As Sofia approached her front door, a strange man appeared from around the cascade of pink roses climbing up her porch trellis.
“Miss Eastleigh?”
“Who are you?” Her voice was sharp. Men appeared on her doorstep with some frequency, none of whom she welcomed.
“I have a message from Prince Ernst of Dalmia. He would like to meet with you immediately.” The man held out an official-looking envelope with seals.
“You must be mistaken.” She ignored his outstretched hand. “I don’t know any Prince Ernst. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a dinner,” she crisply added, brushing past him. Opening her door, she slipped inside and slammed the door behind her.
What a bizarre approach, she reflected with a snort of disgust, quickly making her way to her bedroom. Even assuming this prince—or not—was attempting to court some woman, she rather doubted he’d have much success with such a crude proposal. Delivered by a retainer no less.
Really, there was no accounting for the arrogance of the nobility.
As if one had merely to reveal one’s title—even a possibly fraudulent one—and a woman’s acquiescence was assured. Insolent pricks.
Which frame of mind didn’t bode well for the evening ahead. Lord Wharton was wealthy, titled, and feted far and wide for his athletic fame. She really wasn’t in the mood for an aristocratic blue blood with the world at his feet. She should have remained firm in her refusals. Damn Rosalind’s incessant harping.
Now, if only she could survive the evening without being rude.
A low bar, perhaps, but in her current temper not easily met.
Perhaps with enough champagne, she reflected, her mood might improve. Or more to the point, with enough champagne, she might become oblivious to her mood.
Swiftly undressing, she dropped her work clothes on the carpet. Pulling her Worth gown from the wardrobe, she laid it on the bed and shouted for the young maid of all work who helped her out on occasion. Knowing she’d need assistance with all the impossibly small hooks running down the back of her gown, she’d had the foresight to schedule Cassie. “Ah, there you are, darling. I need help with this gown, and if you could find my green silk shoes, I’d be grateful. They’re not in the wardrobe.”
“I seen them under the sofa in the parlor, miss.”
“Really?”
“You brung that lovely bloke home from the theater last Thursday, miss. I recall cuz me mum helped me dress you that night. The shoes got left behind, I figure, when—”
“Be a dear and fetch them for me, will you?” Sofia interposed, preferring not to hear Cassie’s suppositions apropos her behavior that night. Although Billy Orme was very sweet and gratifying in any number of ways. He’d stayed to entertain her for two full days—a testament to his talents beyond that of a championship jockey.
CHAPTER 8
JAMIE HAD SPENT a portion of the day with his troop, explaining their mission and arranging watch schedules before returning to his apartment in St. John’s Wood. As eight o’clock approached and no summons from Ernst materialized, he decided that Miss Eastleigh must not have surfaced yet. The fact that she couldn’t be found generated a mild apprehension until he reminded himself that Von Welden and his minions couldn’t possibly be that competent.
Nonetheless, when a messenger from the prince arrived a short time later, he read the brief note with a sense of relief.
She’s found. Dress for dinner.
Ernst’s army of detectives had tracked down their quarry. A half hour later, Jamie was ushered into the Battenberg town house by a harried butler. “Upstairs, sir. He’s been asking for you.” Directed to the prince’s dressing room, Jamie found Ernst in a stew over what decorations to wear on his admiral’s uniform.
“I can’t decide. What do you think?” The prince waved his hand at a colorful array of various orders and decorations on his dressing table.
“If you’re out to impress, the Order of the Golden Fleece will suffice.” The medal was the oldest, most prestigious honor the Habsburg Empire bestowed, the recipients either from the royal families of Europe or from the ranks of exceptional military heroes.
“You’re right. Less is more. It must be your Scots’ blood.”
“If we’re discussing moderation, I’d dispense with a uniform. English society is more relaxed than the Austrian court. Military dress isn’t de rigueur here. That much gold braid might frighten off your daughter.” Or offend her. Jamie suspected the forthright Miss Eastleigh disliked martinets decked out in showy regimentals.
“Excellent suggestion. We’ll restrict our accompanying guard as well. You’re armed?”
Jamie nodded, his shoulder holster well concealed by his tailor, the dirk strapped to his ankle invisible as well.
The prince snapped his fingers at his valet. “Off with this uniform,” he briskly ordered, and swearing all the while, he was quickly refitted into evening dress.
“Very nice,” Jamie said with quiet amusement as the flurry of activity abated. “Now you owe Peters an apology.”
The prince glared at Jamie. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”
Jamie smiled. “Because I keep you safe and tell you the truth when no one else dares.”
“Hmpf. Impertinent brat.” He turned to Peters and muttered, “Have Julius give you a raise.”
“Very good, sir.” No gentleman of consequence would do without an English valet and Peters knew it. “Have a pleasant evening, sir.”
Ernst stalked away through the dressing room door, and Jamie winked at Peters as he rose from his chair. “He’s lucky to have you.”
“Thank you, sir. We do our best.”
Which term would perhaps be useful as a catchphrase tonight, Jamie decided as he and Ernst entered the carriage waiting at the curb. Having met Miss Eastleigh, he rather doubted that she’d entirely welcome the news that she was heir to a duchy in Dalmia.
Her sardonic remarks about aristocratic ladies like Bella and the men who obliged them suggested a jaundiced view of the beau monde. Not that he necessarily disagreed with her assessment, but then his opinions were of no consequence tonight.
On the other hand, he sympathized with Ernst’s joy in having saved his patrimony. After the loss of his only son to Von Welden’s inhumanity and greed, Ernst had found reason to hope.
Ernst, however, was a dyed-in-the-wool autocrat, force majeure the norm for him.
Jamie softly sighed. This encounter between father and daughter could be confrontational. God knows what Miss Eastleigh had been told in the last twenty-some years. Or what Machiavellian coercion Ernst would employ.
Fortunately, he hadn’t bet on the outcome.
CHAPTER 9
AFTER REACHING GROVELAND House and posting two troopers on guard outside, Ernst and Jamie were ushered in.
“Tell Groveland Prince Ernst is here,” Ernst brusquely ordered, handing his hat and gloves to the butler who had come up to greet them. “Quickly, my good man!”
“His Grace has guests, Your Excellency,” Mallory replied with cultivated sangfroid, smoothly disposing of the hat and gloves to a flunkey. “If you would care to wait in the green drawing room, I will inform His Grace of your presence.” This was England. Not some foreign fiefdom.
“I have no intention of waiting any—” Ernst frowned at the light touch on his sleeve and turned his chill gaze on Jamie.
“We have time, sir.”
At the unspoken warning in Jamie’s eyes, Ernst drew in a breath of restraint. “Very well,” he gruffly said. “Inform the Duke of Groveland I wish to speak with him at his convenience.”
Mallory nodded to a footman before turning back to the prince. “Jeffers will see you to the green drawing room, Your Excellency.” A model butler never lost his composure, although he saw no reason to make haste in delivering his message.
The prince and Jamie were shown into an Adams drawing room of well-preserved splendor and offered refreshments.
Ernst scowled at the s
ervant while Jamie politely declined for them both.
“My God, you’re civil,” Ernst muttered, restlessly surveying the ornately Grecian room as the door closed on the flunkey. “And to a servant no less.”
Ignoring Ernst’s sputtering, Jamie said, “I suggest you observe the courtesies with Miss Eastleigh. She didn’t appear to suffer fools any more than you. Perhaps less.”
“You don’t say.” Ernst suddenly smiled. “Just like her mother.”
“Then perhaps you understand the need for delicacy and tact.”
“Stay and help me mind my manners. You have tact enough for both of us.”
Jamie shook his head. “Sorry. This has nothing to do with me.”
THE DUKE OF Groveland entered the room to find the prince pacing and Jamie propping up the fireplace surround, a magnificent bouquet of white lilac in the hearth scenting the room. “Good evening, Battenberg—Blackwood. A pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?”
Ernst came to a stop. “I apologize for intruding when you have guests.” The prince was capable of politesse with those he considered his peers. “But I have a personal matter I’d like to discuss with Miss Eastleigh. I understand she’s here tonight.”
“You must be a fan of her painting,” Fitz said, moving from the door toward the men. Why have they chosen not to sit? Is there some urgency to this visit?
“I expect I will be, but I’m here on other business.”
A partial answer. “Join us for dinner. You know most everyone—Lennox, Wharton, Congreve, Egremont. Afterward, you and Sofia can chat.”
“Thank you, perhaps some other time. I’m rather in a hurry tonight.”
So I’m right. Fitz had initially assumed Battenberg was intent on a flirtation, as was usually the case when a pretty woman was involved, but apparently not. “Let me fetch Sofia,” he offered. “I won’t be long.”
Returning to the dining room, Fitz met his wife’s curious gaze and gave her a reassuring smile. Making his way across the large room, he stopped behind Sofia’s chair. “If I might steal you away for a few minutes. Duveen is downstairs with news of some mysterious painting that’s come on the market. I’d like your opinion.” Without waiting for a reply, he eased her chair away from the candlelit table. “We’ll be back directly,” he said to those guests who were listening or staring. “You know Duveen,” he mendaciously added for Dex, who was seated beside Sofia. “Everything’s a crisis with him.”
Rosalind signaled the footmen to serve more champagne as Fitz and Sofia moved away, and before they exited the room, the buzz of conversation had resumed.
Sofia gave Fitz a sidelong glance once they were alone in the hallway. “There’s no Duveen, is there?”
Fitz smiled. “Was I that bad?” He nodded to his left.
“You sounded reasonable enough.” She matched his pace as he moved down the carpeted hall. “I just happen to know Duveen’s in Paris. So why this mysterious summons?”
“Prince Ernst of Dalmia is waiting to speak with you. I thought it best not to broadcast the news. He said it was a private matter.”
“Good God, he’s real then! I gave short shrift to a man who was waiting for me when I came home. He said he had a note from Prince Ernst. I thought it was a mistake or some clumsy attempt to woo me.”
“Ernst is authentic enough and seems quite certain it’s you he wishes to speak with. Here, take my arm,” Fitz offered as they reached the top of the stairs. “You’ve been drinking champagne with a vengeance tonight.”
She made a wry face. “I was trying to temper my foul mood. Rosalind practically forced me to come to dinner with Wharton tonight.”
“Dex seems to be enjoying himself. I doubt he cares whether you’re drunk or sober.”
“Do tell,” Sofia muttered, having been charmed throughout dinner by a very charming man who saw that her champagne glass was always full. “You, however, have to get me out of this quandary. No matter that Wharton’s been entertaining and gallant, he’s not my type.”
“I didn’t know you had a type,” Fitz teased.
“Very amusing. Nor did you before your marriage.”
“Touché. I’ll say no more, and I’ll see you home if you wish. Wharton will survive a set down.”
“Thank you. You’ve instantly restored my good humor. Now, tell me about this Prince Ernst.” She smoothly twitched her skirt out of the way before stepping off the last stair. “Do you know him?”
“We’ve often met over the years,” Fitz replied, moving across the soaring entrance hall toward the west wing. “In Paris, at Ascot. The prince has a splendid string of thoroughbreds. Three years ago we were both racing in the Cowes regatta. And I’ve run into him here and there at the continental casinos. The Battenbergs are an old family with Adriatic properties as well as others in Bohemia, Hungary, and points east.”
“I can’t imagine what he has to say to me.” She slipped off the white kid evening gloves she’d unbuttoned at the wrist to free her hands for dining and handed them to Fitz. “I always feel awkward with these things flapping.”
Fitz smiled. “You never look awkward. Nervous?”
“I suppose I am a little. This is very bizarre.”
“Here we are.” Shoving the gloves into his pocket, the duke stopped before large double doors. “Don’t worry, darling, you’re dazzling tonight in that magnificent gown, and you’re more than familiar with men who wish to make your acquaintance.”
“Not princes.”
“Since when have you been impressed with titles?”
“Never.”
“There—you see? By the way, I forgot to mention, Jamie Blackwood is with Prince Ernst.” He shot her a grin. “That should make everything slightly more tolerable.”
“He’s here?”
“In the flesh. Now mind your manners. You’ve had a great deal of champagne.”
“Would you like to chaperon?” she teased, suddenly less fraught with angst. James Blackwood in the flesh was a delightful prospect regardless what this Prince Ernst had to say.
“Knowing you, it would be a useless endeavor. If you like, I could wait outside.”
Sofia shook her head. “Go back to Rosalind and your guests.” She winked. “Perhaps I can convince James Blackwood to entertain me for the rest of the evening.”
Fitz grinned. “I wouldn’t bet against it.”
SOFIA’S CHEEKS WERE flushed when she entered the room, a small anticipatory smile on her face, and as the door closed behind her, her smile widened.
Ah—in the flesh—the magnificent James Blackwood, more gorgeous than she’d remembered. He seemed taller, if that were possible, although of course it wasn’t. He was, however, as stunningly handsome as ever, his glittering green gaze guarded—pro forma perhaps in his occupation. His stark bone structure brought a twitch to her fingers, his harsh features a painter’s dream. And his powerful body—honed to the inch beneath his fine tailoring—reminded her of that first meeting at Countess Minton’s when the scent of sex was pungent in the air. Her gaze drifted downward at the explicit memory.
“Good evening, Miss Eastleigh,” Jamie politely interposed as if she wasn’t staring at his crotch. “May I introduce Prince Ernst of Dalmia. Ernst, Miss Sofia Eastleigh.” He executed a graceful bow, intent on escape. Miss Eastleigh’s graphic perusal had a predictable effect on his libido, as did her fetching appearance in the fashionable undress of evening. Her low décolletage was alluring. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you two alone.”
“No, no! Stay! Oh, dear, forgive me,” Sofia apologized with a rueful smile. “I’ve drunk a good deal of champagne tonight. What I meant to say was please stay. I feel as though I know you at least, Lord Blackwood.”
Ernst directed a smug glance at Jamie. “I couldn’t agree more, Jamie. You must stay. We wouldn’t want Miss Eastleigh to be uncomfortable, would we?”
“No, of course not.” Clipped, cool, and venomous.
“Excellent!” Ernst turned to Sofia with a sm
ile. “Please, Miss Eastleigh, come in and make yourself comfortable. Would you like some refreshments?” he inquired as if he commanded the duke’s household. “No? Then we’ll talk. I’ve come from Vienna to speak with you. Sit anywhere. May I say your gown is lovely,” he added as Sofia settled on an Empire sofa and smoothed her skirts. “Jamie, sit beside Miss Eastleigh.”
Definitely not. “I need a drink. Anyone else?” Jamie inquired, ignoring Ernst’s directive. The settee was very small, and monkish he was not.
“Perhaps just one.” She shouldn’t—a pot of coffee would better serve. But why be rude when she was looking forward to his company tonight?
“A whiskey for me.” Ernst took a seat in a sea green damask chair opposite the matching settee and gazed fondly at his daughter. He was delighted with the turn of events, her insistence that Jamie stay conducive to his plans. “You’re not easy to find, Miss Eastleigh.” His smile was affable, the warmth in his grey gaze genuine and rare. His daughter was exquisite, a glorious facsimile of Amelia who had won his heart so long ago.
“I’ve been in the country the last few days,” she said, lacing her fingers in her lap in an effort to curb her excitement as she watched the baron walk away. His hair was longer, his skin more deeply bronzed, that beautiful, languid gait auspicious perhaps in terms of other motor skills as well.
“Were you painting with your mother? I understand she’s in the country, too.”
It took a second for the prince’s question to register with her focus elsewhere. Swivelling back, she lifted her brows. “How did you know Mother’s out of town?”
“My men learned of her absence when searching for you. But none of your neighbors knew where either of you had gone.”
“You spoke to my neighbors?” This wasn’t some casual quest by a gentleman looking to make a lady’s acquaintance.
“I didn’t but my people did. You quite live up to the descriptions they were given of a beautiful young woman.”
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