The Perfect Princess (2 page)

What she wanted, however, was a beau, not a suitor, someone who would like her for herself. Suitors, in her experience, were bookkeepers—every asset was noted in their mental ledgers before they made an offer.

Michael,
Prince
Michael, was definitely a suitor. He was only fourth in line to the throne and hadn’t a sou to his name, a tragic circumstance when one considered his expensive tastes. Marriage to her would solve all his problems.

They were in the conservatory of Twickenham House, the ducal mansion in Twickenham, just outside of London, and Rosamund took a moment or two to set the mood by staring at the vista through one of the windows. Autumn was ripe and mellow, and the trees were ablaze with color.

“I’m an English girl,” she said. “I could never be happy transplanted to a foreign shore.”

She looked over her shoulder and caught him in the act of studying his watch. Evidently, she bored him as much as he bored her! It didn’t surprise her: Lady Rosamund Devere was a boring sort of person. As a duke’s daughter she’d been
raised
to be as bland as a blancmange. Which was exactly the kind of wife Prince Michael wanted.

The perfect princess, the bland blancmange, who could be counted on never to put a foot wrong, say a wrong word, or have an original thought.

Without awkwardness or embarrassment, Prince Michael slipped his watch inside his vest pocket and gave her one of his engaging smiles. “I have no objection to your remaining in England after we are wed,” he said. “In fact, I may decide to make England my home. The climate agrees with me.”

So did the actresses, but she wasn’t supposed to know about them. She gave him one of her own engaging smiles. “I’m almost tempted, but . . .”

“But?”

“Well, you can’t play chess, Your Highness. You see, I could never marry a man who cannot play chess.”

Mrs. Calliope Tracey put the teapot down with a thump.
“Chess?”
she said. “What has chess to do with anything?”

Rosamund gazed at her friend over the rim of her teacup.

Last night, she’d put up at the Clarendon, where she normally stayed whenever she came up to town to do a little shopping or escape her father’s temper. The duke, her father, had not been amused when she’d told him that she and Prince Michael would not suit. There had been a scene, if one person ranting and raving could be
called a scene. And her brothers had not got off scot-free either. It seemed that His Grace had raised three thankless children, if persons of their advanced years could possibly be called children. Not one of them was married. At this rate, their line would die out. Then where would they be?

As usual, she and her brothers had listened to Papa in sympathetic silence, then made their escape to do precisely what they wanted to do. With Justin, it would be chasing petticoats, racing his curricle to Brighton, dueling, gaming, or whiling the hours away with friends. With Caspar, it would no doubt be La Contessa. There wasn’t much a duke’s daughter could escape to, but she could always count on her one and only friend to lend a sympathetic ear. So here she was, in the breakfast room of Callie’s house in Manchester Square.

That was another consequence of being a duke’s daughter. She had legions of acquaintances, both male and female, but they were not friends. They were so intimidated by her rank that they treated her with a deference that made her squirm. They never contradicted anything she said. Whatever she suggested was always accepted without argument. It was such a bore.

Callie was the exception. Her late father, a widower, had been the duke’s steward, and he and Callie arrived at Castle Devere, the principal residence of the Duke of Romsey, not long after the tragic death of Rosamund’s mother. She and Callie had known each other from the time they were children. They’d even been educated together, not at school, but by Rosamund’s governess. This arrangement had suited both the duke and his steward, since Callie would have the advantage of a superior education her father could not afford and Rosamund would have the benefit of Callie’s company. Though the idea was that they’d both be treated equally, it hadn’t worked out that way. Callie had always been allowed more freedoms than Rosamund.

And after Callie married and moved away, there had been a succession of chaperons, most of them edging toward their dotage. Over two months ago, her father had relented and had hired a young woman of Rosamund’s age to be her companion, Prudence Dryden, but things hadn’t worked out the way Rosamund had hoped. Miss Dryden was hard to get to know. And since she was hard to get to know as well, they were like polite strangers.

“Roz?” Callie slapped her open palm on the table to get Rosamund’s attention. “Hallo? Hallo?”

Rosamund blinked. “What?”

“Where do you go when that look comes over your face? What are you thinking?”

“I was thinking that ordinary girls have an easy time of it. They have so many choices. They can do what they want or go where they want. Look at you.”

Callie laughed. “Nonsense,” she said. “The sad truth is, no female has an easy time of it. We are tied to some man’s leading strings from birth, first a father’s, then a husband’s or a brother’s. It’s only when a woman becomes a widow that she is truly free. You should follow my example.”

Rosamund obligingly smiled. This was one of Callie’s oft-repeated jests, that life for a female began only when she became a widow, and in Callie’s case, it was true. When her unlamented tyrant of a husband choked to death on his own vomit during a drunken stupor, Callie had come to live with his brother in Manchester Square, and she’d found her true vocation as Charles Tracey’s hostess. She was amusing; she was outrageous. An invitation to one of her parties was highly prized, and she was invited everywhere. Callie had no shortage of beaux, either.

She was the kind of woman, Rosamund thought, that would appeal to men. She had expressive brown eyes, and dark brown hair that curled naturally to frame her
face in tiny ringlets. And she was as dainty and as finely sculpted as a porcelain figurine. God forbid that she should alight from a carriage without some male rushing to her assistance or that she should carry a hatbox or drop a handkerchief. It wasn’t that Callie expected these courtesies. It was simply that men thought she was fragile. And nothing could be further from the truth.

It was true that men showed her, Rosamund, the same courtesy, but that was because they wanted to curry favor with her father. The only time she felt tiny was when she was flanked by her father and brothers. That was one thing she particularly liked about her companion. Prudence was as tall as she.

“Why are you smiling?” asked Callie.

“I was thinking of Prince Michael. At least he’s taller than I am.”

“You still haven’t explained what chess has to do with anything. What did the prince say after you told him that you could never marry a man who did not play chess?”

“Not ‘did not play chess’ but ‘could not play chess.’ There is a difference. What could he say? I’d beaten him at chess, you see. If he hadn’t looked at his watch, I would have let him down gently. But after he slighted me like that, I didn’t care how brutal I was.” To Callie’s blank stare, Rosamund elaborated, “He’s a chess player. He fancies himself an expert. But I let him know he was no match for me.”

“Then what happened?”

“He clicked his heels and took off like one of Congreve’s rockets.”

Callie stared, then hooted with laughter. At length, she said, “You chess players are a breed apart. I never had the patience for it.”

“No. I remember.”

There was an interval of silence as Callie replenished their teacups. Without looking up, Callie said, “All this
talk of ordinary girls makes me think that you’re finally thinking of establishing your own home.”

“I’ve thought about it, but I don’t know what good it would do. I’d no sooner move in than so would my father and brothers. Or, if they didn’t move in, they’d visit me so often, I wouldn’t know the difference.”

Callie sighed. “I’m sure you’re right. Your father and brothers are too protective of you. If they were my relations, I think I’d shoot them or shoot myself. Thank God my male relations know enough to keep their distance, except for Charles, of course, and he’s a dear. I never regretted my decision to come and live with him.”

Rosamund did not doubt it. Though there was an unmarried aunt, Frances, who lived with them as well, Callie had the run of the house. She also seemed to have the run of Charles, who, according to the duke, should put his foot down more often.

Callie said suddenly, “Where is your chaperon, Miss What’s-Her-Name?”

“Miss Dryden,” said Rosamund, slightly irritated because, in two months, Callie had never taken the trouble to learn the girl’s name. “She came down with a bad cold, and is confined to her bed.”

“I’m surprised at your father. I’ve never known him allow you to travel alone.” Callie finished her tea, and put down her cup and saucer. “Not that Miss Dryden is much of a chaperon. She’s so insipid.”

“Reserved,” said Rosamund, bristling. “Miss Dryden is reserved, not insipid. And I didn’t travel alone. I came in the ducal carriage, with a full complement of coachmen and postilions, all of them armed to the teeth. And now that I’m here,
you
can be my chaperon.”

Callie rested her chin on her linked fingers. “You know, Roz,” she said, “if I were you, I would get married. No, no, hear me out. It could be the ideal solution. Maybe you were too hasty in refusing Prince Michael.
From what I hear of him, he’d make an ideal husband.” Her eyes danced. “He’d marry you and forget about you. You’d be free to come and go as you please. No more leading strings. What more could a woman want?”

“What about the right man?” responded Rosamund dryly.

“The right man?” Callie laughed. “Roz, he doesn’t exist. If he did, you would have met him by now.”

“Now, just a minute! I’m not exactly in my dotage.”

Callie sat back in her chair and studied Rosamund’s lowered brows. Finally, she said, “I’m all ears. Describe this romantic figure who can do what no other man has done and lead you to the altar.”

Rosamund gazed down at the dregs in her teacup as though she were a fortune-teller reading the tea leaves. A solitary tea-leaf bobbed on the surface. With an index finger, she pushed it under. A moment later, it bobbed right up again.

“Drat,” she said, “I can’t get rid of him.”

“Who?” asked Callie, baffled.

“The one who is tall, dark, and handsome.”

“Well, I hope he is tall. Nothing looks more ridiculous than a woman dancing with a man she stands head and shoulders above. What else?”

Rosamund carefully set down her teacup and gave one of her bland smiles. “Why,” she said, “he’ll be just like you, Callie—you know, blunt to the point of rudeness. I won’t have to wonder what he’s really thinking because he’ll tell me straight-out, to my face. He won’t think of me as a duke’s daughter. He won’t care about my fortune. He’ll contradict me at every turn. He won’t try to curry favor with my father or my brothers, and if they cross him, he’ll tell them to go to the devil. And . . .”

“And?”

“And when we play cards or chess or whatever, he won’t sulk just because a female has beaten him.”

Callie laughed. “I think you mean every word.”

“Oh, I do. But since this man has yet to show his face, I’ll just have to make do with you. Now, tell me what we’re going to do this morning.”

Callie adjusted the clasp of her gold bracelet as she spoke. “I’m afraid you’ll have to entertain yourself for an hour or two, because I have an appointment I must keep.” She looked up and smiled. “I’d invite you along, but your father would have a fit if he ever found out.”

Rosamund was beginning to be annoyed. “I thought you knew my father better than that. His bark is worse than his bite. He’s all bluster. And if I had paid attention to his fits, as you call them, I would have accepted Prince Michael, wouldn’t I? So let me worry about my father and tell me where we are going this morning.”

Callie shook her head. “No. All teasing aside, it’s not the sort of place you would feel comfortable in.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“Fine. I’m going to Newgate.”

“Newgate?
The
Newgate?”

“Yes. The prison.”

Rosamund had a ghoulish vision of a public execution. She gave her friend a sharp look as a thought occurred to her. This was typical of Callie. She’d established herself as an original, someone who would dare the devil just for the thrill of it. That was one of the reasons she was so much in demand. She had a fund of stories that kept her audience both shocked and enraptured. Callie was never dull. She attended masqued balls that ladies weren’t supposed to know about; she’d been on a balloon ride. But a public execution? That was going too far.

Callie’s delicate brows winged upward. “I don’t know what’s going through your head, but I’m sure you’ve got it all wrong. This is a mission of mercy.”

She got up and went to the sideboard. A moment later, she returned with a folded newspaper and passed it to Rosamund. “Front page, Richard Maitland,” she said. “The trial has been going on all week. You must
have read about it. He’s been found guilty and sentenced to hang.”