Royal Renegade (38 page)

Devlyn whistled. "What's he got planned for you?"

"More body-snatching, I imagine, though none so pretty as the princess's—sorry, Michael, forget I said that. And running arms—on the Coronale! She's a very refined ship, you know, used to the finest cargo, only art and brandy and Persian rugs. And he wants her to haul cannons to guerrillas! Oh, then there are the payments to corrupt officials in Italy and Spain." Dryden's mouth twisted aggrievedly. "He's the foreign secretary, and I'm the outlaw. Now tell me which one of us you think should be in jail."

"Both of you, preferably in adjacent cells. For you're two of a kind." Devlyn shook his head, reflecting that Dryden himself would end up as foreign secretary if the world continued on its perverse course.

John grinned, his mood suddenly lightening. "You're back to being righteous again, Devlyn. Doesn't fit well with your recent activities."

"Are you going to accept the position?"

"Have I a choice? He reminded me that smugglers can hang. I reminded him I've never been arrested. He replied in that smooth voice of his, 'Not yet.'"

"That's our Wellesley. Never chary of the silken threat." Devlyn added penitently, "I'm sorry I brought you into his ken. He's always ready to exploit weaknesses."

"My weakness is my crew's safety, and he deduced that immediately." Dryden shrugged resignedly. "But the devil with it, we've made our fortunes. My cabin boy's only fourteen, and he's already bought his parents a cottage and forty acres on the bay."

Devlyn retained enough of his moral fiber to find this outrageous, but wary of further accusations of hypocrisy, he kept his opinion to himself. "Tatiana was also busy getting you a few royal commissions. You won't lack for work, honest or no."

Dryden brightened at the mention of the princess. "Yes, I must give her my address here in town. The regent already sent a note down to my father's shop, and as you might expect the old man is near to popping off with pride. It's discouraging," he added meditatively, testing the brandy again and finding it didn't improve on further acquaintance. "I have always put up with his pious claptrap because I thought at least he was honest in his wrath. But suddenly the prodigal son is a paragon, all because a couple of royals send me notes. This experience has rocked my faith in you saintly sorts. At any rate, before I take on all these patriotic commissions, I have another job. Have to deliver my wedding gift to you and your royal bride. I'm taking you back to Portugal."

Devlyn wondered why the captain would willingly spend Christmas at sea. "There's no need, Johnny. I can go back on the supply ship."

Slowly, as if he were speaking to a child, Dryden explained, "But you can't take the princess with you on a supply ship, can you? You'll be able to spend Christmas with her. After all, the Coronale must hold happy memories for you both."

Two weeks with Tatiana, in a tiny cabin, with a crew that was trained to mind its own business—heaven, or close enough for the moment. "I don't know what to say. I can't imagine a better gift. You will bring her right back, won't you? I live in dread of her remaining in Portugal and embarking on her own diplomatic missions, or—well, you know the sort of trouble she might get into.

Dryden raised an eloquent eyebrow. He hadn't quite forgiven the princess for the balloon flight. "My word on it. I'll lash her to the mast to keep her from falling overboard again, and deliver her right back to Devlyn safe and sound. No, don't thank me. It's the least I can do, for you've restored my faith in the felicity of the universe, Michael, you have. When I saw you mooning after her on our voyage—"

"I wasn't mooning," Devlyn countered, raising the butter knife warningly.

"I thought you were throwing your heart over the yardarm, I did. I should have known you would find a way."

As John rose to leave, Devlyn halted him. "Wait. I forgot to transfer this to you last time. About a decade ago, I think."

Sapphire flashed in the weak sunlight as the signet ring spiraled across the room. Dryden caught it adroitly, then turned it in his fingers, studying the crest. "You shouldn't listen to gossip, lad."

"I lived in blissful ignorance of all this till you broached the subject. So don't get craven on me now. And the older we get—you know, when I tumbled to earth at the feet of the squire, he mistook me for you. And he's known us both all our lives."

"Yes, I saw him last week," Dryden commented sardonically. "He remarked on the resemblance, with a great deal of winking and coughing. But—my mother, you know. And my father's always accepted me. He's not the suspecting sort—dense as a post, he is. But he's been better than I deserve, at least until now. I reckon I'm worthy of him now, getting letters from princesses and commissions from princes." Dryden finally looked up from his inspection of the ring, for once entirely candid. "Still I can't help thinking, Michael, we might have been sired by the same man, but I ended up with the better father. And as long as Tom Manning lives, I owe him the acceptance he always gave me." He slipped the ring onto his finger—a perfect fit, naturally. "But I'll keep the ring, if you don't want it."

Devlyn accepted this as some form of acknowledgment. "I'll be getting another ring to replace it tomorrow. So we'll sort it out later. And then I'll bill you for the forty thousand pounds—your share of the family debts."

Dryden broke into laughter. "Marrying a princess has gone to your head, Devlyn. Do you think I would pay so much just to have you as a brother? Not likely. Now Her Highness as a sister-in-law might be worth that. Do wonders for my business—"

Devlyn called after him, "John? Take off the ring around your father. He isn't that dense."

Chapter Twenty Two

Number 15, Cavendish Square, Tatiana's future home, was a handsome, brick-faced townhouse, three stories tall, with an intricate ironwork railing along the steps. As soon as he was certain the princess's destination was a respectable one, her footman escort sped back to Sherbourne House in the hackney before their absence could be discovered.

Tatiana paused in front of the great oak door, where the golden light of the oil lamp spilled out into the darkness to welcome her. But her newly awakened sense of discretion guided her past. Soon she would be the employer of the butler who attended the door. She wouldn't want him to think she was the sort of woman who arrived unchaperoned at a gentleman's home.

Instead she slipped around the side of the house into the narrow brick passage that separated it from Number 17, Cavendish Square. It was gloomy back there, the only illumination radiating from a window near the back garden. But Tatiana squared her shoulders and gathered her resolve and walked back toward the light. The walkway was edged with hardy little evergreen bushes, the sort that could survive the eternal shade between the houses. She noticed with a proprietary eye that they needed to be trimmed back. Once she was mistress of this establishment, she would see that this walkway was better kept, even if it was only used by tradesmen and burglars.

The neighbor's side of the walk, she was dismayed to note, was in even worse condition. In fact, a wooden crate sat propped against the stone foundation. Still her neighborly disdain did not blind her to the usefulness of that discarded item. In a trice she had dragged the crate under the window, which was opened an inch or two for ventilation. It was easy then, with the light from the room spilling out, to climb on the crate and push the window up.

She got stuck halfway through, her stomach balanced on the sill, her cloak bunched uncomfortably under her arms. She was worrying that the window might crash down like a guillotine, cutting her in half, when a pair of hands seized her shoulders. The gig is up, she thought as she was hauled into the warmth. My new servants will know me for what I am.

"Tatiana." Her name was a sigh of exasperation and laughter as she was set on her feet. Relieved, she came into Michael's embrace, finding in his encircling arms a security she had never known before.

When she lifted her head from the comfort of his chest, she saw they were in a library, a quiet, masculine room warmed by a roaring fire. Michael's retreat, she thought tenderly. "You didn't think I was a burglar, did you?”

"Burglars, I hope, don't make so much of a racket. And they don't get stuck halfway through the window." Michael released her to remove her cloak and toss it across a chair. "You are lucky I decided to spend my last free night at home, instead of attending the wild party my friends suggested."

"Why didn't you?" He was coatless, a white satin waistcoat showing to advantage the strength of his lean body, his cravat tied only casually, his sleeves rolled up on his forearms.

"I wanted to meet my bride at the altar with clear eyes and a clean conscience," he said simply, his hands going to rub the goose bumps off her bare arms. "And somehow I knew you'd find your way here, and I thought I'd best be the one to meet you. My servants would not approve."

He drew her to a leather chair near the fire, settling her with a glass of wine and a rug tucked around her legs. "Oh, Michael, you are always so thoughtful," she sighed as he perched on the arm of her chair. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather be out having one last glorious night?"

"Yes. All my glorious nights from now on will be spent with you." He bent to kiss her, his mouth tasting of wine, his hand teasing the curls at the back of her neck. Then he leaned back. "But not tonight."

"Of course not!" she exclaimed, her hand flying to her heart, as if she were shocked at the very suggestion. But her green eyes danced with mischief. "I wouldn't think of it. Except that—" She gazed up at his expressive face, wondering how she ever imagined it to be stern and emotionless. "I couldn't go another minute without seeing you. Else I should think it is all a dream. And don't try to pretend, Michael, that you aren't happy to see me."

"I am. But how did you get here? I had almost decided to wait by the Sherbourne House garden wall for you to leap over into my arms."

She chuckled at the thought of leaping the ten-foot wall. "Just as well you did not, for I escaped through the service door in the cellar. And I was very careful, Michael. Our intrepid and greedy footman escorted me here. Pray do not look so worried! He was all that was courteous and discreet."

Michael raised a wary eyebrow. "Yes, I'm sure the blackmail demand I receive in the morning will be most discreetly worded."

With a curious finger, Tatiana traced a path along Michael's bronzed inner arm, following the blue vein toward the wrist. His lifeline, she noted before his fist clenched spasmodically, was reassuringly long. "You are always so suspicious of your fellow man, Michael. Kenny would never do such a terrible thing."

"Kenny? You are on a Christian-name basis now?"

"Well, I call him by his Christian name. But he is very proper and refuses to call me anything but yer 'ighness."

Michael laughed at her note-perfect imitation of a cockney accent, then tapped an admonitory finger on her chin. "Now don't let him inveigle you into promising him employment, Tatiana. I prefer to think of him robbing the countess blind there at Sherbourne House."

"Well, he was very happy to hear about our wedding. In fact, everyone except the countess seems happy. I do worry about Fallenwood's response to hearing I have turned him down not for a prince but for a mere viscount."

Michael's jaw tensed—was he the jealous sort, she wondered hopefully—but his voice remained calm. "Wait till he hears that my mother was only the daughter of a squire."

The princess waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, that's of no account. Were she an earl's daughter, this wouldn't be any less of a mesalliance."

Devlyn leaned back his head and laughed. "Just so, Your Highness. But at least my lowly line isn't tainted with illegitimacy!"

She was about to respond to this insult when he took her hand and admitted, "Actually, it is. Will you marry me anyway if I tell you that my father had another son? And that my mother didn't?"

She considered that for an interval before she raised shocked eyes to his. "You don't mean— Well, who is it? Is he trying to steal your estate?"

"Hardly. He's younger, anyway. Hasn't even a moral claim on it. And you know him already."

"Captain Dryden!" she guessed, bouncing happily in her chair. "I should have known, when the squire pointed out how alike you two are. Oh, I can't believe my good fortune! Not only do I get a knight errant for a husband, but along with him comes a pirate!"

"Smuggler," Devlyn corrected.

"Free trader," Tatiana amended. She leaned her head against his arm. "Well, your father certainly was a wastrel, just as everyone says. Oh, no, does Captain Dryden know? Does poor Mr. Manning?"

"Well, of course Dryden knows. He's the one told me. But Mr. Manning, alone among the villagers apparently, is blissfully ignorant. So you must—Tatiana, listen to me." He caught her chin in a gentle but firm grip. "You must be quiet about this. No referring to John as your brother-in-law. He doesn't want his mother's indiscretion aired anymore than it already is."

Tatiana nodded, privately thinking that "indiscretion" was a paltry word for bearing a child of the local lord and passing it off as an apothecary's. But she only said, "Of course, Michael. I am so happy, though, that he will in fact be my brother-in-law, even if I cannot tell anyone so, for I like him very well."

Taking her wineglass and setting it on a satinwood table, he pulled her to her feet. "Warmer now? Come and sit with me on the settee. I wanted to tell you about your future secret brother-in-law's wedding present."

The cor-du-roy settee was just the right size and shape for nestling close to a lover. When she was comfortable, with her head resting in the crook of Michael's arm, Tatiana tried to guess. "What would Captain Dryden give us? Smuggled brandy? No, he'll know I don't like brandy. Some artwork, I'm sure. The Prince Regent sent over the most wonderful gift, as if he had been saving it up just for me. It's an icon from the Russian Orthodox Church, fourteenth century, of the Archangel Michael. Isn't that lovely? He can truly be sweet, can't he?"