The Rogue Prince (9 page)

Tom reminded himself that this was all he'd lived for, ever since his discovery of Duncan's treasure, which made everything possible. He could not let any twinge of conscience dictate his actions, not after his years of anticipation and planning.

“There is Lord Ealey, one of Shefford's friends,” said Nate. “I'll just go and make myself known to him.”

As Nate made his way toward Ealey, Tom exited the room, following in Maggie's wake. He went through the same door which exited into a dim corridor, and looked into each room until he reached
the last, the only place she might be.

She was an intricate part of it all, as Shefford's sister and Julian's wife. The crux of an unholy triangle. Tom could not ignore the exceptional opportunity she presented. Resolved to do what he must, he stepped quietly into the room.

She whirled in surprise at his entrance. “Thomas!”

“You left the ball,” he said.

“Yes, I…” She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, and Tom's breath caught. He wanted to taste those lips, wanted to feel them on his skin.

He slowed his breathing and attempted to regain some control.

“I needed some air.”

Tom approached her. “Aye. It's quite a crowd back there.”

“You shouldn't have abandoned your admirers.”

Thomas touched the side of her face with his fingertips and her eyes drifted closed. “Are you not an admirer, Maggie?” He felt her shudder and knew her pretty nipples were already peaked and yearning for his attentions. He bent to kiss her and her eyes flew open.

“Someone might come in,” she whispered, distraught.

“Not here,” he said quietly, pulling her into his arms. “What is it? Have you changed your mind?”

“Oh lord,” she whispered as he touched his lips to her neck. “No, I…But you cannot possibly want…”

“What, Maggie? Want you?” he whispered. She had no idea of her appeal, of the effect her sweet innocence had on him.

“There are so many young ladies who would suit you far better.”

“They don't.” He feathered kisses down her jaw, touching the scar on her chin. “They are bland and uninteresting. They have no fire inside.”

Not like the woman in his arms, who responded so unreservedly to his sensual attentions. He captured her mouth fully, kissing her deeply, intruding with his tongue, hardening with her avid reaction.

“Touch me, Maggie.” Ever since her explosive orgasm in his arms, he was desperate to feel her hands on him, and when she slipped her fingers through the hair at his nape, he groaned with pent-up need. He took one of her hands and lowered it to the placket of his trews where he was hard and straining for her touch.

With a tentative stroke, she slid her fingers over the length of him, and he could not hold back a quiet growl of arousal.

“I want to be inside you, Maggie.”

She let her head fall back and he nibbled his way to the plump mounds of her breasts, partially exposed by the low cut of her gown.

“Tomorrow is too long to wait,” he said.

“No, I—”

“I will come to you.”

“No. There will be talk.”

Her words jerked him back to reality. His mis
sion, his purpose was clear. The intense lust he felt had no place in his plans.

At the moment, he didn't care. “It's all right. I will send for you at noon.”

“Oh, dear God,” she whispered.

“Can you get away?”

“I'll think of something.”

“Aye.”

 

Supper was unbearable.

Thomas broke protocol and took a seat beside Maggie, in spite of the butler's quiet insistence that he go to the head of the table.

“Thank you, no,” he said simply, and the butler had no choice but to retreat.

Of course no one made any fuss over it, for he was a foreign dignitary, and couldn't possibly know every social nuance here. Besides, he seemed to possess more wealth than anyone in Britain—or all of Europe, for that matter. No one wanted to alienate him.

But Maggie knew there would be talk of the grand prince who supped beside a widowed viscountess. And quite possibly some remarks would be made in
The Times
for all to read.

Victoria sat on Maggie's other side, and leaned forward to address Thomas. “Tell us about Sabedoria, Your Highness. Where, exactly, is it?”

“It's a faraway land on the southern half of the globe,” he replied, “and it's much the size of your own Britain.”

His thigh settled alongside Maggie's as he spoke,
and she knew it was not accidental. She should have shifted to avoid his touch, but when his hand drifted down to touch her leg, she found herself powerless to move.

While he spoke of Sabedorian ships and seaports, flax plantations and trade opportunities, Maggie felt the heat of his body scorch through hers. He was priming her for their rendezvous on the morrow.

Not that she needed any more priming.

I
f Maggie had been able to sleep that night, she might have felt better the following morning. It was early, and not even the servants were stirring. Yet she was wide-awake, and pacing the length of her bedchamber, her body still humming with eagerness for Thomas's touch. There had been no more kisses in the dark, remote rooms of the Waverly house, no further light flirtations in the ballroom.

It had been a complete and utter seduction.

Maggie feared she had become a wanton. Anticipation of her assignation with Thomas had become all-consuming. He'd filled her dreams, and during her many wakeful moments she'd been hot and trembling, impatient for his touch.

An affair was the least sensible thing she could possibly contemplate. She should be grappling with all the troublesome aspects of her life, not dreaming of a man who would eventually sail away from England's shores, leaving her behind. But the thought of a few hours' pleasure in his bed had robbed her of her common sense.

Maggie had never been the object of such single-minded attention or admiration, and it was exhilarating. She understood that he'd made her no promises, beyond the hours of pleasure they would share. But she could not think past the moment when Thomas would send for her, resolving to enjoy their time together while keeping her heart protected. He
would
leave, after all.

She curled up in a chair next to the fireplace and clutched her warm dressing gown around her. Noon, he'd said. But she had much to do before then.

Sometime during the night, she'd come up with an idea that might be at least a partial solution to her and her children's financial woes. They would always have Blackmore Manor, for the estate was entailed, and Zachary was Julian's heir. But the property was next to worthless. Of course they received rents, but the past few harvests had been poor, barely enough to provide sustenance for the tenants. As a result, the income from the land wasn't nearly enough to support all the staff that was required to maintain the manor house and grounds. Nor would it even begin to cover the repairs and improvements that were needed, much less provide a disposable income. Julian hadn't put any money into the estate during their marriage, in spite of Maggie's repeated requests. Now she knew that he'd sold his share of the paper mill and mortgaged the public house and all his unentailed property.

He'd squandered the wealth he'd inherited with his gambling.

She picked up the drawing she'd made the night before, when she couldn't sleep. It was a caricature of Thomas at the Waverly ball. Shefford's distasteful drooling after the prince's wealth had inspired the drawing, but Maggie had left him out of the picture. Instead, she'd placed a number of overzealous, well-known ladies around him, standing with their reticules open and their tongues hanging from between their over-full lips.

It was one of her better drawings, for she'd paid close attention to its composition and details. All that was needed was her signature, but Maggie could not own up to such a picture, not if it were made public. She finally signed it “Randolph Redbush.”

She was very good at this type of drawing, much to her family's disdain. It was not real art by any means, nor did it begin to compare with what Stella could do with a paintbrush. But Maggie's drawings amused her children, and that's all she'd ever cared about. But she'd seen drawings like this many times before, and knew they were very popular. They were often made into prints and displayed in shop windows, commanding exceptional prices. With such a picture and more like it, Maggie hoped she had a solution to her financial problems.

Her family would, of course, be appalled that she would even consider trying to
earn
enough money to get herself out of debt. But she would do what she must, in spite of what they thought.

Carefully placing the drawing into a leather portfolio, Maggie waited for Tessa, who soon came to help her bathe and dress. She breakfasted with her children, admonishing them to behave for Nurse Hawkins, then donned her pelisse and a bonnet that obscured her features.

She told Nurse Hawkins she was going out for a while, then collected Tessa and slipped out of the house. They walked down to Bond Street where they caught a hackney cab and rode to the office of Mr. Edward Brown, editor of the
London Gazette
. He'd seen some of her drawings years ago, before her marriage, and had told her on the sly that he would be willing to pay her for such drawings.

“I'll only be a few minutes, Tessa,” she said. “I've a bit of business to do here, but I'd rather no one learned of it.”

“Of course, my lady,” said the maid, and Maggie trusted her unreservedly. Tessa was infinitely more faithful and true than Julian had ever been.

Even so, it would be impossible to take Tessa with her when Thomas came for her later. That was a confidence she could not possibly share—with anyone.

Hoping no one recognized her getting out of the carriage, Maggie went into the building and sent her card up to the editor's office. His clerk came down presently and escorted her up the stairs.

Mr. Brown's office was paneled in a rich, dark mahogany. There was an enormous desk in front of a large window, and a worktable against one wall, piled high with stacks of papers.

“Lady Blackmore,” the man said, rising from his chair behind the desk. “It's been a very long time since I saw you at Hanover House. Do you remember that meeting?”

“Yes, Mr. Brown,” Maggie said, taking a seat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, keeping the portfolio on her lap. “That very meeting is the reason I'm here today.”

“Do tell,” said Mr. Brown with a curious smile. He was old enough to be her father, with a neatly trimmed beard of white and a circlet of gray hair that left the top of his head bald. He was well dressed and obviously prosperous, and Maggie hoped his opinion about her pictures had not changed.

“You remarked favorably upon several of my drawings at that time. And now, I find myself in a bit of an embarrassing situation,” Maggie said. “Since the death of my husband—”

“My sympathies, my lady. A terrible tragedy.”

Maggie swallowed and pressed on. “Yes, thank you. S-since then, I find myself in rather low water. And I th-thought you might consider entering into an…arrangement with me.”

She opened the portfolio and removed the drawing, then placed it on Mr. Brown's desk.

He studied it carefully and then raised his rather owlish, gray eyebrows. “Randolph Redbush?”

Maggie felt her face heat. “If you were to publish this, I could not very well use my own name.”

He returned his gaze to the picture and Maggie clasped her hands at her waist, thinking perhaps
this had been an incredibly foolish idea. “It's probably not the best picture of the prince, but I thought—”

“Not at all, Lady Blackmore,” he said, chuckling. “This is the best caricature I've seen in many a month. How did you get it? Well, obviously, you drew it, but…”

“I can draw more of these.”

“For
The Gazette
?”

Maggie nodded and Mr. Brown rubbed his chin. “Pictures like these will sell a lot of newspapers. I would like exclusive rights to your work.”

She let out the breath she'd been holding and nodded. “But these must be made available for sale as prints after they appear in
The Gazette
.”

“That can be arranged,” said Mr. Brown.

Maggie blinked back tears of relief, though she still had to negotiate her terms. “I would appreciate it if you would promise to keep our transactions confidential. Just between us.”

“Of course.”

Somehow, she managed to contain her excitement.
This venture could actually work!
“I've received quite a number of invitations since returning to Town a few days ago. I am sure the Sabedorian prince has received far more than I.”

“You both attended the Waverly ball last night?”

She nodded.

He chuckled. “Hence the picture. I can only imagine the mob of matchmaking mamas that descended upon him. No—not only imagine it.” He
picked up the drawing and perused it carefully. “I can actually see it.”

“Lord Castlereagh was there, too. And Lords Branford and Windham.”

Mr. Brown rubbed his hands together. “What are you asking for this drawing?”

“What I'm asking is for a chance to provide you with many more caricatures besides this one.”

He raised a brow.

“The season has only just begun, and there will be many events to which I'll be invited. I would like to provide
The Gazette
with many additional illustrations.”

They talked of agents and representation and percentages, and Maggie was very careful in her negotiations. She'd kept her head in the sand for too many years, and knew she needed to pay close attention to her instincts. They finally came to an agreement that would net her a good deal of money from the drawings she provided to Mr. Brown, twice every week, and he agreed to send each one to an agent who would have it printed and put up for sale in the fashionable bookshops in the west end.

The arrangement was agreeable to both of them, but Maggie's new venture required that she remain in London indefinitely.

 

Thomas had accomplished all he needed to do at the Waverly ball. He—the son of a Suffolk horse breeder—had garnered the awe and respect of England's
haut ton
, just as he'd planned. All
it had taken was a display of wealth and a few haughty manners, and they'd as much as bowed at his feet.

He could barely wait for the day when he exposed them for the shallow jellyfishes they were. Especially Lord Shefford, whom he had met only briefly. Just enough to take his measure.

Mark Saret had learned a great deal about Shefford's risky investments—the poor marquess was out on a limb and was likely looking for some easy money somewhere. He was going to fall directly into Tom's trap, and they hoped he would use Blackmore funds to cover his risky investments.

Work had already begun on the race course, a final arrow in the quiver he had assembled to use against Shefford. Thomas was pacing back and forth across the plush carpet in the drawing room of Delamere House while Nate Beraza and Mark Saret sat in a pair of expensive chairs near the windows that overlooked a side garden. The place was sumptuous beyond anything Tom had ever seen, in spite of having been invited into a number of prestigious homes in America. Delamere House presented exactly the kind of impression he'd had in mind when they'd gone looking for an appropriate estate to purchase.

“We found Lord Shefford in Garraway's Coffee Shop, just as Lord Ealey told you he would be,” Saret said, turning to Nate.

“How did you deal with him?” Thomas asked. “Did it all go as planned?”

Saret nodded. “I sent in a few of my old mates. They were dressed for business and played it out the way you wanted.”

Thomas didn't allow himself the smallest hint of a smile of satisfaction, for he knew how much could still go wrong. “So he bought it? Shefford is in?”

“Aye. Five thousand shares in the Manchester canal scheme. Ten thousand pounds altogether. I've got a man who will take the stock certificates to his man of business this afternoon.”

“He will pay for them then?”

“Aye,” Saret replied with a grin. “I think your old friend Lord Maynwaring will go for the canal scheme, too. He's reputed to be a risky investor.”

“Good. Do whatever is necessary.”

Saret nodded. “In the meantime, I've managed to locate another old mate of mine, Roddy Roarke. He's the one to lure Shefford into the tobacco plot. As this will be, er, an…illegal transaction, I think we'll keep Maynwaring out of this part.”

Nate laughed, but Tom took it dead seriously. “You obviously trust Roarke.”

Saret took no offense at Tom's question, for they all knew the consequences of failure. “He's the best in the business. Taught me more than I'll ever remember.”

“What's the plan, then?”

“Roddy and his mates will follow the pigeon—Shefford—when he leaves his club tomorrow,” said Saret. “They'll set up wherever Shefford goes and lure him into the conversation. When the time is right, they'll hook him.”

“Roarke is well versed in the smuggling trade?”

Saret smiled, his fair skin going pink with satisfaction. “Roddy's middle name is ‘Free Trade.'”

Tom considered the plan. He'd counted on Shefford's greed and the man's belief in his own superiority. They were the two traits that would finish him.

“Has he seen you?” Tom asked.

“No,” Saret replied. “Garraway's was full of investors, but I kept out of sight, anyway. And I won't be anywhere near when Roarke plays his part.”

“What about Maynwaring? Have we figured out how to get to him?”

“So far, only with the canal scheme. But I've got a man watching his comings and goings. We'll know his inclinations soon enough.”

“All right,” Tom said. “Almost as good as planting a footman in his house. Perhaps Mr. Ochoa can be useful with the judge.”

“Perfect idea. Both versed in the law…Ochoa is a natural.”

Now all Tom had to do was lure Shefford to Delamere House and interest him in the horse races. As much as he wanted to bring Maggie to the estate and spend the day making love to her, he could not. Their affair would have to proceed on a new timetable, and with a new purpose.

“Can we see about borrowing a riding pony from somewhere, gentlemen?” Tom asked.

Changing his plan for the afternoon, it was just a few minutes past noon when he arrived in Hanover Square. The butler admitted him to the
house and Tom had barely stepped inside when he encountered Maggie coming down the stairs. She stopped halfway down, her expression stunned at the sight of him.