Prince of Ravenscar

by Catherine Coulter

  “I saw him,” Sophie said. “I didn’t know who he was, but looking back on it, I realize now it must have been him. I saw four young ladies were forming a circle around him, making it smaller and smaller, but he saved himself with no muss or fuss, merely nodded to a gentleman and eased past them.”

  Mint appeared in the doorway. In his arms, he held a huge vase brimming with red roses. “Excuse me, Miss Roxanne, but I must tell you the drawing room is stuffed with flowers, and we must now consider other localities. Do you have a preference?”

  “Since the bouquets were sent to Miss Sophie, Mint, then she must be the one to decide.”

  “I should say the male offerings balance between the two of you, Miss Roxanne. These lovely blooms are for you.”

  Roxanne raised a brow. “Who sent these?”

  “Ah, let me see. How odd, the bouquet is not from a gentleman. The card is signed Corrie Sherbrooke.”

  Roxanne threw back her head and laughed. “She is an original, Sophie. Mint, let’s place those lovely roses right here on the dining table, that’s right, in the very middle. Sophie, I’ve a fancy to visit her soon, all right?”

  She paused, drummed her fingertips on the table. “Do you think it impertinent were we to ask to have her husband present?”

  9

  The only reason some people get lost in thought is because it’s unfamiliar territory.

  —PAUL FIX

  Lemington Square

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING

  The Duchess of Brabante demands to see you, Miss Sophie.” “How odd,” Roxanne said, and chewed her final bite of toast. “I was expecting the duchess later. She demands, Mint? What do you mean she demands to see Miss Sophie?”

  “You are thinking of her very charming grace, the dowager Duchess of Brabante, Miss Roxanne. This is a duchess I have never seen before. She is a very forceful female, I might add. I have placed this duchess in the drawing room.”

  “Oh, dear, is she wearing purple, Mint?”

  “A cartload, Miss Roxanne.”

  “So it is the current one—Lorelei, isn’t that her name, Sophie?”

  “Oh, yes. I thought it a lovely name until I realized a battle-ax was wearing it. What can she want with me, Roxanne?”

  “We will soon see.” Roxanne folded her napkin carefully and laid it gently beside her plate. She opened the door to the kitchen and called, “Mrs. Eldridge, the breakfast was lovely, thank you.” She heard a deep booming voice say she was pleased. Roxanne still couldn’t get over that voice coming out of the tiny Mrs. Eldridge.

  Roxanne hummed as she straightened the lace at her throat, tweaked one of her braids back into place. Sophie was looking at her, a dark eyebrow raised. “Oh, I see, you want to make her pay.”

  Roxanne turned to smile at her. “Let her cool her heels for a bit, whip her up into a purple froth. Hold still, Sophie, you have some toast crumbs on your sleeve.”

  By the time the ladies walked into the drawing room, Mint behind them, Sophie realized she was no longer so terrified.

  Roxanne said quietly, “This is our house, Sophie. Contrive not to forget that, all right?”

  The Duchess of Brabante was standing by the lovely white Carrera marble fireplace, tapping the toe of one purple slipper, an exact match of the deep purple of her morning gown. She occupied about twelve feet of space, Roxanne thought, so many petticoats was she wearing to hold out that purple tent.

  Both Roxanne and Sophie smiled and each gave her a lovely curtsy.

  The duchess didn’t move, merely began tapping her fan against her palm in beat with her slipper.

  “You have kept me waiting. I am not used to such behavior. You will not do it again.”

  Roxanne said easily, “The demands of one’s stomach cannot be ignored, your grace. How may we serve you at this very early morning hour?”

  “It is not that early,” the duchess said. “I am here to see this one, not you.”

  Roxanne never let her smile slip. “You must consider us a matched set, your grace, rather like the two nymphs that stand side by side on the mantel. My father gave them to my mother when they were first married. Do you not think them lovely? Ah, well, won’t you be seated?” Would the sofa hold all those skirts?

  Lorelei Monroe wasn’t happy. She took one look at Sophie Wilkie—such a silly name, mayhap even a common name. “I understand you rode in Hyde Park with my son yesterday afternoon from three o’clock until five o’clock. I demand to know the meaning of this.”

  Sophie said, “Devlin allowed that since it was overcast, your grace, not a dollop of sun in sight, he could forgo his hat and raise his face to the heavens without fear. I assure you there is no need to be alarmed. His lovely pallor is intact.”

  “Of course his pallor is intact! My son has no real fear of the sun; it is all an amusement to him. I want you to tell me exactly who you are, missy, and you will do it right now and to my satisfaction before you sink your teeth into my son the earl, who will be a duke, eventually. He is not for the likes of you—at least, I do not think he is.” She paused, drew herself up. “I must know who your family is before I make the final determination. That other Monroe woman would not tell me. She teased me, evaded my very civil questions; her rudeness quite appalled me. So you will enlighten me. Now.”

  “Sink my teeth into him?” Sophie said. “I believe it is Devlin who thinks of teeth sinking.”

  “You will cease your impertinence. My son is not a vampire. As I told you, playing the vampire amuses him.”

  “Do you know he asked me to look at his eye teeth to see if they were at all pointed? I swear to you, your grace, I assured him they were not. However, I believe he was disappointed.”

  The Duchess of Brabante stared at her. Roxanne eased down into a wing chair opposite the duchess, and motioned for Sophie to sit in the matching chair beside her. When they were both settled, Roxanne said matter-of-factly, “Sophie is in London for her first Season. Her father is Reverend William Wilkie of Willet-on-Glee in Surrey. The alliteration is amusing, don’t you think? Ah, I thought you already knew that, your grace.”

  “Don’t be smart with me, Miss Radcliffe. That is not at all what I meant.”

  “Then what do you mean, your grace?”

  “Very well. You force me to be blunt. Is this one an heiress?”

  “Wherever did you get that idea, your grace?”

  “I will have an answer!”

  Sophie smiled. “My financial affairs are no one’s concern, your grace. Can you imagine my asking you to tell me your husband’s yearly income? I would not be so rude, I assure you.”

  “When you are the mother of a much-sought-after son, Miss Wilkie, you are forced occasionally to be rude, not that I would ever stoop to that, of course. I am simply asking an interested question which perforce must involve me. I must know if that other Monroe hussy is toying with me, setting up my precious son for a mighty disappointment. I will not let that happen, do you understand me, young woman? I will know the truth of your situation.” She rose to her feet, and it seemed to Roxanne that purple splashed into every corner.

  “Actually, your grace,” Sophie said, all calm and collected, “that other Monroe woman, as you call her, was my own mother’s best friend. I believe she wishes me to wed her son, not yours. Does that relieve you?”

  “Julian has no need to marry again. I knew his first marriage was doomed, in fact, I told him so, and since she died, I was perfectly right. My dear son tells me Julian has no intention of finding himself another wife. There is no reason for him to propagate in any case, since he will not have a title. It is to be hoped his line will begin and end with him, since it should never have been begun in the first place.”

  What a dreadful thing to say, you old besom. Roxanne paused for only a moment, tenting her fingers and tapping them against her chin. “Do you know,” she said, limp as a lily pad, “Devlin told me he finds Sophie exactly to his taste. He tells me she is amusing and beautiful, and her lovely inches
add to her appeal—”

  “When would my dear son tell you anything, Miss Radcliffe? It is not you who have been hanging about him, it is this one, who, I believe now, is indeed an heiress, since Corinne wants her for her son. So I will know the truth. Are you an heiress?” A large finger covered nearly to the knuckle with a mammoth sapphire ring pointed at Sophie.

  Roxanne continued as if Lorelei had never spoken. “And he much admires Sophie’s lovely complexion, all golden and rich, the perfect foil to his glorious pallor—”

  “Enough, Miss Radcliffe! You are impertinent. I will not have it. You”—she shook her beringed finger again at Sophie—“you will answer me now. If your answer is not satisfactory, you will stay away from my son.”

  Sophie gave her a sweet smile. “As I said, your grace, my situation is none of your affair.”

  “This is not to be borne!” The duchess flounced out, head up, shoulders squared, her immense net bonnet with abundant bunches of purple grapes quivering, looking like a regal purple ship under full sail. She whipped about in the doorway. “You are an heiress, aren’t you?”

  When the two ladies only stared at her, she yelled at Mint to open the door so she could leave this den of iniquity. She was not, she boomed, in a voice more penetrating than Mrs. Eldridge’s, pleased.

  “Well,” Roxanne said, after they heard the front door close, “that was entertaining. Let the old battle-ax stew on that. An heiress or not an heiress, that is the question. Let’s go to Hookham’s; there is a new novel I have heard about.”

  10

  Sherbrooke Town House

  Putnam Square

  My lady, the two young female persons I believe you told his lordship you found vastly amusing at the Buxted ball are here to see you,” Willicombe said, bowed, stood back, and ushered Sophie and Roxanne into the lovely classical drawing room, filled with sunlight, a valuable commodity on any day in England. Willicombe bowed deep again to Corrie, this time at a different angle, not out of respect, she knew, but to allow the sunlight to shine off his bald head.

  “Thank you, Willicombe,” Corrie Sherbrooke said, and rose quickly, too quickly. “Oh, dear,” she said, and dashed to a covered pot behind a wing chair in the corner of the room and threw up.

  Roxanne started forward, but Willicombe raised a hand. “Pray be seated, ma’am,” he said, and walked in his stately way to where his mistress was on her knees, heaving. He poured a dollop of clear liquid into a glass, eased down beside his mistress, and held out the glass and a handkerchief. “When you drink it down, my lady, you may have one of Cook’s special biscuits.”

  “I hate you, Willicombe.”

  “I know, my lady, I would most assuredly hate me as well, were I to be hugging the chamber pot as you are. Drink this wondrous potion. It will set you back on a fine course. Who knows, you may steer straight into the wind for several hours before you again crash into the shoals.”

  “I am not a bloody boat, Willicombe.”

  “No, indeed, my lady, but if you were, you would be a lovely yacht, similar to his lordship’s Esmerelda, whose sails billow so prettily in the wind.”

  Corrie Sherbrooke’s eyes nearly crossed. She wiped her mouth, then took the glass, gave it a look of loathing, and tipped it down. She sputtered and coughed. “I have downed that nasty stuff, now give me my biscuit, Willicombe, before I clout you.”

  Without a word, Willicombe handed her what looked like a piece of a scone.

  After a minute of silent chewing, Corrie drew a breath and allowed Willicombe to assist her to rise. She sent a dazzling smile to Roxanne and Sophie, both still standing by the door.

  “Such drama I provide, and all on your first visit. Hello, Miss Radcliffe. Ah, you must be Miss Wilkie.”

  Roxanne said, “Yes, this is my niece, Sophie Wilkie. Sophie, Lady Hammersmith.”

  “A pleasure. Do call me Corrie, both of you. I am very pleased you are here.”

  Sophie said, “That is very kind of you. Believe me, it was not our intention to make you sick. Goodness, perhaps we should take our leave.”

  “I should be alone in the world if everyone were to leave me when I got ill. The sickness comes and it goes. My mama-in-law assures me I have but two more weeks and all the pots can be packed away—until the next time.”

  Sophie stared at her, clearly appalled. “You wish to have a next time?”

  “I should shoot myself if I believed for a minute I should wish for a next time. However, my husband, James, tells me he is assured by my physician, a sadist in Harley Street named Silas Legbourne, that the good Lord wipes away a lady’s memories of all the unpleasantness of childbearing.”

  Sophie said, “How utterly unfair. Are you sure this physician knows what he is talking about? Oh, dear, I just thought of Mrs. Masonry back home. She has birthed ten children. Oh, goodness, after all that, how could you possibly have any memories left in your head at all?”

  Willicombe cleared his throat.

  “Yes, Willicombe?”

  “Dr. Legbourne assures all of us, my lady, that a readjustment of a lady’s memories in this instance is critical to humanity, that if it were not the case, then the world would empty itself of people enough, what with the excessive croaking that goes on. So, he concludes, ladies must forget all their travails in order to further produce replacement human beings to fill our world.”

  Roxanne said to the plump little man with his perfectly round bald head, “You have made an excellent point. But would it not lead one to inevitably conclude that ladies are then responsible for all wars and famine and general misery in the world?”

  Willicombe recognized the light hand that had delivered the lovely irony, but before he could reply in equally stunning irony, Lord Hammersmith appeared in the doorway, took in his wife’s pale face and the two ladies who looked, he thought, equal parts bemused and horrified, and said, “Good morning, ladies. Corrie, you look ready for a bit of brandy.”

  All female eyes followed him as he walked to the sideboard, lifted a lovely crystal carafe, and poured his wife a dollop of brandy. He wrapped her white hands around the snifter and watched her drink it down, shudder when the heat landed in her belly. He then took her arm and led her to a high-backed pale blue chair. He said over his shoulder, “She is nearly herself again. My mother’s potion and Cook’s scones always work wonders.”

  He leaned down and kissed his wife’s forehead.

  All it took was for Corrie to look up at him and she forgot about smashing him for getting her into this fix. She loved him too much, she supposed, and was, she realized, quite ready to forget her travails, which didn’t say much for her brains. She managed a sneer. “You wouldn’t sound so calm, so very bored, if you were the one lurching toward chamber pots in every single room in this bloody town house.”

  “Of course not,” he said, “but I am not the heroine here, you are.” He patted her cheek and turned. “Willicombe, she drank down my mother’s potion and ate her reward scone?” At the profound bow, James added, “Magnificent shine this morning, Willicombe. Now, you are Miss Radcliffe and Miss Wilkie, are you not?”

  We are no more than six feet from him, Roxanne thought, staring into those unbelievable violet eyes, which, she saw, held concern for his wife and good manners toward his doubtless unwanted guests.

  “Yes, we are,” Sophie said, and to Roxanne’s eyes, she appeared unaffected by this god of a man. “I agree, Corrie is a heroine. However, I believe we have come at a particularly bad time. We will take our leave.”

  “Oh, no,” Corrie said. “I am feeling quite fine now. Willicombe, please fetch us some cakes and tea. James, will you remain, or have you an engagement?”

  He eyed her, seemed reassured. “I am meeting Father at Signore Ricalli’s. Mother might be there as well. She told me she needed to polish her fencing skills. You’ve never seen her fence, Corrie, she’s really rather good, fast as a flea, hops around my father, makes him curse and laugh. Try not to throw up on your slippers, sweetheart.
Your maid told me three pairs have already been sent to the dustbin.”

  “I simply can’t figure out how I manage to do that, I mean, my skirts stick out a good five feet,” Corrie said, and took a quick look at her favorite Pomona green slippers. Not this time, thank the good Lord.

  “You have big feet.”

  She threw a pillow at him, which he plucked out of the air not six inches from his perfect nose. She said, “There is no reason to tell our guests all of my defects on their first visit. Now, after I have given you your heir, I should like to polish my fencing skills as well.”

  “Why not? I like your feet, they’re substantial, they can waltz for hours, and I imagine they will support your growing weight.”

  “Your wit fells me, James.” She threw another pillow at him when he laughed. He caught it as well, and tossed it back to her, smiled at all the ladies, and walked out of the drawing room, whistling.

  “Sometimes I want to clout him,” Corrie said, smiling comfortably at both of them. “But he makes me laugh, you see, so what am I to do?” She sat forward in her chair, eyes sparkling, yet she’d been violently ill only five minutes before. “So tell me what you think of my vampire.”

  Truth be told, Roxanne would have rather spoken at great length about Corrie’s husband, couching her interest in questions about his lordship’s work in astronomy, but it was not to be. Roxanne gave it up. “Ah, Devlin. He does enjoy shocking people, curdling their innards when he talks about otherworldly bloodletting, giving them little frissons of dread when he looks pointedly at their necks. All in all, I should have to say I find Devlin Monroe vastly amusing. How long has he been playing this role?”

  Corrie said, “I heard he read some ancient books at Oxford. There was a drawing of a vampire, and he decided he’d make a better bloodletter than the monster shown—he’d be more discreet.” She laughed.

  Sophie said, “Was he not one of your beaux before you married Lord Hammersmith?”