Always a Princess (4 page)

Every house she might work in could have an Arthur Cathcart, and she’d done with all of them. She lifted her chin and stared into Hubert’s dear face. “Either I get enough money from Lord Wesley for us to disappear or the princess goes on stealing.”

“It’s too risky,” Hubert said. The poor man was actually wringing his hands. “You could be caught in the act of stealing.”

“That hasn’t happened so far.”

“Sir Udney or Mr. Cathcart might appear at one of those parties and expose you.”

She lifted her chin in an imitation of the haughtiness of the upper crust. “They don’t move in the same circles that I do.”

“Someone else might recognize you as a fraud.”

“Someone else already has. Viscount Wesley,” she said. “And well done, too, because I discovered his little secret. A secret that will work to my advantage.”

“The whole thing is too dangerous,” Hubert repeated.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

“I have a bit of money saved up,” Hubert said. “We’ll go somewhere—the country. We’ll find work.”

“We’re going to stay right here,” she said. “We’re going to do better than survive, and Lord Wesley with all his money is going to help.”

“Agnes Treadworthy.”

Philip glanced across the breakfast table toward his mother. She sat, staring off into space, her fork poised. She seemed to do her best thinking with a fork in her hand. Or, at least, most of her thinking. Very little of what went on in her head could be considered “best.”

“Agnes Treadworthy,” she repeated. “Yes, she’d do nicely.”

“I hardly think so,” Philip replied.

“Why ever not?”

“She’s scarcely out of the schoolroom.”

“I was scarcely out of the schoolroom when I married your father. Wasn’t I, my dear?”

His father humphed and looked up from his book on pig ancestry. “I say, what?”

His mother glanced at his father with an indulgent softness in her brown eyes. “I was no more than a child when I married you, wasn’t I?”

“I’m sure if you say so. We were all children once.” His father buried his nose in his book again and fished around blindly for his teacup with his spare hand.

Lavinia Rosemont, Lady Farnham, reached over and guided her husband’s fingers toward his cup, then turned back toward her son. “There you are, then, Philip. Besides, you’ll want a young wife. She’ll be more docile, more malleable.”

Malleable. Good God, who wanted a wife who could be kneaded like dough? No doubt many men did, but Philip couldn’t quite shake the image of having to bend her this way and that. “Agnes Treadworthy is afraid of her own shadow.”

“She’ll depend on you for protection,” his mother said.

“Her skin is bad.”

“She’ll grow out of that.”

“She’s horse-faced.”

His mother set down her fork and glowered at him. “Of course, she’s horse-faced. All the Treadworthys are horse-faced. It’s a sign of their breeding. Except for the middle child. What is his name, Reginald?”

His father didn’t answer but merely grunted and turned the page of his book.

“Aubrey,” Philip’s mother proclaimed. “That’s the boy’s name—Aubrey. No one could ever fathom how he got those looks from that family.”

“Looks like the footman, I hear,” his father mumbled.

“Reginald!” his mother cried.

His father looked up from his book. “What? What happened?”

“I suppose we can’t keep a man from hearing such things, but we can certainly hope to keep him from repeating them,” his mother said. “Especially at table.”

“I’m sorry, my dear,” his father said.

“Back to the problem at hand. A wife for Philip,” his mother said. “Eunice Blackledge.”

“Too slender,” Philip said.

“Patience Sutcliffe.”

“Too virtuous.”

“Millicent Gaffney.”

Philip shuddered. “Too lugubrious.”

“Rose MacNeil.”

“Too Irish.”

“I suppose you’re right about that,” his mother agreed. “Alice Kimball.”

“Too English.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.” She picked up her fork again and pointed it toward Philip as though it were a weapon. “I don’t know why you insist on making this so difficult.”

“Perhaps I’d like to choose my own wife.”

“That would be fine if you’d just
do
it. But, you’re no longer free to gad about like a gypsy. You’re your father’s heir. You have obligations.” Her chin began to wobble—a sure sign that tears would follow. And the tears were always real. Bless her, she tried to pretend she’d recovered from his brother’s death. She most likely had no idea he heard her crying at night. At least, his presence seemed to comfort her, perhaps most especially when she could scold him about something…like choosing a wife.

“You need to produce your own heir,” she continued, swiping at her eyes. “Oh, if only Andrew hadn’t died.”

It had to be dreadful losing a child—especially an oldest son and heir—but he wished that just once his mother would remember that Andrew had been Philip’s exact age when he died two years before, and he hadn’t produced a wife or heir either. If he had, Philip wouldn’t find himself in this situation right now. He’d be in India or China or someplace interesting.

He’d racked his brain, and for the life of him, he hadn’t been able to think of a single solution to this wretched situation. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I know I’m a disappointment to you.”

“Not at all,” she said, as she reached into the bosom of her dress for a handkerchief. “It’s just that Andrew was such a darling child. Such a joy. Such a light.”

“I loved him, too,” Philip said. And he had loved his brother, despite the fact that right now he’d like nothing better than to thrash Andrew for dying and leaving him to deal with this heir business.

“Andrew would have married Sarah Whitworth and had children by now,” Lavinia said.

“Sarah Whitworth hasn’t a brain in her head. Andrew couldn’t abide her, and if he’d married her, he’d have drunk hemlock.”

“Why must you be so unpleasant about this?” his mother demanded. “Isn’t there any young woman of our set who appeals to you?”

“I haven’t met one.” He rose, walked to the window and gazed out across the street to the park. The morning rituals were in full swing. Couples rode sedately on horseback through the dappled shade of the bridle path. Young girls strolled with their chaperones, holding up their parasols—heaven forbid they might actually turn color from the sun. Occasionally, some eager swain found his intended “by coincidence” and managed a word with her under the disapproving eye of an older female relative.

This was London’s idea of life, and it was very pale and unimpressive after all he’d seen on his travels. Privileged, precise and stifling. And God help him, he seemed sentenced to eternity in the middle of it all. If he didn’t have his other identity—the Orchid Thief—he’d go quite mad with boredom.

“Really, Philip, are you even listening to me?”

He turned back and found his mother staring at him with no small amount of irritation in her eyes. “Sometimes I feel as though I’m talking to the walls.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s not that I have anything against marriage.”

“Well, then, what’s stopping you?”

How could he explain it to her? She’d been married to his father for almost forty years, and while the two of them didn’t appear intoxicated with each other, they did seem content. He’d like to have the same contentment. He’d even like to have children. They were charming little creatures, really, at least until they started behaving like their parents.

Most of all, he’d like to have a partner in his bed. But not one of those weak-kneed virgins he kept encountering—the sort who found exertion distasteful and enthusiasm embarrassing. He wanted a wife who’d come to him with the same hunger he had for her. Just the merest suggestion that she was lying back and thinking of England while he made love to her would be enough to put him off her permanently, and lovemaking meant too much to him to tolerate being put off by his wife.

He wanted fire in a woman. He wanted spirit. He wanted a woman who in the midst of a passionate kiss wasn’t afraid to grab a man’s buttocks. Good God, where had that last bit come from?

The morning room door opened, and Mobley entered looking even more sour than usual. “There’s a lady to see you, my lord.”

“Lady?” Lady Farnham repeated. “Were you expecting a lady, Reginald?”

Farnham glanced up from his book. “I should hope not. Why would I be receiving ladies over my breakfast? I can’t stomach company until at least midday.”

“Not for you, my lord,” Mobley said. “She’s here for Lord Wesley.”

“For me?” Philip said.

His mother’s eyes widened as she toyed with her fork. “Why, Philip, you’ve been keeping secrets from us.”

He shrugged and stared back at his mother. “I’ve been keeping secrets from myself then.”

“Although I don’t think I approve of a lady visiting a gentleman at his home.” Lady Farnham turned to Mobley. “She is escorted, isn’t she?”

“No, my lady,” Mobley intoned.

She raised the tines of her fork to her lower lip. “Oh, dear.”

“She’s quite a…” Mobley cleared his throat. “Quite a remarkable lady, if you’ll allow me to say so. With an…unusual accent. I can’t say I place it at all.”

No. It couldn’t be.
“Was she a small woman with green eyes and dark hair?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you do know who she is, Philip,” his mother accused.

In fact, he didn’t. He only knew who she wasn’t. And he hadn’t a clue why she’d appeared here today. Was the woman mad?

“I suppose you should send her up, Mobley,” Lady Farnham said.

“Oh, no.” Philip jumped up. “I’ll see her alone. Put her in the drawing room, Mobley.”

“Already done, sir.”

“I’ll be along presently.”

Mobley bowed and left the room. Philip followed, but his mother caught his arm as he passed the table.

She looked up at him, her fork still in her other hand. “Do you think it wise to see her like this, dear?”

He didn’t think anything to do with that woman was wise, but what choice did he have? He could hardly have her visit his parents for breakfast and talk about the ball the night before. “Don’t worry, Mother.”

“But she’s alone. What if she tries to trap you into some compromising situation?”

“I can take care of her.” And one way or another, he would.

Eve looked around at all the opulence. At least the Earl of Farnham’s house was merely regal and not ostentatious as so many were on this end of the park. The furniture shone with polish—no doubt applied by an army of diligent maids—and the thick oriental carpet nearly swallowed up the toes of her slippers. She ran a gloved finger over a tabletop and inspected it for dust. Not a speck, of course.

If she were a more timid sort, she might find all the splendor intimidating. She might even feel cowed by the stern expression of the dowager in the portrait on the wall—glowering down at her from inside a heavy gilt frame. But she had nothing to fear. She had Lord Wesley right in the palm of her hand.

As if on cue, the door opened, and the very man walked into the room and softly closed the massive door behind him. He turned, leaned against the wood and studied her with a catlike glint to his eye. “Well, well, it
is
you.”

She raised her chin and met his gaze. “Your butler was less than cordial.”

“He’s not used to unescorted ladies visiting me,” he said, putting an ironic emphasis on the word
ladies.

Eve had grown accustomed to that sort of scorn ever since she entered service years ago. It was no longer frightening, but it still irked her. “True gentility and snobbery don’t mix.”

“What would you know of gentility?” he asked.

“I know snobbery, and I don’t like it.”

He straightened and managed to look sheepish. In the light of day, he was even more handsome than he’d appeared at the ball the night before. And when he showed some humility—which probably didn’t happen often—he could be out-and-out appealing. Luckily, her taste didn’t run to tall men with such broad shoulders. They always made her feel overpowered.

“I do apologize for Mobley,” he said. “He’s a bit stuffy. Now then, why are you here? For another go at my posterior?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He laughed and pointed toward a lushly upholstered chair.

“Thank you, I’d rather stand.”

“Suit yourself.” He walked to a settee, dropped onto it and crossed his legs. Even sitting he was still too large for her taste.

She straightened her shoulders and prepared to deliver the speech she’d rehearsed. After all, it had to be phrased correctly. “Give me money, or I’ll expose you” was too clearly blackmail. “You wouldn’t want your family to know you’re a thief” wasn’t much better.

She cleared her throat. “It occurred to me that we each have something the other wants.”

His eyebrow rose. “And what might that be?”

“I’m afraid I find myself short of funds at present.”

“Temporary embarrassment, is it?” he said. “Or something more permanent?”

“I don’t see why that’s important.”

“But you want my help.”

“Yes,” she said.

“How?”

“I need money.” Oh, hell. She hadn’t meant to be so direct.

He laughed again. “Who doesn’t?”

“You don’t. You have plenty of it.” Curse the man. This wasn’t going how she’d planned it at all.

“How very observant of you.” He smiled at her, not pleasantly. “Good. I have money and you want some. Quite a bit of money, I’d venture to guess.”

“Some.”

“A lot,” he countered.

“A lot to me might seem like a trifle to you.”

“Touché. How right you are.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and his smile turned downright smug. “Now we know what I have that you want.”

He was enjoying this, the dreadful man. With any luck, his fun would come to an end soon.

“What do you have that I want?” he asked. His gaze wandered from her face down to her feet and back up again, pausing at her bosom along the way. “Aside from the obvious, of course.”

She gripped her reticule and willed her hands not to turn into fists. “I discovered you in a rather compromising position last night.”

“You mean in Lady Bainbridge’s bedchamber?”

“With her star ruby in your hand.” She gave him a smug smile of her own. “You’re the Orchid Thief.”

“And for a trifling amount—to me—you’re willing to remain quiet about my hobby, is that it?”

His hobby. Only a spoiled, pampered fool would consider stealing things a hobby. For the rest of humanity it was a serious, even desperate business. She wouldn’t do it herself if she had any other way of supporting herself. And this rich bastard considered stealing a hobby.

“I suppose that sums it up,” she said.

“Blackmail,” he replied.

“Such a vulgar word.”

“For a vulgar undertaking.” He rose from the settee and walked to her until he stood so close she had to crane her neck to see his face. “Well, Miss…what is your name, anyway?”

She didn’t answer him. She just stood her ground and met his stare. At this distance, she could even see the golden flecks in his brown eyes.

“If I’m to be extorted, I’ll know the name of my extortioner,” he said. “What is your name?”

“Eve Stanhope,” she said. The sound came out uncertainly. The man had made her feel small. “You may call me Miss Stanhope.”