Royal Renegade

by Alicia Rasley

  "You have to stop this." Her words came out harsh in the opulent room. She squeezed her hands tight together, glad of the pain for it reminded her of that painful reality. Whatever she wanted—what she couldn't even imagine having—could not be. It was no use even thinking of it. She couldn't keep going round and round thinking of him, longing for him, for that spiral of thought led inexorably inward to an agonizing realization. She had to stop before she reached that inner point of truth and its attendant despair.

  Michael had already done so, she thought, flexing her aching fingers, then pressing them together against her mouth. That was what he meant when he pleaded "Don't forget me." He didn't want her to forget those days and nights of companionship, of equality, now that she had become a princess again, a royal bride, a diplomatic device. But at least they had those memories left. That was his farewell to her.

  Tatiana closed her eyes tightly and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly in a long sigh. Think of something else, she commanded her disordered brain. And, obligingly, an image of John Dryden appeared in the darkness. Until the squire had mistaken them, she'd never noticed how he resembled Michael. But they were both tall and gray-eyed, with sharply planed faces and dark curly hair. Captain Dryden's face was more mysterious, with winged brows over hooded eyes, exactly what she expected on an outlaw. But Michael was handsomer, his features still and arrogant

  Captain Dryden. She wrenched her thoughts back in line. She'd never seen him to say goodbye and apologize for falling out of his sloop and then preferring the balloon as a channel transport, after he had gone to so much trouble to find them in Cotentin. She would write him a note of gratitude, she determined. She opened her eyes, sighing again, glad of a distracting task.

  A young maid with the wary eyes and tense stance of a deer about to take flight appeared almost immediately after Tatiana pulled the bell rope. It was disconcerting to be the object of such attention, for she was never so well served in the Winter Palace. "I'd like to write a note, please. May I have a sheet of paper and a cover and pen and ink?"

  The maid reappeared in a moment with the requested material. "You did say a sheet of paper, Your Royal Highness. I would have brought more, but I didn't want to give offense." She looked so terrified there, wringing her hands over the awful dilemma between doing the sensible thing and following a princess's orders to the letter, that Tatiana smiled and insisted that truly she wanted only one sheet of paper, only one indeed. The maid curtseyed three times as she backed out of the suite, leaving the princess longing for a maid with Louise's unservile confidence.

  Tatiana went into the adjoining sitting room, glad that she was not writing a scorching letter of reprimand, as the dainty cherry desk under the window would surely collapse beneath the slightest untoward emotion. Fortunately, her feelings toward Captain Dryden were warm and uncomplicated. But she was unused to writing letters in English and uncertain of the forms and standards of this sort of correspondence. So she wrote her thanks carefully, mindful that she had only the one sheet of paper. Unfortunately, after she penned, "I have never been so happy as on your lovely boat," she recalled that Captain Dryden had always been very particular that the Coronale was a sloop, not a boat. Sailors took great stock in such semantical distinctions, she suspected, and she wondered if she should cross the offending word out. But that would look botched, and he might be able to read through the crosshatches and see that incriminating noun. So very carefully she wrote over it, squeezed an s in front and turned the b into an 1, changed the a into an o, and lengthened the t so that it could be taken for a p. Then, wary of making more mistakes, she closed the letter, "Remaining always your friend, The Princess Tatiana."

  After a moment's thought, she added a postscript. "Please forgive my odd handwriting, for I am used to writing in Russian and am not accustomed to English letters." That wasn't precisely true, for most of her correspondence, like most of her conversations, had been conducted in French, which shared an alphabet with English. But perhaps that would persuade Captain Dryden not to look any closer at that strangely inscribed sloop.

  She addressed the cover to the apothecary shop in Devlyn, figuring that the captain would receive it eventually. And if his censorious father should happen to open the letter, all the better. If Mr. Dryden—Mr. Manning, she reminded herself—thought his son's profession brought him into contact with princesses, perhaps he would be more accepting of John's lapses from lawfulness.

  She was just folding away the letter when the countess knocked and entered. "Oh, no, Princess Tatiana, do not rise on my account," she declared as Tatiana stood up, the better to hide her stockinged feet under her skirt. Lady Sherbourne waved a stately arm, taking in the entire four rooms that made up Tatiana's apartment. "I hope you find your suite to your liking, Your Royal Highness," she said, the pronouncement rolling out from the majestic bosom covered in the royalest of purples.

  "It's very impressive," Tatiana replied, trying out a similarly sweeping gesture with her less substantial arm. She thought she had done a good job embracing the sitting room's rose and gold flecked wallpaper, the doughy ivory satin loveseats, and the cushiony nude reclining on the west wall. "Romantic. Almost a dream come true."

  "Really? How kind of you to say so. That is exactly the sort of royal impression I was hoping for." Lady Sherbourne briefly touched the puff topping her interestingly golden hair as if settlinga crown. "Indeed. I had it redone as soon as I heard I would be hosting a royal princess. I call it the royal suite, Your Royal Highness."

  Tatiana wished fleetingly that Michael could hear that great pile of "royals"—and he thought the princess a snob! He would doubtlessly whisper something ironical about her royal great-great-aunt Empress Maria Theresa and shake his head and smile ruefully as he always did when he couldn't check his amusement. Ruthlessly she tamped down the flicker of longing for his sardonic voice. "It's exceedingly comfortable. You have been very kind since Buntin and I arrived last night, and I must again convey my thanks."

  "It is entirely my pleasure, Your Royal Highness," Lady Sherbourne pronounced, and Tatiana had no doubt that she was telling the exact truth. The countess obviously took great glee in chaperoning a royal guest and being privy to the great secret plan for a royal wedding, which indeed proved her more knowing than the unwitting royal bridegroom himself.

  She was a tall woman, this former lady-in-waiting, magnificent of bosom and deep of voice, with a dignified way of gesturing with both arms and a stern but cordial cast to her features. A minor contretemps with the queen had resulted in a mutual decision to end her royal employment, but the countess made no secret of her expectation that she would soon be the chief lady-in-waiting to Her Royal Highness the Princess Tatiana the Duchess of Cumberland.

  In their first encounter the previous evening, Lady Sherbourne had quickly cowed Buntin, who shrank into the shadows and murmured agreement with the countess's every proclamation. Tatiana was not so poor-spirited, but she respected the overpowering nature of Lady Sherbourne's ambition. Amiable, obsequious she might be, but the countess was not a lady to cross openly.

  "The Marquess of Wellesley asked if he might wait on you this morning. He is the foreign secretary, you know, and will be sponsoring you under the auspices of the Foreign Office. Indeed, he and I have already consulted about your schedule of presentations during the next week, but he did want to present his regards to you personally."

  The countess's voice was splendid, so that every statement seemed fraught with importance. Tatiana thought that she herself might cultivate such a voice if she were now going to be significant. But she supposed everyone here would be so impressed with her royal birth they would not think the less of her if she squeaked instead of intoned.

  Lady Sherbourne added, "The marquess will be coming at half past eleven. He will explain a bit more about your presentation to the queen, and the dinner party the Regent is giving in your honor. You do have a court gown for the presentation, don't you?"

  Tatiana's luggag
e had been sent on ahead and arrived at Sherbourne House before she did. Now her new wardrobe filled seven armoires in her enormous dressing room. "I have a white satin gown with hoops and diamonds and seed pearls, and wearing it, I must walk through doors sideways. Will that do?" She led the countess to the dressing room and tugged out the gown in question.

  "Perfectly." Lady Sherbourne's small eyes flickered as she toted up the approximate cost of the elaborate presentation gown. Then she turned to assess the rest of the wardrobe, rubbing the velvet of a riding habit, testing the seams of a pelisse, caressing the gossamer of a negligee. "Such exquisite taste you have, Your Royal Highness. That gown you're wearing, why, it just screams Paris. It looks like silk, but it's as heavy as wool."

  Tatiana glanced down at her artless little morning dress. Of a whispering yellow, it emerged from a jewel neckline into an empire waist, then cascaded in lace-edged layers to her stockinged feet. "It is silk, but winter-weight. It feels very light but is quite warming. Practical, don't you think? And my wardrobe isn't actually from Paris, although my couturier and the fabrics are. Monsieur Trintignant dressed Empress Josephine, you know, but left her when Napoleon divorced her. Don't you think that cruel? She lost her husband and her crown and her kingdom, and then her couturier decides to abandon her as well! But Trintignant found the Tsarina a more reliable patron. And we Russians, we try to emulate the French in all things, so he has become very popular. Do you like his work?"

  The countess bent both hands at the wrist in an admiring wave, an oddly girlish gesture. "It's just lovely. The silk, the lace! You will set a new fashion for the Little Season in London this year. Of course, that fabric and lace are illegal here, for we can't have French goods. We all do, but illegally, and not of such quality."

  Tatiana stroked the long puffy sleeve of her gown with new respect. "Illegal? How intriguing. Of course, we're not at war with France; in fact, we're still allies, so surely I won't be taken off to prison as a smuggler, will I?"

  The countess gave a majestic trill of laughter. "You, Princess! Prison? Oh, no! We don't imprison royalty here, not as they did in France. Well, of course, Mary Queen of Scots was imprisoned."

  "And beheaded," Tatiana put in impishly. "And Charles I. And—"

  "But that was all years ago. You may rest certain that we will not treat you so badly. Why, you'll be one of our royal duchesses!" Lady Sherbourne caught her breath as if she had said something indiscreet. "Oh, but we're not to talk about that. Forget my words entirely, Your Highness, just put them out of your head."

  "I wish I could," Tatiana murmured, trailing her hand across a thousand guineas worth of silk and satin, all designed and sewn to be worn by a royal duchess. Suddenly she wished she could trade all these delectable gowns for that shapeless blue wool dress she'd left behind at Michael's house, or the crisp maid's uniform Louise had lent her

  "My stars, what extraordinary sables!" the countess exclaimed, burying her face in Tatiana's cloak. A bit alarmed, Tatiana started toward her, but Lady Sherbourne's voice, though slightly muffled, was strong and showed no sign of suffocation. "So soft. Like—like baby hair! But rich and thick—oh, they are just magnificent!"

  "Now those are indeed Russian," Tatiana interposed helpfully. "The tsar owns a preserve in Siberia where the sables are kept only for the royal family. I did feel terrible about having so many skinned for my cloak, but I hadn't anything to say about it. I've never worn it, and I daresay I never shall, for I would feel a bit sick, thinking of their little bodies all shorn—You take it, my lady."

  The countess lifted her head from the fur, her expression disbelieving but sharp with the beginnings of gratitude. "Your Highness! You can't mean it! Your sables? I don't know what to say!"

  Without another thought, Tatiana removed the cloak from the wardrobe and brushed at the rich, dark fur, then held it out to the countess. "If you can wear it without feeling shame and guilt and revulsion, you are certainly welcome to it."

  The countess immediately discounted any claims to shame or guilt or revulsion and ecstatically pulled the heavy cloak around her shoulders. Though she outweighed the princess by three stone, the voluminous cloak almost met in the front, and an onlooker would be too dazzled by the exhibition of opulence to cavil at that narrow gap. "I don't know how to thank you."

  Tatiana waved a negligent hand. "It is thanks I owe you, in fact, for showing me such hospitality. Now when did you say the marquess was arriving? I thought I heard a carriage." She hadn't, of course, for the dressing room was along the back of the house, but she was eager to get out of the room filled with the countess and the pelts of a hundred innocent animals.

  With further professions of eternal gratitude, the countess backed out of the suite. Tatiana recalled another debt and selected from a half-dozen velvet cloaks a blue one for Louise, whose uniform had been sent back already by Lady Akers. She folded the wrap gently, careful not to disturb the delicate nap, and stood hesitantly in the doorway. Then she crossed to the desk and carefully printed "Louise Mason, Devlyn Keep, Devlyn, Dorset" on a scrap of paper she found in the wastebasket. Armed with the letter to Captain Dryden and Louise's cloak, she was entirely ready to meet the marquess when he arrived precisely at the stroke of the half hour.

  The marquess rose as she entered the gilt and lacquer Chinese drawing room. Tatiana came quite improperly alone, for Buntin was napping, and the countess, drunk on sable, had forgotten her hostessing duties and the footman had not yet searched her out.

  The marquess was a handsome man, exceedingly elegant in dress and manner, his crystalline blue eyes utterly unwarmed by his gratified smile. Tatiana halted for a moment under his wintry gaze, then forced herself to walk forward. She was not afraid of this marquess, precisely, but she did not trust him either.

  Wellesley was startled for an instant when he saw her armful of velvet, but quickly his face smoothed out into distinquished suavity. "Your Royal Highness. Welcome to Britain." He made an elegant, deep bow, and suddenly she was in awe of her own significance. For she could tell he was very important, the foreign secretary, a marquess, the brother of Michael's great general, yet he was regarding her with practiced reverence, as if she were even more important than he. But she was only Tatiana, a princess, true, but a castoff, an orphan, insignificant in the greater or even lesser scheme of things, at least until now. This homage was flattering—and imprisoning.

  She made herself bow her head graciously, transferring the cloak to one arm so she could extend the other to the marquess. But as she did so, the letter fluttered loose and landed on the floor in front of him. With the alacrity of a well-trained footman he picked it up and held it out to her. But she waved her free hand. "No, my lord, you keep it. I wanted to ask you if you could post it for me. I wasn't sure how to go about it, and I thought you would surely know, as you are foreign secretary. And this cloak, too." She placed the cloak into his arms, catching up the trailing hem and folding it carefully over the hood. The marquess looked burdened and stunned, but was graceful enough that he didn't drop the heap of velvet, even when she inserted the slip of paper into his closed hand. "Could you post the cloak to this address? Thank you. I didn't know at all how to manage this, so I am very grateful to you." She smiled prettily, and he returned an uneasy nod.

  Meticulously transferring his unwieldy burden to a red lacquer console table, the marquess paused to read the address on the letter. When he turned back to the princess, his debonair face showed no sign of pique at being treated as a footman, but his silky voice carried a bit of a barb. "You are corresponding with John Dryden, Your Highness? Perhaps you don't realize that he is not the best sort of company for a highborn lady."

  Tatiana's eyes narrowed at his tone, for Captain Dryden had earned far more of her regard than had this haughty marquess. But she only replied with exquisite sweetness, "Oh, Lord Wellesley, you are far too kind to worry so about my associates. But you needn't fret. I know you would never have asked Captain Dryden to risk his life and his sloop f
or me if he weren't a truly worthy man."

  Her pleasant smile had its own hauteur, and after a moment he cleared his throat and nodded. "As you wish, Your Highness."

  Having apprised the marquess of his significance in her greater or lesser scheme of things, Tatiana settled herself gracefully onto a low gilt settee with feet cleverly carved to resemble a lion's paw. She used one of the countess's stately waves to urge Wellesley to join her. "Do sit, my lord. I am so pleased to reach London at last," she began, wondering, in some part of her mind, when she had learned to lie so easily. She'd always been told her face was as transparent as glass, with every emotion revealed. But even the perspicacious foreign secretary showed no sign of doubting her expressed pleasure at completing her long voyage.

  "And we are pleased to welcome such a lovely representative of another nation to our city," the marquess returned gallantly. "I have conveyed to the tsar the gratitude of the royal family for the honor of your visit." With a telling look, he added, "And I suggested our hope that it will be much more than just a visit."

  "Indeed." Tatiana had learned many imperious habits from her short interviews with the countess, and that word "indeed" was perhaps the most useful. It seemed very regal, ostensibly affirmative but somehow not encouraging. Pensively she twisted a red curl around her index finger, wondering if and when Wellesley would come to the point. But she supposed his roundabout manner of subtle allusions and expressions were quite effective in diplomacy, as later he could always deny having meant what his listener supposed he meant.