Sins of a Wicked Princess (Sinner's Trio)

by Randol, Anna

  “Because I know how fond you are of threats, and I have no desire to see if you’ll follow through.”

  He stood so quickly that she would have fallen off the bed if he hadn’t caught her shoulder. “Done. I’ll give you a week’s worth of training. But I am not responsible for your success.”

  “Agreed.”

  She swung her feet over the edge of the bed. “So what are we going to—”

  “Tomorrow night.” The hand on her shoulder skimmed up to catch her chin. “Rest when you can in the daylight because for the next week, Princess, your nights are mine.”

  Chapter Seven

  Ian paused in the alley, letting his head rest against the bricks. If he’d stayed in that room for one more moment, he would have stripped that blasted, starchy dress from her body.

  After his blood finally cooled, he chuckled. She’d tackled him. The princess had just wrestled a gutter rat.

  The night was still warm, so he removed his coat and slung it over his shoulder. What could she want so badly that she’d fall to larceny to retrieve it? Letters to a lover perhaps?

  The smile disappeared from his mouth.

  He walked back to the opening of the alley where he could see the princess’s home. After a few minutes, a group of guards walked out. Their shift was over right on schedule. Jules might be worried about security, but she wasn’t forcing her soldiers—and he used that term loosely—to work extra hours or double shifts.

  Perfect.

  Ian followed them to a tavern a few blocks away. He watched from the shadows as the men drank one round and then another.

  One of the guards stood up and left. After another round, two more retired. Good. Those would be the men with families or the more responsible fellows. They were of no use to him.

  Soon there were just three.

  Light pockets. Drunk. Full of useful information. That was Ian’s cue.

  He strolled in, tossing his hat onto the table. “A round for all. Lady Luck’s been on my side.” He plopped down at the table with the soldiers, keeping his posture loose and relaxed.

  One of the guards clapped him on the back. “What’s your game?”

  Ian pulled a card from his pocket and flicked it into the man’s empty mug. “That, my friends, is an angel in disguise.” He blinked at the men around him. “What regiment are you boys in? The Ninety-fifth?”

  The gangly lad straightened. “We’re not British. We are Lenorian. The Royal Lenorian Guard.”

  Ian scratched his stomach. “Is that a bank?”

  They looked at each other, aghast. “Lenoria is the most beautiful country in Europe.”

  “With the most beautiful princess!” the ruddy-faced one shouted, lifting his mug. “Our sacred duty!”

  “You guard a princess?” Ian found he was having difficulty feigning sufficient admiration. These were the imbeciles that had allowed him into the house, after all.

  “To Juliana!” the three cheered.

  “She’s pretty then?” Ian asked.

  The guards practically shoved each other off the bench in their eagerness to deliver the most praise. Apparently, she was beautiful, graceful, kind, benevolent, wise . . .

  None of them had named her stubborn, feisty, or bewilderingly intriguing. Ian felt charitable toward the drunkards once again.

  Soon with a few gentle prompts, he had a much clearer view of the occupants of the castle. Eustace was a stickler for propriety and spent all her time at a charity hospital, but she was quick to defend her sisters, niece, and nephew. Constantina was flighty and temperamental, but easily swayed. It was Leucretia, the eldest, who held the real power. The soldiers said her name with a rather reverent awe. Cynical, jaded, and with an epic list of lovers, she was the one who’d guided Juliana into becoming a plausible ruler.

  “And this prince you mentioned?” They actually hadn’t, but they were too foxed to keep track.

  “To Prince Gregory!” The guards toasted again.

  His list of adjectives was far different from his sister’s. Bold, dashing, fiery, capable of holding his drink, a dab hand at cards, a champion with the ladies.

  By the time Ian sauntered out fifteen minutes later, his suspicion about the identity of the guilty party was confirmed.

  He still had a dozen more questions, but he knew to end the interrogation long before anyone realized they were being interrogated.

  He might have promised not to hurt the young princeling, but one of the joys of not having any honor was that he didn’t feel obligated to keep every promise he made. Promises were a way to make the other party feel enough at ease to give him what he needed.

  But for tonight at least, the prince would continue to breathe.

  Ian stopped in a dark alley and nudged a pile of rags with his toe. Two sleepy eyes blinked up at him. “What news, Conelly?” Ian asked.

  “Wraith?” The old man held out a hand, and Ian’s copper disappeared into the folds of the man’s filthy jacket. “Ain’t heard nothing of interest. Been a few flower girls disappearing over by the theater. Got the doves all in a twitter. Only the little ones been missing.”

  Icy anticipation filled him. These were his streets. And someone was about to learn that fact. “Any word who’s been collecting young ones?”

  “Nah, but the beaks raided a nanny house few nights back. Could be they was looking for them girls, too.”

  If Gabriel Huntford and his Runners were raiding brothels, there was a chance he knew something. But Ian wasn’t in a mood to wait until morning. Besides, he had his own ways of finding things out.

  By the time Ian made it to the docks, he’d spoken to four more of his associates and knew who’d been taking the girls.

  Ten minutes later he was standing over the unconscious man, knife in hand. Blood trickled from a cut on the man’s face and from the other various cuts to his body.

  Ian was quite content to report the owner of this disgusting bawdy house would never reproduce.

  Ian bound and gagged the man—or half a man—and wiped his blade on the fellow’s coat. If he survived the night, Gabriel and the Runners would find him the morning.

  Ian rather hoped they didn’t.

  A corridor led to the back of the building. Ian pulled his picks from his sleeve. It only took an instant to open the locked door.

  The room was too dark to see anything, but the smell was unmistakable. Sweat, vomit, sex. After a moment, he could see six children huddled on lumpy mattresses on the floor. Five girls and a boy.

  Hell.

  He kept his voice light. “I’m the Pied Piper here to lead you all to safety.”

  For a moment, none of the children moved.

  “Didn’t those children never return?”

  Ian tried to figure out who had spoken.

  “Where I take you can’t be any worse than here, can it?”

  One of the girls stood; she was the same one who’d just spoken. “I’ll go.” She couldn’t have been more than eleven. She would have been pretty, too, if it wasn’t for her black eye.

  “What is your name?”

  “Apple, sir.”

  “Good for you, Apple. Who else?”

  Slowly the others grouped around her.

  He led them past their bleeding captor and out into the street. Most of the children skirted around widely but Apple paused to kick the bound man.

  He liked this one.

  But as soon as they were outside, Apple bolted, scampering off down the street and around the corner. Damnation. He couldn’t give chase or he’d risk losing the others.

  Feeling rather like the Pied Piper he’d claimed to be, he led them to the house run by three good Quaker women. Though wakened from bed, the women quickly ushered the children inside. They gave orders to the servants to see the children cleaned, fed, and placed into beds.

  Ian watched the familiar process with a tired eye. “How many stayed from the last group?”

  “Two.” Sister Jane said, her round, cheerful face somb
er.

  Ian had sent five. But he couldn’t blame the children for not wanting help. They knew better than to trust adults. And for most, life on the street was all they ever knew. They wouldn’t like the structure and austerity demanded by the Quakers.

  Ian wouldn’t have stayed.

  In fact, he would have eaten the hot meal and left before the dishes were cleared. Probably would have left with the dishes.

  Sister Jane accepted Ian’s heavy purse with only minimal protests.

  “There might be one more if I can find her.”

  “She’s welcome if she’ll come.”

  Ian nodded and headed back onto the street. It took him a good deal longer to find Apple than he anticipated. She was small so he knew she would have learned to hide to survive rather than run. Luckily, Ian knew every hidey-hole and crevice in this neighborhood.

  He eventually found her at a much higher altitude than he expected—balanced in the eaves of a rotting warehouse.

  The girl was a climber. If he’d met her twenty years ago, he would have recruited her as a budge to scout good targets for his pickpockets.

  He dodged the chunk of wood she hurled at his head. “I’m not trading one gent for another.”

  “Good. I don’t want you.”

  The shower of projectiles stopped. “Then why are you here?”

  “To offer you a place to stay.”

  “In your bed?”

  Ian dusted off his jacket. “I could have spent the night with a princess. I don’t want a half-grown runt with fleas.”

  She snorted. “A princess. Was she a fairy, too? Have a throne of gold?”

  “Not a fairy. And I didn’t get to see her throne, but I hear it is made of mahogany.”

  “You’re bamming me.”

  “No.”

  Apple’s dark head peered down at him. “She live in a castle then?”

  “No. A house in Mayfair. Someone burned down her castle.”

  “I wouldn’t believe her then. Sounds like she’s putting one over on you.” She was silent for a moment. “No princess would want anything to do with us.”

  Wasn’t that the truth. And even though Ian was dressed rather well, Apple recognized him as a kindred spirit all too easily.

  “What’d you do with the others?” she asked.

  “I took them to the Quakers on Mill Street.”

  Apple snorted. “Now I know you are bamming me. That’s just a story.”

  “They’ll give you a place to stay, food, and teach you to read if you want it.”

  “And a jeweled crown and a pony?”

  “More like a hot bucket of water to wash in and a bowl of porridge. I already spoke to them. They said they have a place for you if you want it.”

  Apple was silent.

  “Go and watch them yourself. If you like what you see, go in. If not, don’t.”

  “Who are you? A charley?”

  “I’m Wraith.” Unlike the other members of the Trio who’d chosen their identities after they’d become spies, Ian had been using his for years.

  She sucked in a breath. “You’re no more real than yer princess. Is it true you waltzed right out of gaol at noon wearing the gaoler’s hat?”

  Ah, he was glad that story had survived. It had been one of his finer moments. “And his watch.”

  “But you were just a story. You were gone. Where were you?”

  “Hell.”

  She accepted that far easier than she had his claim of a princess. “Why were you daft enough to come back?”

  It was a valid question, but one he didn’t have a good answer for. He could have gone anywhere in the world. Yet he’d come back here. To the stews of London. To the stink. To the filth.

  “Perhaps because it’s where I belong.” He might belong to these streets, but he didn’t want anyone else to be condemned here.

  She inched closer, scaring a roosting pigeon into flight. “Why did you come look for me?”

  That was also good question. Perhaps because a stodgy old butler had once come to look for him. Ian had laughed at Canterbury’s offer of help. He’d been addicted to the occasional riches of thievery, the danger, the freedom.

  Instead, he told her, “You talk too much to survive on these streets. Take my suggestion or don’t.”

  “You’re not going to force me?” Apple asked cautiously.

  “No. I’m giving you an opportunity. You can choose a clean sheet and tough schooling or you can choose to live in the pigeon scat.”

  Then Ian turned and walked out. If he tried to chase her, she’d be gone. This would have to be up to her.

  He had no idea whether she’d agree or not. After all, he’d been too much of a coward to accept his one chance at salvation.

  Chapter Eight

  “I may need more pin money.” Constantina made her announcement before Juliana had even made it through the door of the breakfast parlor.

  “That isn’t possible.” Juliana accepted a plate from a footman.

  Constantina’s bottom lip thrust out. “Leucretia has a new brooch.”

  “She also doesn’t bet her pin money on card games,” Eustace reminded her, reaching for the jam. But Constantina grabbed the spoon first.

  Juliana took a piece of toast. “We will be going to the Duke of Sommet’s house party next week.”

  Her great aunts stopped bickering over the jam and stared.

  “Did you change your mind about Prince Wilhelm?” Constantina asked.

  “I cannot afford to pass up any opportunities at this point, can I?”

  Eustace nodded. “Quite right.”

  Leucretia had acquired the jam while the other two were distracted and scooped some onto the side of her plate. “Why the change?”

  She’d known Leucretia would ask. “I spoke with Gregory last night. He says Prince Wilhelm might have more to recommend him than I thought.”

  Leucretia lifted a brow, but seemed to accept it. “The Spanish ambassador requested an audience with you.”

  “No.”

  Leucretia frowned. “I already accepted. You cannot simply ignore the man and hope he goes away.”

  That was exactly what she’d planned to do. “What time?”

  “Noon. That should allow you enough time before you meet with the Lenorian cabinet at two.”

  Juliana would be happy when she only had one government to deal with. Her cabinet here corresponded with their counterparts in Lenoria, leaving her with far too many people to keep happy.

  “What do I tell the ambassador? I won’t sign the treaty.”

  Leucretia clicked her tongue. “You must give him the impression you are considering it, otherwise you risk the Spanish growing impatient.”

  Her aunt was right. As always. “How am I to do that?”

  “Flirt. Flatter. Make empty promises—” Her aunt stopped abruptly. “Perhaps I should join you.”

  “She shouldn’t have to simper,” Eustace protested.

  Leucretia dabbed at her ruby lips with her napkin. “We’re talking about the survival of Lenoria, she will do whatever is best.”

  Constantina clapped her hands together. “I can flirt.”

  Leucretia gave her a disgusted look. “We are trying to stop a war not start one.”

  When the three of them began arguing, Juliana slipped from the breakfast parlor.

  “Your Highness?” Her secretary, Renner, approached. She’d long suspected he laid in wait for her, like a hungry tiger. Or perhaps a hungry stork.

  Her hope to escape to her room for a few moments evaporated.

  “I have sent your acceptance of the invitation to the duke’s house party. And here are the lists of Prince Gregory’s financials.” She took the folder of papers.

  Juliana entered her study. He followed, his nervous motions making her long to grab his shoulder so he’d stay still for a single moment.

  “Here are the letters containing urgent business.” He handed her a stack of about ten papers. “These ones cont
ain useful information, but are not vital.” The stack was about twice as tall.

  She’d barely managed to set them on the desk when her housekeeper entered. “Your Highness, I have the final seating arrangement for tonight’s state dinner ready for your approval.”

  Renner’s nostrils flared. “You’ll have to take care of this later. Her Highness is busy.”

  Her housekeeper planted her fist on her hips jingling the ring of keys at her waist. “Well, the table will not set itself. And the Marquess of Hastings sent his regrets this morning, so that will cause some changes. I need to know if Lady Rinatta should be moved between Lord Malcome and Sir Ulef, or if she’d be better off by the Russian attaché?”

  The last thing Juliana needed was more bickering this morning. She’d been plagued with dreams of a handsome spy watching her undress, but then he’d done far more than watch her. He’d reached out and—

  She cleared her throat. “I will get to you shortly.” She used her most regal tone.

  Both servants regarded her hopefully.

  “Later. I have some things I must attend to. Alone,” she added for emphasis.

  They bowed and backed from the room.

  After a quick glance about, she opened her drawer. She just needed a little break. Something to take her mind off of the mess she’d gotten herself into with the spy. And her meeting with the Spanish ambassador. And the fact that her seventy-year-old aunt could flirt better than she could.

  She pulled out the hat.

  She was half done attaching the new trim. Periwinkle.

  Her one secret. She made her own bonnets, and her aunts were none the wiser. Ha!

  Yes, she was rebellious to the core.

  But the small stitches soothed her. This new bonnet would mean a few pounds that could go to her subjects and not into her wardrobe. And someone had complimented the flowers on her coal scoop bonnet last week. Of course, it had been a rather foolish young lord who had called Leucretia’s lips rubious. But Juliana would take what support she could get.

  A knock sounded at her door.

  She jammed the hat back into the drawer. “Come.”

  No one entered.

  She was sure she hadn’t imagined it. “Come in.”