by Cheryl Holt
He’d yearned—just once—to exhibit the same sort of brash aplomb, but he’d been stuck at Radcliffe, too meek to shuck off their father’s heavy hand, too timid to reach for things he’d craved. So he’d taken what Julian hadn’t wanted. He’d taken Radcliffe and Susan and never looked back.
But standing here in the forest, with Julian’s sons glaring at him, he didn’t dare confess any of it.
He grinned maliciously. “I guess you’ll have to go to your grave wondering how he perished. For if I knew—which I don’t—I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of apprising you.”
“You stole everything he had,” Matthew taunted, “but we hear you’ve received no pleasure from any of it.”
“Let’s tabulate your sorry list of accomplishments,” Michael said. “Tenants who loathe you. A bitter, disloyal wife. A failed estate. Three sons who were never hale.”
“Doesn’t it gall you,” Matthew said, “that you struggled so diligently to ensure Julian’s children died. Yet we’re all thriving, while your children didn’t make it. You have the worst luck.”
They smirked, and George should have kept his mouth shut, should have let the taunt go unchallenged, but he couldn’t help blurting out, “None of it was my fault. I was cursed by your mother.”
“Good,” Matthew said. “It appears to have worked.”
“Your mother was a whore,” George spat.
Both twins gasped, and Michael hissed, “What did you say, you prick?”
“She was a whore, a mercenary leech, a money-grubbing fortune hunter who viewed your father as naught but a fat bank account.”
He was surprised he managed to spew the entire string of insults. Michael Blair seized him by the throat and lifted him off the ground, and he was squeezing tight, choking the life out of George. George pried at his fingers, but couldn’t pull them away, and he was rapidly losing consciousness.
Before matters could escalate to a dire level, Matthew stopped his sibling.
“Whoa! Whoa!” Matthew counseled. “Steady, Michael, steady on. We agreed not to kill him, remember?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Michael said.
“No, you haven’t,” Matthew insisted. “We’re shaming him to death. That’s the plan. We’ll expose him for the brother-murdering dog he is. We’ll pilfer what he has and leave him with nothing—as he left out mother with nothing. It’s a better punishment by far.”
Michael tossed George away, and he collapsed in a heap. He was too terrified to get up, and he peeked at Michael, alarmed over what he might do next. From the bloodthirsty gleam in his eye, George wasn’t certain he’d been calmed sufficiently to prevent further mayhem.
“I want him dead,” Michael tersely said.
“Not now. Not yet,” Matthew replied. “He’s still an earl. We’ll finish it when he’s not.”
They gazed at one another, and they appeared to be carrying on a conversation in their heads. Ultimately Michael whipped away and started into the trees to where his horse was chomping on the grass.
“I’ll join you shortly,” Matthew called.
Michael waved but didn’t glance around. He jumped on the animal and galloped away.
George heaved out a desperate sigh. “Where is he going?”
“To the coaching inn. We’re waiting on an arrest warrant.”
George blanched. “An arrest warrant for who?”
“For you, Uncle. For killing our father.”
Matthew leaned down and dragged him to his feet. He was wobbly, off balance, dizzy and disoriented. His throat throbbed where he’d been throttled, and he felt sick to his stomach.
“You have no evidence,” he murmured.
“We have your wife’s written confession. We weren’t joking.”
George scowled, anxious to conceal his panic. “You couldn’t possibly have.”
“Yes, we have it so we’re aware of every sordid crime you committed.”
How had it been delivered into their possession? Who had done it? Susan was too ill. Had it been Katherine? Would she have betrayed him? Or was it someone else?
He’d learn the identity of the culprit and that person would be hanged. Until he was carted off in chains, he was still lord and master at Radcliffe. He would be happy to impart a bit of swift justice. Even if it was to pretty, quiet Katherine.
“You can’t prove any of it,” he declared. “It’s the words of a dying woman who’s mad as a hatter.”
“We don’t have to prove it. As I said, my brother is very wealthy. We can torment you over it for the remainder of your days. You’ll have failed in your quest to steal our father’s legacy. Julian and Anne Blair will be avenged—by their children.”
Matthew pushed him toward the road, but George wasn’t sure he could make it to the castle on his own. He wished he could ask Matthew to give him a ride, but he’d rather be boiled in hot oil than ask the man for any favor.
Still though, he tried to look regal and in charge. He straightened and glared at his nephew. “The minute I’m inside the castle gates, I’m sending the law for both of you. Best prepare yourself, for you’re about to be arrested too.”
“I’m trembling in my boots, Uncle.”
“You keep forgetting that I am an earl, a peer of the realm, and I will not be assaulted as if I’m a commoner. I shall have Michael Blair executed for putting his filthy paws on me.”
“Didn’t you know?” Matthew grinned his father’s grin. “We’ve bribed everyone who matters in this country. No one will help you, and you have no friends.”
George stood in the middle of the road, afraid, belittled, offended. He nearly burst into tears. How had it all gone so wrong?
Julian was dead. Anne was most likely dead too. Their children had been scattered to the four winds. But two of them had returned, like righteous angels. They seemed omnipotent, as if they’d been imbued with Julian’s strength and steady character.
It was so unfair! They were supposed to have perished too. They were supposed to have starved on London’s mean streets. They weren’t supposed to show up without warning and prove themselves rich, powerful, and invincible.
All those years ago, when he’d moved against Anne, if he’d thought for a single second that any of her horrid brats might survive, he’d have killed them too.
To his father, they’d been a nuisance, a non-issue. What could they do on their own but falter and fail? Yet they’d not only lived through the disaster, they’d flourished. How was it possible? How had it happened? It was almost as if Julian was staring down from Heaven, laughing at George, letting him know he’d always been inept.
“Get going, Uncle,” Matthew said.
“I’m not well. I don’t think I can make it without assistance.”
“Maybe someone will come by and take you in their wagon.”
“What if they don’t?”
“After how you disparaged my mother, are you expecting me to be sympathetic?”
“You should be kinder to me. I’m old, and I’ve been physically attacked.”
“You’re an unrepentant, evil ass, and it’s about time you were attacked. And you’re not old. You’re lucky I stopped Michael. If you aggravate him in the future, I won’t intervene. Now get walking.”
Matthew braced his feet, his hands clasped behind his back, as if he was standing at attention, as if he might have once been a soldier. Julian used to stand the same way, and for just a moment, Matthew melded into George’s memories of his brother until George might actually have been looking at Julian.
A voice whispered in his head. You shouldn’t have murdered me, George. My sons are here to make you pay…
Julian’s words were loud and clear, spoken next to his ear, so close he could feel his brother’s breath brushing across his skin. He yearned to glance over to see if Julian’s ghost was there, but he was too terrified to know for certain.
He whirled away and staggered off.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Princess Morovs
ky stood at the ship’s rail, staring down the wharf.
Alexandria was a busy port, and there was a swarm of people as far as the eye could see. Ships lined the dock in both directions. Cargo was being loaded and unloaded. Passengers boarded and debarked. Men were hawking food, supplies, offering taxis and carriages, seemingly in a thousand different languages.
The tide had turned, and they were ready to sail. Behind her, sailors ran about, calling orders and questions to one another. The captain had assured her of good weather, that their crossing of the Mediterranean would be fast, smooth, and uneventful.
She hoped so. She’d agreed to go back to Parthenia, and she would brook no delays. Briefly she worried about her sister and brother. She wondered where they were, if they were safe, and she supposed they were.
If she arrived in Parthenia only to find that they weren’t there, she would shoot Kristof right in the center of his cold, black heart. She should have murdered him the day he’d seized the throne. She should have killed him then. She still could, and if her siblings had been mistreated, his end would come much sooner than he’d expected.
Under her purple robe, her diamond tiara, Kat Webster struggled to emerge. For a fleeting, nostalgic minute, the Princess allowed Kat to bubble up.
She studied the throng, searching for Bryce, praying he was out there somewhere. In case he was, she wanted him to note which vessel was taking her away, which one to follow.
It was simply beyond her ability to imagine that he wouldn’t chase after her. Yes, she’d been horrid to him that last morning at Valois’s villa, but he would have seen through Princess Morovsky’s cruel words.
He would have recognized Kat’s fear and alarm, would have understood Kat would never forsake him, that she’d had to protect her siblings. With Pippa pressuring her so unmercifully, she’d been confused and frantic and not thinking clearly. She was certain he’d have forgiven her and made plans to rescue her once again.
But during the entire trip to Alexandria, there had been no sign of him. She kept looking though, and couldn’t seem to stop. She’d been so sure of him, of his devotion and loyalty. He would never let Pippa get away with her blackmail, would never let Kat be forced into marrying Kristof.
Yet as each mile passed, her optimism had waned. What if he didn’t realize how desperately she needed him? What if she never saw him again?
No, no, he’ll come after me. He will!
She rubbed a hand over her belly and smiled a secret smile. Had he planted a babe in her womb? Was she already increasing? She knew some of the signs a woman experienced, but was there a way to tell so early?
She yearned to be carrying his child. She craved it with a vehemence that shocked and surprised her.
Thoughts of Parthenia, of Kristof, pushed into her head. For some reason, he was intent on wedding her, so there had to be a dire situation spurring the bizarre decision. What would he do to Kat if she was with child? More importantly, what might he do to Nicholas or Isabelle?
Princess Morovsky had had enough of Kat’s fretting. There was no purpose to wistfulness, and she wouldn’t suffer it. She smoothed her expression and gazed down the wharf again.
Miss Clementi had left to purchase a few items for their journey across the sea. The ship’s captain was pacing, anxious to leave, but with her elevated status as Kristof’s spy, she felt free to be late. Off in the distance, her carriage was gradually meandering through the crowd. A footman was out in front, maneuvering the horses around various impediments, but he wasn’t having much luck.
It might take them forever to reach the ship, and the Princess couldn’t figure out why Miss Clementi didn’t climb out and walk the rest of the way. Didn’t she grasp how her slow speed was causing a problem?
Of course, since the Princess had initially fled Parthenia, Miss Clementi’s star had risen quite high. She was very set on herself, and it would never occur to her that her behavior might be an issue.
Kat bubbled to the surface once more, remembering all the years she’d been kind to Pippa, all the years she’d treated her like a sister. They’d shared every dream, every secret, every heartache.
Had Pippa ever cared about Kat? Had she ever cared about Nicholas or Isabelle? Had she ever been grateful for the many boons showered on her by the Morovskys? Kat had to accept that she probably hadn’t been.
She couldn’t bear to travel with Pippa another second. She’d have to see her every morning, watch her coo with the crew, and scheme with Captain Romilard. Most of all Kat would have to constantly recollect how Pippa had betrayed her.
Kat retreated into the shadows, and Princess Morovsky spun to the ship’s captain. “We needn’t wait for my companion.”
He scowled. “What?”
“We needn’t wait.”
“Are you…ah…positive, Your Grace?”
“Absolutely. Raise the gangplank. I’m eager to be away.”
“What of your friend? I’m worried about leaving her behind.”
“I’m not.”
“Alexandria is a dangerous place for a woman.”
“She’ll be fine. She loves to remind me that she’s very wealthy now, so she can use her own money to pay her expenses. I hardly need to spend more of mine.”
The comment was cold and harsh, but Princess Morovsky didn’t blink as she voiced it. The captain studied her, studied the wharf, but he didn’t know which carriage belonged to Miss Clementi, didn’t know how close she was.
“If you’re positive?” he asked again.
“Please get moving. Her dallying has tried my patience to the limit.”
She stared him down, pelting him with all her imperial grandeur, and apparently he understood how to obey a royal command.
He began barking orders to his sailors. As she’d demanded, the gangplank was raised, ropes untied, the anchor pulled up. A raft manned by slaves rowed them away from the pilings, and very quickly a breeze caught the sails. They drifted into deeper water.
Feet pounded on the deck, and momentarily Captain Romilard appeared at her side. Evidently he’d been napping. His coat was off, his shirt untucked. Several of his men blustered up with him.
“What have you done?” he wheezed.
The Princess whirled on him, and her furious glower caused him to step back. “Were you addressing me, Captain Romilard?”
“Ah…yes, Your Highness.” He was a stupid little bully who was cowed by royalty too. She only had to act the part, and he trembled in his boots.
“So far on this unpleasant journey,” the Princess fumed, “I have been much too lenient with you. Speak to me with the deference I am due or be silent.”
“Yes, yes, Your Grace.” The obsequious toad nodded. “It’s just that the captain tells me you’ve forced him to depart.”
“Yes, I’m tired of Egypt. If we’d missed the tide, I would have had to spend an extra day here.”
“Where is Miss Clementi? My men inform me she’s not yet on board.”
The Princess pointed to the dock where the hapless shrew had finally bothered to glance out the window of her stalled carriage. She had realized the ship was being tugged away, that no one was waiting for her. She might have had many friends in Parthenia, but in this tiny corner of Egypt, she suddenly had no friends at all.
“I believe Miss Clementi is there,” the Princess said. “Isn’t that her waving to us? I’m quite sure it is.”
“Your Highness, we can’t go without Miss Clementi.”
“We already have, Captain.”
“But…but…”
Miss Clementi was flagging them with a kerchief, trying to get their attention. She was swearing, calling to Captain Romilard to stop, to fetch her.
“Really, Your Grace, we can’t abandon her.”
“Are you deaf, Captain Romilard? I am the affianced bride of your king and very soon I will be your queen. I have commanded that we leave her, and we have. I will not suffer Miss Clementi’s annoying presence for the rest of the trip.”
“We can’t desert her in this country of infidels. What will happen to her?”
“Her fate does not concern me.” The Princess smiled a cruel smile. “Now then, Captain, your company here at the rail is neither wanted nor necessary. Go below.”
“I have to confer with the captain about this,” he blustered. “We have to turn around.”
She glared at his soldiers. “Captain Romilard seems to feel it is appropriate to argue with me and countermand my direct order. Remove him from my sight.”
The soldiers shuffled about, uncertain whether to obey their future queen or their leader. Ultimately they nudged Romilard, a remark was whispered in his ear, and they dragged him away and climbed the ladder into the hold.
The Princess was free to gaze at the wharf without interruption, to watch Phillippa Clementi growing smaller and smaller as the ship picked up speed. While Miss Clementi had been confident of her authority and power, she was swiftly losing her poise and cunning attitude. She was crying, begging not to be left behind.
Over and over, she beseeched her old friend Kat Webster, but only Princess Morovsky stared back.
* * * *
“I thought we’d travel to England together.”
“Seriously?” Bryce glared at Chase in disgust. “After your part in this debacle, I wouldn’t travel across the street with you.”
“I realize you’re angry,” Chase said.
“You have no idea, Chase, and I suggest you drop the subject.”
“If it’s a question of funds, I’m happy to pay your fare.”
“You’d pay my fare? With what? Your blood money from Pippa Clementi?”
“Why shouldn’t I offer? You need to get home so we’d be putting it to good use. My purse is full of gold coins for once, and while I regret what I did to receive them, I’m not about to pretend I don’t have them. That would be ridiculous.”
Bryce scoffed. “I wish I had your ability to make excuses for my worst traits.”
“What would you rather I do? Should I head to the market and toss them to the beggars? I won’t. Nor will I continue to apologize for what occurred. The fiasco is over, so there’s no point in hashing it out.”