The Perfect Princess (9 page)

Her underclothes were damp as well, but she couldn’t remove her chemise without first removing her stays, and they tied at the back. Her arms were aching by the
time she undid the strings and slipped the stupid garment over her head, then her chemise. She didn’t know how ordinary women managed to dress and undress themselves.

She pulled on a white lawn shirt that fell well below her knees. She was past caring about appearances. It was dry. That’s what mattered, not Richard Maitland’s opinion of her. The black pantaloons fitted her no better. The waist was too wide; the legs were too long; it was too snug around her bottom. She was glad there was no mirror in that crude cottage, or she would be tempted to smash it, and she couldn’t afford any more bad buck.

As she stepped into Harper’s boots, her mind flitted to this and that. Was it likely, she asked herself, that Maitland would clothe her if he was only going to do away with her? She had only to wait . . .

Could she trust him?
Should
she trust him?

Of course not, she thought, as she leaned over to turn up the legs of her pantaloons and her jaw began to ache.

She was reaching for the last article of clothing, a blue superfine jacket, when Richard came through the door. They both froze, he because Harper’s black knit pantaloons were molded to Rosamund’s form, revealing her lush bottom and the long length of her shapely legs. Before he could prevent it, a crude picture formed in his mind.

She froze because he looked as though someone had just stabbed him in the back. She half expected him to keel over and fall on his face.

He frowned and said with irritation, “Can’t you do something with your hair? Or do you require the services of your lady’s maid to dress it for you?”

Well, of course she needed Nan’s services to dress her hair. That’s what lady’s maids were for. And if she ever decided to do without her maid’s services, then where would Nan be? She would be out of a job, and her widowed mother and younger brothers and sisters would
have to make do without her wages. This man was so dense, he didn’t understand how the world worked.

As he went to the cupboard and unlocked it, she combed her fingers through her hair. It was supposed to be her best feature—thick, silky, and dark. Now it was a mess of tangles, and she had no idea what to do with it, except brush it back over her shoulders.

And why was he so angry?

When he turned from the cupboard, he was holding a picnic hamper. After depositing it on the table, he untied the string holding the lid down and crossed to her. She jumped when he suddenly reached for her hair.

“I have never met such a helpless female,” he said. “Hold still.”

He twisted her hair into a rope and tied it with the string. That done, he pointed to the fireplace. “You light the fire and I’ll get our meal ready.”

She looked at the kindling in the grate. She had never lit a fire in her life, but she’d watched others do it, and it didn’t appear to be too difficult. Her eyes strayed to the mantelpiece. There it was, the ever necessary tinderbox. All she had to do was strike flint on flint to get a spark that would light the tinder. Then she would put the tinder under the kindling and the fire would blaze to life.

“Go on. Get the fire lit and we’ll get your clothes dried off.”

Orders, orders, orders!
she mouthed to herself as she moved to the fireplace. She didn’t talk to her servants like that. Their feelings would be hurt.

After several unsuccessful attempts to get the tinder lit, her respect for chambermaids took a gigantic leap. This wasn’t a difficult job. It was impossible.

Richard Maitland’s fingers closed around hers and he took the tinderbox away from her. “Are you completely useless?” he said in exasperation. “If you had to fend for yourself, you would starve to death, that’s if you didn’t
freeze first. You highborn ladies . . .” He expelled a long breath. “Watch me.”

And she watched, as flint struck flint, time after time, to no effect.

He scowled. “The tinder must be damp.” She would have smiled into his glowering face if her jaw hadn’t hurt. Instead, she raised her brows, the only rebuke that she allowed herself when her servants displeased her. “I know the feeling,” she said. “I miss my servants, too. If only Harper were here.”

She enjoyed every morsel of that meal, in spite of the fact that there was no blazing fire to warm them, or burning candles to take the edge off the gloom. She and Maitland were both hopeless. They’d tried repeatedly to light the tinder in the box and had finally given up. She didn’t mind. His glowering face gave her all the warmth she needed.

Even the fact that her left hand was handcuffed to her chair didn’t dim her spirits. The ache in her jaw had subsided. Though it was cold, the food was as good as anything her own cook could produce, and her fear of her captor was ebbing as the minutes passed.

Maitland, on the other hand, was restless. He would suddenly get up and go outside to check on things, as he said. He was worried—not that he talked things over with her. But she had eyes in her head. She could see, feel the tension mount in him. And the more tense he became, the more she relaxed. Maybe rescue was just around the corner.

“We’re moving out,” he said.

“What?” She put her fork down. “I didn’t hear Harper come back.”

“He hasn’t. That’s why we’re moving out. It shouldn’t have taken him this long to get horses.”

She didn’t know if this was good news or bad, and she said slowly, “Does this mean you’re letting me go?”

He was moving between the cupboard and the bed, stuffing a saddlebag with odds and ends. He didn’t look up when he spoke to her. “Hardly. You would only lead the militia straight here.”

“But you said that you would take me to an inn and leave me there.”

“Only if we had horses. And Harper was going to procure them. Without him, that plan won’t work. We’ll have to think of something else.”

A moment ago, she’d felt relatively safe with this man, now she didn’t know where she was. It was like being on a seesaw. One minute she was up, the next minute she was down.

“What if,” she said, “I promise not to tell the authorities anything?”

Now he did look at her. “Why should I believe you?”

Her chin came up. “Because I’m a Devere.”

He was on the point of answering her curtly, but changed his mind when he saw her expression. There was pride there, but it was touched by fear.

Of course she was afraid! He was her ruthless abductor and she believed him to be a murderer. She didn’t know what to expect. Naturally, she would promise anything to get away from him.

What surprised him was how much he wanted to believe her.

Gentling his voice, he said, “I can’t let you go until I’m sure I have a headstart on my pursuers, but if you give me your word that you won’t try to escape or try any tricks, I’ll put the pistol away and dispense with the handcuffs.”

For a moment, it looked as though she might agree, then she shook her head. “To a Devere, his word is sacred,” she said. “Is there anything sacred to you, Richard Maitland?”

Her answer rankled. His whole life had been devoted to serving his country, and his country had turned against him. Why he should have expected more from this chit of a girl was beyond comprehension.

She didn’t trust him. It didn’t matter because he didn’t trust her either. She’d practically told him not to. Fine. Then he was back to being her ruthless abductor.

He gave a small, twisted smile. “My life is sacred to me,” he said, “and you would do well to remember it.”

She watched him turn away to go on with the packing. She had the strangest feeling that somehow she’d failed him, and that was nonsense. She was the innocent party here. Her word was worth something. This man was a murderer. His word wasn’t worth anything.

Then why did she feel as though she’d let him down?

She said quietly, “What are you going to do with me?”

“I’ll think of something.”

At these chilling words, so carelessly uttered, her head cleared. His warning was well taken. The only thing that mattered to him was his own life and she would do well to remember it.

She swallowed hard, wondering what might happen to her, and swallowed again when she thought of her father. He would know by now that she’d been abducted and he would be ravaged with worry. So would her brothers.

She looked at the window. It would be dark soon. She would have a better chance of escaping in the dark.

T
he news of Maitland’s escape from Newgate and his abduction of Lady Rosamund traveled through London with the force of a comet. Though many balls and parties were canceled as a consequence of the riots, the gentlemen’s clubs in St. James’s were busier than ever. In White’s, Mr. George Withers listened intently as Charles Tracey gave a firsthand account of how Maitland had escaped. He’d been there, Tracey said, with his sister-in-law, and Lady Rosamund had insisted on going with them.

Tracey, Withers thought cynically, was enjoying all the attention, though he’d hardly acted the part of the hero. He would have liked to ask Mr. Tracey a few pointed questions, but the man was so hemmed in by his audience that he could not get near him.

It was just as well, because Withers doubted that he could remain cool and collected. Already, his heart was pounding and his breathing was becoming audible. One of his rages was coming upon him, and the last thing he
wanted was to betray himself to the wealthy and aristocratic patrons of White’s, who had accepted him as one of their own.

They knew him as George Withers, a son of England who had made his fortune in South Carolina, where he owned a sizeable plantation. His credentials and letters of recommendation were genuine. He really was one of Charles Town’s leading citizens. What no one knew was that the real George Withers had died a long time ago, before the man impersonating him had moved to South Carolina.

He managed a smile as he scraped back his chair and said that he was for home. There were a few nods, but no one at his table tried to persuade him to stay. They were too interested in what Tracey had to say.

It was only a short walk to his rooms in Bond Street, but try as he might, he could not keep his rage at bay. If he’d met a stray dog or a beggar, he would have vented his rage on them, but the only person he passed was the night watch, and to this burly fellow, he merely tipped his hat.

Richard Maitland has escaped from Newgate
. The words pounded inside his head.
Richard Maitland has escaped from Newgate
.

No one could accuse him of understimating Richard Maitland, but escaping from Newgate was something he had never imagined. This was Lady Rosamund’s doing. Maitland had used her as a hostage, Tracey said, to make his escape, aided and abetted by his former bodyguard.

He should have killed Maitland when he had the chance, when he walked into Lucy Rider’s bedchamber. But that wouldn’t have suited his purposes. He’d wanted Maitland to survive and be publicly humiliated before they hanged him. He’d wanted to even the score. He’d plotted, schemed, dreamed about having Maitland in the palm of his hand—and now this.

It wasn’t over yet. It wasn’t nearly over.

His rage began to ebb when he pictured Maitland on the run, hunted from pillar to post, and he would be hunted, now that he had taken Lady Rosamund hostage. He had no friends, no one to help him—he had seen to that. His recapture was only a matter of time.

He had no fears that Maitland would come after him, but it pleased him to imagine how the man who was reported to have the keenest intelligence in His Majesty’s Secret Service must be adding things up, as he tried to fathom who was behind his downfall. He would never figure it out, not in a million years.

The more he thought about Maitland cooped up in some filthy rat hole, trying to figure out who had put him there, the lighter his mood became. When he entered his rooms, he felt in command of the situation again and dismissed his manservant with a smile.

He made straight for his book room, poured himself a generous measure of brandy, and went to warm himself at the fire. Above the mantel was a mirror, and his eye was caught by his reflection. No one looking at him, he decided, would ever guess that he was a killer. He wasn’t handsome, but his face was pleasant, friendly, the kind of face that people trusted, especially women. And it helped, too, that he looked older than his years. His brown hair was liberally laced with silver and the lines on his face were etched permanently by the brutal winters he’d endured in the fur trade in the wilds of Canada.

He would never have had to spend those soul-grinding, dismal years in Canada if it hadn’t been for Maitland.

It struck him as odd that only two people had ever mistrusted him, his father and Richard Maitland.

“I didn’t kill the kitten, Papa! I didn’t! It was a fox, and I frightened it away.” And real tears rolled down his cheeks.

His father wasn’t entirely satisfied, but his mother had
intervened, and her protestations of her blue-eyed boy’s innocence carried the day.