The Rogue Prince (20 page)

His green eyes were dark and guarded, and Maggie followed her impulse to take hold of his arms above the elbows. She raised up onto her toes, leaned in and kissed him hard, then pulled away, taking her chemise from his hand.

She pulled it over her head quickly, before she could change her mind, or Thomas could change it for her. She bent and picked up her corset, and dragged it on. But before she had a chance to begin struggling with the laces, he placed his hands on her shoulders and slid them down her arms. “Let me do it for you.”

He moved her hair aside, and Maggie held her breath as he carefully laced her into her stays. She suppressed a shiver at his gentle touch, and fought to maintain the control she knew she needed. When he finished, he put on his trews and Maggie sat down to pull on her stockings.

It felt entirely foreign to dress in the presence of anyone but her maid. Not even Julian had seen her naked—had never wanted to, she supposed.

But there were advantages to sharing a dressing room. Maggie openly admired the exquisite definition of Thomas's shoulders and arms as he pulled on his boots and shirt, then jabbed his fingers through his hair. He did not seem pleased with her decision to take her leave, but neither did he seem inclined to argue.

Maggie wasn't sure whether to be grateful for that or not.

 

“We'd better hope that the English nobility doesn't shun us because of the newest caricature in
The Gazette
,” said Nate as they exited the carriage on their way to the ball. Maggie had not mentioned that she would be attending the event, which made the trip to Town seem a waste of time. Tom's mood was foul and he snapped at Nate.

“What difference does it make?”

“So far, Redbush has poked some very good fun at a few important personages. And you know the English—they love a good joke, but don't like to be the brunt of one.”

Tom had seen only one of the pictures, and it hadn't seemed so bad. “Don't worry about it. We've already made the connections we need. I will not be disappointed if I never have another meeting with any of the ministers.”

There was only one person he was interested in seeing, but she had not agreed to meet him on the morrow. She'd smiled mysteriously as she dressed, then climbed into the carriage driven by Oliver Garay, and disappeared from sight with barely a
word. Tom didn't know what had happened. While he lay with Maggie in his arms, his body simmering with the rarest possible contentment, she'd decided to slip away and take her leave of him. It made no sense at all.

They entered the house and split up after learning that Shefford was not in attendance. Which was fortunate, because if he'd been present, Tom might have decided to chuck all his plans and just shoot the bastard on sight.

“You look ever so serious, Your Highness,” said the lively young daughter of some earl he couldn't name. He supposed her features would be considered perfect, and he saw that her gown and hair had been designed and arranged for absolute impact on potential suitors. And yet Tom found her far too angular, her personality much too brittle. She had no freckles, and her smile seemed well practiced and overly contrived.

“I beg your pardon, Miss—”

“Lady
Rowena,” she said with an admonishing smile, tapping his shirt front with her fan. “Your meetings with all those tedious ministers and such must be endlessly dull.”

“Not at all,” he replied. “There is a great deal to be accomplished between our two countries.”

“Do you not dance tonight, Your Highness?” asked another of the young women who'd gathered around him.

Tom wondered where in hell Nate had gone, and why he wasn't rescuing him from all these toadying females.

“Not tonight, no.” He offered no explanation, and ignored the dark looks shot in his direction by the mothers of these pampered sycophants.

He resisted the urge to ride into Hanover Square and go up to Maggie's bedchamber and demand to know what had happened between them earlier. There wasn't a woman in her right mind would want to hurry away from such bliss.

“Your Highness, it's a pleasure to see you again.”

“Ranfield,” he said, glad for the reprieve from the attentions of the tiresome coquettes who batted their lashes and their fans at him. “How do you do?”

He realized Maggie might have accompanied the earl and his wife to the tiresome ball. It was possible that she'd declined to mention it, thinking she would surprise him. He glanced around for some sight of her, but failed. He did not even see Lady Ranfield.

“I am very well,” Ranfield said, then nodded toward a distinguished gentleman standing with a group of other men. “Have you met Lord Marsden?”

“I don't believe so.”

“You'll want to meet him. He oversees the purchase of cloth for naval—”

“Yes, I would very much like to meet him,” said Thomas. “Where is your wife, Ranfield? I don't see her.”

“Ah, I am on my own tonight. My wife is preparing to go out to Richmond with our sons for a few days, to our country estate.”

“I see.”

“She prefers the freedom of the countryside, and since Richmond is so close to London, she is able to escape Town every now and then while Parliament is in session.”

“How convenient.”

But even as he spoke, he found it impossible to put Maggie from his mind, remembering that he'd heard her say the same thing to Kimbridge. She preferred the country.

Tom wondered what she would think of Thorne's Gate.

Startled by the thought, he had no chance to pursue it when Edward Ochoa approached him and drew him away to a deserted balcony.

“Saret has uncovered something, Tom,” he said as they stepped outside. “It's about Maynwaring.”

A shard of anticipation shot across Tom's shoulders. “Aye?”

“The judge frequents a particular sort of bawdy house.”

“I'm not sure it's relevant, Ochoa. Why—”

“It's a molly house. The place is populated by young men.”

“Men? You're saying Maynwaring is a…a
sodomite?”
Tom hissed.

“There is no doubt about it,” said Ochoa. “Saret himself saw him go into the house this very afternoon.”

Tom blew out a breath. It was beginning. He was about to reap the satisfaction he'd craved for so long. “It's illegal, isn't it?”

“Absolutely. The patrons keep it highly secret. Maynwaring will be destroyed when this comes out.”

“Does Saret have a plan for that?”

Ochoa nodded. “Tonight. He's ready to bring a magistrate here, along with the witnesses from the house who have agreed to accuse him. With your approval, of course.”

A public humiliation, then. It was no less than the man deserved for the cold injustice Tom and countless others had received at his hands. Tom gave him a nod. “Is Saret here?”

“No, but he's ready. I'll send one of our drivers for him.”

Tom revised his decision to leave as soon as possible. He would stay and see Maynwaring's downfall. He and Ochoa returned to the ballroom, and no more than half an hour had passed when Ochoa came to him with the despised judge alongside him. “Your Highness,” said Ochoa, “you remember His Honor Lord Justice Maynwaring?”

Thomas could not bring himself to smile in greeting. “Yes, of course.”

“We had a very enlightening discussion on Sabedorian jurisprudence this noon,” said Maynwaring.

“How does it compare with yours?” Tom asked.

The judge gave a superior shrug. “You Sabedorians are far too lenient. How will you ever master the criminal element without incarceration, without restitution?”

Thomas would not have dignified the question with his answer, except he needed to support Ochoa's efforts to keep the old bastard on the line.

“Perhaps you might give Mr. Ochoa a few pointers, sir.”

Maynwaring laughed. “Of course! Always willing to use my vast experience to advise.”

Tom had a difficult time resisting the urge to go outside and spit to clear away the bad taste in his mouth. The memory of his day in court returned, and Tom saw that Maynwaring hadn't changed much since he'd commuted Tom's death sentence to a mere seven years' transportation.

His Honor, the Lord Justice paled suddenly, and Tom turned to see a tall, somber man coming toward them, with two constables alongside him, and two younger men following. Maynwaring started to retreat, but Tom caught his arm. “Where are you going, Judge?”

Everyone nearby took note of the newcomers, and crowded around Tom and Maynwaring. Tom noticed beads of sweat suddenly dotting Maynwaring's forehead.

“Sir William,” said the solemn fellow, clearly the magistrate. “A warrant has been sworn against you.”

Tom's host barreled his way through the crowd and protested the interruption. “Preposterous! What is the charge?”

“Sodomy,” said the magistrate, clearly and far louder than was strictly necessary. “And these two
young gentlemen are the witnesses who've sworn against you.”

 

All was quiet in Hanover Square the morning after Maggie's tryst with Thomas in the little cottage, until Shefford appeared shortly after breakfast to pressure her into seducing Thomas.

If only he knew.

“I have plans for your prince,” he said.

“What plans? And he's not
my
prince, Shefford.” No one knew that better than she.

“It's none of your concern. You just do your part and we'll have no more financial problems.”

“We? You are having difficulties, too?”

“Again, not your concern, Margaret. I want to get out to those stables again, but I can't very well go to Delamere House uninvited. But
you
can.”

“What makes you think I can do such a thing?” she asked.

“Because I know he stopped to visit with you in the park yesterday. He has taken a particular interest in you.”

“He was only being friendly,” Maggie retorted. “And he's a virtual stranger in Town. I'm one of the few people he knows.” Clearly, if even Shefford knew about their encounter in the park, Charlotte had been busy. No doubt the entire family had heard her sister's version of what had transpired there. “And I'm sure he is not sitting about at Delamere House, waiting for guests to call.”

“Why? What have you heard?” He never looked
more bullish than when an idea had hold of him. She remembered countless times when Shefford had badgered her and her sisters, and worst of all, Julian, into doing his bidding. Even Beatrice succumbed to his bullying more often than she should.

“Nothing. I've heard nothing, Shefford.”

“But you could,” he said, pacing the length of the drawing room. “He likes you. Which gives you the perfect opportunity to find out all sorts of things. Where he's investing his money. What his favorite horse's weakness is—”

“No.” Absolutely not. She was through being manipulated by Shefford, done with caring what her mother and sisters thought of her. It was past time that she developed some backbone and stood up for herself. No one else was going to do so. “What I'd like to know is what you intend to do about Zachary's inheritance,” she said. “You're his guardian. You should have been dealing with the mess Julian left us.”

“What do you expect me to do?” he asked, obviously taken aback by her remark. “Julian is the one who put the estate into debt. Not—”

Mathers entered the room and handed Maggie a letter, but she did not look at it right away. She was angry, mostly with herself. If only she hadn't been so trusting, so incredibly stupid. “Shefford, you are Zachary's guardian and the trustee of the estate—”

“What, you expect
me
to pay for Julian's mistakes?”

Maggie didn't answer him as she glanced at the short note from Victoria. It was perfect. Just what she needed.

An escape.

“You'll have to go now, Shefford,” she said, walking out of the drawing room.

“What do you mean by this, Margaret?” he called after her. “You can't just shove me out of your house.”

“No thanks to you.”

“What's
that
supposed to mean?”

“It means—it's my house for now,
no thanks to you!
Now see yourself out. The children and I are leaving Town for a few days.”

Ranfield Court, Richmond

“Y
ou haven't been able to sit still all week,” Victoria said to Maggie. “Something is bothering you.”

They sat in the richly appointed breakfast room at Victoria's country estate, only an hour's ride from London. Maggie wore a two-year-old gown of deep red muslin with white trim that was too plain to be fashionable these days. But it was comfortable and suited her well, as did her reprieve from Town life and the possibility of encountering Thomas again, before she was ready. Besides, Victoria did not mind, and no one else was there to notice.

She'd made her escape from Town and Thomas days ago, but the distance between them had done little to assuage her longing for the warmth of his company and all their sweet intimacies. Maggie had not missed Julian's touch, because her husband had never been a particularly tender or considerate lover. She'd had no idea how delicious the relations
between a man and a woman could be. Not until Thomas.

Maggie set aside her tea. She'd hoped the physical miles between herself and Thomas would help to settle her nerves and put their affair in perspective. She'd been wrong. She missed him. She could close her eyes and smell his scent, feel the rasp of his whiskers on her cheek, hear the deep timbre of his voice. Every night, Maggie had lain in her bed, her body aching for his touch. She yearned for the taste of his kiss and the gentle caress of his hands.

She wondered if he thought of her, or if he'd asked where she'd gone. She knew it had been cowardly to disappear without saying good-bye, or telling him where she'd gone.

But she was a miserable failure as a mistress, unable to separate her emotions from the profoundly intimate acts she'd shared with her lover. Fortunately, Maggie knew her limitations. It had been absolutely essential to break away from him before she lost her heart entirely. One more tender touch, one more kindness to her children, and she would be lost.

She looked outside and tried to think what explanation she could give Victoria for her restiveness. Surely not that she was pining for a man who was not only a foreign royal who was in England only temporarily, but a man who had taken her to bed and shown her the heights of pleasure. A man who would never be her husband.

Zachary and Lily were outdoors with Victoria's
children and their nurses, enjoying the sunshine and the freedom of the estate, without having to worry about roads and carriages and the thick, black air in Town. They'd gotten some pink in their cheeks in the past week, but it would have to end soon, for Maggie could not hide forever. She had made another drawing for Mr. Brown before leaving Town, but it was nearly time for her to produce another.

“I wish you could confide in me, Maggie,” said Victoria. “You know I only want to help.”

Maggie knew that was true, but it was difficult to speak of her deep secrets to her very staid and proper friend. Yet Victoria had almost come out and encouraged Maggie to pursue something with Thomas….

She took a deep breath. “The Blackmore estate is a disaster,” she finally said, shying away from telling her friend about her affair. “Julian gambled away everything that was not entailed. I'm hoping I can keep the manor from falling into complete wrack and ruin for Zachary.”

“Oh my heavens,” Victoria exclaimed. “I was worried it was something like this.”

“You knew?”

“No, not really,” she replied. “I only had a vague sense of Julian's character—that he was not terribly dependable. I will tell you now—I was so disappointed when you married him.”

“You didn't say anything.”

“Maggie, how could I?” Victoria asked. She put her hand over Maggie's and gave it a squeeze.
“Your mother and Shefford pushed you into that marriage so quickly it even caused
my
mother to remark on it.”

Victoria's mother was exceedingly circumspect, so Maggie knew it was highly unusual for her to have mentioned it. She wished
someone
had, before it was too late.

“I was a fool,” Maggie said. “I think from the first, that Shefford intended for me to be Julian's dupe.”

Victoria frowned. “Dupe? What do you mean?”

“I overheard Shefford talking to Robert Kimbridge soon after I came to Town,” Maggie explained, her heart stinging with self-derision. She should have been smarter, more wary of her stepbrother who'd pulled any number of nasty tricks over the years, on those he felt were his inferiors. She'd never thought he'd do the same to his own sister, even if she was not his sibling by blood. “It sounded as though Kimbridge has need to marry a respectable woman in order to inherit.”

“Ranfield mentioned a rumor to that effect. Kimbridge is a bit wild, and his father insists that his son settle down before releasing his trust.”

Maggie stood and went to the window. She pushed the curtain aside and looked out at the well-managed land and the Ranfield sheep grazing on it. “Apparently, his father has specific criteria for his son's wife. Shefford said I would be perfect for the post. A doormat, just as I was for Julian.”

“No! He did not say such a thing, did he?”

“Oh yes,” she said coldly, “and that I am a good breeder, besides.”

“How disgusting.”

“I can only think he must have arranged my marriage to Julian in the same way for much the same purpose, although Lord Blackmore did not have any great fortune to pass to his son. I was so naïve it never occurred to me that Julian might want a wife and children to hide away in the country while he did what he pleased in Town. A stupid child of a wife.”

“I am appalled at Shefford, although that is nothing new. He is…” A worried frown crossed Victoria's brow. She looked earnestly at Maggie. “You will not do it, will you? Marry Kimbridge?”

“Absolutely not. I am through with men.”

“Oh, my dear. I am so sorry that things turned out so badly with Julian.”

Maggie returned to her chair. “Julian was a handsome charmer with very little character. And I let him pull the wool over my eyes. I let myself believe that we had a normal, comfortable marriage.”

“What else could you do once you were married to the man? Divorce was out of the question, of course. And if he did not abuse you—”

“No, never.” But he'd never treated her well, either. Not as Thomas did.

“Well then, you were trapped, weren't you?”

Maggie rubbed her arms and nodded. She'd had no idea what her husband had withheld from her—the intimacy of intense lovemaking, the gentle caresses a man should give the woman in his bed.

He'd saved those for his mistresses.

“Perhaps there is something that can be done about the estate,” said Victoria. “What does Shefford say about it?”

“That he is not to be held responsible for Julian's debts.”

Victoria frowned. “He is the trustee, is he not?”

“There might as well have been no one, for all the good Shefford did since Julian's death.”

Victoria pressed a hand to her breast and tried to cover her dismay. “Oh my. When Ranfield arrives, will you speak to him about it? He is very good at investing and I'm sure he would be happy to advise you.”

“I'm not sure he can help. There is little left but debt, and the house and lands are in dire need of attention.”

“Oh Maggie, I had no idea things were so bad.”

Maggie sighed. “Neither did I, until I came to Town and met with the solicitor.”

There was far more, but Maggie could not bring herself to speak of Thomas and the confusion she felt about her affair with him.

Escaping London was the best thing Maggie could have done, for she knew she could not resist him, even though further contact with him put her heart ever more deeply at risk. It had been nearly impossible to leave their bed in the cozy cottage in the woods, and she'd tossed and turned that night and every night afterward, longing for the pleasing comfort of his arms.

“Whatever the situation, I feel certain Ranfield can help you,” said Victoria. “Please ask him what he thinks.”

Maggie nodded. “I will.”

“Would you like to walk with me to visit our tenants?” Victoria asked. “It might help to take your mind off your troubles.”

“Yes, I would like that very much,” Maggie replied.

 

“The Blackmore estate is in serious trouble,” said Mark Saret.

“What do you mean?” Tom asked. He should have felt a good deal more satisfaction in Maynwaring's public disgrace, but all he felt was a cold hollowness inside. He remembered his own ignominious arrest and could not prevent an absurd feeling of sympathy for what the hateful judge was going through.

“The entailed estate is intact, but in poor condition,” Saret said. “And some of the properties are mortgaged.”

“Do you have details?”

Saret nodded. “No, but I will soon.”

Tom dragged a hand across his face. “Let me know what you find out before you do anything.”

“Of course,” Saret replied. “On a far more interesting—and disturbing—note, Andrew Harland accompanied Lord Shefford and his friends to their S.C.H. assignation last night.”

The skin at the back of Tom's neck prickled. “And?”

“The letters stand for ‘Seventh Circle of Hell.' The members are daredevils.”

“They do what…?” Tom asked, trying to grasp what Shefford might possibly gain from such an association. “They
dare
each other to—”

“No. They perform feats of daring that involve innocents. They put unsuspecting people at risk.”

“How?”

“They commit outrageous acts of some small skill and a great deal of daring. Last night, they plucked a young man from the east end and took him to a cellar of the abandoned shop they favor—unwillingly, of course—where they secured him to a wall, spread-eagle. They blindfolded each member of the club, who then took turns throwing knives at the lad. The loser was the one who cut the boy.”

Tom's stomach roiled. He could only imagine the lad's terror. “I'd say the boy was the loser.”

“Harland says they paid him well and set him free when they were done.”

“What, enough to pay a surgeon to stitch up his wounds? How generous of them.”

Saret shrugged.

Tom tamped down his disgust. “It's not enough. We'll need evidence of some more serious wrong-doing.” Which Tom believed would not be difficult, considering the kind of game Shefford and his gang seemed to enjoy.

“Aye. Harland has arranged to be the footman who accompanies Shefford on all his S.C.H. jaunts.”

The urge to go down to Hanover Square and throw a few knives at Shefford was nearly overpowering. It was just like Shefford to victimize those he believed were his inferiors, and their death or dismemberment would mean little to the arrogant bastard.

“Any news of my family? Have we heard from Salim?”

“Not yet,” Saret replied. “But I expect either a message or Salim himself to appear any day.”

“Keep me apprised.”

“Of course,” Saret said.

Tom should have felt greater contentment. Maynwaring had been put away, and Shefford would soon follow. His family would be found and brought to London. But he felt restless and agitated, his impatience entirely out of character. During his years away, he'd learned to bide his time, to wait for opportune moments and situations. To do whatever was necessary to survive.

But now he knew Maggie Danvers's touch. He knew the taste of her skin, and how it felt to be inside her.

He knew what it was to miss her.

Tom did not delude himself into thinking she'd gone away with Lady Ranfield just for recreation. She'd done it to get away from him. Hell, the last time he'd been with her, she couldn't have gotten out of his bed and away from the huntsman's cottage quickly enough. And yet nothing had gone wrong between them. If anything, it had all been frighteningly right.

Tom knew he should be exceedingly glad that she had seen fit to leave him. All she did was complicate matters, arousing him to a fever with barely a touch of her hand or the whisper of a kiss on his lips.

He wanted to see her. He did not examine his reasons why—he only knew that a week without her was far too long.

So when Lord Ranfield invited Tom to visit his Richmond estate for a small house party, he readily agreed. Even though there were still questions about his family, and he didn't know enough about Maggie's estate in Cambridgeshire, he was settling scores. Events were progressing exactly as he'd planned. But Tom knew he would have gone to Richmond, even if that had not been the case. Maggie was there.

Tom liked Ranfield, a man of reason and good sense, proof that not every English nobleman was a wastrel or a scoundrel like Shefford. The trip to Richmond took only about an hour, and Tom found that he was finally able to breathe easily. He enjoyed the ride, something he'd done too little of since leaving New York. He missed his farm and the freedom he enjoyed in the American countryside. Lying, and playing the role of a prince had started to wear on him.

“Lady Blackmore is one of my wife's childhood friends,” said Ranfield as they rode at a trot along the northern road. “They came out together eight years ago.”

“Lady Blackmore is lucky to have such a friend.
Your wife is a very welcoming woman,” Tom replied, though he found Lady Ranfield altogether too conventional for his taste. She was quite pretty, but possessed none of the fire that he saw in Maggie's eyes, none of the sizzle of her touch. But it was obvious that she suited Ranfield quite well. “You must be very happy.”

Ranfield nodded. “Aye. I am a very lucky man. My wife had a great many offers during her first season,” Ranfield said. “I am fortunate that she waited a year and finally accepted mine.”

“And Lady Blackmore?” he asked.

“I believe she married her husband quite soon after her first season began,” said Ranfield, his visage darkening. “If she'd waited, I'm sure there would have been other offers. I wouldn't have wished that bounder Viscount Blackmore on any woman.”