He didn’t realize how loudly he was grumbling to himself until he saw the stray dog skitter out of his path, tail between his legs and the fur bristling on his neck. Wonderful. Next he’d cause small children to weep and their mothers to faint.
At least he’d reached the Thames. The river was hardly the sea, but to Tom any water was a better vista than another brick wall. He always liked this time of day at sea, too, when the water was just beginning to come to life. The dawn’s pale light dappled the surface, and boats of every size and shape were already cutting across the water, carrying geese to the market, bales of tea from the East India men, a party of drooping revelers bound for their beds and a solitary navy officer being rowed in his ship’s gig to the steep steps of the offices at Whitehall. This last made Tom sigh with frustration, and stare longingly down the river to where the oceangoing ships were moored.
Someday one of those ships would be his again. Someday he’d have another command, a ship and crew and a gig of his own.
Someday, that is, if the Princess di Fortunaro weren’t the death of him first.
With one last muttered oath, Tom pushed open the heavy door of the Anchor, a coffeehouse that catered to navy officers from the nearby Admiralty offices. It was early here, too, but the Anchor kept seagoing hours, even marking the time for its patrons in watches rather than landsmen’s hours and minutes.
He breathed deeply of the welcoming scents of roasting coffee beans and steaming chocolate, mingled with the richer tang of frying bacon from the kitchen. Even so, the room was still nearly empty. Tom liked it that way, especially in his present mood. He took a place at a table near the window, one with the day’s first newspapers waiting in a neat pile for customers, and set his hat on the table beside it. A boy brought him an earthenware mug of coffee, and resolutely Tom reached for the topmost paper, determined to find first the news that he dreaded the most.
He didn’t have far to look. Directly after the war reports from the Continent and a debate in the House came the story that most of London would devour with their tea and eggs.
The list of beautiful & noble refugees to our shores has acquired a new & most notable addition, viz. Her Royal Highness Isabella, Princess di Fortunaro of the Kingdom of Monteverde. Though the princess is said to have resided in Berkeley Square for several weeks, a guest of the Countess of Vaughn, only yesterday did she boldly venture forth to explore the amusements of the highest ton. She is in truth an original beauty of rare style & rich elegance, her ancient blood granting her regal carriage & distinction.
Alas, her first outing in our fair city was marred by an attack against her person by one of the tyrant Buonaparte’s handmaidens, one Maria Corelli by name. Only the courage & agility of Captain Lord Thomas Greaves, son of the Earl of Lechmere and already an honored HERO in the service of his country, saved the princess from certain death & tragedy. While others could but quake with terror, the captain, at great risk to his own person, intercepted the villainess, & disarmed her before any violence was wrought. Though faint with terror, the princess was most gracious in her gratitude.
We can only pray that the Captain will continue to attend her & guard her, and offer to us the instructive & pleasurable image of BEAUTY & BRAVERY joined together.
Rubbish, all of it. The princess hadn’t been “boldly venturing forth” into that shop, unless those were the words that news scribblers preferred to “tripping” or “falling.” He’d agree that she was an original beauty, though even he knew that was a backhanded way of complimenting a lady whose appearance fell outside conventional tastes, but who was also too well-born or powerful to insult.
But this nonsense about him being a hero, and gallantly saving her from death and tragedy, and uniting beauty and bravery—well, that was about the most stupid cock and bull he’d ever read, and with another oath of disgust he turned to the next paper.
This one was worse. Here he’d “laid down his life to save the swooning princess.” He’d done no laying, and she’d done no swooning. In fact, when he recalled how hard the princess had fought him in the carriage, she probably could have dispensed with the seamstress herself, without any assistance from him.
The third paper turned Mrs. Copperthwaite’s shop into a scene of Shakespearean carnage, with wounded footmen spurting blood, screaming women, and the Brave Heroic Captain wrestling the Foreign Villainess to the floor before the woman stabbed herself fatally through Her Very Heart.
But despite how far-fetched these stories were, each one contained the same troubling truths. They announced the princess’s arrival in London. They told the world exactly where she was staying. They made her sound wealthy. And they announced to every vainglorious or violent dimwit in London that the surest path to seeing his or her name in the papers was to attack the Princess di Fortunaro.
“Ah, Greaves, I didn’t expect to find you here!” Without waiting for an invitation, Admiral Cranford settled himself into the chair beside Tom’s. He waved at the newspapers, his wide, ruddy face beaming. “Reading about your glorious escapades, are you? Didn’t I say you were the proper man for this assignment?”
But Tom wasn’t beaming in return. “Forgive me, sir, but I do not see the glory in this. If I had done my duty, I would never have let the princess go into that wretched shop in the first place.”
“You cannot keep her a prisoner, Greaves.” Cranford shook his head. “If we’d wanted that for her, we would have locked her away ourselves. No, no. I thought I’d made that clear before. It is important for her to be seen about the city. Your role is to show her off, and to be there if she needs you, just as you did yesterday at that dressmaker’s shop.”
“But if she hadn’t—”
“Not a word more, Greaves. You’re doing splendidly, and that’s an end to it. The other lords at the admiralty are most pleased, too, you know.” He tapped the pile of papers. “This is priceless for our cause. You and I both know that a cutting-out mission on the French coast smokes this for danger and risk, but this kind of adventure is what the public wants to read, and it makes the whole service shine in their eyes. A bona fide hero saves a pretty princess—it might as well be one of those ladies’ storybooks, eh?”
Not to Tom, it didn’t, not by half. “What of the princess? I thought her welfare was to be my first concern.”
“The princess?” The admiral seemed surprised Tom had asked. “Was she in fact injured yesterday? Your message said she was unharmed, and certainly these reports—”
“She’s as well as any lady can be, under the circumstances,” Tom said. “But what of the next time? Every lunatic hothead with a grudge will make her a target after this, yet I am to continue to put her in peril.”
“Not in peril, man.” Cranford drummed his fingers impatiently. “Don’t play the doomsayer. As long as she has you to watch over her, she’s not in peril.”
“One man against an entire city?”
“One British navy captain!”
“One man,” Tom said softly. If he’d learned anything from his last wounds, it was a regard for his own mortality. “She told me her belongings had been searched by Lady Willoughby’s staff.”
“By my orders.” The admiral nodded, waving to the boy to bring him a mug of his own. “A minor precaution for my sister’s well-being.”
“No doubt.” Tom leaned forward, lowering his voice though no one else was within hearing. “Was anything of special interest found? Any keys to dangerous acquaintances here in London, or jewels of great value that would put her at higher risk?”
“Nothing of the sort at all,” Cranford said. “Except for her gaudy tastes in dress, everything was exactly as to be expected for a young lady of her rank. As for acquaintances, there are none, at least none that have been found.”
“What of her family?”
The admiral snorted with disdain. “She’s had nary a peep from that sorry bunch of rascals. For all we know, Buonaparte’s men may have used them for shooting practice, and the princess i
s the last ignoble Fortunaro left on this earth. Which is why, Greaves, I don’t want to hear another word about her being in any danger that you cannot navigate, else I’ll begin to doubt your capabilities.”
“No, sir,” Tom answered curtly. There was no other acceptable answer to that, even if Tom did doubt himself. He had to continue to keep those admiralty lords happy and pleased, or else he’d never set foot aboard his own command again.
Yet he still couldn’t help but feel sorry for the princess. It was bad enough to be cast adrift in a strange country, but how much worse not to know if your family still lived, or if you were the last and only survivor.
“Good.” The admiral relaxed and sipped at the coffee the boy had brought him. “Now that all the lady-hostesses will read about the princess, I’ll wager she’ll be flooded with invitations, especially at this time of year.”
“The only one she cares for would come from His Majesty.”
The admiral shook his head. “Not likely, not likely. It’s not the princess herself, you understand, but His Majesty’s advisors must choose his alliances and public favors with care.”
“Surely asking her to tea by way of welcome wouldn’t unsettle the rest of his allies?”
“Ah, but it could,” the admiral countered. “A Monteverdian princess is entertained at the palace, and suddenly the ambassadors from Parma and Naples and Rome are up in arms, threatening this and that like some damned Punch and Judy play. It’s a tangle.”
With reluctance Tom could understand, but he doubted the princess would. To her, King George and the rest of the Hanovers were family, albeit remote cousins, and she’d be bound to take his silence as a personal slight. Tom couldn’t blame her, either.
“But mark this, Greaves,” Cranford said, hurrying to leave that subject behind. “I’ve heard Lady Allen’s giving some sort of ball tomorrow night. That would be a splendid place to show the princess to good advantage. She’d take to that, wouldn’t she?”
“Lady Allen, sir?” Tom couldn’t keep the dismay from his voice. Even as removed as he was from the fashionable ton, Tom had heard of the Duchess of Avery’s entertainments, exclusive, infamous affairs notorious both for the excessive wine and gaming in the house and the seductions in the garden outside, parties that often could last clear through the night and almost until noon of the following day. “I’m not certain that would be the best introduction to London for the princess, sir.”
“I can think of none better.” The admiral’s smile turned into almost a leer. “And London, be assured, will thank you for it. You forget that the lady was raised in the Monteverdian court, Greaves. I’d lay you a guinea she could teach even Lady Allen herself a few new tricks, eh?”
Abruptly Tom rose. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe what the admiral was saying about the princess—given her manner, it was impossible not to—but that still didn’t make Tom want to sit here and listen to it.
Damnation, when she’d turned that little chin up toward him and smiled with her lips apart—she’d done that for him, hadn’t she? She said she’d trusted him like no other, because he’d saved her life, because she liked him. She’d said that. She wouldn’t go and look that way at another man for no reason, would she?
Would she?
And why the devil should he care?
“Forgive me, sir, but I should take my leave,” he said, tossing a few coins to the boy for his coffee. “They will be expecting me at the house.”
“Ah, my sister never rises before noon, and I doubt the princess will, either.” The admiral narrowed one eye, watching him closely. “Don’t make an ass of yourself over this woman, Greaves. Stay your course. Think of her as a troublesome convoy you must see from one port to the next, and nothing more.”
Tom nodded, eager to be done with this conversation, and squared his cocked hat on his head. He wasn’t making an ass of himself over the princess; he was following his orders.
But there was only one suitable reply to a superior’s advice, and Tom made it. “Thank you, sir.”
The admiral coughed irritably, recognizing Tom’s haste for what it was.
“I mean what I say, Greaves. I’ve given you a great plum of an assignment. Don’t let it spoil and rot in your keeping. Now good day, sir, and shove off, before I give you a good kick myself.”
A plum or a kick, thought Tom grimly as he plunged back into the street. Accepting a challenge, or turning away from it. The kiss of a beautiful princess, and the promise of another ship just out of his reach, or rotten fruit lying on the ground at his feet.
Damn, damn, damn.
“Here he is at last!”
Isabella kneeled on the window seat and threw the sash open. She shoved aside the curtains and leaned forward, leaning her elbows on the sill.
“Captain Greaves!” she shouted and waved, striving to get his attention. He was still across the street, crossing the square, but she’d recognize him anywhere. So why didn’t he look up to her?
She cupped her hand around her mouth and raised her voice, her long braid falling over her shoulder as she leaned farther out the window. “Captain Greaves, here! Here, in the window! Look up at me!”
He stopped and looked up, exactly as she bade him, his handsome face so full of concern that she caught her breath. “Hurry, Captain, hurry! I need you here at once!”
“Hold there now, Princess,” he shouted back. “I’ll be there directly.”
He jammed his hat more tightly on his head and came running across the street.
“Oh, ma’am, he won’t like that.” The countess shook her head, struggling unsuccessfully to hide a yawn behind the sleeve of her dressing gown “No gentleman likes to be summoned like that.”
“He doesn’t have to like it.” Isabella slipped from the window seat and hurried across to the looking glass, her nightgown fluttering around her bare ankles. “He only needed to come now, as I asked.”
“But when he learns the reason, ma’am, why—”
“Why, when he learns it, he shall understand completely.” Isabella glanced at the invitation that she’d already tucked into the corner of the looking glass’s frame. “He has agreed to guide me in everything while I am in London, and I require his guidance in this matter.”
“His guidance for choosing which gown to wear to a ball, ma’am?” Pointedly the countess glanced at the two elaborately embroidered gowns, brought with her from Monteverde, laid across the bed. “Forgive me, ma’am, but I do not believe the captain will see such a task as part of his duties to you.”
“He will, because I wish it so.” There was more to it than the gowns, of course, not that she’d ever confess it to a ninny like whining Lady Willoughby. But when Isabella had awakened early, before the sun was even in the sky, her first thought had been of Tom, which had surprised her no end. She’d slept better knowing he was under the same roof. She’d wanted to see him at once, to tell him so; no, she’d needed to see him.
Yet when she’d summoned him, the sleepy, shamefaced servant could only tell her that Captain Lord Greaves had gone out, leaving no word of his expected return. At once Isabella had panicked, and hurled her hairbrush at the unfortunate messenger as he’d fled. Alone in her bedchamber, her agitation had mushroomed, anxiety twisting in her chest.
Tom Greaves was the only one in London who cared for her, who understood her. After what had happened at the shop, she’d never feel safe without him beside her. She’d been regarding him as her hero, but now that she thought of it, other people had been calling him that even before yesterday. She didn’t really know much about him at all, because, being a princess, it hadn’t even occurred to her to inquire. She just assumed he’d always be there.
What if she’d driven him away, and back to whoever else had claimed him as a hero first? He’d praised her for being brave, and she’d treasured the compliment, but he’d also told her she was spoiled and rude. What if for him the rudeness had outweighed the bravery, and he’d decided never to return? One moment sh
e resolved to reform, the way he wanted, if he’d only come back; then she’d vow to tell him exactly what she thought of his own ill manners, and throw another hairbrush at him to make her point.
The countess herself had come to try to calm Isabella, bringing the newly delivered invitation from the Duchess of Avery to distract her. But as pleased as Isabella had been to be invited to a ball, the pasteboard card had also reminded her again of how much she needed her captain.
And now he was back, her relief so strong she felt almost drunk with it. He hadn’t forgotten her; she hadn’t driven him away. Quickly she smoothed her hair with her palms and pinched her cheeks to make them rosier. As fast as Tom was running, she wouldn’t have time to do much more, but she did want to look as well as she could for him, even at this ridiculously early hour.
She could hear him on the stairs now, racing up two or maybe three steps at a time, and she turned just as the maidservant opened the door for him.
“Princess!” His gaze swept the room, a long-barreled pistol in his hand that made Lady Willoughby shriek faintly. “I came as fast as I could when I saw you. What has happened? Has someone tried to attack you here? To have you calling out the window like that—”
“Oh, that is our way in Monteverde. Because our weather is so pleasant, we all call back and forth from our windows, even in the palace. Though there is seldom a need for a weapon, especially so soon after cock’s-crow.” She smiled, basking in his concern. She hadn’t realized he’d carried a gun to defend her; the notion was almost…exciting.
Absently she curled one of the ribbons on the front of her dressing gown around her finger. “I have been invited to a ball tomorrow night,” she continued, “given by this Duchess of Avery, and you shall escort me. That is why I needed you, Captain, to tell me which of these gowns will be more proper for the entertainment of an English duchess.”
Slowly he lowered the pistol, his expression incredulous. “There is no intruder? No danger?”
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