
“The Aunties took her to luncheon a few days ago,” his daughter commented, as another object hit the back of his newspaper. “They didn’t invite me.”
He wished they hadn’t invited Josefina. All he had against Costa Habichuela, though, were some unverified suspicions, a nagging sense of wrongness, and a feeling of frustration so great it was very likely the cause of the other difficulties. “Perhaps next time,” he said.
“I certainly hope so.”
Sebastian lowered the paper again. “You know that your Aunt Caroline’s family is arriving in London tomorrow. You’ll want to spend time with them.”
“Yes, but they aren’t princesses.”
“I’m sorry, Penelope, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”
“You didn’t have to resign your post.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why, because you’re too busy? You haven’t even gone out for the past two nights. You stayed here and played pickup-sticks with me, and you’ve been in a very bad mood.”
“I have not. And you’re the one who said you wanted me about more.”
“Mary Haley says you asked the princess to marry you, and she said no because you’re only a duke, and that’s why you had to resign.”
He folded the paper and set it aside. “Does she now? I’m beginning to think that Mary Haley is a gossiping busybody, and that you spend entirely too much time in her com—”
The breakfast room door swung open. “I hoped you’d still be here,” Shay said, a stack of books gathered in his arms.
Peep stood. “Mary Haley is not a gossip. She’s my friend, and that’s why she tells me things I should know. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go feed the ducks in the park.” She stomped out the door.
He could hear her clomping all the way upstairs and then the slam of her bed chamber door. “Blast it.”
“Did I interrupt something?” Shay dumped his load of books on the breakfast table.
“Just a difference of opinion.” He gestured at one of the footmen who stood in the room. “Tom, go make certain Mrs. Beacham is accompanying Lady Penelope when she leaves the house.”
“Right away, Your Grace.” The servant hurried out of the room.
“All right, what is it, Shay?”
Without asking whether he’d finished eating or not, Charlemagne pushed all of the dishes away from the head of the table and seated himself opposite where Peep had been. That done, his younger brother dragged the half dozen books within reach.
“Take a look at this,” he said.
“It’s the Costa Habichuela prospectus.”
“Yes, and no.”
Sebastian sat up straighter. “What do you mean?”
Shay flipped the book open and turned pages until he found the one he wanted. “Read that aloud,” he said, opening one of the other books for himself.
“‘While one would think its proximity to the equator would render the climate disagreeably hot and stifling all the year round, Costa Habichuela is blessed with a large expanse of—’”
“‘—of coastline which each afternoon delivers a soft, cooling breeze straight off the Atlantic Ocean,’” Shay took over. “‘This breeze has the effect of both renewing and rejuvenating the populace, and also of bringing trade from distant shores, a topic which will be discussed in depth later herein.’”
“And?” Sebastian prompted.
Shay lifted an eyebrow. “What do you mean, ‘and’?”
“You got hold of another prospectus. I don’t need a lesson in oral recitation.”
“Yes, I did get hold of another prospectus. Or rather, I already had one.”
“Shay, I know you’re brilliant, but I do have Parliam—”
“Take a look.” Closing the book from which he’d been reading, Shay slid it over.
For a moment Sebastian looked at the title impressed into the leather on the book’s front cover. “This…” He cleared his throat, the ramifications of what he was seeing beginning to dawn on him. “This is a survey of Jamaica.”
“Dating from seventy-five years ago, and commissioned by King George the Second.” He took the Costa Habichuela prospectus back and turned another few pages. “I kept thinking that some of this sounded familiar.”
“In all fairness,” Sebastian heard himself saying, “perhaps the rey doesn’t have the gift for putting pen to paper. Borrowing a few—”
“It’s whole chapters, Seb. All of the wests are changed to easts, the river and town names are altered, but everything else is identical. It even has the trade winds blowing in the wrong direction to accommodate the country’s location on the coast.” He grabbed another book. “And do you want to read about the populace? It’s all in this one—A Cultural Study of the West Indies. And the—”
“That’s enough, Shay.”
“But—”
“I understand what you’re telling me. There’s not an original word in here.”
“It does make one wonder what Costa Habichuela is really like,” his brother commented.
Sebastian stood. “I think I’ll go ask. Excuse me.”
“The rey’s not back from Scotland yet.” Shay pushed to his feet as well, gathering books up in his arms as he went.
“Prince Josefina’s here.” He glanced at Charlemagne as his brother fell into step behind him. “I’m going alone.”
Shay gave him an exasperated look, but nodded. “I suppose then that I’m to keep this to myself.”
“Until you hear otherwise from me, yes.”
“You’re going to miss Parliament if you go now.”
He grabbed his hat and gloves from Stanton and headed down the front steps toward the stable. No coach today; he wanted to ride. “To the devil with Parliament,” he snapped.
Chapter 10
Josefina signaled Colonel Branbury’s butler. “Grimm, please turn any additional callers away,” she said as he reached her side. “Have them come back tomorrow.”
He bowed. “Very good, Your Highness. And shall I send to the kitchen for more tea and pastries?”
“Yes, thank you.” At least if the hordes of visitors were eating, they couldn’t be talking. That might leave just enough air in the modest-sized drawing room for her to keep breathing. If she fainted in there, she would probably be trampled to death before anyone not
iced her on the floor.
“Your Highness,” Lord Ausbey said, bowing so reverently that the top of his curly blond head nearly brushed the pale blue carpet, “thank you so much for agreeing to receive me this morning. I am one of your most ardent admirers. In fact, I’ve written you a poem stating the depth of my feelings.” He pulled a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his dark green jacket—apparently worn in honor of the green cross of the Costa Habichuela flag.
“I would love to hear it, Lord Ausbey,” she said with a smile, putting a hand on his arm to keep him from unfolding the thing, “but I have—”
“Please, Your Highness, you must call me Adam. I long to hear my name on your lips.”
Yes, men did seem to enjoy that sort of thing, she recalled, telling herself that the sudden tightness in her chest was cynical anger and not heated memory. She chuckled, pushing his arm down as she released him. Unfortunately he kept hold of the poem. “You flatter me, Lord Ausbey. Now excuse me while I see to my other guests.”
Without waiting for a reply she turned away, wading further into the sea of admirers and would-be hangers-on. Conchita intercepted her, surreptitiously fluffing the cream-colored sleeves that had drooped amid the press of people.
“Your father would be ecstatic to see all this interest,” the maid whispered.
“At the moment, I wish he were here to deal with it,” Josefina returned in the same low tone. “Welcoming them and being charming is one thing, but how does one get rid of them?”
“Perhaps you should ask the duke,” Conchita suggested, slipping into the background again as Lady Holliwell approached, a prospectus clasped in her arms.
They’d been printing the things as swiftly as they could. It had become a noticeable expense, but she supposed that spending a few shillings was a fair exchange for encouraging an investment of thousands of pounds. And the more interest they stirred, the better.
“Ah, there you are, Your Highness,” the Duke of Harek said, stepping in front of the countess to offer his arm.
“You seem to have some admirers,” she noted, indicating the group of women with whom he’d been chatting.
“They are here to see you.” He covered her hand with his as she took his arm. “As am I.”
“So much flattery today. My head is spinning.” She forced her aching cheek muscles into another smile. “In fact, I’m feeling a bit fatigued at the moment.”
“I believe I can manage our guests if you want to go freshen up.”
“‘Our guests’?”
“I speak in the sense of my being your host here in England,” he said smoothly, his charming smile bright enough to leave shadows.
She glanced about at the crowded drawing room again. Her father would be kissing knuckles and shaking hands, each gesture and word bringing more wealth and support to Costa Habichuela. The rey, however, wouldn’t be back in London until tomorrow. And her ears were ringing from all the noise.
“Then do please host for a few minutes,” she said, pulling her hand free. “I’ll just go upstairs to fix my hair.”
“Have no worries.” His smile deepened. “A princess is supposed to be delicate.”
She nearly asked if he would prefer that she titter and faint, but that would have required staying in the middle of the madhouse and talking. As quickly as she could Josefina made her way into the hallway, where even more guests overflowed, and up the stairs to her private rooms.
“Your Highness,” Conchita puffed from behind her, topping the stairs. “Is everything well?”
“I just need to catch my breath. Keep an eye on Harek, will you? I don’t want him to declare himself rey while I’m pinning my hair.”
The maid gave a quick curtsy, flashing an even briefer smile. “If I sense trouble I will kick him. In this crowd he won’t know who to blame.”
Josefina pushed open the door. “An excellent idea.”
Stepping inside, she closed it again, resting her forehead against the cool oak. She hadn’t realized that being gracious and charming could be so taxing.
“Don’t tell me you’ve run out of pretty stories to tell.”
At the deep, familiar drawl she froze. Melbourne. She whipped around. “What the devil are you doing here?”
He leaned a haunch against her writing desk. From the chaos of the papers there, he’d been rifling through them. “I had a question,” he said easily, not moving.
“Get out of my bedchamber. If you’re here to call on me, then go downstairs with my other guests.”
Melbourne straightened, seeming abruptly to fill the room. “One of the sycophantic horde?” he asked, moving past her as she edged around toward her bed and the pistol she kept in the bed stand there.
“I suppose so, since you can’t seem to stay away from me.”
He stopped at the door. “I can’t, can I?” he mused, almost to himself. Slowly he reached out and secured the lock.
She heard the click from halfway across the room. Alarm ran down her spine. As mightily attracted to him as she felt, she was not a fool. Whatever he was up to would serve his purposes rather than hers. Josefina drew a breath.
“Since you won’t leave, what is your question?”
“Who authored your prospectus?”
The question surprised her. “That is what you wish to know? I thought perhaps you wanted your old liaison position back.”
“Who wrote it?” he repeated.
“Are you looking for someone to assist you with your memoirs? I can give you a title—A Very Unpleasant Man, or the Memoirs of Someone You Don’t Wish to Know.”
For a second he looked at her. “Are you afraid of anything?”
Only of how she felt in his presence. “I’m certainly not afraid of you, Sebastian,” she said, deliberately using his Christian name. “You did give me leave to call you Sebastian, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did. And you gave me leave to remove that gown and strip you naked.”
Her skin heated. “No,” she returned, holding onto her scattering wits with all her strength, “that was a different gown. This one stays where it is, because you called me a liar.”
Melbourne walked toward her. “You are a liar. Who wrote the damned prospectus?”
He knew. Somehow, he’d figured it out. Panic twisted through her. Her father should never have given Sebastian Griffin more information than strictly required. He was far too clever, and far too dangerous.
“Don’t waste your time trying to think up something plausible,” he snapped, stopping close enough to touch. “Tell me the truth.”
Josefina took a deep breath, looking up to meet his gaze. “The truth,” she said, her mind racing. “Very well. I wrote it.”
“Ah.” His eyes glinted. “You’re very knowledgeable about a country you saw for a total of two days.”
“I wrote it before I ever saw it.” She frowned. “Father wrote me letter after letter describing Costa Habichuela. He needed money to carry out his dream, and in order to get money, he needed investors. To get them, he needed something official and in writing. We didn’t have time to commission a complete, formal survey—that would have taken too much time with Spain pushing back against the rebels. So I studied other volumes to which I had access, and I…adapted them to fit what my father had described.”
“So the natives of Costa Habichuela resemble those of the West Indies?”
“You have done some checking,” she said, with grudging admiration. “No one cares about the history of the natives. They’re there, and most of them speak at least some English. The rest is just…theatrical decoration.”
“And San Saturus?”
“A little smaller than described, but it is pretty, and it does overlook an easily defended harbor.”
“You have the trade winds blowing the wrong way.”
She flushed. Lies were one thing, but she hated making stupid mistakes. “I didn’t realize that until after copies had already been printed.”
His gaze lowered to her
mouth, then swiftly lifted again, as though he couldn’t quite control his reaction to her. “What you’ve done,” he said, “aside from the theft of someone else’s research, is exceedingly…bold. Did you think no one would notice?”
“There’s no harm in it.” She lifted her hand toward him, running her fingers along the line of his jaw. Warm skin, and a barely discernable stubble of beard. Against all of her better thoughts and wishes, he fascinated her.
His muscles shuddered. “A seduction might distract me, Josefina,” he said quietly, “but it won’t make me forget what I know.”
A seduction, though, might give her enough time to tell her father that Melbourne knew about the prospectus, and enough time to figure out if he meant to tell Sir Henry Sparks or anyone else and endanger the loan money that was already being issued to them.
“Weighing your options?” he murmured.
Damn it, he couldn’t read minds. No one could do that. “And if you thought I was standing here to gain a favor or influence, what would you do?”
“Try me.”
They stood halfway between the door and the bed, a breath from touching, for several hard beats of her heart. Lofty as he was in England, Melbourne probably had no idea the things she had to contemplate, the benefits of his favor against what either rejection or exposure could do to her. “I’m remembering a few nights ago,” she said, managing somehow to keep her voice steady, “when you put your hands on me and then pushed me away.”
He moved a feather’s width closer. “And?”
“And so I think you should leave.” She backed up, then deliberately turned away. “Whatever insult or accusation you level against me, what you did that night at the theater was worse.”
“Get back here.”
“No.” Facing him again, Josefina stopped beside the bed stand, her hand on its dark, polished surface. “Go away.”
She swore that he growled then, a low, primitive rumble that raised goose bumps on her arms. “I am not someone to be trifled with,” he uttered.
“Neither am I.” But before she had time to do anything more than pull the drawer open, his hands clamped down on her shoulders. Melbourne yanked her around, the ease of the motion leaving her no doubt that he was far stronger than she.
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