Abducted by a Prince (4 page)

The man reined in his mount, swept off his tall black hat, and bobbed his fair head in a nod. “Upon my word, is it truly Lady Beatrice Stratham? What a lovely surprise on such a cold winter’s day.”

Standing on the curbstone, Beatrice simpered up at him. “Why, Lord Roland. Are you out paying calls, too?”

“Quite. And a dreary prospect it was, until I saw you standing there like an angel descended from the heavens.”

A girlish giggle escaped Beatrice. While they exchanged flirtatious pleasantries, Ellie remained by the open door of the brougham. The chill wind bit at her cheeks and poked icy fingers beneath her cloak. She wanted nothing more than to settle herself in the carriage and tuck a woolen blanket over her lap.

Unfortunately, duty required her to keep an eye on her cousin. A girl not yet launched into society oughtn’t be seen flirting with a gentleman in public.

Yet surely a few minutes couldn’t hurt, especially since this impromptu meeting appeared to have put Beatrice in a better frame of mind. With luck, she might forget about betrothing herself to a duke who was twice her age. The younger son of a marquess, Lord Roland was only three years her senior and a far more suitable marital prospect.

Watching them, Ellie let her mind wander to the meager contents of her wardrobe. She debated the necessity of buying fabric at the linen drapers to sew a new ball gown. Such a purchase would require dipping into her precious stash of coins. Yet she couldn’t abide the notion of wearing the shoes with a cheap, outdated frock.

A pity Lady Milford hadn’t realized the impracticality of the gift.

For a moment, Ellie wondered at her wisdom in taking charity from a mere acquaintance. Always before, it had pricked her pride to accept hand-me-downs, and those had been from her own family. Had it merely been the exquisite shoes that had tempted her so greatly? Perhaps, but there had also been a lack of condescension in Lady Milford’s manner. She had exhibited a sincere desire to be helpful, and it would have been churlish of Ellie to refuse such a kindness.

The chirp of Beatrice’s laugh floated on a gust of wind. She chattered animatedly while Lord Roland leaned down from his mount as if to hang on her every utterance. Luckily, no one of consequence was out for a stroll on this frigid afternoon. The few pedestrians trudging up and down the street appeared to be servants or workmen bundled up against the cold.

Only then did Ellie notice the man seated in an open phaeton a few doors away.

A pair of spirited grays stamped their hooves and blew clouds of mist into the chilly air. With a slight tug of the reins in his gloved hands, the stranger controlled the horses with ease. He was clad entirely in black, from the hat with a curled brim pulled low over his dark hair to the greatcoat that created the impression of a hulking beast. A scarf swathed the lower portion of his face, and she had the oddest impression that it was meant for disguise rather than warmth.

With curious intensity, he was staring at her cousin.

Ellie’s skin prickled, but she attributed the shiver to the weather. The man must be waiting for a neighbor, that was all. His interest in Beatrice was nothing more than idle curiosity.

Nevertheless, Ellie decided that her cousin had been conversing with Lord Roland long enough. Anyone could be peering out of the nearby windows. It took only a whisper of gossip to brand a girl an incorrigible flirt and to tarnish her reputation.

Thankfully, at that moment, Lord Roland tipped his hat and bade Beatrice good-bye. He continued on his way as she came prancing back to the brougham, her face rosy with pleasure. She and Ellie climbed inside and, as the vehicle rumbled through the streets of Mayfair, Beatrice launched into a soliloquy on Lord Roland’s fine manners and how he’d begged her to save him a dance at her come-out ball.

Ellie relaxed, letting the girl babble while offering a comment now and then. How mercurial her cousin was, how easily distracted by a handsome face. Perhaps Lady Milford was right; once Beatrice came to enjoy the courtship of gentlemen closer to her in age, she would relinquish her scheme to marry a reclusive duke.

As the brougham slowed to a halt in front of Pennington House in Hanover Square, Ellie decided that she was quite happy to be a spinster on the shelf. Nothing interested her less than flirting with an array of gentlemen in the hopes of attracting a husband. She had a far better plan for her life than wedlock.

A footman opened the carriage door. Beatrice stepped out first, her peacock cloak swirling as she abruptly turned back. “Oh, drat! I’ve forgotten my muff. Ellie, do be a dear and bring it into the house.”

The white ermine muff had tumbled onto the floor. As Ellie closed her fingers around its furry softness, a movement at the other window caught her attention. A carriage was passing slowly in the street, a phaeton with a dark-clad gentleman perched on the high seat.

Ellie’s eyes widened. Those swarthy, hard-edged features looked eerily familiar. His lower face was wrapped in a black muffler, and a hat with a curled brim shaded his green-gray eyes. He stared with keen intensity as Beatrice walked toward the house.

With a jolt, Ellie realized he was the same man who had been watching her cousin outside Lady Milford’s town house.

*   *   *

Lady Milford had been watching, too.

The moment her visitors had departed, Clarissa had proceeded straight to the drawing room window at the front of the house. Through the lacy undercurtain, she gazed down at the street to see Lady Beatrice in her peacock-blue cloak shamelessly flirting with Lord Roland.

But Clarissa had no interest in the antics of that vain, spoiled girl. Her concern lay with the shabbily garbed woman standing forgotten by the brougham.

How appalling that Pennington had never bothered to launch his own niece. Miss Eloise Stratham was the orphaned daughter of his profligate younger brother, yet she’d apparently been given no debut, no dowry, and no opportunity to marry. Instead, it appeared she had been treated as the household drudge.

The injustice of it wrenched Lady Milford’s heart. It transported her back to her own youth when she had been plain Clarissa Wren, living on the sufferance of her widowed stepmother and two stepsisters in a manor house in the wilds of Yorkshire. By some legal chicanery, the stepmother had managed to have her husband’s first marriage declared invalid, thereby rendering Clarissa a bastard. The interlopers then had squandered her late father’s wealth on fine clothing and jewels while Clarissa was given rags to wear. She had been expected to cook and clean and fulfill endless demands. In the moment of her darkest despair, when she had sunk down by the ashes of the kitchen hearth to weep for her beloved Papa, a knocking had sounded at the back door.

An ancient Gypsy woman stood outside, begging for food. Fearing the wrath of her stepmother, Clarissa very nearly turned away the vagabond. But she took pity on the woman and offered to share her own meager dinner. In return, the wrinkled crone gave her a pair of garnet slippers and a cryptic message that they would lead her to true love …

A faint smile on her lips, Clarissa reflected upon the grand journey that had brought her to this point. She had come to London, married the aging Earl of Milford, and gained status and wealth as his wife. Yet only in widowhood had Clarissa finally realized the Gypsy’s prediction when she had fallen madly in love with one of the king’s sons. Though circumstances had made it impossible for them to wed, she and her darling Prince Frederick had engaged in a discreet affair of the heart for many blissful years. Upon his death, Clarissa had found solace in helping worthy young women find their own chance at happiness.

Now, as she gazed down at the latest recipient of the shoes, she sensed that Miss Eloise Stratham was in sore need of love. Yet never before had Clarissa loaned out the slippers without having first selected a specific gentleman as a match …

At that precise moment, she noticed the open phaeton parked a short distance behind the Stratham brougham. The restless stamping of the horses caught her attention. The driver controlled the pair of grays with an almost imperceptible tug on the ribbons.

Garbed from head to toe in black, he appeared to be a gentleman. Yet how curious for him to be waiting in front of a vacant residence, the owners having gone to their country estate for the winter.

Odder still, he was staring at Lady Beatrice. Who was he?

The girl gave a farewell wave to Lord Roland, then minced back to rejoin Miss Eloise Stratham. Both women entered the brougham, and as the coachman started down the cobbled street, the driver of the phaeton snapped the reins and began to follow the brougham.

On impulse, Clarissa twitched the lace curtain aside and rapped hard on the windowpane. As he glanced up, she stepped swiftly back and out of sight. But that one instant had given her a clear view of unusual green-gray eyes set in a harshly masculine face.

Astonished recognition rooted her in place. Why on earth would
he
have an interest in Lady Beatrice? Was it merely a coincidence? Clarissa stood there for a time, wondering, considering, pondering. Then she walked to the fireplace and tugged the bell rope.

A few minutes later, a distinguished butler with cropped white hair entered the drawing room. He proceeded forward in a stately fashion and bowed, waiting for her to speak. That was one of the things she’d always liked about Hargrove. He didn’t waste words—yet he had an encyclopedic knowledge of society.

“Do you know of a man named Damien Burke?” she asked.

Hargrove thought for a moment. “Yes, my lady. Mr. Burke was ousted from society seven years ago due to an unsavory affair. Now he operates a gaming establishment known as Demon’s Den.”

“I just now saw him following Lady Beatrice Stratham’s brougham. I should like for you to find out all you can about his present activities. There is something puzzling going on, and I need to know what it is.”

“At once, madam.”

As he departed the drawing room, Clarissa knew that no further instructions were necessary. Hargrove had a network of trusted spies, and he would use them with the utmost discretion. She had only to wait—and to ponder the secret that she had kept for nearly thirty years.

Chapter 4

“Papa, I’ve been thinking.” Seated beside her father at the dinner table, Beatrice trailed the tines of her fork through the mound of peas on her plate. “In only a few weeks, I’ll be launched into society. It’ll be the most important night of my life. Yet I fear that my come-out ball may be a trifle … lackluster.”

Lord Pennington, who had been concentrating on his beefsteak, looked up with a frown. The purple veins across the bridge of his ruddy nose clashed with his graying russet hair. His fleshy appearance reminded Ellie of a painting of Henry VIII that she’d seen in a museum.

“Lackluster, you say?” the earl asked. “I assure you, daughter, the bills for this event may send the entire lot of us to the poorhouse!”

“Oh, Papa, don’t be annoyed. It’s just that I fear there is nothing to distinguish
my
party from so many others.”

The girl’s voice held a wheedling note, though her clear blue eyes and milky complexion created the appearance of radiant innocence. The other four family members at the dining table listened to the exchange with interest.

Across from Beatrice, Ellie’s eldest cousin, Walt, Viscount Greaves, slouched in his chair, his hazel eyes glassy from numerous cups of wine. Lady Anne, the late countess’s timid sister, was seated opposite Ellie. At the other end of the linen-draped table presided the earl’s mother, the stout Countess of Pennington, grandmother to Ellie and her cousins.

“Why, my dear Beatrice,” the countess said, her brown eyes like sunken currants in a massively wrinkled face. “I can’t imagine what you should find lacking. Your father has spared no expense on your behalf. There shall be hothouse roses, the finest chef, the very best champagne.”

Beatrice dipped her chin in girlish modesty. “I’m ever so grateful, Grandmamma. But
all
debutantes have roses and champagne. Don’t you see? I will be nothing special. How am I to become the triumph of the season if I don’t stand out in the crowd?”

Walt elevated his wine goblet in a salute to his sister. “Perhaps we could arrange for you to be transported into the ballroom on a gilded throne, Bea.
That
would certainly stir the gossips.”

Beatrice screwed up her nose at him. “Oh, do be serious. You’re only jealous because Papa never hosted a party in
your
honor.”

“Gentlemen needn’t be paraded like horses for sale at Tattersall’s. Rather, we are the ones who choose which mare we wish to purchase.”

“How dare you compare me to a horse! Papa, tell Walt not to be so rude.”

Chewing a mouthful of meat, Lord Pennington directed a low rumble of disapproval at his son.

The countess tapped her fork on her plate. “Enough! It is unseemly for the two of you to squabble like children. And do sit up straight, Walter.” As he sullenly obeyed, she went on in a crisp tone, “Now, Beatrice, perhaps you should tell us exactly what it is you have in mind for the ball.”

“I wonder if we might adopt an exotic theme, Grandmamma. I was thinking of decorating the ballroom with an Egyptian motif.”

“Egyptian!” Ellie blurted out. Recalling the reclusive Duke of Aylwin with his scholarly study of Egyptian artifacts, she had a sudden suspicion of her cousin’s purpose.

Beatrice slid a sly glance at Ellie. “Yes, you know, palm trees and pyramids and the like. I shall have to do a bit of research on the topic and see what I can find out.”

“You, conduct research?” Walt scoffed as he signaled the footman to pour another round of burgundy. “I doubt you could even find your way to the lending library.”

“Actually, I intend to interview an authority, someone who can offer suggestions as to the décor,” Beatrice said archly. “Perhaps there is a scholar at the British Museum. I’m sure Ellie can escort me there.”

Ellie suspected the museum wasn’t her cousin’s true destination. Beatrice was intending to use this latest scheme as an excuse to brazen her way into the Duke of Aylwin’s house. “It wouldn’t be appropriate for you to question a stranger,” Ellie said. “I shall procure a book on ancient Egypt and you may draw your inspiration from it.”