The barkeep arrived with a second tankard of ale and set it down on the table. Nicholas fished in his pockets for coins and dropped them into the man’s open palm.
A few minutes later he was waving at the barkeep for something stronger—a bottle of whiskey—and feeling grateful for its numbing effects, for it took some of the edge off his murderous inclinations. Though the self-loathing was becoming rather more profound as he took in his surroundings and wondered what the hell he was doing here in this abominable place on the worst side of town.
A hand came to rest on his shoulder just then. He tipped his head back on the chair to look up through clouded vision at the upside-down image of a woman’s face.
She was leaning over him.
Golden-haired. She wore a pale blue gown.
Her hand slid across his chest as she bent forward to whisper in his ear. “Would you like some company?”
Nicholas was drunk, but not that drunk. He knew better than to invite this woman to join him, for she was a whore, and he was Prince Nicholas of Petersbourg, recently married and teetering too close to the edge of a terrible fall from grace.
“I appreciate the offer,” he said, “but I’ll be on my way shortly.”
Her eyes warmed with a smile. She moved around him to push his legs off the facing chair. “Then I’ll just sit with you for a little while until it’s time for you to go. What’s your name? I’m Jennie.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jennie,” he replied with seductive charm—for old habits died hard, especially when one was soused. “What brings you out on this fine afternoon?” he asked.
She leaned forward in her chair and slid her hands up his thighs. “The chance that I might meet a man like you. But clearly, the more pertinent question at hand is what brought you out on this fine afternoon? I’ve never seen you here before, and you don’t look like you belong in this part of town.”
Her hand continued to massage his thighs, and he found himself wondering if she knew who he was.
He also wondered if he would ever be capable of forgetting the wife who waited for him at home. Would he ever wish to return to this perverted existence, where he could flirt unreservedly with willing women, and give them what they wanted? Take what he wanted?
“I should go,” he said, blinking slowly through the heavy haze of his inebriation.
She slid onto his lap. He sat back in the chair, wanting to get up, but he couldn’t seem to make his body move.
“One kiss,” she said with another tempting smile that reminded him of his old self when he could charm a kiss—and a great deal more—out of any woman he desired.
“No,” he gently replied, so as not to reject her too cruelly.
Seconds later, however, he regretted not using a firmer tone, for her moist lips found his in the cold shadows of the alehouse—and he allowed it, at least for a few seconds before he shoved her away.
“I said no.”
She slid her hand into his coat and stroked his chest. “I don’t think you mean that. I think you want to come upstairs and let me open your breeches. This mouth of mine likes to do more than just kiss.”
His head nodded back. He was drunker than he realized, but not so incapacitated that he couldn’t lift this woman off his lap and place her on the opposite chair. After doing so, he rose unsteadily to his feet. She glared up at him with seething anger.
Tossing a few coins onto the table, he walked out of the shadows, past his guard. “If you tell anyone about this,” he said, “I swear to God you’ll rue the day you were born.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
By the time Nicholas reached the king’s royal court chamber, he was sober again—at least sober enough to speak clearly and make some sense out of the situation. He explained everything to his brother and showed him the letter Pierre had handed to Véronique at the outdoor concert.
Randolph stared at him, incredulous. “He is blackmailing you?”
“Yes. He wants d’Entremont Manor.” Nicholas sat down. “Perhaps I should just give it to him.”
Randolph scoffed. “Or he could conveniently meet with some sort of unfortunate accident.”
“Believe me, I’ve thought about it,” Nicholas replied. “In far more detail than I should have. But he has left instructions with someone in France to send the incriminating information to the Petersbourg newspapers if he does not return in person by a certain date. So if anything happens to him, the truth will be revealed, regardless.”
Randolph paced about the room. “He will not get away with this. You will give him nothing. We will take him into custody and force him to confess who has this information.”
“As I suggested before,” Nicholas said, “wouldn’t it be easier to simply give him the manor house? Do I really need it?”
Randolph stopped pacing. “That is for you to answer, not me.”
Nicholas rubbed his pounding temples. “Bloody hell. Either way, if I surrender to him, he will only return later with more threats, looking for more money. It will never end.” He stood and moved to the mantel, rested his hands on it, and gazed down at the empty grate.
“What if I reveal everything myself,” Nicholas suggested, “before the three days are up? Then he will have nothing with which to bargain.”
“We could arrest him for your kidnapping,” Randolph said.
Nicholas faced him. “If we arrest him, we will have to arrest Véronique as well. That cannot be an option.”
His brother stared at him for a moment. “Do you realize what you are saying?”
“Yes, I intend to confess the truth about my legitimacy.”
“You will lose your title,” Randolph told him. “You will no longer be Prince Nicholas.”
“What about the dukedom?” he asked, focusing on the particulars.
“That is a separate title I bestowed upon you,” his brother replied. “I will not take it away, but you would no longer be a royal duke. Your rank would change.”
“I can live with that,” Nicholas said.
“The gossip will be fierce,” his brother warned. “The newspapers will have a field day. The editors will jump for joy. They won’t be kind. Even Véronique will be dragged into the slaughter, and will likely be cut to pieces. Will she be strong enough to weather it?”
Nicholas remembered the day she kicked Pierre in the nether regions, and the day she walked in on a man’s suicide.…
“Yes, she’s made of stern stuff, and she won’t be sorry to see Pierre cut off at the knees. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
Randolph walked to the desk, where he stood for a long time with his back to Nicholas.
“What’s wrong?” Nicholas asked.
His brother faced him at last. “I am thinking of our mother. Everyone always thought she was a shining example of purity and dignity. She was a beloved queen, but this will change that forever. The Royalists will say what they always do—that our family is not worthy of the crown.”
Nicholas sighed. “Yes, but now we have you and Alexandra as our sovereigns. Alexandra is descended from the ancient Tremaine dynasty, so no one can ever dispute the legitimacy of your heir’s rightful claim to the throne. The monarchy is safe at least.” He paused. “But, Randolph, if you must wash your hands of me to protect your crown, I will not begrudge you for it.”
“Wash my hands of you?” Randolph replied in shock and dismay. “I intend to stand by you, Nicholas, no matter what occurs.”
His heart ached with love for his brother. “I don’t want to bring you down.”
Randolph laid a hand on his shoulder. “None of this is your fault, and perhaps it won’t be as bad as all that. What Mother did … it was a long time ago. Perhaps the people will be forgiving. We will do our best to put the right spin on it. We will focus on your courage and honesty in coming forward.”
Nicholas stared at him for an overlong moment. “It’s going to be rough on all of us. I had best go and prepare Véronique.”
He thou
ght of her family just then, and hoped they would not regret giving him permission to marry their daughter.
* * *
When Véronique opened the door, Nicholas found himself exhaling. Dressed in a cheerful gown of peach silk with tiny floral sprays, she was indeed a sight for sore eyes.
She stepped aside and invited him in. “Thank goodness you are here. What happened? I haven’t been able to sit still all afternoon.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and rose up on her toes. He curled his body into hers and held her tight, feeling as if the world might come to an end if he let go too soon.
“I think you should sit down,” he said when she stepped out of his embrace.
Her nose crinkled at his words, as if she had caught a whiff of something unpleasant. She moved closer to sniff his jacket collar.
Oh God. His heart sank.
“I have something important to tell you,” he explained.
She backed away from him, her face pulling into a frown.
“A few things, actually,” he added, knowing that he must not hide what happened in the alehouse. He could not let Véronique imagine it was worse than what it was … though it was hardly an inconsequential matter. He suddenly wanted to dash from the room, change out of these dirty clothes, and scrub the stink of the stale liquor—and that woman’s cheap perfume—from his person.
Véronique seemed to recognize the strain in his expression. “You don’t need to say it. I already know. I can smell it on you, and I am not referring to the whiskey.”
His brow furrowed with regret. “I am sorry, Véronique. I am not proud of what happened today, but you must let me explain.”
Though he did not deserve her forgiveness. This was the third time, was it not? Or dammit … was it the fourth?
His wife moved to a chair by the fire and sat down. “I am listening.”
He could feel the color slowly draining from his face. When he hesitated, she said, “I thought you were going to see Pierre.”
“I did see him,” he replied, thankful for this small detour from the more abhorrent sections of the day. Nicholas moved closer but did not sit down. “It was as we suspected. Pierre revealed his intention to blackmail me into signing over the deed to d’Entremont Manor. He threatened to reveal my mother’s affair with the marquis, and the fact that I am illegitimate.”
Véronique squeezed the ends of the armrests. “What are you going to do?”
Nicholas crossed to the window and looked at the snowy landscape. A full minute must have passed while he watched a pigeon on the ledge, huddling in the cold. Then at last he answered the question in a voice hardened by ruthlessness.
“I am going to crush Pierre and all his devious plans by revealing the truth myself. Randolph is at this moment drafting a formal statement, which he will read before Parliament and release to the newspapers. He will tell everyone that I am illegitimate, and he will have no choice but to strip me of my title of prince. I will no longer be addressed as His Royal Highness, and that will be the end of it. No more lies.”
He heard the sound of the chair creak as his wife rose and approached. “Are you sure about all this?”
He faced her. “I don’t intend to live a lie, Véronique, and I suspect you don’t want that either.”
She shook her head. “No, I do not. But I must ask—did you consider giving him what he wants?”
“Only briefly. Why? Is that what you think I should do?”
She pondered it for a moment. “No. If you must know, I have always felt it would be difficult to hide the truth forever. It would have come out eventually. These things always do.”
“Which truth are you referring to, exactly?” he asked. “There must be another layer to this observation.”
She inclined her head as if bewildered. “There is no other layer, Nicholas. I am referring only to the blackmail scheme.”
“But what about the other women?” he asked matter-of-factly. “Clearly you can smell the perfume on my coat. You must know I was somewhere filthy today.”
She gave a sigh of resignation. “I know something happened, and I am still waiting for you to explain it to me.”
Nicholas frowned in disbelief. “It is the perfume of a prostitute in the Green District!” he said. “I stopped at a pub after my meeting with Pierre. She came to my table, slid her hands into my coat, and propositioned me. I declined, of course. Do you believe me?”
Her head drew back. “It almost seems as if you do not want me to believe you—as if you are challenging me to doubt you, so that you can say ‘I told you so.’”
He sat down on the windowsill and folded his arms across his chest.
His challenge compelled Véronique to question him more thoroughly. “Fine. I will ask the question you clearly want me to ask. Did you kiss her?”
Though she did not really want to know the answer, for it would only cause her pain if it was a yes.
“She kissed me,” he replied.
“Did you kiss her in return?”
He took too long to answer. Perhaps it was only a few seconds, but it was enough of a hesitation to expose the truth.
“I pushed her away,” he explained. “Then I walked out.”
Though she tried, Véronique could not erase the sickening image of another woman’s lips upon her husband’s. How long had the kiss lasted? She could not bear to think of it.
She turned away from him and moved slowly to her chair in a daze, sat down, and stared blankly at the floor. “Will women always be throwing themselves at you?”
He sighed, and his voice, at last, grew gentle. “If it helps,” he replied, “I didn’t invite her. I don’t want to be unfaithful to you, Véronique.”
She stared up at him. “You say that as if it is beyond your control. But it is not. I believe in you, Nicholas. I believe you love me, and you want to be a good husband, but for some reason, you continue to be influenced by your dead father’s opinions of you. Do you not understand that? And do you not realize that he resented you because he knew your mother loved Lord d’Entremont just as much as—if not more than—she loved him? He wanted to punish you for her betrayal, and he wanted to see you fail while his own children, by blood, succeeded. He wanted to hurt you, as a way of retaliating against her.”
Nicholas listened to all of it with a clear head and a willingness to accept what she was saying. Nevertheless …
“Even if that is true,” he said, “I still do not understand how you can trust me. That woman in the alehouse … she kissed me, and for a few seconds, I kissed her back. You deserve better, Véronique. Surely I am not worthy of you.”
“But you are,” she insisted. “You have been my hero from the start.”
Heaven help her, despite everything, she was still spellbound by him. No wonder women found him irresistible. She would have done anything in that moment to know that she would never lose him. She was no different from the others.
“I will stand by you through all this,” she told him. “You’re my husband.”
He nodded, as if conceding that point to her. Then his chin lifted. “Very well, then,” he said, as if something had been decided, but nothing about this was simple. “I suggest you prepare yourself for the tidal wave of gossip that is about to hit us all. The newspapers will be cruel. It will not be easy, Véronique, and I apologize in advance for whatever we must endure.” He turned to walk out, but stopped at the door. “Incidentally, Randolph will not be stripping us of our ducal titles. We will remain the Duke and Duchess of Walbrydge, and the property will remain ours as well.”
“What wonderful news,” she replied with forced cheer as she watched her husband leave her bedchamber without looking back.
* * *
Feeling as if he were suffocating, Nicholas burst through the palace doors to the back terrace and strode quickly across the gray flagstones to the balustrade. Taking the cold air into his lungs, he shut his eyes and tried to calm the violent beating of his heart.
&n
bsp; Very soon, everyone would know the truth. They would all know he was a bastard and a fraud. It would be ugly, and God knew what extra dirt they might dig up from his past.
Véronique would see and hear all of it.
What had he been thinking when he proposed to her all those weeks ago? Did he truly believe he could rescue her by making her his wife? It was quite the opposite now. Her reputation would be ruined.
Turning, he sank his weight onto the cement balustrade and looked up at the clean palace walls, the ornate sculptures, and the golden cornices. God! None of this wealth or opulence mattered to him. He didn’t care about living in a royal palace, or the loss of his title, or the scorn he would endure from the people of Petersbourg. All that mattered was Véronique’s happiness—her trust in him—but all that was at stake now.
He grabbed hold of his jacket collar, tugged it to his nose to smell the whore’s perfume from the alehouse. He caught a whiff of it and shook his head in disgust.
Why the hell had he stopped in the Green District and gotten out there, of all places? Was he testing himself? Or was he taking dangerous risks because he wanted his marriage to fail?
Roughly wiping his sleeve across his mouth to rid himself of the memory of that foul kiss, he resolved to get through this. Somehow he would endure the gossip and censure, no matter how vulgar it became. He would take Véronique away and leave the country if he had to.
Ah, Véronique.…
Though he wanted to be good husband, he couldn’t seem to quit stumbling—yet she never lost faith in him. A part of him hated her for it, for he was not sure he could succeed, and God knew, he did not want to fail. Not with her.
How odd and unfair that when he was finally ready to amend his tarnished soul, to become a better man, he would—in the very next instant—be exposed publicly as a bastard, unworthy of a royal title. They would call him irresponsible and degenerate, just like the old days. What would they say about Véronique? Would they punish her as well? Guilty by association? It sickened him that she would be dragged into this.
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