Miranda Jarrett

by Princess of Fortune

  “The plum velvet,” he said at last. “Wear that tomorrow night with me, and I promise you’ll make every other lady in the house vanish.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” Her nod of acknowledgment was regal, part of the pretending, part of being her. “You know you are the only gentleman in London whose word I trust.”

  He bowed gallantly and smiled, and wished to hell he was worthy of that trust.

  The line of carriages waiting outside of Avery House snaked slowly through the nighttime streets, each driver waiting his turn to send his passengers up the steps and into the duchess’s party. Candlelight streamed from the windows of the house, like a giant lantern glowing there on the corner.

  Her heart racing with anticipation, Isabella leaned forward on the seat to look from the window. Their carriage was nearly at the doorway, and already she could hear laughter and conversation and scraps of music drifting from the open windows. With a muffled mutter of anxiety, she flopped back against the seat, her folded fan clutched tightly in her gloved fingers.

  “Oh, Tom, what if I make a fool of myself?” she asked. “I do not know these English people, and they do not know me. They will judge me as peculiar and foreign.”

  Across from her, Tom smiled. He could smile, she thought grudgingly. These people would be his people, and they wouldn’t whisper behind their hands when he walked into the room, or have any difficulty understanding how he spoke.

  “They will judge you to be charming and beautiful,” he said. “You know they will. But if you do not wish to go on, I can have the driver return us to Berkeley Square, and you—”

  “No!” She swallowed her fear, for in her mind there was no question of going back. “I am not a coward, Tom. I must go, and do what I can to promote the welfare of my country.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know how much of that you’ll be able to do here. The Duchess of Avery and her set aren’t exactly politically minded. They’re what we call fast.”

  That made Isabella smile in spite of her worries. He could be so wonderfully protective, her Tomaso! “You mean they drink and gamble and become amorous, the gentlemen and ladies both.”

  “In so many words, aye.” He leaned forward, his expression endearingly English. “I’ll keep close to you tonight, Bella. I won’t ever be far, if you ever feel out of your depth, or if some blade becomes too, ah, too amorous for your tastes.”

  “What if this blade becomes too amorous for your tastes?” she asked, unable to resist. “Will you run him through with your sword, or must I ask you first?”

  “I’d rather not,” he said sternly, “though I’ll do what I must.”

  “I believe you,” she said, and she did. He was wearing his full dress uniform—the very model of a brave English warrior!—complete with glittering gold epaulets and medals on his breast, and a presentation sword with a brilliant-studded hilt as a gift from the thankful merchants whose ships he’d saved from French privateers. His dark blue superfine coat had been tailored to display his broad shoulders to best advantage, while the snowy linen of his shirt made his face look more weathered and manly by comparison. He was the perfect image of a hero, and she thought again about how he had risked his life to save the boy on his ship, and then done the same for her. If he was concerned about amorous blades paying too much attention to her, then she was equally worried about these amorous ladies, once they spotted him.

  “I am serious, Bella,” he said, and she believed that, too. “I don’t know what kind of mischief we’ll find in this house, but together we’ll face it. Trust me. That’s all I’ll ask of you. Don’t try to cross me, or set me upon another course, or show me false colors for your own amusement. Just trust me tonight, and all will be well.”

  She liked this notion of facing mischief together, as if he might actually need her assistance, and she liked the way he’d taken to calling her Bella, without any orders or prompting from her.

  But the trust he expected from her—that was more difficult. In some ways, she could and would trust him with her life, but there were other confidences that she’d never be able to share, no matter how much she longed to, and with a shiver she thought again of the jewels hidden above her bed. She’d never left the house—and the jewels—for so long, and uneasily she pictured Lady Willoughby once again searching through her room….

  “Bella?” He looked worried more than suspicious, making her wonder how long she’d been lost in her own thoughts.

  She forced herself smile. “How could I not trust you, Tomaso? How could you ever think otherwise?”

  The carriage door swung open with a bowing footman and polished marble steps rising up to the house. This time Isabella had sense enough to wait until the footman flipped down the carriage step, and to wait further for Tom to hand her out.

  She took extra care to make sure the train of her gown draped behind her, free of the heels of her slippers, and that her cashmere shawl was anchored in the crooks of her elbows. Tripping once was an accident, but to fall again would brand her forever as a clumsy, graceless ninny, and her mother would never forgive her. She lifted her head high, tipping it to one side just enough so the sapphires in her tiara would catch the light from the lanterns at the door.

  As she tucked her fingers into Tom’s arm, he gave her a grin lopsided with admiration and resignation. “You’re going to make my life hell tonight, Bella. You know that, don’t you? The way you’re looking now, fine as any queen, you’ll have men around you thick as bees at honey.”

  “Only a princess.” She tapped her shoulder restlessly with her fan. “If you saw my mother, you’d never make such a mistake again. Oh, I wish this were over, Tom! I hate this first part, going into a great room full of people like this and knowing they’ll all be gaping at me, wanting me to be special.”

  “You, Bella?” he asked with surprise. “I thought you’d devour such an opportunity.”

  She shook her head, feeling the sapphires in her long earrings tap against her cheeks. “Not among so many English. However should I guess what these people will expect of me?”

  “Give us no thought, and act like yourself,” he said. “That’ll be more than enough.”

  She sighed, her fingers tightening on his arm as they climbed the stone steps. She could hardly argue with his advice. But since she’d come to England, it had become harder and harder to know exactly how Princess Isabella of Monteverde should act, and that—that frightened her.

  “It’s the same for a captain,” he continued. “No matter what happens on a ship, good or bad, every other man onboard looks to the captain to know instantly what to do next to make things better. The first time I had to stand on my quarterdeck and address the crew, I thought I’d pitch my dinner over the rail first, I was that terrified.”

  She laughed with delight, unable to picture his confident self in such turmoil. “You? You would never do that!”

  “I nearly did, but I didn’t, just as you will forget your doubts and succeed tonight.” They were passing through the door now, past another pair of bowing footmen, and yet he dared to wink at her. “Here we go now, lass, and mind from this moment onward, you keep to English.”

  Despite his wink, she nodded solemnly, appalled that she hadn’t realized they’d been speaking Italian. They fell into it so easily now, without a thought, as if it were a secret language for just the two of them, and she’d have to be careful not to lapse again tonight. What gossip would be able to resist such a delicious sign of intimacy between a princess and the officer meant to guard her?

  She was so on edge that the next minutes were no more than a blur of flushed faces and loud voices and bright music. They mounted a carved, curving staircase so crowded that it took Tom’s broad shoulders to help make their way to the assembly room at the top. As much as she wished to keep his arm for support, she released it, composing herself to stand alone, her fan half-opened in her right hand and her left arm in a slight, graceful arc at her side, as was proper. Tom said her name to th
e footman at the door, his coat more lavished with gold braid than Tom’s dress uniform, and suddenly everything came into focus, as sharp as a winter morning.

  “Her Royal Highness the Princess Isabella di Fortunaro of Monteverde. Captain His Lordship Thomas Greaves.”

  She lifted her head and smiled serenely, the way Mama had taught her to do whenever entering a great assembly: “Smile as if all the world is yours.”

  And in that moment, it was.

  Every head in the room turned to face her, with bows and curtsies. Though the musicians continued to play, the dozen dancers came awkwardly to a halt as they, too, bent and dipped their respect to her title, her family, and her country. This was why she was here; this was why she’d come all the way from London, to make sure Monteverde wasn’t forgotten. As she nodded in return, freeing the other guests from the spell her name had cast, she realized she had succeeded, just as Tom had said she would.

  But as she turned to tell him so, a tall woman with a pouf of dusty-red hair and a long strand of pearls wrapped around her throat swept between them. Her voice was loud, accustomed to speaking over crowds of people, but because of that, it seemed to Isabella to be very close to an ill-bred bray. She also should not be addressing a princess first, either, but then these English did seem to have difficulty remembering such niceties.

  “I am so honored that you have joined us, Your Royal Highness,” the woman said, enunciating each word with extra emphasis, as if Isabella were deaf, and not simply from another country, “and more honored to meet you at last. I am Lady Allen, ma’am.”

  Isabella nodded again, desperately wishing Tom would reappear. He’d promised he’d always be near, but now all she could see was Lady Allen’s hair. “You have a handsome home, Lady Allen.”

  “You are too, too kind!” The duchess clasped her hands over her breasts with a perfect show of gratitude. “We have all read of your fortunate escape at Copperthwaite’s. What a dreadful experience that must have been for you, ma’am!”

  “You have read of it, Lady Allen?”

  Lady Allen smiled brightly. “Oh, yes, the newspapers have been quite full of nothing else. You have not seen them for yourself, ma’am?”

  “I do not read the English newspapers, Lady Allen,” Isabella hoped she spoke with suitably solemn disdain. The truth was that while her spoken English was much improved, she found the long, gray columns of the London newspapers to be daunting and dull. “Though if the English newswriters can be persuaded to champion Monteverde’s cause against the French villains, then perhaps I shall begin to read their gazettes.”

  “Brava, brava, Your Royal Highness, well spoke!” The gentleman had deftly made his way to Lady Allen’s side, and now clapped his hands in appreciation of Isabella’s words. He was handsome enough, pale and fair like so many English with a neat little cleft in his chin, and not much older than Isabella herself. He’d been drinking, too, enough to flavor his speech—and breath—with brandy. “Make the rascals serve you, I say.”

  But what the gentleman said and how it smelled didn’t matter, because all Isabella saw was Tom behind him.

  “You are here, Captain!” She barely remembered to use captain instead of his given name, she was so relieved to see him once again. “I feared I’d lost you.”

  “Oh, ma’am, you never lose a sailor, especially one as stolid and salty as Greaves here,” the other gentleman said, thumping Tom familiarly on the shoulder. “Once he sets his course, he’ll never go astray, aye, aye, ain’t that right, Neptune?”

  “Time has not improved your wit, Darden.” Tom glowered, and made a rumbling growl that told Isabella that, as familiar as this man might seem, he was no friend—something she’d already decided for herself.

  “Nor your humor, Greaves.” The gentleman smiled confidently at Isabella. Dressed all in black except for a bright silk scarf tied around the open collar of his shirt, his curling blond hair long around his ears, he was clearly accustomed to having women sigh over him. “But I’ll forget your sour temper if you’ll but introduce me to the fair princess.”

  Isabella’s glance darted back to Tom, his expression stony. “Princess, may I present My Lord Darden, Marquis of Banleigh? Darden, Her Royal Highness the Princess Isabella.”

  Darden took her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing the air over the back of it. “Your Royal Highness, I’m devoutly, eternally honored. Please honor me further, and grant me this next dance—unless you do not idly squander your time in dancing, just as you do not read the scandal sheets?”

  Pulling her hand free of his, she opened her mouth to refuse, but the duchess answered for her first.

  “Oh, certainly the princess shall dance with you, Darden,” she said, jabbing him in the arm with the folded blades of her fan.

  She smiled at Isabella, whispering as if they shared a great secret between them. “It’s no hardship, ma’am, I assure you. All the ladies are quite mad for Darden, and besides, I do believe he’s the lord of highest rank in the company this evening.”

  Now Isabella didn’t dare look at Tom. To refuse to dance would be remarked as extraordinary and peculiar in a way that not reading would not. But the duchess was right: if Isabella did dance, protocol dictated that she must first do so with the gentleman closest to her rank, which meant the Marquis of Darden. The fourth son of the Earl of Lechmere would be so far below her, she’d have little chance of dancing with him at all, no matter how much she wished otherwise.

  “Ma’am?” Darden was holding his hand out to her, his expression quizzical yet expectant, too, as if no woman in her right mind would even consider refusing him.

  A pox on his impudence, she thought irritably. She might have no choice except to dance with him, she didn’t have to be agreeable about it. And this one dance, that was all. No more. She would be as loyal to Tom as she could.

  At last she accepted Darden’s hand, though she pointedly didn’t meet his eyes as she let him lead her on to the floor. To her dismay, the dance was an old-fashioned one, slow and stately, with actual conversation expected between partners. After growing accustomed to Tom’s height and breadth, she felt off balance beside the marquis. He was nearly as tall as Tom, but thinner, leaner, more lithe and more restless: exactly the kind of man who tended to be good with a sword, and quick to find cause to use one, too. She’d seen enough men like him at her father’s court—duels were as common as insults to honor in Monteverde—to recognize another.

  “You are a most graceful dancer, ma’am,” the marquis said as they moved through the elaborate pattern of the steps. “You are perfection.”

  “And you, Lord Darden—what are you?” she asked. “By your dress and manner, you would wish me to guess you are a poet of darkling romantic verse, yet by your birth and title, you must be an English aristocrat.”

  He winced, exaggerating, as if he’d been shot. “That is Greaves speaking, ma’am, and not you. I do write the occasional verse, and I’ll admit to some modest success in that arena. But I also sit in the House when the occasional spirit moves me, which I suppose proves I am indubitably a peer of the realm.”

  “So you are both poet and lord, and likewise, you are neither.”

  “Perhaps.” He smiled again, working to charm her. “Has Greaves told you that we are from the same county, or that our fathers were great friends?”

  “No, Lord Darden, he has not,” she said, glancing past the marquis’s shoulder as she searched vainly for Tom’s face among the crowd watching them. She didn’t like this black-clad marquis or the way he’d mocked Tom, and she didn’t trust him, either. “In truth, he has not spoken of you at all.”

  “Another wound, ma’am!” He sighed, deftly turning her through the steps to show her to best advantage. Like most gentlemen, he held his liquor well; she’d grant him that much. “We are not close now, I will admit. Being the earl’s youngest son, without prospects, he was banished from the polite world and sent away to sea. You’ve only to hear him speak to see how the low co
mpany of the navy and his lack of education have ruined whatever benefits of breeding he once could claim.”

  Isabella bristled on Tom’s behalf. “There are other advantages to be gained beyond the aristocratic world, beyond the cloistered seclusion of scholars and other tedious bores, particularly for a man.”

  “For a man, yes, but a gentleman is quite another matter.” He made an extra flourish with his hand to coincide with the music, the white ruffles falling back from his wrist. “You must not judge all English gentlemen by Greaves’s dour, weather-beaten face, you know. Some of us can be quite agreeable, given half a chance.”

  “But you see, Lord Darden, I do find Captain Lord Greaves agreeable.” For the first time, Isabella smiled at him, albeit with more triumph than charm. “He is not only a gentleman, but also an officer of great resourcefulness and honor. And he is a true hero, not simply a poet who writes of other’s heroics.”

  “What, ma’am, you are impressed because he saved your life?” He rolled his eyes and again sighed dramatically. “Ladies today are so easily impressed.”

  “I am impressed when it is my life in question, yes.”

  “But I contend that poets are necessary, too, ma’am,” he countered. “Can Greaves conceive a paean to your homeland? Can a common sailor appreciate the subtle differences between the lush greenery in the mountains of Monteverde and the nodding palms of the coast? Can he see the dusky rose of the setting sun as it gilds the walls of the Fortunaro palazzo?”

  “You like the sound of your own words too much, Lord Darden.” Yet against her will, he’d caught her interest, and she was intrigued. “You have journeyed to Monteverde, then?”

  “I have,” he said, “and a most enjoyable journey it was, too. I stayed in a small villa that seemed wedged between the rocks of the cliffs, with walls painted yellow and shutters of green, all beneath a roof of crimson tiles. One window of my chambers overlooked the glorious sea, while from the other I had a perfect view of il palazzo Fortunaro.”