And if that wasn’t an admission of blatant manipulation, he didn’t know what was.
She capped her performance with a cheery “So! When can we leave?”
The hackney Dominic had sent Jessup out to hail so he could bundle her into it in the mews without anyone seeing her became Angelica’s initial classroom.
The first thing she learned was that Dominic’s house was in Bury Street. “Good Lord!” She stared at him in shock. “We’re just around the corner from my home!”
He didn’t say anything, just looked at her.
She grinned and looked around. “No wonder you didn’t want me heading out on my own.” She examined the carriage’s interior. “Are all hackney coaches like this?”
“You’ve never ridden in a hackney before?”
She shook her head.
Inwardly sighing, he replied, “More or less. Some are bigger, others smaller, but they operate on the same system . . . one you clearly do not need to know.”
“A well-bred youth would know about hackneys.”
She was teasing him again. Rather than respond directly, he viewed her critically, then sat up. “First lesson.” Leaning forward, he closed his hands, one about each of her breeches-clad knees, and spread them apart. Saw shocked surprise flash across her face. “No youth sits with his knees together. Not unless he’s forced to.”
“Oh.” The word was breathless. Eyes locked with his, she licked her lips, then nodded. “I see.”
The feel of her quintessentially female knees under his palms, the way her breeches had pulled taut across her lower hips . . . he nearly closed his eyes and groaned. What was he doing? The answer came instantly: Paying her back.
Slowly, his long fingers caressing, he drew his hands away and leaned back against the seat. Kept his gaze on her face, saw the faintest of blushes tinge her cheeks.
But she refused to look away. “All right.” Her chin tipped up a fraction. “What else?”
If she wanted to joust . . . “Your hands.” She had them folded in her lap. He dropped his gaze to them. “You should rest them at your sides, on the seat, or palms down on your thighs. Never in your lap like that.”
Angelica chose the latter option, spread her fingers slightly, then moved her palms back and forth a fraction and saw him tense. “Anything else?”
“Not at the moment.” His voice had dropped half an octave. His gaze—at that moment not remotely cold—lifted to her face, rested there. “For the moment, you’ll do.”
She inclined her head, looked out of the carriage window, and started plotting his downfall.
Twenty minutes later, the carriage rocked to a halt in the shadow of the Tower. Dominic stepped down to the pavement first; she bit back her frustration when he just stood there, blocking her way out while he checked their surroundings. Eventually, he moved. While he paid the jarvey, she clambered down the steps by herself, remembered to shut the door—no footmen there—then waited on the pavement, closer by the wall.
She felt oddly exposed without skirts to screen her legs; the unsettling feeling hadn’t afflicted her in the house, but the open and very public street west of the Tower was a different matter.
Determined to show no hint of her sudden attack of missishness, she flashed Dominic a bright smile as he joined her.
He halted directly before her, his height and width effectively screening her from passersby. Like her, he was dressed in breeches and riding boots, in his case with a severely cut topcoat over a plain waistcoat; in attire, at least, he could have passed for a well-heeled tutor. He studied her, then said, “You’re going to have to keep your head down, the brim of your hat tilted down. There is no way in hell anyone getting a good look at your face is going to imagine you’re male. And no smiling. No youth ever born smiles like you do.”
She started to smile again, fought to straighten her lips. She nodded, obediently tipping her head down. “All right.” She waved to the street ahead of them. “Let’s go.”
He hesitated just long enough for her to remember that giving direct orders to men like him didn’t work, then he swung around and started strolling.
Slowly, so she could keep up.
Her first task was to learn to walk like him. Or at least well enough to pass. After having studied Thomas, then having checked in the mirror, she was well aware that her normal stride—which she reverted to the instant she stopped thinking about it—would immediately identify her as female, no matter her disguise.
Quite aside from wanting to spend the day with Dominic, she’d been sincere in demanding to go out so she could observe, adjust, and practice. If she could work at being a youth for a whole day while in her male clothes, she’d be a lot less likely to forget and revert to being feminine when in them.
And they had a whole day to spare.
Having got what she wanted—her pacing a public street with Dominic beside her—she put her mind to accomplishing the more urgent of her goals.
By the time they reached the Custom House, Dominic was seriously questioning his sanity in having agreed to—allowed himself to be jockeyed into—the outing. She was, he had to admit, diligently applying herself to copying his walk, modifying his stride to suit her shorter legs, but that laudable endeavor required her to glance constantly at his legs, his hips. Which wasn’t helping his stride in the least.
A result that in turn made her continued scrutiny even harder to nonchalantly ignore.
“You know,” his tormentor said, “you’re going to have to make some adjustments yourself if you want anyone to believe you’re a tutor.”
He didn’t glance at her; she’d been keeping her head tipped down. “Why?”
“Because you walk like a nobleman, talk like a nobleman, and you positively radiate arrogance.”
“I’m the scion of a noble house come down in the world and forced to earn my living.”
“And the arrogance?”
He didn’t reply. His arrogance, what she meant by the term, was an innate part of him; he couldn’t pluck it out . . . but perhaps he could mute it somewhat. Making a mental note to bear that in mind when dealing with others while in his role of tutor, he paced on.
Increasingly aware of her, a burr under his skin, and a peculiarly titillating temptation in her youth’s garb.
He should have sent her out with Mulley or Jessup . . . no, he couldn’t have. Neither would recognize danger approaching . . . speaking of which. Halting at the corner of the Custom House, he looked at what lay ahead.
She’d obediently halted beside him, more or less in his shadow.
“The market.” Billingsgate Fish Market lay ahead on their left, filling the area between the street and the river. “Your brothers, cousins, and their wives might not be there, but what about their staff?”
From beneath the brim of her hat, Angelica viewed the bustling throng filling the market and spilling out into the street. It was one of the well-known places in London no young lady would ever venture into, which was the reason she was keen to walk through there. “What’s the time?” She didn’t look at Dominic; from observing other men talking to each other, she’d realized they rarely looked each other in the face as they did.
Women almost invariably watched each others’ faces when conversing.
Dominic consulted his fob watch. “Almost eleven.”
“There’s no danger, then—if any of the staff had come to buy anything, they’d be gone by now. But most of the households have their fish delivered to the back door.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “All right. But we walk straight through and out the other side, and on over London Bridge.”
She set off, pacing along, letting her arms swing. She was getting into the way of it, and she’d been right; the practice was helping.
They’d agreed on a route that would keep them away from the streets her brothers and
cousins, let alone their wives, might for any reason walk or drive down.
She’d expected the market to be busy and noisy, but it proved to be more crowded than a duchess’s drawing room, with humanity, largely unwashed, jostling on all sides, and wincingly loud, raucous screams, yells, and exhortations vibrating through the air. Long before they reached the exit, she was inexpressibly grateful for Dominic’s large presence beside her, supporting her and shielding her from the worst of the melee.
Jaw clenched, Dominic caught her arm and literally hauled her out, into the less crowded area around the church at the market’s western end. He released her. Watched as she shook herself, then readjusted her jacket and checked the stability of her hat and the hair it concealed. “Satisfied?”
Somewhat to his surprise, she didn’t flash him a teasing smile; she just nodded. “At least I’ve seen it—and now I understand what’s meant by ‘screeching like a fishwife.’ They do screech.”
Without prompting, she walked on.
Pacing side by side, they rounded the church and walked on to London Bridge.
They halted for lunch in a tavern south of the river, not far from the docks. Dominic thanked his stars that he’d been able to steer her away from the rougher, dockside haunts, yet as he led the way into the tavern’s main room, he felt instinct roil just beneath his surface.
If he’d had any doubt that his inner self already considered her his, the impulse to snarl and figuratively show his teeth to the men sitting supping ale at the other tables slew it. But he couldn’t even look at them in silent warning; even that would mark him as what he truly was. She’d been right in stating he’d have to adjust, but it wasn’t only his arrogance he had to rein in.
Reaching a table by the wall, he pulled out a chair and forced himself to drop into it before she sat. Treating her like a youth would have been much easier if he could have seen her as a youth, but his imagination balked at the task.
A slatternly serving woman slouched to the table. “Right then, what’ll it be?”
“Two servings of your pie, a pint of ale for me, and”—he glanced at Angelica; her eyes met his beneath the brim of her hat—“watered ale for my charge.”
The serving woman grunted and left.
His “charge” glanced swiftly around, then, mimicking one of the other men, propped her elbows on the table and clasped her hands.
It had been her suggestion to go strolling along the docks. As it transpired, it had been safe enough, just like their slow amble across London Bridge. Regardless, for the entire time he’d been hyper-alert, trying to watch every way at once while simultaneously appearing to be a bored tutor accompanying his charge on a day’s outing.
She’d halted in the middle of the bridge, leaned on the railing, and looked eastward down the river; only he’d been close enough to see the pleasure in her eyes, in her face, as she’d drunk in the scene. The sight had gone some way to placating him for all the tense moments she was putting him through. And he had to admit that even on the docks, she’d been watching the men—the messengers, the navies—as they’d swarmed, picking up traits here and there, trying them out, incorporating some into her new persona. She was definitely improving, which was why he’d agreed to bring her into the tavern.
Leaning on the table, she murmured, “What do men generally talk about at a venue such as this?” Her natural voice was a faintly husky contralto; by lowering the tone, she could make it pass for a youth’s.
He considered what he and Mitchell would have talked about in such a setting . . . almost anywhere. “Women.”
She met his gaze. After a moment said, “There must be other subjects of passing interest to males.”
“Horses. Gaming. None of which a tutor would discuss with his charge.”
The serving woman appeared with their plates and pint pots. For several minutes, silence reigned while they sampled the tavern’s offerings, and discovered them palatable enough.
“I know,” Angelica said, struck by inspiration. “You can tell me about the goblet—about why it’s so valuable to those bankers.”
He hesitated, then said, “You know of Sir Walter Scott, the novelist?” When she nodded, he went on, “Scott is a patriotic Scotsman, and in ’18, was also great friends with Prinny, who at that time was in dire need of something—anything—to appease the populace. Scott, like my father, had an obsession, in his case centering on the Regalia of Scotland, also known as the Scottish Honours. The regalia dates from James IV’s time, but had been lost early in the eighteenth century, roughly a hundred years ago. No one had taken it—it had simply been misplaced and no one knew where it was. The history of the regalia appealed to Prinny—when Cromwell ruled, he specifically set out to destroy all the regalia, the symbols of monarchy. He melted down the English regalia, and all the other royal crowns he could find, then came north to seize the Scottish Honours, but he never found them. But the regalia was only hidden—it promptly resurfaced after the Restoration, and was used for many state occasions at Scone and Edinburgh, but then . . . nothing more was known of it.”
Dominic paused to scoop up the last mouthful of his pie, chewed, swallowed, then went on, “Scott was convinced the regalia had simply been put away in Edinburgh Castle, and all those who knew where had died. He convinced Prinny to mount a thorough search of the castle—a massive undertaking—and the regalia was discovered in an old chest in a long-forgotten robing room. Prinny was in alt—he now had the oldest surviving British regalia restored to the Crown. There was much made of it at the time, which helped a trifle in balancing the public’s view of their regent, at least for a while.”
“I remember something of that.” She waited while he downed a draft of his ale, then prompted, “How does that connect with the goblet?”
“The regalia found by Scott comprised the crown, the scepter, and the sword. What was missing was the coronation cup.”
“The goblet.” She only just remembered to keep her voice low.
He shot her a warning glance, then nodded. “It’s a jewel-encrusted goblet of solid gold, about eight inches high. Centuries ago, the cup had been entrusted to Beauly Priory, which is near Guisachan lands, and during an upheaval within the church in the late sixteenth century, the cup was passed to my ancestors for safekeeping. The cup remained with my family throughout the subsequent turmoil, then later, after the Restoration, it was called for whenever it was required to complete the regalia for a state occasion, but was always returned to us. We became the protectors of the cup, and the charge placed upon us was that we should only hand it over to complete the regalia. During the years the rest of the regalia was lost, we held the cup.
“But although we had it, we more or less forgot about it as it was never called for, not for over a hundred years. When the rest of the regalia was rediscovered, no one knew to send for the cup. I knew it existed, but along with my father, I saw no need to hand it over to shore up public support for an unpopular Sassenach prince.”
“Naturally not.”
He paused, then said, “My father’s scheme was inspired in a way. We would have surrendered the cup at some point, but he saw the potential and, sure enough, the bankers he contacted were so keen to get into the good graces of the ex-regent, now George IV, that they were happy to hand over a massive sum just to have the chance, at some point, of presenting the king with the Scottish coronation cup, a goblet very few people know exists, to complete the regalia George now holds so dear.”
She stared at him. “That’s an amazing story.”
He sipped his ale, then drained the pot.
“One thought.” She met his gaze as he set down the pot. “If we need more time to reclaim the original, would it be possible to make a replica and give that to the bankers, to hold them off?”
“If we had the original to copy from, perhaps a duplicate could be made, but even then the pieces of the regalia are all
of similar vintage. Trying to match gold that old, let alone the jewels . . .” His lips set. “Regardless, we don’t have the original, and once we do, we won’t need a copy.” He nodded to her pint pot, from which she’d barely sipped. “We should go. If you’ve finished?”
When she nodded, he tossed coins on the table, then rose.
Remembering her guise, she immediately rose, too, then followed him to the door.
They walked east along the river to Tower Bridge. There, Dominic surrendered to Angelica’s pleading, and they took a boat from under the bridge’s southern end to Greenwich. The park around the observatory was filled with nurses, governesses, and tutors escorting their charges on outings in the fresh air, but none of those present were from society’s elite.
As they strolled along the paths, Dominic gradually relaxed—a little. Enough to turn some of his attention to his supposed charge. After watching her for a while, he murmured, “You’re improving.”
Pacing alongside him, her hands clasped behind her, she responded with a tip of her down-bent head.
They strolled for nearly an hour. Courtesy of various comments and observations, he learned that, despite appearances, she’d been a tomboy and could skip stones over water better than most males. She could also fly a kite; after helping three youngsters untangle the strings of theirs, she showed them how to get the kite aloft, then make it swoop, soar, and swoop again.
Watching from a distance, he saw the children’s joy, heard their delighted squeals, switched his gaze to Angelica’s face, and felt his heart clench. The ability to enjoy simple pleasures was a facility to treasure. It was one he had lost, but he knew its worth.
Something shifted inside him, settling deeper, more definitely anchored.
A Cynster princess who knew her own strengths, her own worth, who was willful, headstrong, fearless, and a tomboy to boot . . . guarding such a lady, protecting her from all harm, would never be a simple matter.
Eventually leaving the three children, she returned to his side. His inner self approved.
The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae Page 14
