by Darcy Burke
Nathan gave the man a narrow stare, but Chapple blinked innocently.
“No. My usual fare will be fine. I’ll have it in my room, as I don’t expect Lady Vivienne will be well enough to come down to dinner.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“One more thing, Chapple.”
Nathan hesitated to mention additional security measures. He’d always been perfectly safe and at home in his Nottinghamshire estate. However, if assassins really did roam the countryside, searching for the princess, it was better to be prepared.
“I am not expecting any guests. Admit no one while Lady Vivienne is here. If anyone comes to call, I am not at home. I would also ask you to instruct the servants not to mention Lady Vivienne’s presence here for the moment. I rely on the staff’s discretion, Chapple.”
The butler stiffened. “Of course, Your Grace. As you should.”
Nathan went back to his chair and wished he could lift the papers and begin sorting through them. But he had better finish this.
“Lastly, I want everyone on their guard. I’ve…heard rumors of some rather unsavory characters in the area. I want everyone to take precautions and to alert me if they see anyone unusual or unfamiliar.”
“Absolutely, Your Grace.” Chapple wrung his hands together, his concern obvious. Nathan would have preferred to avoid alarming the staff, but he could not be too careful.
“Is it highwaymen again, Your Grace?” he asked, referring to the highwayman who had preyed on the shire the Christmas before last.
“No. Nothing like that. Be watchful, Chapple. That’s all I ask.”
When he was alone again, Nathan perused the editions of The Times. The first few held no information of interest, but a quarter of the way through the stack, he found an article on the unrest in Glynaven.
British citizens traveling in the country reported unrest among the populace, stirred up by various anti-monarchist groups. There had been a revolution in the late 1700s, quite a bloody one from the accounts Nathan had read. After that uprising a military government had taken power, but the people soon revolted again and demanded the return of the monarchy. Vivienne’s father was the brother of the deposed king, and he had taken the throne about fifteen years before.
Nathan found another article about the royal family. It didn’t mention the princess, but stated that King Guillaume was much loved. His rule had been characterized by peace, until a growing faction of revolutionaries had begun to call for his abdication. Many of them had crossed to Glynaven from France, a country that had undergone its own violent revolution not long before.
Liverpool, the prime minister, and the Prince Regent had not made any comment on the worsening situation in Glynaven. Nathan suspected they did not want to cause friction or appear to take sides. Was Vivienne fooling herself by thinking she would be safe if she reached London? Would the king really give her sanctuary, or would he wash his hands of her and leave her to fend for herself?
The king might have never acted so dishonorably, but it was the Regent who held the reins of power at the moment. Prinny was selfish and self-serving. Nathan thought it unlikely he would come to Vivienne’s rescue.
Finally, Nathan found an article on the revolution itself. The paper was only a few days’ old, and the actual assault on the palace in Glynaven had taken place only a fortnight before. Eyewitness accounts were still being collected, but most agreed that the rebels had stormed the castle and murdered the royal family in their beds. The bodies of the king, the queen, and two of the four princesses had been identified. Two other bodies of women were presumed to be Vivienne and her sister Camille, but the corpses were so mangled, identification was difficult. The body of a man presumed to be the crown prince had also been found, but again, due to the state of the body, identification was a challenge.
Nathan set the papers aside and raked a hand through his hair. How had Vivienne managed to escape? And what horrors had she seen before she’d fled? It was a wonder she was still alive, a wonder he’d been entrusted to keep her safe.
He heard the clock chime on his desk and looked over. It was late, later than he’d anticipated. He was hungry and tired. Nathan wanted to speak to Vivienne, to discuss her plans to travel to London. It would have to wait until morning.
He made his way through the familiar rooms of Wyndover Park and up the winding marble staircase to his room. The yellow room, where Vivienne was housed, was at the end of the corridor. It was the most comfortable of the guest rooms and had the added benefit of being far enough away from the ducal bedchamber so as not to tempt him to knock on her door.
His dinner arrived a few minutes later. Nathan ate it, but dismissed his valet after Fletcher helped him remove his coat. Alone, Nathan flung the material of his neckcloth to the floor and stood at the window in shirt-sleeves, looking out at the encroaching darkness. The sun did not set until late in the summer months, and only now did shadows begin to obscure his view of the gardens.
He supposed he should sleep and had just pulled his shirt-tails from his trousers when he heard the screams.
Chapter 4
When the alarm sounded, Vivienne had run to the hiding place. She’d been awake, even though it was long after midnight, because she’d wanted to finish a book.
Mr. Wordsworth had saved her. If she’d been sleeping, she might not have heard the alarm or not been fast enough. She was the only one of her family to make it to the small, unassuming sitting room in one corner of the palace where a hidden room lay behind the portrait of her grandfather. She’d waited anxiously for her sisters, her parents, her brother to slide the painting away from the wall and creep into the stone space with her, but no one ever came.
When she heard the clang of steel and the cries of pain, she prayed her family would come. She prayed they’d escaped through other hidden passages, though those were few and difficult to reach. Instead, she sat, shivering, for what seemed days and days while the terror erupted around her. In truth, it had probably been only hours. It had taken but a few short hours to murder the occupants of the palace, to rape and pillage, to destroy what had once been lauded as the most beautiful royal residence on the Continent.
At some point the next day, Masson had pulled her, shaking and nauseated, from the hiding place. She didn’t know how he’d managed to avoid the carnage, or how he’d sneaked into the palace to rescue her. She knew only that he looked haggard and ten years older than he had when she’d seen him less than twenty-four hours before.
“Your Highness, the reavlutionnaire have taken over the country. If you are to live, we must sail for Britain now. Today.”
“My mother?” she croaked. “Papa?”
Masson shook his head sadly. He’d been her father’s adviser for over a decade. She knew he felt the loss almost as keenly as she did.
Vivienne sobbed, and Masson permitted it for a few moments, and then he took her by the shoulders. “You must be strong now, Princess Vivienne. The reavlutionnaire are in the taverns, celebrating their victory. They will return, and when they realize you are not among the dead, they will look for you.”
Vivienne nodded and took Masson’s arm. She couldn’t indulge her grief, not when she was the last of her family. Not when any delay could mean not only her death but the death of Masson. At the door to the ransacked sitting room, Masson paused.
“Do not look, if you can avoid it, Your Highness. The reavlutionnaire spared no one.”
But of course she saw—men, women, children. All dead. Blood everywhere. Gaping wounds. And eyes. So many sightless eyes.
She took no more than a hundred steps before she saw her mother’s body. The queen had been trying to escape to the safe room. She’d never made it. More sightless eyes.
And then, just days ago, Masson’s glazed eyes had stared at her after the reavlutionnaire came for her in a barn in Nottinghamshire. She’d hidden in the hayloft, and when the reavlutionnaire had gone out to look for her, she’d had no choice but to pass his body. To feel his si
ghtless eyes on her.
So many eyes staring at her, accusing her.
Why aren’t you one of us? Why did you live?
The voices rang in her head, and she covered her ears to drown out the sound, screamed and screamed until she couldn’t hear them any longer.
One of the bodies rose up and grabbed her shoulder, shaking her. It spoke to her, but Vivienne clawed at it, fought it.
“Vivienne!”
She fell, and when she opened her eyes, she lay in bed, the sheets tangled around her, the room yellow from lamplight.
She stared at the unfamiliar face, stared at the impossibly handsome man kneeling over her. His face was so close to hers that she could practically see the dark blue rims of his irises. She felt the fine lawn between her fingers and followed her arms to where she clutched his shirt.
Abruptly, she released him, and he moved back and off the bed.
“Je sui duilich.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he answered in English. His eyes were very blue and his face pale with concern.
Her throat felt raw and parched, and she realized she must have been screaming for several minutes if he had been concerned enough to enter her room.
He motioned toward the door, and several women in caps moved back. The maids must have heard her as well. She’d probably awakened the entire household. She felt her face heat and wished she could bury herself under the covers.
Of course, it was at that point she realized she was naked, and the sheet only barely covered her breasts. She ruched it up to her chin and glanced at Wyndover. His focus was on the servants in the doorway.
“The lady is fine now, as you see. A nightmare. We can all return to our rooms.”
With a murmur of feminine voices, the maids withdrew. Wyndover bowed to her and backed toward the door. “May I fetch you anything, Lady Vivienne?”
She shook her head, her throat too raw to speak.
“Good night then.” At the door, he paused, glanced behind him. “We need to talk,” he hissed in a whisper. “I’ll return in ten minutes.”
And he was gone.
Vivienne fell back on her pillows. If she hadn’t still been shaking from the dream, she would have been mortified that her screams had awakened an entire household. A duke’s household, no less. As it was, she wanted to pull the covers over her head and hide from the memories.
But she was a princess, and she had to behave as such.
The maids had found a simple day dress for her to wear, but she didn’t want to call them to help her dress. Instead, she wrapped the sheet around her body and dangled her legs over the side of the bed. For weeks, all she’d thought about was fleeing to London. London was safety in her mind.
But was it really? Would she be safe anywhere with the dreams and memories haunting her?
London was no different than anywhere else. The assassins could find her there. She would not be safe while they wanted her dead. Even King George could not protect her forever.
If he protected her at all.
A quiet tap on the door made her jerk her head up. Wyndover peeked inside, holding a lamp. Seeing her sitting on the side of the bed, he entered and shut the door soundlessly behind him.
“How are you feeling?” he murmured, keeping his voice low.
“Better.” Surprisingly, she meant it. When she was in his presence, so many of her fears seemed to dissipate. “Better now that you’re here,” she said.
He didn’t reply, but his gaze stayed focused on her, those bluer-than-blue eyes studying her face. Then his gaze slid down her neck, and she felt the heat of it on her bare shoulders and through the thin sheet over her breasts, her stomach, her hips, thighs, legs, until his gaze rested on her naked feet and ankles, hanging exposed.
“We should speak tomorrow.” His gaze returned to her face. “I jeopardize your reputation with my presence.”
For a long moment, she was not certain what he meant. But, of course, the English had different customs and traditions than the Glennish.
“In Glynaven, a lady’s reputation is not so easy to tarnish. Virginity is not so highly prized.”
“I know.”
Of course he did. He had been to Glynaven.
“You’re not in Glynaven any longer.” He looked at the door as though contemplating withdrawing.
“Stay with me for a few moments.” Panic bubbled inside her at the idea of being alone again with only the sightless eyes for company.
“Won’t you?” she added, when his jaw tightened.
She might be a princess, but this man was no underling she might order about. She patted the spot on the bed beside her and gave him what she hoped was an inviting smile.
He studied her again—definitely a man who took time with his decisions—and then placed the lamp on the bedside table and stood before her. He made no move to sit beside her. Perhaps that went too far for his British sense of honor.
“I spent the evening reading accounts of the revolution. I’m sorry about your family.”
She inclined her head in a gesture she’d mastered by the age of two. “Thank you.”
“Was it very bad?”
When she blinked at him, he cleared his throat. “I meant your nightmare. Was it very bad?”
“Bad enough.” She couldn’t speak of it. Her body wanted to shudder at the mere thought of those sightless eyes. She suppressed the instinct and swallowed hard. “I am better now.”
Much better with him so close, his shirt open at the throat and rolled at the sleeves. That bare expanse of his bronze neck made him somehow more vulnerable. She had the urge to touch the skin there, to kiss it and the golden stubble on his jaw. Instead, she wound her hands together, pressing her fingers tightly.
“You’re safe here,” he said. “I’ve ordered a man to be on guard at all times. The staff will keep your presence here a secret. No one has any reason to look for you here or to associate the two of us. The Duchess of Sedgemere is the only one who knows I found you, and she won’t speak of it except to her husband.”
She nodded. She was safe, for the moment. Finally, she raised her gaze to his. “But I cannot stay here forever, and even if I could, you would not be able to keep my presence a secret for that long. The assassins will come for me, and eventually they will succeed.”
“No.” He said the word emphatically, bracing his legs apart as though he might take the assassins on himself. “I won’t allow any harm to come to you. I give you my word. My vow.”
“How very noble.” She didn’t intend for the sarcasm to trickle out, but it had.
“You don’t believe me?”
“Forgive me. I don’t believe in anyone right now. You see, in order for the reavlutionnaire to carry out the attack they did, they must have had help. How else would they know how to enter the palace? How would they have found the royal chambers so quickly? My parents were dead before they had a chance to escape to the safe room. The reavlutionnaire knew where to find them.”
“Is that how you escaped? A safe room?”
She nodded. “I was the only member of my family to reach it, and only because I happened to be awake when the attack began and the alarm sounded. But the alarm was late, too late to save anyone else.”
“Members of the royal court must have assisted the revolutionaries, been part of the insurgency.”
“Yes. Men and women I trusted. People I knew, no doubt. So you must forgive me if I do not trust you.”
“I do forgive you. Anyone who has been through what you have would feel the same. In time, you will trust again.”
That was true, but he gave her too much credit. She had always seen the worst in people, never the best, even before the revolution.
“In time, I hope you can come to trust me. I have vowed to protect you, and I always honor my vows.”
“Why do you make such a vow to me? Because, as you said before, you are a gentleman?”
“Yes, and because I have fond memories of Glynaven, fond
memories of your family. They were very generous when I visited the court. I want to do something to honor their memory.”
If he spoke the truth, he was an amazing man. If she was to believe what he said, believe anyone could be so selfless, then he was a man she must learn to trust.
He stepped closer to the bed, and their knees almost touched. “I know you don’t trust me yet, but I hope you will give me the benefit of the doubt when I say we cannot travel to London yet.”
She jerked back, her gaze flicking from their knees to his face. “Why?”
“Because I must appeal to the Regent personally. Even then I have no reason to believe he will make any effort to help you. He is not a man known for doing anything that does not benefit him.”
I must appeal to the Regent.
He had not said you, had not said we. It was the speech of a champion. Her champion.
“We can do that in person. I will appeal to the man directly.”
“No. Too dangerous.” The duke took her hand. His was large and warm, while hers was cold and shaking slightly. She wanted to withdraw it so he would not know she shook so, but she couldn’t seem to force herself away from his heat.
“If you go to court and appeal to Prinny, we can no longer keep your presence a secret. You will be an easy target for the assassins.”
“I will ask the prince to offer me protection and asylum.”
The duke squeezed her hand. “And he will do so out of the kindness of his heart?” Wyndover shook his head. “He will tell you no, because it’s not politically expedient to protect you. England wants no part of this civil war.”
“It is not a civil war! It’s an insurrection!”
“Be that as it may, we did not intervene when France lopped off the heads of most of its nobility, and we will not intervene now. Prinny will want to appear neutral as the revolutionaries have some ties with Spain and Morocco. We need those countries as allies.”
Anger bubbled to the surface. She knew what he was not saying. Money and trade were at the bottom of this.
“And Glynaven is to be sacrificed so you might keep your shipping lanes open and your ships from harassment?”