Always a Princess (14 page)

Eve turned a gaze on him that was almost as frosty as the one she’d just bestowed on Cathcart. Hell, he hadn’t done anything wrong here, and he wasn’t about to allow her to intimidate him—not when he might finally learn something about what had made her into the curious creature that occupied his every thought. So, he just looked at her pleasantly. When she didn’t say anything, he turned to Cathcart.

“Just a bit of a misunderstanding.” Cathcart cleared his throat. “You know how those things happen.”

“I’d like to know how this one happened,” Philip said.

Eve balled her hands into fists by her sides. “Would you excuse us for a moment, Lord Wesley?”

Like hell, he would. She was hiding something from him. Correct that, she’d been hiding everything from him since the first moment they’d met. He’d gone to great lengths to take care of her, and now, she’d dismiss him so that she could have an intimate chat with this fellow. He stood his ground, not moving an inch from where he stood.

“Please,” she said softly.

“And leave you unescorted with a man in a public park where anyone might see you?” he said. “I think not.”

The fact that she’d already been spotted alone with a man, namely him, in a park mattered not a bit. He knew his own motives. This Cathcart bloke seemed a bit off, like fish that has overstayed its welcome by a day or more.

“I say, old thing, our little Eve is perfectly safe with me,” Cathcart burbled.

“And I’m telling you,
dear boy,
that I brought her here, and I’ll see her home.”

“Home?” Cathcart repeated. “Where might that be, Eve?”

“It’s none of your business,” Eve said, her knuckles now white.

Philip took a step closer to her but managed, just barely, to keep from putting a protective arm around her. “She’s staying with my family.”

“And they are…” Arthur tapped his lips in thought. “Don’t tell me. I’ll remember.”

“The Earl and Countess of Farnham,” Philip said.

“My, you
have
come up in the world, Eve,” Cathcart said.

“Quiet, both of you.” She put her hand on Philip’s arm. “Go home, please.”

He glanced down to find the now-familiar look of determination, if not outright obstinacy, on her face. He wouldn’t gain anything by arguing, at least, not this moment.

“All right,” he said finally. “But I’ll expect you directly.”

After raising her fingers to his lips—and not releasing them for a few pointed seconds— he glared briefly at Cathcart and then turned on his heel to leave.

What a delightful display from both of them. Eve would deal with Wesley later. Right now, she had a few choice words for the idiot who stood there giving her his gap-toothed grin.

“Come within a foot of me, and I’ll scream,” she said.

“Evie, dear,” Arthur said.

“And don’t call me Evie.”

He moved to take a step toward her, but she glared at him in warning. “I mean it, Arthur.”

He held his hands up in surrender. “Truce. I only mean congratulations. That Wesley chap seems really quite fond of you.”

Wesley had used that word, but who knew what he meant by it. Lust inspired men to all kinds of foolishness.

“I wonder what he’d think if he found out who you really are,” Arthur said.

“What?” The word came out with a note of panic. No one but Hubert knew of her origins. She’d created the recommendations she’d shown Sir Udney, Arthur’s father, out of nothing more than her imagination. They gave no clue to her real identity, or her mother’s. Could Arthur somehow have stumbled on the truth?

“Does your new chum know you’re a governess who was sacked for stealing from her betters?” Arthur said.

The tension coiled in her stomach eased a bit. Arthur was as ignorant as ever. “You’d be surprised at what he knows about me.”

“Ah ha!” Arthur nearly hooted. “It seems he’s had more success with you than I did.”

“That’s not what I meant, you bleeding great oaf.”

“I’d watch how you speak to me, if I were you. I could fill the earl’s ear with stories about Miss Eve Stanhope.”

Of course, if he identified her as such, he’d also reveal the Princess Eugenia D’Armand didn’t exist and the person who’d been living under their roof was an impostor. She’d have to keep him away from the earl and his wife, not to mention Wesley. But of course, she had the very means to do that in her room at the Rosemonts’ home.

“I’m not the only one with secrets, Arthur,” she said. “You’ve been a rather bad boy, yourself.”

“You can’t still be angry,” he said. “What fellow doesn’t engage in a little slap-and-tickle from time to time, eh, what?”

“That’s not what I mean.” She straightened and fixed him with her best menacing glare. “I mean the sort of business that leads the fellow to a person like Thaddeus Rush.”

Arthur coughed a bit. “Rush?”

“Yes. Rush.”

“Can’t say I know the bloke.”

“Oh, but he knows you, Arthur. We were just discussing you the other day…and a certain cameo.”

Arthur did his best to maintain a cheerful expression, but his smile faltered a bit around the edges. At least, the information kept his mouth shut. Quite an accomplishment.

“Your mother’s cameo,” she said. “The one your father fired me for stealing. He had it.”

“Now, see here…I don’t know this Rush, and if he has that cameo…”

“You do, and he does,” she said. “You gave it to him to pay some gambling debts.”

The smile disappeared from his face completely. “You can’t prove any of that.”

“I can. I bought the cameo from him,” she said. “One word to the earl about who I am, and I’ll prove to your parents who’s the thief in their household.”

“By producing the cameo?” he hooted again. “They expect you to have it. You took it from my mother’s bedroom, remember?”

Curse it all, he was right. She’d only confirm what they already thought they knew. Unless…

“I’ve been gone from their home for some time,” she said. “If anything else has disappeared, they can’t suspect me.”

Arthur blanched, and his mouth opened and closed a few times.

“If all you took was the cameo, you’re safe. If you’ve pilfered more jewelry, they probably suspect you already,” she said.

His continued silence spoke for itself. He had taken more, and she could prove him a thief. If she did, Sir Udney would cut him off without a farthing. Arthur had no talents to support himself. He’d flail about in the cold, cruel world until he withered up and blew away.

“So,
old bean,
you can keep any information you have about me to yourself,” she said. “Agreed?”

“Fine,” he said from between his teeth. “Now, I’ll be off. I have things to attend to.”

“Splendid.” She wiggled her fingers at him. “Toodle-oo.”

After leaving one scowling male in the park, Eve had little stomach for confronting another one at home. Of course, one was there to greet her. Not only that, but the male in question—Lord Wesley—had taken up residence in her own sitting room, a place no self-respecting lady entertained a gentleman. As neither of them were, in truth, anything close to genteel and he’d already attended to her bath in her bedroom, she might as well forget polite manners and face his wrath here where no one else would witness it.

For, wrath she faced, indeed, and it was oh, so much more impressive on him than on Arthur. He rose from the chair he’d been sitting on when she entered and stood in the center of the room, a tower of umbrage. Instead of taking him face-on, she turned to close the door behind her and stood there for a moment, breathing evenly, or as best as she could manage.

“Where have you been all this time?” he demanded from behind her.

She turned slowly. “Right where you left me.”

“I told you I expected you home directly.”

“And, directly I was finished, I came back,” she said.

“Finished doing what?”

“For heaven’s sake, listen to yourself,” she said. “You sound like an outraged husband.”

His eyes fairly flashed with anger. “You’ve had experience with outraged husbands, I take it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve never been married.”

That slowed him down a bit, as if something had punctured him and let a little of the steam out. He still managed a healthy expression of disapproval, though.

“Who was that man?” he asked.

“Arthur Cathcart.”

“I know his name. I want to know who he is.”

“An acquaintance from before we met.”

“I know that, too,” he said. “He seemed quite familiar with you.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I can’t prevent him from acting familiar.”

“He called you by your first name, for the love of God.”

“I can’t prevent him from doing that, either,” she said.

“Perhaps not, but you can tell me what he is to you.”

“No, I can’t.” She went to walk by him toward the bedroom, but he caught her by the elbow and spun her around.

“Can’t, or won’t?” he said, his gaze boring into hers.

“Fine,” she snapped. “I won’t.”

“Not acceptable.”

She pulled away from him, taking a step back. “I beg your pardon.”

“I won’t have it,” he said. “That man knows more about you than I do.”

“What he knows about me isn’t worth knowing.” And what Arthur didn’t know—what no one but Hubert knew—was worse.

“No more clever responses, my lady,” he said. “No more skirting the issue. No more evading my questions. You owe me the truth.”

Oh, hell. He clearly wouldn’t end the inquisition until he’d gotten some story out of her. She might as well give him the disgraced governess part. A clever fellow like him could find that out on his own. If she gave him that part, she could keep the daughter-of-a-whore side of her history to herself.

His jaw settled into an angry line. “Well?”

“I know Arthur because I worked for his family,” she said.

That seemed to set him back a bit. “Worked?”

“Most people have to work, your lordship,” she said. “I wasn’t to the manor born.”

“Well, yes. Of course.”

The idiotic man seemed perplexed, his brow knitted. Honestly, where had he thought she’d come from—washed up on the shore like the tide? Everyone had his or her own history, and few of them shared Wesley’s privileged background. Or could he, perhaps, share just a bit of the snobbery of his class? He might be like his odious butler, after all, looking on normal people as not quite right.

“I wasn’t a scullery, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said.

“Your position in the household doesn’t matter,” he said, but the words lacked a good deal of his earlier fire.

“I wasn’t even a maid but a governess,” she said. “For Arthur’s little sister.”

“That’s not important, Eve. I only wanted to know why he seemed so close to you.”

“He was close, all right.” She stared up at Wesley until he backed away a bit. “Entirely too close.”

“He touched you?”

“He tried. Whenever he got the chance. Sometimes, he succeeded.”

“By God, I’ll kill him.” The fury filled his eyes again, but at least this time it wasn’t aimed at her.

“Never mind, Sir Lancelot,” she said. “I’ve taken care of him myself.”

His jaw unclenched, but his eyes narrowed as he stared at her. “You have?”

“Don’t underestimate me.”

He bent toward her. “That, I would never do.”

“He stole a cameo from his mother to cover some gambling debts. When it came up missing, she accused me. Arthur kept his silence when they fired me over it.”

“Good Lord, Eve,” he said. “Is that how you got back at him?”

“Of course not.” Did the man think her a fool? “I got the cameo from the person he gave it to. He knows I have it now, and if he utters one wrong word, I’ll tell his father who took it.”

“That should keep him quiet.” Wesley released a breath. “Quite a story.”

“Arthur set me on my life of crime. If I was going to be accused of stealing jewelry, I might as well make the profit off it, too.”

Wesley smiled, the old mischief returning to his eyes. “And you ended up with me.”

“That wasn’t my original plan.”

He pulled her into his arms as naturally as if he always did it. She ought to struggle to get away. She could slap his face and tell him he was no better than Arthur. She’d be lying, of course, and he’d know it. In fact, leaning into his chest came as naturally as walking beside him in the sunlight. It created the same warmth, the same feeling of lightness in her chest, the same sense that the world could finally be a sheltering place and not full of danger.

And yet, in some ways, he presented a greater threat than Arthur ever could. Arthur could never tempt her to give her body or her heart. This man could steal both if she let him. Still, what could it hurt to enjoy his nearness for just a few moments?

“I’m glad you finally trusted me with the truth,” he said. “We can overcome anything, but only if you’re honest with me.”

“I never lied to you…well, except about being a princess.”

“Just because you were a governess doesn’t mean you can’t be my princess,” he said.

Her heart warmed even further, and the glow spread to her cheeks. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Princess Eugenia is a charmer, but I prefer the real woman underneath.” He lifted her chin, bringing her face up to his. “Don’t keep things from me, Eve.”

“I won’t,” she said. What other answer could she give him when he looked down at her with that sweet expression on his face? Good God, she really was coming to care for him.

“Good. Now, I’d better release you before I do something unwise.” He kissed the tip of her nose and stepped away from her, dropping his arms by his sides. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

“At dinner.”

He smiled once more and left the room, and her heart slowly went back to its normal rhythm. This whole situation was fast becoming more than a partnership in larceny. She had a field full of hazards before her and no map to help her find her way. Heaven help her if she took a misstep.

Most people didn’t invite unpleasant little men like Constable Chumley to fancy masked balls, so Philip could only conclude that he was here to catch the Orchid Thief. Hmm. Lady Harrington’s diamond necklace had seemed ripe for the picking, as she’d worn her pearls tonight with her Queen Elizabeth I costume. Of course, if she’d worn the diamonds, they could have stolen the pearls. But perhaps they ought to reconsider stealing anything at all.

Philip stood with Eve on his arm and suffered Chumley’s scrutiny.

“Good evening, Lord Wesley,” Chumley said. The fact that the ridiculous little man had chosen to dress in the flowing robes of an Arab sheikh didn’t stop his annoying habit of twirling the end of his mustache as he subjected Philip’s face to an examination. No doubt Chumley used such scrutiny to make a criminal quiver in his shoes. Philip’s shoes felt perfectly steady, nevertheless.

“So, you recognized me despite the costume and mask,” Philip said, glancing down at the blue satin knee breeches and jacket and yards and yards of lace of the eighteenth-century attire he’d worn to the ball. “Nothing amiss, I hope.”

Chumley leaned ever closer, until the enormous fake ruby of his turban came to resemble a third eye. “No, my lord. Why would you ask?”

“The way you’ve been looking at me, I thought perhaps you’d lost something and imagined you could find it beneath my powdered wig.”

That set Chumley back on his heels, but he gave Philip one more “I’m watching you” look before turning his attention to Miss Stanhope. “Good evening, Your Highness.”

She stared at Chumley through her mask and finally nodded regally. She’d dressed as Marie Antoinette, complete with a massive powdered wig decked out with flowers and birds. If the teal satin of her gown got any lower in the bodice, she’d fall right out of it, and her flimsy fichu would do nothing to stem the waterfall of flesh. From the looks of things, it was all Chumley could do to keep from staring at her breasts, fichu notwithstanding.

Eve cleared her throat.
“Monsieur le constable.”

Chumley finally glanced up into her face. “You’re wearing your emerald earrings tonight, the same ones you wore the night the Wonder of Basutoland was stolen.”

“Why, yes,” she said in her assumed accent.

Chumley turned toward Philip. “Then you won’t be carrying any empty jewel boxes in your pockets tonight, will you, sir?”

“No.” In fact, he did have a small box with an orchid inside in his pocket.

Chumley looked in that direction, but his expression didn’t suggest that he’d noticed the slight bulge there. “Good, because I don’t want any confusion tonight. When I catch the Orchid Thief, I want him caught permanently.”

“Splendid sentiment, old man,” Philip said.

“I can be put off for a while,” Chumley said, “but not forever. If the Orchid Thief continues, I’ll find him out.”

“I’m sure the man trembles at the sound of your name, Constable.”

Chumley’s eyes narrowed. “He’d better if he knows what’s good for him. No man makes a fool out of John Chumley.”

No one needed to. John Chumley did that well enough on his own, and with a great deal of help from his costume. “You’ll excuse us, Constable?”

Chumley twirled his mustache again. “Of course. Only no confusion tonight, your lordship. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly clear, Your Sheikhness.”

Philip offered Eve his arm and guided her away from Chumley, the yards of teal silk stretched over her farthingale keeping them at a discreet distance.

“Beastly little man,” he said under his breath.

“Does he worry you?” she asked.

“Not particularly,” he said. “But even an imbecile stumbles over what he’s looking for from time to time.”

“Should we postpone stealing the necklace, do you think?”

“What do you think?”

She stopped and glanced back over her shoulder at Chumley, as though the man’s appearance in his costume could help her to make up her mind. Finally, she shrugged. “No. Let’s take the necklace.”

Philip placed his hand over hers and squeezed her fingers. “That’s my girl.”

The party at Lord and Lady Harrington’s townhouse was in full swing, with dancing in the main salon and numerous games of cards in a side sitting room. Tables had been set up at the end of the room with light hors d’oeuvres to refresh the dancers while they waited for the main dinner, which would come later.

All standard for a very elegant soiree, and yet something didn’t quite fit.

“I say, do you notice anything odd about that footman?” Philip asked Eve, gesturing with his head to a large fellow who stood behind the table, serving punch. “Aside from the fact that he’s dressed as a pirate.”

She followed his gaze and looked at the man for a while. “He doesn’t look like a servant.”

“I thought the same thing. He keeps glancing around him suspiciously, and he’s awkward with that ladle.”

She batted her eyelashes at him. “It’s so hard to find competent help these days.”

“Save your sarcasm for later,” Philip replied. “I doubt that man has ever served at a ball before.”

“He might be new, or only hired for tonight’s party.”

“Perhaps.” Philip scanned the rest of the throng. Most of them were the sort of people you’d expect at a costume ball—various Napoleon Bonapartes and Cleopatras. But occasionally he’d spot someone who didn’t fit, and all of those someones were large and male.

“That man, there,” he said. “Over by the doorway, the tall one with the sallow complexion.”

Eve removed her arm from his and turned to look where he had indicated. “I see.”

“And the American Indian chief standing by the drapes. He looks as if he’d like to hide behind them.”

“Yes. Who do you suppose they are?”

“Chumley’s men, most likely.”

“Oh, dear,” she said, raising a hand to her fichu-covered bosom.

“Smile. Don’t let them see any worry.”

She did and laughed in her high-pitched, fake-princess voice.

“Perhaps we’d better reconsider,” Philip said. “With enough of them here, they might just catch us at something.”

“I’ll bow to your expert opinion,” she said. “You are the real Orchid Thief, after all.”

“Excellent judgment, Your Highness. So, while we’re here, what say we make the best of what looks to be a perfectly tolerable party?” He extended his arm to her again. “Would you care to waltz?”

She took his arm. “Very well.”

He led her toward the dance floor, nodding along the way to people he knew or ought to know. Finally, he pulled Eve Stanhope into his arms and led her in the circling steps of the waltz. She matched his movements well. The flat front of her farthingale allowed her body to fit, oh so naturally, next to his. With her small stature, he couldn’t help but feel as though he’d taken charge. As though he’d folded her into his own body to be guided and cherished and kept safe.

What an odd jumble of emotions for something as prosaic as a dance at a party, and yet he couldn’t deny them. She’d come to dominate his dreams and his imagination. If he weren’t very careful, she’d capture his heart as thoroughly. For now, he’d just enjoy, and worry about the consequences later.

He looked down into her face. “Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Stanhope?”

She smiled and lowered her head but didn’t answer him. He raised their joined hands to her face and lifted her chin so that she had to look at him. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

She bit her lip for a moment and then smiled at him again. “Yes, I am.”

Certainly nothing like that simple declaration ought to make his heart swell with pride, but it did. In fact, very little had pleased him nearly so much ever since his forced return to England. If only he could show her the world as he’d seen it and teach her how to enjoy that, too. If he could explore the secrets of the East with her—all of them—he’d be a very happy man, indeed. But, he’d better not think of that right now, or this waltz would turn into something very different and very intimate, indeed.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

Best not to reveal in too much detail where his mind had just been. “I was thinking how beautiful you are.”

She actually blushed at that. “You flatter me, Lord Wesley.”

“Can the truth be flattery? Or is it merely truth?”

“Word games,” she said. “Philosophy. I only understand more practical problems.”

“Such as?”

“How much we’ll get from selling the Wonder of Basutoland.”

Philip stopped dancing abruptly, and Eve looked up at him with a pained expression on her face. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” he said.

“You stepped on my foot.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I assure you.”

“We were getting along so well,” she said, “and then you jolted to a stop and stepped on my foot.”

Another couple swirled on by, barely missing them.

“Perhaps we’d better go sit down somewhere,” Philip said.

“I want to know what’s the matter with you,” she said, not moving from the spot where he’d made his misstep.

No doubt she did want to know what had come over him, but he still had no convenient way to tell her that they weren’t going to sell the Wonder. Why in heaven’s name had he even thought she’d forget about the diamond for even a moment?

“Please, let’s do get out of this crush,” he said.

She huffed, but took his arm and allowed him to lead her from the dance floor. “I don’t know why you jump every time I mention that diamond.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t,” he mumbled.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye—barely visible behind her mask. But visible enough to see that it was a very disapproving glance, indeed. “What did you say?”

“I said that I’m sure I don’t,” he said. “Jump, that is.”

“What would you call it?” she said. “You stop whatever you’re doing and get a sick look on your face, and then you mumble something.”

“I don’t mumble,” he mumbled.

“Of course you do. And then you change the subject.”

“Would you like some punch or something?”

She stopped abruptly this time, and the pressure of her arm on his pulled him to a stop, too. “There. You did it again.”

“What?” he demanded.

“Changed the subject. I mentioned the diamond, and you changed the subject to punch.”

“Must we really discuss the diamond this very minute?” he asked.

“I don’t see why not. You wanted to wait to sell the Wonder until we’d stolen something else. You just decided not to steal something else, so now it’s time to sell the Wonder.”

“You’re right.”

Her eyes widened, and she looked up at him as if he’d grown a second head. “I am?”

“Yes,” he replied. “We should steal something else.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” she said. “Will you please make up your mind?”

“Lady Harrington’s pearls are worth a king’s ransom. While we’re here we might as well help ourselves to them.”

“She’s wearing her pearls,” Eve said.

“All right, then. Her diamond necklace, instead.”

Eve put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “And what about Chumley and his men? Have you forgotten them?”

“Of course I haven’t, but you know as well as I do that Chumley couldn’t find a grouse in Scotland if he had an army of beaters to flush the bird out.”

“But the others,” she declared, gesturing around her. “Those big, ugly men. The counterfeit servants.”

“Keep your voice down, please.”

“All right.” She took a deep breath and then another. “If you really want to steal the necklace, then let’s do it rather than stand here arguing.”

“Good show,” he said. “I’ll go searching for her ladyship’s safe. You stay here and make sure no one wanders off in the direction of upstairs.”

“Fine. And when we’ve done with this business, we’ll discuss the Wonder.”

“Certainly,” he said. But, of course, he had no intention of doing that at all.

Eve stood at a spot where she could easily watch the staircase that led to the floor above—the floor where Lord Wesley had gone in search of a very expensive diamond necklace. No one had even remotely approached the stairs. Even the servants were too occupied with their business in the ballroom and running up and down from below stairs. The imitation servants—Chumley’s men—hadn’t moved from their stations.

All seemed well enough, but she couldn’t quite get rid of a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Wesley really ought to have finished and returned by now. Couldn’t the man get anything right if she wasn’t along to watch his every move?

A throat cleared right behind her, and she jumped and turned. Dr. Kleckhorn stood almost on top of her. Dressed as a medieval monk, he only needed a scythe to make him look like the Grim Reaper. From under his cowl, he gave her an unctuous Teutonic smile. When she didn’t respond, he said something to her in a language she didn’t even recognize, let alone understand, and then stood, waiting for her reply.

“Pardonnez moi,”
she said.

“I said ‘good evening’ in Russian. You do speak Russian, don’t you, Your Highness?” He put just enough emphasis on the title to add a touch of irony, as if he didn’t believe she was any kind of Highness at all.

“Lovely tongue,” she said. “I do not speak it.”

“But you are from a Slavic country, are you not?”

“I am from Valdastok. Love Russian but do not speak it.”

“Some other Eastern European language, then,” Kleckhorn said.

Not exactly Eastern, but his own native German. Thank heaven he didn’t seem to realize that. With no idea how to respond, Eve just looked at him and smiled.

“Not Russian,” he said. “Hungarian, perhaps.”

“No.”

“Polish?”

“No.”

“Romanian?”

“Thank you so very much, but no,” she said.

“Hmm.” The doctor-
cum
-monk scrutinized her face in a way that would be frankly rude if he truly believed her to be royalty. “Albanian, Serbo-Croatian, Old Church Slavonic?”

“No, no, and no.”

“Then, what do you speak?” he demanded. “You must speak some language.”

“English. We speak English.”

His eyes narrowed, and he leaned closer as he studied her from underneath his cowl. “You speak English?”