Miranda Jarrett
Page 21
“Your husband, eh?” The man nodded sagely, studying Tom with new regard. “Then down that hall, Cap’n, to your right, and out you go. And not a step otherwise, mind, or I’ll send your old man after you.”
They followed his directions, through the theater and into the alley. He drew his pistol from inside his coat, and she caught her breath beside him. He knew she didn’t like the gun, but this was a perfect spot for thieves to lurk. The narrow space behind the theater was shadowy and dank with oily puddles, and piles of discarded scenery and other rubbish made the alley smaller still. Stray cats and dogs picked through the trash, while two prostitutes were noisily servicing their customers against the wall.
“Don’t look, sweetheart,” he cautioned as they hurried by, spotting the light of the street ahead of them. “God knows they’ll pay no attention to us.”
Yet once they’d reached the lights, Tom turned away from the milling crowd at the front of the theater, dodging along two side streets before he dared flag down a hackney. She didn’t protest, even though she was panting from keeping pace with him in evening slippers not meant for walking.
He thought back to the first day they’d met, how she’d belligerently insisted on attracting as much attention as she could. Now she understood the risks all too well, even pulling her shawl over her head to mask her face. It was not a lesson most women in her position ever had to learn.
With a sigh she dropped into the corner of the cab, her eyes closed as she caught her breath.
“My own brave Bella,” he said softly. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, her eyes still closed. “They called me Marie Antoinette. You know what they did to her, don’t you?”
“You’re in London, lass, not Paris.” He took her hand, her fingers icy. “We don’t keep a guillotine in Leicester Square.”
“I cannot say the same about Monteverde,” she said, her misery palpable. “If I go home, who knows how long I’d be allowed to keep my head?”
“Then you had better stay a bit longer with me here in England.” He pulled her closer, and with a sigh she nestled beneath his arm. He could not imagine giving her up now. It was a madman’s hope, a lunatic’s dream, yet he still couldn’t picture his future without her in it. “Now we’re going to call on Admiral Cranford, and decide what to do next. I’m thinking the country air would do you a world of good.”
“Meaning you do not believe London is safe for me any longer.” She sighed again, burrowing closer. “I am not a fool, Tomaso. Surely you have learned that of me by now.”
He pushed aside her shawl to stroke her hair. “A fool would not have been clever enough to spin that tale backstage. There’s nothing more beloved in the playhouse than a sorry cuckold.”
She laughed softly. “You would not be so amused if you were my husband instead of my lover.”
“The proper husband would always be amused with you as his wife.” How much was not being said in this conversation, he wondered, and how much more did she expect? “The challenge will be to find him, won’t it?”
She laughed again, warm, intimate, encouraging. “Given the paucity of suitable princes and grand dukes, I should venture that I never shall wed.”
“Then perhaps you should venture beyond grand dukes and princes for your choice.”
But she didn’t answer, holding the silence long enough for him to realize he’d blundered.
“This day, this night,” she said at last, her voice unbearably wistful. “Remember? Nothing more beyond that.”
“Damnation, Bella, that wasn’t what I—”
“This day, this night,” she repeated. “That was what we promised one another, Tomaso, yes?”
But he did not answer, and she did not ask again, and the question was left to hang between them as the cab rolled through the London streets.
They sat on stiff little chairs in the admiral’s back parlor, discreetly apart for the sake of propriety, but leaving a gulf that yawned as wide as the English Channel. Without his touch she felt adrift, and the single candlestick on the table that the disgruntled butler had left them for light only made the room more gloomy. Isabella tucked her hands into the corners of her shawl, wishing the butler had at least revived the coals banked in the grate for the night, or offered her a dish of hot tea. She was always chilly in London, and on this particular night, she felt as if the entire inhospitable English summer had settled in her marrow.
She wished Tom hadn’t teased her about marriage and husbands. What good could ever come of such talk, longing for things that could never be, even in jest?
“I’m cold, Tomaso,” she said softly, her shoulders hunched.
“I’m sorry, lass.” Jagged shadows from the lone candle danced across Tom’s face, hiding his emotions. “Who’d have guessed the entire household would be abed so early?”
“Your admiral keeps farmer’s hours.”
“Sailor’s hours,” he corrected. “Though that amounts to much the same thing. Not very hospitable for late guests.”
“We’re hardly making a social call, are we?” She tried to laugh, but the sound that came out was dry and weary, with no humor anywhere.
“Be brave, my Bella,” whispered Tom. “Surely the worst of this night is already done.”
Surely, surely he must be right, she told herself, for what more could go wrong?
But before she could answer him, Admiral Cranford himself came bustling into the room, in a florid brocade dressing gown with a tasseled nightcap to match.
“Ah, Greaves, prompt as ever,” he said. “I’m glad you appreciated the severity of the situation from my note, for this is not—ah, Your Royal Highness!”
He stopped short, perplexed and frowning at her without any further greeting, and she felt that English chill spreading through her with fresh foreboding.
“I received no message, sir,” Tom was saying. “The princess and I have been at Covent Garden this evening. You recall, sir. The box at the playhouse was your gift, sir.”
“So it was, so it was.” Fingering the sash on his dressing gown, Cranford frowned down at the floor, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to meet either Tom’s gaze, or hers. “Well, now, this is deuced awkward, isn’t it?”
“Not as awkward as what happened to Her Royal Highness tonight at Covent Garden,” began Tom, but the admiral held his hands up to make him stop.
“Will you excuse us, ma’am?” He reached for the bell-pull to summon a servant. “This is tedious navy business, ma’am, and I’m sure you’d rather—”
“It is my business, Admiral, whether tedious or not,” she said, sitting ramrod-straight in the uncomfortable chair. “I will not excuse you or myself, or oblige you, or otherwise leave. I will stay, and I will listen.”
Cranford shook his head. “I do not believe that is wise, ma’am. What I must say to Captain Lord Greaves is not quite, ah, quite proper for you to hear.”
“The princess stays, as she wishes,” Tom said quietly. “She is a strong woman, sir, and since whatever you say will affect her life, she deserves to hear it, too.”
Cranford’s jaw jutted out. “She will not be happy.”
“I am not particularly happy now, Admiral.” Isabella waved her hand through the air, striving to look commanding and imposing, a true Fortunaro, even as her heart was racing with a kind of sick dread. “Proceed. Tell me what you were going to tell Captain Lord Greaves.”
The admiral’s eyes narrowed, accepting her challenge. “Very well, ma’am. If you insist, then you will hear. I have this evening the freshest news from Monteverde.”
Isabella clasped and unclasped her hands restlessly in her lap. “My family? You have news of my family?”
“Your family is as safe as is possible, under the circumstances. Your father and brother are in exile with a small force in Parma, awaiting the opportunity to reclaim the country.”
“That will not take long.” Isabella nodded with a show of confidence. “You see, there are still those loy
al to my father.”
“But not enough, ma’am.” Cranford tightened the sash on his dressing gown, tugging the ends hard. “Not nearly enough, not even if you believe the ridiculous drivel that the Marquis of Banleigh wrote for you. That sort of rubbish won’t help your cause, you know, not in these times.”
“I had nothing to do with that!”
“No matter.” He cleared his throat. “I regret to inform you, ma’am, that England has decided it is in our best interests to withdraw support for your father’s regime, and to grant it instead to the new government, forged by members of the Trinita.”
Isabella gasped with shock, nearly overwhelmed by what the admiral was telling her. “But to support a pack of traitors over my father—over the Fortunari! Villains who have sworn to kill them, and have tried to kill me! You cannot do this, not after all my family has done for England!”
“It was a political decision, ma’am, carefully made and reasoned.” The admiral’s voice was hard as flint, in sharp contrast to his frivolous, flowing clothing. “We must consider the benefits to our entire populace and military forces, not to a handful of foreign individuals. We believe that the new government will have a better opportunity of countering Buonaparte than your father ever could.”
A foreign individual: there it was, spoken aloud, what he’d always called her in his mind.
“But surely our generals will find a way to—”
“The generals and the army have sided with the Trinita. It appears your father’s supporters are limited to his courtiers, and the few of his lords who have chosen exile with him. England’s diplomatic relations with your father, ma’am, are now officially at an end.”
“Damnation, I cannot believe you have told her in this way.” Appalled, Tom was standing, his arms tensed at his sides. “You show no concern for her feelings, her welfare, her future—”
“I have done exactly as the princess wished, Greaves,” Cranford said evenly, as if expecting this reaction. “I am only telling her the truth.”
“The truth.” She forced herself to take a deep breath, then another. Think, she ordered, think, think. She couldn’t afford to faint or weep with hysterics. She was still a Fortunaro, wasn’t she? “My father asked his ally for sanctuary for me, protection for his only daughter, and this is how your honorable country answers.”
“I am sorry, ma’am,” Cranford said, too automatically to be sincere. “It could not be helped.”
“Sorry.” She stood, as straight and tall as she could, refusing to let the admiral look down on her. “If your country’s diplomats have ceased to support my father’s regime, Admiral Cranford, then I must end our relationship, as well. You cannot scorn a Fortunaro and expect no consequences.”
The admiral’s uneasy smile showed his surprise. “Here now, ma’am, it’s not as if I’m tossing you out on the streets.”
“How kind,” she said, unable to hide her bitterness. “How generous. Especially after you’d no compunction about casting my father away like yesterday’s fish.”
“You cannot remain at my sister’s house, of course,” he said quickly. “Other arrangements must be made.”
“Oh, of course,” she repeated, her thoughts rushing ahead to clear her initial shock. She must leave London at once, and she must rejoin her family in Parma as soon as she could. And God help her, she must do it all with the jewels. She would have to return to Berkeley Square as soon as possible to make sure she could retrieve the petticoat with the rubies from the canopy without anyone else’s knowledge. “I would not wish to outstay Lady Willoughby’s hospitality.”
“Hospitality, hell,” Tom thundered, striking the table beside him with his fist. “Everywhere she turns in this town there’s someone bent on killing her. Where in blazes is she supposed to go?”
She glanced at him swiftly, grateful and pleading at the same time. As much as she loathed the admiral at this moment, he was still Tom’s superior, and she did not want him to say things on her account that he might later regret.
“Don’t, Tomaso, please,” she said in low, urgent Italian. “Let this be my battle.”
“Together, Bella,” he said firmly. “I’m not going to abandon you now when you need me most.”
“I’ll find my way,” she said, though she hadn’t the faintest idea how. “I’m a Fortunaro.”
“A Fortunaro, with a Greaves. That should answer the Trinita well enough.”
“I won’t let you destroy your future for me, not when you—”
“I do not know what you are saying, ma’am,” interrupted the admiral sharply. “But you have no right to speak to one of my captains in that manner.”
She glared at him furiously. “And you, Admiral, have no right to tell me what I can and cannot say to Captain Lord Greaves!”
“I do, ma’am, when you choose to insult one of my officers,” he said, his own temper scarcely in check. “Because you are no longer under the navy’s protection, you are also no longer the responsibility of Captain Lord Greaves. He has acquitted himself with honor and resourcefulness in this most difficult assignment, and he will be rewarded with new orders in the morning.”
“No,” she whispered, refusing to believe. How could he order Tom away from her? How could he turn love into an assignment? “No!”
“No.” From Tom the single word reverberated through the room, as emphatic as his fist had been against the tabletop. “I’m not done with this assignment, sir. I will not abandon the princess any more than I’d leave a ship adrift in the middle of the sea.”
The admiral looked at him sharply. “Consider what you are doing, man. Refuse a posting once, and there’s no telling how long it will be before another will be offered.”
Isabella shook her head with despair. She knew how much he loved the service, and how much he’d longed for another ship to command. How could she ever hope to compete with that? How long would it be before he’d blame her for what he’d lost, and his love would turn to hate? “Oh, don’t do this, Tomaso, I beg you, not for me!”
But Tom stood firm, if anything standing taller, straighter, more resolute. “I know the consequences, sir. The gentlemen in Whitehall have long memories. But I must also live with my own conscience.”
The admiral grumbled ominously. “Then it’s a damned foolish conscience, Greaves. You pulled yourself back from death’s very grip, and for what? To toss everything away for some foreign woman? Is she really worth that much?”
“To me the princess is worth infinitely more, sir.” He bowed and came to stand beside Isabella, resting his hands on her shoulders. “I’ve always tried to act with honor, sir, and God help me, I’m not going to stop now. Come, lass. The sooner we leave town, the better.”
For what was likely to be the last time, Isabella nodded to the admiral and swept from the room on Tom’s arm. But on the stairs, she lost her confidence, and at last the tears she’d kept back all evening spilled down her cheeks. Once there’d been a time when she would have delighted in a lover who’d make such sacrifices for her; she would even have expected it. But not now, and not Tom, and her heart nearly shattered from the awful responsibility of what he’d done for her.
“Oh, Tomaso, what have you done?” she asked in a feverish whisper. “You’ve given up everything for me, and what do I have to offer to you in return?”
“Love,” he said, his voice rich and steady and without any doubt at all. “That’s what you’ve given me, Bella. Love.”
“Then may all the saints in heaven have mercy upon us,” she whispered, closing her eyes as he bent to kiss her, “and pray that love will be enough to make up for the rest.”
Darden slumped in the seat of the closed chaise, watching Admiral Cranford’s house with only his flask for company. The chaise was carefully parked at the end of the street, where he could see without being noticed himself. He’d learned he had no stomach for spying—he was tired and bored and his head hurt abominably—but just as he’d decided he’d guessed wrong and that Gre
aves and the princess had returned directly to Berkeley Square, the front door opened. Light spilled down the steps to the cab waiting at the curb, and in the brightness a man and a small woman with her head covered hurried from the house.
Eagerly Darden leaned forward, his hand on the latch. Though he couldn’t see their faces, of course it must be them. Who else would be leaving this particular house, at this particular hour, and in such haste? All he wanted now was the chance to explain himself to the princess—his dearest muse, the woman he wished for his wife!—to tell her how he wasn’t really the coward he’d seemed, and to beg her forgiveness. It wouldn’t take more than a minute or two.
Yet as he saw the way the princess clung to Greaves’s arm and the care with which Greaves helped her into the cab, Darden felt his courage slip away once again. He couldn’t talk to her the way he wanted with Greaves present. He’d have to see her alone, and instead of joining them now, he sat back and watched as their cab drew from the curb and rattled down the street.
He groaned, once again disgusted with himself. But as he reached up to order his driver to leave, he saw something more that made him pause. Another cab pulled from the shadows, racing after the first. A dark-haired man in rough clothes was leaning from the window, intent on the chase, and excitedly calling to the two other men behind him. Though Darden couldn’t make out his exact words, he heard enough to realize those words were in Monteverdian Italian. He was sure they were more of Pesci’s men, just as he knew the princess was once again in danger because of him.
Darden swore, his heart pounding in his chest from what he’d just witnessed. If only he’d a pistol or a rifle, he could try to stop them, but alone and unarmed like this he was useless. What he’d give now to know for certain she was safe! He fumbled for his flask, desperately trying to figure what he should do next.
Yet suddenly he realized there were two more people on the street, as well. A tall man and a small woman, most likely servants from their dress, had come from a side door of the admiral’s house, and now were hurrying away on foot, in the opposite direction from the one taken by the two cabs. Darden had a quick glimpse of the man taking the woman’s hand to lead her, and the woman lifting her face to gaze up at him, her face inside the brim of her ugly sugar-scoop bonnet lit by a scrap of candlelight from a window. Then the pair slipped between two other houses and vanished into the night.