The Princess and the Pauper

by Alexandra Benedict

  “It will be in all the broadsheets,” he threatened. “What of your reputation?”

  “What reputation? Papa is dead. I am your mistress. I’ve no need for a reputation. I’ve no intention of ever going out into society after this one final time.”

  She would raid that blasted ball, he sensed, scale the garden walls if she had to . . . anything to get her hands on the “truth.”

  “If you make the earl uneasy, he will not cooperate. He will not give up any truths.”

  “Then I shall not make the earl uneasy,” she quipped.

  “And how will you avoid it?”

  “I will attend as your fiancée.”

  “What?” he rasped.

  “I will attend the ball as Mr. Rees’s fiancée. There will be talk, but no uneasiness. The earl will not feel embarrassed to have his poor, former fiancée in attendance, for I will come as the well dressed, well cared for fiancée of another man.”

  Grey swallowed at the jarring proposal. He knew it was a ruse, that she wasn’t really asking him to marry her, but even her twisted ploy made his heart pound with the hope of long lost dreams.

  Still, he shook his head. “The earl did not invite you.”

  “No, he invited you, the most celebrated, yet reclusive, violinist of our time. He will not deny me entry if it means having you for a guest. He would not give up such a coup.”

  “He might indeed give up ‘such a coup.’ If he killed your father, he won’t want to be anywhere near you, affianced to a celebrated violinist or not. He will fear his secret’s come out.”

  “Then Harry will not mention my name when he responds to the invitation. And when I appear at your side, it will be too late to deny me.”

  No, she would not be denied. She would not let anyone stand in her way, not even Grey.

  How quickly her mien changed from confusion to conviction. She now seemed determined Dresmond was the villain. And she seemed hell-bent on making him pay.

  Unsettled, Grey wondered, “What will you do if you find the earl guilty of murder?”

  “Send for the authorities, of course.”

  He did not believe her.

  All he could do was attend the affair and protect her.

  CHAPTER 9

  Emily examined her profile in the full-length mirror. Her sleeveless, ivory sateen evening gown had a snug corset with princess seams while her narrow bustle, gathered at the base of her spine and flowing to the ground, produced a short train. She had pinned her hair up in two swirls and even cut her bangs to reflect the frizzled, fashionable look of the day.

  She turned and inspected her other side. The exquisite material shimmered in the gas light and drew the eye, which was perfect. She would not enter the earl’s house like a mouse sneaking past the cat. She’d every intention of being seen and acknowledged.

  “Thank you, Mary. You may go now.”

  The kitchen maid bobbed an awkward curtsy before leaving the dressing room. She hadn’t experience as a lady’s maid but had proved invaluable with the unreachable buttons at the back of the dress. There was one last trimming, a set of matching suede gloves. Emily slipped the supple material over her fingers, pulling the accouterments up to her elbows. There, she was ready.

  A knock at the bedroom door.

  “Enter,” she called from the dressing room.

  Mary popped her head back inside the chamber. “Sorry to disturb you, Miss.”

  “What is it, Mary?”

  “This just arrived by messenger. Mr. Furze asked me to deliver it, since you’ve no proper lady’s maid.”

  She handed Emily the letter, the stationary marked “Digby & Sons.”

  “Thank you, Mary.”

  As soon as the girl departed, Emily inhaled a fortifying breath. Her father’s solicitor had finally responded to her request for details about the former marriage contract between her and the earl. She hesitated to break apart the seal, to learn what information might—or might not—be embedded between the handwritten lines.

  At last she rent the envelope and removed the letter inside. “Dear Miss Wright . . . surprised to hear from you . . . my apologies for the delay . . . so many years ago . . . your esteemed father . . . peculiar inquiry . . .”

  Emily gasped. She read the sentence over and over again, her hands trembling. No, she thought. Impossible. And yet the longer she stared at the unbelievable words, the more believable the startling truth.

  The Earl of Dresmond had murdered her father. Her belly roiled with sickness, and she swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She held the incriminating evidence in her hands. There was no reason for her to go to the ball anymore in search of proof . . . but one pivotal question remained unanswered. And it would haunt her forever, she knew.

  Why Papa? Why did you do it?

  There remained one person on earth who could tell her—the Earl of Dresmond.

  At the sound of heavy footfalls, Emily stuffed the letter into her reticule. She gathered her breath and glanced into the mirror. A pair of dark brown eyes reflected in the glass. She turned and faced Rees.

  He was dressed in formal eveningwear: black tailed coat, trousers and waistcoat, white shirt and white cravat. His hair was neatly combed, but maintained its bohemian curls. And his eyes—his eyes captivated, pulling a soul inward, but revealing nothing at the same time.

  She took in another breath, such as her corset permitted, and resisted his pull. She would have none of his disarming looks. She had one purpose, one goal—justice for Papa.

  Rees stepped deeper into the room, carrying two boxes. One was covered in blue velvet, the other crafted from wood. She had a vision of him on the day they had first met. A lonely boy holding a box, watching her, lost and uncertain.

  The memory pulled at her heart.

  “You look beautiful,” he said in a detached voice.

  “As do you.”

  “I’m flattered you noticed.”

  She noticed. She noticed everything about him. Ever since he’d turned her world on its ear, she had not stopped thinking about him . . . or resenting him.

  Heaven help her, she could not forgive him for confirming her worst suspicion, that Papa had died thinking ill of her. She had always believed Papa’s madness her fault in some way. And though she now knew the truth, that she’d not caused his demise, the anguish in her soul remained, for Papa had thought she hated him for throwing Rees from the house, that she’d poisoned him in revenge.

  Her breath caught and long denied misery ripped through her. She had resented Papa for tearing her away from Rees. And while she’d never, ever hurt her father, he had sensed otherwise. He had sensed her animosity toward him, however hard she’d tried to bury it. Even now, she wrestled with the bitterness. But clearly Papa had felt her ill will, or he would never have thought her capable of murder.

  Emily turned away and wiped her eyes before tears formed and ruined her complexion. She had to restrain her guilt. Unbridled, it would be her undoing. She had to remain focused on her plan, to obtain . . . no, the plan had changed. She had proof of the earl’s crime in her reticule. And Papa would have justice. But she needed something more. Something that might never surface at a trial. Something she could only obtain from the earl at the ball, before the rest of society was privy to his crime.

  Through the mirror, she watched Rees approach the vanity and place the boxes on the surface. “That dress must have cost me a fortune.”

  “A small fortune, yes.”

  He opened the velvet box first. “You’ll need these, then, to finish the look.”

  He removed a lustrous, three-tier choker of ivory pearls.

  For a moment, she wondered how it would be if the past had been different, if she’d married Rees with Papa’s blessing. She imagined herself now, preparing for the ball with her beloved husband, Papa still alive and conquering the world. And then she smothered the wistful thought. Regret was as dangerous as guilt.

  Her heart missed a beat when Rees stepped behind her
and wrapped the choker around her throat, securing the gold clasp.

  “There,” he murmured, brushing her neck with his strong fingers. “As pretty as a princess.”

  She shivered. He said the word “princess” with unmistakable dysphoria, as if the word pained him. Or perhaps she pained him. She’d rebuffed his ever advance, his every attempt at reconciliation. She just couldn’t bear to be near him. Their intimacy was gone.

  The physical affect he had on her had not diminished, though. And the longer he stared at her through the glass, an ever growing storm in his eyes, the more titillated her flesh became, breaking into goosebumps.

  “Shall we go?” She struggled to keep her inflection even. “I don’t want to be late.”

  “I’ve just one more accessory.”

  He returned to the vanity, opened the wood box—and lifted a short-barreled gun.

  Her eyes widened. “What is that?”

  “A British Bull Dog.” He slipped the revolver into his coat pocket. “Now we’re both ready for the ball.”

  Emily whirled around. “Why do you need the revolver, I mean? I can’t imagine the evening will end in gunfire.”

  “Precisely. I, too, can’t imagine how the evening will end, so I’d best be prepared.”

  She swallowed, her throat growing dry. “We’re attending a ball. The earl won’t challenge you to a duel in front of his guests, surely?”

  “No, but he might challenge you to one when you accuse him of murder.”

  “I’m not afraid for my life.”

  “That is what worries me,” he admonished.

  To put him at ease, she insisted, “I don’t intend to walk into the ballroom, point at him and shout ‘murderer’.”

  She had crafted a far different outcome in her mind. One she had yet to share with Rees. But knowing he expected the worst, she doubted he’d support her plan. And if he learned of the solicitor’s letter? He would avoid the ball altogether, she suspected, go straight to Scotland Yard with the evidence. And she would never have her answer.

  “What do you intend to do?” he wondered in a low voice, his dark eyes piercing.

  She pinched her lips.

  Glowering, he warned, “You are not to leave my sight, is that clear? If you do, I will cause a scandal searching for you, and I don’t give a damn if I ruin your chance of catching your father’s killer. Are we in agreement?”

  She offered him a curt nod, though she’d no intention of keeping the agreement.

  “Come,” he said and took her elbow.

  But she turned away from him and headed for the door. When she didn’t hear his footfalls behind her, she paused and looked over her shoulder.

  He remained in the dressing room, staring after her, his expression conflicted. If he didn’t accompany her to the ball, her plan was ruined. She couldn’t attend without him. She would never be permitted inside the earl’s house, uninvited and unescorted.

  “What is it?” she asked in a strained voice.

  “This is a mistake.”

  Her throat closed. “It was your idea to attend the ball.”

  “Without you.”

  “It was also your idea not to contact the authorities without proof of the killer’s identity,” she went on, ignoring his last remark. And while she had proof of the killer’s identity, she also wanted, needed the earl’s complete disclosure.

  “I should go with Harry, instead,” said Rees. “He’s a flatterer. The earl will feel comfortable in his presence. He might even loosen the man’s tongue.”

  Her stomach tightened and tightened. “The earl’s tongue hasn’t loosened in four years, and I doubt Harry has the mindset to gather the evidence we need.”

  “I’ll contact Scotland Yard, then. Let a bobby loosen his tongue.”

  “No.” She fisted her hands. “I will loosen his tongue.”

  He remained unmoved. “Does it matter how the evidence is obtained?”

  “It matters that the earl pays.” Her pulse thumped in her head. “I will not risk a blunder being made by Harry or a copper. My father deserves justice.”

  “Your father is dead. His life is not in peril anymore. And I will not risk yours to bring his killer to justice.”

  Her features cramped. Clearly their intentions were not the same, though he’d professed otherwise. He was content to sniff about like a curious dog, but go no further. She intended to find the truth—whatever the cost.

  He cursed under his breath. “I should never have agreed to take you.”

  “You had no choice, remember?” Her stomach knotted again, twisted until she grimaced. “I wonder if you would be so callous if your grandfather had been murdered. If you suffered with guilt, knowing he’d died believing you had killed him.”

  “I understand—”

  “You will never understand!”

  How could he? What nightmares haunted him? What anguish coursed through his veins and burned in his belly until he wretched?

  “It’s too late to turn back now, Rees.” She gathered her features, consumed her sorrow. “You opened this door, and I will walk through it—with your support or without it.”

  Emily pivoted and left the room, descending to the front entrance and into the waiting carriage.

  Moments later, Rees followed.

  He entered the vehicle, his expression black as a thundercloud. But she had no regrets. He would never allow her to confront the earl without his protection, and she knew it. He feared for her. And she’d manipulate that fear. She owed it to Papa.

  The journey to the earl’s house was silent. As the minutes passed, she looked over at Rees, searching for . . .

  She wasn’t sure what she needed from him, anymore. There was no music that would comfort her, no words that would bring her peace. It troubled her to admit, but since she’d discovered the real reason for her father’s death, Rees had become a means to an end.

  In a short time, the carriage rolled to a stop before an elegant manor. The earl’s remaining properties, an ancestral estate in the country and a great hunting lodge in the lowlands of Scotland, languished in disrepair after generations of mismanagement. His city abode radiated with finery, though, the trappings purchased—and soon-to-be owned—by his many creditors. He needed a large sum of money to pay off his enormous debts, and a windfall was about to come his way, according to the gossip sheets.

  “Are you ready?” asked a grim voice.

  She eyed the sweeping front steps, crowded with lanterns and milling couples. Soon a murmur ascended, followed by a din. The carriage was recognized as belonging to the great violinist. Fans fluttered. Necks stretched. And eyes ogled.

  Emily glanced at Rees. He seemed unmoved by the rabble, his gaze intent upon her. Her own heart boomed in her breast. It was time for the “performance” to begin. She had been primped for such pageantry, and while she’d not attended a ball in years, her training remained as fresh as the day she’d graduated from Chateau Mont-Choisi.

  She spread her palms across her lap, smoothing her skirt. “I’m ready.”

  Rees stepped out first, inciting a frenzy. He ignored the mob and maintained an open hand, awaiting her descent.

  For a moment, she hesitated, but after a few measured breaths, she appeared in the carriage doorframe.

  All eyes turned toward her—as did the talk. The salacious talk.

  Emily stepped down from the vehicle. As her heeled shoes landed on the pavement, a vibration went through her. She slipped her hand around Rees’s arm, maintaining her poise, and gracefully climbed the stone steps leading to the grand house.

  Rees remained impervious to all the buzzing voices, his features relaxed, though aloof. His inhospitable manner discouraged the crowd from swarming them, and she was grateful for that. The warm spring air had turned sultry. She didn’t think she could withstand the crush.

  Once indoors, they proceeded through a gallery and toward the ballroom. There, on the threshold, Rees provided their names to a waiting attendant, who in
turn announced their arrival in a resounding voice.

  If gossip outside scorched the ears, the burst of excitement indoors burned them. The assembled guests craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the illustrious couple, clearly anticipating the spectacle of the century.

  And then he appeared—the Earl of Dresmond.

  Emily clapped eyes on him from across the room. Her pulse pounded in her head, drowning the ringing voices and musical overtones, and an overwhelming ache welled in her chest, taking her breath away. He had killed her father. He had stolen her father from her, destroyed the man. If Rees hadn’t a firm hold of her, she might very well have stepped forward and shouted “murderer!”

  Quickly the sea of skirts and tailed coats parted, forming a passage, and the earl approached them, his features rigid.

  Emily pinched Rees’s arm even harder. She met the earl’s glare, unflinching. He had changed, her former fiancé, dramatically aged beyond his thirty-five years. His blond hair had thinned and receded. His complexion was frightfully pale. Was he ill? she wondered. Perhaps stressed by his financial burden? Or was something else pressing on his mind, like guilt?

  He stopped just short of her, much, much too close. Closer than social niceties permitted. Had he something to voice in secrecy? His deep green eyes burrowed into her with confusion or perhaps alarm. Did he fear she would unearth a foul crime? Or was he simply startled to see her again?

  “Good evening, Lord Dresmond,” said Rees in a smooth manner. “Thank you for inviting my fiancée and myself to your most distinguished affair.”

  The earl stepped back and finally looked toward Rees. “Fiancée?” His unsure gaze returned to Emily. “You are engaged to Mr. Rees?”

  She nodded. “I am.”

  After several more tense moments, the earl’s shoulders dropped, and he even offered a congenial smile. “I am delighted to hear it. Congratulations, Mr. Rees.” He offered Rees his hand, then bowed to Emily. “And to you, Miss Wright.”

  “Thank you,” she returned stiffly, feeling a gentle pressure on her hand. She loosened her fierce hold on Rees. The earl had accepted their ruse.