by Cheryl Bolen
He folded his arms across his chest. "I won't do it."
She raised a flattened hand. "I beg that you hear me out. Princess Caroline, who loves to spend money on possessions, is rather tight fisted. I assure you she will welcome the opportunity to have you purchase one of her exceedingly expensive dresses." Daphne stopped and lowered her voice. "And I have no doubts that she will be attracted to you in your uniform--not that she wouldn't be attracted to you without your uniform---Oh dear, I don't mean completely without . . . Well, what I mean is that you're very handsome, with or without a uniform, and the princess is sure to take notice of that fact."
His dark eyes went cold as agate, a ruse to cover his unexpected pleasure over her praise. "I told you I'm not wearing my uniform. If anyone guesses my true identity our mission will be compromised."
"Oh, you won't' be wearing your uniform."
He gulped down his brandy. "Then what uniform do you propose I wear? If I were so inclined--which I'm not."
"My cousin's. He's at sea at present, but I happen to know some of his dress uniforms have been left behind here in London. And we're in luck because he's your size." She paused to sigh. "There's nothing more dashing than a man in a naval uniform, don't you think?"
No, he did not. He rather preferred Dragoon dress. "While I have no intention of complying with your silly scheme, I'm interested to know why you wish me to wear a uniform. A naval uniform."
"For several very good reasons, actually, the first being that women adore men in uniform, and we are trying to make you attractive to the princess."
"You're really quite diabolical."
She swiped at his arm, narrowing her eyes with mock indignation. "I'm not, either! I think my plan has merit."
"What are your other very good reasons for demanding the naval uniform?"
"It has been my observation that uniforms command a great deal of attention. If you're wearing one, people will be likely to remember the way you looked in the uniform rather than how you actually look. You see, I shouldn't want anyone to link you to the rich Mr. Rich, not that that's likely, given that the princess does not move in our set."
"You still haven't convinced me."
"Oh, there's still another reason. If you're wearing a naval officer's uniform, no one would ever connect you to your true identity."
He settled back against the sofa's cushions and eyed her with disdain. "Not that I'm considering your vile scheme for a moment, but let's say I was. What are you proposing that I do once I've attracted the princess's notice?"
"You pretend to court her."
"She's a married woman! Married to our sovereign--the man whom we're trying to protect."
She flicked her wrist again. "She doesn't have to know of your aversion to extramarital affairs, and I assure you she has no compunction against them. It's not as if you actually have to bed her. You have only to convince her of your complete devotion."
Lady Daphne, he decided, was delusional. "And then what?"
Daphne's brows drew together again. "I'm not actually sure." She got up, crossed the room, and poured herself a glass of brandy. "Allow me to think on that."
Ah ha! He had trapped her at her own game. He settled back and watched her deep in concentration. Silly woman, she had bit off more than she could chew this time. He smiled as an amusing thought entered his head. Why not toss the juicy morsel to her? "I could," he teased, eying the brandy swirling in his snifter, "offer to murder her husband in order to marry her myself."
She slammed her glass down on the tea table and faced him, her eyes wide with excitement. "That is positively brilliant!"
Though he fought his urge to strangle her, he had only himself to blame for this latest bit of buffoonery. "So let me see if I understand what you desire," he said, scowling. "You wish me to practically disrobe the princess on the pavement of London, feign an adulterous affection for our future queen, then offer to bump off her husband, our monarch. Am I correct on all of this?"
She clapped her hands together with glee. "Absolutely!"
"You're a raving lunatic!"
Her lower lip worked into a pout. "I am not. If you'd only consider what I'm saying, you'd realize my plan has merit."
"Your plan is ridiculous. Do you realize I could be hanged for treason?"
She peered into her lap, that pout still on her face. He found himself staring at her lap, suddenly very cognizant of the sheer fabric which only barely concealed her long, slender legs, and that summoned the memory of watching her in the ballroom, her body silhouetted against the bright glare of the chandeliers. There was something very provocative about Lady Daphne Chalmers in clinging, see-through silk.
He averted his gaze.
"The regent would not allow you to be charged with treason." Her chin tilted stubbornly. "Tell me who is now at the top of your invisible list of suspects," she demanded.
He thought on it for a moment. Lady Jersey's husband was dead. Mr. St. Ryse did not wish to do murder to the monarch who coveted his lover. Lord Hertford was said to be one of the regent's best friends. Which left only one person: Princess Caroline. "You may have a point there," he conceded.
"Of course I have a point. My plan is brilliant."
He took a long drink from his snifter. As much as he loathed to admit it and as reluctant as he was to go along with Lady Daphne's silly plan, he had to confess it had merit. "Perhaps it's not actually diabolical," he said, "but what makes you so certain the princess would even take notice of me?"
"All women take notice of you."
Though he could not deny that in the past he'd had a facility for attracting women, he had never tried to attract women who were above his station. Women like Lady Daphne Chalmers. He flicked a glance at her. Her serious little face was bathed in firelight, and he thought she looked rather childlike. She, for one, was immune to his so-called charms, even if she had said, 'all women take notice of you,' a comment that had startled him for its unexpectedness. He would have sworn Lady Daphne paid no attention to members of the opposite sex. It must be the brandy. Of course, he told himself, noticing one's physical attributes was not the same as lusting after one who possessed those attributes.
As he thought of Princess Caroline, he wondered how he could be so presumptuous as to believe that the princess would jump at the bait. "I daresay the woman's old enough to be my mother. What makes you think she would wish a liaison with me?"
"The princess, my dear captain, likes virile men."
Good lord! He could not believe he was having this conversation on his virility with a maiden. A well-born maiden. Should he deny that he was virile? Somehow, the notion had no appeal. He did not want Lady Daphne to think he was some sort of milksop. A smile played at the corners of his mouth as he decided he would turn the tables on his cocky companion. He faced Daphne. "Do you find me virile, Lady Daphne?"
It gave him great pleasure to watch the fiery heat climb into her pale cheeks.
"While your virility is not something I have contemplated," she said, staring into her lap, "I believe the princess has more expertise in that area than I."
There was something rather endearing about Daphne's innocence. Even if she was wretchedly manipulative.
He took another long drink and sighed. "I must admit that the princess tops my meager list of suspects."
Daphne titled her face to his, smiling brightly. "Then you will go along with my plan?"
"We've no assurances it will be successful, you know. She may have a lover already, a man more attractive to her than I."
Daphne's gaze slowly traveled over him from the top of his head to the tips of his shiny shoes. "Impossible."
The room suddenly felt very hot, and he did not see why Lady Daphne's thigh must rub against his. "While I don't share your optimism that this plan will work, I may have a go at it."
She could only barely contain her glee as she launched into a description of Mrs. Spence's dress shop. "You do have enough money to pay for the replacement of her
gown?"
"I have enough money."
"Now, what you really need is for her to ask you to Blackheath. Even if you don't actually--after an agreeable period of time has passed--offer to do in the regent, you will at least be able to gauge the degree of her contempt--and you might even be able determine who she hired to do the deed."
"If she hired someone." He frowned. "Are you sure I must wear a naval uniform? What if I'm asked questions about ships or bosun or such?"
"You'll just have to brush up on them as you did on South Africa."
He mumbled under his breath. The longer he sat next to her, the more aware he became of her unusual fragrance, unusual in that he could not remember ever smelling it on another person. Suddenly he realized that she smelled of spearmint. "Why, my lady, do I always smell spearmint when you're about?"
She peered at him over the ridge of her spectacles and smiled. "How observant you are!"
"One could not help but to notice such an uncommon a scent. It permeates you always."
"Then I'm delighted to learn that. I have a high degree of sensitivity to odors and should not like to emit them myself. I read that if one always has spearmint on one's tongue--well, not actually spearmint but a decoction I have made and always keep in my reticule. As I was saying, one will never suffer stinking breath."
If the discussion of his virility was not peculiar enough, this conversation about stinking breath would surely bring a blush to most maidens' cheeks. But not to Daphne's.
"Of course," she continued, "the twins are forever chastising me for using mint."
He thought a pleasant-smelling breath was something to admire, not chastise. "Why would that be?"
"Because," she said in a grave voice, "spearmint is said to stir the lust."
First his virility, then the stinking breath, and now maidenly lust. Did the woman have no sensibilities?
"But I assure you," she said, "in the three years I've been daily partaking of spearmint--several times a day, actually--I've not once been stirred by lust."
Which was more information than he wanted to know. He cleared his throat. "So . . ." he said, "If your plan is successful would you wish to stay in contact with me?"
"Oh, yes. I beg that you give me a report every day. You can switch back into your Mr. Rich clothing and come calling on me."
He shook his head. "This all seems terribly risky."
She peered down her nose at him. "What risk could you be talking about? The princess is hardly likely to do you harm."
"What if someone who knows me as Mr. Rich should see me with her majesty?"
Daphne shrugged. "You would merely deny it. It would be your word against the other person's, and you should know your own identity!"
Somewhere in what she had just said there must be a kernel of logic, but it behooved him to find it. "What identity do I take this time?"
"I don't see why you cannot stay a captain."
"Captain Roberts?"
She shook her head. "Too common." She took a dainty sip of brandy. "How about Captain Cook?"
"You, no doubt, have a fetish for one-syllable names. I won't be Captain Cook."
"I suppose you want two syllables?"
"I'd much prefer two syllables."
"What about Captain Hastings?"
He nodded thoughtfully. "That might work."
"Then let us drink to that," she said, clinking her snifter against his. "To the success of our mission."
He nodded, and after he drank, stood and peered down at her. "When will we meet again?"
"I shall expect you to pay a call tomorrow evening."
Chapter 8
As he stood on the pavement some twenty feet away from the entrance to Mrs. Spence's establishment, Jack watched Princess Caroline alight from a carriage bearing the royal crest. The regent's words on first seeing his betrothed slammed into Jack. According to Daphne, the prince had said, "Harris, I am not well; pray get me a glass of brandy." Jack had thought the quote exaggerated.
Now he knew it was not.
Though she was close to fifty, the princess dressed as a much younger woman, a younger woman who had not turned to fat. Actually, she dressed more like a lady of the night than a woman of nobility.
And she had most definitely turned to fat.
Though it was early afternoon, she wore silk. Very wrinkled silk in a teal color that somewhat matched the color of her eyes. Greasy stains blotched the skirts of the dress, which featured a low-scooping neckline that displayed two huge breasts pressed together to produce a deep crevice. Her skin was florid, her once-golden hair so matted he could not believe a brush had touched it in days.
The idea of ingratiating himself with this woman had him saying to himself, "Pray, Daphne, I am sick."
But he could not ignore his duty. He stepped forward, hastening his pace until he was directly behind the princess. Then he jabbed his boot onto the trail of worn fabric that puddled at her heels, and he levered his full weight onto it.
Rip.
The princess froze.
Her lady-in-waiting shrieked.
Then the princess whirled around and glared at him.
In a gallant gesture, he dropped to one knee. Not removing his gaze from hers, he said, "I beg your Royal Highness's forgiveness." Then he allowed himself to smile as he stood up to his full height.
Her glance moved with him, staring at him from the tips of his shiny boots, along the too-gaudy naval uniform with its gold epaulets, and came to rest on his face. The expression on her face became less severe.
"I beg that you allow me to in some small way compensate you for the wretched damage I've done," he said. He nodded toward Mrs. Spence's establishment. "You must have Mrs. Spence replace your lovely gown--at my expense." He started toward the door. "Allow me to speak with the lady." He stood aside to let the princess precede him, then he strode into the shop.
"It is not necessary," the princess said, her voice heavily accented in German.
"You are all kindness, but I must insist. It's devastating to think I have so harmed your highness--and your beautiful gown. Only by repairing the damage I've caused will my conscience be relieved."
When she smiled at him, he could have let out an exclamation of relief. More confident now, he turned to a matronly looking woman who must be the proprietor of the establishment. "You are Mrs. Spence?" he asked.
She nodded.
"I am crushed that my carelessness has ruined her Royal Highness's lovely gown. Please see that it is replaced at my expense."
Mrs. Spence looked from Jack to the princess.
The princess nodded.
"If your Royal Highness would be so kind as to step this way," the modiste said.
Princess Caroline turned to Jack. "Stay here."
Another victory.
Now, how in the hell was he to further the acquaintance? He began to pace the carpeted reception area. How much would a bloody gown cost? Did one simply produce the money, or did one have the bill sent to his lodgings? Of course he couldn't give his address since Mr. Rich--not Captain Hastings--resided there, and he could not allow the princess to learn his true identity. Or his true false identity.
Being a spy in the Peninsula was decidedly easier than living a triple identity among the British ton.
As he paced he came up with two ideas. First, he must insure that the princess was apprised of his bachelorhood. Then he must compliment her profusely. He had already praised her filthy dress. Surely his false flattery could extend to her person. He gulped. What could he find in that slovenly person to compliment?
He paced some more. Dressing as she did, the princess no doubt liked to exhibit her sexuality. How could he convey that he found her sexually appealing when she was as appealing as a sack of rotting potatoes?
He had always been good at thinking on his feet, but this ruse was a decided challenge.
After a few minutes, the princess came lumbering from the fitting room. Her step was as graceful as a cow's.
He smiled and bowed. "Finished so soon?"
"I find fittings tedious," she said in a guttural voice, narrowing her eyes as she watched him. "Pray, vut is your name?"
"Captain Hastings, at your Royal Highness's service." He turned to the dressmaker. "Not having a wife, I'm not sure how one goes about this. May I just pay you today?"
Mrs. Spence's hazel eyes glittered. "That would be very agreeable, Captain."
He turned back to smile at the princess, his gaze whisking over her. "Would that I could be so honored as to actually see your Royal Highness in the new gown."
"Vin vill it be ready?" she asked the modiste.
"If it pleases your Royal Highness we could work around the clock and have it ready by noon tomorrow."
Princess Caroline eyed Jack. "You must deliver it to me zen."
With her entourage trailing behind her, the portly princess strode toward her carriage.
* * *
He showed up at Sidworth House in time to take Lady Daphne for an afternoon drive in the park. As they entered through the park's congested gates, he found himself turning every which way, looking for the princess's gleaming coach. It wouldn't do for her to see him with Daphne Chalmers. That Lady Daphne had no chaperone bespoke of her intimate relationship with Jack.
His sudden desire for a disguise reminded him of the time he and Edwards had grown mustaches in order to blend in with the Spaniards while gleaning vital information on French troop movements.
He shut his eyes tightly. Damn but he missed Edwards. No man had ever had a better friend. The two of them had been together for almost as many years as Jack had lived under his parents' roof. They had first served together in India, then they had been in the same regiment in Spain. When Jack was selected for reconnaissance, Edwards had insisted on accompanying him.
What a pair the two of them had been! Their work directly contributed to almost every one of England's peninsular victories--accomplishments often praised by their commander. On more than one occasion Edwards had saved Jack's life, and on more than one occasion Jack had saved Edwards's life. His heart thudded with remorse when he thought of Edwards's needless death. Even though more than a year had passed since Edwards had been murdered, not a day went by that Jack did not relive that day; not a day passed that he did not regret the severity of his own wound which prevented him from accompanying his colleague that fateful day. He wondered if Edwards would have died had Jack been there in Segura to thwart the attack. Or would he, too, have died?
