Royal Renegade (30 page)

Buntin didn't even nod, for she knew the princess never cried, and she was loath to tell a lie even with a gesture. But neither man was paying the companion any mind. The guide apologized for his all-too-affecting delivery and preened under Tatiana's admiring demurrals. Jealously, Fallenwood put his arm around the princess's slight shoulders and bustled the ladies out of the dreadful room. They left behind a heart-struck young guide, who traced Dudley's inscription as Tatiana had done and repeated his own heartbreaking words. "Too near the throne, too near the throne."

By the time they reached Sherbourne House, Tatiana was recovered enough to nod drearily at Fallenwood's request for a private interview. She led the way into the oriental drawing room, the site of so many important meetings in the last week. As she took a seat, Fallenwood reached behind the couch to produce a parchment scroll, which he must have secreted away before they left for the Tower.

"Your Highness." He came to stand before her, his square face somber above his casually knotted cravat. He was a kind man, she thought, and she did like him much more than that silky fellow d'Annaud. Would he make improper suggestions when she refused him? She thought not, and felt vaguely comforted.

Deliberately, Fallenwood tugged at the knees of his buff trousers and knelt before her. "Your Highness. You must have noticed that since our first meeting my regard for you has grown. I have come to see you as an ideal, a lady of beauty and breeding. And now I humbly beg of you the honor of making you my wife."

Before she could frame her gentle refusal, Fallenwood unrolled his scroll. "I took the liberty of creating a chart of our combined family trees." Stunned, she watched as, still kneeling, he pointed at a few names on the elaborate chart embossed in the corner with the Fabares coat of arms and the Romanov royal crest. "There is Queen Katerina, daughter of Peter the Great. I did not know her mother's name."

"Anastasia Karpova," Tatiana murmured, clasping her hands between her knees.

"Anastasia Karpova. And there is your grandfather the king, and your name, and mine, and here all the Fallenwood dukes, and of course the great Conqueror. And here—" Fallenwood's tanned face flushed, but he declared, "here is the space for our son." Though the name and date of birth were represented only by a blank line, underneath was lettered neatly, "Nineteenth Duke of Fallenwood, King of Saraya Kalin."

Tatiana caught her breath, trapped somewhere between horror and pity. Fallenwood didn't love her, not really, never as much as he loved her breeding. But this chart was so very poignant. How sad it was that he had searched for so long to find a wife he could deem worthy of his exalted bloodlines. Now he had finally found her, even accepted her slightly tarnished claim to Peter the Great, and she had to refuse him. Tatiana did not doubt that in some fashion she was going to break his heart.

"I am sorry, Your Grace," she finally said. "You should know that I was brought here for more than just a visit. The Prince Regent and my cousin Alexander expect me to marry a prince."

Mechanically Fallenwood rose and stepped back from her, his face blank, his hands rolling the chart back into a tube. "I thought perhaps that was the case," he whispered. "But I thought it worth a try. Fabares do not shrink from risks, you know. We are warriors." His voice had grown stronger as he went on, though his hands kept rolling the tube tighter and tighter.

"You have honored me greatly. Perhaps some other lady will be able to return the honor that I must refuse." But no other lady, she knew he was thinking, would be the heiress to the lost throne of Saraya Kalin. His single-mindedness angered her, but she understood his despair, too. His quest for the perfect bride was as doomed as her love for Michael.

"Is that why you wept at the story of Lady Jane Grey?" Fallenwood said suddenly. You don't want this marriage, do you? But you also are too near the throne."

With gentle reproof, she said, "You know I can't answer that. You are very kind to be concerned, but I cannot speak of it."

Fallenwood looked down at the twisted parchment scroll that contained all his hopes and all his despair. "Of course. Well, I did enjoy the outing today, Your Highness. Thank you for joining me."

She remained there in the drawing room after he left, sitting still on the embroidered chair, her hands folded in her lap. She started at a knock on the door. A young footman, fair of face and secretive of mien, entered, looking back over his shoulder to see if he had been observed. Intrigued, she motioned him closer.

"Two letters for you, Your Highness. This thick one here, I'm to wait till you read it."

One envelope was sealed with Wellesley's all-toofamiliar signet. The thicker one, a packet really, had an unfamiliar seal. She studied it carefully, trying to make out the crest in the wax. "You could open it, Your Highness," the footman finally suggested. "If the countess finds me here with you—"

Tatiana broke the seal and sorted out the contents. There was a currency note, a few coins, and a slip of stiff paper, along with two letters, one addressed to her. She knew immediately this was Michael's handwriting, though she had never seen it before. It was neat and economical, no fancy flourishes tailing the letters, no blotted words. Her lips trembled a little as she read the spare message.

Your Highness: Enclosed please find:

1 ticket on the 8 a.m. stage to Weymouth

3 guineas for the girl's expenses

1 letter to my housekeeper granting the girl employment

1 half-crown to be bestowed on your intrepid and greedy footman.

Remaining always your most obedient servant, Devlyn
.

The footman cleared his throat. "Was you waiting to give me something, Your Highness?"

"Oh, yes." She extracted the gold coin from the packet, then stuffed the rest back into the envelope, keeping out only Michael's letter. She considered the young servant critically, noting the sharp face and narrow eyes. Well, if Michael trusted him, she might as well do the same. "Do you know the maid Betsy?" Receiving an affirmative nod, she went on, "Please see that she gets this immediately. Tell her—" and she quickly outlined the future Major Devlyn had contrived so quickly for the little maid. "In fact, will you see that she gets to the station in the morning? She's a country girl, you see, and not familiar with the city."

The footman straightened his shoulders proudly. "Grew up here, myself, Your Highness. Know my town well. I'll get her there right and tight and put her on the proper coach."

When he left, Tatiana read the letter again. Impersonal as it was, she recognized Michael's wry humor. And the promptitude of his response to her request of this morning was, in a fashion, a token of his regard, somehow more tender than all the passionate words the Count d'Annaud had wasted upon her. Michael, she thought, tracing his neat signature with her finger, you are so lovably efficient.

She wrapped Michael's note—perhaps the only one she would ever receive from him—in the handkerchief with the red D embroidered on the corner. The cloth was streaked with pencil lead and spotted with tea, but she could not trust a maid with it. She would wash it herself, this very night, and keep it always.

Finally she recalled the other missive. Wellesley, for once, was to the point.

Your Highness: I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Three days ago Bonaparte ordered his generals to begin preparations for an invasion of Russia, to begin next spring. We anticipate an eventual offer from France for a separate peace, contingent on our recognition of Bonaparte's brother as King of Spain and our assent to the Russian invasion. You may consider it most likely that we will refuse to treat under such terms. Remaining as ever your obedient servant,

Wellesley.

"Most likely." Wellesley's words were always well-considered and entirely ambiguous. Tatiana folded the letter away and moved to the countess's frail lacquer desk. Her numb fingers searched the smooth contours of the surface for the drawer latches. Finally, she found pen and ink and paper and arranged them carefully on the blotter. She sat there a moment, head bowed, then took up the quill and penned a note to Wellesley, asking him to call on her this evening before the Oakley rout.

Chapter Eighteen

After he left the Sherbourne House garden, Devlyn turned his horse north to Hampstead Heath. On the open ground of the heath, the stallion's stride loosened, and Devlyn bent over his neck, urging him on as if they were charging the French. Then the icy wind stung Devlyn into awareness. Christmas was three weeks away, a holiday of special significance this year. He had to be back in Portugal by the new year. A royal wedding was planned for the same week.

He reined in abruptly and dismounted, tying the reins loosely to a sapling and striding away to stand at the brow of the bluff. Below lay the heath, gray and golden in the odd silver light. The last time he'd come here was four months ago, before that fateful luncheon with Wellesley. He recalled his sense of aloneness, his alienation from the home that was no longer his home. Everything had changed. Now he felt preternaturally connected to everything about him—the bare trees stark against the lowering sky, the distant city, the whole human race. Tatiana. Today in the garden, seeing the anguish in her eyes, he felt the multiplication of her pain with his, exponential, geometric pain. He hurt for her and for himself and for them both, and for every pair of star-crossed lovers everywhere, and the pain had paralyzed him.

That she loved him he didn't doubt. He'd seen that in her eyes also, felt the triumph of winning a woman's love, felt the agony of losing her, felt the shock of her anguish, all in an instant. Now he knew what he had to do, despite the dangers ahead. He might have survived his own pain, but he couldn't let her hurt like that. It was time to act.

But a lifetime's legacy made him cautious. He pressed his fists against his temples, hearing the echo of Wellington's caustic, constant question. What could go wrong? Visions scalded his mind: bodies littering a frozen battlefield, Bonaparte's eagle standard held high in triumph, a military court-martial, Tatiana's proud head turned away from a jeering crowd—They could not just elope and damn the consequences, because the consequences might damn them.

This was hard for him. Devlyn was no good at being impulsive, at following wherever his heart led. He had to count up the consequences, weigh the benefits, determine the actual cost. Every time he totted up the figures, love was still the best bargain. But the price might be high—everything in their lives in exchange for love. And other lives, too, perhaps, if Alexander took offense and broke off the newborn alliance, and Napoleon overran the Russian army.

Devlyn walked aimlessly along the bluff, picking up a dead branch and stripping it of its brown leaves. He crushed one leaf, then opened his hand. The powder caught the wind and floated away across the meadow in a cloud of brown dust, as formless as his chaotic plans.

Then he closed his hand into a fist, gripping until his fingers ached. There had to be a solution to the conundrum, if he could only define where to look for it.

Like an uncompromising tutor, the questions Wellington always asked his staff kept nagging him. What were the alternative sites for attack? Which had the weakest defense? What was its weakness?

At least, he could eliminate the wrong answers. It was no use appealing to the tsar; there wasn't time anyway.

Cumberland was just as unassailable. He had already, most probably, gotten away with murder. If he decided to take Tatiana, he wouldn't let her go. And besides, Devlyn didn't think he could speak to the royal duke without throttling him, which would do little to help their case.

No. He could see now that the Prince Regent was the weak link. This was his little project, and only he could call it off while ensuring that no cost came to Russia.

Devlyn imagined going to him and telling the truth. Wasn't that one of Prinny's weaknesses, that he was an amiable man? A romantic even? Hadn't he often played the fool for love? Then again, this was a man who had married a woman he despised in return for a larger allowance. And Devlyn sensed the prince would not be so amiable if they interfered with his personal diplomatic coup. Honesty, in this case, would not be the best policy.

In fact, that was the Regent's worst weakness, probably, his uncertain grasp of the truth and his lack of trust for the truth-teller. He was a poor judge of character, as so many Cabinet secretaries had learned, suspicious of the honorable man and easily led by the practiced deceiver.

Devlyn, unfortunately, had never been a practiced deceiver, except when he played cards. He did know how to bluff, to imply, without ever saying so, that he had a hand better than the one he actually held. That meager skill might be enough to take the trick now, also. Perhaps he could bluff the regent into folding his far superior cards.

He dusted the last bit of leaf powder from his hands, then withdrew his watch and, timing himself precisely, took one minute to imagine what life would be like with Tatiana. What happiness they could build together, were they allowed to try.

The minute up, he replaced the watch in his pocket. The solution would come, he knew that now, if he stopped trying so hard to find it.

***

At home he found an invitation to a dinner at White's Club, a reunion of Wellington's junior staff, finally allowed the leaves overdue now for a year or so. They'd be back in Portugal soon enough, under the general's eagle eye, so this would be their last chance to slander him and their other superiors without cost.

Devlyn was the last to arrive in White's spacious corner parlor, where the walls were hung with hunting prints and the chairs were covered with leather worn smooth by generations of lounging bodies. He paused in the doorway, a little disoriented to find so much of his Portugal world transported here to this most civilized of London venues. Six of his fellow staff-officers sprawled about the room, drinking as they waited for supper to be brought in. Their host Ellingham, who looked to have indulged rather freely in his wife's cooking, was tugging at his waistband to make room for his ale. Destain lounged on the couch, his booted feet propped on the table, a bottle of brandy at his elbow. Young Jamie Winterby was already castaway; he had a man's enthusiasm for liquor but only a boy's tolerance. Ned Franklin wandered about the edges of the room, pale and distracted, for he had almost died from dysentery before being sent home in October. And Berendts and Tregier, ordinarily fierce rivals for Wellington's notice, were armin-arm by the fire, humming their regimental marching song.