Authors: Beth Pattillo
Behind him, Phipps took a deep, wheezing breath and announced, “His Royal Highness, Leopold, King of Santadorra.”
Nick smothered a curse. “Yes, Phipps. I’m aware of who my father is.”
The king stepped forward, looking well turned out in a bottle-green coat and buff pantaloons. His father’s attire only served to make Nick more aware of his own dishabille.
“Well, son, I’m pleased to see you looking so well.” The king stepped forward to examine him, one eyebrow arching in the very way Nick knew his own did. “I have been worried about you. Silly of me, I suppose. What father would worry about a son who returns home mid-morning wearing a
woman’s gown!
”
During this speech, his father’s famously deep voice swelled to a bellow.
“Hello, Father. Delighted to see you as well.” Devil take it! Of all the times for his father to arrive unannounced. He hadn’t known the king had left Santadorra. With a calm he didn’t feel, he turned to the valet. “Phipps, would you be so good as to ring for the tea tray? I’m sure my father finds himself in need of refreshment.”
“What I find myself in need of is a son who is fit to be the heir to my throne!” The king could not hide the flush that underscored his aristocratic cheekbones.
“Yes, well, then you’d best marry again, hadn’t you, Father? I suppose it’s not too late. You are not, after all, completely past your prime.”
His father failed to even wince as that barb struck home. The older man was as tough as boot leather, and Nick would do well to remember that. He hated being caught at a disadvantage, but it seemed that when it came to his father, he was always at a loss. “Perhaps you would care for something a bit stronger than tea?” he asked, strolling to the sideboard. “Sherry? Or brandy? As I recall, that was always your favorite. Or if you like, I can send Phipps to the cellar for a particularly fine Madeira I won recently on a wager.”
“It’s not yet noon.” The scorn in his father’s voice was as
familiar to Nick as his own face in the mirror. He knew he did it purposely, this antagonizing of his father, but if there was no approval to be found, then he might as well make himself deserving of the disapproval.
“Yes, well, all the more reason to start,” Nick replied. “It makes the rest of the day so much more palatable.” With a casualness he did not feel, Nick removed the stopper from the brandy and poured a large amount into a glass. He could feel his father’s eyes upon him as he arched his neck and downed it in one long swallow.
The impact almost gagged him, but no one would have ever known. He turned back to the door where Crispin hesitated, half in and half out of the room.
“You’d best come inside, Crispin. Perhaps if you are present, my father and I will behave with more civility than usual.”
“Yes, Crispin, do come in,” his father echoed, “if only to let me gaze upon the kind of man I wish my son could be.”
“Hello, Your Highness.” Crispin, that model of rectitude, bowed to Nick’s father. “I’m pleased to see you again, though you overrate my virtues.”
The king laughed and walked toward Crispin, extending the hand that he had not proffered to Nick. “Yes, well, do not let it go to your head. It does not take a great deal of character to look virtuous next to my son. I had just relented and sent him his quarterly allowance, and I understand from the bankers it is gone.”
Crispin’s smile faltered. “I think you might be surprised, Your Highness, to learn that—”
“Crispin,” Nick interrupted, “would you care for a brandy?”
“No, thank you, Nick.” Crispin glowered at him, but Nick turned away. If the king chose to think ill of his only son, then Nick was determined to let him do so. He had long ago learned not to defend himself.
“Then perhaps you had best make yourself scarce after all.” He knew he was being unpardonably rude, just as he knew Crispin would understand.
“Yes, of course.” Crispin might be outrageous at times, but he was also forgiving of Nick’s occasionally autocratic behavior. “However, Nick, there is one small matter that I really ought to—”
“We can meet for a light nuncheon, Cris. At White’s? I’m sure my father would be delighted to join us.”
“Yes, certainly, Nick, it’s just that I needed to tell you something with regard to Lucy.”
“Lucy?” his father asked. “Who is Lucy?”
“No one,” Nick snapped, and then wished he hadn’t, for his abrupt response was too revealing. “We’ll speak later, Cris.”
“But, Nick, I really believe you ought to know that—”
Nick interrupted him by virtue of grabbing his arm and hauling his friend to the door. His father trailed behind them, an interested and interfering spectator.
“Lord Wellstone does not look as if he is yet ready to depart,” the king admonished his son, but Nick ignored him.
“At White’s,” he reiterated.
“But Nick—”
“Are you sure you don’t want your friend to hear my news?” the king asked.
“News?” Nick froze in his steps. There was a note of satisfaction in his father’s voice that made him instantly wary.
“Yes, news of the Regent’s latest whimsy.”
Nick felt a prickle up his spine. His father generally had little use for the Prince of Wales, a dissipated roué who ruled in the mad English king’s stead.
“You have come all this way because of Prinny?”
“No, but I have come all this way to attend a ball at Carlton House.”
Nick stared at his father in confusion. The entertainments at the Prince Regent’s home were legendary, but hardly the stuff to draw his father all the way to England.
“What makes this ball so unique that it would entice you from your lair?”
“Why, its purpose, of course.”
“And that would be
. . .
”
“To find you a bride. Once you make your choice, we’ll arrange for a wedding straightaway.”
Nick felt the blood rush to his head. “You can’t be serious. You are not some medieval despot, and I am no prize to be won.”
“Indeed, I am quite serious.” His father wore the look of a victorious warrior. “The invitations went out this morning. I have just come from Carlton House where the Prince Regent and I have been consulting about the menu.”
“The menu?”
“Yes, of course. We expect to seat several hundred at dinner, but the ball will include considerably more. After all, we couldn’t invite just the young women, could we? Had to round out the company.”
Surely it was a jest. Nick looked at Crispin and saw a guilty tinge of red around his friend’s ears.
“You knew.” The accusation was soft.
“I didn’t know precisely. That is, your father did write to me in the most general terms
. . .
”
Nick looked at the pair of them, first one and then the other. Betrayers, both of them.
“I will not cooperate. You might as well rescind the invitations immediately.”
“Very well,” his father said, disturbingly agreeable. “I shall give you a choice. You may choose to participate in these festivities, or you can return with me at the end of the week to Santadorra. The choice, of course, is yours.”
But it was really no choice at all, and his father knew that. When he had left Santadorra, after he had cried and mourned the lack of even his mother and sister’s remains to bury, he’d sworn to his father with the feverish passion of childhood never to return.
“And what must I do to fulfill my part in this scheme?” He felt his father’s machinations tightening like a noose around his neck. Much as he’d felt in the presence of his exasperating scullery maid. The comparison made him shudder.
“What must you do, Nicky? Ah, only something quite simple.” His father smiled with satisfaction. “All you must do, my dear boy, is choose a bride. After all, it is more than past time to ensure the succession of the Ivory Throne.”
Nick knew he was trapped. His father would not balk at enlisting the Santadorran Guards to kidnap his own son. If he failed to comply with his father’s wishes, he would feel his native soil beneath his feet before many days had passed.
“You have planned this very carefully, I see.”
“Indeed, sir, I have. Since you reached your majority seven years ago, I have left you to your own devices, but no more. Now I have taken matters into my own hands.”
Nick forced himself to breathe, for he knew his father had him at
point non plus,
just as he knew that the only woman he’d met in a great while who even interested him was a golden-haired chit with a penchant for reform. “Then carry out your plan, sir, and I wish you joy of it. As for myself, I expect to find none.”
He turned toward the bedchamber, leaving his father and Crispin in the sitting room, and with a weary heart, a growing sense of doom, and a woman’s walking dress still wrapped about him, he crossed the threshold as if headed for the gallows.
LUCY MUST HAVE slept several
,
hours upon the rickety cot in the corner of the attic room, for when she roused, bright midday sunshine fell across the scarred planks of the floor. For a moment, she gazed at the unfamiliar surroundings, and then memories came flooding back, vivid pictures of the heroic gardener and his chocolate eyes and the awful mistake of depending upon him that she’d nearly made.
Angry warmth stole through her veins. He had insisted on rescuing her, had clapped her in irons, and then, when he’d discovered her passion for reform, he’d turned cold as ice. Lucy pounded the thin mattress beneath her with one fist. Like so many others, he wanted no part of the true Lucy Charming, of her passions and dreams. Drat the man, anyway. She’d not asked for his help, had never sought his good opinion. But, oh, how she ached when she recalled the coldness that had dropped over him like a curtain as she’d expounded on the glories of reform.
Her anger, though, quickly gave way to a bone-deep weariness. She had done her best in the last eight years, since her father’s death, to be true to her heart, and now the heart she’d always depended upon for guidance had proven fallible. She’d been tempted by the promise of someone to share her burdens and her goals, someone to depend upon. She’d been tempted, and she’d succumbed, and the cost of her weakness was the even deeper sense of loneliness that settled over her like a blanket.
Lucy rolled onto her back and contemplated the cracks in the low ceiling above her head. The escapades of the last day and night had made one fact perfectly clear: She was neither a true reformer nor a true aristocrat. Had her father felt this way, she wondered, never truly accepted by the working men he championed and shunned by the privileged men he challenged? Had he, too, existed in some sort of strange netherworld? And, finally, the most bone-chilling question of all: were her stepmother’s insinuations correct? And was this very feeling the reason he might have taken such a drastic step? Lucy’s stomach rolled at the thought.
With an angry hand, she swiped at the tears that pooled in her eyes. No, her father would never have left her alone by choice. And yet, after the events of the last day and night, she understood why he might have despaired. Her future, which only yesterday she could have outlined so clearly, seemed hazy indeed.
Footsteps sounded outside the door, and Lucy scrubbed away the last vestige of her tears with the sleeve of her dress. The key turned in the lock. She sat up and braced herself for another battle with her stepmother, but let out a sigh of relief instead when Esmie appeared, carrying a tray of food.
“You’re awake, then.”
Lucy eyed her stepsister with caution. Although Esmie was not actively vicious, as Bertha and the duchess often were, she usually complied with their wishes. Her only love seemed to be for her precious books.
Esmie didn’t bring the heavily-laden tray to Lucy but set it down on a small table near the door.
Lucy swung her legs over the side of the cot. “I’m surprised to see you.”
Her stepsister eyed her speculatively. “Yes, I’m sure you are. Are you hungry?” She gestured toward the tray. “I brought you some nuncheon.”
“Does your mother know you’re here?”
“Mother? Why, of course.” Esmie looked surprised. “It was her idea.”
So, Esmie had been sent here for a purpose. The duchess was not relenting, merely changing tactics.
Lucy rose from the bed and moved toward the tray, but Esmie stepped in front of her before she could reach it. “There is one small matter.”
“Which is?” With the duchess, there were always strings and conditions, even for a matter as simple as a cold collation of bread and cheese.
“We received an invitation an hour ago. A very important invitation.” Esmie made the pronouncement as solemnly as if she were delivering a philosophical lecture.
Lucy was instantly wary. “What has that to do with me?”
Esmie shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another, an unusual state for her stepsister, and avoided Lucy’s eyes. “Actually, the invitation was addressed to you, and it as much as says that Mama and Bertha and I may not attend without you. Not that I would wish to go, but Mama and Bertha . . .”