by Grace Burrowes, Shana Galen, Miranda Neville, Carolyn Jewel
“You find me distasteful in some manner?”
“No, not at all. I find you too much to my taste.”
His brows came together in confusion. It made him look a good deal younger and quite adorable. Perhaps she had drunk too much of the good red wine he’d given her on an empty stomach.
She gestured toward his face. “I don’t like men who are more attractive than I. I suppose it’s vain and shallow, but I like to be the pretty one.”
His brows rose again, and he stared at her for a long moment. His eyes seemed to look right through her, to the point where she wanted to shift with discomfort.
“I don’t know what you look like now under the mud and grime, but if it’s anything like what you looked like when I first met you, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
She gasped in surprise at his words. She’d been complimented before, of course, but never had any man’s words sounded so sincere, so heartfelt. There was almost a tone of anguish in his voice.
“That’s not true,” she whispered. “I’m short and dark.”
“You are petite, and your skin looks touched by the sun. Your hair is the most lovely shade of dark brown I have ever seen. But you are more than physically attractive. When I met you before, I found you graceful, well-spoken, and kind. Your servants could not praise you highly enough.”
Her heart pounded so hard in her chest she had to press her hand to it. “You flatter me.”
“No. I speak the truth. In all honesty, I would never have wanted any harm to befall you or your family. But I would be lying if I did not say I think I am the most fortunate man alive to have found you this morning. And I don’t think it’s merely coincidence.”
“You think it fate?”
“I think I have another chance to make you see me as something more than a…pretty face.”
“Then you have an ulterior motive for helping me too.”
His eyes narrowed, and his jaw tightened. “What have I done to deserve such an insult?”
“Nothing. I did not mean to imply—”
“Yes, you did. You think I help you because I hope to take you to bed, because I want some sort of payment from you?”
She didn’t answer. That was exactly what she thought. Shame crept through her, making her face hot.
“I won’t deny that I would rejoice if you fell completely in love with me, if you wanted me in your bed. But I would help you even if you were an ugly old crone missing half your teeth.”
She believed him too. The force of his conviction was entirely convincing.
He looked away from her, his eyes on the countryside visible through the carriage windows. Vivienne was not often sorry, but this was one of those rare occasions. She found she wanted him to look at her again, to speak to her with that warmth in his voice. Instead, they sat in silence for the next hour until they reached Wyndover Park.
*
“Your Highness,” Nathan said, as the coach came to a stop. “We have arrived.”
He’d watched her fight to keep her eyes open, watched her lose the battle and fall asleep, her cheek resting on the squab. She must have been exhausted, because she did not move. She slept like the dead.
He wished he had a wet cloth to wipe some of the dirt from her face. He imagined she looked lovely when sleeping. Soon enough, she would be able to bathe and sleep in a bed. Perhaps that would restore her. In the meantime, he could make plans to travel to London.
Thank God his mother had left to spend the rest of the summer in Bath with her friend Lady Tribble. He did not want to have to explain his arrival with a princess of Glynaven in tow. As it was, he would have to think what to tell the staff. He had not been expected to return after the house party at Sedgemere’s residence, and the staff had been reduced accordingly. That meant fewer people to trust to keep quiet.
“Your Highness,” he said again, a little louder this time.
Her eyes opened, so vibrantly green, and she sat stiffly. For a moment, she looked about in confusion. Finally, she notched her chin up. “We’ve arrived.”
“Yes. Welcome to Wyndover Park.”
She peered out the window at the front of the house where the coach had stopped after making its way down the long drive. He was the tenth Duke of Wyndover, and the house was an old one. It had been refurbished every hundred years or so, but it retained some of its ancient charm—turrets and towers and crenellated parapets.
The coach door opened, and he stepped out first, holding his hand out to assist her. She took his hand, her gaze on the house.
“It’s very grand,” she said, looking up. “Very imposing.”
“It was meant to be.” He tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow and led her toward the door. “It was built for an ancestor of mine who was a baron. Wyndover Park—it was not called that then—was the sole protection for farmers and tenants when there was an attack. At one time, there was a drawbridge and moat. Now, only what would have been the keep remains. It has been modernized, of course.”
“Of course.” She paused just before they reached the door where he could see his butler, Chapple, stood just inside, waiting to greet him.
“I want to apologize,” she said, “for my thoughtlessness in the coach. I impugned your honor, and you have every right to be angry with me.”
“All is forgiven.” He waved a hand as though to waft away the smoke of discord. “I’m not one to stay angry for long, and I can hardly blame you. After what you’ve been through, questioning men’s motives means survival.”
She gave him another bewildered look. Soon enough she would take him at his word.
Nathan gestured to his man just inside the door. “My butler, Chapple. Good that you hadn’t returned to London yet, Chapple.”
“I was still putting the staff through its paces, Your Grace. I received word you would be returning and have made certain all of your requests have been granted. This, I presume, is the young lady who will be occupying the yellow room.”
Nathan had seen the butler’s gaze drift over the muddy clothes, but his expression remained respectful.
“Yes, Lady Vivienne”—he gave her a look rife with meaning—“my butler, Chapple.”
“My lady.” Chapple bowed.
“I hope I didn’t put you to too much trouble,” she said.
“None at all, my lady. May I have the housekeeper show you to your room?”
“I’d like that.”
“Perhaps the footmen might bring hot water for a bath.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Is there any luggage?” Chapple asked him.
“Sedgemere will have mine sent with Fletcher. The lady has none.”
“We might ask one of the maids to peer into Her Grace’s dressing room, but I’m afraid your mother is a good deal taller than Lady Vivienne.”
A good deal wider too, Nathan thought.
“Perhaps one of the maids might have a dress she could borrow until Lady Vivienne’s might be laundered and returned.”
“I will see to it, Your Grace.” Chapple raised his hand, and what Nathan assumed must be every servant in the house came forward. The princess was led away, surrounded by the housekeeper and maids while Chapple issued orders at the manservants in rapid succession.
Nathan’s head hurt from the morning’s exertions. He backed away, seeking the solace of his library. “Chapple, bring me every copy of The Times you can find,” he ordered. “No matter how old.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Have Cook send tea with brandy and”—what was it sick people ate to restore their strength?—“and broth of some sort to Lady Vivienne’s room after her bath.”
“Broth, Your Grace?”
“Just do it, Chapple. Don’t stand there staring at me. I want those copies of The Times.”
Nathan stalked away, muttering, “A man can’t even request broth without his servants gaping.”
Once in his library, he sat in his favorite chair beside the fire
and propped his feet on a nearby table. His mother would have been appalled, but his mother was in Bath. Good thing too, or else he would have been answering all of her pointed questions about the princess rather than enjoying a few minutes’ solitude and quiet.
A brisk knock sounded on the door, and Nathan dropped his feet. So much for solitude.
“Come.”
Chapple entered, arms laden with newspapers. “The Times, Your Grace.”
Nathan rose and took them. From the weight of them, he judged his butler had unearthed at least a dozen copies, if not more.
“Is the—Lady Vivienne settled?”
“I believe she is enjoying the broth you requested, Your Grace.” Chapple smirked. Nathan had never seen his butler smirk before, but he didn’t know how else to describe the expression on the man’s face at the moment.
“That will be all, Chapple. I don’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Would you like Cook to send broth for you too, Your Grace?”
Nathan gave the man a narrow stare, but Chapple blinked innocently.
“No. My usual fare will be fine. I’ll have it in my room, as I don’t expect Lady Vivienne will be well enough to come down to dinner.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“One more thing, Chapple.”
Nathan hesitated to mention additional security measures. He’d always been perfectly safe and at home in his Nottinghamshire estate. However, if assassins really did roam the countryside, searching for the princess, it was better to be prepared.
“I am not expecting any guests. Admit no one while Lady Vivienne is here. If anyone comes to call, I am not at home. I would also ask you to instruct the servants not to mention Lady Vivienne’s presence here for the moment. I rely on the staff’s discretion, Chapple.”
The butler stiffened. “Of course, Your Grace. As you should.”
Nathan went back to his chair and wished he could lift the papers and begin sorting through them. But he had better finish this.
“Lastly, I want everyone on their guard. I’ve…heard rumors of some rather unsavory characters in the area. I want everyone to take precautions and to alert me if they see anyone unusual or unfamiliar.”
“Absolutely, Your Grace.” Chapple wrung his hands together, his concern obvious. Nathan would have preferred to avoid alarming the staff, but he could not be too careful.
“Is it highwaymen again, Your Grace?” he asked, referring to the highwayman who had preyed on the shire the Christmas before last.
“No. Nothing like that. Be watchful, Chapple. That’s all I ask.”
When he was alone again, Nathan perused the editions of The Times. The first few held no information of interest, but a quarter of the way through the stack, he found an article on the unrest in Glynaven.
British citizens traveling in the country reported unrest among the populace, stirred up by various anti-monarchist groups. There had been a revolution in the late 1700s, quite a bloody one from the accounts Nathan had read. After that uprising a military government had taken power, but the people soon revolted again and demanded the return of the monarchy. Vivienne’s father was the brother of the deposed king, and he had taken the throne about fifteen years before.
Nathan found another article about the royal family. It didn’t mention the princess, but stated that King Guillaume was much loved. His rule had been characterized by peace, until a growing faction of revolutionaries had begun to call for his abdication. Many of them had crossed to Glynaven from France, a country that had undergone its own violent revolution not long before.
Liverpool, the prime minister, and the Prince Regent had not made any comment on the worsening situation in Glynaven. Nathan suspected they did not want to cause friction or appear to take sides. Was Vivienne fooling herself by thinking she would be safe if she reached London? Would the king really give her sanctuary, or would he wash his hands of her and leave her to fend for herself?
The king might have never acted so dishonorably, but it was the Regent who held the reins of power at the moment. Prinny was selfish and self-serving. Nathan thought it unlikely he would come to Vivienne’s rescue.
Finally, Nathan found an article on the revolution itself. The paper was only a few days’ old, and the actual assault on the palace in Glynaven had taken place only a fortnight before. Eyewitness accounts were still being collected, but most agreed that the rebels had stormed the castle and murdered the royal family in their beds. The bodies of the king, the queen, and two of the four princesses had been identified. Two other bodies of women were presumed to be Vivienne and her sister Camille, but the corpses were so mangled, identification was difficult. The body of a man presumed to be the crown prince had also been found, but again, due to the state of the body, identification was a challenge.
Nathan set the papers aside and raked a hand through his hair. How had Vivienne managed to escape? And what horrors had she seen before she’d fled? It was a wonder she was still alive, a wonder he’d been entrusted to keep her safe.
He heard the clock chime on his desk and looked over. It was late, later than he’d anticipated. He was hungry and tired. Nathan wanted to speak to Vivienne, to discuss her plans to travel to London. It would have to wait until morning.
He made his way through the familiar rooms of Wyndover Park and up the winding marble staircase to his room. The yellow room, where Vivienne was housed, was at the end of the corridor. It was the most comfortable of the guest rooms and had the added benefit of being far enough away from the ducal bedchamber so as not to tempt him to knock on her door.
His dinner arrived a few minutes later. Nathan ate it, but dismissed his valet after Fletcher helped him remove his coat. Alone, Nathan flung the material of his neckcloth to the floor and stood at the window in shirt-sleeves, looking out at the encroaching darkness. The sun did not set until late in the summer months, and only now did shadows begin to obscure his view of the gardens.
He supposed he should sleep and had just pulled his shirt-tails from his trousers when he heard the screams.
Chapter Four
‡
When the alarm sounded, Vivienne had run to the hiding place. She’d been awake, even though it was long after midnight, because she’d wanted to finish a book.
Mr. Wordsworth had saved her. If she’d been sleeping, she might not have heard the alarm or not been fast enough. She was the only one of her family to make it to the small, unassuming sitting room in one corner of the palace where a hidden room lay behind the portrait of her grandfather. She’d waited anxiously for her sisters, her parents, her brother to slide the painting away from the wall and creep into the stone space with her, but no one ever came.
When she heard the clang of steel and the cries of pain, she prayed her family would come. She prayed they’d escaped through other hidden passages, though those were few and difficult to reach. Instead, she sat, shivering, for what seemed days and days while the terror erupted around her. In truth, it had probably been only hours. It had taken but a few short hours to murder the occupants of the palace, to rape and pillage, to destroy what had once been lauded as the most beautiful royal residence on the Continent.
At some point the next day, Masson had pulled her, shaking and nauseated, from the hiding place. She didn’t know how he’d managed to avoid the carnage, or how he’d sneaked into the palace to rescue her. She knew only that he looked haggard and ten years older than he had when she’d seen him less than twenty-four hours before.
“Your Highness, the reavlutionnaire have taken over the country. If you are to live, we must sail for Britain now. Today.”
“My mother?” she croaked. “Papa?”
Masson shook his head sadly. He’d been her father’s adviser for over a decade. She knew he felt the loss almost as keenly as she did.
Vivienne sobbed, and Masson permitted it for a few moments, and then he took her by the shoulders. “You must be strong now, Princess Vivienne. The reavlutionnaire are in the taverns, c
elebrating their victory. They will return, and when they realize you are not among the dead, they will look for you.”
Vivienne nodded and took Masson’s arm. She couldn’t indulge her grief, not when she was the last of her family. Not when any delay could mean not only her death but the death of Masson. At the door to the ransacked sitting room, Masson paused.
“Do not look, if you can avoid it, Your Highness. The reavlutionnaire spared no one.”
But of course she saw—men, women, children. All dead. Blood everywhere. Gaping wounds. And eyes. So many sightless eyes.
She took no more than a hundred steps before she saw her mother’s body. The queen had been trying to escape to the safe room. She’d never made it. More sightless eyes.
And then, just days ago, Masson’s glazed eyes had stared at her after the reavlutionnaire came for her in a barn in Nottinghamshire. She’d hidden in the hayloft, and when the reavlutionnaire had gone out to look for her, she’d had no choice but to pass his body. To feel his sightless eyes on her.
So many eyes staring at her, accusing her.
Why aren’t you one of us? Why did you live?
The voices rang in her head, and she covered her ears to drown out the sound, screamed and screamed until she couldn’t hear them any longer.
One of the bodies rose up and grabbed her shoulder, shaking her. It spoke to her, but Vivienne clawed at it, fought it.
“Vivienne!”
She fell, and when she opened her eyes, she lay in bed, the sheets tangled around her, the room yellow from lamplight.
She stared at the unfamiliar face, stared at the impossibly handsome man kneeling over her. His face was so close to hers that she could practically see the dark blue rims of his irises. She felt the fine lawn between her fingers and followed her arms to where she clutched his shirt.
Abruptly, she released him, and he moved back and off the bed.
“Je sui duilich.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he answered in English. His eyes were very blue and his face pale with concern.
