by Julia London
She let him speak, but she was hardly listening—she was thinking of how she might speak to the prince herself. It seemed foolish to allow Percy to make her case in Welsh when she did not speak the language. Perhaps something was lost in translation. Perhaps the prince did not fully understand what Percy was telling him. In fact, she wouldn’t rest until she spoke to him, for it was impossible for her to remain in Wales indefinitely. Not like this. Not with Percy. Not with less than four pounds—a situation that left her at the mercy of such a dark man.
That evening, Percy and Greer were served dinner in a small dining room that seemed as far from the front of the castle as one could be. With a fire blazing and old tapestries hanging on the walls, it was quite warm and stuffy, and it seemed to add to Percy’s ill humor.
“He has put us away like servants,” he said sourly as they waited to be served. “He treats us no better than animals.” When a scullery maid arrived, she very unceremoniously placed a bowl in front of each of them and lifted the domes that covered the food.
Percy wrinkled his nose with disgust. “Cawl,” he spat. “He dines like a king and serves us cawl as if we were peasants!”
Greer was not insulted in the least, for the moment she caught scent of the traditional Welsh stew, a flood of memories came rushing back to her. She remembered sitting on a stool at a long wooden table in a large kitchen, her feet swinging above the floor. And she remembered her grandmother, a lovely old woman with thick gray hair wrapped in a bun and a bosom as warm and soft as a cat, sopping her bread in Greer’s cawl.
As Percy rattled on about how detestably they were being treated, as well as all the things he expected the prince would say of him at one point or another—primarily that Percy was a roué and a blackguard—Greer feasted on what she thought was the most delicious stew she’d ever eaten in her life.
After supper, they were shown to a library. Greer began to inspect the shelves as Percy lay on a settee in high dudgeon.
She was impressed by the array of subjects. From history to agricultural techniques to great works of literature in both English and French, and of course, an entire section of Welsh titles.
“He is well educated, it would seem,” she remarked.
“He should like for you to believe that is true,” Percy scoffed, and flung his arm over his eyes, sighing with exasperation.
Greer picked up a book by Theophilus Evans, A Collection of Welsh Travels and Memoirs of Wales, sat across from Percy, and began to read. After a half hour, the sound of Percy’s breathing had grown deeper; Greer glanced up from her reading and watched the rise and fall of his chest. He was asleep.
She debated the opportunity that confronted her. On the one hand, she did not relish another incident like the one she’d endured last night. On the other, she didn’t know when she’d get the chance to speak to the prince again without Percy present. She carefully laid the book aside, rose from her chair, and quietly quit the room.
Greer took a deep breath and began walking purposefully down the lit corridor.
She ignored the portraits this time, her thoughts focused on the task at hand, and with every step she attempted to gather the courage she needed to face him. When she reached the doors leading to his study, she stood there debating with herself, her pulse racing, her hands trembling.
After several steadying breaths, she found the courage to lift her hand and rap on the door. Her rap was immediately met with a ferocious round of barking, and with a squeal of surprise, she reared back from the door. She heard him sharply command the dogs into silence. A moment passed, and the door was yanked open.
He filled the width of the doorway. But unlike last night, when he’d been scarcely dressed, tonight he was wearing black tails and a waistcoat and a neckcloth of white silk. His hair was combed back from his brow and tamed in a queue and his face seemed to be freshly shaven. She noticed that he instantly turned his head so that his scar was away from her.
It was obvious that the prince of darkness was going out for the evening, and that rattled Greer even more. Where did he go? What sort of people consorted with him? Men? Women?
“Yes?” he asked curtly, his scowl an indication of his displeasure.
“I, ah…” Speak! “If it is not inconvenient, my lord, I should like a word, if you please.”
“It is inconvenient.”
“I will only take a moment of your time,” she quickly assured him.
He sighed—or growled, she wasn’t quite certain—and withdrew his pocket watch and glanced at it. He glanced up, his green eyes narrowed on her. “A moment.” With that, he turned and disappeared inside his study.
Greer hesitated before stepping across the threshold. She was instantly met by the two enormous wolfhounds, who went about the business of sniffing her until they were satisfied, and then trotted back to the hearth.
She remained standing just inside the room, her hands clasped before her. She had not noticed earlier today how plainly this room was arranged. There was a large ornate desk and a single leather chair before the hearth. He was obviously a solitary man who did not have need for a second chair. No one sat with him here, only his dogs.
The prince stood in the middle of the room, his weight on one hip, a hand on his waist, clearly impatient and a far cry from the wild, disheveled man he’d been last night. His dogs, she noticed, had lain down before the fire and seemed perfectly relaxed.
“Well, then?” he demanded.
“My lord…I shall not waste your time—”
“You already are.”
Affronted by his lack of civility, she lost her nerve.
“You were saying?” he said, gesturing impatiently for her to continue as he turned away from her.
He was truly the rudest man she’d ever met. “I was saying,” she said deliberately, “that I understand your need to have verification that I am who I say I am…but I cannot stay in Wales indefinitely. Not only am I needed in London, I have no place to stay.”
“That, Miss Fairchild, is something you might have considered before imposing on my hospitality.”
Ooh she despised him, reviled him. “You are right, of course,” she managed to bite out. “I apologize for having imposed. But I came here with the belief that an honorable man would return what is rightfully mine with utmost haste.”
“An honorable woman would have brought proof that she is who she claims to be so that a man might do precisely that. For all I know, you are a charlatan. You are certainly in the company of a charlatan, Miss Fairchild, and as they say, birds of a feather…”
The last remnants of her fear were eclipsed by her fury. She tried to keep her breathing steady, tried not to gasp in shock at every word he uttered. “I am not a charlatan, sir, and neither is Mr. Percy.”
He responded with a disdainful snort. “What do you know of Mr. Percy?” he spat, and looked at the carpet for a moment. “You present me with a dilemma, Miss Fairchild. I cannot determine if you are in cahoots with him or merely the most naïve young woman I have ever met.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“That would point to naïve.”
“I cannot claim to know of your dealings with Mr. Percy, my lord, but what I know of him is good. He has been very kind to me and my late traveling companion, Mrs. Smithington.”
“By the bye,” the prince asked with a pointed look, “was your traveling companion an elderly and wealthy woman?”
“What?” she asked, the question taking her by surprise.
“Your companion. Old? Rich? Quite alone in the world?”
“Yes,” she said uncertainly.
He smirked and looked away again. “That is because your Mr. Percy is very fond of elderly rich women. He preys on them. And, I rather suspect, so do you.”
She bristled at the accusation, and this time, her fury took hold of her tongue. “How can you possibly be so vile?”
“Do you think me stupid, Miss Fairchild?”
“I think you are
cruel,” she said. “You have stolen an inheritance from a good man for the crime of being half English and you—”
“Allow me to tell you a bit about your good Mr. Percy,” he said dismissively, cutting her off. “I have been sweeping up his wreckage for years.”
Greer rolled her eyes heavenward and folded her arms across her middle before returning a very hot gaze to him. “It is just as Mr. Percy said it would be—he warned me you would attempt to assassinate his character.”
“Did he, indeed?” he asked, raising a brow as he casually straightened the cuffs of his shirt. “And did he also tell you that he fathered a bastard child and left his lover to suffer the scandal and censure? Or that he gambled himself into such a large hole that he all but obliterated the fortune my cousin—his father—had left to him, thereby necessitating that it be taken away from him so that he wouldn’t squander it all before he reached his thirtieth year? Or did he, perchance, relate to you that he was almost killed by the cuckolded husband of yet another, married lover, costing me five hundred pounds to save his bloody neck?”
“I don’t believe you!”
“Now he preys on older women who worship his false flattery. But I do not understand who you are, Miss Fairchild. I must assume that you are a conspirator of his, one out to defraud me of the small fortune a man left to no one.”
“How dare you insult me, sir!” she said hotly. “I am not a thief!”
He looked at her with such disgust that she felt it to the tips of her toes. And then he suddenly crossed the room to her, bearing down on her like a bull, causing her to cry out and stagger backward, away from him and his hard eyes. “What should I believe, with your silly letter and your claim, Miss Fairchild?” he demanded hotly. “How can I possibly believe you are a child of Wales? You don’t even speak Welsh!”
“I was raised in England!”
“I don’t care if you were raised in China. You were born to Welsh parents who lived but three miles from Wales!”
She gaped at him. “You clearly do not believe me, and for that there is nothing I can do until I have provided the proof you need. But I cannot afford to stay in Wales to see it done! I had hoped we might find some middle ground on which to bargain.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “No. There is no middle ground, Miss Fairchild. I suggest you write your letter to your alleged connection.”
Lord God, how she despised him! “All right,” she snapped. “Very well. Please do me the courtesy of giving me pen and paper.”
He frowned. “Now?”
“Now!” she insisted.
He studied her a moment before stalking to his desk. He opened a drawer and withdrew a piece of vellum, which he slapped down on top of the desk so hard that his dogs lifted their heads. He gestured to the seat and the inkwell, then stepped back and bowed low.
This time, Greer did not hesitate—she marched across the room, sweeping past him and taking a seat at his desk. She angrily dipped the pen in the ink. “By all that is holy, you are a boorish man! I have never been treated in such an infamous and ungentlemanly manner!”
“Spare me your cries of impropriety, Miss Fairchild. You have sought me out three times now.”
“Ah!” she cried, glaring up at him. “I did not seek you out! I was lost! And you, a man who is obviously not a stranger to whiskey, took advantage of me!”
“Indeed?” he asked, leaning over her, his arm brushing hers as he righted the inkwell she had all but managed to tip over. “You didn’t seem to mind it, as I recall. Now do please write your letter, Miss Fairchild. You are keeping me from a prior engagement.”
“Your behavior is unconscionable.”
“You deserve no less.”
She angrily dipped the pen in ink, gritted her teeth, and began her letter.
Dearest Ava and Phoebe,
I hope this letter finds you well.
She paused and glanced up at the prince. He was staring at her, his eyes as hard as jade, his jaw clenched. For once, he seemed heedless of his scar.
Greer dipped the pen again.
I have unfortunate news! I have found the man who holds my inheritance, and as it happens, he is the most egregiously odious and disagreeable man I have ever had the misfortune to meet! I had hoped for better from Wales, but he is quite wretched in his appearance and his comportment, and I shall look forward to the day I shall have not the least to do with him. Unfortunately, he refuses to release my inheritance without proof that I am who I say. My mother’s letter has not been met with any satisfaction on his part, and this wretched beast of a man, this ogre, demands a letter be written to him from Lord Middleton vouching for my identity.
Dear Ava, I know this is asking far too much of your new husband, particularly as he has only met me once. But if you could prevail on him to please write so that I might return home as soon as possible? I fear what shall become of me if you do not act with some haste! Please direct your letter to The Right Honorable Earl of Radnor, Prince of Powys, at Llanmair. And pray you do not fret overmuch for me, as Mr. Percy is most brave in the face of this monster and protects me against his churlishness.
Yours, G.
She looked up at the prince, who was waiting impatiently, judging by the way he kept glancing at his watch. She picked up a blotter and blotted the excess ink, then carefully folded the vellum and dashed off the names of her cousins and the directions to Downey House in London, where she knew Phoebe would be. For all she knew—and feared—Ava could be in the country now.
She picked it up, waving it violently around to dry it quickly, then sealed it with a bit of wax. When she was done, she stood up, held the vellum out to him.
He took it and tossed it into a wooden tray.
“Might I at least know when the post is to come?” she asked pertly.
“Day after tomorrow.” He impatiently gestured for her to quit the room.
“Dear God,” she muttered.
“Do not despair, Miss Fairchild. You may think me uncivilized, but I shall not toss you out into the forest. You and Percy may reside here at Llanmair. I wouldn’t wish him on the rest of Wales.”
That did not relieve her in the slightest. She tossed her head and began striding for the door.
“When are you to be married?” he asked.
She stopped midstride and glared at him. “I am not engaged to him.”
He snorted. “I hope, for your sake, that you do not lie to me, Miss Fairchild. For if you are truly Greer Vaughan, the moment you have said your vows, your inheritance, by law, becomes his. Mark me—the scoundrel will leave you quite destitute.”
“Once again you have proven he is true to his word,” she said coldly. “He told me you’d say reprehensible things about him, in spite of all the unspeakable things you have done.”
For a moment, the prince looked as if he might explode with rage. But he clenched his jaw tightly, which had the effect of making him look meaner. He pointed to the door. “If you are quite finished, Miss Fairchild.”
“Oh, but I am,” she said angrily, and strode out the door.
Six
M argaret Awbrey, Rhodrick’s oldest and closest friend, looked at her dinner guest, then shifted her gaze to her husband and sent him a silent but pleading look. Thomas shrugged.
Rhodrick was not very good company tonight. He had little to say. Although Margaret was accustomed to that, he usually could be depended upon to follow the conversation.
Tonight, however, he kept his eyes on his plate, and his grip on the stem of his wineglass was so tight that Margaret feared it would snap. He was deeply troubled about something.
“I cannot bear it a moment longer,” Margaret said when the fruitcake, bara brith, was served on gold-rimmed china. “You really must confess what occupies your thoughts, Rhodi. Your mind seems to be in another place entirely.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I should not have come, for I am wretched company this evening.”
“Nonsense,” Marga
ret said with a reassuring smile. “You are always the very best of company. But really, what has you so preoccupied?”
He lifted a gaze glittering with ire. “Owen Percy has returned to Llanmair to claim his inheritance.”
Shocked, Margaret gasped.
“The devil you say,” Thomas exclaimed, his bushy brows meeting in a frown. “I thought we’d seen the last of him for a time.”
“Wishful thinking, it would seem,” Rhodrick said angrily. “He appeared at my door just yesterday. He’s obviously fallen out of favor with whomever he’d managed to dupe and is in need of funds.”
“Good Lord,” Thomas said, and as he asked Rhodi about Owen’s arrival, Margaret could scarcely hear the conversation.
Her heart went out to her old friend—he’d suffered enough through the years. When he was a child, there had been constant teasing because he was big and gangly and not nearly as handsome of visage as his sister or his parents. His father, a big, strapping man himself, laughingly called his son Goliath at every turn. Before long, all the parish children called him that, too, and Rhodi grew into a brooding, dark youth with a terrible temper. He was always fighting, always striking out.
Margaret had never thought him ugly as many people did, but a horrible fall from a horse, right before he reached the age of nineteen, had broken his leg and scarred his face, had only made matters worse, giving him a sinister look.
That opinion was held by several, apparently, for when he’d reached the inevitable age when it became time to make a match and produce heirs, as required any male of the aristocracy, no one would have him. His fortune notwithstanding, more than one young debutante feared his looks and dark mien.
Then his father had found Eira, whose father agreed to a match with Rhodi before the poor girl had an opportunity to meet him. But Eira never seemed to mind Rhodi’s looks. Perhaps she, like Margaret, found him far more charming than ugly. Whatever she thought of him, the dear had managed to soothe the beast in Rhodi. In the few short years of their marriage, Rhodi grew tamer, his dark moods all but banished. He became one of the kindest, most thoughtful and considerate men Margaret had ever known.