Always a Princess

by Alice Gaines

  “Oh, no.” Hubert turned his head and stared at her, the light of the fire reflecting out of his eyes. “When you say something doesn’t matter, it usually matters a great deal. Now, what happened?”

  The man knew her too well. She smiled at him again. Or tried to. “It’s really not important.”

  “Eve, what happened?”

  She looked into the fire for an answer that would satisfy him but found nothing.

  “I was discovered,” she said after a moment. “But I got away.”

  “I knew it,” he declared. He looked heavenward. “I knew this would happen. You’re not a thief. You’re too good, too honest.”

  “A fat lot of good goodness and honesty ever did me—or you,” she snapped.

  “You got away?” he asked. “There won’t be constables coming for you. Please tell me there won’t.”

  “One person discovered me,” she said. “A man. But he didn’t discover my real identity.”

  “Thank heaven.”

  “I doubt he’d dare say anything, in any case. He was trying to steal the ruby himself.”

  A fresh expression of horror flitted over Hubert’s face. “Child, you came across a real jewel thief?”

  “What do you mean by ‘real’? I’m a real jewel thief.”

  “Bless your heart, you try,” he said. “But you haven’t made off with much so far, have you?”

  “That will change.”

  “Hardly more than enough to buy that old carriage and cloth to make a few gowns.”

  True, she’d spent all their profits so far on what she needed to assume the identity of foreign royalty. It had been a calculated risk doing that. So far her calculations had seemed a bit off, but that could change now that she’d met Lord Wesley.

  “I haven’t had any luck yet,” she said. “Maybe tonight I finally did.”

  Hubert cocked his head and looked at her. “But you said you didn’t get the ruby.”

  She rose from her chair and stared down into the fire. “I’ve been thinking since I got home. I may have stumbled on something better than a ruby.”

  “Eve, look at me,” he said. “I know you’re having one of your worst ideas when you won’t look me in the eye.”

  She turned and faced him. “The man who found me. The other thief. He was the Orchid Thief.”

  “Good Lord, that one. Stay away from him. He’s notorious. He’s dangerous.”

  “Actually, he’s not the least bit dangerous.” And he wasn’t, at least not in the way Hubert meant. The heat of his kiss was dangerous, but she’d know better how to avoid that kind of danger next time. And there was going to be a next time; she’d decided that while sitting in front of the fire, waiting for Hubert to come home.

  “The fellow’s an aristocrat,” she said. “An amateur. Viscount Wesley—the son of the Earl of Farnham.”

  “Farnham,” Hubert repeated. “Amateur, he must be. No one in that family needs to steal for money.”

  “I imagine it would be worth something to him to keep his family from finding out about his other identity, don’t you?”

  “You’re going to extort money from him in exchange for his silence? Oh, child.”

  “I’m not a child, Hubert. And you know as well as I do that people like him have far more than they need. Far more than they’re worth.”

  He tsked a few times. “When did you grow so hard?”

  “The day Sir Udney Cathcart put you and me out into the street. Me because his dreadful wife accused me of stealing her jewelry and you because he couldn’t work you to death any longer.”

  “And what makes you think Lord Wesley will give in to your demands?” Hubert asked.

  “He’ll have to if he’s to avoid disgrace.”

  Hubert sighed. “Will you at least stop trying to steal jewelry if Lord Wesley pays you off?”

  “If he gives me enough, yes.”

  “Enough for what?” Hubert asked.

  She looked into his dear face. Hubert was the one person in the entire world who’d ever cared for her since her mother died. He’d taken care of her. No matter who else had failed her, Hubert had always insisted she was smart, she was beautiful. He’d probably been wrong about that last part, but she still loved him for it.

  “Enough for us to live on quietly for the rest of our lives.”

  “You can’t get that much money out of him, surely.”

  “Why not? You said the family has plenty. Don’t you think they could afford that much?”

  “The whole lot of them wouldn’t be paying you off, but only the son. If you were to blackmail him…” He placed his palm against his forehead and groaned. “Blackmail, Eve. How ugly.”

  “The whole business of trying to survive is ugly,” she said. “We didn’t make it that way.”

  “Think of the danger, child. If he won’t pay you off but turns you in…”

  A risk, of course, but would it truly be worse than what she’d already faced? Somehow, Wesley didn’t seem the sort who’d run to the constable to settle his problems. Given that he’d already stolen several gems—more than she had, in fact— he’d hardly welcome a police investigation. Besides, he’d shown an adventurous, even gleeful, spirit about their whole encounter. Instead of exposing “the princess,” he’d asked her to dance with him. Blackmail was her best option, whether Hubert liked the word or not.

  “I’m frightened for you, Eve,” Hubert said.

  “I’m frightened for us both.”

  “Give up this folly. We’ll go back into service somewhere.”

  “You at your age?” she said. “I, without a letter of recommendation?”

  “Forge a letter the way you forged your letters of introduction from the Archduke of Waldheim.”

  “Valdastok,” she corrected.

  Hubert groaned. “Does the blessed place even exist?”

  “I found it on a map.” And now, she’d met someone who’d actually been there. They spoke German. Who would have guessed? “I’m not going back into service.”

  “Why not? It’s a comfortable living.” Hubert glanced around the room and shuddered. “Better than this.”

  “I can’t.”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  How could she? How could she explain Arthur’s behavior and his parents’ blindness to what went on in their own house to Hubert—a dear who only saw the best in people? How could she tell him about all the times Arthur had cornered her in dark hallways and forced his kisses upon her, how she’d kept quiet only in hopes of keeping her position? How could she tell him about the places the man had touched her or tried to touch her and how she’d had no way to defend herself? Arthur had treated her like a whore…the same way all those men had treated her mother. Worse, she’d had to keep quiet about the treatment the way her mother had always tried to pretend that nothing was wrong when all those sounds had come from the room they shared when her mother sent her out into the hallway.

  Every house she might work in could have an Arthur Cathcart, and she’d done with all of them. She lifted her chin and stared into Hubert’s dear face. “Either I get enough money from Lord Wesley for us to disappear or the princess goes on stealing.”

  “It’s too risky,” Hubert said. The poor man was actually wringing his hands. “You could be caught in the act of stealing.”

  “That hasn’t happened so far.”

  “Sir Udney or Mr. Cathcart might appear at one of those parties and expose you.”

  She lifted her chin in an imitation of the haughtiness of the upper crust. “They don’t move in the same circles that I do.”

  “Someone else might recognize you as a fraud.”

  “Someone else already has. Viscount Wesley,” she said. “And well done, too, because I discovered his little secret. A secret that will work to my advantage.”

  “The whole thing is too dangerous,” Hubert repeated.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  “I have a bit of
money saved up,” Hubert said. “We’ll go somewhere—the country. We’ll find work.”

  “We’re going to stay right here,” she said. “We’re going to do better than survive, and Lord Wesley with all his money is going to help.”

  Chapter Three

  “Agnes Treadworthy.”

  Philip glanced across the breakfast table toward his mother. She sat, staring off into space, her fork poised. She seemed to do her best thinking with a fork in her hand. Or, at least, most of her thinking. Very little of what went on in her head could be considered “best.”

  “Agnes Treadworthy,” she repeated. “Yes, she’d do nicely.”

  “I hardly think so,” Philip replied.

  “Why ever not?”

  “She’s scarcely out of the schoolroom.”

  “I was scarcely out of the schoolroom when I married your father. Wasn’t I, my dear?”

  His father humphed and looked up from his book on pig ancestry. “I say, what?”

  His mother glanced at his father with an indulgent softness in her brown eyes. “I was no more than a child when I married you, wasn’t I?”

  “I’m sure if you say so. We were all children once.” His father buried his nose in his book again and fished around blindly for his teacup with his spare hand.

  Lavinia Rosemont, Lady Farnham, reached over and guided her husband’s fingers toward his cup, then turned back toward her son. “There you are, then, Philip. Besides, you’ll want a young wife. She’ll be more docile, more malleable.”

  Malleable. Good God, who wanted a wife who could be kneaded like dough? No doubt many men did, but Philip couldn’t quite shake the image of having to bend her this way and that. “Agnes Treadworthy is afraid of her own shadow.”

  “She’ll depend on you for protection,” his mother said.

  “Her skin is bad.”

  “She’ll grow out of that.”

  “She’s horse-faced.”

  His mother set down her fork and glowered at him. “Of course, she’s horse-faced. All the Treadworthys are horse-faced. It’s a sign of their breeding. Except for the middle child. What is his name, Reginald?”

  His father didn’t answer but merely grunted and turned the page of his book.

  “Aubrey,” Philip’s mother proclaimed. “That’s the boy’s name—Aubrey. No one could ever fathom how he got those looks from that family.”

  “Looks like the footman, I hear,” his father mumbled.

  “Reginald!” his mother cried.

  His father looked up from his book. “What? What happened?”

  “I suppose we can’t keep a man from hearing such things, but we can certainly hope to keep him from repeating them,” his mother said. “Especially at table.”

  “I’m sorry, my dear,” his father said.

  “Back to the problem at hand. A wife for Philip,” his mother said. “Eunice Blackledge.”

  “Too slender,” Philip said.

  “Patience Sutcliffe.”

  “Too virtuous.”

  “Millicent Gaffney.”

  Philip shuddered. “Too lugubrious.”

  “Rose MacNeil.”

  “Too Irish.”

  “I suppose you’re right about that,” his mother agreed. “Alice Kimball.”

  “Too English.”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous.” She picked up her fork again and pointed it toward Philip as though it were a weapon. “I don’t know why you insist on making this so difficult.”

  “Perhaps I’d like to choose my own wife.”

  “That would be fine if you’d just do it. But, you’re no longer free to gad about like a gypsy. You’re your father’s heir. You have obligations.” Her chin began to wobble—a sure sign that tears would follow. And the tears were always real. Bless her, she tried to pretend she’d recovered from his brother’s death. She most likely had no idea he heard her crying at night. At least, his presence seemed to comfort her, perhaps most especially when she could scold him about something…like choosing a wife.

  “You need to produce your own heir,” she continued, swiping at her eyes. “Oh, if only Andrew hadn’t died.”

  It had to be dreadful losing a child—especially an oldest son and heir—but he wished that just once his mother would remember that Andrew had been Philip’s exact age when he died two years before, and he hadn’t produced a wife or heir either. If he had, Philip wouldn’t find himself in this situation right now. He’d be in India or China or someplace interesting.

  He’d racked his brain, and for the life of him, he hadn’t been able to think of a single solution to this wretched situation. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I know I’m a disappointment to you.”

  “Not at all,” she said, as she reached into the bosom of her dress for a handkerchief. “It’s just that Andrew was such a darling child. Such a joy. Such a light.”

  “I loved him, too,” Philip said. And he had loved his brother, despite the fact that right now he’d like nothing better than to thrash Andrew for dying and leaving him to deal with this heir business.

  “Andrew would have married Sarah Whitworth and had children by now,” Lavinia said.

  “Sarah Whitworth hasn’t a brain in her head. Andrew couldn’t abide her, and if he’d married her, he’d have drunk hemlock.”

  “Why must you be so unpleasant about this?” his mother demanded. “Isn’t there any young woman of our set who appeals to you?”

  “I haven’t met one.” He rose, walked to the window and gazed out across the street to the park. The morning rituals were in full swing. Couples rode sedately on horseback through the dappled shade of the bridle path. Young girls strolled with their chaperones, holding up their parasols—heaven forbid they might actually turn color from the sun. Occasionally, some eager swain found his intended “by coincidence” and managed a word with her under the disapproving eye of an older female relative.

  This was London’s idea of life, and it was very pale and unimpressive after all he’d seen on his travels. Privileged, precise and stifling. And God help him, he seemed sentenced to eternity in the middle of it all. If he didn’t have his other identity—the Orchid Thief—he’d go quite mad with boredom.

  “Really, Philip, are you even listening to me?”

  He turned back and found his mother staring at him with no small amount of irritation in her eyes. “Sometimes I feel as though I’m talking to the walls.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not that I have anything against marriage.”

  “Well, then, what’s stopping you?”

  How could he explain it to her? She’d been married to his father for almost forty years, and while the two of them didn’t appear intoxicated with each other, they did seem content. He’d like to have the same contentment. He’d even like to have children. They were charming little creatures, really, at least until they started behaving like their parents.

  Most of all, he’d like to have a partner in his bed. But not one of those weak-kneed virgins he kept encountering—the sort who found exertion distasteful and enthusiasm embarrassing. He wanted a wife who’d come to him with the same hunger he had for her. Just the merest suggestion that she was lying back and thinking of England while he made love to her would be enough to put him off her permanently, and lovemaking meant too much to him to tolerate being put off by his wife.

  He wanted fire in a woman. He wanted spirit. He wanted a woman who in the midst of a passionate kiss wasn’t afraid to grab a man’s buttocks. Good God, where had that last bit come from?

  The morning room door opened, and Mobley entered looking even more sour than usual. “There’s a lady to see you, my lord.”

  “Lady?” Lady Farnham repeated. “Were you expecting a lady, Reginald?”

  Farnham glanced up from his book. “I should hope not. Why would I be receiving ladies over my breakfast? I can’t stomach company until at least midday.”

  “Not for you, my lord,” Mo
bley said. “She’s here for Lord Wesley.”

  “For me?” Philip said.

  His mother’s eyes widened as she toyed with her fork. “Why, Philip, you’ve been keeping secrets from us.”

  He shrugged and stared back at his mother. “I’ve been keeping secrets from myself then.”

  “Although I don’t think I approve of a lady visiting a gentleman at his home.” Lady Farnham turned to Mobley. “She is escorted, isn’t she?”

  “No, my lady,” Mobley intoned.

  She raised the tines of her fork to her lower lip. “Oh, dear.”

  “She’s quite a…” Mobley cleared his throat. “Quite a remarkable lady, if you’ll allow me to say so. With an…unusual accent. I can’t say I place it at all.”

  No. It couldn’t be. “Was she a small woman with green eyes and dark hair?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you do know who she is, Philip,” his mother accused.

  In fact, he didn’t. He only knew who she wasn’t. And he hadn’t a clue why she’d appeared here today. Was the woman mad?

  “I suppose you should send her up, Mobley,” Lady Farnham said.

  “Oh, no.” Philip jumped up. “I’ll see her alone. Put her in the drawing room, Mobley.”

  “Already done, sir.”

  “I’ll be along presently.”

  Mobley bowed and left the room. Philip followed, but his mother caught his arm as he passed the table.

  She looked up at him, her fork still in her other hand. “Do you think it wise to see her like this, dear?”

  He didn’t think anything to do with that woman was wise, but what choice did he have? He could hardly have her visit his parents for breakfast and talk about the ball the night before. “Don’t worry, Mother.”

  “But she’s alone. What if she tries to trap you into some compromising situation?”

  “I can take care of her.” And one way or another, he would.

  Eve looked around at all the opulence. At least the Earl of Farnham’s house was merely regal and not ostentatious as so many were on this end of the park. The furniture shone with polish—no doubt applied by an army of diligent maids—and the thick oriental carpet nearly swallowed up the toes of her slippers. She ran a gloved finger over a tabletop and inspected it for dust. Not a speck, of course.