Miss Burton Unmasks a Prince

by Jennifer Moore

  Meg crossed her arms and looked back across the pond. “You’re mocking me.”

  “I assure you, I am not. I only seek to understand and perhaps alleviate the source of your distress.”

  She looked at him, trying to discern whether he was teasing.

  When she did not answer, he said, “I believe you spoke of a particular gown and a ghost and, if I remember correctly, the prince himself. How have these things upset you?”

  Meg’s cheeks heated again, and she looked down. “Of course I had not intended to be overheard. I do not wish to sound ungrateful when the duke has extended such a warm welcome and proven so amiable.”

  When she raised her eyes, she saw Carlo was watching her. He nodded, encouraging her to continue.

  “The duke’s sister has chosen some gowns for me to wear in London, but I’m afraid our tastes are a bit dissimilar. You see, Lady Vernon assures me an apricot frock will be the height of fashion this year, but with red hair, I . . .”

  As she spoke, Carlo glanced up at her hair, which Meg knew was a wild, untamed mass. Why had she not at least tied it back in a braid?

  She clamped her mouth shut, feeling foolish. These matters were certainly none of his affair, and a man would not be interested in such things.

  “I would not describe your hair as red. It appears to me a beautiful shade of ginger—bermejo.” He tipped his head as if truly considering the problem. “Yes, such an exceptional color deserves special consideration. I fully understand your frustration.”

  He must be teasing. Surely he did not take such a thing as seriously as he pretended. Meg decided she’d had enough of this conversation. The more she spoke with Carlo, the greater fool she was making of herself. If only she could start over. He could happen upon her as she stood in the gazebo, her cloak billowing around her, her hair blowing in gentle curls away from her face. She would appear pensive and beautiful and tragic . . .

  “And the ghost,” he said, interrupting her thoughts.

  “I do not think you are taking me seriously, sir. I should return to the castle. I have undoubtedly been missed by now.”

  Carlo stepped across the path, picking up Meg’s book and looking at it before extending it toward her. “I wonder if your fondness for the supernatural extends from the books you read?”

  “I do not have a fondness for the supernatural,” Meg said. “I was simply disappointed that my first visit to a castle turned out to be so ordinary.”

  “A ghost or an ancient curse would make it less so?”

  “Obviously. But there’s not even a skeleton in the dungeon. I checked myself. There is nothing but old dishes and damaged barrels. And the doors to both towers are locked.”

  Carlo pressed two fingers over his twitching mouth, but it was not enough to prevent a burst of air from escaping his nose. He attempted to disguise it by coughing into the tunnel of his fist, but Meg knew he was laughing at her.

  She snatched the book from him and turned toward the trees.

  “I am sorry,” he said behind her. “I did not mean to laugh.”

  Meg continued to walk away without looking back. She would have to visit the gazebo another day.

  Carlo cleared his throat. “I believe you also mentioned the prince.” His voice was quiet, yet it carried through the clearing.

  Meg stopped walking. Her heart sank. And her anger dispersed. She could not see Carlo’s face, but she imagined that all traces of humor had gone. If he said anything to the prince, His Majesty would surely be offended. He would likely tell his sister and the duke, and Meg would no longer be welcome at Thornshire Castle. When would she ever learn to watch what she said?

  “I did not mean any disrespect to the prince.”

  “Have you met His Highness?” Carlo asked.

  Meg turned. “No. I have not had that pleasure.”

  “Yet you said that you do not care for his favor. Or did I misunderstand?”

  Meg wished the ground would open up and swallow her. She had made a blunder, and Carlo would report it to his master. She squared her shoulders, determining to explain herself. “I did say that. Of course, as I said before, I did not intend for anyone to hear.”

  Carlo took a step closer, his gaze never leaving her face. She wished she could read his expression. Was he angry? Was he so loyal to his prince that he would expose her offensive words? “I should wonder why you so dislike a person you have not met.”

  How could she possibly tell Carlo that she was annoyed with the prince because she was expected to ensnare him with her womanly charms? She could not bring herself to explain her family’s need for her to marry a man of wealth and her abhorrence of the very idea. It was humiliating. She settled upon her secondary reason for disliking His Majesty. “The prince has avoided our society since my brother and I arrived. I figured he must be either disagreeable or proud to slight us so.” She looked at Carlo and saw no censure, no anger, nothing but surprise in his expression.

  She gave a small smile. “I am sorry if I offended you. My mouth often speaks before my mind has a chance to censor my words. The truth is I have never met a prince, and surely my attitude has been colored by my inexperience. Please do not tell him what I said.”

  “I will not tell the prince of our conversation,” Carlo said, his eyes still upon her.

  Relief flowed like a wave over Meg. She hadn’t realized how tightly she had been holding her shoulders. “Thank you.”

  “Do you think you are being entirely fair toward His Majesty?” Carlo patted the horse’s neck, but he continued to watch Meg with an unreadable expression.

  “No, I realize I am not. However, I do not think my opinion should matter if I am never to be acquainted with the man. And even if I do, it is highly unlikely that I will meet with his favor.”

  “And what makes you believe that is the case?”

  Meg paused a moment before giving her answer. She spoke slowly, still forming the thoughts as the words left her mouth. “The prince is surely used to always having his way. I am certain that in his entire life, he has never been told that he must do something he did not wish to do. Women undoubtedly fawn over him, agreeing with everything he says in an attempt to win his heart. But I do not believe a title makes a man more worthy of a woman’s affection, and I do not wish to pretend to be someone I am not in order to secure a rich man.” Meg was certain she would regret her words. She knew the time would come when she would have to do precisely the thing she dreaded—attempt to win over a man simply because he was wealthy. But she wanted Carlo to know how repulsive the idea was to her. In fact, it seemed imperative that he understood—that someone did.

  She did not know why she worried about Carlo’s opinion, however. It could be because he was removed from the society she found herself thrust into. He had listened to her, even seemed to take her concerns seriously, aside from the ghost, of course. For whatever reason, the thought of Carlo’s disapproval saddened her. How silly, since he was only a servant and she would leave for London in a few weeks. But at Thornshire Castle, it would be nice to have a friend.

  “I must go,” she said, gathering her cloak around her muddy dress and tucking her book back beneath her arm. She patted Patito and then looked at Carlo, who said nothing, only continued to watch her with his chin turned slightly to the side. The man had impossibly straight posture. What she wouldn’t give to know his thoughts. “I have spoken too freely today; please forgive me.”

  Carlo nodded his head once, acknowledging her request. “Margarita, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Perhaps you will return to cast your frustrations into the pond another time?”

  Meg blushed at the reminder of her ridiculous actions. “I love this spot. I hope to come back here another day to read.” She glanced past him at the perfectly situated gazebo. “If I have the good fortune of being able to escape my lady’s maid, elder brother, and Lady Vernon once again, I shall do it.”

  The edges of Carlo’s lips lifted in a half smile, deepening a cre
ase on his cheek into a dimple that created a tumbling feeling in Meg’s stomach. “I am certain that such an undertaking will not be a problem for you, Margarita Burton. I expect you are precisely the type of woman to succeed.”

  Chapter 2

  Rodrigo stood on the gravel path after Meg had gone, staring at the place where she’d disappeared into the trees. He thought for a moment, trying to put a name to the strange emotions the woman had roused inside him. Bewildered came to mind. As did charmed and perplexed; but above all, she had left him feeling amused to the point where a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The unexpected meeting had nearly caused him to forget his purpose for hurrying to this spot so early. He’d gotten word one of his trusted emissaries would arrive this morning; Rodrigo could only hope the man had not been compromised and apprehended leaving France.

  Stepping from the path, he tied Patito’s reins to a low-hanging limb and sat upon the gazebo steps to wait. If there was one thing he’d become adept at since he’d escaped from Spain, it was waiting. Napoleon’s armies had invaded his homeland five years earlier and replaced Rodrigo’s uncle, King Fernando, with the preposterous clown, Joseph Bonaparte. Nearly a year ago, Rodrigo had narrowly escaped when his parents had been taken by the French army. He may have escaped Spain, but he found himself a virtual prisoner, living under guard in England. The only access to information about his country came from British newspapers and intelligence gathered by messengers operating in secret. And many of these had not stayed alive long enough to return with their reports.

  Rodrigo stood and began to pace. He gritted his teeth, frustrated with his inability to take action. He’d hidden in London for months and then, after his sister’s wedding, in Southampton, where he communicated with the parliament at Cádiz as they attempted to create a new constitution for Spain. But too much depended upon the outcome of the war for his influence to have any significance. And it was weeks, often months, between missives, which left Rodrigo feeling immeasurably helpless to do anything for Spain.

  He’d been persuaded, both by Spanish and British powers, that in England, he and his sister would be protected and of more value to their country, as they were the only members of the royal family who had not been taken by the French.

  Rodrigo had not only been unable to stop the invasion of Spain and subsequent capture of his family, but he was now confined to the duke’s estate, living in the dower house, constantly guarded and completely useless when it came to saving his people or his family. The British government had made quite clear the terms of his asylum. Between the limitations explained to him as measures to keep him safe and his own distaste for the situation, he had very little freedom. He felt like a child, asking permission to ride his horse or take a walk, never leaving the immediate area alone. Even now, he was certain soldiers stood just out of sight in the trees. If it weren’t for his desire to ensure his sister’s safety, he would have abandoned this plan months earlier. As it was, he fully intended to leave the instant he had word of his parents’ whereabouts.

  He stopped and lifted a stone, throwing it at the frozen pond. The crack it made as it broke through the ice echoed through the clearing, and Rodrigo smiled. Perhaps Meg was onto something.

  His smile grew as he remembered the look of frustration and determination on her face. Such an expression did little to mar her features; it may have even enhanced her attractiveness as her eyes flashed with emotion. He would not want to be the cause of that woman’s bad humor.

  He threw another stone. He was no longer simply worried about the messenger’s news; the unacceptability of an apricot-colored gown upon a lovely ginger-haired American had moved to the forefront of his mind.

  Rodrigo had surprised even himself when he’d given her a false name, but it was even more shocking that he’d taken the deception further and led Meg to believe that he was his own stable hand. There was just something about Meg Burton that had intrigued him, and when he’d heard her disparaging estimation in regards to the noble class, he’d not wanted it to color her impression of him.

  He’d have never imagined he would pretend to be a servant so that a woman wouldn’t discover that he was truly a prince, but it was apparent that it would take more than his title to impress Margaret Burton. Such a challenge he could not turn down.

  Rodrigo had been saddened when their visit had ended and Meg had left. Excepting of course his sister’s and the duke’s, it had been a long time since he’d enjoyed anyone’s company. He’d staunchly avoided mingling in society after it had become obvious that he was being paraded like a show horse by mothers of single young ladies. No doubt the idea of their daughters becoming una princesa outshone the fact that he was a homeless refugee whose lands were currently overrun with French, British, Portuguese, and Spanish armies, with no guarantee he would ever return to his holdings. And regardless, he would not betray his homeland by choosing a wife from among the British aristocracy. His parents had already planned his marriage to a woman from the noble houses of Spain—Evangelina Gualtierrez, daughter of the Duque de Acerenza—and he fully intended to honor their wishes. He moved back to the gazebo steps and sat again.

  Though his title was prince, Rodrigo was not the heir to the throne, although with every other member of the royal family either held under siege or captured, he had assumed the brunt of the leadership responsibilities, performing them from afar to the best of his ability. The Spanish definition of prince was not the same as it was in Britain. Every person in the royal family was referred to as principe or princesa. But the title of “prince” was simply too much for the ton to pass up. Title was everything to the British. And to most of Europe.

  Not so with Meg. She felt exactly the opposite. And while he had no doubt that she had been sent to the castle to win his favor, he found the idea of spending time in her company pleasant.

  It was ironic. He had finally met someone with whom he was willing to sit through dinner parties and attend dull concerts, and she wanted nothing to do with him—or at least she wanted nothing to do with the prince. But Carlo . . . She didn’t seem to have any aversions to a stable hand. Perhaps she felt she could be easy in his presence, not forced to put on airs to impress him.

  The very idea fascinated him. He’d never met a person who did not know the truth about him, and he realized Meg might actually come to know the man behind his title. He had the rare opportunity to discover what it would be like to truly have a friend without wondering how much of her affection was influenced by his station. His heart beat faster at the implication, and he contemplated for a moment whether it was the excitement of his plan or the young woman at the center of it that caused its acceleration.

  His thoughts were interrupted, and he came to his feet when a cloaked man stepped from the forest followed by two Spanish soldiers.

  “Your Highness.” The man dropped to his knee and bowed his head. “I came as soon as I was able.” He rose, and Rodrigo could see from the man’s unshaven face and clothing still bearing the stains of seawater that he spoke the truth.

  “What news do you bring, Esteban?” Rodrigo asked.

  “I am sorry to report that our sources have still found no signs leading to the location of your parents. It is as if they have disappeared.”

  Disappointment struck Rodrigo forcefully. He let out a heavy breath.

  “Joseph Bonaparte maintains his assurance that the king and his family are welcome guests in France and that no harm has come to them,” Esteban continued.

  Heat flushed through Rodrigo’s body as his discouragement was replaced by anger. “Guests that cannot communicate with their family and are kept hidden? Guests who were removed by force from their homes while their countrymen were slaughtered and their lands were burned? The French have a skewed definition of hospitality.” He walked to the gazebo and sunk down on one of the benches, indicating with a gesture for Esteban to do the same. Rodrigo rubbed his eyes and his jaw. “Do you think there’s a chance they are still alive?” he ask
ed in a quiet voice. Simply saying the words aloud caused a lump to grow in his throat.

  “I am nearly certain that they still live, Your Highness. The Republic is not secretive about their, ah . . . executions.” He stopped speaking, but Rodrigo nodded for him to continue. “Our intelligence network in France is extensive, yet there has not even been a rumor of such a thing.”

  “Even with this network, there is no trace of them,” Rodrigo said, mostly to himself.

  “I am sorry, Your Highness. We had assumed your parents would be with King Fernando at the Chateau de Valençay, but our contacts there assure us they have not arrived.”

  Rodrigo’s thoughts spun. There must be someone who knew his family’s whereabouts. They had not simply vanished into thin air. He and Serena had been so confident in Esteban’s mission. He gritted his teeth, feeling helpless. If only he could go himself. If he only had a clue as to their location, he was certain he could find them. Gold simply had to cross the right palm, and he’d have the information he needed. Then it would be a matter of a rescue mission, and he had the best soldiers in all of Spain at his disposal, surely—

  His mind snapped back to the present when Esteban cleared his throat. “Thank you, Esteban. You must wish to wash and rest. My advisors and I will meet with you tomorrow to receive your full report if that is satisfactory.”

  “Again, I am sorry I did not have more to tell you.” Estaban stood and bowed, pointing his toe in the courtly manner befitting the prince’s station. “I have heard a rumor that a British colonel is to be received here at Thornshire Castle.”

  “Yes, a friend of my sister’s, Colonel Jim Stackhouse.”

  “A man of his rank will surely be able to provide information we do not have access to. Perhaps he will have an idea of your parents’ location or at least know where to look.”

  Rodrigo nodded.