She started to rise and realized her skirts were twisted around her, exposing her old woolen stockings and muddy boots. She knew there was dried dirt on her face, where she’d pushed her hair back earlier; she looked a mess. But then, she hadn’t invited them here. Clumsy from the cold, she staggered to her feet and brushed her skirts before realizing that her dirt-caked gloves were making her even more of a mess. Scowling, she pulled them off and threw them into the wooden trug that held her tools.
The men’s backs were to her; they seemed to be surveying her garden.
“You wished to see me, gentlemen?”
They turned as she approached.
She stopped dead on the path as her gaze connected with a pair of cool bronze-colored eyes and the bottom dropped out of her stomach.
Him.
“EDGAR MARCHANT, madam—Baron Marchant,” the shorter man introduced himself, tipping his hat. It took her a moment to recognize “Jack O. Lantern”…the prince’s friend with the round face and pomaded hair.
“John St. Lawrence, Mrs. Eller.” Jack B. Nimble removed his hat, and her knees weakened. Broad shoulders, dark hair, golden eyes; he was exactly as she had remembered him.
She crossed her arms and refused to give in to the panic blooming in her chest.
“Gentlemen,” she said, thinking that despite their smooth manners and expensive clothes, they were anything but.
JACK ST. LAWRENCE took in Mariah Eller’s dirt-streaked clothes and rosy, dirt-smudged cheeks. This was hardly how he expected to be received by the feisty widow. She looked like a servant girl sent out to weed the kitchen herb patch. Younger and fresher than he had recalled, and even more appealing. It was a good thing Marchant had spoken first; his own throat had tightened.
“We have come on an errand of some importance,” Marchant intoned with lordly precision. “Perhaps you would like us to return in an hour or two, so that you might have time to—” he glanced at her clothing “—prepare to receive our news.”
It was the wrong thing to say, apparently. She seemed startled by Marchant’s offer of time to make herself presentable, then offended by it. Her gaze darted to the basket by her feet; she looked as if she could gladly drive a garden tool through the baron’s heart.
Damn and blast Bertie, Jack thought, sending him on such an errand. He was used to handling matters and seeing to it that the prince’s desires were carried out. Capable and always in control, he was the perfect man for a sensitive mission. But not this mission.
He dreaded facing this woman the way he dreaded a dentist with a pair of pliers. And he didn’t want to think about why.
“Anything you have to say to me, sir, you may say here and now. As you can see—” she gestured to her bulbs and tools “—I am quite busy. I doubt there will be many more days this season suitable for planting.”
A very bad feeling developed in the pit of Jack’s stomach as her chin came up. It was his presence that raised her hackles, he was sure of it.
“At the very least, let us be seated.” Marchant gestured to a nearby pair of stone benches in a leafless bower among the hedges. After a moment she exhaled irritably and complied with the request.
Feeling stiff all over, fearing his knees might not bend, Jack waved Marchant to the seat on the bench beside her while he stood nearby.
“We bring sincerest greetings from the Prince of Wales,” Marchant declared with a smile. “No doubt you recognized him during his recent stay at your fine inn.”
“Of course,” she said, obviously still nettled.
“He has asked us to convey to you how impressed he was with your hospitality, your ingenuity and the warmth of your person,” the baron continued. “He was quite taken with you, Mrs. Eller. And he has entrusted to us a somewhat delicate—”
“Are you going to sit, Mr. St. Lawrence?” She pinned Jack with a look, her tone peppery.
God, they were making a hash of it, he thought.
“Certainly.” He sat down on the opposite bench, as far from her as he could get and still have stone beneath his bum cheeks. “As the baron has said, the prince was quite taken with you. It is rare, I can tell you, for His Highness to be so…so…”
He found himself staring into big blue eyes filled with questions and suspicions and not a little indignation. He struggled to recall the persuasions he’d practiced in his mind on the way down from Scotland.
“…so relaxed in the presence of a lady…um…”
“A lady with whom he has not established relations,” the baron supplied smoothly. “To come to the point, Mrs. Eller, the prince wishes to see you again.” He studied the puzzlement in her face and came right out with it. “He wishes to establish personal relations with you, Mrs. Eller. Very close…personal…relations. St. Lawrence and I are here to make the necessary arrangements.”
She blinked and looked from the baron to Jack.
“Relations? He wishes to have close…oh…oh, my Lord…relations with me?” Her shock was too artless not to be genuine.
Jack had the urge to knock the smirk from Marchant’s face. In the seconds it took him to master that shocking impulse, she shot to her feet.
“That is absurd. What would the prince want with a simple widow who—” She stiffened, reddening. “Take your ugly little joke back to your friends and tell them that their insult found its mark and was keenly felt.”
“Mrs. Eller!” The baron was on his feet before her, alarmed now. “This is no jest, I assure you. We have come at the behest of the Prince of Wales himself.” From the breast pocket of his coat he produced a letter as evidence. “If you doubt the authenticity of our mission, let the prince himself reassure you. You must surely see that this is not a matter he is free to undertake on his own behalf. He has entrusted both his desire and his honor to us in this matter. I assure you, we are faithful to that trust.”
She stood for a moment, regarding the letter as if it were a snake. Then with a fierce look at Jack, she took it from the baron and inspected the royal seal before breaking it open. The trembling of the paper was the only sign that what was penned on the vellum made any impact on her.
“I believe, gentlemen,” she said, sounding as if her mouth were dry, “that the events of a week ago may have given His Highness a mistaken notion of my character.”
The baron’s eyes narrowed and his oily smile appeared.
“I believe the prince knows precisely what conclusions to draw about a woman who drinks men under her table, flaunts her availability before half a dozen men at a time, and then hauls the heir to the throne into bed with her.” He tilted his head to look down his nose. “The prince has already tasted the nature of your character, madam. And you are fortunate indeed that he has found the flavor to his liking.”
“Tasted my…but…the prince…” She looked to Jack in disbelief.
He scowled pointedly at her, then looked away…hoping she would see what had to be seen…that he hadn’t disabused the prince of the idea that something had happened between him and the widow.
“This is a surprise for you, clearly,” Jack said emphatically to mask his discomfort. “But I would counsel that you think well before rejecting such an opportunity. The prince’s fancy does not usually dwell for long in one place…and yet the honor and the benefit to you may be such that you will be well-fixed for life. The prince is very generous to his friends.”
“So he is, our beloved prince,” the baron added. “Most generous.”
“An honor?” she said. “To serve as a paramour to a married man?”
“To our future monarch,” the baron corrected. “Make no mistake, madam. Ladies who serve the prince in such a personal capacity are not regarded as mere courtesans or ‘paramours.’ These ladies, great and small, serve both crown and country and are regarded with utmost respect.”
Her hand tightened visibly on the letter. She seemed to have difficulty getting her breath.
Jack scowled. She must surely understand that she had been selected for a sin
gular honor, one that dukes of the realm actively encouraged their lady wives to seek, knowing that with fancy came favor. However, she had not been bred to the class that sought advancement above all else. The turmoil in her was disconcerting. If she truly had some moral objection—
He caught himself. Not hardly. She was hot enough for a man’s touch—even a man she had hardly met. His ears heated at the thought of how he knew that. And she was a widow, after all. It wasn’t as if she had vows to observe or a maiden-head to hoard. If she had a brain in her head she would come around quickly and take Bertie’s offer.
“Perhaps you need time to think it through,” Jack said. “To see the advantage to all sides in this arrangement.”
“Of course.” The baron leaned closer. “And while you are thinking, madam, be sure to consider the sizeable debts you have incurred on behalf of your quaint establishment. One word from the prince and your thousand-pound loan can be paid and stricken from both ledger and memory. A different word, however, could bring the note due this very day. You are surely clever enough to see the advantage in allying yourself to such power.”
“I believe she has the idea,” Jack said, stepping back and pulling the baron out of her way. “Shall we call for your answer, say, at four-thirty?”
Rigid with control, she picked up her garden tools, set them in a nearby wheelbarrow, then stalked off down the path to the house. The shush of pea gravel under her feet sounded uncannily like the swish of silk petticoats. Jack felt a curious clutch in his chest at the thought.
When she disappeared into the house, he came to his senses and found Marchant wearing a smug expression.
“What are you smiling about?” he asked the wily baron.
“She’s a hot one, all right.” The baron thumped his arm. “But I can’t say I envy Bertie the trouble she’ll be.”
“If she agrees.” He stuck his hat on his head and struck off down the path to the inn.
“Oh, she’ll agree,” the baron said with a wicked chuckle, falling in beside him. “Her eyes lit like Fawkes’ Night bonfires when I said the word debts. Take a lesson, Jack my boy. Money trumps morality every time.”
3
“I WANT a fire, a brandy and a bath,” Mariah declared as she burst into the kitchen and ripped off her jacket, muffler and rubber boots. “Now.”
The household staff—cook, butler, housemaid and kitchen boy—stared in confusion at her and then at each other. Brandy? At noon?
Robert, her stoop-shouldered butler, who more closely resembled a question mark with each passing year, shuffled off mumbling and squinting as he thrust his keys to arm’s length to fish for the one that opened the liquor cabinet. Her rotund maid-of-all-work, Mercy, trudged up the stairs to light the boiler in the bathing room, pausing to rub her back along the way so that her mistress would see how the extra work aggravated her lumbago. Aggie, her ancient cook, stood gaping as Mariah ordered afternoon tea for three and instructed her to send to the butcher for a prime cut of braising beef.
“I’m of a mind to sink my teeth into some red meat tonight,” Mariah declared, seizing her brandy and stomping up the stairs.
Old Robert and even older Aggie exchanged looks. They hadn’t been asked to serve red meat at Eller House since the old master had died. That combined with spirits-drinking and bath-taking in the middle of the week—the middle of the day!—confirmed that something unusual was happening.
It was almost as if the old master, Squire Eller, was back. The aged retainers shook their heads with wistful smiles. Those were the days. Old Mason had a streak in him, he did. Demanded his fun. Accompanied by a sizeable belt of brandy before and a hunk of juicy beefsteak after.
So, who or what had roused their mistress into such a state?
Mariah had no thought to spare for servant curiosity. Her heart was pounding and her limbs were icy by the time she reached her bedroom. Dread crawled up her spine the way it must in an animal caught in a trap and awaiting its fate. She was indeed “caught,” and the fact that the trap was partly of her own making made it that much worse.
To protect her property, she’d flaunted herself before a group of idle, arrogant noblemen, never guessing that the true price of one night’s peace would prove steeper still. Now she had to pay with that unique currency that women had used to acquire safety and security since the beginning of time.
The men’s words came around again and again in her head as she paced her room, waiting for Mercy to draw her bath. Very close personal relations…Quite taken with her… Having “tasted” her, the prince had found her “flavor” to his liking.
That was what outraged her most, she realized. John St. Lawrence had “nimbly” failed to inform their future king that the royal member had been limp and unresponsive—in-capable of manly service—when they helped him to his bed. Why hadn’t the wretch told the prince the truth? Then she recalled the warning on St. Lawrence’s face when she’d started to correct the notion that the prince had bedded her, and she guessed why.
The royal pride. His companions were pledged to it as a matter of patriotic service. And if honoring it meant allowing the prince to think he’d bedded a woman when he hadn’t…to them it was a small price to pay. Of course they’d feel that way, she thought with a moan. It wasn’t their lives being disrupted, their honor being claimed or their bodies being bartered.
Damned men.
She was wise enough in the ways of the world, however, to see that if she turned down this “generous offer” she would be inviting trouble that might only begin with debts being called in early. Clearly, they had made inquiries to learn her circumstances and figured out how pressure could be brought to bear on her. Even if the prince himself were not vindictive, the men around him would never allow such an insult to the royal pride to go unredressed.
A ROYAL MISTRESS. As she descended the stairs that afternoon, toward the interview that would change her life, she paused to give herself a final check in the ornate hall mirror. The woman staring back at her didn’t look especially wicked or licentious. It occurred to her to wonder what a future king looked for in a mistress. What if the prince actually did bed her and she proved not to be to his tastes after all?
She smoothed the elongated bodice of her best blue challis dress, puffed her leg-o’-mutton sleeves, and checked the mother-of-pearl buttons at her wrists. Her green dress might have highlighted her hair better, but the blue brought out her eyes.
Not, she scolded herself, that she wanted “Jack B. Nimble” to notice her eyes. She just wanted him and his arrogant comrade to see that she was a woman of stature, not to be trifled with or condescended to. The bastards.
Chiding herself for her language, she ran a hand over her upswept hair, brushed at the dusting of simple powder on her reddened cheeks, and straightened her collar and cameo…avoiding her own eyes in the mirror.
In the spacious front parlor, Old Robert was shuffling in from the dining room with a rattling tray of cups, saucers and spoons. Older Aggie labored along behind him with a fresh cloth for the tea table and a tiered plate caddie filled with tea cakes and sandwiches. The pair looked downright frazzled. She sighed. She needed some younger servants.
The hearth-lighting and table-draping continued until Old Robert was called away to answer the front door. He returned shortly with the baron and St. Lawrence in tow. A motion toward her head reminded the old butler of his duty. He grabbed the hats from the men’s hands and yanked the coats from their shoulders…doddering out with the garments dragging on the floor behind him.
Mariah stood near the venerable marble hearth, glad of the heat at her back, feeling every muscle in her body tense as “Nimble Jack” St. Lawrence crossed her parlor with an easy, athletic stride. She extended a hand to the baron and then to him, knowing it was the civil thing to do and dreading it all the same.
As Nimble Jack bowed—“Mrs. Eller”—she caught the scents of sandalwood and warmed wool and felt a flash of the memory she’d tried to bury in her garde
n that morning. His dark hair looked soft, his shoulders were broad, and his hand around hers was warm and firm, like the rest of—
“Baron. Mr. St. Lawrence.” She braced herself and gestured to the linen-draped table. “I thought perhaps we would have tea as we talk.”
An unctuous smile spread over the baron’s face and he glanced at St. Lawrence. They read in her reception the answer they hoped to receive.
“Excellent. The prince will be quite pleased,” the baron said, glowing at this positive outcome. “I imagine you have questions for us.”
And just like that, it was done. She was to become a mistress to the Prince of Wales. She glanced at St. Lawrence as the baron held her chair for her at the tea table. The baron was ebullient, but “Nimble Jack” seemed oddly contained upon learning of his mission’s success.
She rang the china bell on the table to summon the tea.
“I suppose my first question is, will I have to remove to London?”
“I should imagine that will depend on a number of things,” the baron said, relishing his role. “His Highness travels a great deal. His secretary makes the necessary arrangements. I would never presume to speak for the prince in matters unauthorized, but I gathered that he intends to join you here in the Lake Country. He is fond of country air and hunting.” A weasel-like smile appeared. “But, of course, there will be your husband to consider.”
She frowned, wondering if he had taken leave of his senses.
“My husband, sir, is deceased.”
“Of course he is.” The baron gave a tense little laugh and she saw St. Lawrence stiffen. “I meant to say your new husband.”
Just then Old Robert rushed in with a silver teapot that he had forgotten to pick up with a mitt. The old fellow dropped it onto the table with a sloshing thud—“Tea be sarved”—and then tottered out, grumbling as he nursed his overheated hand.
“My what?” She turned to the baron, her blood stopped in her veins.
“Your new husband, madam.” The baron straightened, pulling authority around him like a cloak. “The prince would never enter into relations with an unmarried woman. That would never do. To leave a woman he is associated with unprotected and exposed to the world…the prince would never be so callous.”
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