Royal Renegade (40 page)

Ernest Augustus, the Duke of Cumberland, apparently inherited the insanity of his father George III. Cumberland was the most despised of the unpopular British princes, and was accused of incest, sadism, and strange sexual practices. In 1810, the valet he was cuckolding was found with a slit throat in Cumberland's privy. An inquest acquitted the royal duke, but the British publics branded him a murderer. He later inherited a secondary family throne and left England. As king of the German state of Hanover, he was hated for revoking the constitution and granting himself absolute power.

If you enjoyed this book
,
you might enjoy other books by Alicia Rasley, all available at Amazon Kindle Store:

The Wilder Heart
, a Regency novella.

The Year She Fell.

And of course the sequel to
Royal Renegade,
where Captain Dryden meets his match:
Poetic Justice.

Rasley's Kindle Page

About the author:

Alicia Rasley is a RITA-award winning Regency novelist who has been published by major publishers such as Dell, NAL, and Kensington. Her women’s fiction novel
The Year She Fell
has been a Kindle bestseller in the fiction category.

Her articles on writing and the Regency period have been widely distributed, and many are collected on her website,
www.rasley.com
. She also blogs about writing and editing at
www.edittorrent.blogspot.com
. Currently she teaches and tutors writers at two state colleges and in workshops around North America. She lives with her husband Jeff, another writer and a retired attorney. The elder of their sons is a military officer, and the younger is a production assistant in Hollywood.

From the author:

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Royal Renegade
, I would appreciate it if you would help others enjoy this book, too.

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And don't forget that Captain Dryden meets his match in
Poetic Justice
, and Devlyn and Tatiana play important roles. There's an excerpt below, just to give you a hint.

Author updates can be found at my
Amazon Kindle page
.

EXCERPT FROM
POETIC JUSTICE
, THE SEQUEL TO
ROYAL RENEGADE

Devlyn must have sensed an opening, because he added, "Tatiana wants your consultation on decorating the ballroom."

"That, I suppose, is the clincher? In order to receive such a commission, you think I will jump at your invitation? I know nothing about decorating ballrooms."

"You need only endorse the plans she has. She thinks you have buckets of good taste. I expect it's the company you keep. Come, she will want to greet you anyway."

Devlyn led him back through the dark library, into the sunfilled great hall, past the bust of Napoleon John had gotten after Marshal Ney's execution. He remembered, back when they were boys, that the Keep was almost empty, stark even beyond the usual spare precision of a Palladian home, the only evidence of life the figures writhing on the Michelangelo-inspired dome. Now that Devlyn had hired a staff, bought back most of the lost furnishings, and installed a new generation of Danes, the great dome no longer echoed with loneliness.

The primary reason for this change was approaching them even now, running down the stairs with a hand skimming over the oak bannister, her red hair loose about her shoulders like a girl's. The Princess Tatiana called out gaily, "John! Just in time for my party. Come see what I mean to do to the ballroom."

Devlyn smiled sympathetically and murmuring, "Better you than I," headed back to his refuge on the balcony.

But this was, after all, what John had been waiting for, a chance to get the princess alone.

Between them was none of the complexity that characterized his relationship with Devlyn. From the first, when the Russian princess had boarded his sloop for her secret voyage to England, they had been something akin to friends. She had the same ease that made her cousin the Regent an unexpectedly good companion: She noticed no one's class but her own, treating everyone with equal, imperial charm. John liked that, and liked her, and in this, as in most things, he would do her bidding.

"I'm no expert on decorating ballrooms, God forbid. But I will walk with you there."

So he let her bear him away to the empty space at the back of the Keep where he and Devlyn used to skate in their stockinged feet. Unlike the rest of the house, this austere room had resisted Tatiana's efforts to make it comfortable. It was so cavernous that their footsteps echoed like gunshots against the panelled walls, and they had to speak softly to keep their conversation from resonating. The sun through the tall windows glanced off the marble floor, but the light brought with it no heat. Even in his coat, John was shivering from the chill that rose from the stone.

But Tatiana was of a hardier race, and though her muslin gown was insubstantial, she never noticed that she had left her shawl behind. She stood bare-armed in the middle of the room and gestured around, proposing to make the cavern a romantic wonderworld via a crimson silk ceiling drape and a fountain of champagne.

She spoke with that gallant optimism that never failed to charm John. But he was a realist, and could calculate to a shilling or so how much a ceiling of silk would cost. "At this rate, your highness, there will be little profit left for your school."

"I was hoping," she said, giving him a sidelong glance, "to meet that friend of yours, and persuade him to give me a good price on French champagne."

"No!" John shut his eyes, hoping to blot out the picture of Tatiana bargaining with a bloodthirsty South Coast smuggler. That she would probably win the negotiations did not make the vision more appealing. "Princess, please. Let me take care of getting you the champagne. Consider it my contribution."

Tatiana looked ready to argue the point, so he added, "
Part
of my contribution."

"But I did so hope to meet Shem the—what do you call him?"

"Shem the Shark. No. No. Devlyn would have my head if he knew I'd even mentioned knowing that one."

"Oh, if you insist."

She shrugged, conceding him the point. And for a moment he almost believed she was the one doing him a favor. Then he reminded himself how much champagne for three hundred—and a fountain—would likely cost him, and forced himself to interrupt her description of the planned school building. "Just a moment, if you please. In return for the champagne, I hope you will grant me a small concession."

"Anything!"

Her promise was rash but sincere, and so he said, "I would appreciate it if you would invite a Mrs. Ada Rush to your ball. Of Bincombe. And her husband, of course. And any guest she might have staying with her this summer."

"Mrs. Rush." She scuffed her slipper on the marble dance floor and considered this. Then she looked back up at him, a wicked light in her eyes. "When did you start pursuing married women?"

Annoyed, he said, "I'm not pursuing anyone. It's merely a business proposition I mean to make."

"Certainly not with the Rushes. They don't collect art. She collects earbobs, as I recall, and he has quite a variety of cows. But they are not known for their art acumen."

John had never been deceived by the princess's frivolous manner. He had stopped underestimating her the day she got him a royal commission with a single offhand remark. In an earlier century, this woman might have made herself a tyrant like her ancestor Catherine the Great. So, though he generally guarded the truth jealously, he revealed a bit of it to her. "It's the guest."

"I thought as much." From the curve of her mouth, he could tell what else she was thinking, and she didn't disappoint him. "A lady guest?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

She smiled sweetly. "I really ought to have her name to put on the invitation, John."

Reluctantly he said, "A Miss Seton."

"Miss Seton. Jessica Seton? Oh, good. I met her in London. Very pretty. Blonde, you know. They call her the Golden Girl, though she's not such a girl anymore. An heiress too, I hear."

John didn't travel in the same circles as heiresses, but he knew enough about society to take note of this. A pretty heiress and still a Miss? The two were usually mutually exclusive. "It's only a bit of her inheritance I'm interested in—the artistic part."

Tatiana made a disappointed face. "Do you think of nothing but your art?"

"Very seldom. Will you invite them or no?"

"Well, of course I will. I shall even mention your name—"

He cut off her sentence with an upraised hand. "I'd prefer the invitation came from you."

"You don't want it known that this graciousness is at your behest?"

"Just so. I want no one to know."

"No one? Not even Michael? But I tell Michael everything,'" she said, with that limpid innocence that occasionally fooled even Dryden.

But not today. He responded just as innocently. "You do? I'm glad. I was sure you wouldn't tell him about the Lieven brooch."

"It wasn't the Lieven brooch!" Mere words couldn't express her outrage; she had to stalk up to him and glare, so effectively that he fell back a step laughing. "The Denisov brooch. Peter the Great gave it to my great-grandmother. That Lieven witch took it from our rooms when my parents were exiled. I remember her rummaging around, pretending that she was there to help me, and all the while she was stealing my mother's jewels!"

"Appalling. And then when you saw it on the countess's bosom, you could hardly be blamed for expecting her to return it."

"And she offered me only insult in recompense! If I were a man, I would have gutted her like a fish!" Her hand sliced the air in a tight curve, and John, who had seen many fish gutted—though no countesses, as yet—could not help but appreciate her artistry.

The princess's violent Romanov ancestry would out, though fortunately usually only in rhetoric. At the time, however, he hadn't been so sure she wouldn't carry out her threats. He had been working for the Foreign Office then, positioning spies and laundering funds, and was steeped in the philosophy that the end justified the means. It was no great jump to decide that preventing the gutting of the Russian ambassador's wife justified a discreet little jewel theft. "I'm pleased that Michael understood. He's not usually so flexible."

"Understood?" She glanced at him exasperated. "Of course he didn't understand. I never told him."

"So I thought," John murmured. "Then we've established, haven't we, that there is at least one thing you haven't told your husband." He let the spot of blackmail work its way in, then added, "What's one more?"

"You're a rogue, John Dryden."

"Takes one to know one, your highness." And with a bow, he left her in the empty ballroom, sure that she would do as he bid.

Praise for
Poetic Justice:
Honestly, this ranks as one of the best regency romances I have ever read. I read it a few years ago and when I found a copy of it, I bought it and hung on to it.
Amazon Customer
I highly recommend it. There was no thought of going to bed before I finished it.
Heroes and Heartbreakers site: Momwritesjelly
Loved it, have read it more than once.
Goodreads: Frances Fuller

Poetic Justice
won the Romantic Times Certificate of Excellence!

Overview:
A play manuscript written in Shakespeare's own hand! Between rogue rare-books dealer John Dryden and his prize is an obsessed librarian who wants to destroy it... and the heiress who can lead him to it, but only if he's willing to risk his life, his freedom, and his loner's heart.
More Praise:
POETIC JUSTICE is a delightful, emotionally-satisfying story with the main focus being on the characters and their journeys towards love and trust.
Gracie Stanners
Well plotted, strong characters and real conflict combines for an entertaining read. I couldn't put it down.
Louise Behiel
Poetic Justice
(is) extremely enjoyable with a perfect blend of adventure, humor and romance.
Nonesuch Reviews