Abducted by a Prince (2 page)

Damien sprang from the ground in a flurry of punching and kicking. Frantic to protect the precious key, he threw all of his puny strength into the fight. His fist connected with Walt’s nose, sending him staggering backward, blood trickling down his face.

It was the perfect chance to flee, but a fury born of grief transformed Damien into a wild beast. He lunged at the other two boys. He managed a few quick strikes before the pair of them joined forces to overpower him. They threw him to the rocky ground and held his squirming form in place.

In the throes of raw rage, he forgot all caution, shouting, “Let me go! I’m a prince! My father is a king, and he’ll chop off your heads.”

A moment of stunned silence reigned. Then derisive laughter burst from the trio of boys. “King?” one jeered. “You don’t even have a father.”

His nose bloody, Walt bared his teeth in a sneer. “You’re a filthy bastard.” He grabbed the key, snapping its gold chain. “Your sire must be the Devil. That’s what we’ll call you. The Demon Prince.”

*   *   *

“Well, Burke? Speak up! Tell me what it is you want from me.”

Walt’s voice dragged Damien back to the present. He sat behind the desk in the private study at his club, facing his longtime nemesis. Viscount Greaves stood with his fists clenched at his sides. His irate hazel eyes betrayed his impatience to settle the gaming debt and be gone.

Apparently, Walt didn’t remember the incident; it had been only one of their many clashes at Eton before Damien had grown big and strong enough to best any challenger.

“You took a key from me when I was a first-year,” he said tightly. “You and two of your mates overpowered me behind the cloisters.”

“Key?” Awareness dawned on Walt’s face, followed by a narrowing of his eyes in a guarded expression. “You’re saying you’d erase my losses in exchange for some long-lost trinket? You must be mad.”

“Nevertheless, you’ll bring it to me.”

“Good God, man, that must have been fifteen years ago! You can’t expect me to recall what happened to it. I likely tossed it into a rubbish bin.”

“That isn’t what you said back then. You used to taunt me that you’d put the key where I’d never find it.”

“So? Wherever it is, I’ve forgotten now.”

As he spoke, Walt averted his gaze. His avoidance of a direct look was a clear indicator of deception.

Damien felt his gut tighten with absolute certainty. Walt was lying. He
did
know the location of the key.

“It would behoove you to remember, then,” Damien said. “It’s your only chance to have your gaming debt forgiven.”

Walt’s resentful gaze slid back. “Why do you want a damned key?” he asked. “Does it fit a strongbox somewhere? It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that you were harboring stolen goods even back then.”

Damien kept his face wiped clean of anger. “You
will
retrieve the key. I’ll give you until tomorrow evening to bring it to me.”

“It might take longer than that,” Walt said, a crafty glint entering his eyes.

“Don’t even think to trick me. I remember every detail of that key, and I’ll know if it’s a forgery.” Damien paused for dramatic effect. “If you fail to fulfill your end of the bargain, you’ll force me to find another means to collect your debt—a manner that won’t be to your liking.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Damien allowed a cold smile. “You have a sister about to make her debut. Innocent, sheltered girls are often susceptible to the charms of a dashing stranger.”

The viscount’s face paled so that his freckles stood out. “By God! You wouldn’t dare go anywhere near Beatrice.”

“Then do as I say. Bring me that key.”

Walt’s chest heaved beneath his forest-green coat, his nostrils flaring. Abruptly, he slammed his fist onto the desk and rattled the neat stacks of gaming discs. “Bastard! You may don the trappings of a gentleman, but you’ll always be an upstart from the gutter.”

Pivoting on his well-shod heel, he threw open the door and stomped out of the study.

Bastard
.

Damien surged up from the chair and stalked to the window to stare out into the night. That word never failed to cause a visceral twist inside him. His ancestry had always been a blank slate. Deep inside him burned the need to give substance to his background. To learn who he really was. Not just for his own sake, but for Lily’s.

His chest tightened. His daughter was only six years of age, but someday she would ask him questions about her absent grandparents. She would want to know who they were, where they had come from, why they had abandoned him. Mimsy had mentioned a letter that explained everything, presumably from his parents, but he had never been given her effects after her death. Nor had he found the letter years later, when he’d gone back to his old neighborhood and sought to discover what had happened to her belongings. Without Mimsy, the only person who might have provided the answers, he had no clue to his past.

Except for that key.

The shuffle of footsteps sounded behind him. Reflected in the window glass, a short, bandy-legged servant stepped into the study. Light from the gas wall sconces glinted off a head as bald as a billiard ball. Finn MacNab had once been a man-of-all-work at Eton, and Damien’s sole ally at the school. He and his wife were the only ones to whom Damien had confided his secrets.

At the moment, however, Damien had no desire for company. Turning, he said curtly, “I trust you didn’t have your ear to the door.”

Finn bared his teeth in a grin. “Might have, though I couldna hear it all,” he said in his thick Scottish brogue. “Did his lairdship recollect wha’ happened t’ the key?”

“He hemmed and hawed. But he knows, I’m certain of it.”

“Then he’ll bring it t’ ye on the morrow?”

“He has little choice in the matter.”

Finn waggled a bushy eyebrow. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but these high-and-mighty lairds do hold the upper hand over us mortals.”

“Not this time.” Damien paused, his resolve hardening in regard to the bold plan that he had formulated. “If he fails to comply, I’ll abduct his sister. The key shall be her ransom.”

Chapter 2

As the footman headed up the staircase in the entrance hall, Miss Eloise Stratham stood in the doorway of the antechamber and felt the weight of misconduct lying heavily on her shoulders. She shivered from the chill in the air and wished she hadn’t surrendered her cloak to the servant. Why had she allowed herself to be talked into making this call?

She had been caught off guard, that was why. Without warning, her cousin had instructed the coachman to stop. There had been little time for Ellie to voice an argument against it.

The moment the footman vanished upstairs, she turned to address her younger cousin, who strolled around the elegant room, examining the objets d’art on display. “We shouldn’t be here,” Ellie hissed. “This is entirely too forward of you.”

Lady Beatrice Stratham looked up from her inspection of an alabaster dish on a table. She might have been a princess in the pastel-blue gown with its lace trimming. With a wave of her kid-gloved hand, she said, “Not another dreary lecture, Ellie. We’re here and that’s that.”

“But it’s beyond the pale to call on a lady you’ve never met, let alone one who is a pillar of society. You’re not even officially out of the schoolroom yet.”

“Oh, pooh, I’ll be making my debut in a matter of weeks.” Beatrice went to a gilt-framed mirror to preen at her reflection. She removed her bonnet and dropped it on a table, then primped her strawberry-blond hair. “Speaking of which, I intend to secure the most brilliant match of the season. Lady Milford can help me accomplish that.”

The zeal in her cousin’s blue eyes spelled trouble for Ellie. Beatrice was far too headstrong for her own good. When she wanted something, she always found a devious means to achieve her desire. The girl had been a constant headache ever since Ellie had lost her parents and had come to live in the household of her uncle, the Earl of Pennington.

“If his lordship finds out about this visit, he’ll be furious,” Ellie warned. “You know what a stickler he is for propriety. Since you’re only seventeen, he might very well decide to postpone your season for another year.”

Beatrice loosed a trill of laughter. “Don’t be silly, I can always persuade Papa. Besides, he’s at White’s, and he won’t return home for hours.” Clearly bored with the quarrel, she glided toward a pedestal in the corner. “I say, have you ever seen such an exquisite Chinese vase? Lady Milford has truly impeccable taste.”

Ellie remained standing by one of the green marble pillars that flanked the doorway. She longed to stalk out of this house, climb back into the waiting brougham, and leave Beatrice to her own folly. Regrettably, she could do nothing of the sort. Uncle Basil was depending on her to see to the well-being of his motherless daughter.

Over the years Ellie had fallen into the role of governess to the younger two of her three cousins. Devoting herself to that task, along with doing errands for her grandmother, made her feel less of a burden on her uncle. She had always been acutely aware that the earl had been obliged to settle the debts of his younger brother, her late father. Consequently, Ellie had worked hard to repay her uncle with her labor. Now, with Cedric off at boarding school, she had only the mission of guiding Beatrice’s launch into society.

Begging favors of the exalted Lady Milford was hardly an auspicious means to achieve that purpose. One mistake, one thoughtless comment, and the foolish girl might see herself ostracized. And Ellie feared that she herself would be held to blame.

Worse, if Beatrice’s season were postponed, that would mean another year’s delay to Ellie’s plan for her own future. Nothing disheartened her more than the notion of being forever dependent on her uncle’s charity. At the age of six-and-twenty, she yearned to claim her independence and pursue her secret dreams.

The footman descended the stairs, bypassed Ellie, and bowed to Beatrice. “Her ladyship will see you now. If you’ll follow me.”

So much for hoping that Lady Milford wouldn’t be home to them.

Resigned, Ellie took the tail end of the procession up the staircase. The servant hadn’t even glanced at her, but Ellie was accustomed to not being noticed in social situations. Her dowdy attire marked her as a woman of reduced circumstances. Anonymity suited her, for if no one paid her any heed, she was free to watch people’s expressions and mannerisms, to store them in her memory for future reference.

No one had the slightest inkling how she used those observations. Nor would they anytime soon. Ellie had kept secret the project she toiled on late each night in the privacy of her bedchamber. The family would learn of it only at the appropriate moment.

After
Beatrice’s betrothal and wedding.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Ellie told herself to stop fretting. Perhaps this meeting might prove fruitful for Beatrice, after all. Lady Milford
did
have a reputation as a matchmaker, having discreetly arranged a number of successful marriages among the nobility.

Ellie strove to recall everything she’d heard about the woman. People spoke of Lady Milford with awe and admiration. A legendary beauty, she had the ear of the prime minister as well as the royal family. According to rumor, she had once been mistress to one of mad King George’s many sons.

That scandalous tidbit tweaked Ellie’s curiosity. Despite having a shocking past, the lady commanded respect in the highest circles. How had she managed to foil the gossips? Ellie didn’t know, but one thing was certain. Lady Milford’s life must have been far more exciting than Ellie’s was at present.

They proceeded along a sumptuous corridor and into a sitting room decorated in pleasing pastel shades of rose and yellow. There, a woman sat reading in a gilt chair by the window. A ray of winter sunshine crowned her upswept black hair and illuminated the deep claret silk of her gown.

Ellie realized at once that hearsay hadn’t prepared her for Lady Milford. There was an elusive, ageless quality to that smooth face and slim figure. Seeing those high cheekbones and arresting features made Ellie long for a pencil to capture that classic beauty on paper.

As the footman announced them, Lady Milford set down her book and rose to her feet. With feline grace, she came forward to greet them. A slight smile curved her lips, though her aristocratic bearing spoke more of impeccable manners than warm welcome.

She must be wondering why two strangers had come to interrupt her afternoon, Ellie knew in dismay. It was clear Lady Milford possessed a sophistication that Beatrice lacked. Such a woman wouldn’t be easily cajoled by a girl barely out of the schoolroom.

Apparently feeling no such misgivings herself, Beatrice dipped a pretty curtsy. “My lady, what a
great
pleasure it is to meet you. I hope you don’t find me too presumptuous in calling here.”

“I confess, you have me intrigued,” Lady Milford murmured. “Pray sit down, both of you, and warm yourselves on this chilly day.”

She escorted them to the hearth, where a fire radiated heat beneath a mantel of carved white marble. As Beatrice seated herself in the center of a chaise, she narrowed her eyes at Ellie in a warning glance. Ellie recognized that look. Beatrice wanted her cousin to sit elsewhere. And to keep silent.

The girl’s audacity irked Ellie. However, asserting her authority would cause a scene and turn this visit into certain disaster. Lips compressed, she took a chair by the wall where she could observe the proceedings. If Beatrice landed herself in hot water, Ellie had every intention of interfering.

“You must be Pennington’s daughter,” Lady Milford said to Beatrice, taking the seat opposite her. “I’d have known that shade of red-gold hair anywhere. May I say, it’s quite beautiful and distinctive.”

A twinge of envy stirred in Ellie. Though she, too, had a version of the famous Stratham hair, hers was more auburn than golden, with an unfortunate tendency to curl wildly in damp weather. In her younger days, she’d also wished for Beatrice’s milky-pale complexion instead of the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her own nose.