Royal Renegade (6 page)

Almost she wanted to escape, to tuck her hair under her cap and sign on as a cabin boy on one of those sleek merchant vessels. But a rare moment of common sense restrained her, that and an odd feeling of hope. Perhaps something would happen in England. Perhaps Cumberland would, contrary to all accounts, turn out to be a charming man. Perhaps the alliance would collapse before it formed and her Romanov blood became anathema to the English royals. Perhaps she would have her freedom without cost. Perhaps.

The sun was just burning red above the water when a young man sauntered toward the hotel. He carried a small grip, as if he were just on a short journey. Tatiana glimpsed a bronzed face above a blinding white cravat, a lean body in a coat of a subdued gray and rakish cut. But she knew immediately that this was he, the escort sent from her future homeland. If it is, she thought superstitiously, he will look up and see me here. Then I shall know he is my destiny.

Romantic fancy, perhaps. But then he raised his head, shielding his eyes from the sunlight with his hand, and stared straight at her. Delighted, she waved, but he only turned away and entered the hotel.

"He's here, he's here!" she cried, dancing into the sitting room, dodging around a dusty gold wing chair, and skidding to a halt in front of her companion. "Our English escort is here! We will be leaving soon!" She ran to the nearest window and pointed down to the street, calling excitedly to her companion. But Buntin remained resolutely in her chair with her needlework, and anyway, he was vanished now, her English knight errant.

Buntin finally put down her tambour and sighed wearily at her charge's antics. "I know you're restless, dear, but you are giving me palpitations. Now how could you know that our escort is here?"

"He looked right at me. And, oh, Buntin, I think he's handsome. I couldn't tell exactly, for the sun was in his face, but he was slim and tall and walked with such command. Wouldn't it be lovely if he was wondrously handsome and gallant?"

"I don't know what use that would be, since he's only to deliver you to your bridegroom," Buntin observed. "Besides, I fear you are mistaken, for surely they will send a whole group of men to escort us. After all, Britain is at war with France."

But a knock at the door interrupted her. "I knew it," Tatiana said triumphantly. She flew across the room to the door and flung it open, only to discover Colonel Arbatov, their corpulent, confused envoy from the palace.

Her disappointment vanished, however, once he said in his careful French, with a great to-do of winking and gesturing, "Mademoiselle, your brother has arrived. I have engaged a parlor for your private conversation. Please to follow me."

Tatiana took only a moment to smooth her golden peach muslin gown and pull a gray Kashmir shawl around her shoulders. Buntin inspected her charge from head to toe, and shaking her head with rue, tried to smooth the unruly red curls. But Tatiana twisted away and, her silver ribbons streaming behind her, ran through the door and down the short hallway to the designated parlor. She paused outside the doorway, waiting for her breath to return and Buntin to catch up. Then, with a dignity only slightly compromised when she stumbled a bit on the threshold, Tatiana came forward to meet the man who, she thought romantically, would escort her out of bondage into freedom.

Tatiana's gaze passed over the faded splendor of the room and fastened on the man standing near the fire. He turned as she entered; his eyes were a cool gray, shadowed by unexpectedly long lashes, and narrowed appraisingly at her. He was indeed quite handsome, though in an austere way, an Apollo sculpted out of marble instead of clay. His face was angular, his mouth generous but hard and unmellowed by even the trace of a smile. He was forbidding in his military bearing, but Tatiana was not deterred. She smiled delightedly at him, and though she received only a nod in response, she came nearer to the tiled fireplace.

The colonel glanced about for ghostly eavesdroppers as he whispered the introduction. “Your highness, may I present Major Lord Devlyn of the 16th Light Dragoons. The Princess Tatiana of Saraya Kalin."

When the major bowed, murmuring something about being her servant, Tatiana repressed a nervous giggle. This Lord Devlyn would be no one's servant. Rather he looked born to command; every line of his straight, lean body showed authority. Suddenly her bubbling excitement stilled, for authority had always been unkind to her. Certainly there was no kindness now in his cold, correct expression. Was he like Dmitry, fierce and foreboding, determined to rule her and then to ignore her?

But Tatiana refused to give in to this momentary cowardice. She squared her shoulders and gave him a blinding smile. For an instant his eyes clouded and his features froze as if he had caught his breath. Then he looked away to greet Buntin, and Tatiana sensed she had been dismissed. A bit insulted, she took a seat on the velvet settee and began to pour tea from the heavily figured silver pot.

As she usually did when she was flustered, she began to chatter. "I thought that you might be our escort when I saw you arrive. We've been so eager to start for England and—do have some tea, Lord Devlyn. It's rather strong compared to English tea, I believe, but does energize one." She poured tea for them all, spilling only a bit in her excitement. But the colonel did not sit with them, as he was too occupied poking into the fireplace for spies and yanking open the door hoping to catch a hallway eavesdropper.

Lord Devlyn took a place across from her and Buntin, watching Tatiana silently, making her a bit giddy. He really was handsome, like an Arthurian knight of old, although he might as well have been wearing a suit of armor, so little emotion did he express. "I've never been on a sea voyage, you see," she went on in her fluid English, filling his silence with her cheery words. "Buntin has, when she came years ago from Kent to be my governess, and she has prepared me. Are you familiar with Kent, Lord Devlyn? Perhaps you know Buntin's sister Mrs. Langston." Struck by a memory, she added without waiting for his answer, "I did go to Paris once, but that was overland, and we were escorted by a whole contingent of palace guards. All of the princesses were presented to the emperor at Versailles. He was hoping to take one of us to bride, but none of us suited, or perhaps the tsar had second thoughts, I don't precisely know. There was great disappointment from some of the girls when Bonaparte took that Austrian bride instead."

Lord Devlyn's fine black-lashed eyes closed just for a moment, and Buntin murmured something incoherent and aghast. Tatiana wrinkled her nose in exasperated reply. "Oh, I should not speak of the emperor, now that Alexander is returning to the alliance, do you think?"

Buntin nearly twisted her hands off during this artless monologue. But Lord Devlyn only said quietly in perfect Parisien, “You must speak in French, your highness. You do speak French?"

"Of course I do," she replied in English, glad to be able to please him, for she sensed he had very high standards. "Better than Russian. We all do at the palace. Only the servants speak Russian, and we speak Russian only to them. We speak French among ourselves. In fact, I speak English better than Russian also, for it's Buntin's tongue—she is English, you know—oh, of course, you know that. But Buntin and I speak in English much of the time. I have been studying a book of English grammar and Dr. Johnson's dictionary, and I read the newspapers and journals that Buntin's sister sends to us, and I have been practicing, and I feel very confident—"

"Speak in French."

Tatiana flushed at his terse words and clattered her teacup into its saucer in a vain attempt to distract herself from her silly mistake. "Of course. No—
Bien sur
." She went on in swift, idiomatic French, "I won't make that mistake again, my lord. But why must we speak French?"

Lord Devlyn handed her a small packet. "Your traveling papers. You are Mademoiselle Marie-Claire Lebov, of Dieppe."

Another new name!' Tatiana could not believe her good fortune. But she was less impressed with the major's own new identity. He said, "I am your brother Jean-Luc."

"But we look nothing alike." It was true; he was so tall, bronzed from the sun, with thick dark hair, and she was tiny next to him, her dark red hair and gold-tinged complexion hinting at incompatible bloodlines.

"Different mothers." At her dubious look, he added, "We could be man and wife, but think of the complications."

She thought she heard a bit of malice behind his cool words, so she refused to blush and instead regarded him steadily. "I should like better to be man and wife, I think, and it would be more plausible." As soon as the words left her lips, Tatiana knew she had said something outrageous, for Buntin gasped and even Major Devlyn looked away from her with a hint of disdain hardening his beautiful straight jaw. Absurdly hurt, she rushed on, hoping to blot out the effect of her mistake with more words. "But you have gone to so much trouble, giving us names—Marie-Claire is rather pretty, actually. I don't think I could have done better myself. I suppose I should not try to tell you your own business."

"Thank you," he said ironically. His courtesy was tinged with something like contempt, and Tatiana despaired that, once again, she had made a bad first impression. Buntin was right, she thought sorrowfully, she always spoke too quickly.

But Lord Devlyn took no notice of her distress, "If we expect to reach Southhampton by the end of November, we must leave on the morning tide. Our sloop is small, so you and our Tante Emilie must share a cabin."

Thoroughly chastened she might be, but Tatiana could not help but point out, "Buntin is fair and bears no family resemblance to either of us."

Devlyn's eyes grew a bit more steely, his tone a bit more icy. "She is our uncle's wife."

Intrigued by this new character, Tatiana gave free rein to her always fertile imagination, almost forgetting her recent disgrace. "Is he still alive? Our uncle, I mean? Does he await us in Dieppe? Or perhaps he died abroad, and we're bringing his body home!"

"Murdered, no doubt." Devlyn did not smile, but she imagined a certain encouraging glint in his steely eyes, more than she needed to restore her to her usual high spirits.

"By the Pasha's secret assassins! Because uncle was trying to rescue his daughter—"

"Our cousin?"

"Yes, from the Pasha's harem." Tatiana's cheeks pinked again, as she recalled what pashas were reputed to do with their harems. She could hear Buntin's foot tapping convulsively on the plush carpet and knew she was in for a rare scold. So she dared not look at her companion, instead surging on to cover up her latest faux pas. "Uncle was so courageous, but not strong enough to take on all the assassins. And our poor cousin still languishes there in Constantinople."

Devlyn did not smile exactly, but Tatiana heard a certain wry tone in his steady voice that made her wonder if he were quite as remote as he pretended to be. “We would need a body, however. For poor uncle. And Tante Emilie would have to be prostrate with grief.”

Buntin did look nearly prostrate, breathing rapidly and holding her hand to her heart as if to still its pounding. Tatiana quickly looked away, for the sight of her mischievous green eyes seemed to make Buntin even more apoplectic. Devlyn regarded his charge enigmatically and said without a hint of apology, "No, I'm sorry to disappoint you. But we are not returning from an unsuccessful skirmish with the Pasha's harem, only from a tour of the Byzantine churches. I am a student of history, you see."

The princess sat back against the heavily embroidered cushion, momentarily deflated. Eventually she said sulkily, "I do think my story is more believable. But you are the escort, so I will defer to you." She lifted rebellious eyes to his, but now he was gazing at a point beyond her shoulder, appearing bored again.

“You may console yourself that you are unlikely to have to use my paltry story." Devlyn rose, then stood with military erectness in front of her. She felt suddenly diminished by his height, his calm, his power, his very controlled maleness. She might be a princess, she might be a royal bride, but she was only a woman after all, his stance seemed to say. "I will make all the arrangements for our exit from the Ottoman Empire, and after that, we will trot out the Lebovs only if we happen to be stopped by a French ship. On board the sloop, you may speak English, for you are simply Mademoiselle Denisova, a Russian lady coming to England to marry."

"How dull. I should rather be—"

"Yes, I'm sure you would. Please be ready to leave by dawn. The first tide will be about half after seven."

***

Tatiana had never been overly aware of her consequence as a royal princess. After all, the Winter Palace was crawling with princesses, and she had been unpopular enough with the other courtiers to learn to shrug insult aside. But even this new acquaintance, while perfectly courteous, seemed to have taken her measure and found her lamentably lacking. Perhaps he had very high standards for the conduct of princesses, although, from all she had heard, the conduct of English princesses was hardly above reproach. But Lord Devlyn had responded to her friendliest overtures with a sort of ironic detachment, as if, were he not so bored, he might find her merely irritating. Only that once, while she weaved the story of their poor uncle, did true amusement flicker in his eyes. Oh, she would have to be a Scheherazade indeed to melt that icy reserve of his!

After he had gone, followed by the colonel, Tatiana fell into the wing back chair Lord Devlyn had vacated and said mournfully, "Oh, Buntin—I mean, Tante Emilie, was I too bad?"

Predictably, Buntin buried her head in her hands. Her words were muffled but admonitory. "Oh, my dear, I know you were very anxious, and you always chatter when you are anxious. But you didn't make a great deal of sense, and you rambled on, and just let your imagination get away with you!"

Sulkily the girl shrugged and swung her legs over the side of the chair so that she was lounging comfortably. "Well, at least I have an imagination. Lord Devlyn gave no evidence of one. His story of our origins was too ordinary to be true. I think perhaps he was piqued because I was so quick to come up with a superior tale."