The older woman wandered through the streets, her crimson bonnet vivid in the sea of dark brown and black. Michael pushed his way past the fishmongers and vendors, minding his step through Fleet Street.
Mrs Turner was lost again. He quickened his step, moving amid sailors, drovers and butchers. At last, he reached her side.
‘Good morning,’ he greeted her, tipping his hat.
No recognition dawned in her silver-grey eyes, but she offered a faint nod and continued on her path.
Damn. It wasn’t going to be one of her better days. Mrs Turner had been his neighbour and friend for as long as he could remember, but recently she’d begun to suffer spells of forgetfulness from time to time.
He hadn’t known about her condition until he’d returned to London last November. At first, the widow had brought him food and drink, looking after him while he recovered from the gunshot wounds. He’d broken the devastating news of her son Henry’s death at Balaclava.
And as the weeks passed, she began to withdraw, her mind clouding over. There were times when she only remembered things from the past.
Today she didn’t recognise him at all.
Michael tried to think of a way to break through to her lost memory. ‘You’re Mrs Turner, aren’t you?’ he commented, keeping up with her pace. ‘Of Number Eight, Newton Street?’
She stopped walking, fear rising on her face. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘No, no, you probably don’t remember me,’ he said quickly. ‘But I’m a friend of Henry’s.’
The mention of her son’s name made her eyes narrow. ‘I’ve never seen you before.’
‘Henry sent me to fetch you home,’ he said gently. ‘Will you let me walk with you? I’m certain he’s left a pot of whisky and tea for you. Perhaps some marmalade and bread.’
The mention of her favourite foods made her lower lip tremble. Wrinkles edged her eyes, and tears spilled over them. ‘I’m lost, aren’t I?’
He took her hand in his, leading her in the proper direction. ‘No, Mrs Turner.’
As he guided her through the busy streets, her frail hand gripped his with a surprising strength. They drew closer to her home at Peabody Square, and her face began to relax. Whether or not she recognised her surroundings, she seemed more at ease.
Michael helped her inside, and saw that she was out of coal. ‘I’ll just be a moment getting a fire started for you.’ Handing her a crocheted blanket, he settled her upon a rocking chair to wait.
After purchasing a bucket of coal for her, he returned to her dwelling and soon had a fire burning.
Mrs Turner huddled close to it, still wearing her bright red bonnet. He’d given it to her this Christmas, both from her love of the outrageous colour, and because it made it easier to locate her within a crowd of people.
‘Why, Michael,’ she said suddenly, her mouth curving in a warm smile. ‘I didn’t realise you’d come to visit. Make a pot of tea for us, won’t you?’
He exhaled, glad to see that she was starting to remember him. When he brought out the kettle, he saw that she had hardly any water remaining. There was enough to make a pot of tea, though, and he put the kettle on to boil.
‘You’re looking devilishly handsome, I must say.’ She beamed. ‘Where did you get those clothes?’
He didn’t tell her that she’d loaned them to him last night, from her son’s clothing. Bringing up the memory of Henry’s death would only make her cry again.
‘A good friend let me borrow them,’ was all he said. When her tea was ready, he brought her the cup, lacing it heavily with whisky.
She drank heartily, smacking her lips. ‘Ah, now you’re a fine lad, Michael. Tell me about the ball last night. Did you meet any young ladies to marry?’
‘I might have.’ The vision of Lady Hannah’s lovely face came to mind. ‘But they tossed me out on my ear.’
She gave a loud laugh. ‘Oh, they did no such thing, you wretch.’ She drained the mug, and he refilled it with more tea. ‘I’m certain you made all the women swoon. Now, tell me what they were wearing.’ She wrapped the blanket around herself, moving the rocking chair closer to the fire.
While he answered her questions about the Marquess and his vague memory of the women’s gowns, he tried to locate food for her. Scouring her cupboards, he found only a stale loaf of bread. Beside it, he saw a candle, a glove and all of the spoons.
He searched everywhere for marmalade, finally locating it among her undergarments in a drawer. He was afraid to look any further, for fear of what else he might find. Ever since she’d begun having the spells, he’d found all manner of disorganisation in her home.
He cut her a thick slice of bread and slathered it with marmalade. God only knew when she’d eaten last.
Mrs Turner bit into it, sighing happily. ‘Now, then. Who else did you meet at the ball, Michael?’ She lifted her tea up and took another hearty swallow.
‘A foreign gentleman was there,’ he added. ‘Someone from Lohenberg.’
The cup slid from Mrs Turner’s hand, shattering on the floor. Tea spilled everywhere, and her face had gone white.
Michael grabbed a rag and soaked up the spill, cleaning up the broken pieces. ‘It’s all right. I’ll take care of it.’
But when he looked into Mrs Turner’s grey eyes, he saw consummate fear. ‘Who—who was he?’
‘Graf von Reischor,’ he said. ‘The ambassador, I believe. It was nothing.’
He said not a word about the man’s impossible claim, that he looked like their king. But Mrs Turner gripped his hand, her face bone white. ‘No. Oh, no.’
‘What is the matter?’ He stared into her silver eyes, wondering why the mention of Lohenberg would frighten her so. Neither of them had ever left England before.
A few minutes later, Mrs Turner’s face turned distant. She whispered to herself about her son Henry, as though he were a young child toddling toward her.
It was useless to ask her anything now. The madness had descended once more.
Hannah wasn’t entirely certain what a ruined woman should wear, but she felt confident that it wouldn’t be a gown the colour of cream. This morning, Christine Chesterfield had inspected every inch of her attire, fussing over her as if she were about to meet the Queen.
‘Now remember,’ her mother warned, ‘be on your very best behaviour. Pretend that nothing happened the other night.’
Nothing did happen, she wanted to retort, but she feigned subservience. ‘Yes, Mother.’
Christine reached out and adjusted a hairpin, ensuring that not a single strand was out of place. ‘Did you read my list?’
‘Of course.’ Hannah offered the slip of paper, and her mother found a pen, hastily scratching notes.
‘I’ve made changes for tonight. At dinner, you are to wear the white silk gown with the rose embroidery and your pearls. Estelle will fix your hair, and you should be there by eight o’clock.’
Her mother handed her the new list. ‘I have advised Manning not to serve you any blanc mange or pudding. And no wine. You have been indulging far more than you should, my dear. Estelle tells me that your figure is a half-inch larger than it should be.’
Her throat clenched, but Hannah said nothing. She stared down at the list, the words blurring upon the page. Never before had she questioned her mother’s orders. If she couldn’t have sweets, then that was because Christine wanted her to have an excellent figure. It was love, not control. Wasn’t it?
But she felt herself straining against the invisible bonds, wanting to escape. Her mother was worried about the size of her waistline, when her entire future had been turned upside down? It seemed ridiculous, in light of the scandal.
With each passing moment, Hannah’s discomfort worsened. ‘Mother, honestly, I don’t feel up to receiving visitors. I’d rather wait a few days.’ She hadn’t slept well last night, and her mind was preoccupied with the uncertain future.
‘You will do as you’re told, Hannah. The sooner you are married, the sooner
you can put this nightmare behind you.’ Her mother stood and guided her to the parlour. ‘Now wait here until Lord Belgrave arrives. He told your father he would come to call at two o’clock.’
Hannah realised she might as well have been speaking to a stone wall. In her mind, she envisioned her parents chaining her ankle to the church pew, her mouth stuffed with a handkerchief while they wedded her off to Belgrave.
At least she had an hour left, before the true torment began. She contemplated escaping the house, but what good would it do to run away? Nothing, except make her parents angrier than they already were.
No, if she had to face Lord Belgrave again, she would tell him exactly what she thought of him. Perhaps he would call off his plans.
Her father, the Marquess, stood beside the fireplace, his pocket watch in his hands. Disappointment and sadness cloaked his features as he put the watch in his waistcoat. He paced towards the sofa and sat down, his wrists resting upon his knees.
Hannah went and sat down beside her father. She reached out and took his hand. Anger would never win a battle against her father. But he had a soft spot for obedience.
‘I know that you are trying to protect me,’ she said gently. ‘And as your only daughter, I know that you want someone to take care of me.’
His grey eyes were stormy with unspoken fury, but he was listening.
‘I beg of you, Papa, don’t ask me to marry Lord Belgrave,’ she pleaded. ‘I don’t care if he reveals the scandal to everyone.’
‘I do.’ Her father’s grip tightened around her knuckles. ‘I won’t allow our family name to be degraded, simply because you lost your judgement one night.’
Hannah pulled her hand away. ‘I will marry no one.’ Rising to her feet, she added, ‘Most especially not the Baron of Belgrave.’
‘It won’t be Michael Thorpe. God help me, you will not wed a soldier.’
The thought had never entered her mind, but at the reminder of the Lieutenant, a caress of heat erupted over her body. Sensual and rebellious, a man like Michael Thorpe would never treat her with the polite distance so typical of marriage. No, she suspected he was the sort of man who would possess her, stealing her breath away in forbidden pleasure.
Hannah shook her head. ‘Of course not.’
Plunging forward, she revealed an alternate plan. ‘Send me somewhere far away from London until the talk dies down. We have cousins elsewhere in Europe, don’t we?’
‘Germany,’ he admitted. His countenance turned grim, but she though she detected a softening in his demeanour. Please, God, let him listen to me, she prayed.
At that moment, the footman Phillips gave a quiet knock. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but the Baron of Belgrave has come to call upon Lady Hannah.’
The Marquess hesitated a moment before speaking. Hannah gripped her fingers together so hard, her knuckles turned white. She shook her head, pleading with her father.
‘Give him another chance, Hannah,’ the Marquess said quietly. ‘Despite his reproachable actions, the man does come from an excellent family. He can provide you with anything you’d ever need.’
She couldn’t believe the words had come from her father’s mouth. She’d known that he cared about appearances, that upholding model behaviour was important to him. But she’d never thought it was more important than her own well-being.
‘Papa, please,’ she whispered again. ‘Don’t ask this of me.’
Her father’s face tensed, but his tone was unyielding when he spoke. ‘Tell the baron my daughter will await him in the drawing room.’
Chapter Five
Michael stood at attention when Colonel Hammond entered the room. He’d been summoned to the War Office this morning, but it wasn’t the commander-in-chief who’d prepared his new orders. Instead, he’d been shown into a smaller sitting room. ‘Colonel, you asked to see me?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid there’s been a change in your assignment,’ the Colonel admitted. The senior officer’s red jacket gleamed with brass buttons, the gold epaulettes resting upon his shoulders. Michael felt ill at ease in his own slate-blue uniform, which still bore the bloodstains he hadn’t been able to wash clean.
The Colonel gestured towards a wooden chair, and Michael took a seat. ‘You won’t be returning to the front, after all.’
‘I’ve made a full recovery,’ Michael felt compelled to point out. ‘I’m ready to fight again.’
Colonel Hammond looked uncomfortable. ‘That will have to wait, I’m afraid. Though I should like to see you return to battle as well—we can always use men of your fortitude—I’m afraid the Army has other plans for you.’
An uncomfortable suspicion settled in his gut. Had the Marquess used his powers of influence so soon? He’d known that he would probably be sent away from England, but he’d expected to return to duty.
‘What are my orders?’
The Colonel sat across from him, a large mahogany desk as a barrier between them. ‘You will accompany the ambassador from Lohenberg, the Graf von Reischor, to his homeland. He has proposed to send supplies to the Crimean Peninsula, offering aid from their country to our troops. You will assist the Commissariat by choosing what is most needed for the men.’
Michael’s hand clenched into a fist. He didn’t believe for a moment that the Graf was acting out of concern for the British troops. This was nothing but a stranger meddling in his military career, all because he’d ignored the summons. Why should he care whether or not he resembled the King of some tiny, forgotten country?
He’d given years of service to the Army, obeying orders and doing his best to keep his men alive. And with a single stroke of the pen, the Lohenberg Graf had turned his military career from a soldier into an errand boy.
‘You honour me, Colonel,’ he lied, ‘but I’m nothing but a lieutenant. Why not one of my commanding officers?’
‘The ambassador requested you. I suggested another officer as a liaison, but he insisted that it must be you, or he would reconsider the offer.’ There was a questioning note in the Colonel’s voice, but Michael gave no response. He couldn’t tell his commander why the Graf wanted him to travel to Lohenberg, when he didn’t know the man’s intent.
‘I’d rather be back with my men,’ he said quietly. ‘I owe it to them, after what happened at Balaclava.’ He’d tried to save whatever lives he could until he’d fallen, shot and bleeding on the field.
‘I understand Nolan spoke well of you and your bravery before the battle.’ The Colonel’s voice was also quiet, as though remembering those soldiers who had not returned.
He turned his attention to pouring a cup of tea. ‘While we would welcome you back on the Peninsula, Lieutenant Thorpe, this alliance is far too important. I’m afraid your orders are clear. The Graf has requested you, and it is our hope that you can convince the Lohenberg Army to join in our cause.’
Bitter silence permeated the room, and Michael rose from his seat. Damned if he was going to allow the Graf to ruin everything he’d worked for. He would go and try to convince the man to choose another officer. Then, perhaps he could rejoin what was left of the 17th Lancers.
Michael bowed and offered a polite farewell to Colonel Hammond, who shook his hand afterwards and wished him well.
‘I will give your regards to the men, upon my return to Balaclava, Lieutenant. You will report to Graf von Reischor at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.’
His heart filled with anger; numb to all else, Michael gripped the Colonel’s hand and murmured another farewell.
It was becoming quite clear that Graf von Reischor believed himself to be a puppet master, jerking his strings toward a path that was not his.
As he left the War Office, Michael shoved his hands inside his pockets, only to find the tangled strand of diamonds Hannah had given him.
He slid his hands over the hard stones, feeling the chain warm beneath his fingertips. Although Hannah believed the diamonds would grant him an excuse to return to Rothburne House, that wasn’t a wise idea. The Mar
quess would murder him if he so much as set foot upon a blade of Rothburne grass.
It’s not your battle to fight.
He knew he shouldn’t be involved. Their lives were too distant from one another, and despite the night they’d spent in the carriage, she was better off if he left her alone. Most likely Hannah would be all right, with her father and brothers to protect her.
The way they had on the night Belgrave took her? his conscience reminded him. His trouble instincts were rising up again.
He expelled a foul curse and continued walking through the streets. An hour. He could spend that much time ensuring for himself that she hadn’t been dragged off by Belgrave.
Hackney cab drivers called out, offering to drive him, but he ignored them. It wasn’t such a long walk, and he didn’t have the money for it anyway.
The thin soles of his shoes were worn down, and as he continued on the walk to Rothburne House, he felt the cobbled stones more than he’d have liked. He hadn’t broken his fast this morning, and the thought of food made his stomach hurt. It didn’t help matters to see a vendor selling meat pies and iced raisin buns.
After half an hour, he finally reached Rothburne House. He recognised Lord Belgrave’s carriage waiting outside. A grim resolution took root inside him, to get rid of Belgrave.
He couldn’t approach the front entrance, however. Rothburne’s footmen would throw him out. His military uniform also made it impossible to reconnoitre without being easily noticed.
Quickly, Michael stripped off his jacket and shako, hiding the plumed military cap and outer coat beneath a trimmed boxwood hedge. Beside it, he placed his officer’s sword. He removed Hannah’s necklace from the jacket and placed it in his pocket.
Traversing the perimeter of the house, he spied an open window on the first floor. Time to discover exactly what Belgrave was up to.
Lord Belgrave’s hardened face transformed into a smile when he saw her. ‘Lady Hannah, you look lovely, as always. Well worth the wait.’ The baron bowed in greeting, and Hannah felt an unladylike sense of satisfaction at the bruises darkening his cheek and the bandage across his nose. No doubt the wounds were from his brawl with Lieutenant Thorpe.
The Accidental Princess Page 6