The Perfect Princess (7 page)

“But you didn’t feel sorry for me, Lady Rosamund, did you?”

“Oh, I did, but that was before I met you.”

Now he did smile, but there was nothing pleasant about it. It was as intimidating as the wicked-looking pistol in his hand. He said, “I might have believed you if I hadn’t seen you give the signal to have me shot.”

“What signal?”

“You dropped your reticule, then someone fired at me.”

“Dropped my reticule?
Dropped my reticule?
I lost my shoe, and my shawl, and my bonnet as well. Were those signals to have you shot?”

He was doing it again, chewing on his bottom lip, and she experienced the same odd sensation. If he was laughing at her, gun or no gun, she would go for his throat.

He grunted, then said, “But you recognized me. I saw it in your eyes. That’s when you gave the signal.”

The man wasn’t only deranged, he was stupid as well.
“You were going to be hanged,” she said slowly, patiently. “Why would anyone in her right mind have you killed when all she had to do was wait a day, and His Majesty’s executioner would do the job for her? If they’d only hanged you yesterday, none of this would have happened to me. I’d still be in Twickenham. And I didn’t recognize you, not at first. How could I when I’ve never set eyes on you? You seemed different from the other turnkeys, that’s all. And when the guard shouted that you’d escaped, I put two and two together.”

He frowned. “Different from the other turnkeys? Then why didn’t they notice? Why you and not them?”

She wasn’t going to tell him that it was a female thing—how she’d been struck by his virility, his presence, his broad shoulders. Then he
would
laugh at her. “Because,” she said, “you had shifty eyes. I could tell just by looking at you that you were a killer.”

The words were out before she could stop them. She tensed, expecting him to retaliate in some way, but all he did was grunt.

Finally, he said, “Let’s start again. Tell me about your friend, Mrs. Tracey. Leave nothing out. I want to know why you came to town, and why a duke’s daughter would lower herself to visit a convicted murderer. You’d better make this convincing, or it will be very much the worse for you.”

That closed expression, those ice-cold eyes promised swift retribution if he caught her out in a lie. Well, she had no motive to lie, but this man was so delusional that he wouldn’t recognize the truth if it came from the Deity himself. He was compulsively suspicious. She’d bet her last farthing that he looked in every closet and under every bed before he lay down to sleep at night.

Her eyes strayed to the window. There wasn’t much to see from her vantage point, but she knew they were in town because the coach was still rattling over cobblestones. Where were they going? What would he do with
her when they got there? He wouldn’t want to keep her with him, because she would only slow him down.

She thought of what he
could
do to her and waited for the panic to come. There was no panic. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t fear him half as much as she had when he was pursuing her. He still looked as mean and as fierce as ever, but she sensed something, she didn’t know what. But her intuition was telling her that either he had softened toward her or that his bark was worse than his bite.

He would let her go once he reached his destination, she silently assured herself, and on that resolute thought, she embarked on her story. “It began,” she said, “with Prince Michael of Kolnbourg.”

Thirty minutes later, Rosamund was gnashing her teeth together, and calling herself all kinds of a fool for thinking he had softened toward her. While he and the gargoyle were comfortably ensconced inside Papa’s carriage, deciding what to do next, she was flat on her back, handcuffed to the inside of an upturned rowing boat, somewhere outside London, on the banks of the river Thames.

At least the upturned boat protected her from the pelting rain.

She was no longer debating whether he would kill her or not. She was debating when and how she would kill
him
. Boiling oil and thumbscrews no longer satisfied her thirst for revenge. He would pay, she vowed, not for the first time, for all the indignities he had made her suffer. She was cold, she was hungry, and most mortifying of all, she knew that if he didn’t return soon and release her so that she could answer nature’s call, her bladder would burst. Hateful, despicable, spiteful man! What, oh, what was keeping him?

What was keeping him was the thorny problem of
what to do with Lady Rosamund Devere. “I’m not having her along at any price,” said Richard. “She’s nothing but trouble. If she doesn’t return soon to dear Papa, he’ll have the prime minister call out the army to look for us. I’m not joking, Harper. That’s the kind of power the duke wields.”

“And whose fault is that? It was your idea to bring her along. We should have left her back there, in Newgate.”

“I thought she might know something.”

“Know something about what? You was due to be hanged, wasn’t you? Why would anyone want to kill you when they had only to wait till tomorrow?”

Richard grinned, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “That’s what she said.”

“And she’s right. I think Newgate must have turned your brains to mush.”

There was a pause in the conversation as Harper passed an opened bottle of brandy to Richard, a bottle they’d found in the storage compartment under one of the banquettes. They’d also found a set of silver cups, a silver chamber pot, and warm woolen blankets.

After taking a swig of brandy, Richard passed the bottle back. Maybe Newgate
had
addled his brains. Now that he’d questioned the woman, his suspicions seemed absurd. She was bewildered by how her ordered existence had suddenly blown up in her face, bewildered and angry. And she blamed him for it.

A faint smile curled his lips as he remembered her indignant words.
If they’d only hanged you yesterday, none of this would have happened to me
.

Harper was right. There was no plot and no conspiracy. When that shot had gone off, he’d jumped to the conclusion that his enemies had somehow got wind that he was planning to escape and had come to prevent it. He wasn’t going to mention his suspicions to Harper, because only three people besides himself knew about the escape—Harper, and his good friends Hugh and Abbie
Templar. They would be insulted because it would mean that he suspected that one of them had talked indiscriminately.

God, he was tired, and the pain from the knife wound in his chest seemed to be on fire. Just a short walk away, a snug cottage was waiting for him, a cottage that Hugh had outfitted with supplies—a change of clothes, money, food, and other necessities. The plan was that they’d conceal themselves there and slip away when darkness fell. They were to meet up with Hugh at Lavenham, just to change horses and let him know that all had gone well. But that was before he’d rashly brought Lady Rosamund along.

He stirred and adjusted his shoulders to ease the pain in his chest. “I say,” he said, “that we leave her on some deserted road and let her find her own way home.”

Harper scratched his chin. “Oh, yes, I can just see it. We leave her on some deserted road, she’s set upon by footpads and murdered, and her doting father will be chomping at the bit to shake your hand.”

“Have you got a better plan?”

“As a matter of fact, I has. We knows that the duke will be hot on our trail looking for his carriage, so I’ll lead him on a false trail. Then I’ll get rid of the carriage and horses, get fresh mounts, and come back for you and Lady Rosamund.”

“What am I supposed to do with her until then?”

“Hide out in the cottage. Make yourself comfortable.”

Richard turned his head and stared hard at Harper. “Why don’t you hide out with her and let me take the carriage?”

Harper laughed. “Sounds to me as though you’re afraid of her. She’s only a girl. What can she do?”

“Look at the powder burns on my coat and say that.”

“Is that all? She just about blew my arse off. If those horses hadn’t moved when they did, she would have unmanned me!”

Richard’s shoulders began to shake, and he adjusted his position again. “I still say I should take the carriage.”

“No. If you was caught, you’d hang. Besides, you’d never manage the duke’s horses. I was Mr. Templar’s coachman, remember? If you can handle his cattle, you can handle anything.”

Richard had forgotten about Harper’s stint as Hugh’s coachman. Soldier, agent, coachman, bodyguard— Harper had had a varied career. They’d all three served in the Secret Service at one time. Now Hugh was retired; he, himself, was due to hang; and Harper was a fugitive. A fine ending to three brilliant careers! And the prime minister had sworn that he owed them a debt of gratitude that could never be repaid.

Well, where was the prime minister when they needed him?

“So, are we agreed?” asked Harper. “I take the coach and you take the girl.”

Richard was beginning to feel like a fractious child, but he really didn’t want to be left alone with Lady Rosamund. She was resourceful and she wasn’t easily cowed. Feeling as he did, he didn’t know if he was up to it.

“She’s dangerous,” he began, “and—”

Harper threw up his hands. “You was the best His Majesty’s Secret Service had to offer, wasn’t you? If you can’t handle one inexperienced girl, then all I can say is, God help England!”

“All right!” Richard let out a resigned sigh. “You come back with the horses. Then what do we do with her?”

“Then, when dark falls, we takes her to Mother Danby’s place, with instructions not to let her go till morning, then we’ll be on our way.”

“Who is Mother Danby?”

“You don’t want to know. Oh, she keeps a decent house. And she’s an Amazon, just like Lady Rosamund.
So all our troubles will be over.” He turned his head. “What was that?”

It sounded as though a fox had got into the hen house.

“Lady Rosamund,” said Richard. “I’d recognize her voice anywhere.”

Harper grinned. “I best be off, then.”

Both men alighted from the carriage. When Harper was in the box, Richard said, “Good luck and take care.”

Harper looked over at the upturned boat from which issued a stream of orders. “Remember she’s a lady,” he said, and with a crack of the whip and a wink, he took off.

Richard had a bottle of brandy under one arm, his pistol, fully loaded, in the other hand, and a blanket draped over his head and shoulders to protect him from the rain. Heaving a sigh, he walked over to the upturned boat.

H
er bladder didn’t burst. He returned in the nick of time, unfettered her, and pointing to a wilderness of bushes, told her to be quick about it. She needed no second telling. Mustering her dignity, she hobbled into the bushes and took care of her most pressing problem. Only then did she give her mind to other things.

She’d heard the coach and horses move off, so that meant she had only Maitland to deal with. If she could just get away from him, she could hide herself in the underbrush until it was dark. By her reckoning, they weren’t far out of London. They’d taken back roads to avoid the tollgates, but she knew they’d passed through a village not long ago. She could—

“What are you, a cart horse? You’ve had more than enough time. Get back here or I’ll come and get you, ready or not.”

And he would, too! There wasn’t an ounce of delicacy in him. A cart horse indeed! First an Amazon, now a cart
horse. No one had ever addressed her so rudely. If her father were here, he’d have Maitland in chains and thrown into the dungeons at Castle Devere. She longed to give him a piece of her mind, but she didn’t intend to stay around that long. It was now or never.

He loomed up in front of her with the silence of a panther, and all she could do was stand there, stupidly gawking at him. Well, she wasn’t completely stupid. She had the presence of mind to step out of her one remaining shoe and inch it behind her. If their pursuers followed them this far, her shoe would confirm that she had been here and they were on the right track.

“Come!” he commanded, “and take your shoe with you.”

She clenched her fists and set her chin, but one look at that forbidding countenance made her decide to choose her fights with care, and this fight wasn’t worth the effort.

But, oh, how her pride stung. He was so insufferably self-confident, and gave orders as though she were his lackey. But pride was only a part of it. Her sense of fair play was outraged, too. While he was protected from the rain by a blanket he had purloined from her father’s coach, she was soaking up water like a thirsty sponge.

There were worse things that could happen to her. She must never forget that her captor had already murdered one woman. He had nothing to lose by doing away with her, too.

When they came out of the bushes, he pointed in the direction he wanted her to take. She balked. The path was no more than a narrow bog that led into a dense thicket of bramble bushes. It was an excellent place to conceal a body.
Her body
.

His hand touched her shoulder, and she shied away, slipped on the mud, and sat down heavily among the bramble bushes.