Royal Renegade (5 page)

Biddable, discreet? Devlyn glanced again at the portrait of the girl with the mischievous green eyes. Now he knew why Wellesley was always in so much trouble with women—he had utterly no judgment. This girl wasn't biddable or discreet; he'd lay a pony on it. And Devlyn suppressed a sigh, thinking longingly of the dull autumn he had only an hour ago been lamenting. This leave, he was certain, would not be the peaceful interlude he suddenly realized he needed so badly, not with this green-eyed princess in tow and Wellesley dogging his heels.

***

The summons he’d been waiting for finally came, and later that afternoon he found himself in Mount Street, taking decorous tea with a lady. That wasn’t the sort of afternoon he used to share with Sarah Harburton, but much had changed, apparently, since his last leave. Sarah was now glancing around the drawing room wary of eavesdroppers, and resistant to even the suggestion of retiring to a more private venue.

She had grown up near him in Dorset, and there was a time Devlyn assumed she would be his wife. But he was penniless then and Harburton wasn't. Her defection hurt a bit, but Devlyn felt much better a few years later, when, after producing the requisite heir, Sarah left Harburton home in the country and came back to her childhood sweetheart. Theirs was only an occasional relationship, as Devlyn was seldom in London. And lately their accord had been marked more by affection than passion. But Sarah, to his mind, was as perfect a companion as a woman could be: pretty in a subdued way, serene, discreet, and understanding of his other lives. But Harburton, while a complacent sort, was not the least inclined to die, so they went on as they had for the last six years.

Until now. Harburton was in residence, and complacency only went so far. So they sat and took tea like the friends they had always been. Sarah's great gift was her composure. Devlyn was able to relax with her, for she expected little of him and was not given to temperamental displays and rash demands. If their encounters tended toward the comfortable, well, sometimes a soldier needed comfort while he was on leave.

So after tea, Devlyn leaned back against the sofa in Sarah's soothing blue and white drawing room, eating the French bonbons he had brought for her as she again checked the door. Eventually she looked back at him, the almost maternal concern in her soft brown eyes a warning to him. He braced himself.

"You know, Michael, it's time you married."

He relaxed back into his seat, for he'd been expecting—he did not know what. “And why should I take such a drastic step?"

"Come, Michael, you know why. I wouldn't even mention it, except that you went to such trouble to redeem the family name and fortune. Why, hardly anyone remembers what a profligate bunch the Danes used to be, now that you've lived such an exemplary life."

He tossed a decorative pillow at her to punish her. But he didn't reply immediately. Such a suggestion from his mistress was odd, of course, but then they'd always been friends more than lovers, and she did want the best for him. And he'd been thinking the same sort of thing lately, wondering what would become of the estate and title he had worked so hard to restore if he were killed in the Spanish offensive. All his hard work would be meaningless, for the second cousin who was currently his heir would gamble the legacy away in a year or two.

"You should never have joined the army, Michael, and you know it." Sarah fixed him with a stern glance and set her tea cup on the table. "The heir to the title must insure the succession, and you haven't even made a push to do that. Instead, you are endangering your life there on the Peninsula and leaving your estate and your name at risk."

Devlyn thought of that day seven years ago, when, after winning back the estate his father had lost, he bought a commission in the dragoons. By convention, Sarah was right. As a viscount, he shouldn't have risked an army career. But convention hadn't mattered much with Napoleon fixing to invade the south coast and the greatest adventure in the world about to begin.

Besides, when Devlyn joined up, no one cared enough to dissuade him. Sarah had married recently, and he had no close relatives to object to the danger he might face. Oh, his motives were certainly muddled—he'd thought himself disappointed in love, and he liked the 16th Light uniform, and he rode a horse well, and he thought war might be more exciting than his duties as a landowner. But most of all, he hoped, he had seen clear another duty, to his country, indeed to all of Europe, so threatened by the ambitions of one ruthless man. Very quietly, Devlyn observed, "It's so tactful of you not to mention that I am risking my life for patriotic reasons, to end the nightmare Napoleon has wrought."

Sarah shrugged, for she, like most of those remaining in England, was only superficially devoted to the cause that cost so many British and Spanish and Portugese lives. “If you weren't there, Michael, someone else would take your place. But no one can be the viscount, you know, at least not as well as you are capable of being." From long experience, she correctly interpreted the tautness of his jaw. “Now I've made you angry, haven't I? Oh, I know you're a fine soldier, and that you have done your country a great service." Her offhanded admission did little to mollify him, so she came to sit beside him on the bed, adding coaxingly, "I'm not telling you to sell out, dearest. I know you wouldn't, even for me. Just think of marrying while you're home on leave. You need something here to draw you back from the war, as apparently I'm not enough. Oh, Michael, I'm being so generous to suggest it, you might at least think of it. You know I want you to be happy. Is marrying truly such an onerous idea?"

He considered it for a moment, accepting her unspoken apology, absentmindedly stroking her soft hand. “Not onerous. Just—inconceivable. Marriage—a wife—that seems so unreal. I have been at war too long, I think. Nothing seems very real to me any longer, except maps and battles and hungry soldiers." But he remembered how Ellingham, the only married man among his friends, proudly showed off the drawings his little daughter made for him, and talked all too often about his capable and charming wife back in Wiltshire. Of course, Ellingham returned from each leave blue-deviled, and fell ill with anguish when his wife suffered a postpartum fever last year, with him hundreds of miles away and utterly helpless. It was a mixed blessing, surely, a soldier's marriage.

But Sarah had a point. Perhaps marriage would center him more, make home seem more homelike, make him less of a stranger in his own land.

He reached out to rub her cheek with a thumb calloused from working with shovels and pickaxes and hammers—his squadrons had built one hundred and fifty bivouacs in the month before he'd left Portugal. When he sold his commission, he thought wryly, he could always become a carpenter. Flinching a bit, Sarah suffered his unintentionally rough touch and regarded him intently. He said, "You are the only woman I have ever imagined saddling myself with, and you are not available. I shouldn't like to have to break in a new mount."

Sarah grimaced at his typically cavalier metaphor—but what could she expect from a cavalry officer? "You are impossible, you know. When you speak like that, I wonder why any woman would have you." She regarded his chiseled features with resignation. "But I suppose there are those who will look no further than that handsome face of yours. And you are a dream in a uniform, I must admit. No one would ever guess to look at you how unromantic you really are."

"And here I brought you these French chocolates, which I captured at great risk from the patisserie in Bond Street. I suppose you wanted flowers, too."

Sarah, busy planning her lover's future, ignored his raillery. "A nice, quiet girl, that would be best. Someone biddable and sweet, who will bend herself to your will. For you do have an iron will, even if you are so quiet about it. And she would have to be satisfied with being your wife and nothing else. You won't let her into your heart, poor girl. You haven't even opened it for me, and we have been together nearly all our lives."

He narrowed his eyes, for he didn't like that her ironic tone had turned serious. "Perhaps I'm heartlessou'vYe accused me of that often enough. Anyway, I think you are right. I may as well give in to cruel fate and settle myself," he said with a marked lack of enthusiasm. "I shall have to consider this at greater length later, however, for I've other plans for the coming months." He drew up his tricky left knee and massaged it, thinking of leg-shackling. "You reckon one of your nice, biddable girls will not make a fuss if we go on as we have."

Sarah smiled suddenly, as if she had indeed been worried about that. "These modern girls are very good about that sort of thing, I hear. Their mothers train them well. Except—" She stopped and took his hands imploringly. "Except—" Her brown eyes were sad and a bit amused. "Oh, Michael, I know you might roam now, as most men do. But once you say those vows ... I fear you are irredeemably honorable, aren't you? You don't mind so much if I have broken my marriage vows, but having sworn to forsake all others, you truly would, wouldn't you? And then where will I be?"

"You will be with your husband, I suspect. Or someone else." After this insult, which she accepted with bowed head, Devlyn regarded her levelly, caught between anger and understanding. No one knew him better than Sarah, and she knew that their affair would end with his marriage, as it had begun with hers. But she'd had her chance years ago, and chose security over whatever he might have given her—not much more than friendship, perhaps, for she was right. Even in youth he had not been one to fall head over heels in love. But friendship was more than she had gotten with Harburton. He pulled away from her and began to dress.

"It's unfortunate you couldn't have seen into the future, but then youth doesn't gift us with great foresight." Then he stopped, willing the anger to recede, for she was biting her lip, about to cry. He'd never, in all these years, taxed her with her refusal of him—and she hadn't actually refused him, after all, for he'd been in no position then to offer for her. It had all been for the best, he had long thought, but her palpable regret now that he had regained his wealth was particularly irritating. Still, they were friends, and he gained nothing from hurting her. He rose, tilted up her chin, and kissed her lightly. "I'm off for a couple of months on business. I shall see you, no doubt, when I return, and we'll talk more about your suggestion."

Sarah raised her hand as if to stop him. But their affair had strictly defined limits, and they both knew he owed her no more explanation than that.

Chapter Four

September 1811 Smyrna, Turkey

To Tatiana's delight, her escort Colonel Arbatov registered her under a false name when they arrived in Smyrna, the port city on the southwest Ottoman coast. They had traveled incognito from Russia, which she found laughable as well as thrilling. For years, she had been roundly ignored throughout the palace, almost as if she did not exist. Now she was truly anonymous, but only because she had suddenly become valuable. She was now a step in the political minuet choreographed by two nations. As such, she needs must be protected on her journey from roving bandits, revolutionaries, and French raiders. None of these villains would care much about simple Mademoiselle Oblenskaya and her companion, her burly coachman, and her anxious father.

Tatiana even looked like another person entirely, with her fashionable short coiffure—the latest style in Paris, her hairdresser had assured her—and one of her exquisite new gowns. Regrettably, her undistinguished alter ego did not call for a surfeit of luggage, so most of her wardrobe had been sent ahead by a different route.

That low profile she had to maintain also meant she saw little of the bustling coastal city. The colonel had hustled her from the carriage directly into the narrow, white-fronted hotel and up to her suite without allowing her even a walk along the harbor. After years of confinement in the palace square, Tatiana was restless, and she was restrained from climbing down from her second-story window only by Buntin's agonized pleas.

So Tatiana remained in the shabby elegance of her spacious suite, pacing restlessly across ornately patterned red carpet, trying out each of the worn brocade chairs. She spent most of the second day sitting in the window of her boudoir, her knees hugged to her chest as she watched the life along the harbor. Smyrna was a major trading center, as the Ottoman Empire was one of the few independent powers in Europe. Here merchants from all over the world haggled peacefully in the courtyards and coffeehouses, entirely without regard to declarations of war, trade embargoes, and tariff regulations.

Now Tatiana ran back to the wardrobe and puffed from her bag the little spyglass that her cousin Count Korsakov had given her during their short friendship. She twisted it in her hands for a moment, recalling Peter and his happy grin and the world she had hoped he would open for her. At least his little gift would expand her vista now.

Shaking her head to clear away the cobwebs of regret, Tatiana returned to her window and peered through the spyglass at the polyglot parade of traders with their elaborate costumes and exotic wares. Everywhere were Arabs in their concealing burnooses, Chinese in their awkward hats, the flamboyant French Zouaves in their red balloon pantaloons. Even the currencies they exchanged so openly for silks and rugs and teas were colorful and multivaried. In a world at war, Smyrna provided a testimony to the conciliatory power of trade.

But Tatiana's envy for the freedom of these traders grew almost to strangling proportions. They were men, of course, and commoners, and that made the difference. They were free to sail here and there, meet with this rug merchant and that spice importer, purchase this load of silk and sell that shipment of opium, all without regulation or qualm. In contrast, Tatiana was constrained both by her gender and her royal birth to be merchandise rather than merchant. She had only herself to trade, and that was already contracted for. Whatever concessions she had exacted from Alexander, she was still nothing but cargo, soon to be forced into the most intimate of covenants in return for an international contract.