The Princess and the Peer

by Warren, Tracy Anne

  “You have no idea,” she murmured under her breath.

  “You don’t sound Scottish,” he continued.

  “I suppose I do not. I’ve… I’ve traveled a great deal over the years, you see.”

  “And now you’re here in London. Are you alone?”

  She sent him a measured look, sudden reserve in her gaze. “No. I have a friend in Town. I was on my way to meet her when I was set upon by those thieves.” She paused, studying him again. “If it doesn’t seem impertinent, just who are you, sir?”

  “I suppose introductions are in order.” Taking off his hat, he made her an elegant bow. “Dominic Gregory, Earl of Lyndhurst, at your service.”

  Chapter 2

  Emma considered the man standing before her, silently marveling at the novelty of having a complete stranger introduce himself to her. Proper royal protocol required that a family member or other suitable acquaintance facilitate her introduction to anyone deemed appropriate for her to meet. To her recollection, she had never met anyone by any other means. Yet here she stood in a London street in a less-than-savory section of the city, making the acquaintance of a man she had first seen only five minutes ago. He claimed to be an English noble and she could think of no reason to disbelieve him, regardless of the highly unorthodox nature of their meeting.

  As for the man himself, he was… impressive, to say the least.

  Tall and magnificently built, he towered above her. His wide shoulders and athletic chest were encased inside a coat of tobacco brown superfine as though he’d been born wearing it. The same could be said for his tight buckskin breeches, which fit over his muscled thighs with taut perfection. His polished black leather Hessians gleamed, catching the light, as did a gold signet ring that graced one of his large, powerful-looking hands.

  He wasn’t handsome in the conventional sense, she decided; his features were too angular, too rugged for classical male beauty. And yet there was something so compelling about him that she found it impossible to look away.

  With her breath caught inside her chest, she traced her gaze over his thick, neatly trimmed coffee brown hair, across his commanding forehead and long, straight nose to his lean cheeks, square jaw, then up again to meet a pair of keen gray eyes whose shade reminded her of the velvety inner layer of a warm summer fog. She suspected she would not soon forget either his looks or the man himself—and not simply because he had attempted to aid her today.

  If only he had been closer at hand when those thugs had decided to rob her. A man like him would never be the object of so brazen a theft. Given his intimidating physique, she was sure even the most unscrupulous of criminals steered well clear of him, afraid of the potential retaliation he might mete out.

  She dearly wished he’d been able to catch the thieves, although part of her had to wonder why he had given chase at all. None of the other people in the marketplace had bothered, so why had he?

  Another intriguing question to add to all the others on which she’d found herself dwelling. Before having her reticule snatched, she’d been enjoying the morning, drinking in unique experiences the likes of which she had only ever imagined. Ariadne in particular would have been envious, she knew. She would probably even have been jealous of Emma’s being set upon by thieves.

  Just before first light, she’d set out from the estate on foot, not daring to take one of the horses for fear of alerting the staff. With her small portmanteau in hand, she’d made her way toward what she hoped was the main road. After all, London couldn’t be so very far away, she’d assured herself. A few miles at most.

  Having lived for the past few years in a remote and wild part of Scotland, she was well used to walking. Countess Hortensia encouraged exercise among the students, claiming that a healthy body begat a healthy mind. Emma wasn’t certain of that, but she’d never complained, enjoying the freedom that came with the fresh air.

  After nearly an hour of walking, she’d finally caught a glimpse of the city in the distance, mildly dismayed to see how many miles she still had to go. But providence soon shone its happy light upon her in the form of a farmer and his wagonful of earth-scented, brown-skinned potatoes. At her wave, he’d stopped and soon agreed with a good-natured smile to give her a ride into London.

  Realizing after a moment that the man expected her to climb up without any assistance from him, she rallied quickly and clambered into the wagon’s homely wooden driver’s box. Her skirts hampered her a bit, but somehow she managed, settling next to the farmer without further delay. Then, with a flick of the reins, they were off.

  She’d never ridden in a wagon before and found it a surprisingly intriguing experience, the country air refreshing against her cheeks, the sun shining gamely down onto her bonneted head. Smiling to herself, she turned her face to its golden rays to drink in the autumn morning while she listened to the older man tell her all about his life as a farmer.

  Gradually the city rose up around them, the streets growing increasingly congested with people and horses and vehicles the deeper into London they journeyed. She watched it all with an enthusiasm that made the farmer laugh.

  “Firs time ter the city?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “Can you tell?”

  He laughed again. “Aye, a bit. I’ll have ter let yeh down here,” he said, bringing his team to a halt.

  Here proved to be the market at Covent Garden, a bustling hodgepodge of commerce and humanity jammed into a tight cluster of streets.

  “Yeh’ll be awright now, will yeh?” the farmer questioned, his bushy eyebrows drawing close. “Yeh’ve people ter meet?”

  “Oh yes,” she told him brightly. “I shall be residing with a friend here in the city.”

  His concern relaxed. “Good, then. A mite girl like yerself shouldn’t be wandering around alone. Get yerself a hack ter take yeh to yer people.”

  “I shall,” she promised. “Thank you for the ride.”

  With warm smiles, she and the farmer bade each other good-bye.

  Intending to do as he had advised, Emma set off in search of a hackney cab. But before she had gone far, her attention was diverted by the sheer bounty of goods being offered for sale—fresh and dried fruits, vegetables, meats, cheeses, breads, and more—the contents of each stall more tempting than the last.

  At the sight of such a vast array of delectable-looking fare, her stomach gave a hungry growl, reminding her that she had missed breakfast that morning. Worse, she had barely touched dinner the evening before. At the sight of so much food, she found herself suddenly ravenous.

  Wandering idly through the market, she bought a small sack of walnuts, a wedge of tart cheese, a thin slice of salty cured ham, and a crusty golden loaf of bread. A succulent pear that proved as delicious as it was juicy rounded out her impromptu meal, which she ate as she strolled. She forgot all about finding a hackney cab, too entranced by the sights, sounds, and scents of the market and the people gathered within it to worry over such mundane necessities.

  She’d finished eating and was tucking a handkerchief back inside her reticule when she’d suddenly been surrounded by a pair of teenage boys. Their matted hair and filthy clothes elicited a moment of pity, but then she read the menace in their hard, calculating eyes and shivered with alarm. They tried to crowd her backward into one of the nearby alleys, but when she didn’t immediately obey, one of them tore the silk reticule off her arm instead and ran. The other tried and failed to take her valise, which she clung to like glue. She’d shouted after them. Then, when it became obvious no one planned to help her, she had given chase, outraged to have been accosted in so open and crowded a place.

  Except someone had chosen to help, she realized, as she once again met the silver-eyed gaze of the man before her.

  Lord Lyndhurst had risen to the call.

  “How do you do, my lord?” she said with ingrained politeness after he straightened from his bow of introduction.

  He waited, obviously expecting more of a reply from her, but she sa
id nothing.

  “And you are?” he asked, after a brief silence.

  She frowned.

  She hadn’t thought about having to give him her name. It was a natural enough request, she supposed, yet she wasn’t certain that she ought to reveal her identity to him. Despite his recent gallantry, he was, after all, a stranger. She had been planning to remain anonymous during her stay with her old teacher. There was her reputation to consider, for one. For another, should word get around that she was here in the city, Duchess Weissmuller would have her back in hand and locked inside the country estate before she had time to blink.

  No, no one must realize who she was—and at present that was the entire populace of London. Except for Miss Poole… Mrs. Brown-Jones, that is, she corrected herself for the dozenth time. She knew she could trust her old teacher with both her presence in the city and her secrets.

  But first she had to locate a hackney and travel across Town to find her. And how was she to do that when she no longer had so much as a shilling to her name?

  Looking up, she once again encountered Dominic Gregory’s expectant gaze.

  My name? What should I say?

  “Emma,” she answered truthfully, or as truthfully as she could. “I am Emma.”

  Taking her hand in his, he executed another short bow. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Emma.”

  A flutter tickled somewhere in the vicinity of her heart, rather like the brush of tiny butterfly wings. “And yours, my lord.”

  Little lines fanned at the corners of his eyes as he smiled anew. After a long moment, his expression cleared, turning serious. “So,” he said, “if I might inquire, what did the thieves take and are you truly certain you are all right?”

  Slowly, she pulled her hand away, curling her fingers tightly at her side, aware of the way they were suddenly tingling from his touch. “Yes, I am quite well, physically at least. As for what they took—” She paused, swallowing hard against a sudden knot in her throat. “They took my money. I haven’t a coin left to my name!” Anger burned inside her again.

  Sympathy turned his eyes the color of a stormy sky. “Is there anyone to whom I can send word? Have you family in the city?”

  She shook her head. “No, no one. I am here to visit my… that is, to see a friend. I am not sure how I shall make my way to her residence though, since I can no longer afford a conveyance.”

  His expression cleared again. “That much is easy. I shall take you.”

  “You? But—”

  “I have a carriage. It’s no bother to drive you.” He extended his arm, clearly expecting her to lay her hand on it.

  She hesitated. What did she really know about this man? Practically nothing, other than his name and the fact that he was brave and impetuous enough to come to a lady’s aid. She wasn’t so naive as to imagine those qualities alone made him trustworthy. Then again, if she refused his assistance, how would she be able to find her way to Miss Poole’s house?

  “Give me that case of yours,” he stated in a commanding tone, reaching out to take her valise. “Then we can be on our way.” When she didn’t immediately comply, he smiled again, reassuringly this time. “I don’t bite, I promise. Not much at least,” he added with a wink.

  She raised an eyebrow at his flirtatious remark, then, quite to her own surprise, began to laugh.

  Suddenly, she relaxed. He might not be harmless, she decided, but she didn’t believe he intended to hurt her either.

  Passing him her valise, she accepted his arm.

  “I’m ever so sorry, miss, but the mister and missus ain’t at ’ome right now,” a maid informed Emma nearly half an hour later as Emma stood on the doorstep of her former teacher’s town house in Gracechurch Street.

  As promised, Nick Gregory had driven her across town, confining his conversation to interesting but inconsequential matters along the way. After assisting her from the carriage, he’d knocked on the front door, then stepped back to let her proceed.

  “When do you expect them to return?” Emma asked, hoping it would not be more than an hour or two. Even so, she was confident the servant would let her inside to wait.

  “Not for some while,” the girl said. “They left last Tuesday for a visit with family in the north and won’t be back for a sennight at least.”

  Emma blinked at the unexpected news.

  A week!

  Well, waiting in the parlor was clearly out of the question, she realized with wry sarcasm. Damnation, she cursed silently, using one of the handful of forbidden words she knew but wasn’t supposed to admit she knew.

  Now what am I to do?

  “Would you care to leave a message for their return?” the maid inquired, a frown of obvious concern puckering her ginger-colored brow.

  Emma shook her head, her mouth turned down with disappointment. She’d had her heart set on this week in the city, her last few days of freedom before she must accept the duties of her future life. It wasn’t fair that all her plans and dreams should be dashed simply because her only acquaintance in London happened to be out of town. But with no money and nowhere to stay, she didn’t see how she could remain in the city.

  Only long years of training kept her from sighing aloud.

  I shall have to go to the embassy, I suppose, she thought, and throw myself on the mercy of the ambassador. What other option did she have?

  Still, the very idea made her cringe. Not only would the ambassador feel it was his responsibility to notify Duchess Weissmuller, but he would surely tattle on her to her brother as well. The thought of Rupert hearing that she’d fled the estate without permission, been set upon by thieves, then forced to return to the estate penniless and alone made her stomach do somersaults. Suddenly, she wished she hadn’t eaten quite such a satisfying meal in the market.

  When she’d left that morning, she’d planned to write a letter to the duchess informing her that she was well and safe and that she would return in due course. The duchess would search for her regardless, but she would never think to look for her at Mrs. Brown-Jones’s house. She doubted the duchess even knew her teacher existed. The older woman would be furious, of course, but she would be unable to do little more than fume and wait for her return.

  Emma was also counting on the duchess’s sense of self-preservation to keep her from immediately confessing the truth to Rupert. The woman would likely be sent home in disgrace were it revealed that she’d failed in her duty to effectively look after her charge. With Rupert still in Rosewald, Emma felt certain the duchess would tell him nothing about her defection. The other woman would want as much time as possible to remedy the situation by finding Emma herself and bringing her back to the estate.

  But if Emma sought out the ambassador, there would be no concealing the truth. Rupert would have to be informed and he would be most displeased with both her and Duchess Weissmuller.

  More blue-deviled than she cared to admit, she did sigh aloud this time, then looked up to find Nick’s gaze on her. She’d momentarily forgotten him, she realized, which only proved how very miserable she was.

  Without asking her consent, he took her arm, slipped it through his, and drew her against his side.

  “Come along, Emma,” she heard Nick murmur in his low baritone. “Come with me and we’ll see what is to be done.”

  Nothing! she thought dejectedly. I have no choice but to slink back to my former prison and accept my fate.

  Still, she let him help her into the carriage, where she sagged against the buttery-smooth brown leather seat. Only think what Countess Hortensia would say if she could see her now.

  Ladies, particularly royal ladies, do not ever sag or slouch. They hold themselves erect at all times, chin high, spine straight, confident and composed no matter the provocation.

  Hearing the words in her mind, Emma forced her shoulders away from the seat and lifted her chin, ignoring the fact that her lower lip gave a little wobble.

  Nick cast her a glance as he picked up the reins. “Tea, I t
hink, and a biscuit. You look pale as death.”

  “Do not be absurd. My complexion always appears pale,” she declared with a renewal of her spirit.

  He snorted with doleful amusement. “Except when your cheeks turn pink like they did earlier.”

  “I had been running.” She shot him a glare, cursing inwardly when her cheeks warmed with a traitorous burst of color.

  He laughed, then flicked the reins to set the horses in motion.

  “Where exactly are we going?” she asked.

  “My town house,” he said. “I thought it would give us a chance to talk in private.”

  She opened her mouth to refuse, knowing she shouldn’t so much as set foot on his doorstep, let alone enter his house. Ladies, and most particularly princesses, did not visit gentlemen’s homes. But a defiant impulse kept her quiet—the possibility of one final, daring taste of adventure too tempting to resist. Heaven knows she was in no hurry to go to the embassy, so why not visit his house? Besides, he probably had a wife, so there would be no impropriety whatsoever in the visit.

  At that thought, her spirits sank. It shouldn’t matter to her—it didn’t matter, she assured herself—but she found the idea of a Lady Lyndhurst oddly depressing. Pushing such thoughts from her mind, she decided to make the best of the situation.

  Just wait, she thought, until I tell Mercedes and Ariadne what I’ve been doing.

  Some minutes later, they drew up before a large, elegant town house in a fine section of the city. As Nick brought the carriage to a halt, a footman hurried down the front steps.

  “Welcome back, milord,” the servant said, taking up a position near the horses’ heads to hold them steady. “Had a good morning, did ye?”

  Nick jumped down from the carriage, landing light as a cat in spite of his towering frame. “Quite good, Bell.”

  “And who’s this pretty thing with ye?” the footman inquired with a casual familiarity Emma found astonishing for a servant.

  She was equally astonished by the black leather patch covering the lanky young man’s left eye and the long, jagged scar creasing his cheek below. He must have been handsome once, she thought, before he’d suffered the terrible event that had disfigured him.