The Princess and the Peer

by Warren, Tracy Anne

  And so, as the long, slow, dull-as-dishwater days crept by, her doubts and her fears increased until she itched for freedom. So much so that she sometimes felt as if she might burst out of her skin.

  Saints preserve me, she cried inside her head. I have to get out of this house! I cannot breathe anymore!

  Abruptly, she shoved her chair back from the dining table and stood.

  The duchess looked up, her eyes wide. “What do you think you’re about? Pray be seated and finish your meal.”

  Emma shook her head. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I wish to be excused. I’m not… I am not feeling well.”

  “Not well? Have you need of the physician? I will have him summoned immediately.”

  “Oh no, that will not be necessary,” Emma said. “I am merely tired and wish to rest.”

  Duchess Weissmuller gave her an assessing, narrow-eyed stare. “Very well,” the older woman said. “You may go. I shall have your supper sent up on a tray, so you will have sufficient time to restore your energy.”

  “That would be most kind.”

  Forcing herself not to rush, Emma left the room.

  Many hours later, Emma lay awake in bed, staring blindly into the early-morning darkness. Beneath the bodice of her prim linen nightgown, her heart beat in palpable strokes, her nerves stretched tight.

  Panicked and bored. That’s how she felt.

  Panicked and bored, trapped and desperate for a respite from this prison. Because, no matter how luxurious her surroundings, that’s precisely what this place was.

  A prison.

  And just like a prisoner, she longed to break free of her cage and run, to savor the sweet taste of freedom like raindrops on her tongue. She wanted to do as she wished for a change rather than following the strictures and demands of her parents and brother and the duchess, who had all the liveliness of a moss-covered boulder. Even her lady-in-waiting, Baroness Zimmer, who had been with her since she was a child, could offer little in the way of consolation.

  “You must be patient, Your Highness,” the baroness advised. “You must trust in the wisdom of those who are older and wiser than yourself.”

  But Emma didn’t trust; she chafed.

  Chafed against her surroundings. Chafed against her boredom. Chafed against the dictates of those who had decided her future for her without any thought to her own wishes—a future that frightened her more than she cared to admit.

  If only she had a few days to be free, a week in which she could be herself without all the trappings that came with being a princess. The aristocratic girls at the academy led such simple lives really. One couldn’t help but envy them and the carefree days they would enjoy once they left school. In the spring would be a London Season, when they would attend balls and parties and all manner of exciting entertainments as they searched for a husband. Even after marriage, they would be burdened with few of the same duties and obligations that came with her life. As a princess, she wasn’t even allowed to decide what time to awaken in the morning or retire at night for bed.

  What she wouldn’t give to see London for herself rather than from a lofty perch inside a royal carriage. How she longed to have an adventure of her own without her every step being watched and each word critiqued. If only she could visit the city without having to wait for Rupert’s arrival. If only she knew someone in the city with whom she could stay.

  Yet wait, perhaps I do know someone!

  Abruptly, she sat up in bed, the covers falling away.

  Miss Poole had been her English teacher at the academy until last year, when she had resigned from her post in order to marry a London solicitor. Miss Poole—Mrs. Brown-Jones now, she corrected herself—had been her favorite teacher, and they had maintained a friendly correspondence since her departure. Emma knew without question that her old teacher would welcome her gladly.

  But would the other woman be willing to give her refuge, knowing she had run off? Would she let Emma stay with her for a few days so she could enjoy the city? Of course, she wouldn’t have permission to leave the estate. Then again, Mrs. Brown-Jones didn’t need to know that—at least not right away.

  A week. Just one week to enjoy herself to the fullest, and then she would willingly return home again and suffer whatever consequences might await. Was that too much to ask?

  Did she dare?

  Oh yes, she did…

  Before she could lose her courage, she tossed the covers aside and leaned over to light a candle. Climbing quickly out of bed, she hurried across to her dressing room and pulled down her smallest portmanteau.

  Dominic Gregory, Earl of Lyndhurst, rubbed his fingers over his night’s growth of dark beard, then smothered a yawn as he reached for the neatly pressed newspaper on the silver salver near his elbow.

  “Shall I draw your bath now, my lord?” Puddlemere asked, the valet waiting with patient attentiveness. “Or would you prefer to take your coffee first?”

  Nick—as Dominic preferred to be called—looked up from where he sat at the round walnut table in his bedchamber, autumn sunlight streaming through the tall casement windows that overlooked the garden of his London town house.

  His town house. How odd the thought.

  Even now he had to keep reminding himself the town house was his, since the knowledge still hadn’t quite sunk in yet. Nor had he grown used to being waited on hand and foot by his brother’s ever-efficient staff.

  His staff now too.

  Damn Peter for having the bloody bad taste to go off and die, he thought for what must have been the thousandth time. And double damn Peter for saddling him with his title, his possessions, and his never-ending mountain of responsibilities.

  Peter was the one who was supposed to be the earl, not Nick.

  Peter was the good one.

  The responsible one.

  The noble, dutiful son who’d been bred from birth to assume the role as head of the family. Certainly not the rebellious boy who had once told their father to go to perdition as he stalked from the house to make his own way in the world.

  And make my way, I did, Nick thought with a pride he couldn’t deny. At the green age of five-and-twenty, he’d risen to the rank of captain in His Majesty’s Navy. Five more years of war and command had honed him, hardened him, given him the ability to inspire men’s trust and the loyalty needed to lead. But those years hadn’t given him the knowledge necessary to step into his brother’s shoes.

  Nor had they given him the desire to do so.

  Even now he longed to be back aboard his ship, to stand with his feet braced on the deck as the sea danced beneath him like an untamed Gypsy. But it wasn’t his ship any longer, not since he’d received word of Peter’s death from typhoid fever and been obliged to sell his commission.

  So here he sat, being asked which he preferred to take first, coffee or a bath, by a man who didn’t look as if he’d ever set foot off dry land. He wouldn’t be surprised if Puddlemere had never even seen the sea, since the man had been born and raised in London.

  “Coffee,” he told him gruffly. Looking down, he opened the paper.

  Two steaming black cupfuls later, he rose for his bath and shave.

  He was toweling his head dry, barefoot and attired in buckskin breeches and a half-buttoned white linen shirt, when a knock came at the door.

  Puddlemere, who Nick was well aware tolerated his penchant for dressing and grooming himself with stoic forbearance, crossed to answer the summons.

  Less than a minute later, the servant was back, his shoulders stiff. “My lord, I have just been informed that an individual is on the doorstep asking to speak with you. He was informed that it is far too early in the day to call, but he insists that you be made aware of his presence nevertheless.”

  Nick tossed the damp towel onto a silk-upholstered chair and reached for his set of silver-backed hairbrushes, ignoring Puddlemere’s wince at what he no doubt considered a desecration of the furniture.

  The valet crossed and picked up the towel
, folding it neatly in half.

  “An individual, hmm?” Nick repeated as he dragged the soft boar bristles through his dark locks. “What sort of individual? Did he give a name?”

  “Yes. A Mr. Goldfinch, or so he said.”

  “Finchie, here?” Nick grinned. “Yes, of course, show him up without delay.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” the valet said, turning to leave once again.

  With his dark, wavy hair as neat as it was likely to get, Nick returned the brushes to his dressing table, then finished buttoning his shirt. He slipped into his waistcoat before dropping down onto the chair with its tiny damp spots to roll on his stockings. He was just thrusting his feet into a pair of boots when the door opened again.

  “Mr. Goldfinch, my lord,” Puddlemere announced with quiet dignity.

  But that was all the dignity the room was to receive as Nick let out a roar of welcome and crossed to shake the hoary hands of his old boatswain mate. “Finchie, if you aren’t a sight for sore eyes, I don’t know what is!”

  “As are you, Cap’n—my lord, I means—ye being an earl now an’ all.”

  Nick dismissed the correction. “We’ve known each other far too many years for such formality. Captain will do just fine. Or Nick, if you’d prefer, now that I’m landlocked.”

  “I couldn’t calls ye Nick, Cap’n.” Goldfinch shook his wizened head. “Can’t likely see meself calling ye my lord, neither, though,” he admitted, a wry grin sliding over his wide mouth as he gave a sheepish shrug. “It sure is damn good ter see ye, Cap’n, even if we’re not aboard ship.”

  “And not likely to be again,” Nick said, his smile fading, “at least not in my case.” Looking across at Puddlemere, who had moved away to straighten up the room, he caught the other man’s gaze. “More coffee and another cup for my friend.”

  Turning away as the servant left the room, he motioned toward a chair, offering the old sailor a seat. “So, how are you? What are you doing with yourself?”

  “This an’ that, now that the navy’s pensioned me off,” Goldfinch said as he settled himself onto a chair. “Lookin’ fer a new ship, but there’s not many to be had.”

  “No,” Nick agreed, aware of the plight of so many sailors and soldiers returning home after the war, looking in vain for employment. “You have the right of it. These are difficult times for many, particularly fighting men.”

  Goldfinch nodded. “It’s why I’ve come, Cap’n. Oh, not for me. It’s fer Cooper. He’s in a bad way. Holed up in one o’ them bawdy houses down in Covent Garden, three sheets to the wind and refusing to listen to anyone. I’m worried he’ll end up in Newgate if he’s not careful. Thought perhaps ye could help.”

  “What can I do?” Nick asked, thinking of his old crewman. “Cooper always did have a hard head for drink and other people’s opinions. He’ll likely tell me to bugger off.”

  “Not you, Cap’n. He always listened to you.” Leaning forward, clenched hands hanging between his spread thighs, Goldfinch sighed. “Please, Cap’n, my lord, won’t ye give it a try?”

  Nick studied the other man for a long moment, thinking of their years aboard ship together, of Cooper and so many others, men who had become more of a family to him than his own relations. Yes, of course, he would help.

  “Let me get my coat,” he said.

  Nearly two hours later, Nick emerged from the perfumed confines of Mrs. Finelove’s House of Pleasure, relieved to be outside in the cool morning air once again.

  Just as Goldfinch had predicted, they’d found Cooper abed in one of the client rooms, drunkenly refusing to leave until he’d gotten every farthing’s worth o’ the money I done paid for whores and drink. Muttering curses and dire imprecations against the navy for pensioning him off before his time and the government in general for the sorry state of the economy, he’d been red-cheeked and wild-eyed with fury and desperation.

  The minute Nick had stepped into the room, however, the brawny sailor crumpled, moisture glistening alarmingly in his eyes before he sniffed it aside. Nevertheless, Nick was forced to issue a direct order as his old captain before Cooper would agree to leave. But leave he did, helped out on unsteady feet by Goldfinch, a cloud of alcoholic fumes drifting in Cooper’s wake.

  Once Nick had seen the two men off in a coach, he started toward his own, but stopped, somehow reluctant to go directly home. He hadn’t been to Covent Garden in a good long while, years in fact. As he well knew, the area was a lively one, teaming with the hustle and bustle of commerce and a varied and colorful slice of humanity that came from all strata of society. At present, the produce and flower vendors were busy selling their wares, hawkers of all kinds calling out enticements in hopes of luring willing customers to buy.

  Nick had estate business waiting for him at home—he seemed to always have estate business now that he was earl. But perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to explore a bit before returning to the town house, he decided. He could certainly do with an opportunity to stretch his legs. Leaving his carriage in the hands of a boy eager to earn a few extra shillings, he set off.

  He hadn’t wandered far when a feminine cry of distress rent the air. Looking up, he saw a slender young woman with hair so golden it gleamed guinea bright beneath her satin-trimmed bonnet. Her blue day dress was plain but obviously well made, her fawn half boots crafted from fine-quality leather that showed little wear. Clearly she was out of her element in the teeming marketplace and obviously alone, easy prey for the two young thugs who were boxing her in near a pair of fruit stalls.

  Before Nick had time to react, one of the youths yanked the reticule off her wrist and broke into a run, his companion following fast at his heels.

  “Thieves! Come back here!” she shouted after them, drawing the attention of even more nearby onlookers and merchants. “Someone stop them!”

  But no one moved, most casting down their gazes in a clear indication of their unwillingness to get involved. To Nick’s surprise, the young woman muttered an inaudible imprecation under her breath, lifted her skirts an inch above her ankles, and gave chase.

  Without giving himself time to consider, Nick raced after her.

  She moved with the fleet stride of a deer, weaving in and out of the crowds in pursuit of the miscreants who had stolen her purse. Still, her progress was hampered by her long skirts and obvious unfamiliarity with her surroundings.

  Nick began to gain ground with his long strides. But before he had a chance to overtake her and lay his hands on the thieves, the two young men disappeared. Scanning the heads of the many people lining the narrow, twisting streets, Nick tried to catch sight of them again, but the youths were nowhere to be found.

  As disheartening as their disappearance might have been, he wasn’t really surprised. In this neighborhood, with its warren of alleyways and jumble of old, irregular shops and houses, a man could disappear as quickly and quietly as mist—there one instant, vanished the next.

  After a few yards more, the young woman stopped, an arm wrapped around her middle as she tried to catch her breath, a small leather valise, he had only just noticed, gripped tightly in one hand.

  He drew to a halt at her side. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She startled visibly and spun, looking up to see who had spoken.

  In the next instant he found himself captivated, unable to look away from the loveliest face and the most beautiful pair of eyes he had ever glimpsed.

  What a stunner, he thought, feeling as if he’d just taken a hard right from his sparring partner at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Salon. Silently, he surveyed the gentle curve of her cheekbones, the brief but adorable jut of her nose, and a mouth that was both generous and petal soft.

  As for her eyes, they were a pure, luminous shade of blue that reminded him of the hyacinths that had once grown so sweetly in his mother’s garden. And as if that weren’t bewitching enough, they were framed by a set of long, lustrous golden lashes that looked as though they were dusted in morning sunshine—the same radiant c
olor as her hair.

  Given the circumstances, he’d expected to see tears, or perhaps fear, shimmering in those eyes. But there was outrage instead and a kind of pride that seemed almost regal.

  A stunner with a streak of fire, he mused. I like her already.

  Quite without meaning to, he smiled, the blood in his veins pumping strong and fast—and not from running.

  She tilted up her chin and raised an imperious brow. “And just what are you grinning about? Or do you think it’s amusing that I’ve been robbed?” she demanded, her voice equally as lovely as the rest of her.

  “No,” he said automatically. Yet in spite of the seriousness of the situation, he couldn’t seem to erase the smile from his face. She was just too pretty for him not to smile.

  “Ooh,” she cried with frustrated fury, stamping one small foot against the pavement. “What I wouldn’t give to get my hands on them. If only I’d been able to run fast enough to catch up.”

  Considering her slender frame and modest height, he found the idea ludicrous. “And just what would you have done if you had caught them?”

  “I would have had them tossed in the deepest, darkest dungeon I could find. After I’d taken my reticule back, of course.”

  “Of course.” His lips twitched again, this time in delight at her irresistibly feminine logic.

  At his expression, she looked him up and down once more. “You think I wouldn’t?”

  “Not a bit, although you might find dungeons in rather short supply.”

  “Not where I’m from.”

  He folded his arms over his chest with interest. “Oh? And where might that be?”

  She opened her mouth and then closed it again as if trying to decide whether she should answer. “Scotland,” she said after a lengthy pause.

  “Scotland? You’re a long way from home.”