Always a Princess (3 page)

The perfect majordomo, their Mobley—discreet, almost unbearably efficient and perfectly irritating. Still, he’d been with the family since Philip’s father had been in short pants. Little chance now of convincing the fellow to unbend a bit.

But perhaps for the moment, Mobley’s sense of correctness and the proper social order—oh hell, Mobley’s snobbery—might prove a useful source of information.

“Tell me something, Mobley.”

“Of course, sir.”

Sir,
this time. Perhaps they were making progress. “I don’t suppose you’d like to get yourself a brandy and join me.”

Mobley didn’t move, didn’t answer. He stood there as if the invitation had come in some unintelligible foreign language.

Philip sighed. “No, I suppose not.”

“You wanted to know something, my lord?”

“You have an acute ear for language as it relates to someone’s social class, I believe.”

If Philip hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that won him a smile from the man. Probably a trick of the firelight.

“Do you ever come across someone whose accent isn’t truly coarse but isn’t truly refined, either?” Philip continued. “You know—hard to place?”

“Oh, yes,” Mobley answered with more animation than he normally allowed himself. “It’s not uncommon at all, my lord.”

“What does that usually tell you about someone?”

“It’s very simple, sir. That type of speech invariably marks the person as one who wishes to rise above his or her rank.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A social aspirant, my lord. Ambition of the worst sort and not at all unusual, I’m sorry to say.”

“Your command of the Queen’s English is good enough,” Philip pointed out. “I wouldn’t call you a social aspirant, Mobley.”

Mobley stiffened until he positively bristled. If Philip tried to touch the man right now, his hand might come away pricked by some sharp corner or other.

“I know my station,” Mobley said. “And I’m quite content—proud, even—to be who I am.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’ve worked for your family for four decades. It’s been my pleasure to serve the earl, your grandfather, and now the earl, your father. I’ll continue to serve you when you’ve succeeded your father, my lord. Yours is a fine and noble house.”

“And we’ve been fortunate to have you,” Philip said. “Please forgive me. It’s been a long and trying night.”

Mobley relaxed his posture, as much as he ever relaxed his posture. At least he didn’t resemble a suit of armor any longer. “Are you sure I can’t bring you something? Another brandy, perhaps.”

“No, but thank you. Go to bed.”

“As you say, my lord. Good night.” Mobley exited, leaving Philip alone with his thoughts. And his thoughts went right back to where they’d been ever since he’d seen a certain pair of emerald eyes. That woman.

He never had found out who she was—only who she wasn’t. What else had he learned? She stole jewelry, but she didn’t do it particularly well. She impersonated royalty, but didn’t do that well, either. She kissed well. Oh, yes, she did that better than well. Just remembering the heat of her response produced a pleasant tightening in his groin.

Perhaps he’d been too long without a woman. Hell, he could hardly bed any of the virginal things his mother paraded before him as marriage material. And all the eligible young widows were friends of his family; it would hardly do to take up with a friend of his mother’s. Besides, he hadn’t seen any women who appealed to him as the dark-skinned beauties of the Indian subcontinent had. Even the passionate women of Eastern Europe—who seemed to enjoy misery as much as they enjoyed coupling—held more appeal than any of the women he’d seen at the silly balls and parties he’d attended in London.

No, not one single Englishwoman had held any attraction for him. Until tonight, until he’d met the green-eyed mystery. And she’d gotten away from him. Stealing with her would be twice the fun as it was without her—showing up at parties with a stunning princess on his arm, dancing with her and flirting outrageously, and then stealing upstairs to pilfer a diamond here, an emerald there…

He’d started the whole Orchid Thief enterprise to ease his boredom, a crazy idea that stealing jewels from his parents’ friends might entertain him. The fact that he was actually rather good at it had come as a complete surprise. No one had caught either the Orchid Thief or the woman who’d been impersonating him. What a deplorable state of affairs when not one but two thieves as completely inexperienced as himself and the “princess” could go about the city lifting jewels from their rightful owners at will. He ought to write a letter to the
Times
about it, he really ought.

He chuckled at the thought. What a wonderful new development that would be—the notorious Orchid Thief writing to the
Times
about his exploits. He might yet, but if he could find that woman again, he’d have more fun continuing the charade with her by his side.

Yes, all he needed to do was find that woman.

The door to the flat flew open, and Hubert Longtree stood on the threshold, his silver hair skewed every which way and his blue eyes wide. “Child. There you are. I took the carriage at the appointed time, but you’d already left. Eve, tell me where you’ve been. I’ve been sick with worry.”

Eve clutched her wrapper tightly around her and rose to greet her dear friend. “I had to leave the ball early, and I had no way to get word to you.”

“Where have you been?” Hubert demanded.

Eve walked to the door and shut it against the night’s chill. She turned to Hubert. “Give me your coat and then go sit by the fire.”

She smiled at him, or did the best she could manage under the circumstances. “As I said, I had to leave early. I hurried home, hoping to intercept you. I was too late.”

“How did you hurry home?”

“I walked.”

“Saints preserve us, are you mad?” Hubert grasped her hands in his own, which were still remarkably strong given his four-and-seventy years. “You walked through London? Alone?”

“I didn’t have the money for a hansom cab, not if we want to eat tomorrow. Now, give me your coat.”

“You’ll be the death of me.” He raised a hand and shook his finger under her nose. “You’ll be the death of you, and
that
will be the death of me.”

Eve ignored the old darling’s protests, as she always did, and firmly grasped his coat so that she could pull it over his shoulders and free the sleeves of his arms.

“Imagine a sweet little morsel such as you walking through London after midnight,” Hubert continued. “It’s a wonder you weren’t killed.”

“I’m not sweet, and I’m certainly no morsel,” she said, still struggling with the coat. “Anyone who tried eating me would get a bad taste in his mouth.”

“You should have waited for me right where you were. I’d have arrived in that old clatter-trap of a carriage eventually and brought you safely home.”

“I couldn’t wait.” She finally managed to wrest the coat free and hung it on a peg. “And I’m safely home now. So, go sit by the fire. Please.”

He cast one long, scolding look at her over his shoulder and then grunted. Finally he walked to the fire and carefully settled his old bones into one of the chairs there. “It’s insane. This plan of yours to impersonate a princess who doesn’t exist, it’s insane.”

She walked to the second chair and sat in it. “It will work if we just give it a chance.”

“Insane,” Hubert muttered. “Did you even get the ruby?”

She looked down at her hands. “No, I didn’t.”

“What happened?”

“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “I have a different plan now, in any case.”

“Oh, no.” Hubert turned his head and stared at her, the light of the fire reflecting out of his eyes. “When you say something doesn’t matter, it usually matters a great deal. Now, what happened?”

The man knew her too well. She smiled at him again. Or tried to. “It’s really not important.”

“Eve, what happened?”

She looked into the fire for an answer that would satisfy him but found nothing.

“I was discovered,” she said after a moment. “But I got away.”

“I knew it,” he declared. He looked heavenward. “I knew this would happen. You’re not a thief. You’re too good, too honest.”

“A fat lot of good goodness and honesty ever did me—or you,” she snapped.

“You got away?” he asked. “There won’t be constables coming for you. Please tell me there won’t.”

“One person discovered me,” she said. “A man. But he didn’t discover my real identity.”

“Thank heaven.”

“I doubt he’d dare say anything, in any case. He was trying to steal the ruby himself.”

A fresh expression of horror flitted over Hubert’s face. “Child, you came across a real jewel thief?”

“What do you mean by ‘real’? I’m a real jewel thief.”

“Bless your heart, you try,” he said. “But you haven’t made off with much so far, have you?”

“That will change.”

“Hardly more than enough to buy that old carriage and cloth to make a few gowns.”

True, she’d spent all their profits so far on what she needed to assume the identity of foreign royalty. It had been a calculated risk doing that. So far her calculations had seemed a bit off, but that could change now that she’d met Lord Wesley.

“I haven’t had any luck yet,” she said. “Maybe tonight I finally did.”

Hubert cocked his head and looked at her. “But you said you didn’t get the ruby.”

She rose from her chair and stared down into the fire. “I’ve been thinking since I got home. I may have stumbled on something better than a ruby.”

“Eve, look at me,” he said. “I know you’re having one of your worst ideas when you won’t look me in the eye.”

She turned and faced him. “The man who found me. The other thief. He was the Orchid Thief.”

“Good Lord, that one. Stay away from him. He’s notorious. He’s dangerous.”

“Actually, he’s not the least bit dangerous.” And he wasn’t, at least not in the way Hubert meant. The heat of his kiss was dangerous, but she’d know better how to avoid that kind of danger next time. And there was going to be a next time; she’d decided that while sitting in front of the fire, waiting for Hubert to come home.

“The fellow’s an aristocrat,” she said. “An amateur. Viscount Wesley—the son of the Earl of Farnham.”

“Farnham,” Hubert repeated. “Amateur, he must be. No one in that family needs to steal for money.”

“I imagine it would be worth something to him to keep his family from finding out about his other identity, don’t you?”

“You’re going to extort money from him in exchange for his silence? Oh, child.”

“I’m not a child, Hubert. And you know as well as I do that people like him have far more than they need. Far more than they’re worth.”

He tsked a few times. “When did you grow so hard?”

“The day Sir Udney Cathcart put you and me out into the street. Me because his dreadful wife accused me of stealing her jewelry and you because he couldn’t work you to death any longer.”

“And what makes you think Lord Wesley will give in to your demands?” Hubert asked.

“He’ll have to if he’s to avoid disgrace.”

Hubert sighed. “Will you at least stop trying to steal jewelry if Lord Wesley pays you off?”

“If he gives me enough, yes.”

“Enough for what?” Hubert asked.

She looked into his dear face. Hubert was the one person in the entire world who’d ever cared for her since her mother died. He’d taken care of her. No matter who else had failed her, Hubert had always insisted she was smart, she was beautiful. He’d probably been wrong about that last part, but she still loved him for it.

“Enough for us to live on quietly for the rest of our lives.”

“You can’t get that much money out of him, surely.”

“Why not? You said the family has plenty. Don’t you think they could afford that much?”

“The whole lot of them wouldn’t be paying you off, but only the son. If you were to blackmail him…” He placed his palm against his forehead and groaned. “Blackmail, Eve. How ugly.”

“The whole business of trying to survive is ugly,” she said. “We didn’t make it that way.”

“Think of the danger, child. If he won’t pay you off but turns you in…”

A risk, of course, but would it truly be worse than what she’d already faced? Somehow, Wesley didn’t seem the sort who’d run to the constable to settle his problems. Given that he’d already stolen several gems—more than she had, in fact— he’d hardly welcome a police investigation. Besides, he’d shown an adventurous, even gleeful, spirit about their whole encounter. Instead of exposing “the princess,” he’d asked her to dance with him. Blackmail was her best option, whether Hubert liked the word or not.

“I’m frightened for you, Eve,” Hubert said.

“I’m frightened for us both.”

“Give up this folly. We’ll go back into service somewhere.”

“You at your age?” she said. “I, without a letter of recommendation?”

“Forge a letter the way you forged your letters of introduction from the Archduke of Waldheim.”

“Valdastok,” she corrected.

Hubert groaned. “Does the blessed place even exist?”

“I found it on a map.” And now, she’d met someone who’d actually been there. They spoke German. Who would have guessed? “I’m not going back into service.”

“Why not? It’s a comfortable living.” Hubert glanced around the room and shuddered. “Better than this.”

“I can’t.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

How could she? How could she explain Arthur’s behavior and his parents’ blindness to what went on in their own house to Hubert—a dear who only saw the best in people? How could she tell him about all the times Arthur had cornered her in dark hallways and forced his kisses upon her, how she’d kept quiet only in hopes of keeping her position? How could she tell him about the places the man had touched her or tried to touch her and how she’d had no way to defend herself? Arthur had treated her like a whore…the same way all those men had treated her mother. Worse, she’d had to keep quiet about the treatment the way her mother had always tried to pretend that nothing was wrong when all those
sounds
had come from the room they shared when her mother sent her out into the hallway.