Temptation Has Green Eyes

by Lynne Connolly

  “All the better for seeing you, my lord.”

  Said in such chilling tones that if looks could kill, Max would have dropped dead on the spot. Fortunately, he was immune. He heard her voice from inside the room.

  “Max?” Sophia sounded bewildered, frightened almost. What had the bastard done to her? Casting the duke a black look, Max strode past him and into the room.

  Dressed as un-flamboyantly as he’d ever seen her, Sophia sat in a chair set at an angle to the window, just enough to allow the afternoon sun to dazzle her. Just as well the sunshine of an hour or two ago had, with the volatility of spring, been overcast by threatening rain clouds.

  He gave her a sunny smile as if nothing were amiss, forcing every bit of his dissimulation to the fore. Northwich must not know what Max had discovered, or that he was alarmed. As hard as business negotiations could be, this was ten times harder, because the result was so close to his heart. “Good afternoon, my dear. I thought I’d better come to find you, since it looks like rain. I don’t want you catching your death of cold.”

  He found a chair and without ceremony dragged it to where she sat. With a little maneuvering, he got her chair moved a fraction. That would make her more comfortable. He set his own close to it. But at the kind of angle that meant he could see both her and his antagonist.

  Northwich closed the door gently—far too gently—and came over to his chair. He took his seat and reached for a worn leather portfolio that sat on a table by his side. “We were about to get to business, but I wasn’t expecting to have to present this to two people.” He put the portfolio on his lap and folded his hands over the top. “I’m not sure I should vouchsafe this to anyone else.”

  Max gave him a heavy-lidded, lazy stare. His very best. “She would tell me anyway. We have no secrets from each other. Do we?” He glanced at Sophia.

  Her tongue emerged to flick against her lips. As if he were an automaton, his mind went straight to his groin, that tiny gesture reminding him of the last time they’d been together. And the one before that. But they had some way to go before they could find their way there again.

  Sitting here next to her, Max vowed he’d get there or die trying. She would get out of this intact and alive. So would he.

  “No, we share everything,” Sophia said in a breathy voice.

  Her steady tones were completely gone, and he felt her disturbance as his own. He longed to hold her on his lap and rock her, as much to comfort himself as her.

  “Tell him,” she said.

  “I could show him,” Northwich purred. “On condition none of these papers leave my possession.”

  Typical of the man to create a drama of the affair. What was he up to now? He had some spurious documents that told another lie? “Tell us. I’ll look through the evidence and I’m sure my wife will want to see them, too.”

  “It is her business,” Northwich said smoothly, “But if she doesn’t object, whatever it is, who am I to argue?”

  “Indeed.” Max gave away nothing. Waited the bastard out.

  With a heavy long-suffering sigh, Northwich unfastened the portfolio and removed several documents. They were of differing sizes, and some of the papers were curling and torn at the edges. Originals, then, or made to look that way.

  “I’d appreciate copies of the relevant documents,” Max said.

  “Then you will have to live with disappointment. I have copies, but they reside elsewhere. You will not find them; they aren’t in any obvious place. However, you are welcome to peruse these.” He handed one over.

  A distraction. Max glanced at the top one. It bore an impressive seal, one he had to support with his other hand because otherwise it might tear the paper. The writing was archaic, spindly, and the ink faded to brown. Hard to hold, hard to read. He laid the thing on his lap. “For now, tell us in plain English.” Enough delaying tactics.

  The duke turned his head and addressed Sophia directly, blocking Max out of his conversation. Max settled back to listen. “My dear, recent events might have led you to believe that you’re my daughter. My previous ruse discounted, that seems the obvious conclusion, does it not?”

  Previous ruse? The one he used to get her here on her own without telling him. The one that had made her so ill yesterday. Her excuse of bad food hadn’t convinced him, but she obviously needed her rest so he’d let the matter be, intending to talk to her today.

  Sophia nodded. Max watched like a hawk.

  Northwich continued. “I need to take you back in time. You obviously know of my royalist preferences. Although I do not indulge in treasonable activity, I will always remember the time I spent abroad in the company of my father. We left with the last true King, and we returned when it became obvious that conquest counted for more than right.”

  Max stifled a yawn, only half-feigned.

  Northwich ignored him. “You have to understand that we were living in Italy, hand to mouth, and times were difficult. All of us took our pleasures where we found them, much as King Charles the Second did when he was in exile. And like King Charles, not all our liaisons were sanctioned by the Church. King James the Third was difficult to live with. He has a melancholy that makes him despair, and after a time his wife left him.” He shrugged, a what-can-you-do expression. “A man has his needs. A new family appeared at his court. One was a beautiful girl, and I had the pleasure of making her acquaintance. I introduced her to the King, and that is where, I believe, the erroneous conclusion was made that you are my daughter. You are not. You’re the daughter of James Francis Edward Stuart.”

  Silently he handed her the papers. Just as silently, she took them.

  Max watched. Wanted to reach for her, but forced his whirling senses into order.

  The Old Pretender’s wife had left him in ’26 or ’27, moving to live in a convent. Sophia was born in ’29. What was her mother’s family doing at that time? As if he’d asked aloud, Northwich spoke again.

  “The woman you considered your mother was a convenience. A good name and loyal to King James. They agreed to help. So Lady Mary Howard brought you to England and claimed you as her daughter.”

  Sophia wasn’t even the daughter of Lady Mary? What on earth was happening here? “Who was her mother?”

  “A lady called Maria Rubiero. She was a long-term companion of the King, and she may have caused the rift between the King and Queen. In order to expedite a reconciliation, it was decided that her daughter should be spirited away.” He inclined his head in a gracious gesture. “I did so.”

  Sophia sat far too still in her chair, her expression betraying nothing.

  “So you decided you’d act?” Max was far from believing him. The story made sense. More than if she was Northwich’s daughter. Because many men had illegitimate children, and they didn’t go to such lengths to hide them away. That aspect had puzzled him.

  But the daughter of a would-be king who’d asked his loyal courtier to do this for him? Oh yes, Northwich would do that. Such a strong lever would enable him to retain a strong presence in the court of the Pretender without any obvious attendance.

  Leaning forward, Northwich placed a hand on hers, where it lay on her knee. Max wanted to knock it away, to hurl the papers across the room and drag her out of this place.

  He did not. Instead, he sat completely, utterly still and set his brain to work.

  She even had the look of a Stuart, with her full cherry-red lips and heavy-lidded dark eyes. Her rich brown hair also spoke of her heritage. High cheekbones, an air of arrogance that all the Stuarts had, whether they deserved it or not. She moved like a princess, or maybe that was his partiality speaking.

  But if she were—oh, God, that meant strife. And more. He couldn’t think of that now. Nothing was more important than she. His wife. After everything else, that was what she was.

  A carriage drove by outside, and then another. One stopped.

  Finally, when he was sure he’d regained control of his body and his voi
ce, Max spoke. “It means nothing. A spent movement led by a drunk and a feeble melancholic. It has nothing to do with us. Besides, if any of this was proved, she’d be illegitimate.”

  Northwich spared him a glance. “Royalty is different. They have the power to legitimize who they may. Illegitimate children have ruled the country before now.” He turned back to Sophia, ignoring Max. “My dear, I know this is a shock. It would be an honor to call you my daughter. Believe me, had I been the one, I would not have acted as I did. I would have found a way to claim you.” His voice was soft and caressing. “I did what I could to honor the child of a man I owed my loyalty to. You are precious, a rare commodity.”

  Max bided his time. Sophia was his.

  The duke knelt before her. Oh, God. He bowed his head. “You can be a queen, Sophia. I can make you a queen, or a queen in waiting. You are free of the taint that has damaged the royal family in the past few years. You are untried. The usurper George is old, his grandson young and under the influence of a man many people dislike. Call yourself Stuart, proclaim your identity. I have all the proof you need. This time we will succeed.”

  She gazed at Northwich, her expression inscrutable. Max couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but he prayed to God she wouldn’t take the bait.

  But he was right. She was British, brought up here, not like the Italian brothers who had been the main hope for the Jacobites. With another Stuart, an attractive one, Northwich could make more trouble and make more room for himself. The Hanovers, who’d never really liked Britain, might give in. Not that they had before, but the King was old and frail, his mind wandering on occasion. What better time to stage a coup d’état?

  “Did Hayes know?” he asked suddenly.

  “He discovered it,” the duke replied with a curl of his lip.

  Thus, Hayes had died. That was the real reason. Not the unpardonable thing he’d done to Sophia.

  Enough. Closing his mind to everything else, Max concentrated on his wife. The battle was fought here, now, and without swords. A duel, hand-to-hand, for the heart and soul of the one woman who meant so much to them both, for entirely different reasons. He had to claim her. If she refused to come with him, she’d become his enemy too. That would kill him.

  He got to his feet in one graceful movement that cost him much more than he let them see. “Come, my dear. We’ll hardly have time to dress for dinner, and after all, we have to get our priorities right.”

  Sharply, she turned her head and met his cool gaze. He worked at keeping the fury from his eyes, from his countenance. He lowered his lids and gave her his best aristocratic disdain.

  Heedless of the papers strewn in her lap or the duke’s hand gently resting over hers, Sophia got to her feet. Let the documents fall to the floor as if they meant nothing. “I’m ready,” she said, as steadily as he. She glanced at Northwich and spoke one word. “No.”

  Max held out his arm, and elegantly she laid her hand on it. He’d never been more proud of her. Her hand trembled slightly and then she controlled it. Pressed a little harder into the cloth that covered his arm. He braced his muscle for her, to allow her to all the support she needed.

  He led her to the door. Then turned, as if struck by a sudden thought.

  “By the way, Northwich, I’m keeping your spy.”

  Sophia stiffened, but said nothing.

  In the hall he helped her into her cloak and hat himself, leaving French sitting on the hard chair. At the last moment, he gave the maid a cool nod, an order to follow them. He would have left her, but he couldn’t in all conscience leave her to this man’s un-tender care. He led the way outside.

  As he’d half-expected, Northwich’s carriage, with liveried servants, stood outside, four black horses shuffling and stamping. No doubt waiting to take her home. No discreet return for her.

  Behind it stood his own town carriage, the one they used when they wanted to be noticed, with the four matched grays and the crests proudly painted on each door. And the footmen in livery. She turned, her face a picture of wonder.

  “Get in, sweetheart,” he said gently.

  He handed her up himself and followed, after ordering Horton to see French safely to his house. The vehicle jolted into action. “Why the carriage?” was her first question.

  Resisting the temptation to haul her into his lap, he explained. “Because Northwich planned to send you home in his carriage, with his liveried footmen. He wanted to show us estranged, and that he had you.” He took her hand and kissed it. “A princess.”

  She gave a shaky laugh. “I’m not a princess.”

  “You could have been. He was right. You could have started the trouble all over again.” As relief crept through his system, allowing him to focus on more than one issue, he wondered how many more bastards the Old Pretender had sired. His wife had cited adultery when she left him. And Northwich had the right of it—where a man couldn’t inherit a title if he was illegitimate, a king could. He’d be legitimized by Act of Parliament. Or she. Dangerous to even think that way.

  He’d have to speak to Julius and the rest of the family. But not today. Not now. He had much more important things to do now.

  She scoffed. “What would I do?”

  “I suspect, whatever Northwich told you to do. He’d stand for you as Bute stands for Prince George.” The reputed lover of the Princess of Wales, Lord Bute, a Scottish Tory, had an unreasonable influence on the princess’s son, the heir to the throne. Northwich no doubt saw himself in much the same way.

  She was shaken, but still Sophia, still his. In his heart, he triumphed. He’d won, although he didn’t fool himself, they still had trouble to come. If he held her, he’d never let her go, and he wanted observers to see them entering the house undisturbed by their recent trial.

  The carriage arrived outside their house, and despite Sophia’s plainness of dress and subdued demeanor, Max helped her alight like the princess she was, and into the house. He didn’t stop there, but took her straight upstairs to the bedroom. His room. No, not any more. Their room.

  Chapter 19

  “Shouldn’t I go to mine? Aren’t we going to the theater tonight? Won’t it look strange if we aren’t there?”

  Max concentrated on removing her hat and cloak, and then tenderly helped her off with her gloves. Sophia let him minister to her, treat her with care.

  What shocked her the most was how steady the news left her. “Do you think it’s true? That I’m a king’s daughter?” Really true? She didn’t yet understand how it could be. And had her mother’s family left the country and returned without anyone being any the wiser?

  Gently he pushed her down on a sofa by the window and took the place next to her. “First we talk. Clear everything up, get it out of the way. Where shall we start?”

  One thing puzzled her. “What did you mean about French? What has she done? She’s been with me since I was a child.”

  His eyes turned grave, the golden sparkles dimming. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but I have to. French has been spying on you.”

  She gasped in shock. “Why would she do that?”

  He lifted her hand and kissed it. “I made some enquiries. She came to you when you were thirteen, straight from Northwich. I don’t know if he set her there to ensure your safety as well as to report your doings. You are, or were, very precious to him.”

  “Only in the sense that he could use me.”

  “I don’t know.” He touched her chin, stroked a gentle finger down her throat. “Or perhaps he did care. He’s not a monster. He’s a man with misguided principles.” He paused and his mouth set in a hard line. “But I might be revising that opinion. Sweetheart, I know the man did something to you I find hard to forgive, but still I hate to tell you. John Hayes is dead.”

  Shock hit her hard. “Dead? How?”

  “Footpads, it’s said.”

  She snorted in a most unladylike way. “Footpads?” She didn’t believe that for a minute. “You
mean a footpad called Northwich?”

  “Yes. When I heard that, I knew the game was much more serious than we’d supposed. It went far beyond a feud between two families. That Northwich, a clever man, would risk murdering a known associate, that he’d take that risk, meant you could be in danger too. But I fear Northwich will never be brought to justice for Hayes’s demise. I would have left French with him, were it not for that. With your permission, I’ll send her to one of my minor estates to work as a maid. I can ensure her safety there, but I don’t think Northwich wishes her dead, or she’d have gone with Hayes last night. Hayes knew too much about his master’s dealings, and Northwich knew I was planning to take him and question him. He had to go.”

  She couldn’t bring herself to care about the man who had used her so badly. Not even hatred. She just didn’t care. Sadness suffused her. She should be feeling so much more, and if she’d known this earlier, she would have.

  Now her husband stretched his arm behind her, his posture protective. “Yesterday French tried to separate us. Together with John Hayes. I was in Lloyd’s, in my usual place, when I saw a woman in your aquamarine gown pass by the window. That’s a very distinctive gown unlike any other. So I followed, but I wasn’t fast enough to catch up with you—her. She hurried across Covent Garden Piazza and met with a man. John Hayes, to be precise. They kissed. In the street no less, and then went inside a house there. Most of the houses in Covent Garden are devoted to one thing—the pursuit of pleasure. I was supposed to believe you were meeting Hayes for an illicit tryst. Then come home and rail at you, perhaps send you away. You’d be on your own, looking for friends.” He gazed at her, waiting for her.

  “But I didn’t—”

  “I know, sweetheart, I know. I never doubted you. I knew it wasn’t you as soon as French met Hayes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of what happened in the country. What you told me there and your reaction. You’d never meet that man voluntarily. My first thought was that you were being threatened in some way. Then I realized it wasn’t you, and I knew who it was.”