His breath caught, and on the exhalation he murmured, "So pretty."
He cupped her breasts and drew his thumbs over the peaks. The touch like a single concentrated drop of scent seemed to flood her senses. She filled her lungs, arching to meet his hands, and he clasped her to him, breast to breast, with a shaky laugh, breathing her name before his mouth found hers for an ardent joining.
From somewhere came a voice and steps and a light knock. It was like waking from a dream. Ophelia tried to hear above their ragged breathing and the pulse pounding in her veins.
"Majesty?" the voice inquired.
Alexander broke away and the bed sprang up. He strode to the door, his finger on his lips. Ophelia stared after him.
"Majesty," the voice came, more insistent now. "There's blood on the floor."
Alexander cracked the door, and a beam of light fell on silver and brass on the dresser. Ophelia saw herself revealed again in all her abandon, her breasts brazenly bared, her skirts arranged primly over her knees, her hands clenched in her lap.
"Madre della Virgine
!
What happened to you?"
Ophelia went cold, icy where a moment before she had been burning. She knew that voice. Instinct made her pull up her sleeves. She tried to restore her bodice to order, but the cold made her clumsy. She clamped her teeth shut to keep them from chattering and stood on shaking legs.
"It's nothing. Footpads. I'm fine," said Alexander.
"You must let Lucca tend you," said the voice.
Ophelia pressed her fist to her mouth. Images fluttered and beat in her brain, leaving her dizzy. Alexander holding the horses, speaking at the Grays, telling her the rules of love, dropping a book in his pocket. She'd been blind for weeks. Now she saw clearly—the way he spoke, his bearing, his confidence. The quiet room was now transformed by brass and silver, gold and crystal, and the rich fabric of counterpane under her fingers to a prince's quarters.
He'd deceived her. Her friend. All along, the game he'd been playing had been for his amusement.
She couldn't believe it was happening to her again. Worse that she had exposed not only the desires of her wanton, treacherous body, but those of her heart.
"I'm not alone," Alexander said.
Ophelia stooped to gather her cloak and gloves, trying to don them with furious haste, her clumsy fingers knotting the strings at her throat.
The door clicked shut. "Don't go just now." His voice sounded raw.
She looked away, pulling on her gloves. "I think I must." She curtsied, a brief dip of her unsteady knees. "Your Majesty."
He froze while she stood fumbling with the gloves. "You have it wrong, Ophelia. You are sovereign here."
She shook her head. Her throat and chest ached. "I've been here before, you know. I came with my brother, looking for you." She thrust her chin up. "Alexander di Piovasco Mirandola. What a good joke to hide under my brother's nose in his own stable, tending his horse."
"I never met your brother before tonight. Why is he looking for me?"
Ophelia choked on a bitter laugh. "He's with the Foreign Office, Your Majesty, assigned to find one missing prince." She walked toward him as she spoke. It was necessary to leave or she would break down in front of him and complete her humiliation. "A vain, ornamental fellow, fond of his coats."
His hand on the doorknob blocked her way. "I had good reason to hide."
"Did you have a good reason to mock me?"
"To tease you, to make you laugh. You were so haughty, but you claimed to believe in equality. I tested that, and you proved your principles
tonight, by coming here. You kissed me as if you meant it."
Alexander watched her retreat into someplace where he couldn't reach her. Their time was up. He couldn't keep her any longer.
"I'll take you back," he said wearily.
She shook her head. "Get me a hackney."
He stiffened. "You'll come with me on Raj, and we'll get you back into Searle House without notice."
There was no opposing the authority in the voice. "Very well, Your Majesty."
T
he moon was down, and they parted in the deep shadows of the stableyard.
"Ophelia, say you'll ride in the morning." Alexander whispered in the hush. She listened only because he caught her hand and held it.
"You deceived me."
"About my circumstances. Not
about
…
my
feelings."
"Good-bye, Your Majesty."
He released her hand, and she slipped away in the darkness, an ending so abrupt and bitter that he could never have foreseen it when the evening began. He had always known their friendship would end, and he'd meant to put his mind to the problem of parting when the time was right. He had imagined that there would be a way to send her back to her world happy, glad for having known him. He had thought of the days between their first acquaintance and their separation as infinitely expandable. He had drawn them out in fantasies of a thousand encounters.
He had not felt himself poor in the hills, or the tailor's shop, or even in Lord Brinsby's stable, but he would be the poorer for this night. The great riches the earth afforded the common man—the moon, the staxs, the deep blue of the sea—would be for him reminders of Ophelia. Enchanted objects his night fairy had touched sunk to ordinariness again without her.
He led Raj toward the stall, moving like a sleepwalker.
"Your Majesty," said a voice in the shadows.
Alexander froze.
"Alexander di Piovasco Mirandola?" the voice asked.
"Who wants to know?"
"Jasper Brinsby." A flint was struck and light flared in a lamp. Brinsby strode forward. "I can help you, Your Majesty."
Chapter
15
I
n a flowing dressing gown and tasselled cap, Lucca offered their guest brandy with hostile punctiliousness, every gesture an attempt to remind Jasper Brinsby that he was in the company of a prince. Brinsby, edgy and impatient, accepted the drink, watching Lucca with a slightly puzzled frown.
In Italian, Lucca inquired whether Alexander had lost his senses, bringing Brinsby to the tailor shop.
"
What a country for insults!" he complained.
"
More insults than the church has saints. A royal prince living in a shop, attacked by footpads, pursued by fools."
Lucca lingered, stabbing the logs in the grate, and Brinsby cast a questioning glance at Alexander.
"He stays," said Alexander.
"
Lucca, sit, or leave us."
Lucca gave a contemptuous sniff, set aside the poker, wrapped his silk dressing gown about him, and settled in a chair by the door with a bit of mumbling.
Alexander turned to Brinsby. "You offered to help. What did you have in mind?"
"I could arrange rooms for you at the Pulteney Hotel, courtesy of His Majesty's government, would you accept them?"
Lucca nodded. Alexander shook his head.
Brinsby frowned. "We should at least offer you protection."
"Thank you, protection isn't necessary. I have Lucca."
"Where was he tonight? When I saw you at the Grays' party you didn't have these wounds."
"Footpads. I'm not likely to meet them again." Alexander met Brinsby's gaze. The man was taking his measure. "Was your offer of a place to stay your idea of helping me?"
"No." Brinsby leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes snapping. "Why did you disappear, Your Majesty?"
Alexander permitted himself a short, mirthless laugh. Did Brinsby know anything about his employer's tactics? "What do you want for your country, Brinsby?"
Brinsby straightened, looking as if the question made no sense. He spread his upturned hands in a helpless gesture. "What do you mean?"
"If you
were
…
buying a birthday gift for your country, what would it be?"
"A birthday gift for England? I suppose it would
be
…
peace, prosperity
…
that sort of thing."
"Anything else?"
"Respect, power
…
"
Alexander looked his guest directly in the eye. "What about freedom? Justice?"
"Of course."
"I want no less for my country." Alexander waited. "Can you help me get those things for Trevigna?"
"Now, look here, Your Majesty. Are you suggesting that England doesn't respect Trevigna's sovereignty?" Brinsby's voice was cold, his posture stiff.
Lucca snorted, and Alexander shot him a quelling glance.
"England wants access to the port of Laruggia and a stable situation in Trevigna." Alexander couldn't keep the contempt out of his voice. "England appears to be indifferent to what Trevigna wants."
Brinsby opened his mouth and closed it. "You must agree, Your Majesty, that after invasions by the French and Austrians, a stable situation would be good for Trevigna."
Alexander leaned back in his chair. Brinsby knew more than he thought. "A stable situation would be death to Trevigna."
"With all due respect, Your Majesty, I don't understand you."
"Your foreign secretary would make us a nation of children, not of free men, with a vassal king constrained to obey England."
"Your Majesty, we are trying to develop an alliance and negotiate a safe harbor for the English navy in a dangerous part of the world. You make us sound like feudal overlords imposing a tribute."
Alexander raised his glass. "Just so." Brinsby sputtered and fell silent.
The fire in the grate crackled. Alexander could
see Brinsby rearranging cherished opinions. He waited until his guest looked up from the flames.
"I want a dynamic situation in Trevigna, a nation where free people choose their rulers and govern themselves.
"
"Don't you want your throne back?
"
"Not if I must be a puppet king whose power depends on England. A king's power should derive from those he serves, not from foreign masters.
"
"But without England's support, Trevigna could be taken over by Austria or France within a year.
"
Alexander took a swallow of brandy. "I know. As you said, I need help."
"What exactly do you want?"
"I want a constitutional convention in October.
"
"You want a republic?"
"Yes."
"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but what role does a prince play in a republic?"
"Citizen."
"
Madre della Virgine!
Your father spins in his grave, Majesty.
"
Brinsby glanced at Lucca. "Even your servant questions tha
t notion, Your Majesty. Castle
reagh's never going to go for a republic of Trevigna."
"The excesses of France have given republics a bad name, but believe me, Brinsby, the idea of free men governing themselves won't go away."
"Free men govern themselves in England with a prince on the throne."
Alexander had no reply. It was true.
Brinsby seized the opportunity of Alexander's hesitation. "What about your nobles, Your Majesty? Don't they have some say in this?"
Lucca straightened, and Alexander sensed his interest in Brinsby's view.
"More than other men? Where's the democracy in that?"
Brinsby didn't answer at once, but swirled the brandy in his glass. "Trevigna has centuries of tradition. Perhaps you need some blend of the old with the new."
Alexander had considered it. A constitutional monarchy—with an upper and lower house, like England's—might be the best compromise between the traditions of the past and the demands of the new century. But he had to be certain that the people wanted it.
"Without a convention, there'll be no participation by the people, no way to guarantee that the government derives its power from them."
"Then talk to Castlereagh; make him understand your concerns."
"I talked to him for months. He didn't seem to hear me. I'd rather deal with the Committee for the Restoration of the Italian Republics. They're prepared to offer financial support for a constitutional convention."
"I suppose you mean Hume and Tollworthy. Do you trust them?"
Again Brinsby proved more knowledgeable than Alexander expected. "They are predictable. They'll pursue a profit."
Brinsby leaned forward. "What you need is an unofficial meeting, to reestablish communication.
If I could get Castlereagh to listen, would you agree to talk with him?"
"How do you propose to get an unofficial meeting?"
"My mother's giving a prenuptial ball for Princess Charlotte and Saxe-Coburg. Castlereagh will be there, and all the foreign ambassadors. You could come, a sign of your goodwill toward England. It would do much to smooth things over if you appeared on your own initiative."
Alexander didn't answer. The thought that came to mind with stunning clarity had nothing to do with the future of Trevigna. Instead, he saw himself dancing with Ophelia in a grand ballroom.
"And I'll arrange to get you some time with Castlereagh."
Alexander jerked his mind back to reality. Ophelia would not dance with him. He had asked her to trust him with her person, and his betrayal of that trust might never be forgiven. Nothing would be easier in a crowded ballroom than for her to ignore a foreign dignitary. He made himself consider Brinsby's proposition. It was clever. The committee's banquet was set for early May, just after the royal wedding. This ball might be Alexander's one chance to meet with Castlereagh in time to come to an agreement. "It might work," Alexander conceded.
Brinsby's expression was open, eager. "We can make it work. If you're willing to trust me."
Alexander winced at the idea. He had asked for Ophelia's trust and broken it. It seemed fair that he should have to trust her brother. What choice did he have? He could trust Brinsby or
flee farther into London's hidden places and rely on the profit-seeking investors of the committee.
They sat locked in silent appraisal of each other while the fire snapped in the grate.
"You've been riding my horse for a month," Brinsby said.
"You've been wearing my best coat."
Lucca mumbled in Italian.
Alexander finished his brandy. "Whose side are you on, Brinsby?"
"Are there sides between allies? We'll make this thing work."
"I'll trust you."
Brinsby grinned. "Now, you've got to tell me what you want. What the non-negotiable points are, where we start from."
There was gray light at the shop window and Lucca was snoring, a loud rumble, when Jasper Brinsby finally stretched and put down his pen. They had a working document, a list of points Brinsby was willing to push for. Alexander was stunned by it. After months of addressing Castlereagh with all the effect of speaking to a brick wall, he was amazed to have someone listen to him.
He watched Brinsby gather his notes together. "Thank you."
Brinsby looked embarrassed. "Don't thank me yet. I'm only trying to be less of an idiot than I was a few weeks ago when I started looking for you."
"You're succeeding, then. No one else in the Foreign Office has troubled to learn so much about Trevigna."
Brinsby shrugged. "I wouldn't have, either, if
I hadn't made such a cake of myself in front of Miss Gray."
Alexander rose and stood in front of the dying fire. The mention of Miss Gray brought Ophelia to mind with a powerful wave of regret. In one night his hopes as a private man had plunged, while his hopes as a monarch had soared. He felt strangely divided, as if he had split into two selves.
"Your Majesty, if I may be so bold, there's a question I must ask you."
Alexander turned.
Brinsby studied his papers. "A rumor reached the foreign office this week that you've contracted a marriage with the daughter of a nobleman."
"Miss Tesio arrives in London any day now."
"That complicates our negotiations somewhat, as we don't want to offend the royalist faction in your country."
"I know."
"It also forces me to ask what your intentions are toward my sister."
Alexander flushed. "What can they be? I have no money. Unless I persuade Castlereagh to my way of thinking, no kingdom. And if I do succeed, a most uncertain future, nothing to offer a woman of rank and wealth."
"Do you have a heart?"
Alexander felt that organ lodged somewhere in the pained region of his chest. "It belongs to Trevigna."
Brinsby looked as if he were weighing his diplomatic coup with his sister's honor. "And my
sister's heart," he persisted.
"
Have you left it whole?"
"
She's under no illusions about me."
"
Sprite knows who you are?"
"
Sprite?" The name caused a stab of pain.
"
My pet name for her. She was always so little and lively, and the name Ophelia seemed so grand and tragic."
"
Sprite suits her." He liked it. It summed up the quickness and caprice of her nature, his sense that she was full of tricks.
"
When did she learn your identity?"
"
Tonight."
"
Well, it's probably best that she knows. I'm sure we can count on her discretion. She wanted to help me find you, and of course, in a way, she has." Brinsby gathered up his coat, hat, and gloves. He seemed full of energy in spite of the long evening they'd spent hammering out the details of their scheme.
"
Your Majesty, I take my leave. I think you can rest assured that your dealings with the British
government will be very satisfactory from now
on.
"
Alexander bowed. He wished he could share Brinsby's optimism.
J
asper waited impatiently in the Grays' little sitting room. Not that there wasn't pleasure in being there, seeing Hetty's things, recognizing her spirit in the arrangement of flowers on a table or a group of watercolors on the wall. It was just that he had such news to tell her, he thought he would burst with it. He checked his pocket for the stiff white card of invitation to his
mother's ball. When he heard the light footfall approaching, he spun toward the door.
She entered smiling, and he was lost for a moment just looking at her, wondering how soon he could reasonably ask her to marry him. He managed a bow and a greeting and found himself seated opposite his love on a Chippendale armchair.