Authors: Laura Kinsale
He gazed at her while she turned white with mortification at her vehemence. Then he smiled faintly and shook his head. "You relieve my mind. I was beginning to fear I'd offered myself to a woman of no sense whatsoever."
"You're jesting again," she moaned. "How can you? You offer me protection—Sir Sheridan, you don't know how easy it would be for me to accept it! But how long would you be allowed to stand in my uncle's way? He is a monster, I tell you. It would be nothing to him to have you killed in your bed, and then what would I do? How would I bear it?"
"I'd find it something of a tragedy myself, I assure you." He bowed. "But I see that my anxiety for your answer has made me unforgivably importunate. You need an interval of reflection on the proposal. With your permission, Your Highness, I think it's time I took my leave."
Just as the butler was about to hand Sheridan his plumed hat and cloak in the entryway, a set of long fingernails dug into his upper arm. Julia pulled him into the dining room. She shut the door behind them.
"Well?"
He tossed his hat on the sideboard and glared at her. "Why didn't you bloody well happen to mention the chit's uncle is a murderer?"
"Keep your voice down! Will she have you?"
"Have
me
!" he hissed. "I'm not available anymore, madam. Do you think I'm going to sign my own death warrant?"
"Nonsense. Claude Nicolas would not touch you. When you marry her, you'll have the full protection of His Majesty's government."
"Oh, that eases my mind! I give myself a full extra week with my throat intact." There was a decanter of port on the sideboard. He splashed a substantial ration into a wineglass and downed the whole thing in one swallow.
"The princess needs your help."
He punished another glass of port in short order. "So blackmail some other poor sod."
"There's no time. You're perfect. And," she added with a significant curl of her lips, "I've no need to find anyone else."
"D'you think I'm crazy?" he snarled. "Four hundred thousand is a tidy sum, but it won't matter to a dead man. This Claude Nicolas is clearly the kind of cold-blooded brute who knows how to run a country. If he's got a notion to do it, then by God I ain't the chap to get in his way."
Julia tilted her chin. She narrowed her glorious eyes at him, giving her face a subtle cast of viciousness. "I knew you hadn't changed. All this talk of heroics—it's nothing but gammon," she said softly. Walking to the window, she stroked her finger down the green silk shutters of the snob-screen that shielded the room from the street outside. "You were a slinking little coward in your father's day, and you're a poltroon still."
"And pish to you!" he snapped, slamming the drained glass back on its silver tray. He picked up his hat. "Good day, Mrs. Plumb. I've certainly enjoyed renewing our acquaintance, but I'm afraid I've urgent business elsewhere."
He didn't wait for the butler, but swung out the front door and threw it shut behind him, still yanking his cloak around his shoulders when he reached the bottom step. He had no need to call for his horse from the stables. He was too broke to buy a horse; he'd walked the four muddy miles to Wisbeach, and now he had to walk back again.
The wrought-iron gate clanged shut behind him. He stalked through the street beside the slow-moving river, scowling at the prickle of cold sleet on his hot cheeks. He was furious with himself for letting Julia's sophomoric spite needle him. Oh, he was a poltroon, right enough; he never fought if he could gracefully run; but it stuck in his throat to hear it from the lips of an insolent jade who'd probably never stirred out of her boudoir if it looked like rain.
He'd noticed, in the course of his life, that it was the dregs of humankind who were the most eager to judge everyone else and be pleased to find them wanting. Why he cared what Julia thought, why he'd ever given a moment's contemplation to his father's opinion even as a ten-year-old boy, Sheridan could not fathom. But the sordid truth was that he had, and he did—and if he hated himself for one single, fatal flaw in his character, it was that.
The freezing air had chilled the heat out of his skin long before he reached the Rose and Crown. Sheridan commandeered a booth in the darkest corner by rousting out an apple-cheeked schoolmaster and advising him to go cane a few of his pupils, who no doubt deserved it. The teacher at first seemed reluctant to gather up his books and remove himself, but educated puffings were no match for a naval officer in full-dress uniform and a foul mood, complete with sword and savage frown. Sheridan sat in the murk and nursed a pint, brooding over his situation and gloomily pondering the fastest way out of town, while the locals whispered about him and cast dubious looks toward his corner.
He'd have to run for it, of course, Not that it would trouble him much—he had no love for that stone monstrosity his father had built, or for the flat, marshy countryside he'd seen only through a sleeting rain—but he wouldn't get far on the change in his pocket.
He briefly considered proceeding with the sale of Her Revolutionary Highness's diamond, which was presently burning a golden hole in the lining of his coat where he'd split it open and sewn the gem inside. It took only an instant for him to discard that idea. Bamboozling the princess was one thing, plain theft was another, and far too risky a proceeding for his peace-loving soul. He'd long since abandoned the idea of selling it anyway, having reckoned that fencing somebody's crown jewels in an isolated rural town was a pretty glaringly stupid idea, for all it had seemed rather charming under the queer influence of a certain pair of hopeful green eyes.
A transient wish crossed his mind: that he could have stayed around and introduced her to the innocent pleasures of…
But the devil with innocent pleasures. He dropped his head back against the wooden settle, closing his eyes. His feelings about Princess Field Mouse were as guilty as sin. He wasted a few moments in imagining a warm bed and his head pillowed on her delightfully plump breasts.
His lust for her was the most peculiar emotion, unlike anything a female had ever before inspired in him: a sort of passion for peace, a ferocious itch to have her and the bizarre impression that he'd somehow gain serenity from the act, that he could lose himself in her as if she were some primal element: a pathless forest or an endless plain instead of a chubby girl. He opened his eyes and stared at a low black timber in the ceiling above him, then blew a long breath of self-disgust from his lower lip and downed a pull of ale.
He turned his mind to considering whether Julia was right and he'd be in no real danger from this Claude Nicolas if he happened to wed the man's niece. There was nothing but the girl's word that her uncle was a murderer—obviously he'd not been hung, or whatever they did to execute malefactors in a place like Oriens—and the princess was clearly inclined to some rather romantic notions, not the least of which was her unquestioning faith in Sheridan himself. But he'd learned to trust his own spine when it gave that telltale prickle, and what he knew of Prince Claude Nicolas made it fairly sizzle with wary suspicion.
On the other hand, there was the message from the War Office, delivered in person by an officer on Palmerston's staff, polite enough but damned grave and insistent that Sir Sheridan Drake would be doing his country yet another powerful service by shackling himself to a stray princess. The letter was full of backhanded implications that Sheridan had sold out awkwardly early in his career. "There comes a time when a man feels he must lay down his sword and rest on his well-earned honors, and yet it is still given him to strive to serve his country along the peaceful byways of law and diplomacy…" among other drivel, which mainly convinced Sheridan that the War Office thought he was a congenital idiot.
Beneath the sap, though, lay an undertone of steel, quickly confirmed when Julia had followed up the message with her financial threats. Sheridan suspected this fellow Palmerston was about on a par with wicked old Prince Claude as far as political ruthlessness went.
It looked like a damned foul wind on a lee shore—between moneylenders and Claude Nicolas and His Majesty's government, with no immediate wherewithal for escape and a princess who didn't seem overly enthusiastic about marrying him anyway. He felt vaguely sorry for his little Highness, who knew what it was like to be bullied by greater powers. She, at least, had expressed some concern for his life span, which was more than anyone else had done.
Absently he fingered the hard shape of the diamond concealed in the seam of his coat. He stared moodily at the open door to the corridor, where a pair of solemn, bearded Jews filed past in traditional long-skirted black coats. One after the other, they glanced into the taproom under the wide brims of their low-crowned hats and passed on.
Sheridan finally abandoned his gloomy musing and set himself to being convivial. It wasn't hard. The local patrons had long since reckoned who he was, and in short order he was answering avid questions about his career, earning a free dinner of excellent mutton chops and a basket of scraps for Mustafa. By the time dusk fell, he was riding home in a gig that belonged to the schoolmaster Sheridan had thrown out of his seat—sharing the young man's drunken renditions of sailors' ditties and handing out sage advice on how to seduce women in foreign ports. He got down from the gig at the steps of Hatherleigh Hall and shook the other man's hand. When the gig had rattled cheerfully off into the twilight, he turned and looked up at the black, somber bulk of his father's house, where no light shone in welcome and no hand threw open the entry to receive him.
The front door shut behind him with a wail like a lost soul. He groped his way into the little study near the entryway and built up the fire.
Mustafa wasn't in evidence, probably curled up already in the only harmless bed upstairs, appropriating all the blankets. By the coal grate's feeble red glow, Sheridan checked the potted fuchsia on the windowsill for the stubborn signs of renewed life. They were still there, two bright green sprouts amid the withered blooms. He warmed the kettle for a while, tested the temperature and then carefully added a measure of water to the plant.
He thought of lying down on the divan to sleep. But he might have one of his dreams; one of the really bad ones. He sometimes did when he got rattled and moody. Staying awake all night was preferable to that particular curse.
He lit a candle and sat down at the desk. After rummaging in the drawers for paper and ink, he rested his chin on his fist and thought a few moments.
His mouth curved in a twisted smile. Taking up the pen, he sharpened the goose quill and began to write.
To The Right Honorable Viscount Palmerston, Secretary at War
My Lord Secretary,
I scribble this in haste, praying it will reach you. In a few moments Her Highness and I embark from King's Lynn. The plan you suggested was rejected by the princess, and it is by God's grace alone that I intercepted her wild attempt to slip away and make a solitary journey to Rome to plead her cause with the pope. She is remarkably intrepid. (In point of fact, I suspect she'd give a reasonable account of herself in the 11th Light Dragoons.) However, I would certainly have returned her instantly to the care of her guardians, but
others
were apparently aware of her plans. An attempt was made on her person. Whether it was meant to be an abduction or worse, I am not certain, but I managed to bear her to temporary safety.
I devoutly hope you will approve my actions. I deem it imperative to remove her instantly from this area to a place of greater security, though I dare not communicate the location in this vulnerable dispatch. Given the unavoidable circumstances of our situation in traveling together, I shall of course insist upon implementing your original plan. Be assured that her person and her honor will be guarded with my life. I await anxiously the moment you can remove the danger which threatens her. Until then, I will contact you as I can.
Yr servant,
Sheridan Drake
Princess,
Since leaving you, I have come to realize that you were entirely correct. The plan Palmerston offered is insufficient to your purposes and could only delay the day of reckoning in Oriens. Therefore I propose that we proceed forthwith in our original design.
Tomorrow morning take your walk as early as will seem reasonable to your household. Go directly to your usual meeting place. Stovall will know where to convey you from there.
Bring no baggage, except as we agreed, nothing to arouse early suspicion. It is imperative that we gain a full day's start. The only thing you must do is compose a letter to be sent ahead of us to the pope. In it, describe
everything
you have told me. It is crucial that you be as complete and persuasive as possible—we may be delayed somehow, and your letter must reach Rome before a decision is made on the matter of your marriage.
Do not post the letter yourself
. I will take it in hand the instant I meet you and dispatch it through appropriate means.
If we wish to win through, you must follow my directions to the inch from here on. And dress warmly, mouse.
Yr servant and friend,
S. Drake
P.S. Destroy this letter instantly.
To His Serene Highness the Prince Claude Nicolas of Oriens
Sir,
Being, as I am convinced, most solicitous of the welfare of your family, and holding in particular affection Her Highness the Princess Olympia, you will, I humbly beg, excuse my impertinence in addressing you. I write in strictest confidence on a matter of utmost urgency.
Enclosed you will find a letter from the princess's hand, fortunately intercepted before it could reach its destination. As you will see, she is quite untutored in matters of policy and displays a regrettable impulsiveness, which she will undoubtedly curb as she matures. Until that time, it is clearly in the interest of all concerned to keep her under close supervision and delay her assumption of the throne.
As a sincere friend of your country, I have taken it upon myself to remove Her Highness to a safe location during this period of instability in the political situation. Be assured that I will impress upon her the strict necessity of inaction. In spite of her youthful impetuosity, she is a very good girl, and I am sure she can be convinced to listen to the wise counsel of her uncle in the future.