To Romance a Charming Rogue tcw-4

by Nicole Jordan

  Her greatest fear had always been living a barren, lonely life without love, so she had been determined to fall in love with a man who loved her in return.

  She'd hoped that Prince Lazzara would ideally fit her needs. And last week, when her former betrothed unexpectedly reentered her life, she'd escalated her efforts to attract his highness. Yet her burst of defiance, Eleanor could now admit, was driven more by hurt and wounded pride and anger against Damon. She would be cutting off her own nose to spite her face, as the saying went, if she continued her pursuit of Prince Lazzara.

  More critically, the simple truth was, she could not possibly love him or any other man as long as she had unfinished business with Damon.

  She didn't like to think of how vulnerable her new wisdom made her to Damon, yet that was not her most pressing problem at the moment.

  She would have to end the prince's courtship, of course. It would be cruel to persist and thereby raise his expectations any further when she had no intention of fulfilling them. But she would gradually ease away so as not to wound his pride…

  Throwing off the covers, Eleanor rose and rang for her maid so she could bathe and dress and begin mentally preparing herself for their excursion to the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, if it was still on.

  The question of what to do about Damon remained completely unsettled, but at least now she knew her mind regarding her noble Italian suitor.

  Unfortunately, Eleanor had little time for private conversation with the prince that afternoon, since two of Signor Vecchi's fellow dignitaries and their wives joined their small party for the alfresco luncheon on the grounds of Kew Gardens.

  Because Prince Lazzara could not walk easily, his servants spread quilts on a grassy stretch of lawn near the River Thames, in the shade of a large willow tree. The younger ladies willingly kept his highness company, while Signor Vecchi and his colleagues escorted Lady Beldon on a tour of the Botanic Gardens to view the exotic flora brought back by various scientific expeditions around the world.

  Without privacy, Eleanor had no chance to discuss the events of last evening with Prince Lazzara, or to tell him her suspicions about the cause of his illness. His appetite had returned, however, judging by his apparent enjoyment of the delicacies provided by the Beldon chef. The repast was almost a feast, served formally on china and crystal and silver.

  Nonetheless, his highness seemed eager to get her alone at the conclusion of the picnic. Standing with the aid of his cane, he offered Eleanor his arm so they could better view the swans swimming on the Thames.

  As they slowly strolled the short distance to the river along a footpath flanked by willows and alders, she grew more confident in her decision to terminate their courtship. Prince Lazzara was not the right husband for her. She would never come to love him, no matter how valiantly she tried. One couldn't tell a heart what to feel or whom to love. And it was foolish to believe otherwise.

  She would never be happy with so tame a gentleman, either, Eleanor decided as they reached the stone embankment overlooking the Thames. For all his attractive personal attributes and illustrious worldly advantages, Prince Lazzara was not only rather ordinary, he could not fire her blood the way a single look from Damon could.

  “You are very quiet, Donna Eleanora,” the prince observed as she stood watching the magnificent birds make lazy circles on the water's rippling surface.

  Eleanor dragged herself from her contemplations to give him a faint smile. “To be truthful, your highness I was trying to determine the best way to broach a certain subject without sounding overly dramatic. You see, I am rather worried for your safety.”

  “Indeed?” Lazzara responded curiously. “And why is that?”

  “Do you recall meeting the renowned physician, Mr. Geary, last evening?”

  “Yes, I do. He is an intriguing gentleman.”

  “Well, after you became ill and left the ball, he discovered something very unusual about the punch you had been drinking.”

  Before she could say any more, however, Eleanor heard an odd whistling sound, followed by a soft thwack. Prince Lazzara gave a faint exclamation of pain before raising his hand and slapping the back of his neck behind his left ear.

  Eleanor's first thought was that he had been stung by a bee, yet beneath his probing fingers, she could see a small brown object embedded in the skin above his high shirt collar.

  At that same moment she heard a distracting rustle in the copse of willows behind them, but her attention was focused on whatever had struck the prince.

  When he jerked it out and examined it, she realized the brown object appeared to be a feathered dart about one inch long, with a pointed metal tip that was needle-thin and sharp.

  “Che diavolo,” the prince breathed in puzzled astonishment, which she took to mean the Italian equivalent of “What the devil?”

  Then to Eleanor's startlement, Lazzara's eyelids drifted shut and his knees slumped. The dart slipping from his limp fingers, he slowly pitched forward into the river four feet below to land with a great splash.

  Eleanor gave her own cry of dismay, yet she was held immobile by shock for an instant; to her horror, the prince had plunged headfirst into the water!

  When he bobbed up again, he began struggling lethargically to keep his head above the surface. Apparently he was not entirely unconscious, yet not only was he in danger of drowning, he was quickly floating downstream.

  Regaining her senses, Eleanor shouted for help to the servants behind her, then threw herself feet first off the embankment after the prince. The impact as the cold water closed over her head was powerful enough to take her breath away, and her long skirts dragged her down. But once she fought her way to the surface, she desperately struck out after his highness using the currents to aid her pursuit.

  It seemed to Eleanor like an eternity before she reached him. He was still flailing weakly, however, and when she tried to catch the sleeve of his frock coat, he fought against her with an urgency that resembled panic.

  “For the love of God, your highness, be still!” Eleanor demanded. “I am trying to save you!”

  Fortunately for them both, he didn't have the strength to continue resisting. When he surrendered, she rolled him onto his back and grasped his coat collar. Then with all her might, she towed him toward the stone embankment.

  When they finally reached it, Eleanor was grateful to find a gnarled mass of willow roots they could cling to while waiting for help to arrive. The prince slumped there coughing and spitting up river water as she strove to catch her breath.

  They had landed a dozen yards downstream from where he'd fallen in, but her shout had alerted the others in their party, and they all came running, guests and servants alike.

  However, since apparently none of the footmen knew how to swim, it was some time before they were rescued with the aid of a leather rein purloined from a carriage. Eleanor insisted that the prince be hauled up first and so looped the rein under his armpits. When he had been dragged to safety, she followed to find him sprawled limply on his side.

  Eleanor sank down beside him, wondering fearfully if he would survive-if he had been poisoned by the dart or merely drugged. But at least he was still breathing. And after a moment he shook his wet head and blinked up at her, as if trying to regain his bearings.

  “What… happened?” he rasped in a hoarse voice.

  “You fainted and fell into the river, your highness,” Eleanor answered.

  “I don't remember… Ah, yes… you pulled me to shore…”

  He pushed himself up onto his elbow, still looking dazed and sluggish. But he seemed to be recovering. Perhaps the cold dousing had actually helped to clear his mind.

  Just then she saw her aunt hurrying toward them, along with the signor.

  “Good God, whatever happened?” Beatrix exclaimed in alarm upon seeing Eleanor's sopping wet gown and bedraggled bonnet.

  When Eleanor repeated her explanation, Signor Vecchi grew visibly angry, but evidently not at her.


  “We are grateful, Donna Eleanora,” the diplomat said with a bow. “Your quick thinking very likely saved Don Antonio from drowning.”

  “It was no matter, signor, but I hope you will believe me now when I say that someone wishes him harm.”

  A worried frown darkened the prince's brow. “What do you mean, mia signorina?”

  Eleanor would have reminded him about the dart that had struck his neck, but his elder cousin intervened. “Your highness, you have suffered a severe shock. We should take you home at once.”

  “Signor Vecchi,” she protested, “it might be unwise to move Prince Lazzara just yet, since he still appears to be disoriented. And I think we should summon Mr. Geary to examine him and make certain he has suffered no ill effects-”

  “He looks well enough to me, considering,” the diplomat observed impatiently. “And he is likely to catch an ague if he remains here in his sodden clothing. Forgive me, Donna Eleanora, but I feel I must act to preserve his health. Come, your highness.”

  Apparently accustomed to obliging his countryman, the prince stood with the help of a footman and swayed dizzily before regaining his balance.

  “This is becoming extremely vexing,” he muttered, allowing himself to be led away.

  Her Aunt Beatrix was of a similar mind as Signor Vecchi. “Eleanor, we must get you home and out of your wet clothing. And of course you must have a hot bath to warm you and”-she wrinkled her nose in distaste-”to remove that foul odor of the river.”

  Suddenly realizing that she was shivering in the September breeze, Eleanor decided not to protest further and accepted the quilt offered by one of the footmen. But she was not ready to leave just yet.

  “Give me one moment, please, Aunt.” She at least wanted Geary to examine the dart, if she could find it.

  Wrapping the quilt around her shoulders, Eleanor quickly moved along the path to the spot beneath the willows where the prince had stood just before the accident. Searching the ground, she found the small dart half covered by leaves. It was clear proof that she hadn't imagined seeing him shot.

  Upon returning to her aunt, she tucked the dart into her reticule, then allowed Beatrix to usher her into the Beldon carriage and whisk her home while the servants remained behind to clear the remnants of the picnic. But during the journey, Eleanor debated silently with herself about the best course to take regarding the prince's latest misadventure.

  She wasn't certain where Mr. Geary lived, or if he would be working at his hospital, but she knew Damon could tell her. And although there was no love lost between the English and Italian noblemen, she trusted Damon to act honorably if the prince was in real danger.

  Therefore, as soon as she reached the privacy of her own bedchamber and shed her wet gown in favor of a warm velvet wrapper, Eleanor wrote to Damon while waiting for her bathwater to be heated, asking him to call on her as soon as possible, and requested the Beldon butler to have her missive delivered without delay.

  When the copper tub was filled, Eleanor washed her hair and scrubbed off all traces of the river. Then she sent her maid, Jenny, away and enjoyed a long soak.

  She was drying her hair before the fire in her bedchamber when Jenny returned with word that Lord Wrexham was awaiting her in the blue salon.

  Eleanor quickly dressed in a kerseymere afternoon gown. Then taking the dart with her, she went downstairs to the salon to find Damon standing at the window, frowning pensively. His eyebrows lifted, however, when she carefully shut the door behind her so they could be private.

  “I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” she began, but he brushed off her apology.

  “Geary told me about the prince's punch being drugged last evening, and now you say that he has suffered another misfortune?”

  “Yes, only this time I am certain it was no accident.”

  Crossing to Damon, she told him about the ex cursion to Kew Gardens and showed him the dart, recounting how it had struck the prince and likely caused him to faint and fall in the river, which resulted in her having to rescue him.

  Eleanor was not surprised to see a scowl darken Damon's face at her account. What did surprise her, however, was that he barely glanced at the dart she held in her palm.

  “What the devil do you mean,” he demanded even before she concluded, “jumping in the Thames? Do you have any idea what treacherous undercurrents lurk in that river?”

  Eleanor was taken aback by Damon's vehemence. “There was no help for it. I could not just let the prince drown.”

  “You could have drowned yourself!”

  She felt her spine stiffen defensively. Yet not wishing to argue with him, she took a calming breath. “I did not ask you here so you could scold me, Damon. Rather, I hoped you would solicit Mr. Geary's opinion about this.” She held out the dart for him to look at more closely.

  Damon's ire seemed to cool a measure as he took it from her and examined it. “This could be a curare arrow…” he said after a moment.

  “What is that?” Eleanor asked.

  “A hunting weapon used by certain Indian tribes in the southern Americas. The arrow's tip is coated with poison, then blown from a hollow stalk of bamboo.”

  Her eyes widened. “How in heaven's name do you know about poison arrows from the Americas?”

  Damon smiled faintly. “I am interested in medical science. Sir Walter Raleigh described curare in his book on Guiana. And Sir Benjamin Brody experimented with the effect of curare on animals here in England several years ago.”

  “Is the poison fatal?”

  “It can be. Chiefly, it paralyzes its target and prevents the ability to breathe. But Sir Benjamin proved that if the victim can be kept breathing by artificial means, it will recover and show no ill effects later.”

  Eleanor frowned as she tried to recall exactly how the prince had behaved after being struck. “This arrow caused him to faint,” she said slowly, “but he seemed to be recovering.”

  “Perhaps curare was not used, or if so, the dose was so small, the result would not have been fatal.”

  “Do you think Mr. Geary can determine if the tip contains poison?”

  “He could possibly analyze the chemical composition, although that's unlikely to garner any conclusive results.”

  “If poison was used, it means someone is trying to kill Prince Lazzara.”

  Damon's pensiveness returned. “Or Lazzara wants us to think so. Before this, I wondered if he might be causing these accidents himself.”

  Eleanor stared at him. “Whyever would he do such a thing?”

  “To garner your sympathy. Perhaps he thinks you will find him more appealing if you must constantly fret over him.”

  “He wants me to think him a weakling?” If so, it was an absurd theory, Eleanor decided. She liked strong, capable men, not frail, impotent ones.

  “Or perhaps,” Damon added, “someone else merely wants to make the prince look weak in your eyes.”

  “That explanation seems more plausible to me,” she said thoughtfully as she glanced down at the arrow in his hand. “And for the prince's sake, we must assume he is an innocent victim. In fact, I think he must be warned. I had no time to discuss my suspicions with him, either last evening or today. And Signor Vecchi was clearly not interested in hearing them.”

  She returned her gaze to Damon. “Will you help me, Damon? We must stop these attacks and determine who is behind them. The next time could end his life.”

  “Certainly I will help. It may be time to hire Bow Street to investigate and perhaps provide the prince personal protection.”

  The Bow Street Runners, Eleanor knew, were a private police force. “I think hiring them would be wise. Will you contact them, or shall I?”

  “I will deal with it. Meanwhile you are to keep away from Lazzara.”

  His pronouncement gave her pause. “Keep away?”

  “Yes, sweeting. I don't want you anywhere near him.”

  When Eleanor started to protest, Damon held up a hand, saying al
most grimly, “Don't argue with me about this, Elle. I am not about to let you be hurt.”

  It made sense that Damon would want to protect her after losing his brother the way he had, yet his concern gave her a warm feeling. Even so, she was not pleased to have him dictating to her.

  “I cannot keep away entirely. I am supposed to attend a balloon ascension with the prince tomorrow. One of his countrymen is an aeronaut and has promised to let us ride in his gas balloon. Even leaving aside the fact that I was greatly looking forward to the adventure, it would be rude to cancel at this late moment, since the prince went to so much trouble to arrange the treat for me.”

  Damon relented, although with evident reluctance. “Very well, you may go, but I intend to be there to keep an eye on you.”

  “You were not invited, Damon,” Eleanor pointed out in exasperation.

  “That hardly matters. You are not attending without me.”

  Instead of replying, she merely smiled pleasantly. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Lord Wrex-ham, but now I believe you have business with Bow Street?” Moving to the salon door, she opened it and stepped aside, as if encouraging his departure.

  Damon crossed his arms over his chest, however, and remained exactly where he stood.

  “The ascension may be canceled in any case,” Eleanor said finally. “After what happened today, the prince may not feel well enough to ride in a balloon.”

  Damon's jaw hardened. “That is not good enough, Elle. I want your promise that you will keep away from Lazzara unless I am present.”

  She pressed her lips together, remaining stubbornly silent. She had already decided to end the prince's courtship. In fact, the outing tomorrow would be the last invitation she accepted from him. But Damon was a trifle too highhanded for her to bare her soul to him about her plans for her romance.

  Still, she knew he wouldn't leave until she conceded. “Oh, very well, I promise.”

  His grim expression relaxed a degree. “And you must swear that you will stop being such a damned heroine. Rescuing Lazzara could have been the death of you.”