A Prince Among Men (2 page)

1816

"
I
can't do it," whispered Lucca.

Alexander did not look up from the papers on the desk. "You must."

"Majesty, it is your best evening coat, wool as fine and soft as silk, the cut a work of Michelangelo." Lucca's voice was pleading.

Alexander pushed back from the desk and looked up at his servant. "We have no money," he said patiently.

Lucca shrugged. "The English king does not pay his bills. Why should we? I will send the man away."

"Lucca," Alexander said. "We agreed to sell the coats a fortnight ago. I had your promise at that time."

"But that was before anyone came to buy them." Lucca wrinkled his nose.
"
Madre della Vir
gine,
the man has no shoulders!"

Alexander turned back to the letter he was writing. "Then the coat will improve his appearance."

He managed a few more lines before he realized Lucca remained standing in the doorway.

"To sell your coats in a common shop!" Lucca shook his head. "It is beneath you."

"We've slept in barn
s and fields, and worn the boots of dead men."

"In war. In London you must preserve the dignity of your state."

Alexander put down his pen, the point he was trying to make in the letter had escaped. "Unpack the royal plate, then."

"Majesty, could we not remove to a hotel?"

"No." Alexander rolled the cuffs of his sleeves over his wrists and fastened them properly. "The plan depends on secrecy." He stood and lifted the coat off the back of his chair. "If the foreign secretary finds me before I refill the treasury of Trevigna, I'm powerless." If he let them, the English would put him in a toy soldier's uniform and prop him on a dying throne, so that the royal navy would have a handy port from which to fight the Turks.

Lucca hung his head. "All this I know, but what will Donna Francesca say? What will she do?"

Alexander's glance sharpened. "You haven't told her where we are?"

Lucca's great dark eyes had a wounded look. "I had to tell her you were hiding. How could I lie and say we were still at Windsor? She already knew you'd sold the horses. Like Christopher
Columbus, she discovers everything," he concluded bitterly.

Alexander donned his coat. "You've heard from her, then?"

"She is going to find you a wife."

"A wife?" Alexander felt himself go very still. "Why?"

"So that when you are crowned, you will have the nobles' support."

Alexander stared at the papers on the desk, letters inviting free men of Trevigna to give up being subjects, to regard themselves as citizens, to come together to draft a constitution for a new republic.

"Majesty?"

"Sell the black coat. Charge the man a king's ransom, if he'll pay it, but sell. You do want to eat, don't you?"

"Yes, Majesty." Lucca bowed, and retreated.

Alexander gripped the back of the chair, the papers a white blur on the desk. Bonaparte moved armies and changed the face of Europe. Alexander wrote letters to make one nation free and just.

He snatched a blank sheet, scrawled a message on it, and slipped out the door.

Chapter 1

F
or a moment as it rose, a dazzling morning sun gilded the rain-dampened rooftops of London. Lady Ophelia Brinsby slowed her steps to watch, and the shining deception vanished, leaving a vista of cold, gray slate and sooty chimney pots. With a shrug, Ophelia lengthened her stride, swinging her riding crop.

Two horses, her black mare, Shadow, and her brother Jasper's new chestnut stallion, Raj, stood saddled in the stableyard. Ophelia halted. The stallion was a beauty, but no one had saddled him in a week. Her groom, William, wouldn't dare. Raj had kicked a stall to pieces and proved once again that Jasper was no judge of horseflesh. This morning Raj, the terror of the stableboys, nosed the ground for bits of hay, his tail flicking lazily as if he were the tamest gelding.

Ophelia drew closer and peered under Shadow's black belly at a pair of buckskin-clad legs and handsome boots. Someone was inspecting the mare's right front foot, murmuring soft, indistinguishable phrases.

"William?" she asked.

The voice stopped. Shadow swung her head around to give Ophelia a belated whicker of greeting, and a man stepped into view. He was not William. He was nothing so ordinary and discreet as a groom waiting to accompany a lady on a Monday morning ride in the park. Ophelia could not check the upward sweep of her gaze from his boots to the curly-brimmed hat set on golden-brown curls.

The man looked back, his bold gaze a blue flash, in which surprise vanished into amusement without a trace of humility. Ophelia had the strangest impression of authority, perhaps in the way he held the two horses with a careless touch on the reins, as if he owned them.

The moment stretched. A helpless, awkward, loose-limbed sensation, like being tossed from a horse, washed over her and left her clinging to her riding crop.

Her cheeks heated. Nothing was more tedious than a handsome man, puffed up with conceit, expecting everyone's admiration.

"I'm not a toad." A wry smile lifted the corners of his mouth and gave a sharper gleam of intelligence to his eyes. She tried to identify their unusual color, but nothing familiar, not the sea or sky or thrush eggs, had the intensity of that blue.

She broke the exchange of glances, taking a deep breath. Across the yard three men were polishing her father's black chaise, its ducal coronet gleaming a dull gold in the early sun. Only the stranger was out of place in the ordinary morning routine of the stable.

"M'lady, yer 'orse is ready."

Her gaze snapped back to him at the accent, different from his first words, at odds somehow with his appearance. Shadow nudged his hand, seeking attention.

"Who are you?" Ophelia demanded.

"Yer new groom, m'lady."

More likely the man in the moon. The blue eyes were full of amusement and curiosity, which ought not to be there in a proper servant. Besides the man made a fashion statement her brothers would envy, with his well-cut coat, brown silk waistcoat, and gleaming boots. "Does your tailor know you've taken the position?"

The bold blue gaze shifted away, concealing some truth, and Ophelia's brain began to work again. "Where's William?"

"Sacked,
m'
—"

" 'Miss' will do, thank you," she told him coolly.

"Yes.
Miss."

She spun away, controlling an impulse to administer a blistering setdown. All her arrangements, the fruit of weeks of cajoling her former groom, undone. She made herself walk calmly across the yard toward Clagg, the head coachman.

As Clagg explained her father's orders, she tapped her riding crop against her skirts. The gist of his long-winded speech was that she was not to leave the park.

"His Grace's orders, miss." Clagg offered to accompany her himself if she preferred.

She shook her head, smiling to reassure Clagg that she was ever His Grace's dutiful daughter.

Ophelia had learned that the key to any deception was to look as ordinary as possible while doing the unthinkable. And now that she knew the trick, she meant to enjoy as much freedom as she could within the confines of society. One season of polite simpering and dutiful attendance at vapid affairs had convinced her that London's elite had little to offer a woman of sense. Across the park on the other side of London was the superior society Ophelia meant to enjoy. And no mere groom would stop her.

She made her way back across the stableyard, taking time to observe her new keeper from under lowered lashes. He was taller than most grooms, not short
and wiry, but lithe and broad-
shouldered, with the sort of build her mother preferred in a footman. But he lacked the vacuous look most footmen wore.

William had been plain, greedy, and not particularly clever. With his readily obtained aid she'd contrived to circumvent her father's rules. Those efforts were now wasted. She would have to start over with the new man, and he looked far too intelligent to manage easily.

Still, he'd chosen the showy chestnut stallion instead of one of her father's well-behaved geldings, so he must think highly of himself. Vanity was always a good starting place when one wanted to manage a man, and handsome men seemed to possess more than their share of that universal male failing.

At the mounting block she had to look up to meet the new man's eye. Her patience abruptly deserted her. To spend another fortnight or two flattering a man in exchange for a small measure

of independence galled her. She decided on a direct attack.

"I don't need a keeper."

The words obviously jolted him. There was a quick flash in the blue eyes and a stiffening of his shoulders. "The 'orses need a run
,"
he said, his humble accent at odds with his proud bearing.

She gave him a measuring look. "A run? Or a tame trot in the park?"

"The park is all I 'ave t' offer, miss."

She tapped her crop against her boot tip. "I don't suppose you'd consider a bribe?"

He nearly choked. "Not on the first day in a new position."

She gave him a sidelong glance. The accent had dropped away, but his gaze didn't waver. She shrugged, and he turned and brought her mount.

She made a fuss over Shadow, petting the mare and cooing endearments in her most treacly voice.

He regarded her with narrowed, untrusting eyes.

She smiled sweetly. If he thought she was a docile nitwit, she stood a chance of escaping. If he stuck to her father's orders, she'd be little more than a dog on a leash.

She went back to thinking of ways to use his obvious vanity against him, and a strategy came to her as they neared the square. The stallion was likely to balk at the first sign of city traffic, and it was the easiest trick in the world to make it look as if Shadow had run away with her rider. While the new man worked to control Raj, she
and Shadow would escape. Her cheeky new groom could then go home and confess that he'd lost his charge or search for her in the park. Either way, he would discover he could not control her, and she'd be free.

When the bare plane trees of the square came into view, she twisted her left hand in Shadow's mane. Only Shadow's pricked ears showed that the mare felt the signal. From the street to their left a coal cart rumbled into view.

Ophelia waited, listening for Raj's first snort of alarm. When it came, a high-pitched squeal, she pressed her knees to Shadow's flanks and leaned forward. Shadow leapt into a canter headed straight for the coal cart and the narrow street beyond. Ophelia brought her crop down on Shadow's hindquarters. The mare spurted forward, bearing down on the cart. Then came the pause, the gather, and the soaring jump, just like a double oxer on a cross country run.

Shadow landed hard on her off foot, regained her balance and flew on. It was so easy that Ophelia could not resist glancing over her shoulder. Before her startled gaze, her new groom turned Raj in a quick double and sent him streaking after them. Ophelia leaned forward, urging Shadow on, reckless now, sending vendors scrambling out of their way.

A wide boulevard lay ahead, but hooves pounded just behind her. Shadow seemed to sense the stallion and slowed, matching her pace to his, tossing her head. Ophelia's groom leaned forward, snagged Shadow's bridle, and brought the impromptu race to an end. Ophelia gasped at the effrontery.

The horses blew and danced as they came to a halt, jostling each other, wheeling, hooves ringing sharply against the cobbles. The movement brought Ophelia's knee into glancing contact with the stranger's thigh, lean and muscled, controlling the stallion with easy power. A surprising rush of warmth flooded her body, and her gaze met his equally startled one. He'd lost his hat, and the morning sun lit the gold in his hair.

"
Yer may not want m' company, miss, but yer 'orse deserves better from yew," he said.

"No one has stopped a horse under me since I was six."

He released Shadow's bridle. "Time, then. The 'orse could 'ave been killed with such a stunt."

There was definitely something unservant-like about him. He should be jumping to do her bidding, not correcting her on points of horsemanship. Under her resentment was the thought that he'd certainly been equal to Raj and he had worked some magic on Shadow, as well.

"Shadow ran away with me."

A short, sharp syllable of derision escaped him. He leaned forward, his eyes fierce. "Ye set 'er at that cart as cool as ice."

Her cheeks felt on fire. He'd spotted her trick. How? Her signal to Shadow had been subtle and quick, and besides, he'd had Raj demanding his attention.

"How did you get Raj to move like that? It took five men to get him in his stall."

He shrugged. "I've been well trained, miss."

"Where?''

He looked away, an instant concealment. She
was too familiar with evasions not to recognize it.

" 'ere and there," he said.

"What's your name?"

Evidently, his excellent training didn't include courtesy to a mistress. He stroked Raj's neck, and Ophelia's gaze followed the soothing motion of his gloved hand, an odd tension building in her as she waited for his reply. "Alexander, miss."

"Like Alexander the Great?"

A quick affronted look passed over his face. "Just Alexander."

She would have to try a new tactic. Her father always advised his children, "Treat servants distantly, but generously, and they'll do anything for you." Her mother's theory was that servants were replaceable, interchangeable parts in the machinery of the household, the footmen always called "James," the cook, "Sophie," the housekeeper, "Mrs. Watkins." Sebastian, her nearsighted oldest brother, never even saw the servants. Only Ophelia and Jasper saw people. Winning them over was a necessary part of life if one wanted to enjoy any freedom at all. In Ophelia's experience, bribes and flattery worked b
est.

"What you did with Raj was not mere training. You have a talent for understanding horses."

He veiled his gaze. "Earns me a situation is all, miss."

"You could look higher than your present situation. At one of the hunts your talents would be in demand."

"Tried 'igher, miss. This suits me." There was something like irony in his expression.

"Then you're more fortunate than I." The words drew a quick, penetrating glance from him, and Ophelia turned Shadow toward the park again. Ophelia kept the restive mare to a walk, trying to think how to regain control of the situation. Alexander saw through her, and flattery wasn't working.

At the park gate, she stole a glance at him. He rode a proper length and a half behind her, just as if he truly were her humble groom, but he was too handsome not to be vain. Most of the men she knew, whatever their rank, swelled visibly at a few compliments. Invited to describe their own cleverness, and a little pause was invitation enough for most, they were apt to give orations, run for Parliament, write their memoirs. William had always been ready to tell her how he'd bested some fellow groom in a game of cards or a wager.

She glanced at Alexander again. He was dressed in brown. His hair was brown, but the word was inadequate.
Brown
was a fine term for potatoes or dust or dead leaves, but the gold in his hair seemed to draw the morning light.

There were few other riders about. No one to report the lapse to her mother if she rode side by side with her groom. She made Shadow fall back. Alexander tensed visibly. She offered him her treacly smile.

A few paces further she gave Shadow a hint, and the mare pranced restlessly. Alexander noticed at once, his blue glance questioning. Ophelia halted her mare.

"Shadow's cinch is bothering her, Alexander. Would you see to it, please?"

Plainly, he did not believe her, but he dismounted and secured the horses' reins to the iron railing separating the path from the dry, dead grass. He looked up at Ophelia, a challenge in his odd blue eyes. A random phrase came into her head from a book of travels she'd once read about the Mediterranean, where hot blue seas lapped fabled isles.

He didn't like taking orders from her. Fine. She didn't like her father's putting her in the charge of a stranger as if she weren't a rational woman capable of governing herself. She freed her foot from the side-saddle's stirrup as he reached up to help her down. Every day she gave her hand to footmen, ascending and descending from carriages, but she hesitated, recalling the hot shock when her knee had brushed his thigh a few minutes earlier.