Miranda Jarrett

by Princess of Fortune

  But though his heart twisted at the sight, at least Darden had his answer. For now—for him, for another day—his muse was safe.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Not much further, lass,” Tom said softly, taking care not to use her name in the remote chance someone overheard. “We’re almost to the river steps, and once we find a boat, you shall ride in style the rest of the way.”

  He was proud of this plan, especially since he’d contrived it with so little warning or preparation. Switching clothing with the Cranfords’ servants, then sending them away in the cab as decoys on a roundabout journey to nowhere had seemed an extreme precaution to the admiral—until from the windows of the house they’d all watched the second cab follow. It had been the last favor the admiral would grant, and Tom knew it had been given for his sake, not Isabella’s.

  Thanks to that ruse, he and Isabella would now have perhaps another precious hour to get a good start on whoever was chasing them. Given that Isabella was a princess, Tom was counting on those pursuers to expect her to travel in the luxury of a private coach to some great country estate, and not to consider sailing in the spartan anonymity of a little boat to the cottage his family had used for fishing expeditions.

  Of course anyone who knew him would expect him to head to the water, the way he always did, but Tom was also counting on his own preferences being judged hopelessly inconsequential beside those of the princess.

  But it was still an excellent plan. Together they could stay at the lodge as long as they wanted. Tom was hoping that once the news about the Fortunari downfall was commonly known, then the Trinita would lose interest in Isabella, and she’d be free to do what she pleased. And what happened to her—and him—after that was even less certain.

  This day, this night, and nothing more.

  And why the devil did she have to keep saying that?

  “At least now you’re more warmly dressed, thanks to the Cranfords’ kitchen maid,” he said, satisfied with the rough linsey-woolsey that was part of her disguise. “Silk’s fine enough for ladies, I know, but it can be chilly on the river, especially by night.”

  “No wonder, considering how wretchedly cold your climate is. I cannot imagine what your English winter must be like, when this is summer.” She tugged at the apron strings tied primly twice around her waist, likely the first time in her life she’d worn such a garment. “But I do intend to leave off these hideous woolly stockings once we’re back at Berkeley Square. They’re giving me blisters because they’re so coarse.”

  “It’s far too risky to stop at Berkeley Square.” He shook his head, surprised she hadn’t understood that already. “We’re going directly to the Whitehall steps, and hail a boatman from there.”

  “No.” She stopped abruptly, pulling her hand away from his. She had to face him squarely to be able to see him from inside that tunnel-like brim of her bonnet. “We must go back to Berkeley Square. I cannot leave London until we do.”

  “Be reasonable, Bella. That’s the first place anyone would look for us.”

  “But I am being reasonable!” she protested, her voice rising to a wail of stubborn despair. “There are certain—certain belongings I must have with me, and cannot leave behind!”

  “Not so loud, pet.” He glanced about uneasily, hoping she hadn’t wakened anyone in the houses around them. The streets were narrow here, the windows all dark for the night. The last thing they needed was for her to rouse the watch with some sort of foolishness about these “belongings” that couldn’t be left behind. “Lady Willoughby will keep your belongings until we return. I know you’ve no love for the woman, but she’s not about to put your trunks out on the pavement for the dustman.”

  “But she won’t know—she can’t know!”

  “She already does,” he answered firmly, taking her hand again. They had to keep going; they couldn’t stand here in the street all night. “Or rather, she will, soon enough. I’ve already written a message to her from the admiral’s house, to be delivered in the morning, telling her we’ve been unexpectedly called away. Come, Bella, we’ve dawdled here long enough.”

  She pulled free again, shaking her head furiously. “I must return to the house, Tom. I don’t have a choice.”

  Before he’d answered, she’d turned away, determinedly walking from him.

  “Damnation, Bella, wait,” he said, grabbing her arm to stop her. “You don’t even know which direction to go!”

  “Then I shall stop,” she said, “and ask the way.”

  “No, you won’t. Look at me, Bella. Look at me.”

  She didn’t look. She glared.

  “Now tell me what the hell is worth risking your life and mine to retrieve.”

  Her mouth was a tight, defiant line, but her eyes were contradictory, too bright, as if she might begin to weep again. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why in blazes not?” he demanded. “I’ve just about ruined myself for you tonight, and you can’t tell me?”

  “It’s—it’s a state secret,” she whispered miserably. “From Monteverde. It’s not mine to tell, not even to you.”

  He stared at her with disbelief. “What is it? Papers? Maps? Bonds?”

  But she only shook her head. “I’ve already said too much, and after I swore I’d never say a word. Please, Tomaso, please. You must understand!”

  “A state secret. Hell.” He didn’t understand. He doubted he ever would. But he did love her, the more fool he, and if this infernal belonging mattered so very much to her, they’d go. “Very well. We’ll go back. But you must be as fast as you can, Bella, or I swear I’ll leave you behind.”

  For the last time, Isabella climbed on the chair and pried the tacks from the top of the bed’s canopy. While Tom had gone to his rooms to gather a few of his own things, she couldn’t count on him to be gone long. She dug her knife into the heads of the tacks, not bothering now to be neat. Even though she could see the muslin lining to the canopy had not been disturbed, she still whispered a little prayer of thanks and relief as she peeled back the fabric and saw the petticoat with its treasure still hidden safely beneath. Swiftly she pulled it from its hiding place and slipped back down from the chair to the floor.

  She’d forgotten how heavy the petticoat was with the coins and jewels stitched inside, the deadening weight pressing down around her hips and legs. Heavier still was the weight on her conscience, knowing that once again Tom had trusted her, a trust she most certainly did not deserve.

  With a sigh she tied and knotted the petticoat’s tapes around her waist, then shook her thick, borrowed servant’s gown over it. Critically she glanced at her reflection in the looking glass, turning back and forth to make sure the petticoat didn’t show. No one would ever guess the Fortunaro jewels were hidden beneath that coarse linsey-woolsey, which was exactly what she’d hoped.

  But how long would she be able to keep such a secret from Tom as they traveled together? And how much longer would she wish to, no matter what she’d promised her mother?

  “You are ready, lass?”

  She started, not expecting Tom to rejoin her so quickly.

  “Exactly as I promised, Tomaso,” she said, giving him her brightest smile so he wouldn’t noticed the guilty heat that flooded her cheeks. She retied the stiff, plain bonnet that made her feel like a horse with blinders, and over her arm she looped the small basket with a few other things she’d hastily gathered—a hairbrush, clean stockings, shifts, handkerchiefs—and joined him at the door. “You see I can be every bit as prompt as you.”

  “You found whatever it was you wanted?” He frowned down at the size of her basket. “That doesn’t look large enough for even one of those tiaras.”

  “I’m not bringing even one,” she said, taking his arm. She kept her voice low, not wanting to wake anyone in the house. “I won’t need them where we are going, and besides, if we are stopped, a tiara would be very difficult to explain.”

  He smiled, pleased that she’d made such a practical choice.
“The explanation would be easy enough. Dressed as you are, any stout watchman would assume you’d stolen the tiara from your mistress, and were now making your escape to the nearest pawnshop.”

  “Better a thief than a princess,” she whispered as they hurried down the back stairs. “At least an English thief has a trial before she’s judged and sentenced, which is more than a mere princess seems able to expect.”

  They left the same way they’d entered, through the kitchen and out the back door to the narrow alley that ran behind the grand houses. Only a weak quarter moon hung in the sky to guide them, and Tom had not wanted the fuss or bother of carrying a lantern. The streets were very nearly empty, and the only others they saw were as determined not to be noticed as she and Tom were.

  After a lifetime of always being the center of attention, this trying hard not to be noticed was an odd sensation. She felt free and unfettered, like a pony that had managed to jump the fence. She could almost be that ordinary young woman she’d seen with her sweetheart at the theater—except that she was anonymous only through a disguise to deceive the men who wished to kill her, her sweetheart was carrying two pistols and a knife beneath his coat, and she herself had a king’s ransom sewn into her petticoats dragging at her with every step.

  “How much farther, Tomaso?” She’d lost any sense of time and distance, though her blistered feet were telling her she must have walked more in this night than she usually did in a month. “I know you are accustomed each morning to marching miles and miles and miles, but I am not, and—”

  “We’re being followed.” His voice was low, muted with tension. “Keep moving. We’re almost there.”

  “Who is it?” She forgot the blisters on her heels as the fear she’d felt earlier in the theater came rushing back with a fresh edge. Without thinking, she turned to look over her shoulder.

  “For God’s sake, don’t let them see your face!” He jerked her back around. “It could be one of your Monteverdian bastards, or only an ordinary footpad. I don’t know for sure, and it really doesn’t matter. All that concerns me now is that we reach the river, and pray there’s a boatman hunting for a passenger at the bottom of the steps.”

  They dodged between pyramids of stacked barrels, darted across another street, and suddenly the river was before them, a wide, glistening strip of pewter gray in the muted moonlight.

  “Down here.” Tom pulled her through a break in the iron railing, to the top of a long, steep flight of stone steps leading to the water. There was no railing, the stone was slick with moisture beneath her shoes, and she clung to Tom’s arm, terrified she’d slip. If she fell into the water, she’d vanish and sink straight to the bottom, the weight around her waist like a brick tied to the neck of an unwanted kitten.

  “Our luck’s changing, lass. There’s a wherry below, waiting as prettily as if I’d ordered it.”

  She’d been too worried about slipping from the steps to think of the boat, but now when looked up, she saw the narrow boat with the single oarsman pulled alongside the last step. The man was sitting low over his oars, the bright spark of his pipe glowing before his whiskered face and a lantern in the stern. To Isabella the wherry seemed very small and insubstantial, perhaps fourteen feet long at best, and hardly the sort of vessel she wished to trust her life to.

  “Ahoy there,” called Tom softly to the boatman. “Are you looking for a fare?”

  “If you be lookin’ for crossing, sir, then I be lookin’ for a fare,” the man said. “Climb aboard, sir, and tell me where you an’ the lady be bound on this fair evening.”

  “East,” Tom said, volunteering no more just yet. Without a thought, he clambered into the boat and turned to hold his hand out to Isabella. “Come now, lass, there’s no time to waste.”

  But Isabella could only stare down at the ever-changing gap between the boat and the step that she had to cross, yawning black water ready to swallow her up.

  “I cannot do it, Tom,” she whispered miserably. “I’m afraid.”

  “You, Bella? You’re never afraid of anything.” His hand reached for her, even as he looked up the embankment, scanning the top for whoever had followed them. “Now, lass. It’s dangerous for us to linger here.”

  “But what if I fall in?” She had a vivid, terrifying image of the water clutching at her, pulling her down, closing over her head and never letting go.

  “If you fell in, you’d float, same as everyone else,” he said, “and then we’d fish you from the water and pull you in.”

  “But what if—”

  “Damnation, Bella, now!” He leaned forward and scooped her into his arms and swung her into the boat at his feet, where she landed with an undignified little shriek. The stiff brim of the bonnet slipped over her eyes like a blindfold. As she tried to push herself upright, she heard an odd plop in the water near her ear. At once Tom drew one of his pistols from his coat and moved between her and the shore, shielding her. Another odd sound, this time a crack that sent needlelike splinters of wood shooting past her. With a grunt the boatman shoved clear of the step with his oar, deftly maneuvering the little wherry into the current.

  “They were shooting at us, Tomaso, weren’t they!” exclaimed Isabella from the bottom of the boat as she pulled the bonnet off and realized what had happened. Two shots, two balls, one meant for her, one for Tom. “Oh, how dare they do such a thing!”

  “They dared, and they did.” Sitting back on the bench, Tom locked his pistol and helped Isabella up to sit beside him, his arm around her shoulders.

  “But why do they want me now?” she cried softly in Italian so the boatman wouldn’t understand. Once again she’d nearly been killed, and Tom with her. “They’ve ruined my family, and stolen my country. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Most likely they don’t know all that yet, lass.” The boat had caught the current and was racing over the water, the spray flying up in their faces. “I’m hoping when they do, they’ll leave you alone. But we should be safe enough now that we’re out of range.”

  “But how did they know it was us, Tomaso?” She was shaking, and she needed his arm around her to reassure her. She did not feel safe enough, not with gunshots flying about them in this cockleshell boat. “I thought we’d been so careful.”

  “Forgive me for askin’, sir,” interrupted the man at the oars. “But you be Cap’n Lord Greaves, don’t you?”

  “Hell.” Tom sighed with resignation. “You see how much carefulness has gotten us, lass. Our names must be painted on our foreheads.”

  He shifted back to English. “Yes, I am Captain Lord Thomas Greaves.”

  The man at the oars nodded vigorously. “Then I am honored, Cap’n m’lord, most honored. Jonas Perkins, your servant. My brother was with you in the Aspire, gunner’s mate Adam Perkins, if you remember him. I saw you when you was in Portsmouth, Cap’n m’lord, an’ I knew you at once when you hailed me on the steps.”

  “Perkins!” Tom grinned, and from the delight in his voice, Isabella wistfully realized once again how much he’d loved his ships and crews, and how much he was giving up for her sake. “Of course I recall Perkins! A good man, and an excellent gunner. Have you heard from him? How is he?”

  “Well enough, I warrant. He’d only th’ best ever to say of you, Cap’n m’lord, only the best.” The man nodded solemnly. “So where be you bound this night, you and th’ lady?”

  “Just east of Greenwich, there’s an inn on the water called the White Roebuck—”

  “Oh, I know it well, Cap’n m’lord. The blades do love it for the turtle soup. I’ll have you and th’ lady there in no time.”

  “But you must not tell anyone you’ve seen us.” Pleading, Isabella leaned toward the man, her hands clasped before her. “Please, please, I beg you, or that—that person who was chasing us before—”

  “You have my word on it, miss.” He nodded, tipping the pipe in his mouth for extra emphasis. “For the cap’n here, I’d forget my own name. I’ll be silent as death, miss, silent as de
ath.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly, her words whisked away by the wind off the water. “I—we—are most grateful for your silence.”

  But not death. Please, please, not death.

  The old iron key scraped in the lock, and Tom had to press his shoulder against the door to make it finally swing open. Although he and his brothers each had a key, his had not been used in so long that he was thankful it still turned. The early-morning sunlight filtered in through the diamond-paned windows of the cottage they called Willow Run, and though at first glance everything seemed orderly enough, the rooms smelled musty and closed-up, with a faint overlay of mouse and wet hunting dog.

  He held the door for Isabella, then set her basket and the hamper of food from the White Roebuck on the table. The cottage was small and old-fashioned, with this single large room serving as kitchen and great hall and dining room all together. Two small bedchambers opened off this, while a ladder led to the loft, with four more cots for extra guests. The furniture was an unmatched jumble, outmoded and mended castoffs from other houses, with the only decoration provided by the bawdy cartoons and prints his father had favored, and tacked directly onto the walls.

  Willow Run was a bachelor haven through and through, with Isabella likely the first female—let alone a princess—to have crossed the doorstep. Tom himself hadn’t been here for at least ten years, and seeing it now with fresh eyes made him question his own decision to bring her here.