How To School Your Scoundrel (18 page)

A soft whine trembled from Quincy’s throat.

“A damned corgi,” said Somerton. “I should have known.”

“You must have known. How could you not? The clues were everywhere. My photograph was everywhere. My sisters wore whiskers, but they were too itchy for me, I couldn’t bear them . . .”

“Princess Luisa.” He still faced the wall. His voice was bitter. “Hiding from her enemies. How very clever of our friend the duke. I’m flattered he chose my humble establishment to shelter you.”

“He knew you would protect me.”

“Did he? Or was the old devil using us both for his own mysterious ends? No matter.” Somerton turned, and the face he presented to Luisa made her blood chill in her veins. “I could have saved him a great deal of trouble if he’d presented his bargain to me in a more straightforward and rational manner.”

“His bargain?”

“Indeed. A clever fellow like Olympia understands the art of the deal, the delicate balance of favor for favor.” He walked right past her to ring the bell for the footman.

She swiveled to follow his movements. “What are you doing?”

“Why, calling for Thomas, of course. We have a certain amount of packing to do, if we’re going to catch the last train for London.”

“I’m not going to London.” A shadow of foreboding stole across her brain.

“Aren’t you?” Somerton walked to his desk, without sparing her a glance. “But you can’t back out now, Mark . . . Dear me. I suppose
Markham
is hardly the proper protocol. Still, we had best call you by your accustomed name for the meantime, until your end of the bargain is fulfilled.”

“I haven’t made any bargain with you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Somerton was sifting through the papers on his desk. He looked up in feigned surprise. “Why, yes, you did. A favor for a favor. I understand Olympia wishes me to assist him in restoring you to your throne?”

“No! He never said that.”

“Of course he didn’t say it, my dear. A man of Olympia’s caliber would never be so crass. But we understand each other, he and I. I know exactly what he meant. A kind of calling card, in the manner of honor among thieves. He sent his most valuable prize, the queen of the entire chessboard, to me, because he knows I’m the only man in Europe with the necessary resources to set you atop your rightful throne, scepter in hand, once more. You do want to resume your throne, don’t you, my dear princess?” His smile was sneering.

“Of course. I want justice for my people. I want . . .”

“Very good. You give me Penhallow, I give you Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof. A fine trade, don’t you think?”

The door opened. Thomas stepped inside, before Luisa’s horrified eyes, and made his bow. “Yes, sir?”

“Ah. Thomas.” The earl’s eyes did not leave Luisa. “Kindly tell Graves that Markham and I will be departing on the evening train to London. Our things are to be packed up at once.”

“Yes, sir,” said Thomas.

Luisa stepped forward. “But I . . .”

“Tut-tut, Mr. Markham.” Somerton raised his finger. “We have our bargain, and I assure you, I don’t intend to let you shirk your end of it. Thank you, Thomas. That will be all.”

The footman bowed and left the room. Quincy jumped off his chair and scampered past Thomas’s feet, to disappear around the corner of the library.

“I never agreed . . .” Luisa began.

Somerton walked up to her. The door was still open to the library, exposing them to the eyes of any passing servant, but he didn’t seem to notice. He ran his finger along the edge of her jaw. “Think of it, Markham. Your kingdom restored to you, your enemies vanquished. Your father and husband—I believe you had a husband, too, did you not, the poor chap?—yes, your beloved husband revenged. Justice for your people. You have only to assist me in a single trifling matter.”

“It is not a trifle.”

“Compared to the fate of an entire people? I think, when you reflect on the matter, during our long and rattling journey to London, you will reconcile yourself to your duty. A princess must always put the needs of her people before her own personal inclinations, mustn’t she?” His thumb brushed her bottom lip. “Her own desires.”

She slapped his hand away.

Somerton laughed. He tilted his head slightly, watching her. “Poor Markham,” he said. “What an undignified arrangement you’ve endured, these past several months. Entirely unsuited to your station. I shall endeavor to make it up to you at every opportunity.”

“You really are a beast, aren’t you?”

He laughed again and returned to his desk.

“My dear Markham. That’s exactly why your uncle gave you to me.”

Florence, Italy

Midsummer 1890

T
he Florentine sun lay hot on Luisa’s shoulders as she emerged from the shelter of Santa Maria Novella station, and the air was thick with manure and unwashed male bodies. She settled the brim of her hat another half inch lower on her damp forehead and turned to Somerton’s broad figure beside her. “There should be . . .”

“Signore!” called a voice, across the swarm of carriages and men in the Piazza della Stazione.

“There’s our man,” Somerton said calmly. He lifted one hand and stepped forward.

A moment later, a closed carriage maneuvered through the lines of waiting vehicles outside the station and a man jumped from the driver’s seat, swearing in theatrical Italian. “
Buon giorno
, my lord,” he said, with a sweeping bow, as if Somerton were a returning Medici prince.

“
Buon giorno
,” Somerton said dryly. “To the Grand, if you please. As quickly as possible. Our luggage will follow.”

The driver sprang back into his seat, leaving Somerton to climb into the carriage first. He held out his hand to Luisa, which she ignored, casting a sympathetic glance back to the valet with his four large valises. She had never paid much attention to luggage before; in her previous life, it simply arrived politely where it was supposed to, without any visible effort. Now she knew the challenge of making arrangements for one’s personal effects, in the heat of a European summer, and in the crawling confusion of a terminus taxi queue. Somerton had insisted they leave these arrangements to his valet, but Luisa had felt a pang of conscience for the poor man every time.

For one thing, it was hot. Damned midsummer hot.

She sank into her seat and lifted off her hat to fan herself. “This damned heat,” she said.

Somerton shrugged. “What one expects in Florence, at this time of year.” He didn’t appear to be affected by the weather at all, despite his size and his neat layers of correct English clothing. He sat tranquilly in the rear-facing seat—he always ceded the forward-facing seat to her, as her right—and gazed out the window as the carriage lurched through the midday traffic. Only a faint sheen of dew gleamed on his temples, beneath the straw weave of his hat.

“Have you visited Italy often?” Luisa ventured.

“I suppose so. Not recently, however.”

A movement caught her attention: the drumming of Somerton’s fingers on his knee. She had never seen him do that before.

She cleared her throat. “Have you stayed at the Grand Hotel before?”

“I have.” He turned his head to face her, and his mouth was curled with a faint amusement. “Have you?”

“No. My father always preferred the coast of France.”

“Too many Englishmen, I’ve always thought.”

She wanted to scream at the polite tone of the conversation, the brittle surface that persisted between them, keeping everything else unsaid. In the past fortnight, filled with travel arrangements and telegrams, the intricate piecing together of Somerton’s plot to entrap Lord Roland Penhallow, he had treated her with an efficiency even more cordially brusque than he had done in the winter, as if the desire he’d felt for her in Northamptonshire had been utterly smothered by the revelation of her true identity.

Except, sometimes, in the evening, when he had had a glass or two of brandy, and he would approach her with his innuendos and his double entendres, standing too close, letting her know that he
could
, if he wanted. That she was detained at
his
pleasure, not her own.

That the power was his.

But he never went further than that. At the last instant, he turned away, and told her to go to bed. To get some sleep. So she would lie in her bed and fall asleep to the melancholy strains of the cello in the adjoining room. Which was, of course, for the best. Once he’d helped her regain her throne, she could have no further use for him. A princess without heirs did not take lovers. She chose a suitable husband from the panoply of royal European prospects and did her duty. She maintained her public virtue. She set a proper example for her subjects.

She did not dream about a pair of muscular shoulders rising above her in the dark of night, about a pair of velvet lips capturing her mouth, about a pair of powerful hips driving against hers . . .

“Mr. Markham.”

Luisa blinked in the shaft of sunlight that bolted suddenly through the window. The Earl of Somerton’s face came into focus before her, still smiling that faintly amused smile. “Sir?”

“We’ve arrived.”

The carriage had stopped moving. Luisa turned to the window just as the door was flung open and the stately facade of the Grand Hotel appeared in the rectangle of exposed daylight. A rush of hot air flooded the stuffiness of the carriage, scented with rotting damp from the river.

“After you, my dear,” said the Earl of Somerton.

•   •   •

B
y the time he returned from the villa he’d leased upstream on the opposite bank of the Arno, having installed his valet and Mrs. Yarrow to his satisfaction and ensured that everything lay in perfect wait for tomorrow’s games, the red sun lay dying on the horizon and an elderly man in a tasseled sky blue uniform was igniting the arc lamps outside the Grand Hotel, one by one.

Somerton took in a long breath of the cooling air and paused on the pavement near the hotel entrance. To his left, the Ponte Vecchio sat athwart the river, its old stones turned a volcanic red orange in the sunset. The busy tide of traffic had fallen away, and the tourists now wandered in relative peace, guidebooks in hand, waiting to catch that coveted glimpse of the twilight Arno,
a sight essential to the Continental tour of every discerning traveler
, or something to that effect. He tossed his reins to the waiting groom. “See that I have a sturdy horse, saddled and ready, at an hour before midnight,” he said, and drew a golden English guinea from his pocket.

The groom’s eyes lit with wonder. “
Sì
, signore.”

Perhaps, in another life, Somerton might have walked across the lobby of the hotel with some recognition, if not outright appreciation, of its fine frescoes, its elegant columns and plasterwork, its magnificent stained glass ceiling. But the present man merely reached the front desk, asked for his key, and inquired for the manager, a man by the name of Sartoli.

“He is not here at the present moment, signore,” said the desk clerk, with a neutral expression.

Somerton drew another guinea from his pocket and slid it across the polished wood.

The clerk looked up. “Wait here a moment, signore.”

A quarter hour later, Somerton ascended the stairs to the second-floor suite that he—or, in actual fact, Markham—had booked for their use. What a remarkable thing, to have a princess regnant booking his hotel rooms, but there it was. She was still his private secretary, until the successful conclusion of tomorrow’s affair. That was the bargain, that was the favor she had reluctantly granted him, in exchange for the recovery of her throne.

And then . . . what?

Somerton removed the key from his inside jacket pocket and opened the heavy door.

There was no sound inside, nor any light from under the bedroom door. He had expected her to be still at her desk, or enclosed in an armchair, reading, but there was no sign she existed within these walls at all. Just a roomful of dark, cool air, scented with lavender, a cave of unexpected tranquility.

He switched on a light—the interior of the hotel had recently been wired for electricity—and looked about. The luggage had all been sent on to the Palazzo Angelini, except for a few necessary articles, and the sitting room showed no evidence of a paying inhabitant. An extravagant bouquet of lavender sat on the round gilded table in the center of the room, the source of the perfume.

“Markham?” he called out softly.

There was no answer. No matter. She wouldn’t have left.

Somerton removed his jacket and tossed it on an armchair. The bathroom lay to the right. He opened the door and turned on the taps in the tub. Added a dash of oil. Settled in with a long sigh. The water was good and hot, melting away the grime of travel, the accumulated layers of effort and worry. He allowed himself a luxurious five minutes before reaching for the soap, and then he went to work with purpose, cleaning and shaving, toweling himself dry, wrapping his hard and graceless body, his hair-sprinkled chest and his brutal too-thick limbs, in a dressing gown lined in Turkish toweling.

For an instant, he paused with his hand on the bedroom door. Perhaps he should knock.

He pushed open the door and strode inside.

Markham lay on the bed, fully clothed, her head turned to the window and a book tumbled at her side with the pages splayed upward. Had probably been reading by daylight, and fallen asleep with the setting sun. He leaned against the wall and studied her in the gloaming, admired the elegant curve of her cheekbone as it gathered the dusky glow of gaslight from the window. He breathed in the dampness rising up from the river, the scent of sun-warmed pavement and cigarettes. The window must be open.

So Markham had sent a telegram to the Duke of Olympia while he was gone. Sartoli had not made a copy of the contents, alas, but Somerton could guess. Well, it was no more than he expected, anyway. That Olympia was already in Milan surprised him even less. Penhallow had never lacked for allies, had he? Like a jack-in-the-box, he had always sprung up again, merry as ever, handsome and effervescent, no matter how often Somerton tried to stuff him back into the darkness.

He levered himself away from the wall and came to sit at the edge of the bed. Her hair had grown out a little more, wine dark and gleaming against the whiteness of the pillow. He longed to see it down around her shoulders, spread across her breasts in the flushed aftermath of love. He lifted his hand and brushed the line of her regal cheekbone, the curve of her noble lip.

Her eyes came open. She sat up with a little cry.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Yes, you did.” Her shoulders eased a quarter inch. She took in his dressing gown, his damp hair, with her sleep-blurred eyes. Caught unawares, without her usual haughty aspect, she looked as innocent as a child, a girl dressed in her brother’s Eton suit. “Have you finished your business?”

“Indeed. All stands ready for tomorrow.”

“If all goes according to your plan.”

“It will.” He played with her collar, glowing blue white in the faded light. “You sent a telegram this afternoon.”

Her eyes widened. “Yes.”

“I wondered whether you would. How much did you tell him?”

“I had to do it. I had to warn someone.”

He shrugged. “Did you think I would be angry? Of course not, little one. I expected nothing less, than you would defend your dear cousin with all your strength, against all evil. Betray me at every turn.”

“Then why did you bring me along? Enlist my help?”

“Because I can’t leave you to your own devices, Markham. God only knows what harm you might do, out of my sight.” He stroked the round edge of her collarbone with his thumb. “And perhaps I have a different sort of revenge in mind for you, when this is finished.”

She remained still under his caress. “I haven’t betrayed you, my lord,” she said quietly. “And I don’t think you’re as evil as that.”

“But not so good as that nonpareil Penhallow, eh? The
parfit gentil
knight, adored by all women, admired by all men.”

“I don’t adore him. I hardly even know him. The last time I saw him was . . . God, it must have been eight or nine years ago. One summer in England. I was a child.” She caught his hand at her collar, and her eyes caught the light, gleaming with tears to which she would never admit. “You’re the one in greater danger. If you commit this act, what will it do to you?”

“I have killed men before, Markham, and polished off my breakfast without qualm the next morning.”

“My lord, don’t do this. Revenge has nothing to do with honor or duty. Let them be. Stay here in Florence.”

He spread his fingers around the slender base of her throat. Her pulse ticked against his skin, rapid as a cat’s, giving the lie to her steady demeanor. “Stay here, in this room. With you, Markham?”

Her lips parted slightly, and then closed without replying. But she did not say
no.
She did not turn away.

“What’s this? You’ll even whore yourself for his sake?” He leaned forward. “I don’t need to bargain with you. I could take you right now, if I wanted you, right on this bed. That’s what scoundrels do, don’t they?”

“Don’t. You’re better than this.”

He laughed. “My dear princess. I’m not better than this.” He rose from the bed and went to the wardrobe in the corner. “Penhallow wants to take my wife for himself, to take my son for himself. You cannot think I’d allow him to usurp me, without a reckoning.”

“You can make arrangements. You can divorce her, and have Philip stay with you from time to time. You can still be a father to him, you can still know him . . .”

Somerton let the dressing gown drop to the floor. A startled gasp came from behind him, and a flurry of movement. Burying her dignified face in the pillow, no doubt.