Authors: Beth Pattillo
Nick gained speed with each step until he was racing through the maze. As luck would have it, she’d chosen the one corridor that wasn’t lit by torches, and so he stumbled along in the dark as quickly as he could.
LUCY FLED INTO the night, avoiding the lights and laughter of Carlton House as tears tumbled down her cheeks. Her face burned with shame. Had any woman in the history of England ever looked so unspeakably foolish?
Her fan had been lost in the maze, and somehow she was wearing only one slipper. She thought of her beautiful feather-trimmed cloak lying unclaimed in an anteroom of the conservatory. The only finery that remained was the rope of brilliants in her hair.
Lucy avoided the conservatory and found a dimly lit pathway that led around the side of Carlton House’s looming edifice. In the darkness of an alcove, she collapsed against the stone, gasping for breath and allowing the tears to flow.
Fool!
she scolded herself between sobs. Trusting, gullible fool! Nick had played her like a fish on a hook, and, oh, how he must have laughed at her notions of reform. No wonder, then, that he had gone pale in Lady Belmont’s coal cellar when she’d poured her heart out to him, or that he’d then turned cold as ice. How he must have laughed at her, he and his friend, Lord Wellstone.
And what had tonight’s charade been about? To humiliate her? To seduce her? And what an idiot Lord Wellstone had been to lead all of those people into the maze. Lucy’s face burned with shame as
she remembered the look of bored condescension on the Prince Regent’s jowly face.
She had known not to depend on Nick, and yet she had done it in spite of herself. With a bitter laugh, she pushed away from the alcove and continued down the path, following it up the slope until she emerged at the front of Carlton House. Before her, a vast array of carriages crowded the drive. Taking a deep breath, she plunged into their midst, moving as
quickly as she could. She wanted only to be home, safe in her own little room and far removed from this disastrous evening. Several coachmen called out to her as she darted between landaus and barouches, but Lucy waved away their offers of assistance, swallowing back tears as she continued to run. Limping unevenly, she finally paused and removed her remaining slipper, which was filled with bits of gravel from the pathway.
“Stop that woman!” The shout came from behind her, and she turned to see Nick standing in the driveway, flanked by several men mounted on horseback, their tall fur hats and dark cloaks lending them a menacing air. Panicked, Lucy dashed away again, her legs and arms churning as quickly as
the skirts of her beautiful gown would allow. She yanked the train up and flung it over her arm. The hem was filthy with mud.
Nick shouted again. “A reward for the man who stops her!” Just ahead, a coachman leaped down from his box and planted himself in Lucy’s path.
“Now, miss, you don’t want to run through Lunnon alone.” He reached for her arm, but Lucy feinted and slipped around him. “What? Why I’ll be
. . .
”
Lucy dared not stop. Nick’s commands and the pounding of horses’ hooves rang in her ears. Her first instinct was to flee toward the east where she could lose herself in the warren of streets near the river, but good sense prevailed. Instead, she cut across St. James Square, heading north toward Mayfair. It was not far to Nottingham House, and the mounted men had been slowed by the need to wend their way through the maze of carriages. If she were clever, she could evade Nick and his horsemen long enough to reach South Audley Street.
Glancing around, Lucy spied the broad steps of an imposing town home. With a frantic look over her shoulder, she dashed around the edge of the steps and down the short flight of stairs that led to a servants’ entrance. She huddled against the cold stone of the building as overhead the horses’ hooves pounded by. The men called something to one another in a language she assumed was Santadorran, and then quiet settled over the street once more.
Lucy leaned against the stone wall and drew a deep breath. She’d been an idiot to trust Nick, a fool to believe him to be a gardener. All the signs had been there, but she’d willingly overlooked them because she enjoyed his company. Enjoyed his kiss. Enjoyed the way he made her heart race and the veil of loneliness lift from around her. Now she would pay the price for such foolish fancies. Hadn’t she known, since the day six years ago when her stepmother had dragged her into the study to see her father’s lifeless body, that she would always be alone? That there was no one on whom she could wholly depend?
Such thoughts, though, did nothing to help her in her present situation, so Lucy banished them as she stood concealed in the dark shadows of Mayfair. Besides, eluding her pursuers had bolstered Lucy’s confidence for the moment. She was not quite ready to accept her fate so meekly. Surely when it came to her ruined reputation, she had another choice besides marriage, one that did not involve Nicholas St. Germain. And one that certainly did not involve becoming a crown princess.
Lucy reemerged onto the street and turned toward home. She was almost to Piccadilly when a dark shape materialized out of the shadows. A flash of steel glinted in the moonlight, and Lucy’s heart leaped to her throat. Even the West End of London was not safe from footpads. Lucy hesitated, unsure whether to retreat or to try and outrun the man.
“Give me the jewels,” he hissed, gesturing toward the rope of brilliants in her hair. Lucy felt a brief pang of regret that she’d eluded Nick and his men so easily. For once, she wouldn’t have minded him being around to rescue her. Lucy fingered the brilliants in her hair. To be sure, they were only paste, but she’d had so much stolen from her already this night.
“I will give you nothing. Let me pass.” Her bravado was convincing, even to her own ears. The man hesitated.
With her rational mind, Lucy knew that she should just snatch the cheap bauble from her hair, fling it at the man, and run for her life, but she had lost so much. Her shoes, her fan, her future. She was not ready to part with anything else.
Gathering her skirts in both hands, she feinted and then darted past the man. For a moment, he looked confused, as if no one had ever before denied the power of six inches of polished steel, especially a gentry mort with no cloak or shoes. Lucy moved quickly, and just as she was poised to break into a run once more, he grabbed her wrist. His fingers were as
cold as the steely knife. “Give me the sparklers,” he demanded and yanked her toward him.
Something within Lucy snapped. She was mortally tired of people grabbing her. She was tired of clawing hands and wrist irons and handsome princes who yanked her to and fro. She was tired of men with knives and scythes and pikes. Most of all, she was thoroughly tired of being at the mercy of others because she was a woman.
Lucy was not wholly unschooled in the art of defending herself. With one quick motion, she stepped forward and lifted her knee, driving it into her assailant’s groin. He shrieked and dropped to the ground as if he’d been struck by lightning. The knife clattered against the pavement, and Lucy kicked it away, sending it skittering into the shadows on the opposite side of the street.
“Women are not always the easy prey you think,” she said to the prostrate form of the footpad, resisting the urge to kick him again. “Good evening, sir.”
Lucy was smart enough to flee while she could. She dashed toward Piccadilly and then, hovering in the shadows until the street was momentarily empty, she ran across the thoroughfare and toward her stepmother’s home. Once across, she paused to look back, and to her surprise, she saw Nick and the troop of Santadorran guards standing stock still, watching her in disbelief.
Lucy hesitated, and Nick lifted his hand in a salute. So, he had seen her altercation with the footpad after all but had been too far away to intervene. Surely her actions would prove that she didn’t need his help.
She couldn’t make out his expression in the darkness, only the outline of his form. He made no move to come toward her, and so they stood, immobile, watching each other across the width of the Circus. Lucy knew that while he’d been tempting as a gardener, he was even more so as a prince. For he had announced his intention to marry her, and she could have him, if she wanted. If she were willing to give up what was most dear to her. She could have a hero, to protect her from the villains in her life. She could depend upon him, and the cost would be the merest trifle in his eyes, only everything that made her who she was.
It was too great a price to pay, even to assuage the ache of loneliness in her breast. Without returning Nick’s salute, Lucy turned and started for home. For the rest of the way, she could hear the faint sound of horses’ hooves behind her as Nick and his men followed at a discreet distance.
LUCY REACHED the safety of Nottingham House without further incident. The pain of her humiliation still stung, her dreams of reform lay in ashes, and the pulse-pounding fear of her encounter with the footpad had yet to subside. More than any of those things, however, the memory of Nick’s kiss fed the restless agitation within her.
The house was quiet at this late hour. Lucy changed into her oldest dress and descended to the kitchen carrying her bedraggled ball gown. Cook must have come around long enough to bank the fire. After lighting a lantern, Lucy draped the mud-stained garment over the scarred trestle table and set about rebuilding the fire and heating water. If she attended to the dress right away, she might remove the worst stains. Her magical evening might have ended in disaster, but that was no reason to neglect the beautiful work of an exploited seamstress.
Her solitude, however, proved all too brief. Scarcely a quarter hour later, she heard the clatter of a carriage and footsteps on the floor above. She sighed and put away her rags, dumping the bowl of water she’d been using into a waiting bucket. She was folding the damp dress when the door at the top of the stairs flew open, and her stepmother entered. Lucy cringed as
the heavy oak banged against the wall. She tensed for the onslaught of the duchess’s wrath.
“There you are, you darling girl!” The duchess stumbled over her skirts in her haste and grasped the stair railing just in time to prevent a tumble. “Whatever do you mean, skulking down here in the kitchen?” she asked, as bright as a counterfeit guinea. “If there is work to be done, Lady Lucy, you must ring for one of the servants, never mind the lateness of the hour.”
Her stepmother’s smile was more ferocious than her frown. Lucy eyed her with caution. “I supposed I was one of the servants.”
The duchess laughed, a cackling sound that would have been at home in a hen yard. “Don’t be silly, dearest. I have indulged your desire for domesticity, but no one has ever mistaken you for a maidservant.”
Lucy thought of the endless hours she had spent brushing out her stepsisters’ hair or polishing the gleaming woodwork in the drawing room. “You have shown great forbearance, I am sure, madame, to indulge my lower nature.”
The duchess looked puzzled, as if unsure whether Lucy was jesting. “Yes, well, you have always been like that, you know. Even from the first. Always vanishing into kitchens and stables at the most inopportune moments.”
Lucy wanted to laugh at the irony. From the day the duchess had entered her father’s house, Lucy had known her stepmother’s malicious nature and had fled her presence whenever possible.
“But that is neither here nor there,” continued the duchess. “The past is gone, I daresay, and we must move forward. And what a brilliant future it will be for you, too, my dear. The Crown Princess of Santadorra! I daresay the jewels alone will make you a wealthy woman.”
Lucy stiffened. “There won’t be any jewels.”
Her stepmother laughed. “Of course, there will be jewels, my dear. There always are when princes are involved. They seem to have piles of them stashed away in those drafty castles. I daresay Prince Nicholas will be sending some over as soon as it is light enough.”
Lucy shuddered at the thought. Other women might envision breathtaking strands of diamonds and pearls, but to Lucy they would be little different from the wrist irons Nick had used the first night they met. “Madame, you seem to be under the mistaken impression that I am planning to marry. I assure you I have no such intention.”
For a moment, all was still. The duchess paled. Her tight lips thinned even further while her beady eyes narrowed until they were two small jet buttons.
“Of course, you will marry him!” Her screech echoed against the cold flagstone floor and rebounded off the crumbling plaster on the walls. “He is a
prince,
for heaven’s sake.”
Lucy had thought her stepmother would be disgusted by the scandal, perhaps send her away to live in disgrace. It had never occurred to her that the duchess would be in favor of the match.
“There is no need for us to marry. It was only a kiss, nothing more.” Her stomach tightened at the flagrant lie.
“Only a kiss?” The older woman’s hand clutched the banister behind her for support. “In front of the Regent himself and the King of Santadorra? Not to mention ‘Silence’ Jersey? You might as well have been frolicking in the fountain in your shift.”