The Leopard Prince

by Elizabeth Hoyt

Tony spoke over him. “No.” She raised her eyebrows. “Look—” Oscar started.

  The door opened and Cecil Barclay stuck his head around it. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Come back later, shall I?”

  “No!” George lowered her voice. “Come in, Cecil, do. We were just talking about you.”

  “Oh?” He looked warily at Tony and Oscar, but he closed the door behind him and advanced into the room. He shook out a sleeve, spraying drops of water. “Ghastly weather out. Can’t remember when it’s rained so much.”

  “Did you read my letter?” George asked.

  Oscar muttered something and flopped into an armchair. Tony propped his chin in a hand, long bony fingers covering his mouth.

  “Quite.” Cecil glanced at Tony. “It seems an interesting proposition. I take it you have discussed this idea with your brothers and it meets with their approval?”

  George swallowed down a wave of nausea. “Oh, yes.” Oscar muttered, more loudly this time.

  Tony arched a hairy eyebrow. “But does it meet with your approval, Cecil?” George forced herself to ask.

  Cecil started. He’d been looking rather worriedly at Oscar, slumped in the armchair. “Yes. Yes, actually it does. Solves a rather tricky problem, in fact. Due to a childhood illness, I doubt I’m able to, uh, father a… a…” Cecil petered out, staring a bit fixedly at her tummy.

  George pressed a hand to her belly, wishing desperately that it would calm down.

  “Quite. Quite. Quite.” Cecil had regained his power of speech. He brought out a handkerchief and blotted his upper lip. “There is only one hitch, as it were.”

  “Oh?” Tony dropped his hand.

  “Yes.” Cecil sat in an armchair next to George, and she realized guiltily that she’d forgotten to offer him a seat. “It’s the title, I’m afraid. It isn’t much of one, only a obscure baronetcy that Grandfather has, but the estate that goes with it is rather large.” Cecil passed the handkerchief over his brow. “Huge, to be quite vulgar.”

  “And you wouldn’t want the child inheriting it?” Tony spoke quietly.

  “No. That is, yes,” Cecil gasped. “Whole point of the proposition, isn’t it? Having an heir? No, the problem is in my aunt. Aunt Irene, that is. The bally woman has always blamed me for being next in line to inherit.” Cecil shuddered. “Fact is, I’d be afraid to meet the old bat in a dark alley. Might take the opportunity to make the succession a little closer to her own son, Alphonse.”

  “Fascinating as this family history is, Cecil, old man, how does it pertain to Georgie?” Oscar asked. He’d sat up during Cecil’s recitation.

  “Well, don’t you see? Aunt Irene might challenge any heir that arrived, er, a little early.”

  Tony stared. “What about your younger brother, Freddy?”

  Cecil nodded. “Yes, I know. A sane woman would see that too many stood between her Alphonse and the inheritance, but that’s just it. Aunt Irene ain’t sane.”

  “Ah.” Tony sat back, apparently in thought. “So what are we to do?” George just wanted to retire to her rooms and go to sleep.

  “If t’were done, t’were best done quickly,” Oscar said softly.

  “What?” Cecil knit his brow.

  But Tony sat up and nodded. “Yes. You’ve mangled the quote, of course, but you’re quite right.” He turned to Cecil. “How soon can you get a special license?”

  “I…” Cecil blinked. “In a fortnight?”

  Oscar shook his head. “Too long. Two, three days at the most. Knew a fellow got one within a day of applying.”

  “But the archbishop of—” “Canterbury’s a personal friend of Aunt Beatrice’s,” Oscar said. “He’s in London right now. She was telling me only the other day.” He clapped Cecil on the back. “Come on, I’ll help you find him. And congratulations. I’m sure you’ll make an excellent brother-in-law.”

  “Oh, er, thanks.”

  Oscar and Cecil slammed out of the room.

  George looked at Tony.

  He turned down one corner of his wide mouth. “You’d better start looking for a wedding dress, Georgie.”

  Which was when George realized she was engaged—to the wrong man.

  She grabbed the basin just in time.

  THE RAIN POUNDED DOWN. Harry stepped unwarily and sank ankle-deep in oozing muck. The entire road was more a moving stream than solid ground.

  “Jesus Christ,” Bennet panted from atop his horse. “I think I’m growing mildew between my toes. I can’t believe this rain. Can you? Four days straight without any letup.”

  “Nasty,” Will mumbled indistinctly from his place behind Bennet. His face was all but hidden in Bennet’s cape.

  It had started raining the day of Thomas’s funeral and continued through Lord Granville’s internment the day after, but Harry didn’t say that. Bennet knew the facts well enough. “Aye, it’s nasty all right.” The mare nuzzled the back of his neck, blowing a warm, musty breath against his skin.

  The horse had gone lame a mile back. He’d tried looking at the mud-clogged hoof but hadn’t found anything obviously wrong. Now he was reduced to walking her to the next town. Slowly walking her.

  “What do you intend to do once we catch up with Lady Georgina?” Bennet asked.

  Harry turned to peer at him through the downpour. Bennet had an expression of studied nonchalance.

  “I’m going to marry her,” Harry said.

  “Mmm. I’d got the idea that was your overall plan.” Bennet scratched his chin. “But she did take off for London. You must admit it looks rather as if she might be, well, unreceptive to the idea.”

  “She’s carrying my child.” A gust of wind flung a spatter of icy raindrops playfully against Harry’s face. His cheeks were so numb with cold he hardly felt it.

  “That part puzzles me.” Bennet cleared his throat. “Because a lady in such a state, you’d think she’d be running to you with open arms. Instead, she appears to be running away.”

  “We’ve already been over that.” “Yes,” Bennet agreed. “But, I mean, did you say something to her before?”

  “No.” “Because women can be awfully sensitive when they’re in the family way.”

  Harry raised an eyebrow. “And you would you know this how?”

  “Everyone…” Bennet tilted his chin down, causing a trickle of water to pour off his tricorn into his lap. “Damn!” He straightened. “Everyone knows about women with child. It’s just common knowledge. Perhaps you didn’t pay enough attention to her.”

  “She got quite a bit of attention from me,” Harry growled irritably. He noted Will’s brown eyes peering curiously around Bennet’s back and grimaced. “Especially on the night before she left.”

  “Oh. Ah.” Bennet frowned thoughtfully.

  Harry searched for a change of subject. “I’m grateful to you for coming with me,” he said. “Sorry you had to rush Thomas’s funeral. And your father’s.”

  “Actually”—Bennet cleared his throat—“I was glad you were there, rushed or not. Thomas and I weren’t close, but he was my brother. And it was hard dealing with the succession on top of his funeral. As for Father…” Bennet swiped a drip of water off his nose and shrugged.

  Harry splashed through a puddle. Not that it mattered. He was already soaked to the skin.

  “Of course, you’re my brother, too,” Bennet said. Harry shot a glance at him. Bennet was squinting down the road.

  “The only brother I have now.” Bennet turned and gave him a surprisingly sweet smile.

  Harry half grinned. “Aye.” “Excepting Will, here.” Bennet nodded to the boy clinging to his back like a monkey.

  Will’s eyes widened. “What?”

  Harry scowled. He hadn’t wanted to tell Will, as he was afraid it would confuse the boy’s already complicated life, but it appeared that Bennet wasn’t waiting to discuss the matter.

  “It seems that my father might very well be yours as well,” Bennet said now to the child. “We have similar eyes, you k
now.”

  “But mine are brown.” Will frowned. “The shape, he means,” Harry said. “Oh.” Will thought about that for a bit, then peeked at him. “What about Harry? Am I his brother, too?”

  “We don’t know,” Harry said quietly. “But since we don’t, we might as well say we are. If you don’t mind. Do you?”

  Will vigorously shook his head. “Good,” Bennet said. “Now that’s settled, I’m sure Will is as concerned as I am about your impending nuptials.”

  “What?” Harry lost the smile that had begun to form on his lips.

  “The thing is, Lady Georgina is the Earl of Maitland’s sister.” Bennet pursed his lips. “And if she decides to dig in her heels… might be a problem, the two of us going up against an earl.”

  “Huh,” Harry said. It hadn’t occurred to him before that he might have to go through his lady’s brothers in order to speak to her. But if she was well and truly mad at him… “Damn.”

  “Exactly.” Bennet nodded. “It’d help if we could send word ahead to someone in London when we reach the next town. Have them reconnoiter, so to speak. Especially if it takes a while to get you a fresh horse.” Bennet looked at the mare, who was definitely lagging.

  “Aye.”

  “Not to mention, it would be nice to have someone at our back when we confront Maitland,” Bennet continued. “I know a couple of blokes in London, of course. Might be up for it, if we can convince them it’s a sort of lark.” His brow furrowed. “They aren’t usually sober, but if I impress upon them the seriousness—”

  “I have some friends,” Harry said. “Who?” “Edward de Raaf and Simon Iddesleigh.” “The Earl of Swartingham?” Bennet’s eyes widened. “And Iddesleigh’s titled, too, isn’t he?”

  “He’s Viscount Iddesleigh.” “How the hell do you know them?” “Met through the Agrarian Society.” “The Agrarians?” Bennet wrinkled his nose as if at a bad smell. “Don’t they debate turnips?”

  Harry’s mouth quirked. “It’s for gentlemen interested in agriculture, yes.”

  “I suppose it takes all kinds.” Bennet still looked dubious. “Christ, Harry, I had no idea. If you have friends like that, why the hell are you playing around with me and Will?”

  “You two are my brothers, aren’t you?” “Aye!” Will shouted. “So we are.” Bennet’s face broke into a broad smile. And then he tipped back his head and laughed into the rain.

  “THIS BLUE IS VERY NICE, my lady.” Tiggle held up the gown in question, spreading the skirts over her arm.

  George glanced at the frock so enticingly displayed and tried to muster some enthusiasm. Or at the very least care one way or the other. It was her wedding day. She and Tiggle were in her bedroom in her London town house, which was presently strewn with the bright colors of rejected frocks. George was having a hard time convincing herself the wedding was real. It was only a scant week since she and her brothers had talked to Cecil, and now she was readying herself to marry him. Her life had taken on the aspect of one of those horrid dreams where a ghastly doom was inevitable and nobody could hear the screams.

  “My lady?” Tiggle prompted.

  If she screamed now, would anyone hear? George shrugged. “I don’t know. The neckline doesn’t really suit me, does it?”

  Tiggle pursed her lips and set aside the blue. “Then what about the yellow brocade? The neckline is square and quite low, but we could put in a lace fichu, if you like.”

  George wrinkled her nose without looking. “I don’t fancy all the ruffles about the bottom of the skirt. Makes me look like a cake with too much marzipan decoration.”

  What she really ought to wear was black. Black with a black veil. She looked down at her vanity and touched with one finger the little carved horse standing on it. The swan and the eel sat to either side of the horse. They looked rather forlorn without the leopard to guard them, but she’d left him behind for Harry.

  “You’ll have to decide soon, my lady,” Tiggle said from behind her. “You’re to be wed in less than two hours.”

  George sighed. Tiggle was being awfully kind to her. Normally, a bit of vinegar would have shown through her lady’s maid façade by now. And she was right. It was no use holding on to dreams. Soon she would have a baby. Its welfare was of far greater importance than the silly fantasies of a woman who liked to collect fairy tales.

  “I think the green, the one embroidered with lilies,” she said. “It isn’t as new as the others, but it’s rather fine and I’ve always felt it became me.”

  Tiggle gave a sigh of what sounded like relief. “A good choice, my lady. I’ll get it out.”

  George nodded. She pulled out one of the shallow drawers at the top of her vanity. Inside was a plain wooden box. She opened the box and carefully laid the horse, the swan, and the eel inside.

  “My lady?” Tiggle was waiting with the gown. George closed the box and the drawer and turned to prepare for her wedding.

  “THIS IS WHERE THE AGRARIANS MEET?” Bennet looked incredulously at the low-slung entrance to the coffee-house. It was on the bottom floor—really the cellar—of a half-timbered building in a narrow back lane. “The place isn’t going to fall, is it?” He eyed the second floor looming over the lane.

  “It hasn’t yet.” Harry ducked and entered the smoky room, Will sticking close to his side. He’d asked de Raaf to meet him here.

  Behind him, he heard Bennet swear as he caught his head on the lintel. “The coffee had better be good.”

  “It is.” “Harry!” A large, pockmarked man hailed him from a table.

  “Lord Swartingham.” Harry made his way to the table. “Thank you for coming, my lord. May I present my brothers, Bennet Granville and Will?”

  Edward de Raaf, fifth Earl of Swartingham, frowned. “I’ve told you to call me Edward or de Raaf. This my lord stuff is ridiculous.”

  Harry merely smiled and turned to the second man at the table. “Lord Iddesleigh. I hadn’t expected you. Bennet, Will, this is Simon Iddesleigh.”

  “How d’you do?” Bennet bowed.

  Will merely ducked his head. “Charmed.” Iddesleigh, a lean aristocrat with ice-gray eyes, inclined his head. “I had no idea Harry had relations. I was under the impression that he’d sprung fully formed like Athena from a rock. Or maybe a mangel-wurzel. It goes to show one can’t always go by impressions.”

  “Well, I’m glad you came.” Harry held up two fingers to a passing boy and took a seat, making room for Bennet and Will.

  Iddesleigh flipped a lace-trimmed wrist. “Wasn’t much else going on today, anyway. Thought I’d tag along. It was either that or attend Lillipin’s lecture on compost layering, and fascinating though the subject of decay may be, I can’t think how one could take up three whole hours on it.”

  “Lillipin could,” de Raaf muttered.

  The boy banged down two steaming mugs of coffee and whirled away.

  Harry took a scalding sip and sighed. “Do you have the special license?”

  “Right here.” De Raaf patted his pocket. “You think there will be objections from the family?”

  Harry nodded. “Lady Georgina is the Earl of Maitland’s sister—” But he cut himself off because Iddesleigh was choking on his coffee.

  “What’s wrong with you, Simon?” de Raaf barked. “Sorry,” Iddesleigh gasped. “Your intended is Maitland’s sister?”

  “Yes.” Harry felt his shoulders tense.

  “The older sister?”

  Harry merely stared, dread filling him. “For God’s sake, just spit it out,” de Raaf said. “You could have told me the bride’s name, de Raaf. I only heard the news this morning from Freddy Barclay. We happened to meet at my tailor’s, wonderful chap on—”

  “Simon,” de Raaf growled. “Oh, all right.” Iddesleigh suddenly sobered. “She’s getting married. Your Lady Georgina. To Cecil Barclay—”

  No. Harry closed his eyes, but he couldn’t shut out the other man’s words.

  “Today.”

  TONY WAS WAITING O
UTSIDE, hands clasped behind his back, when George emerged from her town house. Raindrops speckled the shoulders of his greatcoat. His carriage, which had the Maitland crest in gilt on the doors, stood ready at the curb.

  He turned as George descended the steps and frowned with concern. “I was beginning to think I would have to come in after you.”

  “Good morning, Tony.” George held out her hand.

  He enveloped it in his own big hand and helped her into the carriage.

  Tony took his seat across from her, the leather squeaking as he settled. “I’m sure the rain will stop soon.”

  George looked at her brother’s hands resting on his knees and noticed again the scabbed knuckles. “What happened to you?”

  Tony flexed his right hand as if testing the scrapes. “It’s nothing. We sorted out Wentworth last week.”

  “We?”

  “Oscar, Ralph, and I,” Tony said. “That’s not important now. Listen, George.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to go through with this. Cecil will understand, and we can work something out. Retiring to the country or—”

  “No.” George cut him off. “No, I thank you, Tony, but this is the best way. For the baby, for Cecil, and even for me.”

  She took a deep breath. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, even to herself, but now George faced it: Somewhere deep inside, she’d secretly hoped Harry would stop her. She grimaced ruefully. She’d expected him to come charging up on a white stallion and sweep her off her feet. Perhaps wheel his stallion around while fighting ten men and go galloping off into the sunset with her.

  But that wasn’t going to happen.

  Harry Pye was a land steward with an old mare and a life of his own. She was a pregnant woman of eight and twenty years. Time to put the past behind her.

  She managed a smile for Tony. It wasn’t a very good one, judging by the doubt on his face, but it was the best she could do at the moment. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a grown woman. I have to face my responsibilities.”

  “But—”

  George shook her head.

  Tony bit off whatever he was going to say. He stared out the window, tapping long fingers against his knee. “Damn, I hate this.”