Beauty and the Earl

by Patricia Grasso

“Once the babe is weaned, I will send the earl his heir,” Gromeko assured her. “If you cooperate.”

  “What will happen to my other babies?”

  “I will not tear them from your breast. You will keep them until they reach an age to sell.”

  Amber suffered the almost overwhelming urge to strike him.

  “They will be weaned off your milk within a few weeks,” Gromeko continued. “You will recover from childbirth more quickly that way and resume your relationship with my stud. You need not worry, though. I own wet nurses and will let you choose which woman will feed your babies.”

  Amber ignored that. “I presume the letter from the czar was a forgery.”

  “We were hoping you would come willingly.” Gromeko smiled. “Pushkin misjudged your feelings for him and your desire for the czar’s acknowledgment.” He stroked her silver-blond hair. “You are your mother’s image.”

  His remark surprised Amber. No one had ever spoken about her mother. Fedor had always brushed her questions aside, saying, “Your mother was the czar’s whore.”

  “Tell me about my mother.”

  “I did not know her personally, but every man—including myself—would have sold his soul for one night in her bed.” Gromeko left her after that, taking the empty tray with him.

  Amber listened to his retreating footsteps and then hurried to the window. She stared at the oak tree, its outstretched branches calling to her. She needed to climb onto the closest branch.

  Fear gripped her. She had never climbed a tree in her life. One false move would send her to her death.

  Death before defilement. Take one branch at a time.

  Amber opened the window and sent up a silent prayer of thanks that it did not squeak. Determined not to look down, she climbed rear-end first out the window and sat on the thick branch as if astride a horse.

  Holding on with both hands, Amber concentrated on keeping her balance and inched backward toward the tree trunk. Then she lowered her left leg to the branch below as if dismounting a horse. Branch by branch, she descended the oak tree until she sat on the lowest branch. Only then did she look to judge the distance to the ground.

  Count Gromeko and Uncle Fedor stood there, watching her. “I warned you to beware of her,” her uncle told the count. “She is her mother’s daughter.”

  “Princess, come down,” Gromeko ordered. “Now.”

  Amber closed her eyes against the reality of being caught. Then she dropped to the ground, landing on her feet.

  “You conniving witch,” Fedor shouted, his right fist connecting with her left cheek.

  Amber dropped, unconscious, to the ground . . .

  Something cool covered her throbbing cheek.

  Amber opened her eyes. She was lying on the bed in her chamber. Wearing a concerned expression, Count Gromeko perched on the edge of the bed. “I apologize for your uncle’s barbaric behavior. I would never hurt you.” He stood to leave. “Keep the cloth on your cheek. Though I appreciate your ingenuity, do not climb out the window again.”

  Once alone, Amber dropped a hand to her belly and whispered, “Do not fear, my little one. I will protect you.”

  * * *

  Dressed in formal attire, Miles walked downstairs to the foyer that evening. He looked through the pile of invitations and decided on the Stroud, Enfield, and Brentwood balls after the opera. Hopefully, Georgiana and Sarah and Vanessa would not attend the same ball. If that happened, he would take himself to White’s for a drink and cards.

  Miles noted his majordomo’s disapproving expression. “If you do not approve of my actions, feel free to find yourself another job.” He turned away but stopped short when the other man spoke.

  “First you discard your wife and then you discard me,” Pebbles muttered. “I liked you better sitting in the dark.”

  “I did not discard my wife,” Miles said. “She discarded me.”

  “You have not searched—”

  “Enough! I want you packed and gone by the time I return,” Miles said, giving his anger free reign.

  “You cannot fire me,” Pebbles said, looking down his nose at the younger man. “I quit.”

  Miles slammed the door on the way out. He climbed into his coach and called out, “The Royal Opera House.”

  Twenty minutes later, the coach stopped in front of the opera house. His driver opened the door, but Miles did not move. His mood precluded enjoying an opera performance.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Miles told his driver. “Take me to the Earl of Stroud’s in Grosvenor Square.” Fifteen minutes later, the coach halted in front of the Stroud residence. Again, Miles did not move.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” he told his driver. “Take me home.” Loosening his cravat, Miles leaned back and rested his head against the back of the coach. He could not engage in an affair with Georgiana, Sarah, or Vanessa. He wanted his wife. Unfortunately, his wife didn’t want him, but he would have his son.

  Miles came to a decision. In the morning he would send a note to his barrister to procure a court order preventing his wife from leaving England while she carried his child. Once she delivered and relinquished the babe to him, Amber Kazanov could go wherever she wanted with whomever she wanted.

  The coach halted in front of Montgomery House in Berkeley Square. His driver opened the door, but Miles did not move. His gaze had fixed on his majordomo. With suitcase in hand, Pebbles descended the front stairs and walked down the street in the direction of Park Lane.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind again,” his driver said, irritation tingeing his voice.

  Without bothering to reply, Miles climbed out of the coach and jogged down the street after his majordomo.

  He touched the older man’s arm. “Where are you going?”

  “I am leaving,” Pebbles said.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Miles said.

  “You cannot change your mind.”

  Miles snapped his brows together. “Why?”

  “I have found employment elsewhere,” Pebbles answered.

  “With whom?”

  “My lord, I do not see how that—”

  “Humor me.”

  “Lady Isabelle has responded favorably to my request for employment,” Pebbles answered.

  “My own sister?”

  Pebbles inclined his head. “Send me a note when you bring Her Highness home. I may reconsider.”

  “Her Highness is not coming home.”

  “Then I suggest that Joseph will make an excellent majordomo.”

  “I don’t want Joseph. I want you.”

  “Tough.” At that, Pebbles turned his back and walked away.

  Miles watched until the older man disappeared around the corner. He had lost everything . . . Brenna, Amber, his face, and now Pebbles, a man more like a father than a retainer.

  * * *

  Awakening in the morning, Amber inspected her reflection in the cheval mirror. A bruise discolored her left cheek. She heard the door being unlocked but refused to turn around. Footsteps crossed the chamber, and someone set a tray on the table.

  “Eat this, or I will cram it down your throat,” Fedor said. “We cannot get babies out of a dead woman.”

  “The sight of you sickens me,” Amber said, rounding on her uncle. “I will not eat until you leave this chamber. Do not forget to lock the door on your way out.”

  Amber knew she needed to eat for the sake of her baby. Taking her seat, she unrolled the napkin holding her utensils and stared in surprise at them.

  The cook had sent her a fork and a knife. The blade looked sharp enough to slice the steak on her plate. Apparently, Count Gromeko had neglected to tell the cook to slice the steak before serving. For the rest of her life, Amber knew her favorite meal would be steak and eggs.

  Amber lifted the blade and tested its sharpness with the tip of her finger. Then she smiled and waited.

  * * *

  Uncle Fedor returned an hour later and noted the uneaten food. “I warn
ed you—”

  Amber touched the back of his neck with the blade. “Move or call for help, and I will kill you. Remember, dearest uncle, I relish the thought of your blood spurting all over this chamber until you are drained. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” she corrected him. “Say it.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Your continued good health depends upon listening to my instructions,” she warned him. “We will proceed slowly and silently to the servants’ staircase. One false move and my blade will skewer you.”

  With her hostage in the lead, Amber walked down the corridor to the narrow staircase. The tip of her blade never left the back of his neck.

  Without warning, strong arms wrapped around her from behind and lifted her off the floor. The blade slipped from her hand and dropped to the floor.

  “My family’s fortune depends upon your fruitfulness,” Sergei whispered against her ear.

  “Gromeko!” Amber screamed, fearing her uncle would beat her again and harm her baby. Gromeko appeared as Sergei dragged her, struggling, into the bedchamber. Fedor grabbed the front of her gown and ripped it off her body.

  “I told you she would escape if you gave her a gown,” Fedor said. “Lock her in the closet.”

  Amber paled to a deathly white. “Please do not put me in there.”

  “Regretfully, Princess, you have proven untrustworthy.” Gromeko nodded at Sergei, who tossed her into the closet and slammed the door.

  Amber banged on it. “I am cold in here.”

  “Toss her the shawl,” she heard Gromeko say.

  “Let her suffer,” Fedor said.

  “The princess belongs to me,” the count told her uncle. “If she dies from a chill, I will lose my investment. Give her the shawl.”

  The door opened a crack, and a hand tossed the shawl inside. Then she heard the sound of the lock turning.

  “Gromeko,” Amber cried. “Please, I promise—”

  The bedchamber door slammed shut.

  Amber wrapped the shawl around her shoulders and sat, trembling, in the dark.

  Where are you, Miles? I need you.

  Chapter 18

  Where is she?

  Warming the Russian’s bed? Spreading her—?

  That road led to madness.

  Unshaven and unkempt in his evening attire from the previous night, Miles sat at his desk the third morning after his wife had left him. He poured himself another whisky and gulped it down in a single swig. Then he unfolded his wife’s note, dismissing him from her life.

  . . . The czar’s acknowledgment means everything to me. I plan to marry Sergei . . .

  Miles focused on her intended marriage to the Russian and then stared at the ring she had given him. Why had she gifted him with the czar’s ring if she loved another man? Why hadn’t she gone to Sergei for help with her problem? Why had she brought love into his life only to take it away?

  If the devil had the power to assume a pleasing shape, then the devil was Princess Amber Kazanov. An enticing liar and betrayer of men, a mirror image of her adulterous mother.

  Miles tossed the ring on the desk and pocketed the note. He intended always to keep it close as a reminder to beware of women, especially those who professed their love.

  Miles wandered to the window to stare at the garden below. His heart wrenched at what he saw. Caroline sat with Nanny Smart on a stone bench. His daughter looked sad, as if she had lost her best friend in the world. He regretted telling her that her new mummy had gone away forever.

  Having survived the loss of his first wife, Miles knew he had the strength to shoulder the pain of this betrayal, but his daughter was a different matter. He would never forgive Amber Kazanov for hurting Caroline.

  Miles watched his daughter rise from the bench. With head bowed, Caroline crossed the garden to the rosebush his wife had intended to nurse back to health.

  The sight of the rosebush sent his simmering anger exploding into fury. How sickeningly sweet the princess was to worry about a plant. She thought nothing of turning her back on her husband and the little girl who loved her.

  Damn her. She was carrying his baby and stealing his heir. Miles whirled away from the window and marched downstairs. Like an unexpected storm, he surprised the retainers he passed.

  Passing through the kitchen, Miles grabbed an enormous butcher knife. He advanced on the rosebush, shouting at his daughter, “Get out of the way.”

  Caroline watched in horror as he lifted the butcher knife to the rosebush. “No, Daddy.” She burst into tears.

  Miles ignored her cries. He hacked branch after branch off the rosebush, mutilating it beyond recognition.

  “Montgomery.”

  The sound of a voice calling his name seeped into his brain.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

  Miles whirled around, the butcher knife raised in his hand, a murderous gleam in his eyes.

  Prince Rudolf stood there. With his gaze fixed on the blade, the prince held his hands up.

  Miles shook his head to clear his brain and focused on the prince. He lowered the butcher knife, but the prince remained motionless. Only when he tossed the blade down did the prince step closer.

  Miles gestured at Nanny Smart to take Caroline inside.

  “I do not understand what is happening,” Rudolf said, glancing at the mutilated rosebush, “but I carry news that will put you in a better frame of mind.”

  “And what news is that?”

  “I passed Pushkin’s residence and saw his servants packing the coaches,” Rudolf said. “He will be leaving England on the evening tide. I heard you were still in residence and knew you and Amber would rejoice at the news.”

  Miles cocked a brow at him. “I have not seen Amber since the Stanton party.”

  “Amber is missing, and you never sent me word?”

  “My wife is not missing. She left me for the Russian.”

  “Amber would never do that,” Rudolf insisted. “When I danced with her the other night, she proclaimed her love for you. She thanked me for bringing her to you.”

  Miles looked as surprised as he felt. Why would the princess leave the man she professed to love?

  “Amber sent me a note,” Miles said, reaching into his pocket.

  “Are you certain she wrote it?”

  Miles handed the crumpled parchment to the prince.

  “The handwriting is hers,” Rudolf said, perusing the note, “but look at this.” He pointed to four scribbles beneath her name. “I taught Amber Germanic runes so that we could communicate secretly. She has written the word help.”

  “Oh, Christ.” Miles ran toward the mansion. “Joseph, send a footman to my brother-in-law—”

  “Send another to Prince Viktor’s,” Rudolf interjected.

  “Tell John and Viktor to meet us in front of Sergei Pushkin’s mansion,” Miles ordered, yanking the front door open. “The Russian has abducted my wife.”

  Twenty minutes later, the four men stood in front of the mansion. All four carried pistols. Miles raced up the stairs and barged into the foyer, the others following behind.

  Sergei Pushkin and Baron Slominsky whirled toward the door. “What is the meaning of this?” Sergei demanded. “You cannot force your way into my home.”

  Four pistols leveled on him.

  “Gentlemen, violence is unnecessary,” Baron Slominsky intervened, his smile ingratiating. “If you state your business, then we can settle the matter and leave for our ship. Pushkin and I are leaving on the evening tide.”

  “Amber!” Miles shouted. “Where are you?”

  “You are insane,” Sergei said.

  Miles struck him with the butt of the pistol, sending him crashing to the floor. “If you’ve touched her, I’ll use the other end.”

  No one spoke.

  “Amber!”

  Hearing the sound of muffled cries, Miles raced up the stairs two at a time. Rudolf followed one step beh
ind. Miles burst into the chamber at the end of the corridor and faced a stranger. Then he heard the prince say, “Fedor.”

  “This invasion is illegal,” Fedor Kazanov said, trying to block their way. “I will send for the authorities.”

  “Abduction is also illegal, Father.”

  “I am not your father.”

  “Thank God for His blessings,” Rudolf shot back.

  Miles heard his wife weeping and pleading. Her uncle had locked her in the closet.

  “Give me the key,” Miles demanded.

  “I am punishing a recalcitrant maid,” Fedor said. “My discipline is none of your business.”

  “This is for my mother.” Rudolf closed his fist and struck his father, sending him staggering toward Miles.

  “This is for my wife.” Miles closed his fist and struck Fedor again, sending him crashing to the floor. He searched the dazed man’s pockets and found the key.

  Miles opened the closet door and felt his heart breaking. His weeping wife was curled up on the floor, rocking back and forth. Removing his jacket, Miles knelt beside her and wrapped it around her. Then he scooped her into his arms.

  “Why did you make me wait so long?” Amber cried, clinging to him like a drowning woman. “I needed you.”

  Miles wondered how he would ever live with himself again. His blind stupidity had nearly cost him his wife.

  * * *

  Gingerly, Miles set Amber down on her bed, but she refused to let him go. “Hold me,” she sobbed, clinging to him.

  Miles pulled the coverlet up to cover her. Then he sat on the bed, leaned back against the headboard, and held her close. “I am sorry I failed you,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion.

  “You did not fail me,” Amber sobbed. “You rescued me.”

  Guilt consumed Miles. He could never tell her that he had doubted her love and her faithfulness. He could never tell her that she had suffered because of his pigheadedness. He could never tell her that she had only narrowly escaped a lifetime of sexual slavery. If Rudolf had not chanced by, his wife would have been lost to him forever. How did a man live with that?

  “Let me see your face,” Miles said, tilting her chin up. He winced at her bruises and swollen eyes.

  “Fedor beat me when I tried to escape.”