The Rogue Prince (13 page)

Maggie had no interest in speaking to her family of Julian's betrayals. There was a very good chance they knew of his affairs, but Maggie didn't care to share his financial failings with them, too.

“It's not as though I'm asking for your dowries,” said Maggie, restraining her frustration. She hoped her own children would not grow up to be such selfish, petty adults. “If it's any comfort, I'm sure I'll tire of society very quickly.” Which was true, except that it didn't mean Maggie would be free of it. But at least she could set aside some money to have a few of her own gowns made.

Without the least bit of enthusiasm, Stella put down her teacup and pushed up from her chair. “I have the apricot satin that I wore last season to Lady Dartwood's party.”

“I should think that would do nicely,” said Beatrice.

“Thank you, Stella,” Maggie said tightly. She could hardly wait until the moment she had the funds and the wherewithal to return to Blackmore
Manor. Perhaps she should bet on Shefford's horse, too.

 

“He took the bait nicely, did he not?” Nate Beraza said with a grin.

Tom washed his face and hands, wishing he could cleanse away his sense of having been sullied by the marquess. And he had not enjoyed handing Maggie into the carriage with him. He would have preferred to keep her with him at Delamere House. Or at least to have been the one to drive her home.

Yet she had been dealing with Shefford a great deal longer than Tom had, and nothing untoward had happened to her. He gave himself a mental shake and recollected that Maggie's well-being was not his concern. He needed to keep everything in perspective.

“Aye, he took it,” Tom said. “But forty thousand pounds? I can't believe he's so reckless.”

“It was too great a temptation for the grasping toad,” Nate said.

“You're right.” Shefford hadn't changed in all the years since Tom's youthful encounter with him.

When he met him at the Waverly ball, Tom had sensed the same old edge of malice in the marquess, the meanness that had prompted him to toy with Tom's life and probably others. The bullish bastard liked playing some twisted games of fate, but only with the odds tilted in his favor.

“Roarke will have no trouble luring the bloody
bugger into his smuggling scheme.” Nate laughed. “I wish I could be there to watch.”

“No. As satisfying it would be, he knows you. And he'll see the rest of us here and there. I even want Saret to stay out of sight.”

Nate's satisfied expression was contagious and Tom finally gave some credit to his years of planning. His scheme might actually work.

“It's all going according to plan,” said Nate. “When Saret returns from Town, he'll have Shefford's first ten thousand pounds in his possession. We know the marquess only has about twenty thousand total—besides his lands—and you've figured a means to relieve him of every shilling he possesses.”

True. And he would have to sell off all of his unentailed properties and possessions, and borrow Blackmore funds, before Thomas was finished with him.

Yet it wasn't about the money for Tom or any of the others. They cared only about exacting vengeance against the miserable scoundrel. Tom wished he could put Shefford aboard the prison hulk where he'd had first been incarcerated. And then personally shackle him to the pillory for his first flogging.

“Lady Blackmore does not resemble her brother in the least,” said Nate. “Are you certain they are siblings?”

“Saret learned that he is her stepbrother,” Thomas said. It should not have made any difference, but he was mightily pleased she was not
related by blood to the bastard who'd put him in shackles. It was bad enough that she'd been married to his accomplice.

“I saw how you looked at her. You aren't by chance forgetting our purpose here?”

Tom skirted the question altogether. What happened with Maggie was none of Nate's concern. “We still need to see if we can draw Maynwaring into some scheme or other.” He didn't want to think about the actual purpose of his affair with Maggie. Sending her back to Cambridgeshire in shame with her fortunes ruined did not sit well.

He wished the thought of it did not rankle. He forced aside his unproductive ruminations and went out to the stable and mounted Marcaida, his riding mare. He rode the short distance to the land that was being cleared for the racing course and checked on the workmen's progress, then headed to Arrendo's isolated barn.

Dickie Falardo was inside, brushing him down. He tipped his hat as Tom came inside and dismounted.

“How is he?”

“Restless,” Falardo replied.

Tom had been considering his stallion's need for activity and exercise, and thought he might have a solution. “Can we paint his stocking? Turn it as brown as the rest of him?”

“Paint him?”

Tom nodded. “There's got to be some compound that can cover his white leg—disguise him—until race day.”

“Aye. I'll look into it,” Falardo said. “It would be best if we could run him against the others, especially Sarria. He needs to keep his competitive edge.”

“I agree. See what you can find.”

Tom left the barn and led his horse to the nearby cottage. It was a thatch-roofed house in excellent repair, with a garden in back, and a cobblestone walk all around it.

He tied the horse and let himself inside, finding it fully furnished with comfortable furniture. He walked through the sitting room in front, found a kitchen in back, and a workroom on the west side, with a wall of windows facing a dense woods. It must have been cleaned recently, for Tom detected no musty odor or dust. He climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor, and looked into the two bedchambers.

The first was small, and contained two soft pallets. A room for the huntsman's children, perhaps. The second bedchamber was only slightly bigger, and held a large bed, piled with soft blankets and quilts. It also faced the woods to the west, above the workroom. It was perfect for what he intended with Maggie.

He left the cottage and mounted Marcaida, then took the long route back to the road. It was possible to reach the cottage from the road, without going past Delamere House. None of his men ever need know she was there.

He returned to the main house and prepared for an evening of diplomacy with Nate and Edward at
a well-known club in town, and then a social event at the home of a prominent earl. He chuckled to himself as he pulled on his cloak.

“What?” Nate asked.

Tom gave a shake of his head. “Here go the son of a Suffolk horse breeder, a rookery brat and an American felon to meet with the prime minister of England and his chief foreign officials.”

Nate grinned at the audacity of their actions. “Aye. Ain't life grand?”

They took three separate carriages in order to keep up their opulent façade, and because opportunities might present for each of them to pursue their end goals separately.

They rode into St. James's street, down to Brook's Club where each carriage was greeted with utmost courtesy by a doorman. Their drivers took their coaches away, and the three men were ushered into the building.

Lord Ealey—Shefford's very good friend—welcomed them to the club, introduced them to Lord Liverpool and several other ministers of government. The gentlemen drank fine whiskey and spoke casually of relations between England and Sabedoria. Edward Ochoa performed brilliantly, especially when Sir William Maynwaring joined them. Ochoa singled out the judge for his particular attention, flattering him and discussing points of law as only another lawyer could do.

It was clear that Ochoa had given a great deal of thought to a Sabedorian judicial code, for he spoke eloquently of the Sabedorian concepts of jus
tice and mercy, of fairness and benevolence. Maynwaring disagreed with a good number of Ochoa's points, but Tom's man was unwavering, even as he praised the judge's clear thinking.

Tom contained his hatred for the man who had sent him to hell, and trusted Ochoa to figure a way to draw him into a well-deserved trap. He observed as Ochoa manipulated Maynwaring into a discussion of finances and investments, leading the judge to believe that the Sabedorians had discovered some promising projects in which to invest.

Ochoa spoke to Maynwaring of the Manchester Canal sham, garnering his rapt attention with talk of huge profits to be made. And if he had any interest in racing, he might enjoy a visit to the Delamere stables to see the Sabedorian Thoroughbreds.

 

The crystal chandelier and wall sconces in Lady Sawbrooke's music room gave off a soft, glowing light. The conversation sounded like a quiet hum all around Maggie.

It was no surprise that none of her sisters had offered to accompany her to the musicale. Elizabeth didn't generally attend musical recitals unless she was the one performing, and the others rarely took an interest in events that were not premier social occasions of the season.

Maggie had come with Victoria and her husband so she wasn't truly alone. But the press of so many warm bodies all around her, and the noise of all their voices was as daunting as the Waverly ball.

“Your gown suits your complexion beautifully, Maggie,” Victoria said.

“Thank you.”

“But the style…it's so unlike you.”

Maggie glanced down at her décolletage and resisted the urge to cover the expanse of bare skin with her hands. She was unaccustomed to showing quite so much.

“I cannot believe I said that.” Victoria sighed. “It's something your mother or one of your sisters would say. You look wonderful.”

But Maggie did not feel wonderful. Her years at Blackmore Manor had not prepared her for a return to social life.

“Don't look just yet, but who is that thin, blond man speaking with Lord Randall? At the refreshment table.”

“Why?”

“He keeps trying to catch your eye. Go ahead. Look now.”

“Oh no. Robert Kimbridge.” She took Victoria's arm and led her to the opposite side of the room, away from Shefford's overweening, perfectly dressed friend.

“Isn't he Viscount Bowgreave's son?”

Maggie shrugged. The less she knew about Mr. Kimbridge, the better.

Victoria thought a moment. “Bowgreave is exceptionally flush in his pockets, if I remember correctly. And Robert is the youngest. Right?”

If Maggie could believe all she'd overheard, that was true. But she had learned that wealth
and titles did not count for everything. Her late husband was the perfect example. He'd had an impeccable lineage, and yet his shortcomings were numerous.

Julian had not cared much for reading, and Maggie knew that was because he had difficulty with the skill. She had never seen him review their steward's records, nor had he taken more than a superficial interest in his estates.

He had not been particularly clever, but he'd been far from unattractive and Maggie realized now that he had traded on his good looks and his title to make his way in society. It seemed so odd now that she'd never had more than a few trifling conversations with him—with her own husband, the father of her children. And it was embarrassing to recall the times she'd tried to engage him, only to be bluntly rebuffed.

His mind must have been too occupied with his many mistresses and all his exciting wagers to spend time thinking of a dull wife and the boring pursuits to be found at Blackmore.

“Shefford thinks I should marry him.”

“Mr. Kimbridge?”

Maggie nodded. “But I have no reason to think he'd be any better than Julian. He even resembles him. Vaguely. All that blond hair and those deceptively angelic looks.”

“You're not going to do it. Are you?”

Maggie clenched her teeth and gave a shake of her head.

As much as it had hurt to learn of Julian's true
nature, she was glad she knew the depth of his betrayal. It would help to keep her from making another disastrous marriage, not that she had any intention of binding herself to one more handsome slacker. Kimbridge actually did look a bit like Julian, and as Maggie glanced at him, she saw he possessed the same vacuous smile that she had mistaken for sophistication in Julian. It was merely a mask, and Maggie knew better than to believe there was anything of substance behind it.

“Look, there's Lady Teversal. Shall we join her?”

Maggie was glad for a legitimate reason to distance herself even further from Mr. Kimbridge, as she and Victoria approached Nettie and her husband. They were exchanging pleasantries with an older couple that Maggie did not know.

Nettie greeted them and introduced them to their companions. “Lady Victoria Ranfield, and Lady Margaret Blackmore, may I introduce to you Major General Joseph Foveaux and Mrs. Foveaux?”

“I understand we'll be enjoying an evening of Mr. Haydn's work,” said Mrs. Foveaux while her husband, a large man with a florid complexion and small, dark eyes, gave a cursory bow at the introduction. He looked over Maggie's head, observing the guests as though evaluating each one by some personal standard. Maggie took comfort in the knowledge that she wasn't under the general's command.

“Yes, I'm sure it will be most enjoyable,” Maggie remarked as a new rumble of energy suddenly
passed through the gathering. She looked toward the door to see what had caused it.

“Look, it's Lord Castlereagh and Lord Bathurst with the Sabedorian ambassador,” said Nettie's husband, Lord Teversal.

Maggie felt a shivery wave of anticipation, a desperate hope that Thomas would be with these important personages, but she managed to squelch it. He'd had his opportunity with her, and he'd wasted it. She looked away from the door.

“I wonder if the prince is with them,” Teversal added, putting words to Maggie's thoughts.

“Oh my,” said Nettie, opening her fan and beating it rapidly in front of her face. “Here he is. The prince himself. I believe you know him, Lady Blackmore. We didn't have the opportunity to meet him at the Waverly ball. Will you introduce us? I-I'm sure we would
all
dearly love to meet him.”