The Stolen Princess (19 page)

Her determination not to make a fuss touched him unexpectedly. Feeling out of his depth, Ethan patted her on the shoulder. He was more familiar with the sort of females who made their emotions very clear. Dolores, his last mistress, had thrown things and wept loudly and dramatically. Ethan understood that.

After a few minutes she regained control of herself and blew another fierce blast into the handkerchief. “I'm sorry. It's the books I mind losing most.”

“Books?” Ethan asked cautiously. She'd lost her home, with all its pretty bits and pieces, so neat and shining and obviously loved, and she was grieving over
books
?

“Oh yes, my books are—were very precious to me. Some of them belonged to dear Papa. He was a fine scholar, you know, and his books were rare and irreplaceable. And others…some of my books were like friends, they gave me such comfort.”

“Ah,” Ethan made a sympathetic sound. He had no idea what she was talking about. Books like friends? Giving comfort?

The only book that had ever given comfort to Ethan was one he and a couple of others had burned one freezing night in the mountains of Spain. One of the others had found it in a looted house. It was a big book. It had kept them warm for an hour or two.

He didn't understand, didn't know what to say to comfort her. Apart from horses, he owned very little, just his clothes and a few bits and pieces. Nothing that couldn't be tossed in a valise.

He looked out of the salt-covered windows. It was almost dark outside. “Cottages can always be rebuilt,” he said.

“I can't afford it. I had a small sum of money put by, but only enough to eke out a frugal living, supplemented by my chickens and my garden. The cottage was my sole asset. It was what allowed me to be independent, that and the small amount of income I earn from giving music lessons.”

“So what will you do?”

She sighed. “I suppose I will have to go back to being a governess.”

“Did you not like that, ma'am?”

She didn't answer. She picked up the cat again and buried her face in its fur.

Ethan knew what her silences meant now. He patted her on the shoulder again. She felt like a brittle little bird under his great clumsy paw.

The cat gave him a baleful look. Ethan sneezed.

A
fter supper Callie kissed Nicky good night and came downstairs. What a day it had been. According to Nicky, it had been the best day of his life.

She had no doubt that for Tibby it was the worst.

She joined the others in the drawing room. Tibby was sitting by the fire, her cat in her lap, talking to Gabriel. Mr. Delaney was seated at a nearby table playing a solo card game.

“I've been explaining to Mr. Renfrew and Mr. Delaney that I have decided to return to my former profession as a governess,” Tibby said. “If you don't mind, Callie, I have asked Mr. Renfrew if I could come with you to London. I will need to purchase some new clothes and London would be the best place to secure myself a post.”

“There is no need to look for a post,” Callie said instantly. “I will employ you as Nicky's governess.”

Tibby shook her head. “No, my dear. It's very kind of you, but I am not nearly well educated enough for Nicky's needs. I am well enough schooled in female accomplishments, and I have a little mathematics but as for Greek, Latin, and the rest, no.”

“Then I shall employ you as my companion.”

Tibby gave her a straight look and said in a firm voice, “Princess Caroline, you are not responsible for the destruction of my cottage, and I will not be your pensioner.”

Callie gave her an unhappy look. She was responsible for the burning of the cottage. If she hadn't fled to Tibby, it wouldn't have happened. But Tibby had her pride.

Gabriel leaned forward. “Would you consent to employment with me, Miss Tibthorpe?”

Tibby frowned. “In what capacity?”

“As a governess. I need someone to teach young Jim to read and write.”

“What?” Ethan Delaney exclaimed. Gabriel gave him a cool look, and he returned to his card playing.

“It seems most unlikely that Jim's father will return, and as Mrs. Barrow is hell-bent on importing the imp to my house, I have no choice but to educate him.”

Callie was delighted with the solution, but also puzzled, and more than a little wary. To take in an orphaned fisher boy and pay someone to educate him was highly irregular.

Tibby frowned, no doubt having the sort of doubts Callie was. But she was homeless and in need of an income. And while she would not take charity from her old pupil, it would be foolish to turn down a legitimate offer of employment.

“If you are sure, Mr. Renfrew, then of course I accept your offer, gratefully. I will instruct Jim until he reaches a standard sufficient to take his place in the village school along with boys of his own age. After that, I could not possibly trespass on your generosity any further.”

“I thought this might be an appropriate remuneration.” He handed her a slip of paper on which a figure was written.

Tibby glanced at it and flushed. “It's far too generous,” she said lamely.

“Nonsense, that boy will be a handful, I'm sure. Sharp as a knife, but rough around the edges. He's run wild all his life, I'd say.”

Tibby smiled. “Oh, I don't mind that. I like Jim and his rough edges. He has a bold and curious spirit. For the time being, I'll instruct the two boys together. Coming from such very different backgrounds, there is much they can learn from each other.”

Ethan looked up from his cards. “What would a crown prince have to learn from a lad like Jim, a lad who can't even write his own name?”

Tibby turned to him and said composedly, “Just because Jim's never had the opportunity to learn does not mean that he isn't an intelligent and valuable human being, Mr. Delaney. With a little education, who knows what Jim could make of his life? People may be born into poverty and ignorance, but they do not have to remain so.” She folded the sewing she was doing and put it aside. “Perhaps I picked up a few radical notions from my father, but I believe people can learn much from walking in another's shoes.”

Ethan stared at her.

“Besides,” Tibby went on. “I expect most of Nicky's learning will have come from books. Jim, on the other hand, though wholly untutored, has a vast store of knowledge of the natural world. And excels in the practical application of it.”

“Miss Tibthorpe, it's a shame you never met my great-aunt Gert,” Gabriel said. “I believe you would have had a great deal in common.” He nodded toward the painting of the severe-looking woman.

Tibby suddenly frowned as if she'd just thought of something. “How can I teach Nicky with Jim when you are taking him up to London tomorrow?”

Gabriel looked surprised. “You will come with us, of course. You said you needed to do some shopping.”

“Yes, I suppose so…but what about Jim?”

“He will come, too. I expect he would love a trip to London. And Nicky will have a companion for the long journey.”

“But do we know his father has indeed passed on? We cannot just pick a child up like a stray puppy and transport him out of the parish.”

He looked thoughtful. “You are right. I shall investigate the matter more fully.”

He turned to Callie. “Princess, can I interest you in a game of cards? And Ethan, perhaps Miss Tibthorpe would offer you a game of chess. I noticed last night she seemed more than a little acquainted with the game.”

A few moments later Callie found herself frowning over a hand of cards, trying to recall the rules of bezique. With no apparent effort he had everyone sorted: Tibby's employment, Callie's future, her son's education, Jim's, too, and their entertainment for the evening.

“Why would you concern yourself with the education of a chance-met orphaned fisher boy?” she asked him, playing a card at random.

He glanced at the portrait of his great-aunt. “It's Great-aunt Gert's legacy. She was a great one for taking in stray, unwanted boys. I suppose that's how Mrs. Barrow ended up working for her—they were kindred spirits from opposite ends of the social scale. Great-aunt Gert took me in and Mrs. Barrow took in Harry.” He played a card. “Great-aunt Gert shaped our futures and Mrs. Barrow mothered us.”

“But I thought Harry was your brother.”

“My half brother,” he corrected her. “Born on the wrong side of the blanket. We had the same father, but Harry's mother was a maidservant. When she found herself increasing, my father paid the village smith to marry her.”

“Oh,” she said, then didn't know what to say, because she could hardly ask him whether he was born on the wrong side of the blanket, too. She put another card down.

“My mother was married to my father,” he told her. “But they'd been having tremendous rows at the time, and both of them had been unfaithful, so when she told him I was not his true son, he believed her.”

“But that's dreadful!” she exclaimed. “How could she do that to him? And to you?”

He shrugged. “I believe their marriage was famously tempestuous. Or should that be infamously?”

“What do you mean, you believe? Didn't you know?”

“No, they reconciled when I was three, and again when I was six, but my father would never allow my mother to bring me home on any of these occasions. I was kept in London. He refused to tolerate the sight of me, even though she insisted I really was his son.” He shrugged. “He never believed her.”

“But that's terrible.”

“Not really. He had no reason to trust her word; her infidelities were almost as legendary as his.”

Callie frowned. “Then how—” she began, then stopped. She'd been about to ask the most impertinent question. She bit her lip.

“How do I know I really am my father's son?” he supplied. “And I warned you about that lip-biting—you're doing it all wrong. D'you want me to show you again?”

Callie felt her face flame. “Stop that!” she hissed. “Not in front of other people!”

He heaved a sigh. “You are hard on a man, you know. Now where were we? Oh yes, you were wondering how I know I wasn't really a by-blow,” he reminded her, and before she could inform him she was wondering no such ill-bred thing, he continued, “Harry and I are a few months apart in age, but the resemblance between us is noticeable. Does that explain it?”

It did. Obviously, with two different mothers, the resemblance must come from his father.

But it didn't explain why he and Harry had grown up together, and why Great-aunt Gert had raised him, and why Harry had been a wild child. She had no difficulty understanding why he'd described himself as a needy child. Any child would, in such an appalling situation. “You said you and Harry had grown up together.”

“Yes, Great-aunt Gert took us both under her wing.” He jerked his head toward the severe woman in the painting. “My father's spinster aunt, a bold tartar of a woman who most people were frightened to death of.”

Looking at that portrait, Callie could well imagine it.

“She descended on my mother's London residence one day, marched up to the nursery, and simply confiscated me. Told my mother she wasn't fit to raise any child, let alone a Renfrew boy, and that she, Great-aunt Gert, would do it from now on. She picked me up—literally, I was about seven, I think—handed me to her footman like a parcel, and swept us off in her carriage.”

Callie was shocked. “But didn't your mother fight her?”

He shook his head slightly. “Mama didn't say a word. It was probably a relief to her to have me out of the way.”

Callie couldn't believe the lighthearted way he spoke of it. “I would kill anyone who tried to take my son from me.”

He smiled. “I can believe it. But Great-aunt Gert was not a woman to be gainsaid. Most people were terrified of her.”

“And no wonder, if that's how she behaved. Poor little boy. You must have been terrified.”

He trumped her card. “I was at first, but it wasn't long before I learned that under that Attila-the-Hen exterior, Great-aunt Gert had a heart of the purest gold. She was, quite simply, a darling.” He glanced at the portrait and raised his brandy glass in a toast. “To Great-aunt Gert, who made me the man I am today.” He drank.

Callie watched the movement of the strong column of his throat as he drank. Great-aunt Gert had much to be proud of.

“And Harry the wild child?” she asked, after a moment.

He set his glass aside. “Harry was a lot like Jim when I first met him—a wild little ragamuffin. But Great-aunt Gert had him educated—educated both of us together and sent us to our father's school, much to Father's fury. He had us removed in the end, so Great-aunt Gert sent us to Harrow instead, which angered him nearly as much.”

He grinned reminiscently. “Great-aunt Gert was a radical with no opinion of the airs and graces of the aristocracy. She was also a crushing snob who considered a Renfrew—even a bastard Renfrew—superior to any other being. She left me her fortune, but she left a legacy for Harry, too, and my share has a dozen stipulations. Miss Tibthorpe's employment will fulfill one of them. It would have delighted her to have a fisher child educated with a royal prince. And she would have liked your boy a lot. Great-aunt Gert admired courage above all else.”