Lord Ealey—Shefford’s very good friend—welcomed them to the club, introduced them to Lord Liverpool and several other ministers of government. The gentlemen drank fine whiskey and spoke casually of relations between England and Sabedoria. Edward Ochoa performed brilliantly, especially when Sir William Maynwaring joined them. Ochoa singled out the judge for his particular attention, flattering him and discussing points of law as only another lawyer could do.
It was clear that Ochoa had given a great deal of thought to a Sabedorian judicial code, for he spoke eloquently of the Sabedorian concepts of justice and mercy, of fairness and benevolence. Maynwaring disagreed with a good number of Ochoa’s points, but Tom’s man was unwavering, even as he praised the judge’s clear thinking.
Tom contained his hatred for the man who had sent him to hell, and trusted Ochoa to figure a way to draw him into a well-deserved trap. He observed as Ochoa manipulated Maynwaring into a discussion of finances and investments, leading the judge to believe that the Sabedorians had discovered some promising projects in which to invest.
Ochoa spoke to Maynwaring of the Manchester Canal sham, garnering his rapt attention with talk of huge profits to be made. And if he had any interest in racing, he might enjoy a visit to the Delamere stables to see the Sabedorian Thoroughbreds.
The crystal chandelier and wall sconces in Lady Sawbrooke’s music room gave off a soft, glowing light. The conversation sounded like a quiet hum all around Maggie.
It was no surprise that none of her sisters had offered to accompany her to the musicale. Elizabeth didn’t generally attend musical recitals unless she was the one performing, and the others rarely took an interest in events that were not premier social occasions of the season.
Maggie had come with Victoria and her husband so she wasn’t truly alone. But the press of so many warm bodies all around her, and the noise of all their voices was as daunting as the Waverly ball.
“Your gown suits your complexion beautifully, Maggie,” Victoria said.
“Thank you.”
“But the style…it’s so unlike you.”
Maggie glanced down at her décolletage and resisted the urge to cover the expanse of bare skin with her hands. She was unaccustomed to showing quite so much.
“I cannot believe I said that.” Victoria sighed. “It’s something your mother or one of your sisters would say. You look wonderful.”
But Maggie did not feel wonderful. Her years at Blackmore Manor had not prepared her for a return to social life.
“Don’t look just yet, but who is that thin, blond man speaking with Lord Randall? At the refreshment table.”
“Why?”
“He keeps trying to catch your eye. Go ahead. Look now.”
“Oh no. Robert Kimbridge.” She took Victoria’s arm and led her to the opposite side of the room, away from Shefford’s overweening, perfectly dressed friend.
“Isn’t he Viscount Bowgreave’s son?”
Maggie shrugged. The less she knew about Mr. Kimbridge, the better.
Victoria thought a moment. “Bowgreave is exceptionally flush in his pockets, if I remember correctly. And Robert is the youngest. Right?”
If Maggie could believe all she’d overheard, that was true. But she had learned that wealth and titles did not count for everything. Her late husband was the perfect example. He’d had an impeccable lineage, and yet his shortcomings were numerous.
Julian had not cared much for reading, and Maggie knew that was because he had difficulty with the skill. She had never seen him review their steward’s records, nor had he taken more than a superficial interest in his estates.
He had not been particularly clever, but he’d been far from unattractive and Maggie realized now that he had traded on his good looks and his title to make his way in society. It seemed so odd now that she’d never had more than a few trifling conversations with him—with her own husband, the father of her children. And it was embarrassing to recall the times she’d tried to engage him, only to be bluntly rebuffed.
His mind must have been too occupied with his many mistresses and all his exciting wagers to spend time thinking of a dull wife and the boring pursuits to be found at Blackmore.
“Shefford thinks I should marry him.”
“Mr. Kimbridge?”
Maggie nodded. “But I have no reason to think he’d be any better than Julian. He even resembles him. Vaguely. All that blond hair and those deceptively angelic looks.”
“You’re not going to do it. Are you?”
Maggie clenched her teeth and gave a shake of her head.
As much as it had hurt to learn of Julian’s true nature, she was glad she knew the depth of his betrayal. It would help to keep her from making another disastrous marriage, not that she had any intention of binding herself to one more handsome slacker. Kimbridge actually did look a bit like Julian, and as Maggie glanced at him, she saw he possessed the same vacuous smile that she had mistaken for sophistication in Julian. It was merely a mask, and Maggie knew better than to believe there was anything of substance behind it.
“Look, there’s Lady Teversal. Shall we join her?”
Maggie was glad for a legitimate reason to distance herself even further from Mr. Kimbridge, as she and Victoria approached Nettie and her husband. They were exchanging pleasantries with an older couple that Maggie did not know.
Nettie greeted them and introduced them to their companions. “Lady Victoria Ranfield, and Lady Margaret Blackmore, may I introduce to you Major General Joseph Foveaux and Mrs. Foveaux?”
“I understand we’ll be enjoying an evening of Mr. Haydn’s work,” said Mrs. Foveaux while her husband, a large man with a florid complexion and small, dark eyes, gave a cursory bow at the introduction. He looked over Maggie’s head, observing the guests as though evaluating each one by some personal standard. Maggie took comfort in the knowledge that she wasn’t under the general’s command.
“Yes, I’m sure it will be most enjoyable,” Maggie remarked as a new rumble of energy suddenly passed through the gathering. She looked toward the door to see what had caused it.
“Look, it’s Lord Castlereagh and Lord Bathurst with the Sabedorian ambassador,” said Nettie’s husband, Lord Teversal.
Maggie felt a shivery wave of anticipation, a desperate hope that Thomas would be with these important personages, but she managed to squelch it. He’d had his opportunity with her, and he’d wasted it. She looked away from the door.
“I wonder if the prince is with them,” Teversal added, putting words to Maggie’s thoughts.
“Oh my,” said Nettie, opening her fan and beating it rapidly in front of her face. “Here he is. The prince himself. I believe you know him, Lady Blackmore. We didn’t have the opportunity to meet him at the Waverly ball. Will you introduce us? I-I’m sure we would all dearly love to meet him.”
Maggie bit back a refusal, her thoughts a tangle of confusion. First Kimbridge, now Thomas. Two men with differing agendas for her, but both intending to use her for their own purposes.
She drew up short, realizing she had to be honest—with herself, at least. She’d intended to use Thomas for the very same purpose from which she’d been spurned that very afternoon.
She wasn’t ready to face him. And yet she said, “Of course.”
But the opportunity did not present itself right away, for Thomas and Mr. Beraza split up, each one drawing his own following. The women fawned over Thomas, flapping their fans and fluttering their lashes, while the men bowed and gave him their utmost attention.
Maggie tried to squash her immediate reaction to seeing him, but her heart thudded in her chest and her pulse pounded in her ears. The thought of his intimate touch brought a blush to her cheeks, and she tried to dismiss it, even as she anticipated the moment when his gaze would light upon her.
Would she see the longing that she felt to the core of her being? Would his eyes show some regret for the lost opportunity that afternoon?
He gave his attention to
his companions, looking over the crowd only sporadically. No doubt there were matters of great importance for a prince to discuss with the ministers of government, and Maggie had experienced the power of his undivided attention. He held them rapt, even as his gaze met hers, but suddenly stopped speaking. He looked at her with his mouth agape, and absolute shock in his eyes.
Tom recovered himself quickly, in spite of the sour burn that rose to his throat. Maggie Danvers could not possibly be speaking to Major Foveaux. His immediate pleasure at seeing her was ruffed by the sight of the vile commandant of Norfolk Island. The man had personally overseen three of Tom’s most brutal floggings, and had quite obviously taken intense pleasure in the fatal beating of Duncan Meriwether. The man was the devil incarnate, and it would be all Thomas could do to refrain from dragging the bastard out to the mews behind the Sawbrooke house and shoving his fist down his throat.
“If you’ll excuse us a moment.” It was Nate’s voice, and Tom felt his friend’s hand on his arm as he drew him aside.
“It’s him,” said Nate. “Foveaux.”
Tom sucked in a deep breath, hardly able to believe his eyes. “We heard he was dead.”
“The rumors were obviously wrong. What are we going to do?”
“He won’t know us,” Tom replied, tamping down his shock and his fury. He felt as though he’d used up all his patience in dealing with Shefford during their encounter at Delamere House, and seeing Foveaux now was beyond the limits of his tolerance.
“How can you be sure?” Nate was always the calm one, coolly adding his insights to Tom’s plans. But Nate’s worry now was palpable.
Foveaux was directly responsible for far too many deaths. He’d had absolute control over the prisoners on the island, and every one of them had suffered because of him. Not just the men, but the women prisoners and children, old and young. The commandant had had no conscience whatsoever.
“It’s been years,” said Tom, forcing a calm he did not feel. “We were half starved lads when he last saw us. We neither look nor speak anything like the poor young rips who were under his control all those years ago.”
He watched Nate compose himself. “Aye. You’re right. He couldn’t possibly remember us.”
Thomas’s mind raced. He had never considered the possibility of encountering Foveaux again, not when they’d heard he’d died in some sort of uprising. Tom would be perfectly justified in killing the bastard with his bare hands if it were possible…But Tom was a civilized man. As satisfying as such brutal violence would feel, he was not the animal Foveaux was.
“What do you think about causing the bastard some financial difficulties?” Tom asked.
“I’ll ask Saret to look into it right away.”
“It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out where he keeps his money. And what his vices are.”
“You mean something besides the sight of a back laid bare and bloody from the lash?” Nate said bitterly.
“What do you think? Should we approach him now?” Tom asked, more calmly than he felt. The tracks of his own scars burned as he looked at the man.
“Christ, no.”
Tom ignored Nate and faced his old nemesis. It was nothing short of bizarre to see Foveaux now, when Tom had significant status and power. It felt so very different from those years on Norfolk Island, when he was subject to the whims of every prison official and guard.
Foveaux was an old man now. And he was a good deal smaller than Tom remembered him. He had no authority here, and even if he suspected he knew Tom and Nate from the penal island, he would never trust his memory on it. Not when he was looking at Tom in his princely garb.
“He’s talking to Lady Blackmore,” said Tom, bolstering his nerves. “I think I’ll join them.” He walked away from Nate and started toward Maggie’s group as Nate composed himself and rejoined Lord Castlereagh and some of the other men they’d accompanied from Brook’s.
Maggie regarded him pensively, her eyes darkening as he came near, and he understood her reticence. He had not lived up to his promise of an afternoon of shared pleasure, and he regretted it as much as she appeared to.
If she was having second thoughts about their affair, she was fully justified, though Tom believed—hoped—he could convince her otherwise. But for now, he could not afford to focus his attention on Maggie while Major Foveaux stood so close, glowering at him.
Tom locked eyes with the old commandant as he approached, wondering if perhaps he had not changed as much as he thought he had. His credibility as the Sabedorian prince could be lost with one word from Foveaux, but Tom decided it would not happen. As he’d said to Nate, it had been a long time ago since they’d stood before Foveaux while he dispensed his vicious punishments. Tom had been little more than a boy at the time, and powerless against the old tyrant.
“Your Highness, what a surprise,” said Maggie, her voice tight, her manner polite in the extreme. He could see that his work was cut out for him.
“Lady Blackmore, it’s a pleasure to see you.” He took her hand and bowed over it, then moved to her side, her presence surprisingly calming. She wore an elegant gown of a color that reminded him of a ripe peach, and made him hunger for the sensation of her peach-soft skin against his. The gown had short sleeves and a daringly low neckline that clung enchantingly to all her curves. Tom blew out a surreptitious breath of appreciation and tried to dismiss his burning hatred for Foveaux for the moment, while he gazed into her vexed eyes.
He shared her frustration. Their afternoon had not gone as Thomas would have wished, either, and he despised that the desire that surged through him had to mingle with the loathing he felt for Foveaux. He did not think there was anything in the world that could make him forget the horrors of Norfolk Island, and Foveaux had been largely responsible for the brutal conditions there.
And yet Maggie’s presence took the raw edge from his intense hatred. He found that he could speak normally and look Foveaux in the eye with confidence, divulging nothing of his secrets. Somehow, he even managed to refrain from ripping Foveaux’s sword from his side and running him through, all at once.
Tom realized he needed to manage Maggie carefully throughout the evening so that she would not reject him altogether. She was justified in doubting the seriousness of his advances, and it was up to him to reassure her. Which he would do. Later.
Now, he had to make the most of this chance meeting with Foveaux.
He greeted Lady Ranfield, whom he had met on the previous evening at the Waverly ball. Maggie’s posture remained stiff as she turned partially toward him, without looking into his eyes. “May I introduce you to my friends, Lord Teversal and his wife, Lady Nettie Teversal.”
Thomas made the appropriate gestures of greeting, and when Maggie introduced him to now-General Foveaux and his wife, he did the same.
“Have we met, Your Highness?” Foveaux asked, and Tom could almost see the wheels of his brain turning. Tom’s face was familiar to him, but it had been thirteen years since he was an inmate at Norfolk. Tom reassured himself that the old commandant couldn’t possibly remember him.
At the same time, Tom could not help but enjoy the words “Your Highness” on Foveaux’s lips. He almost wished he’d established a more demeaning form of obeisance for those who greeted him, if only for this moment. Tom would have dearly loved to see Foveaux on his knees before him.
“Have you ever been to Sabedoria, General?” he asked.
“I am forced to admit I had never even heard of it before I read about you in the newspaper,” Foveaux replied with doubt in his tone.
“And you Englishmen are said to be such explorers.” Tom tried for a blend of curiosity with facetiousness.
Foveaux reddened with the direct hit to his English pride. “I have done some extensive traveling.”
Tom grinned. “It’s strange that no British ships discovered our isle on any of their travels in the South Seas,” he said, glad for the opportunity to berate the British marines who’d manned the prison sh
ips and “kept order” on the isle under Foveaux’s command, the bloodthirsty scoundrels.
“I would say so, yes,” Foveaux said, and Thomas greatly enjoyed the helpless scowl on the man’s face. “I say, your English is remarkably good for a…a foreign-born gentleman”
Tom resisted the urge to look away. “Aye. We learned from some well-versed teachers.” He changed the subject. “I understand you tried growing flax on one of your prison islands south of my country.”
Foveaux’s flush deepened. Flax production had essentially failed on Norfolk Island, and Tom knew the commandant would not enjoy being reminded of it, in addition to Britain’s failure to discover Sabedoria.
“No. No, you are correct. The endeavor on the island did not yield what we’d hoped.”
“We Sabedorians might have saved you a great deal of time and trouble,” Tom said, enjoying his ability to rankle Foveaux. “But of course your ships still have not reached our shores.”
Foveaux cleared his throat and was saved from having to respond by the appearance of another guest. He was a bland-featured, fair-complexioned man about Tom’s age. He bowed to Maggie, whose eyes darted from her friend, Lady Victoria, up to Tom, then back again, clearly unnerved by the man.
If Tom’s hackles rose any higher, they would lift him off the floor.
“Lady Blackmore! What a delight to see you here!” the man said.
“Mr. Kimbridge, how do you do?” Maggie replied, returning his bow. Her jaw was set tight, and Tom bristled at the notion that Kimbridge might have done her some harm in the past.
“Lord Shefford never mentioned that you would be attending the musicale,” he said.
“It is not my habit to inform Lord Shefford of my comings and goings,” she said curtly, and Tom touched his mouth briefly to cover his smile.
She introduced Kimbridge to their small group, but the man took little note of Tom, of his prodigious title or the impressively royal costume he’d donned for his meeting at the fashionable men’s club. Kimbridge was entirely focused on Maggie, taking her arm in an attempt to draw her away.
The Rogue Prince Page 13
