Anne cupped her hand to her mouth. There were tears in her eyes.
“Though she expected Royle to follow her edict, she took no responsibility for it,” Gallantine broke in. “Instead, she tasked Royle with penning a missive to the prince, informing him that Mrs. Fitzherbert would soon be well and would harbor no traces of her earlier illness.”
“Her…illness? Oh my word, she meant-the babies.” Elizabeth’s jewel-green eyes sparkled with unshed tears.
Lotharian gazed down at the Turkish carpet for several seconds before continuing. “Then, at the queen’s direction, Lady Jersey wrapped the bluish babies in her own shawl and deposited the still bodies in a lidded basket, which she hurriedly pushed into your father’s arms. He was to remove the bodies to the country, bury them, and never tell of their existence. Ever. The future of the Prince of Wales depended on it.”
“But the babies weren’t dead,” Gallantine added excitedly. “Not yet.”
“Devil take you, Gallantine. You are ruining the drama of the story!” Lilywhite balled his hand into a chubby fist and thumped it on his own knee.
Lotharian extended his arm backwards toward Lilywhite and snapped his fingers. “Assistance, please.”
“Oh, certainly.” Lilywhite helped Lotharian stand. When the tall gentleman sat down in Lilywhite’s chair, Lilywhite was left standing, mouth agape.
“Do stand at the opposite end of the settee, my friend, so I may see the gels’ lovely faces as I put a period to the story of their birth and second chance at life.”
Gallantine grumbled but did as Lotharian, the obvious commander of the Old Rakes, had asked.
“Royle was nothing if not loyal to the Crown, and so he left Margate to do as the queen had commanded. But as the carriage rolled off into the night, he heard a weak mewl coming from inside the basket.”
“The babies!” The tears in Anne’s eyes breached her lashes and spilled down her cheeks.
“Yes,” Lotharian told her. “Royle lifted the lid to see three sets of blinking eyes peering up at him. He ripped open his shirt and held the three shivering babes to his bare chest for warmth, then wrapped his coat around them all. They were not dead, but if he returned the infants to Margate, and the queen, he was certain they would not survive the night.”
Gallantine clutched his brandy crystal tightly in his hands, as though gathering up his courage, as he usurped the role of historian. “Your father knew what must be done, so he whisked the babies to his family’s cottage, where he immediately engaged two wet nurses.” He smiled at each of the women. “And, well, you know the rest of the story. He raised them as his own into three fine young ladies.”
“In the morning, Royle-likely after realizing the danger of what he had opened himself and the babies to by sharing the story-recanted everything. Blamed it on the brandy and his penchant for storytelling,” Lilywhite sighed. “But we had only to look in his eyes to know his poignant words the night before had been the truth. So then, when he asked us that if anything were to happen to him, we would see to your future, we vowed we would.”
“And so we shall.” Gallantine swallowed the last few drops of his brandy and settled the goblet on the tea table. “So we shall.”
Lord Lotharian leaned forward, took Mary’s hand in his, and curled his fingers around it. “And there you have it, Miss Royle, the true story of your birth.”
Mary felt numb.
No, it is impossible. The story cannot be true. It cannot!
It is far too outlandish. Far too grand.
And yet, she had to admit to herself, there was a part of her that did believe.
Wanted to believe.
Oh, not the bit about being daughters of the prince.
From everything she’d heard, Prinny was a spoiled, loathsome oaf, and good heavens, being found to be his child would be naught but an embarrassment to her-even if the same could hardly be said for her sisters.
No, the part Mary longed to believe was her father’s heroic actions-even when it meant refusing to do as the queen commanded. Saving the babies, despite the very real threat of reprisal from the Crown, was in precise keeping with the character of her father. He was exactly the sort who would do whatever he could to save innocent lives.
As Mary sat silently, considering these amazing revelations, she belatedly noticed that her sisters had her pinned with expectant gazes.
“So, what say you, Mary?” Anne seemed very impatient with her for some reason.
Had she missed a bit of conversation while mulling over her thoughts?
“I can see that you are still not fully convinced.” Lord Lotharian pressed down on the chair’s wooden arms and hoisted himself up from its seat. “No matter.”
The tall lean gentleman returned to his place beside the hearth and gestured for the other two elderly gentlemen to join him.
For nearly a full minute, the Royle sisters sat quietly, their ears straining to overhear the low buzz of conversation taking place before the mantel.
To her surprise, Mary caught her name mentioned, twice, but she could not understand any other part of what seemed to her to be a most serious conversation. At last the three old rakes rejoined the sisters.
Lotharian smiled at each young lady in turn, then fixed his eyes upon Mary. “We shall begin with you, my dear, if that is acceptable.”
What is this?
“Er…begin what with me, my lord?”
“Why, see to your future, gel. Promised Royle, I did, and despite my reputation…in other areas, I assure you, I always keep my word.”
My future? No, no, no-
Lord Lotharian took Mary’s gloved hand and drew her up from the settee. “Mrs. Upperton has seen to the preparations. Everything should have been delivered to your lodgings by now.”
His eyes twinkled excitedly, making Mary wonder exactly what sort of readying Mrs. Upperton had done.
“My town carriage will fetch you and your sisters from Berkeley Square at nine o’clock this eve for Lady Brower’s rout-where you and your sisters will be launched into London society.”
Good heavens. Mary’s tongue felt thick in her mouth, but she somehow managed to lace together a few words of protest. “My lords, you are very kind, but we are not acquainted with Lady Brower.”
Lord Lotharian waved his free hand dismissively. “My darling, you know no one in London. So you must trust my guidance.”
He gestured to her sisters, then patted Mary’s hand and led her to the turning bookcase. “Your father bequeathed each of you a reasonable portion and sizeable dowry. You have the gentlemen of the Old Rakes of Marylebone to see to the rest. Yes, Miss Royle, by season’s end, as your guardian I vow to see you properly matched to a gentleman of supreme standing. Then Lilywhite and Gallantine shall do the same for each of your sisters. Such a diverting challenge this will be for us all.”
“Are you referring to finding matches for the gels, Lotharian?” Gallantine busied himself by making minute adjustments in the position of his wig.
To Mary, he seemed more than a little ill at ease at the moment.
“Or…perhaps you are referring to proving the gels’ lineage?” Gallantine asked. “For you have yet to mention the latter, and I daresay that task will be far more of a challenge to accomplish.”
For the briefest instant, worry cinched Lotharian’s ample brows, but in the next, his expression relaxed and his characteristic rakish grin made its appearance on his lips.
“Why, both, my man! For the only way to secure the Royle sisters’ futures is to secure their past as well.”
“Did you hear, sisters? They mean to help us-in all things!” Elizabeth, unable to restrain her excitement, let forth a high-pitched giggle before stifling it by clapping her hand to her mouth.
Lotharian chuckled softly, then set himself to the task of turning the bookcase, opening it wider.
Taking this as a cue to leave, Mary made to step into the secret passage, but the ancient rake held her firmly in place for a mom
ent more.
“I do not jest, Miss Royle,” he told her with all seriousness. “There will be no settling for a simple mister or even a sir for you.”
Once again, Mary did not know how to respond.
Certainly, she didn’t need anyone’s help selecting a husband. She was more than capable of managing her own life. Why, she had already set her cap for a very worthy man-and a titled war hero at that.
She was about to admit as much when she happened to glance at her two sisters.
If there was even a chance that the Old Rakes of Marylebone could see to her sisters’ marital futures, well, she would have to go along with the plan, at least for a while.
It was true that Anne’s and Elizabeth’s charms were many, but they were completely distracted by this tale of the blue-blooded babes.
Unlike she herself, they lacked the focus needed to set their futures on the proper path-by finding husbands.
Because of this, Lady Upperton’s guidance and direction in making proper matches was truly a godsend.
Why, with Lady Upperton as their sponsor, surely their minds would be too occupied with the hunt for husbands to allow them to waste their time and meager resources investigating the farcical tale of their supposed royal birth.
Lotharian raised a brow. “Do you doubt my connections, miss?”
“Oh, no, my lord,” Mary blurted.
“Very well then. We shall focus our matchmaking attentions on dukes, marquises and earls…though we might consider a viscount or even a baron-but only if the family is very old and prominent.”
Mary squinted at him. “Why is a title so important?”
“Why indeed,” he said, winking at her playfully as he released her to follow her sisters into the hollow blackness behind the bookcase, “because, my dear, you are the daughter of the future king of England.”
Chapter 4
Rogan and Quinn were soaked to the skin, but this was no great surprise. They should not have raced like mindless schoolboys to Hyde Park when the rain was so clearly poised to fall.
Still, Rogan had never been able to turn his back on a challenge, especially one from his brother, Quinn.
Just as he’d known all along, Quinn’s mystery chit was nowhere to be seen when they finally arrived at the park.
At least, Rogan mused, she had been wise enough to stay at home on a wet day like this. Showed she had a brain in her pretty little head. That was something to recommend her.
Not wishing to slosh water up the stair treads to their chambers, Rogan and Quinn headed straight for the glowing hearth in the parlor and began to shed their clothing there.
Rogan dried his thick hair, then handed his valet the wet towel in exchange for a warm dressing gown. “All I am saying, Quinn, is do not marry in haste.”
“Why not, if she is the one for me?”
“This gel who’s got your blood heated may well be your perfect match,” Rogan exhaled, passing his hand through his damp hair. “Only promise me you’ll get to know her, truly know her, and her family, before speaking of a ring…and children, for God’s sake.”
Quinn tossed his sodden coat over the back of a chair before the fire, then sat down and allowed the footman to tug off his wet boots. “Haven’t you ever seen something from afar, a fowling-piece, or horseflesh perhaps, and known instantly that it was perfect for you?”
“A gun is a far cry from a woman, Quinn. If I became less than enamored with a fowling-piece, I could sell it, or stash it away in the bowels of the house. Can’t do that with a woman. Against the law, you know. At least I think so.” Rogan rubbed his chin. “Might be worth looking into though…for future reference.”
Quinn laughed as he rose and peeled his sodden lawn shirt from his upper torso. “You know what I mean. She’s beautiful, quiet, and shy. Definitely of the Quality-I can tell by the graceful way she holds her back.”
“You can tell all of that from riding past her each Tuesday?”
“Her beauty is not up for debate, Rogan. You will see soon enough. And as for her nature, well, that is quite evident as well. When we pass in the park, she always glances up at me through her lashes. Gives me a shy smile, then blushes the most delicate rose hue and turns her face away.”
“Oh, a delicate rose hue, well, that changes matters, doesn’t it? Of course, I amend my stand. You should marry her at once. A delicate rose hue, imagine that.”
Quinn tied his dressing gown closed. “How can I make you understand?”
“Doubt you can. In my mind, marriage is not about infatuation. ’Tis a business arrangement between families.” Rogan lifted two glasses of port from the footman’s salver and handed one to his brother. “Proceed with caution, that’s all I ask. Wouldn’t want to end up with a common mushroom interested only in your purse.”
“Why is it that when you, or I, meet a woman, you immediately suspect her of having her eye on our fortunes?”
“Because I am a realist, Quinn. I have seen too many gentlemen give their hearts to women who love only their money. You want to live in misery the rest of your days, go ahead, marry a commoner.”
“Marrying a commoner is not always the wrong decision, Rogan. When our father married my mother, she was a simple miss with nary a guinea to her name. Until the day Father died, theirs was the most successful of marriages.”
Rogan turned around and faced the fire so that Quinn could not see the blood rise into his cheeks.
Good God. That statement was at least ten furlongs from the truth.
How could Quinn have been so blind to his mother’s greed? She was a guinea-grabber, and nothing less!
Less than a year after Rogan’s mother had died giving birth to him, Miss Molly Hamish, a fresh-faced commoner from Lincolnshire, had sunk her talons deep into his grieving father. He’d been smitten, and so in need of affection that he’d married her the very moment his grieving period had been at an end.
From what his father had told him in later years, once she’d become a duchess and borne her husband a son-Quinn-she’d closed her bedchamber door to him for good. She no longer even pretended to love the duke, or to tolerate Rogan. She lavished gifts upon Quinn, bought baubles and gowns for herself, and traveled to fashionable spas with her vulgar friends.
The old duke was left in despair, lamenting his rash decision to marry the miserable guinea-grabber for the rest of his days.
Rogan swore he’d never repeat his father’s mistake. And he was not about to let his younger brother fall prey to some conniving commoner the way his father had.
No, he planned to keep a wary eye on Quinn’s budding relationship with this…Hyde Park woman, just to be sure his battle-weary brother was not about to make the grandest mistake of his life.
“Brower rout tonight.” Rogan turned around and looked to Quinn. “Might behoove you to look your best this eve. Who knows, your nameless lady might be in attendance.”
Quinn’s whole face seemed to brighten. “Do you think so?”
Rogan shrugged. “Don’t know, but from what I’ve heard, half of London society shall be there. And since you claim she is highborn, which absolutely she is, because of the graceful curve of her back-”
Quinn laughed. “Then you must be sure to wear your blue coat, Rogan.”
“And why is that?”
“So you will look your best as well-when I introduce you to my betrothed.” Quinn grinned at him, then drained the last dark crimson droplets from his glass.
Rogan forced a chuckle, then tossed a wink at his brother and left the room. Instead of heading for his bedchamber, he turned straight down the passage and slipped into the library. There, he inked a short missive and sent it off with a footman.
He’d not leave his brother’s choice in brides to chance. In the event Quinn’s chit was indeed at the rout, Rogan intended to have a plan of contingency already in motion. And that plan included the beautiful young war widow, Lady Tidwell.
Lady Upperton stared across the carriage cabin and smiled at
Mary with full approval. “That gown skims your contours so perfectly, dear, one might imagine that it is made from a wisp of spring sky, and overlaid with lace woven from airy clouds.”
“I daresay I had the very same thought, Lady Upperton.” Mary glanced down at the gown Lady Upperton had sent for her-a pale blue gossamer silk confection, iced with hair-thin threads of silver.
She sighed inwardly. The gown was beautiful, she had to admit. Still, she was not at all convinced that in light any stronger than that of the interior of the carriage, the mere whisper of a dress wouldn’t be entirely transparent.
Though she had to admit that such a gown was bound to draw suitors. For modesty’s sake she made a mental note to avoid all clusters of two or more candles, or two or more gentlemen this eve.
Elizabeth and Anne sat quietly beside her on the leather bench, their backs straight and rigid. Practiced smiles were pasted firmly upon both their faces, but it was clear they were more tightly wound with nerves than she.
They were too aware of their finery to enjoy riding in such a splendid vehicle. Instead, they fretted over the possibility of the jostling carriage wrinkling their skirts before they reached the Browers’ grand house.
But reach it they did. Carriages lined Grosvenor Square three deep. Shouting drivers jockeyed for position, each trying to deliver his passengers to the single prime spot before the Browers’ imposing home.
Through the grand lower-floor windows and the open front door, Mary could see into the crowded, brightly-lit house, where elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen moved shoulder to shoulder like dairy cows pushing through an open gate into a green meadow.
Within minutes, she, her sisters, and Lady Upperton were part of the lowing herd moving down the center hall toward the drawing room.
The movement of the crowd was so horribly slow and the sweaty press of bodies so great that Mary could hardly expand her ribs enough to breathe. It was only owing to her stature that she was able to draw a few gasps of air from above at all.
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