The Rogue Prince

by Margo Maguire

  “Look here,” he said. “You need a well-regarded wife, and Margaret is just the thing. God knows she cannot refuse your fortune, and your paterfamilias will surely be satisfied with a decent, reputable, country widow.”

  “I’m starting to believe you have a point, Shefford.”

  “Of course I do. Margaret will be as biddable a wife to you as she was to Blackmore. And you know she’s a decent breeder. Blackmore got two children off her in the few years they were married.”

  “Dash it all, Sheff. I know you’re right. I…When shall I begin the courtship?”

  Maggie felt the burn of bile rising to her throat. She did not stay to hear Shefford’s reply, but hurried on to her bedchamber, her mind raging between shock and disbelief.

  Tom’s first nine years away from home had been an exercise in painful hardships. The forced labor and brutality of the island guards were the least of it. The prisoners had known hunger on Norfolk Island, and every other kind of privation. Illness ran rife among the weak, and Tom had taken a few of the more vulnerable convicts under his wing to protect them. He’d stood up to the bullies who would have taken Duncan’s food from him, and buried far too many children who’d been too weak to survive their seven- or ten-year sentences.

  After four years on the island, he and Nate had been transferred to the mainland where they worked for a free landholder. It was hard labor, but their masters were not as harsh as Major Foveaux and the guards on Norfolk Island. There, Tom’s whippings had been less frequent, and when he and Nate finally served out their sentences, they’d signed onto a whaling ship in the belief that it was the only way they’d be able to earn their way home. They had not been able to turn their backs on Port Jackson soon enough.

  Tom spent every waking moment thinking of the time when he would be able to return to Suffolk and resume the life that Shefford and Blackmore had interrupted. He and Nate worked the whaler, planning to make their way toward the Antilles where Duncan’s island was located, for there would be no harm in seeing if there was any truth at all to the man’s ramblings.

  But their whaling endeavors ended when their ship was attacked by the pirate Jacques Butcher. Tom could not help but question his luck at escaping with his life when he and Nate were taken as slaves on Butcher’s Blade. His years in the penal colony paled compared to the horrors he witnessed during his captivity on the pirate sloop. Major Foveaux was a babe in arms compared to Captain Butcher.

  It was two long, unspeakable years before Tom could take no more. He instigated a mutiny among the pirate’s slaves, and somehow managed to rally all of them against Butcher. A long and bloody melee resulted, but Tom and the other slaves had prevailed, killing and tossing overboard the vicious pirate captain and every last member of his depraved crew.

  During the first nine miserable years away from home, Tom managed to live through the agonies inflicted upon him only by dreaming of the day he would bring Shefford and Blackmore to their knees before him. When he finally located Duncan’s treasure and realized the power it gave him, he’d turned his plan for revenge into reality, and mastered the skills he needed to carry it out. He’d cultivated patience, unwilling to act precipitously and ruin everything.

  And yet the daylong wait for Maggie was proving to be a surprising challenge to his oft-practiced self-denial. She was no shrinking virgin, and yet she was an innocent, a woman who was clearly without knowledge of the pleasures of the bedchamber. Her husband must have been a fool.

  Tom took a deep, tremulous breath as he watched to be sure she entered the house safely, his gaze lingering on her retreating figure as she went inside. He’d learned how to put away his wishes and desires and turn his attention to the things he could control.

  He finally forced himself to leave the square, but felt far too restless to return to his hotel. He decided to drive up to the Delamere property, just as he’d planned to do before happening upon Maggie in the street. He knew it would be much more productive to assess the floor plan of his new house before taking her there on the morrow, and be sure everything was as he wanted it. There should be a fire crackling in the master’s bedchamber, a tray of refreshments on a table nearby, and a bottle of wine beside the bed when he laid her upon it.

  It did not take very long to reach Harrow Road, and from there Oliver drove onto a side track that led to the house, a Palladian mansion, suitably ostentatious for a visiting prince. Saret had been authorized to pay Delamere up to twice the value of the property, just so that Tom would have the perfect location for his horses. It was close enough to London to make the trip easily, and there were more than enough acres to create the race course he needed.

  At the time of his arrest, Thomas had had a promising future in breeding and raising thoroughbred horses alongside his father. The stables in Suffolk had been his life in those days, and he’d returned to his earlier vocation in recent years. He’d gone to America with Duncan’s treasure, and formulated his plans while building up Thorne’s Gate, his beautiful, sprawling horse farm in New York.

  But no one in England would ever know that. Tom just had to convince them that Sabedoria existed—an isle in the South Seas, hidden within the clutter of islands north of Botany Bay. He was gambling that with his immense wealth and ostentation, no one in England would challenge his veracity.

  Ollie pulled the carriage to one side of the massive front staircase of Delamere House, and when Tom got out, he was greeted by Nathaniel Beraza, Ted Careaga, and Mark Saret. They might be three of his most trusted friends and allies, but their presence made him realize he needed to plan his assignation with Maggie more carefully. There was no need to subject her to their scrutiny.

  “Good. You’re finally here,” said Nate. “We’ve been looking over the property. Will you walk out to the stable with me?”

  Tom put the morning’s interlude behind him. Maggie was a distraction he desperately needed, but he could wait. And somehow, he would get her into the house and his bed without all of his friends taking note of their every move.

  “What’s happened?” Nate asked, scrutinizing his face.

  “Happened? Nothing,” Tom replied, clearing his face of anything but curiosity. “Why?”

  “You have a look about you.”

  Tom figured it was no different from the expression worn by any number of sexually frustrated males. He shrugged as though naught was on his mind, and continued on toward the stable. “What needs to be done here?”

  “Not much. A week’s work, perhaps.”

  They walked into the stable and Tom examined the stalls, noting there was plenty of room for his own twelve horses, and another dozen, besides. “What about Arrendo?” he asked of the thirteenth horse, his champion. His ringer.

  “There’s a barn some distance from the house, with living quarters for a groom or two,” Nate replied. “We’ll keep him there.”

  “He’ll be out of sight?”

  “Aye,” Nate said. “It’s on the other side of a copse of trees near your huntsman’s cottage.”

  “There’s a huntsman’s cottage?”

  “Not that we’ll have any use for it.”

  Perhaps not that Nate would ever know. The huntsman’s cottage was a fine solution to the problem of how to bed Maggie without making all his friends aware of their liaison.

  They left the stable and ambled toward the paddock where workmen were already repairing a few broken wooden slats on the fence.

  “With the thick woods between Delamere House and the huntsman’s barn,” said Nate, “we can get Arrendo out early every morning and run him without anyone ever seeing him.”

  They walked across to Delamere’s second stable which also had its own paddock. “We’re ready to proceed, Tom. I’ve ordered enough grain for all the racers and the carriage horses. And Ted has already sent for Mickles and the rest of the sailors who will function as your house servants and grooms.”

  “What about riders?”

  “We’ve got Arrendo’s rider, but Saret and
Careaga are looking up some old friends for the others.”

  “Excellent,” Tom replied, aware that both men had connections in the racing circuit. “Send someone out to the ships and have Lucas Reigi bring them in. I want to get the horses settled as soon as possible. What about the race course?”

  “I think we’ve found the best spot,” said Nate. “It’s out this way.”

  It was a short walk, past an elaborate garden of sculpted shrubs and stone pathways. They passed a stately row of poplars and eventually came upon a large, relatively flat stretch of land. Much of it was covered with low shrubbery and grass. Thomas looked it over and knew that Nate was right. This was the perfect spot for his race course.

  “Excellent. I’d like to get work started on it right away,” he said.

  “I expected you would,” Nate replied. “Careaga’s already hired workmen to clear out the brush and shrubs, starting tomorrow.”

  “What about the house?” Tom asked, though he was far more interested in how well the huntsman’s cottage would suit his more immediate purpose.

  “Delamere kept a surprisingly small house staff. They’re already making the changes I requested on your behalf, but I’ll pay them off and send them on their way tomorrow.”

  Tom nodded. “Have our trunks brought here from the hotel today, all but our clothes for the Waverly ball.”

  Tom reined in his preoccupation with Maggie and focused his thoughts on his first encounter with Shefford. That was his purpose there. A tryst with a desirable woman was not going to interfere with the execution of his plan. He would have to work around it.

  If Maggie had thought her morning extraordinary, the afternoon was no less so. She twisted her hands in her lap, shocked, unable to credit what Julian’s solicitor had just told her. It was too much, coming so soon after learning of her husband’s mistresses, and then her astonishing interlude with a complete—nearly complete—stranger.

  “You are saying that Julian…” she swallowed thickly, “…that he mortgaged the lands that were not entailed?”

  Mr. Clements looked down his nose at her. “And the note is due at the end of the month, my lady.”

  Maggie turned to her stepbrother. “Shefford, you never said—”

  “Margaret, it’s not for you to worry about,” Shefford said offhandedly.

  “I beg your pardon! How is it not for me to worry about?” she demanded. “Blackmore Manor is Zachary’s birthright! Not to mention our living!” No wonder her monthly allowance had dwindled so dramatically since Julian’s death. “What of my dower portion? My inheritance?”

  “As your guardian, Lord Shefford agreed to a settlement on the occasion of your marriage, rather than a dower portion,” said Mr. Clements. “And your husband borrowed against it. It’s gone.”

  “Gone? I do not understand. The settlement was mine. Is mine.”

  Shefford turned to her. “Maggie, Julian had to—”

  “He had to give me what was rightfully mine! How could you allow this to happen, Shefford?” She pressed her fingers against her temples and tried to understand. As Julian’s widow, she was entitled to some portion of his wealth. And Shefford should have safeguarded that portion.

  “What of the tavern in the village?” she asked. Julian’s father had leased it to the tavern keeper, and to her knowledge, that circumstance had not changed.

  “Also mortgaged,” the solicitor remarked calmly, as though Maggie’s world was not coming apart, and all because of Julian’s perfidy and gross negligence. She knew what he’d been doing on all those trips to London, and it had nothing to do with taking care of estate business.

  “The paper mill?” she queried, though she already knew the answer. She felt like the worst kind of idiot. Naïve and foolish during her marriage, then far too trusting of her stepbrother, the man who now intended to push her into marriage with yet another scoundrel.

  “Julian sold off his interest in the mill a few months before he died.”

  She could hardly believe her ears. The mill that had provided income for decades was no longer theirs. And there were a number of expensive improvements that needed to be made to Blackmore land. How was she to be expected to take care of her tenants and keep the lands in good condition for Zachary when he reached his majority?

  “There is some jewelry in the safe at the manor,” Maggie said, sounding quite desperate to her own ears. “It belonged to Julian’s mother and I’m sure it must be quite valuable.”

  Shefford shook his head. “You musn’t have looked there lately, then.”

  This could not be happening. “What do you mean?”

  “Julian sold most of it,” Shefford replied, “to pay his gambling debts.”

  If Maggie had felt ill while sitting in Victoria’s drawing room and receiving the news of Julian’s duplicity, there was no adequate description for what she felt now. Her husband had ruined them. She had hoped he’d gained some maturity after Zachary’s birth, and accepted his responsibilities, but it was now obvious that she’d deceived herself during all the years of her marriage. Her husband had never changed. He was the same rash and reckless scoundrel he’d been in his youth.

  “Shefford, you are Blackmore’s trustee, how could you have let this happen?”

  “Julian’s debts had to be paid,” he said simply, and Maggie wondered if he had always been so lax about important matters. Shefford had never seemed to care much about anyone’s interests but his own, but she couldn’t believe Julian would name him as trustee if he’d known how little attention he would pay to Blackmore affairs.

  Except that Julian had been just as careless about his own affairs. He would never have foreseen this, because he had been entirely lacking in foresight. Not to mention fidelity. Or reliability.

  “What will I do?” Her breath caught in her throat. “How will we manage?”

  “You are going to remarry. A rich man.”

  A cold chill crept up her spine as she thought of the conversation she’d overheard earlier. She told herself that Shefford could not have orchestrated this…this debacle…in order to put her into dire straits. Could he?

  She looked into his cold eyes. Oh God, he had. He believed she had no choice but to marry his friend, Kimbridge, a man she had met on one previous occasion and had not been impressed. She wondered if Shefford had done the same thing when he’d pushed her to marry Julian. For what reason had he needed a pliable, biddable wife?

  Obviously, it was in order to pursue his fast life in Town while he kept his plain, unsophisticated, unquestioning wife at his country estate where she wouldn’t interfere with his amusements. He’d gotten his legitimate heir, and had talked of siring a spare—

  Maggie quelled the scream that welled up in her throat. Julian had betrayed her in every possible way. Not only had he conducted affairs with women during his frequent visits to London, he’d gambled away Zachary’s inheritance as well as their income. And Shefford was no better. As trustee, he had to have known about Julian’s debts. Yet he’d done nothing to protect her rights. She’d trusted Julian and then Shefford to see to her interests.

  Maggie realized she shared a good deal of the blame for her present situation. She had been the “biddable” wife while she should have been challenging her husband more often, demanding answers to the questions she asked him. When he sold off his horses just before Lily’s birth, Maggie should have made him tell her what was going on. She should have paid closer attention when the ancient Blackmore sword collection disappeared, and when Julian disposed of a number of valuable paintings in the manor house, saying he could no longer abide them.

  In every instance, Julian had clucked his tongue at her questions and told her not to worry, as though she had the brains of a child. Maggie would have smacked her head against Mr. Clement’s desk if it would have changed anything.

  “My lady, you still have your portion of the annuity from your grandmother, Countess Rilby,” said the solicitor.

  Her paternal grandmother had
left her a modest sum, certainly not enough on which to live, or to raise two children. Or to maintain Blackmore Manor.

  Maggie felt numb. Somehow, she managed to pull on her pelisse and gloves, fumbling as Shefford stood and assisted her. She might have bid Mr. Clements good day, though she was in such a haze of mental disorder, she wasn’t even sure how she got herself from his office to the front door of the building.

  She didn’t know what was worse—Julian’s marital infidelity, or his destruction of Zachary’s birthright. She didn’t think society yet knew about the state of her finances, but they soon would, just as Julian’s indiscretions had been common knowledge in Town. Maggie wondered if any of them had been remarked upon in the society columns.

  “Lord B, of Cambridgeshire, was seen leaving the Drury Lane Theater with the notorious Miss W.”

  Maggie’s cheeks burned with humiliation. How could Julian have done this to her?

  Now Shefford wanted her to marry another wastrel, Robert Kimbridge. Maggie had no intention of complying this time, although she did not know quite what she was going to do. Nor did she know who she could turn to for advice. Obviously not to Shefford, who’d convinced her to marry Julian in the first place. And Maggie had never cared for Mr. Clements, whose disdain for her was palpable in every word he spoke.

  Every man she’d ever relied upon had failed her, starting with her own father, who’d died far too soon after the Chatterton incident. Maggie had needed him desperately then, since he was the only one who’d shielded her from her mother’s anger. He was the only one who’d agreed that she had done the right thing in screaming for help when her cousin had attempted to harm her.

  Her mother’s second husband had barely taken notice of Maggie and her sisters, and after his death, Maggie had ended up with her stepbrother as her guardian. And if he believed Julian and Kimbridge were good candidates for marriage, then she would be better off with no guardian at all.

  She had already decided that Shefford would have nothing to say about how she conducted her life from here on, but the day’s revelations solidified her feelings. She was quite aware that she needed to figure a way to take control of her own life. Fortunately, with a widow’s freedom, she could do as she pleased.