Lois Greiman (20 page)

“Long enough to know to keep meself to meself,” he said, and took a step toward the window.

Nicol shook his head. “Don’t try it, lad. She’ll toss you across the room before you could wrench it open.”

“I ain’t ’orin’ for no one!” said the boy.

“I thought you had been around, Nim.” Her voice was soft, but her expression was not.

He flashed his gaze back to Megan. “I been.”

She stared at him in silence for a long moment. “Then you should be a better judge of people.”

“What do y’ mean?”

“I’m not going to harm you.”

The room fell silent, then, “Why not?”

It was the strangest question Nicol had ever heard, an odd reverse of the norm.

“Have you never heard of mercy?”

“I ’eard of it,” he said. “But I ’eard of Father Christmas, too, and ’e ain’t done me much good either.”

She almost smiled. “Maybe he’s been busy elsewhere.”

“Yeah. With them rich kids what live in Oakland Square.”

“Do you think you could learn to read?”

“Why would I want to?”

“So you could learn. So you could live to reach…” Her eyes flared with emotion. Perhaps she was remembering his aversion to the word “manhood” or perhaps the irony of the situation was not lost on her. After all, she had been in the same situation not so long before. “Adulthood,” she said. “So
you could become gainfully employed. So you could learn a skill. Maybe become a miller or a silversmith.”

“And make jewelry.” He laughed. “Me?”

She watched him in silence. “Stranger things have happened, have they not, Lord Nicol?”

“They have,” he agreed.

She turned toward him. A spark of a smile lit her verdant eyes. “We shall call it poetic justice,” she said, and Nicol realized in that moment that if she asked him to walk on water, he would take a deep breath and step off the dock.

“What makes you think the lad will stay here?” Will asked, his voice low.

She thought for a moment, then called for the guard. It took him no longer to respond than the first time. “Allard.” She said his name like an endearment. Where had she learned such a thing? “You will be staying at Landow with the boy.”

He looked as if he would object, but he finally nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.” A pause. “May I ask why, Your Majesty?”

She rose to her feet with fairylike grace. “Because the boy is going to be something great someday. He merely needs you to help him find his path.”

Nicol escorted her out of the tea-room, down the long hallways, where her slippers sighed against the worn carpet and out into the cool night air. A few droplets of rain sprinkled down on them as they maneuvered the cobbled footpath.

“Will you be accompanying me back to the palace, Nicol?” she asked.

Her ladies followed behind. Her guards were behind them.

“I think it best if I speak to Will for a time,” he said.

“He must owe you a great deal,” she said. “To be willing to take in Nimble Jack.”

There was deep emotion in her voice, and in that foolish moment he wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms and kiss her. “Not this much.”

She glanced at him.

“Will’s wife and son were killed by highwaymen.”

She sobered, and with that change of expression he felt his heart mourn. “I am sorry.”

“I shall tell him.”

“And I’m sorry if I compromised your plan. It was not my intent.”

“Wasn’t it?”

She glanced up at him, and the sadness was gone, replaced by a spark of anger that made him feel marginally better. “I did not ask to be a princess,” she reminded him.

“No.” They were at her carriage, and he turned toward her. In the gathering darkness, her face looked as pale and perfect as an angel’s. He bowed, raising her hand to his lips. The sensation sizzled through him, and though he told himself to draw away, he found that he could not immediately manage to free her fingers, could not immediately manage to let her go no matter who looked on. Behind them, her entourage remained absolutely silent. He smiled, and released her hand with stern self-reproach. “You did not ask to be princess,” he agreed, and, locking his hands behind his back, took a cautious step to the rear, putting space between them, hoping for strength he was certain he had once possessed. How amusing. “But one cannot fight one’s true self.”

She scowled at him, but he motioned for her footmen, who handed her inside.

In a moment the door closed behind her, and then she was gone—the princess and the thief and his heart.

“Y
our Majesty.” The viscount bowed. “I trust you slept well.”

Megan nodded, ignoring her breakfast for a moment. She couldn’t seem to adjust to either the succulent meals or the late hour at which they were served. Noon had already come and gone.

“Well enough,” she said, and motioned to the seat across the table from her. “Sit and tell me of jack.”

There seemed to be something lacking in his answer, so she raised her gaze. “And Lord Landow’s home?”

He shrugged. “Thus far it has survived.”

She raised a brow.

“It seems the lad has an aversion to bathing.”

“It seems the lad has an aversion to bathing.”

“Does he?” She almost laughed.

She set her cup back onto her saucer. The edges of both were gilt and the china itself as delicate as lace. She wondered vaguely if they would fit in her pocket. “But he did not escape?”

“No. But ’twas not for lack of trying.”

She looked across the grand hall. Elegant loungers sipped tea and flirted, most of them still inebriated from the previous night. Apparently Melville’s party had been a roaring success, offering endless libations, caviar on tiny bits of toast, and a red Indian from the Americas. And meanwhile, across town, one small lad tried desperately to return to a life that would eventually kill him.

“Why?”

She brought her attention back to the viscount. “What say you?”

“Why would he wish to leave?” Nicol asked again, and she sighed.

“Pimps and thieves’ masters are not known for their understanding natures.” She fell silent as a servant bowed before refilling her gilded cup, then continued. “If the boy doesn’t return soon, Poke will assume his star thief has taken his ill-gained goods elsewhere.”

“Then would it not be best for the lad to remain at Landow where he is safe?”

“Is there a reason for him to believe he is safe with a nobleman who detests his kind?”

“Just because a man is titled, doesn’t necessarily mean he is untrustworthy.”

Their gazes met and held. There was something in his voice, almost a plea, but she broke from the trance and cleared her throat as she fiddled with her spoon. She couldn’t help but notice it was solid silver.

“Perhaps Lord Landow was not the best choice for the lad’s guardian.”

“I would have taken the task,” he said, “but Paqual already frets over your alliance with me. I didn’t wish to make it seem that I would risk my home on a whim for you. He doesn’t trust me.”

She sipped her tea and said nothing.

“And what of you?” Nicol’s voice was low, as if he hadn’t meant to speak. “Do you trust me, lass?”

She refused to look at him, for the feelings evoked by his presence were too raw, too foolish. “I trust you to do what is best for your Anna.”

Silence stretched out between them. She could feel his gaze on her.

“Tell me, will you be happy when you are no longer the princess?”

“I am not the princess,” she murmured. “Pretense does not make it so.”

“Doesn’t it?”

She found his gaze. His eyes were deep and somber.

“In two days’ time I will return to my old life,” she said. “And you shall see your princess again.

Heat streaked through his eyes. “And what of you?”

She canted her head the slightest degree, a gesture that had replaced her usual shrug. “The pauper? I will be that much richer.”

“Lass—”

From the doorway, a bevy of voices rose in greeting.

“We can hardly afford to let Paqual become suspicious now.”

“There are times,” he murmured, “when you seem to be the exact replica of Anna, but there are other times…” His voice faded. “When I believe there is none in the world like you.”

Their eyes met, somber on somber. Paqual’s footfalls echoed across the floor and she tilted her mouth up the slightest degree.

“Nicol,” she said. “Surely you jest. Two clever rakes such as you and the baron will have no difficulty controlling one small lad.”

“Your Majesty,” Paqual said, and bowed.

“Don’t you agree, my lord?” she asked, turning to the old man.

His lips narrowed. “I fear I must respectfully add my caution once again, Your Majesty,” he said. “For while I appreciate your boundless mercy, I myself must think of your protection.”

“I don’t believe one small boy could possibly harm me here in the splendor of Malkan Palace. ’Tis not as if I am eking out a mean living on the streets of Skilan.”

An odd look flashed through Paqual’s eyes, but he bowed again, and when he straightened, his expression was all but pained. “Please, my princess, do not speak so flippantly, for life can be unpredictable and hideously short, even for God’s chosen one.”

“God’s chosen one,” she repeated.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Surely, you know ’tis true.”

For a moment she was tempted almost beyond control to argue, but she could feel Nicol’s eyes on her and dropped her gaze to her plate. “Yes, my lord,” she agreed. “God and you have been kind.”

The dinner dishes were being cleared away as bowls of Cumberland pudding were distributed. Nicol glanced down the dinner table toward Megan. She looked radiant tonight, refined and feminine and too beautiful for words. Sometimes, when he wasn’t careful, he almost forgot who she was. Sometimes it almost seemed as if she had been born to this place, had been bred to sit on the throne of queens, and then, without his permission, his mind would slip back to a moment when she was not Tatiana Octavia Linnet Rocheneau, a time when she was but a slip of a girl with a rapier-sharp wit and hands as quick as lightning. Who was she really, a princess or a thief? Or was she the girl with the soft eyes, the
girl who had trembled when she ordered all to spare the lad called Nim. She was as complex as a kaleidoscope, as deep as the tide, and she had almost pulled it off. Had almost fooled the lot of them. Even if Paqual suspected some irregularity, as his repeated gaze seemed to suggest, it would be too late to call foul. In two days’ time, the switch would be made. Anna would return from Teleere, and Megan would escape back to her own world.

Turning his attention aside, Nicol scanned the assemblage. The peerage glittered in intoxicated glory, laughing and teasing with noble disregard for either propriety or morals. All but Paqual, who attended to his meal, only glancing now and again at the girl at the head of the table.

Did he watch her with increasing interest? Did he suspect something after the spectacle in the market? Was he surprised that the royal princess would save a common thief from mutilation? And what of Anna, Nicol wondered? Would she have done the same in Megan’s place? Would she have braved Paqual’s wrath to rescue the boy? Would
he
? Or was the wee thief so much superior to their—

But suddenly Nicol’s thoughts were torn asunder. Someone gasped. Beside Megan, Lord Riven jumped to his feet. “God’s bones, she’s choking!”

“She’s been poisoned!” someone screamed. “The princess has been poisoned.”

Leaping to his feet, Nicol tore the ogling onlookers aside as he rushed toward the princess’s cushioned chair. She was slumped over her dessert, gasping for breath, her hand at her throat.

“Fetch the physician!” he ordered. “Give her room. Stand back.”

Wrenching her chair away from the table, he lifted her into his arms. Her breath came in labored gasps. Her face was pale. Hugging her to his chest, he rushed through the crowd.
“Send the doctor to her chambers. Mary, come hither. For God’s sake, people, get out of my way.” They parted reluctantly, and he sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time until he reached her bed. Setting her gently upon the mattress, he motioned Mary forward to loosen the throat of her gown.

“Princess! Your Majesty!” Paqual rasped, out of breath and as pale as death as he charged into the room. “Princess, what is it? What has happened?”

Color was returning slowly to her face, and her breathing sounded less laborious. “Almonds!” she rasped. “In the pudding.”

“What—” Nicol began, but Paqual drew himself back with a start.

“Send up the chef.”

The physician rushed into the room, his face drawn in lines of worry.

“Your Majesty, can you breathe? Does your chest hurt? When did the symptoms begin?” he chattered, but she waved him back.

“I am well. Just a…” She opened her mouth, struggling for air. “Just a minor attack.”

“Your Majesty,” Paqual said, “please let him examine you so that I may rest assured—”

“Give me room,” she ordered weakly, and they did, all but Mary, who helped her mistress sit and pressed a glass of water to her lips.

The other ladies-in-waiting fluttered helplessly about by the wall. The doctor scowled. The guards stood at attention by the door, stiff as lances, and in a moment, a dark, squat man rushed into the room.

Paqual turned toward them with the slow venomous grace of a serpent. “Mr. Hunt,” he said, facing the master chef, “did you put nuts in the pudding?”

The man’s jaw dropped. “Nay. I would never. Nay, Your Majesty,” he said, turning frantically toward her. “I know of your aversion to them, and would never—”

“Then the princess has been poisoned,” Paqual said.

Hunt dropped to his knees, reaching for Megan’s hand as he did so. “No, my princess. I would never betray you. I swear it on my soul.”

“Release her,” ordered Paqual, and stepped forward, but Megan waved him back.

“If not you, then who?” she asked, sounding stronger.

“No one, Your Majesty, I select the ingredients myself. The flour was freshly ground, the eggs gathered only this—”

But at that moment a lad was ushered into the room. He held a cloth bag in hands that trembled like elder leaves.

Paqual narrowed his eyes at him. “What have you there, boy?”

“I—” The boy’s words stuttered to a halt. “I believe—It should be naught but flour.”

“What are you saying?”

The boy extended the bag to the chancellor. “It tastes,” he said, his voice quavering, “It tastes right. But it has the scent of almonds.”

“What nonsense is this?” Paqual demanded.

But the chef rose to his feet. The flush had drained from his face. “Perhaps…A few nuts could have been ground with the wheat.”

“A few nuts,” said the doctor, leaning in.

“Would that be enough to cause the princess such distress?”

The doctor scowled “Her symptoms seem to be lessening. If the nuts were unequally dispersed and she received a large quantity all at once…” He shook his head, still scowling.

Paqual turned to the chef, his skin sallow, his eyes intense. “How could this have happened?”

“I know not, my lord. I have served my princess with the utmost care. Just as I have served her uncle, the king. I swear on my life, I—”

“Where did you purchase the flour?” Paqual asked.

“I didn’t have—I was so rushed this morning. Breakfast. The duke’s arrival—The—”

“Where did you get it?” Paqual repeated.

“’Twas my fault,” said the apprentice, his face pale as death. “I fetched the flour.”

“Did you not taste it?” rasped Hunt.

“It looked…I thought—” the apprentice began, but Hunt interrupted.

“I will leave the palace this very night,” he whispered, but the girl raised her chin and watched him in silence for a moment. A tear crept from the corner of his eye, easing its way down his creased cheek. The room went absolutely quiet. The chef shifted his gaze to her and away.

“No,” she said finally, “I cannot afford to lose you, Mr. Hunt, not with the duke’s upcoming visit. You shall stay at Malkan Palace.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” His tears were running in earnest. “Thank you, Your—”

“Your Majesty,” Paqual said, “we’ve no way of knowing if this was some plot against your life. We must at least—”

“A plot?” she said, and managed a brave smile. “I should hope that if my subjects are planning my demise, they will be more clever than to feed me a substance that causes me no more than temporary discomfort.”

“Your health is nothing to be laughed about, Your—”

“No, it is not,” she said, “and if it will make you feel better you may find a tester to sample my meals.”

“I shall do that posthaste, Your Highness, but I must also insist that the apprentice be banned from Skilan.”

She scowled as if thinking.

The boy dropped his head.

“From the palace, yes, but not from Skilan,” she decided finally.

He didn’t even manage a nod as his gaze snapped to hers.

“There is a man in the village who is looking for an apprentice. You shall go there on the morrow and tell him that I sent you.”

“A man…Y-Your Majesty.”

“Yes,” she said, “I believe he is a mason.”

“Your Majesty, I must insist—” Paqual began, but the girl interrupted him once again.

“If it was poisoning he intended, it will be difficult for him to do so with bricks and mortar,” she said.

The ladies tittered nervously, and the boy blinked.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

She only nodded.

“Very well. Go now,” Paqual ordered, turning toward the cooks. “And do not forget Her Majesty’s mercy.”

“No, my lord,” vowed the aged chef, and disappeared, dragging his erstwhile apprentice behind him.

“Your Majesty…” Lord Paqual approached the royal bed slowly, his head slightly bowed. “You are too kind.”

She smiled a little. “Perhaps, my lord.”

“If word of your compassion spreads, we shall surely be inundated with all manner of rabble ready to take advantage of your generosity.” Perhaps it was a smile that lifted his anemic lips.

“Then you shall have no trouble finding someone to test my meals,” she suggested.

“Ahh,” he said, and, bending, took her hand between his. Her fingers looked as smooth as silk between his gnarled digits. “You gave my old heart a terrible fright, but your levity lifts my spirits.”

“And your loyalty lifts mine, Lord Paqual.”

“Again, you are too kind.”

“I am lucky to have you as my counsel.”

“Your uncle would be proud of you.”

“I can only hope.”

“And now…” He patted her hand, then backed regretfully away. “I shall begin my search for a tester.”