Miranda Jarrett

by Princess of Fortune

  “So I must be sure to always stay with you, yes?” She nodded, as if everything were solved, and her resolution grew as she smiled again. “We’ll be brave, and we will triumph together, Tomaso. Together.”

  It was, decided Darden, the best thing he’d ever written.

  For once his inspiration was a bottomless well, the words flowing so fast his pen could hardly keep pace, scratching feverishly across page after page. He’d almost forgotten the bump on his head, and he hadn’t stopped for sleep or food, only pausing to refill his glass from the decanter that always sat on the corner of his desk.

  This is what came of having a muse, and he couldn’t imagine a better, finer one to have than Princess Isabella di Fortunaro. His first schemes for her fortune now seemed hopelessly shallow and petty, a shame he hated to admit to himself. And he’d tried to forget that she’d told him she’d changed her mind, that she hadn’t wanted him to create for her after all.

  None of that would matter now. Love would redeem him, and make everything right. Yes, love: for he was certain now that he loved her, with the pure, honorable love that a gentleman could only have for such a woman. She had the beauty of the goddess, the spirit of an Amazon warrior, and the rare genius to be his muse. To be sure, she would still have the great fortune in jewels that had first attracted him, but now he could grandly regard that as a pleasing incidental. Surely destiny had sent her to him for the express purpose of salvaging his life, his talent and his soul.

  He had never seriously considered marriage. No suitable lady had ever held his interest long enough, and besides, no suitable lady would in turn consider him a likely prospect, not with all the debts and mortgages that would come with him.

  But the princess was different. He would woo her with all his charm, save her from Pesci and the others, rescue her from the bumbling attentions of that philistine sailor man Greaves. He wouldn’t always be able to fob the man off with a false note from his admiral. Perhaps he’d send Pesci after Greaves. And then, at last, he would make the princess his wife and his marquise.

  He finished the last line of his poem, adding an inky slash of his pen to underscore the final brilliant irony, and sank back in his chair, exhausted. The first grimy light of a London dawn was creeping over the city’s rooftops and chimney pots and through his windows. He couldn’t recall working through the night like this before, as fired for writing as he ordinarily was for cards or faro. But then, he’d never had a muse before, had he?

  He smiled, remembering how his fair Isabella’s face had glowed with pleasure when she’d sat with him in the carriage. Surely she’d beam that way again when she read what he’d written for her and Monteverde, and purposefully he began stacking and squaring the pages, readying them to be sent to the printer. He would push the man to publish the work as soon as he possibly could. He wanted to declare his love proudly for all the world to see, and there wasn’t a moment to be lost.

  With a sigh of satisfaction, he patted the manuscript, then raised his glass in the general direction of Berkeley Square.

  “To my own muse, my own love,” he said. “To you, my darling Isabella, and to our future together!”

  Chapter Eleven

  “You know, Tomaso, it has been days and days since the admiral has called upon me.” Isabella sighed, resting her head against Tom’s shoulder as she stared out the carriage window. “Do you think he will be cordial, or has he quite forgotten who I am?”

  “He’s not forgotten you,” said Tom. “I can guarantee that. No man who has a breath of life left in his body could forget you, Bella.”

  It should have been a compliment, a flirtatious, silly bit of exaggeration for fun, but instead Isabella heard something in his voice—an edginess, perhaps, a distance—that kept the words from being as light as they should have been. Not enough to protest, but enough to make worry flutter in Isabella’s breast, even as she smiled up at him as brilliantly as she could from beneath her bonnet’s curving brim.

  “Still, he has reduced me to calling on him to make my inquiries, which is barbarously rude of him,” she said, striving to keep her own manner light. “Royalty never makes calls upon anyone, or at least we never did in Monteverde. But it is still most kind of you, Tomaso, to take me with you to Whitehall like this!”

  “I could hardly leave you behind after last night, sweetheart.” He shifted his shoulder, not exactly shrugging her away, but making her feel as if her head was not entirely welcome there. “As you said yourself, the only way I’ll know you’re safe is if I keep you in sight. Besides, I want you to tell Cranford whatever you can, too.”

  Her smile faded, and she turned away, pretending to straighten her bonnet. What he said was true enough. But how she wished he’d said he’d wanted her there because after last night he couldn’t keep away from her, that he was dizzy with passion, that he was half-mad with love for her!

  That was what she longed for, and that was not at all what she’d gotten. The magic of their lovemaking—and it had been magic—had been scattered by the thieves who’d invaded her bedchamber.

  Instantly Tom had become the ever-efficient Captain Greaves with a problem to solve, asking questions, taking notes, curtly ordering the servants about as if they were his own crewmen. Even the way he’d sought to comfort her had felt vaguely like a duty. Though it was barely dawn, he’d gone ahead and shaved and dressed in his uniform and gulped his coffee while writing letters, while she would have much preferred to escape from what had happened and return with him to the cozy sanctuary of his bed. But her wonderful, gallant lover had turned back into her brusque bodyguard, and nothing she’d tried seemed able to undo the change.

  Why had all that detailed advice about finding pleasure in bed with a man never included what happened once you rose the next morning?

  But she was honest enough to realize it wasn’t entirely his fault. No: she’d claim a good measure of the blame for herself, or rather for the Fortunaro jewels still safely hidden away in the canopy of her bed.

  She didn’t know which had been worse: that awful moment when she’d been sure the jewels had been stolen, or the one afterward, when she’d realized they hadn’t. She’d come horribly close to telling him, to breaking down and confessing to him and the servants—ha, to all of London!—what a priceless fortune she’d squirreled away above her bed.

  She’d given herself to Tom, body and heart, but she couldn’t break her vows to her family and share with him this last secret. Though she hated herself for lying to him, hated how that lie would destroy the trust between them, she still couldn’t turn her back on what those jewels had represented to more generations of Fortunaro than she could count. What was her pitiful little life and love compared to tradition like that?

  And she was certain now that Tom knew. Not about the crown jewels—not even he could guess such a secret—but that she was keeping some truth from him. Why else would he be so intent on whatever was happening in the street outside the carriage window instead of on her?

  “We’re almost at the gate,” he said. “There’s some sort of wagon blocking the road, but I expect we’ll be there soon enough.”

  He frowned and self-consciously patted her hand in a way that made Isabella instantly wary.

  “You do realize, Bella,” he began, “that you’re going to cause something of a stir at Whitehall.”

  She smiled, relieved. She had chosen the same wine-colored velvet gown with the gold embroidery, the necklace and earrings of rubies and pearls, that she’d worn the day they’d met, not only as a reminder to Tom, but also because it would attract attention in the entirely male halls and offices of Whitehall. She didn’t have a uniform with gold lace and swinging epaulets and a chestful of medals to do it, but a gown like this was so thoroughly un-English that it brandished her difference without a word. Her dress announced her rank as a royal princess—even if that rank were losing value by the day.

  “I should be vastly disappointed if I weren’t noticed, there among all t
hose sailors,” she said. “I recall the ‘stir’ of being onboard the wretched ship that brought me here. A hundred men, all gaping at me as if I were the greatest curiosity imaginable.”

  “Exactly.” He cleared his throat again, his fingers curling into hers. “You see my challenge, Bella. This morning I’d be inclined to thrash all hundred of those bastards—I mean men—for gaping.”

  She squeezed his hand, her rings glittering through the black lace of her gloves. “That would be very gallant of you, Tomaso, but also very foolhardy.”

  “I’d have my head handed to me for my trouble, true,” he admitted. “Hell, they’d clap me in irons and have me flogged ’round the fleet, too, considering how most of the gapers at Whitehall will be admirals. But the worst would be that they’d all realize how matters have changed between us.”

  “Ahh.” She wasn’t sure how to answer this, and her hand went still. “This change—does it shame you before your superiors?”

  “Shame me?” He stared at her, incredulous. “Damnation, Bella, what do you take me for? How could I be ashamed of the woman I love?”

  She shook her head, not trusting her voice to answer. He loved her, no matter what she’d had to keep from him. He loved her.

  “No, Bella,” he continued firmly. “What I fear is that if the admiral learns we are lovers, then he will relieve me of guarding you, as rightly he should.”

  She gasped indignantly. “He couldn’t! I would not allow it!”

  “You would have nothing to say about it, any more than I would.” She could hear the despair welling up in his voice, breaking through that gruff wall of naval duty. “The admiral would assign another officer to watch over you, just as I replaced the others. And it would damned well kill me, Bella.”

  “Then that is but one more reason for us to keep this between us alone,” she said fiercely, twisting on the seat to cradle his jaw in her hand. She knew what he wasn’t saying, too—that his career would be over, that he’d never again command a ship, that he’d have ruined himself for her sake—and every bit of it as damning as the ruin she could be facing with an illegitimate child. “My dearest Tom! What right does the rest of the world have to know about us?”

  “None.” He pulled her face to his and kissed her, quickly, possessively, as if daring the rest of the world to try to take her from him. “I won’t give you up, Bella.”

  “Nor I you.” She fluttered a rapid line of tiny, breathy kisses along his cheek before her lips returned to his. She curled into him, the better to feel the kiss vibrate through her entire body as his hand circled around her waist. Knowing how near they were to Whitehall’s gates, how at any second the carriage’s door might be flung open by a footman, how it could be their last kiss if the admiral learned the truth—all only increased their desire.

  “Whitehall, Cap’n m’lord!” called the driver, and abruptly Bella realized the carriage had begun to slow. As fast as she could she flew away from Tom, across to the opposite seat, and hurried to smooth her skirts, retying the ribbons of her hat. By the time the footman opened the door to hand her out, she was once again Her Most Impeccable Royal Highness.

  “You can clear the decks faster than any woman I’ve ever known,” said Tom as he offered her his arm. “And I’ll grant I’d never have expected it from a princess.”

  “Ha, you should learn to expect everything from me.” They were walking beneath a tall arched entryway, crowned with a pair of carved winged sea horses. Before them was the wide, open courtyard before the old palace that housed the admiralty offices, the walkways and steps bustling with clerks and officers intent on navy business. A shutter telegraph blinked its messages from the rooftop, gathering important war information relayed from the Channel and the Continent beyond. The offices were the centerpiece of the English military strength, the intelligence that fueled the effort against the French.

  Yet even in this place with so much serious purpose, she was still attracting attention, exactly as she’d wanted, with heads turning and feet slowing to gaze after her in her wine-red velvet and black lace. Any moment now one of the officers was bound to recognize Tom and come to greet them. Once again they’d become the princess and the captain, and this last scrap of time alone together would be done, perhaps forever.

  “Steady now, Bella,” said Tom softly, sensing her anxiety though he kept his attention straight ahead. “Be brave. You’ve only to master this day, and not the next. That’s how we’ll steer through this together, lass. One by one by one, exactly as you said.”

  “I am brave, Tomaso.” They passed two officers who frankly appraised her from her toes upward, even as they lifted their hats to her. In return she stared at them with such frosty Fortunaro disdain that the younger flushed, and the other pretended to look past her. “And I am very, very good at keeping secrets.”

  “Yes,” said Tom quietly, almost sadly. “I believe you are, Bella.”

  She glanced at him sharply, but he was already stepping forward to salute Admiral Cranston, who was hurrying down the steps to greet them.

  “Good day, Your Royal Highness,” he said, his expression serious and far more preoccupied than when he’d come calling in Berkeley Square. “I’m honored to have you here, though I regret that it’s taken such an unfortunate circumstance to bring you.”

  “You should thank Captain Lord Greaves that it’s not even more unfortunate, Admiral,” she said, sweeping ahead and through the door with Tom at her side. “He has saved my life once again, you know, though he may have been too modest to tell you so himself.”

  “I did know that, ma’am.” The admiral was huffing a bit to keep up with her up the staircase. “Captain Lord Greaves is a reliable officer who reports events as they occur, including his own participation in them.”

  “I should hope so.” She didn’t dare look at Tom now, who was likely most unhappy with her championing him like this. But he was too modest, and she wanted him to take credit and be rewarded for all he’d done—especially if she were the reason he ever fell from favor with his superiors. “If I were you, I should make sure to grant him another fine medal to recognize his heroism.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He didn’t agree, noted Isabella, but then, he didn’t refuse, either. He bowed, ushering them past a row of clerks’ desks to his office. “This way, ma’am.”

  She was surprised by how small and cluttered the office was, with the two chairs waiting for her and Tom obviously brought in from elsewhere. Stacks of letters and dispatches covered the desk, and the detailed maps showing coastlines and currents hung along the walls. Isabella quickly noted that Monteverde’s harbor was not among them, but before she could ask why not, she saw the crude little triangle of twigs sitting in the center of the admiral’s desk and forgot everything else.

  Tom saw it, too. “What have your experts told you of the triangle, sir? Did it make sense to them?”

  “Unfortunately, it did.” With a sigh, the admiral sat heavily in his chair, prodding at the triangle with the quill of his pen. “Though they seemed stunned to see it reach beyond Monteverde to surface here in London.”

  “Because of the princess,” said Tom, his face grim. “The villains must have followed her here.”

  “That is possible,” admitted the admiral. “Though more likely it’s the princess’s arrival that has served as a catalyst for those who are already here in London. Because of the French, there are a great many foreigners in the city, and a few more malcontents such as these would scarce be noticed in such a motley stew.”

  Isabella’s smile was tight. “My family sent me here because they believed I’d be safer than in Monteverde.”

  “Oh, you are, ma’am, you are.” Cranford nodded emphatically. “If you were still in Monteverde, you wouldn’t have Greaves here to keep you from harm’s way.”

  “That is true.” She couldn’t imagine her life now without Tom in it, and without thinking she glanced at him, as much to reassure herself as to acknowledge his importance. He
nodded slightly, encouraging, and just enough for her. She longed to have her chair closer to his, and to be able to hold his hand for comfort. Fortunaro or not, alone she wasn’t nearly as brave as she wanted to be. Together, together: that was what she needed now, to be together with Tom.

  “Were any of your attackers known to you, ma’am?” continued the admiral, either ignoring or not noticing the exchange. “A man who might have worked in the palace stables or kitchens, or perhaps the woman stitching on your mother’s clothing?”

  Isabella shook her head. “I would never have known such people.”

  “But surely when you went to the dressmaker, or the theater, or—”

  “Recall who I am, Admiral,” she said firmly. “I am a Fortunaro, not one of your newly minted Hanovers. We are different. I have lived all my life inside palaces, and the only time I left one was to travel to another. The world would come to us, not the other way around.”

  Yet even as she spoke, she could hear the change. Not so long ago, her speech would have been a scathing declaration of Fortunaro superiority, but now—now the same words had become more of an apology than a declaration, an explanation of what her life had lacked, instead of its glories. She couldn’t help glancing back at Tom again, to see if he’d heard the difference, too.

  The admiral, of course, did not. “You had never seen any of these individuals, ma’am, yet you knew they were from Monteverde.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “The Italian spoken in my country is very different from other countries. More pure, more precise, more directly descended from the Latin of the Caesars. I know to your English ears there is no such distinction, but as soon as these—these traitors addressed me, I knew where they had been born.”

  “There are certain details of dress that marked them, as well,” said Tom, leaning forward in his chair. “The men favor a kind of short coat, cut like a fisherman’s, except for twin rows of buttons at the waist—almost like a belt.”