If only she had funds.
“I have a friend…” said Shefford.
“I’m sure you do,” Maggie said angrily. Every man in London could go hang for all she cared. Not a single one was worth even a second thought. Except, perhaps one.
“He’s wealthy and well connected—”
“And a lame, destitute country widow would suit him perfectly, is that it, Shefford?” She did not enjoy sounding like a petulant child, but there was a limit to what she would endure. She was a grown woman now, and if she was not mistaken, her prince had found her desirable. He might not wish to marry her, but she had no intention of agreeing to yet another marriage for the convenience of another young scoundrel.
The carriage came to a halt and Shefford took hold of her forearm. “You’re in a corner, Maggie.”
“Not as much as you might think,” she said, pulling her arm from his grasp. She stepped out of the carriage and went up to the house, only to retreat in dismay when she heard her mother’s voice. She could not imagine what Beatrice was doing there, unless it was to harangue her over some triviality.
Maggie closed her eyes and muttered a few choice words she’d never thought to utter in her life. If only she could just take the children and return to Blackmore Manor.
Nathaniel Beraza would attend the Waverly ball with Thomas as his Sabedorian “ambassador,” along with his American cohort, Edward Ochoa, as his foreign minister. Ochoa was a former lawyer who looked like anyone’s benevolent grandfather. Tom didn’t know what crime Edward had been convicted of, but he’d practiced law in America, and now made a perfect Sabedorian minister, mature and erudite. Tom had already paid him handsomely to play his part, and had promised even more after Tom’s crew of ex-convicts completed their undertaking successfully.
They’d decided to keep their fictitious background simple, for that made it far easier for all of Tom’s associates to keep their stories consistent.
All but Ochoa had been imprisoned in one hellish place or another by the English crown, or as slaves on Butcher’s Blade. Ochoa had his own felonious history, and each man had a mix of talents, all of which would be useful as Tom put his plans into play.
Nate came into Thomas’s hotel room, already dressed for the Waverly ball. He’d grown up in a London flash house, and earned his way by picking pockets wherever the opportunity presented itself. He’d been especially fond of racing events, but he’d progressed to some serious larceny before being condemned to the penal colony at a young age. He was independently wealthy now, but his loyalty to Thomas was unquestionable.
“Don’t we look like a couple o’ royal bastards,” he said, grinning, slipping back to the east London accent he’d worked so hard to eliminate. They’d all worked hard to perfect their roles, altering their speech slightly, becoming accustomed to fine clothes, and learning the customs of moneyed people and their servants.
Nate reached over to straighten the golden ribbon that hung around Tom’s neck. It held a perfectly authentic-looking Sabedorian medal with a large emerald set in its center. Tom wore his formal suit of clothes—a black coat and trews, with a white waistcoat and neck cloth. Beneath the medal, lying diagonally across his chest, lay a scarlet sash. Over his dress suit, Tom would wear his specially made scarlet robes, the dominant color of the flag one of his men had designed for Sabedoria.
The play was about to begin, and Thomas felt ready. His assignation with Maggie had been postponed, which was obviously for the best. He could afford no distractions in his quest to destroy his enemies. Maggie, with her alluring eyes and velvet femininity, was a huge disruption to his composure. Though his desire for her had not dwindled in the hours since leaving her in Hanover Square, his common sense told him his energies were better spent focusing on Shefford, Maynwaring, and the Blackmore estates. His plan was complex, with many facets, and a failure of any part could threaten the whole.
Mark Saret entered the room and greeted them. “You’ll have them falling over themselves to please you,” he said to Tom.
“One can only hope,” Thomas replied wryly. “You have some news?”
“Aye. Andrew Harland has managed to get himself employed as a footman in Shefford’s house.”
“Excellent,” said Tom, appreciating Saret’s talent for accomplishing what needed to be done. No doubt one of Shefford’s current footmen had needed to leave the marquess’s employ for some reason—likely relating to a generous monetary enticement. Now Andy Harland was in a position to learn all sorts of information from Shefford’s household that might not otherwise be available to them.
“What of Maynwaring? Anything new there?”
“His Honor Judge William Maynwaring is now His Honor Lord Justice Maynwaring. He is still on the bench, and still rendering overly harsh sentences. He lives in a mansion in Kensington.”
“Anything more on the Blackmores?”
“Julian left a wife and two children who live up at the family estate in Cambridgeshire. Shefford is the trustee of his estate, and guardian of his children.”
“Which means he has control over their finances?”
“Correct.”
It felt wholly unfair that Julian had died before Tom had had the opportunity to destroy him, and the disappointment still was a bitter draught to swallow. The years of dreaming, of hungering for the sight of a ruined Julian Danvers, falling on his knees in desperation at Tom’s feet, were wasted.
He stalked to the window and placed his hands upon the sill. Looking out at the traffic below, he watched the dandies in their top hats and expensively cut suits walking to their various fashionable destinations. No doubt Lady Blackmore was the same kind of irresponsible snob that Julian had been. Tom was going to see to it that she and her children paid for Julian’s misdeeds, just as Tom’s family had done.
“Then whatever financial disasters we devise for Shefford—you still believe we can orchestrate it so that Blackmore’s estate suffers along with him?”
Saret gave a quick nod. “We haven’t as much information on Blackmore as we’ve got on Shefford, but I’ve got a man on it now.”
“Good.”
“Shefford has an estate in Oxfordshire, as well as some property in Dorset—providing far less income than would support his extravagant lifestyle. He likes to live on the edge.”
“Does he gamble?”
“Some, though he is not known as a great winner.”
“He owns thoroughbreds.”
“Recent purchases,” said Saret. “And no noteworthy wins with previous horses in the past few years.”
Which boded well for the horse race Tom had in mind, the one that would deliver the fatal blow to Shefford’s finances. Tom intended to crush him. “What of the Waverly ball?”
“Ah. Something I can answer definitively!” Saret said with a grin. “Shefford will be there. Harland is assigned to accompany his carriage.”
“Perfect. Now, see what more you can find out about His Honor Lord Justice Maynwaring.”
“I will not hear of it, Margaret!” Lady Shefford’s shrill voice cut through Maggie’s mental haze. “The duchess is one of my closest friends, and now that you are here in London, she will consider it a slight if you do not attend the ball tonight.”
“Mother, I do not care if—”
“Well, you should!” her mother carped. She took one of Maggie’s old ball gowns from the wardrobe and placed it on the bed. “You are out of mourning and it’s time you found another husband.”
“But I don’t wan—”
“Do you expect to stay a widow for the rest of your life?” Beatrice paced back and forth in Maggie’s bedchamber. “No woman was meant to be alone.”
Or to protest when her husband depleted them of their income, not to mention made a mockery of his vows?
Maggie was not dim-witted. She knew that a wealthy husband would certainly solve some of her problems. But she refused to endure yet another marriage like her first. She would allow no man ever to have the power
to make a fool of her again as Julian had done.
“No. I am not ready.”
“You will never be ready at this rate, Maggie. I had thought marriage would have changed you. But you are still the willful hoyden you always were. Look at your hat. And your hair is still as untamed as ever.” Beatrice took hold of Maggie’s chin and scrutinized it. “Your scar has not faded in the least.”
Maggie pulled away. “Miracles do not occur in our day and age, Mother.”
“There is no reason to be snippy with me, miss. Get dressed. Wear the pink—”
“Even if I were to agree to go, the pink is perfectly horrid. I cannot believe you would even suggest one of my old come-out gowns.”
Beatrice pinched her lips together with annoyance, and Maggie took her mother’s arm and started to usher her out of the bedchamber. How she’d ever found herself up there with Beatrice in the first place was a puzzle.
“Mother, there is no reason for us to argue. I’ve only just arrived in Town and I—” She heard footsteps in the hall outside her bedroom. “Oh no, who can that be?”
When she heard Stella’s shrill voice calling to their mother, Maggie remembered why she’d hidden herself away in Cambridgeshire for the duration of her mourning. She wished she could have remained there.
Maggie’s sister pushed open the door and came into the room, dressed in sumptuous finery. Her maid was right behind her, carrying a long, sheet-draped parcel across her arms. Obviously, a gown.
“Stella! I am so happy to see you,” said Beatrice, the relief on her face all too obvious.
“Not that I had a choice in the matter,” Stella drawled, draping the gown across the bed. “Mother said you would need convincing. So, here I am.”
“Don’t bother, Stella,” Maggie said. “I am not in a particularly submissive mood.”
“Really,” Stella said dryly and started for the door. “Then I should go. Horton will be waiting for me.”
“No, no! I need you here,” said Beatrice with panic in her voice.
Maggie felt Stella’s exasperated gaze, and she felt resentment beginning to build. She should just pack up the children and return to Cambridgeshire now. Make do with what little they had.
“Talk to her, Stella,” said Beatrice.
“What happened to your hair?”
Maggie didn’t believe they ever thought about the way they treated her anymore. They’d gotten into the habit after Chatterton’s death, and criticizing her seemed to amuse them.
She dropped her hat onto the dressing table. “I’ve been out all day.”
“Mother wants you to come along with us to the ball, Margaret,” said Stella, unwrapping the gown she’d brought. “We brought the carriage, as Mother requested. Horton is waiting for us downstairs.”
“It’ll be a good diversion for you,” said Beatrice.
“What makes you think I need a diversion?” Maggie asked, uninterested in being the unwelcome companion once again. It occurred to her to ask her mother and sister if they’d known of Julian’s indiscretions, but she had far too much pride. Acknowledging her wifely shortcomings would give them just one more deficiency they could toss in her face.
Stella ignored Maggie’s question and rolled her pretty blue eyes. “I should have brought some face powder. Your scar hasn’t faded at all. And those freckles—”
“Where’s your maid?” Beatrice demanded.
Stella pulled the bell cord before Maggie could do anything but mount a weak protest.
“Stella, please. You don’t want my company at Lady Waverly’s ball any more than I want to go.”
“Come now, Maggie,” her mother said, ignoring her plea. “Let Stella’s maid help you.”
“At least you’ve finally filled out,” said Stella coldly as the girl unfastened Maggie’s bodice, the very fastenings Thomas had closed for her, so regretfully, only a short while before. “It must have been the children.”
Her sisters had developed full, lush figures early, and they’d teased a much younger Maggie for her knobby knees and flat chest. They’d described her hair as the color of mud, while they all had beautiful, bright, coppery tresses and lovely blue eyes, just like their mother.
“No doubt,” Maggie said tightly.
Stella shoved the pink gauze gown aside. “No, not this one. Margaret, what could you possibly be thinking? It would be hideous with your coloring.”
“I—”
“Here is the sapphire crepe that I wore once last year,” she said, pulling the drape off the garment. “It should fit well enough, though I doubt you will fill it out.”
In spite of Maggie’s protests, Stella started to peel her dress from her shoulders.
“Luckily, it’s not entirely out of style yet,” said Stella. “And it actually lends a little color to your eyes. Your friend, the prince, will be sure to notice.”
“Prince?” Maggie asked.
“The Sabedorian, of course. The man who saved your savage little son in the square, in case the incident has slipped your memory. You cannot be so countrified that you do not understand the importance of the prince’s particular attention.”
“Of course not, Stella,” Maggie retorted, torn between chagrin and anticipation. She really did not wish to attend the duchess’s or anyone else’s ball. “I remember the prince very clearly.”
“Well, Horton said he’s expected to attend the duchess’s ball tonight.”
“Shefford thinks you should cultivate his favor,” said Beatrice.
No doubt he would, Maggie thought as Stella’s maid pulled the blue gown over Maggie’s head. She was gratified to note that she actually did fill it out. Quite nicely, in fact.
Chapter 4
Thomas made the circuit of the ballroom with Nathaniel on one side, and the duke of Waverly on the other. They were approached by a number of men with prestigious positions in government and society. Introductions were made as Tom considered how he’d have felt to be in such lofty company seventeen years before. Never would he have guessed his life would come to this.
He did not know exactly how many millions Duncan’s treasure was worth. What he did know was that it had given him the wealth and status to pursue his scheme for vengeance. Without it, he wouldn’t have had the blunt to build Thorne’s Gate in New York and develop his stables. He never would have been welcomed into the finest drawing rooms of New York and Boston, where he’d learned the standards of behavior for the wealthy and powerful while he worked on his scheme to entrap Shefford and Blackmore.
Fortunately, Thomas would not be stuck in this country, having to abide by the rules of the English haut ton for very much time. He would be glad to leave as soon as he dealt with the obnoxious aristocrats who’d tossed him away as though he were nothing more than a bit of offal in the street.
Tom hoped that when Sebastian Salim located Tom’s family and brought them to London, he would be able to convince them to return to America with him. His parents could live a life of ease on his estate, and he would provide a generous dowry for his younger sister, Jennie. When he’d seen her last, she’d been a sweet, pretty child, and he had no doubt she’d grown up capable of attracting the most eligible bachelors in New York.
Lucas Reigi had orders to keep Tom’s ships ready to sail immediately after the horse race, and Tom intended to spirit his family onto one of the ships as soon as it was done. Everything was to be kept in readiness for a hasty departure.
“Your Highness, it is a true pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said one of the white-haired lords, eyeing the emerald that rested on Tom’s chest. “I trust your country and ours will find much common ground.”
“I have no doubt of it, Lord Branford.”
“Your English is near perfect, Your Highness,” said Lord Waverly. “I cannot help but wonder how that is possible.”
It was not an unexpected question. “A few Sabedorians learned your language under duress on the high seas, Lord Waverly, and brought it back to us. My own tutor was a ma
n who’d been taken in slavery by English pirates and kept for a number of years.”
Waverly covered his mouth as he cleared his throat, and changed the subject. Tom believed the less said about his command of the language, the better, and he hoped the mention of Sabedorians being victimized by English pirates would stem further questioning.
New guests were announced every few minutes, and Tom controlled the urge to turn his head toward the entrance with each one. He felt an eager unease at seeing Shefford again. He remembered the husky, dark-eyed boy well, and had bet all on the probability that the man had become as mad for horses as his sire had been.
It seemed that Tom’s gamble had been dead-on. Shefford had recently purchased Paragon and Palmer’s Gold, and Tom didn’t think the marquess would pass on an opportunity to race the two Thoroughbreds in an unsanctioned contest. Tom’s American horses were far superior to any horse Tom had ever seen, and his champion would deal the final blow to Shefford’s fortunes, as well as to his reputation. Tom was counting on the bastard drawing all his cronies into the wager. They would blame him for their losses—profound losses, he hoped.
“Lady Beatrice Shefford,” the footman called out, and Thomas could not help but turn. He saw the older woman from Hanover Square—the harpy with white-tinged red hair. A sharp feeling of foreboding knifed through him when he realized she was the same shrew who’d shouted at Maggie when she’d run out of a nearby house to see to her child.
The woman moved forward into the room and the footman announced the next guests. “The Marquess of Shefford, and Lady Margaret Blackmore.”
It was her. Maggie.
He felt as though his belly had dropped to his knees. And yet the intense desire he’d felt when she’d left him returned full force, and battled with the reality of who she was. The only person who could be Lady Blackmore was Julian Danvers’s mother.
Or his wife.
The Rogue Prince Page 6
