"While I, conventional creature that I am, can always be counted on to know what is proper," Sara said wryly. "By all means call on me. After all, how can you enjoy the pleasures of outraging London if you do not know what is considered outrageous? I look forward to furthering our acquaintance."
Ross broke into their banter. "Sara, Sir Charles has just arrived, and should be with us in a moment."
She raised her gaze to look for her betrothed, but from the corner of her eye, she saw that the prince was also watching Weldon's approach. Since his face was profoundly still, why did she feel that silent lightning crackled around him?
"Sorry I'm late, my dear." Weldon bent to kiss Lady Sara's cheek, but Peregrine was interested to note a slight withdrawal on the part of the lady. No, it was not a love match, though the two exchanged easy greetings like a long-married couple.
Peregrine studied his enemy with hungry eyes. The years had been kind to Weldon, and he looked like what he was: a distinguished man of breeding and wealth. In his youth, charm and good looks had masked his true nature, and on the surface those qualities were still present. It took an astute eye to interpret his face correctly, but as Lady Sara had said, it was experience that made a man, and a lifetime of evil had engraved subtle lines of cruelty in Weldon's countenance.
Lady Sara's soft voice cut across his thoughts. "Charles, let me introduce you to Prince Peregrine of Kafiristan. He is newly arrived in England, and is probably the first man of his people ever to visit Europe. Your Highness, Sir Charles Weldon."
"I hope your visit is an enjoyable one, Your Highness." Weldon offered his hand with unthinking social ease. Then his gaze met Peregrine's and his expression changed, casualness giving way to puzzlement. "This is your first visit to England? I have the feeling we have met before."
As Peregrine accepted his enemy's hand, for a moment his vision darkened as the bonds that restrained his rage came perilously near to bursting. It would be easy, so easy to pull out his dagger and thrust it between Weldon's ribs. The Englishman's heart blood would surge hotly over Peregrine's hand, crimson retribution for the past. He would live just long enough to be told why he was dying....
With a fierce internal oath, Peregrine reined back his madness. Yes, executing Weldon now would be easy, but it would be too quick and painless a death. Besides, assassination would send him to the gallows and ruin Lady Sara's party.
Once more in control, Peregrine shook his enemy's hand with a pressure just short of inflicting pain, then released it. "Have you visited India, Sir Charles? Perhaps we met there, though I do not remember such an occasion."
At the sound of Peregrine's deep, accented voice, Weldon's expression cleared. "No, I've never been to India, and we have not met before. It is just that your eyes are such a distinctive color. I've only seen eyes so green once or twice before." After a brief hesitation, he added under his breath, "Once."
"Green eyes are not unusual among my father's people," Peregrine said smoothly. Then he offered the bait that would draw his enemy to him. "I am pleased to meet you, Sir Charles. Your reputation in the City of London is very high. I am interested in investing in this country. Perhaps, if you have the time, you would be so kind as to advise me?"
Greed overcame any disquiet Weldon might have. "Delighted to be of service. Perhaps we can dine at my club soon?"
"That would be my greatest pleasure." Peregrine found secret satisfaction in the fact that all his comments were double-edged.
As they set a date later in the week, the flaxen-haired girl who had been talking to Lady Sara earlier materialized between her ladyship and Weldon. She regarded the foreigner curiously.
Weldon said, "Prince Peregrine, this is my daughter Eliza."
"A prince?" The girl's blue eyes rounded with delight.
"Indeed I am, Miss Weldon." Peregrine's research had included Eliza Weldon. The girl's mother, Jane Clifton, had been the daughter of a rich city banker, and her inheritance had started Weldon on the path to wealth. The heiress had died three years ago, when her daughter was eight. Eliza had her father's good looks, but if she had also inherited his warped nature, that fact was not visible. She was just a pretty, uncomplicated child, impressed at meeting foreign royalty.
"Eliza, make your curtsy to the prince," Lady Sara said.
The girl dropped into a painstakingly correct curtsy. As Peregrine returned a deep, formal bow, he wondered idly what would become of her. No doubt Eliza had relatives who would see to her upbringing when her father was gone.
Lady Sara said, "If you will excuse us, Charles and I must speak with someone who has just arrived. I hope to see you again soon, Your Highness."
As Lady Sara turned and walked away, Peregrine saw that she walked with a slight hesitation, not quite a limp. Perhaps that had something to do with the ghosts of old pain that he saw in her eyes? He could ask Ross, but it would be more interesting to discover the truth on his own. No man or woman was civilized all the way through, and it would be intriguing to discover what untamed currents lay beneath the lady's calm surface.
* * *
As they made their way toward the bishop who was going to marry them, Charles remarked, "Interesting fellow, that prince. A friend of Lord Ross's, I assume?" When Sara nodded, he asked, "Is Kafiristan an Indian state?"
"No, it lies beyond India, in the mountains of the Hindu Kush," Sara explained. "The land is very wild and virtually unexplored by Westerners."
"He must be an unusual man to leave his mountains for the wider world," Charles murmured. "I gather he's wealthy?"
"Quite fabulously so, according to Ross. Apparently he started with a substantial fortune, and has multiplied it by trading throughout the Orient."
"The prince seemed taken with you, Sara. Encourage the acquaintance. He could be a valuable man to know."
"I have already agreed to advise him." Sara's voice was cool. It was one thing for Ross to ask her to sponsor his friend, another to have her future husband order her to cultivate a potential investor.
But Charles wanted a gracious hostess who would enhance his status in the worlds of business and society. She could hardly object when he asked her to play that role.
Chapter 3
The morning after her garden party, Sara was just finishing a late breakfast with her father when the butler entered, a bemused expression on his face. "Your ladyship, you have a visitor. He claims to be some sort of prince."
"Good heavens," she said blankly. Then she laughed, feeling suddenly buoyant. "Father, would you like to meet the gentleman I was telling you about?"
Disapproval showed on the Duke of Haddonfield's cool aristocratic face. "Doesn't he know what proper calling hours are?"
"Obviously not. However, since everyone seems to want me to educate him, he soon will." Sara drained her tea cup, then followed the butler.
The prince was looking out one of the windows when she entered the drawing room. Sara paused a moment to admire the way his dark, well-cut clothing emphasized his broad shoulders and lean body. One could only hope that more Kafirs would find their way to England.
Then he turned and gave her an enchanting smile. "I hope the time is not inconvenient? You did give me permission to make a morning call."
She smiled and offered her hand. "I forgot to mention that morning calls are made in the afternoon."
As he straightened from bowing over her hand, the prince raised his thick black brows. "Morning calls occur in the afternoon? That is not logical."
"You must not expect society to be logical, Your Highness," Sara commented, then added the reminder, "The hand?"
"Ah, yes, it must be released." His green eyes sparkling, the prince relinquished Sara's hand.
"Why do I have the feeling that you are using your foreign status to be outrageous?" she asked, trying to sound severe.
"I have no idea. Perhaps you have a naturally suspicious mind," he replied, brimming with innocence. He thought a moment. "I could return this afternoon to make my morni
ng call, but doubtless at that time your house will be full of others who are calling to express thanks for your estimable party. In such a crowd, you would have no time to correct my errors. That being the case, you should let me take you for a drive now, so you will have ample time to educate me."
Sara eyed him admiringly. "I see why you are such a successful merchant. You could sell sand to a Bedouin." Before she could say more, the door opened and a line of three maids entered, each one carrying a huge vase of white roses.
As she stared at the parade of flowers, Peregrine said, "Roses are an acceptable token of gratitude for a hostess?"
She nodded, rather dazed. "Yes, though usually the quantity would be smaller. Much, much smaller."
He smiled, the tanned skin crinkling around his eyes. "But I had an exceedingly good time, many roses' worth." The maids having set the flowers on various tables and withdrawn, he moved to the nearest vase and pulled out a single blossom. His gaze holding hers, the prince inhaled the flower's fragrance, then offered it to Sara. "White roses, for sweetness and purity. There are not enough in London to do you justice."
Bemused, she accepted the flower. It was at the perfect moment of expectant bloom, just beginning to open, a faint blush of pink at the heart of the ivory petals. Impressive how he managed to make every gesture extravagant and romantic. She really must convince him to restrain himself, or every female he met would think she was being courted.
Sara inhaled the delicate scent of the rose and sighed. It would be a crime to constrain such charm. Perhaps she should be training Englishmen to emulate the Kafir rather than vice versa.
Before she could decide where to start her lecture on propriety, her father entered the drawing room. In his early sixties, the Duke of Haddonfield was only average height, but he carried his spare frame with such dignity that he commanded attention anywhere.
Sara made the introductions as the two men regarded each other speculatively. Peregrine's manners blended ease with deference to the other man's greater age, and after a few minutes of conversation her father's reserved expression thawed to affability. From there, it was a short step to the duke encouraging Sara to take advantage of the fine weather to go driving with the prince in Hyde Park.
As Peregrine assisted Sara into his curricle, she remarked, "I am beginning to believe that you are a fraud, Your Highness."
Surprised by his sudden sharp glance, she explained, "You may be a stranger to London, but you must have moved in European circles in India and the cities of the Middle East. Obviously you know perfectly well how to behave yourself when you choose to. You did an excellent job of turning my father up sweet."
He grinned. "Turned up sweet? I do not recognize that expression."
"It means to charm someone into viewing you favorably, a practice at which you excel," she explained. "It is all right to do it—in fact, it's the essence of social success—but don't use the phrase in polite society. It's a little vulgar."
"Noted," he said agreeably. "You are right, I am not without experience of Western customs, but still, London can be rather overpowering to a first-time visitor."
Sara doubted that the prince found anything overpowering, but didn't pursue the point. They traveled in amiable silence as the prince deftly threaded through the heavy commercial traffic. Eventually she said, "You drive very well. Is that a skill you learned in your mountains?"
"No, there are neither roads nor carriages in Kafiristan. In fact, the average trail would make a goat think twice about attempting it. That is why the tribes have kept their independence—the land is very nearly impossible to invade." Without changing his tone, Peregrine continued, "When I met you, I thought your countenance had been shaped by pain. Did you suffer some serious accident, or a long illness?''
Lady Sara gasped. "One of the things you must learn is that personal questions are considered rude," she said in a suffocated voice. "If people wish you to know more about their lives, they will volunteer the information."
"Also noted." A quick glance sideways showed that her face was pale. He pulled the horses to a stop to allow cross traffic to go through an intersection. "Is that slight hesitation in your step a result of whatever happened to you?"
"You're incorrigible," Sara snapped. Then she exhaled with a faint sigh. "Very well, if you must know. There's no great mystery about it. I had a riding accident when I was eighteen, just after my first London Season. I had made that jump before, but this time I wasn't paying proper attention. My horse hit the wall, then fell on top of me. She had to be destroyed. It would have made sense to do the same to me, but of course they couldn't. At first the doctors thought I'd die, then they said I would never walk again."
"It was a long recovery?''
"Years. I'd still be in a wheelchair if Ross hadn't come back to England and said he would not allow me to loll about and pretend to be an invalid. With his teasing and encouragement, I regained the knack of walking." Her voice caught before she added almost inaudibly, "Then my mother began to die."
"And you, honorable daughter, would have nursed her to the end. Now I understand why you did not have the time to marry before now." Some quality in her silence caused him to glance over and see how rigid her mouth was, and he guessed that there was more to her story. "Was there a man before the accident?"
Her brown eyes raw and vulnerable in her stark face, Lady Sara turned to glare at him. "Do you read thoughts, or have you been asking about me?" Then her gaze faltered and dropped. "Though almost no one knew about that part of it."
Guessing how much it must hurt her to reveal so much of her inner emotions, he looked away and concentrated on guiding the curricle around a dray filled with kegs. "I did not read your mind or spy on you. I am merely good at conjecture. If you had had a Season in London, you would have had many suitors, and at seventeen or eighteen it is natural to fall in love."
"Natural, and foolish." She shrugged her slim shoulders. "Since we were both young, there was no formal betrothal, just an understanding between us. After I was injured..." She stopped, then said after a moment, "Of course he did not want to be tied to a cripple."
"You are hardly a cripple," Peregrine remarked. "What a fool the boy was. To cast a jewel away for a slight flaw, when it is flaws that give character to beauty."
"You must not say such things," Sara said in a choked voice. "They are too personal. It sounds... it sounds too much like flattery or courtship."
"I but speak the truth, my lady," he said meekly, "but if I am distressing you, I will find some unarguable boring topic. How about horses? These hired job horses do not please me. Where might I purchase better ones?"
Her voice easier, Lady Sara said, "The best place is Tattersall's Repository, just south of Hyde Park Corner. Most of the best horses are sent there for auction. Besides having a reputation for honest dealing, it is very fashionable. Perhaps Ross can take you this afternoon. During the summer, Monday is the only sale day, so if you don't go today you will have to wait another week for the next one."
"We are almost at Hyde Park Corner now. Which direction should I turn?"
Sara pointed. "Tattersall's is down to the left, off Upper Grosvenor Place, but you can't go there now. Or rather, you can, but I can't."
When they reached the corner, Peregrine turned the curricle in the direction she indicated. "Why can't you go there?"
"Tattersall's is almost a gentlemen's club," she explained. "Everyone important in racing belongs to the Subscription Room. Men go there to settle gambling debts, see friends, and tell boring hunting stories. It's definitely no place for females."
Peregrine pulled the curricle over to the side of the road so he could give her his full attention. "What would happen if you went with me? Would you be stoned?"
"Of course not!"
"Is there a law against it, and you would be arrested?" he asked with interest. "Sent to Newgate, or put into purdah and never allowed out again?"
"Neither."
"Then what is the p
roblem?"
"It is just not done," she said, exasperated at his obtuseness. "Everyone would stare and be scandalized."
Just how deep did Lady Sara's conventionality run? Unable to resist finding out, Peregrine said, "If you do not wish to come, I will not force you. But do you truly care what others think?"
She opened her mouth to reply, then closed it without speaking. After a long moment, she said, "The only opinions I really care about are those of my friends and family. But obeying the rules makes life simpler."
"Simpler, perhaps, but so much less interesting. Have you never wondered what men do in their cherished male sanctums?"
Lady Sara began to laugh. "You're impossible," she gasped. "I will never succeed in educating you in the ways of London society. Instead, you are going to corrupt me."
Peregrine smiled down at her. Today she wore a daffodil-colored morning gown that brought out gold flecks in her wide brown eyes. A most charming and original woman. She must not be allowed to fall into Weldon's clutches. "Sweet Sara," he said softly, "will you let me corrupt you?"
Her laughter died away and for a moment she looked startled, as if wondering whether his comment covered more than just the present situation. Then she smiled back. Peregrine's greatest advantage was that apparently it had not occurred to the lady that her cousin's friend could have improper designs on her.
"I should love to see Tattersall's. Turn right there, just beyond St. George's Hospital. And for heaven's sake," she added with a touch of asperity, "remember to call me Lady Sara."
* * *
It was still early by the standards of the fashionable world so Tattersall's was quieter than it would be later in the day. However, every man in the establishment turned to stare when Sara and the prince entered the main courtyard.
"You were quite right." Peregrine's low voice brimmed with amusement. "Such shock at the sight of a female. One would think these gentlemen had never seen one before. And I thought British society was supposed to be liberal. I am reminded of rural parts of the Ottoman Empire, where modest Turkish farm women wear veils when they feed roosters, to protect themselves from the danger of a male gaze. Do you suppose the gentlemen would be happier if they wore veils to protect themselves from your fatal glance?"
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