A Crown for a Lady

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  “There was once a matching necklace,” the guard disclosed. “But it was stolen some thirty years ago.”

  “Really?” Alexandra asked. She clucked her tongue and fluttered her lashes at the guard. “What, pray tell, is this world coming to, that people may justify stealing what belongs to others? It’s a tragedy!”

  Claire felt a prick of guilt.

  The guard returned Alexandra’s smile. “Indeed, my lady. It’s terrible. In fact, for six hundred years, every Queen of Meridian has been portrayed wearing the entire set, except the last—Elena of Spain. The queen died very young, and His Majesty has never remarried. But, it is said that once the necklace is found, the King will find his true love.”

  Alexandra sighed. “That is so romantic!” she declared. She elbowed Claire. “Isn’t it, Claire?”

  It was, indeed.

  Claire sighed, realizing that no matter what wicked thoughts had brought her to this place, she could never steal from these people—nor from anyone. Like her grandmother’s silver, and the sword hanging on the wall inside the pawnshop, these jewels were somebody’s history, somebody’s treasures. She smiled wanly, reconsidering Lord Huntington’s proposal. Where Ben’s life was at stake, she had no room to bargain.

  “I see you’ve acquainted yourself quite nicely with the crown jewels,” a familiar voice taunted.

  Claire gasped at the sound, her gaze snapping upward. “You, again!”

  Those pale blue eyes seemed to impale her. “Do you find them to your liking?” he asked, his expression as mocking as ever. And, God save her, his slow grin was devastating.

  Despite that her cheeks felt hot and her legs were liquid, Claire straightened her spine. “Really sir, have you nothing better to do than to follow me about and harass me?” she asked, hoping she sounded fully composed despite her private distress.

  “My lady!” the guard intervened. “You mustn’t—”

  “It’s quite all right,” her tormentor said to the sword-bearing guard, lifting a hand to silence him, though his gaze never left Claire’s face. And then he turned to the guard and demanded with palm outstretched, “Give me the ring.”

  To Claire’s astonishment, the guard didn’t argue. He opened the display case to retrieve the heirloom, and she had a sudden, sinking feeling.

  “Here you are, Your Royal Highness.”

  Your Royal Highness.

  Claire groaned inwardly.

  She wanted nothing more than to sink into oblivion. And now, Alexandra was staring. In fact, Claire was acutely aware that everyone was staring. But she was far too overwhelmed to speak. He seized her hand, slipping the ring onto her finger. To her utter dismay, she hadn’t the wherewithal to resist.

  “What are you doing?”

  He winked at her. “A beautiful ring deserves a beautiful bride,” he replied.

  Claire blinked in horror at the sight of the enormous ring on her finger. Her face flamed. “But you mistake—”

  He led her toward the dance floor, out of Alexandra’s earshot, and forced her to dance, despite the fact that they couldn’t make out a single note of music over the sudden outburst of chatter.

  “I mistake nothing,” he said with great meaning as he drew her closer. “I am fully aware of the reason for your attendance this evening… Claire.”

  Claire daren’t pull away from his steely embrace—not with so many pairs of eyes fastened upon them—but she sorely longed to. The warmth of his skin made her feel weak. And her heart was tripping so hard she feared it would burst from her breast. She said low, for his ears alone, mortified by her body’s response to him, by the attention forced upon her, “You really haven’t a clue why I am here, Your Royal Highness. And it’s Lady Claire Wentworth to you, thank you very much. Please, I demand you release me. This is entirely inappropriate.”

  His answering smile stole her breath away. “Of course I know why you’re here,” he whispered. “And, you, Lady Wentworth, are in no position to demand anything from me at all.”

  Claire’s face warmed.

  It was true. She had, of course, come to see the ring—and here it was, far closer than she dared to hope! But, in retrospect, she truly wouldn’t have stolen it. She had only fantasized about doing so, hadn’t really done anything but look at those jewels, and he hadn’t any blessed proof to accuse her. No matter what he thought of her, she wasn’t a thief.

  “I have a proposal for you, Claire,” he murmured softly and his raspy voice sent tiny tremors down her spine. There was a tiny hint of some familiar but indistinguishable diction.

  And nevertheless, no man had ever affected her so.

  She tried to remain calm, but panic welled up inside her. “And what, pray tell, might that be, Your Royal Highness?”

  No matter that he took liberties with her Christian name, she wouldn’t return the disfavor.

  “I’ve no desire to marry you any more than you wish to marry me,” he said, dropping all sense of pretense or tact. “In fact, I have no desire to wed anyone at all. And therefore, I am willing to make you a proposal—one we should both profit from.”

  Claire tensed, wholly afraid he would offer her the same proposal Lord Huntington had. Her tone held a steely edge. “And what might that be?”

  His eyes gleamed. “I will escort you to the dais to meet my father,” he said, “and I will publicly announce that I have chosen my bride. You will flash those beautiful white teeth and the ring on your finger, stand by my side and try, very desperately, to appear pleased by my choice. At the end of this farce, you may keep that ring without question. You need only make up some reason as to why you cannot wed me. Perhaps you don’t love me, after all.”

  “Of course I don’t love you,” Claire protested. What a ludicrous notion! How could she love a man she didn’t even know? “I’ve only met you twice!” she pointed out.

  “Three times,” he corrected her. “And that’s enough to establish at least some attraction, don’t you think?”

  Claire gasped. “I am not the least bit attracted to you, I assure you!”

  “Are you not?”

  Claire’s heart did a telltale flip. She was sorely afraid he might feel it as well. “Not at all,” she lied.

  He grinned as though, somehow, he knew differently. “Pity,” he said. “Because I am quite attracted to you.”

  Claire felt as though she would swoon where she stood. Indeed, she was quite afraid that the only thing keeping her from doing so was the prince’s firm embrace.

  There was an awkward moment of silence between them.

  “Any excuse not to marry me will do,” he reassured, as though he hadn’t just made her skin prickle. “Perhaps you simply don’t wish to leave England. And then, after you cruelly reject me, I shall depart London—a brokenhearted man—and return to Meridian to lick my wounds like a sad little puppy dog.”

  “I can hardly imagine that you would be heartbroken after such a brief engagement.”

  “Certainly, I would be disappointed,” he countered, his tone disaffected. “After all, I managed to snare the loveliest woman in all of London.”

  Claire commanded herself not to blush over his false flattery, though her cheeks betrayed her. His plan seemed entirely too simple. “And why would you do such a thing?”

  “To buy time, of course.”

  Claire lifted a brow. “Time for what?”

  “To find a more suitable bride, if I must. Evidently, I have exhausted everyone’s patience and I am ordered to choose, tonight, the woman destined to bear me little princes and princesses. Have you looked about you this evening? We are surrounded by empty-headed misses who, apparently, have managed to acquire more lace than wit in their lifetimes.”

  Claire choked back a bit of laughter. She had to confess that she rather agreed with his assessment of the ton.

  “Do you realize that’s the first smile I’ve ever witnessed on your beautiful lips? It’s quite startling,” he said.

  Claire ignored his compliment. He w
as proposing a business arrangement, not an affaire de coeur, and it behooved her to remember as much. “Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, sirrah, but you haven’t particularly given me any reasons to smile.”

  He winked at her. “We shall have to remedy that, won’t we?”

  Claire’s heart skipped another beat.

  She didn’t want to be attracted to him and didn’t care what he thought of her. Nor did she believe he truly cared about her feelings. “And what if I should refuse your offer?”

  He flashed her a disarming smile. “Then I shall be forced to regale everyone with tales of our first, very memorable encounter. It might prove to be somewhat awkward, don’t you think?”

  Claire straightened her spine and tried to smile. “You would resort to extortion?”

  His grin only widened. “But, of course. It is hardly the worst thing I have ever done.”

  Claire frowned at him. “You can tell anyone anything you like,” she declared, refusing to kowtow to him, although, in truth, she did care. Her face must be as bright as Alexandra’s dress right now, but it grew warmer still—in part from anger, because she couldn’t turn down his offer. Too much was at stake to allow pride to prevail.

  “Do it my way and we both walk away winners,” he urged.

  Pride warred with good sense.

  Claire peered up at him. “And you will not contest my reason for breaking our betrothal?”

  “Absolutely not.” His eyes seemed to speak the truth. “Why should I wish to force any woman into wedlock?”

  “And then afterward, you will give me the ring without question?”

  “Yes,” he said. “And if not the ring, a sum of money of equal value, whichever you prefer.”

  Claire sighed. “Very well.”

  “Famous! Now, smile, my darling, we have a very happy announcement to make.”

  Claire gave him only half a smile.

  “That’s my girl,” he said, as he pulled her toward him for a brief cheek hug. Claire allowed him to lead her off the dance floor, toward the dais, suddenly aware that the entire room was now so hushed one could hear oneself breathe.

  It was all a ruse, she reminded herself.

  There was no reason for jitters.

  Still, her legs trembled as he turned to assist her up the steps. A single glance up, at the dais, at his father and the duchess, revealed expressions of horror. If he hadn’t placed his hand at her back to steady her, Claire might have gone and swooned. Truly, as he led her before his father and introduced her, Claire felt as though she were walking in a dream.

  “Congratulations, my dear,” the duchess said amiably, despite her earlier expression of disfavor. She kissed both Claire’s cheeks. “You are quite the fortunate young lady. Your papa would be proud.”

  His Majesty said nothing at all, simply smiled and patted Claire’s hand, his eyes never lifting from the ring on her finger. He was clearly at a loss for words. Claire longed to reassure him that it would all be over soon but his disapproval stung—though not enough to dampen her growing enthusiasm.

  She peered down at the ring, wondering how much it was worth. Never in her girlhood fantasies could she have ever imagined that the prospect of becoming a jilted bride would make her so euphoric. Let everyone pity her in a month when it was all over. She would walk away with a fortune. And, best of all, her brother would be free.

  Now, she need only send a message to Ben’s captors to plead for more time.

  Chapter 12

  By the following morning, everyone in London who was able to read, or who had ears to hear, had heard the news.

  Claire might have thought it all but a dream but for the gargantuan ring that remained on her finger—that, and the front page of The Times that greeted her when she opened her bedroom door. Jasper had the paper down in front of her door so she was forced to face the morning’s headlines.

  A Crown For A Lady, the headline teased.

  Bending to lift up the periodical, Claire shook her head, amazed that with all the crime and world events, a simple engagement should make the front page.

  It wasn’t even a true engagement.

  The article declared:

  HRH, the Crown Prince of Meridian and Lady Claire Wentworth are to be wed.

  Last evening, at a ball sponsored by the Duchess of Kent, the engagement was made official, bringing Prince Merrick’s celebrated three-year search for a bride to a stunning conclusion.

  A spokesman for Meridian’s royal house made the following statement: “It is with great pleasure that the royal house of Meridian announces the betrothal of its beloved son, HRH, the Crown Prince of Meridian, to Lady Claire Wentworth, daughter of the late Earl of Highbury and the late Countess of Highbury.”

  The seventh Earl of Highbury, the late Earl’s only surviving heir, is expected to give away the bride. He could not be reached for comment.

  In anticipation of the joyous event, the Archbishop of Canterbury has honored a request for a special license. The wedding, however, is to be held in Meridian, to allow the bride a respectful period of mourning.

  Making her way downstairs, Claire turned to the society page. There she found another, longer article. This one detailed the entire evening, reprimanding her for her scandalous choice of dress—how dare she wear velvet whilst still in mourning—and implying that now she would be forced to learn proper decorum, as the Royal House of Meridian was likely to be far less forgiving than her too-permissive father. However, the article forgave her for her lapses in judgment, declaring that she “could scarcely be blamed for her choices because of the absence of a proper female figure in her household.”

  Claire took offense. What was she, if not proper?

  Unlike many women of her age, she’d never even kissed a man. She’d never worn revealing dresses or flirted with married men. In truth, she’d never flirted with anyone at all, and she doubted she would even know how. She had never spoken ill of—or to—anyone, nor had she ever been disrespectful to her father. Perhaps she wasn’t precisely political, but she was certainly proper.

  Although the article rankled her, she continued to read, fascinated to know what the public thought about her and her unexpected betrothal.

  Apparently, she was London’s new darling, and a number of well-placed mothers had offered to tutor her before her imminent departure from England. Claire frowned as she continued to read. She hardly needed tutoring. Her intellect was not lacking—she knew more than most—and her manners were impeccable. Merely because she didn’t enjoy soirees, gossip and shopping didn’t make her a misfit.

  The article dared to suggest that her brother should be grateful for the match, as it was rumored they were left deep in dun territory after their father’s death.

  There was also speculation about a longstanding affaire between Claire and the prince, but the Duchess of Kent had issued a statement of contradiction, attesting to the fact that before last evening, Prince Merrick hadn’t even known Claire’s name. Moreover, the duchess admitted that Prince Merrick had been enamored with Claire from the instant he’d set eyes on her that it was clear to her from the moment he set eyes upon her that their betrothal was fated.

  Halfway down the stairwell, Claire sat on the steps to finish reading.

  It wasn’t true, of course—that Merrick was enamored of her. The duchess hadn’t the first inkling how they’d met. She couldn’t possibly know that even his compliments were laced with mockery.

  The article ended with fervent good wishes for the “happy couple” and declared that London had not witnessed such a fairytale coupling for ages. It concluded that all of London, from the very rich to the very poor, would follow the courting and transformation of Lady Claire Wentworth.

  Part of Claire wanted to scream with outrage and toss down the paper. Part of her wanted to fold it neatly and stash it somewhere safe, because, if she didn’t know better—know the real story behind it all—she might be drawn into believing the fantasy. It did sound terribly roman
tic, if one looked only at the surface. Only beneath the surface, however, the truth was far less glittery.

  Still, she wondered why Merrick had chosen her when he could very well have offered the same proposal to anyone.

  Unless he was only the tiniest bit attracted to her, as he claimed. And she was forced to confess, if only to herself, that that was a shockingly pleasant thought.

  However, it wouldn’t serve to dwell on that, she told herself. In short time, everything would be over; the prince would once again vanish from London, and she would be alone again—with Ben, of course—and no longer quite so destitute.

  No matter what his reason for the proposal—perhaps he felt guilty for his mistreatment of her—Claire had awakened this morning feeling as though a tremendous burden had been lifted from her shoulders. And she would gladly play the part of a happy bride until the time arrived to end their affair. And then, she would claim she wasn’t prepared to leave London to make her home in a strange land. She would end their betrothal tearfully and wish Prince Merrick well.

  Then she would promptly forget him.

  * * *

  “How’s our reluctant guest?” Huntington asked.

  “Full of complaints.”

  “Well, that’s to be expected, isn’t it?” Huntington said. “I want you to raise the ransom.”

  He’d been thwarted by the most unexpected turn of events. Weeks before, when Ben came to him seeking counsel and money, he’d referred the boy instead to the back room at White’s, as he wasn’t in the habit of giving away his bank notes. However, Ben’s debts had presented him with the perfect opportunity to get what he really wanted.

  Claire.

  He’d coveted that chit from the instant she’d flowered into womanhood. Unlike the rest of the ton, his daughter included, Claire actually used her God-given wits for something more than calculating her social status. No, indeed, winning her would take far more than the promise of a pretty ring on her finger—or so he’d thought.

  Last night’s engagement took him aback. Had he considered it even remotely possible, he would never have sent Alexandra to convince Claire to join them for the evening.