The Barefoot Princess (21 page)

“Lovely.”

“Today I’ll write another letter declaring that I escaped, that I’m throwing a party to celebrate my thirtieth birthday and he’s invited, and that I wish an advance on my allowance.”

“Delightful.”

“And when we return to the manor, I’ll give Walter a commendation for his loyalty and industry during my absence.”

“Why?” She couldn’t believe Jermyn would praise his treacherous butler.

“Biggers says it’s best that we appear imperceptive of wrongdoing on his part. That we don’t want Uncle Harrison to have to buy or threaten another one of my servants into his service.”

“All right.” She stuck out her lower lip. “But I don’t like it.”

“Don’t worry.” The gold disappeared from his eyes and they became bitter brown and flat. “When this is over, Walter will discover a different world—the one in Newgate Prison.”

“On one occasion, my sister and I saw the inside of a prison.” A memory she didn’t relish. “Walter won’t like that at all.”

“My dear girl! Prison? How? Why?”

“I’ve told you. We were peddlers promising youth and happiness to anyone who used them. We sold good creams, but they couldn’t live up to that guarantee. That was why Clarice and I fought. I wanted to give up on the dream of returning to Beaumontagne, stay in one place and make the best of our lives. She was like a mother hen, keeping me safe, holding up Beaumontagne as our shining goal when I had given up on ever returning…How odd that, with your help, I may go back.” An abrupt thought caught her attention, and she whipped around to stare at Jermyn. “Do you realize how much our lives are in tune? You may be the one to take me home, and I may be the one to change your mind about your mother’s guilt.”

His face grew still. “Why are you still thinking of that? Forget her. If you want to make me happy, forget her.”

“I can’t. Especially not here on your estate where her presence demands the truth be told.”

“It was told. There’s no possible reason that would justify her abandonment of her husband and child.”

“It seems impossible that a lady you loved so much would leave you.” Amy rubbed her knuckles under his rigid chin. “Miss Victorine doesn’t believe it.”

He moved his head away. “Miss Victorine is a lovely lady who thinks the best of everyone.”

“Not everyone. Not Harrison Edmondson. She’s old, Jermyn, but she’s not senile. She remembers the events of twenty-three years ago with the clarity of someone who was not personally affected by them. You were just a boy. Just as I don’t know if Godfrey can truly be trusted, you don’t really know what happened to your mother.”

Rising, he walked to the edge of the cliff, then returned. “I know she never came back. And why do you even care about my mother?”

“Because you care.”

“You feel so strongly about this. There must be some other reason.” He stared down at her, demanding that she delve in her mind and tell him the truth.

And although she thought she had told him the whole truth, she slowly admitted, “I never had a mother. And my father sent me away. For my own good, he said. Then he marched off to war…and died leading his troops. He flung himself into the breach to triumph over the rebels. His death signaled the beginning of the end for the revolt. His sacrifice saved Beaumontagne from anarchy.” Bitterly she added, “Or so I hear.”

Jermyn knelt before her. “I’m sure that’s what happened.”

“When I’m being rational, when I’m not feeling like an abandoned child, then I’m sure that’s what happened, too.” Yet so much of her life had been marred by injustice, she sometimes wailed in absurd despair. “I can’t bear to imagine a parent so kind, so loving as to invoke the devotion of a child, who walks away without a backward glance. I want to remember Poppa as being there until he couldn’t be. Until death took him away.”

“Death didn’t take my mother.”

She pounced on that. “Are you sure?”

His eyes narrowed on her, seeing only her, listening with seeming intentness.

“No one in the whole world has seen her since she left you,” she said.

“The world is a big place.”

“But not so big that a lady and her English-speaking lover can hide without detection.” Amy saw that Jermyn was at least listening. Right now, that was all she could ask. “Has anyone talked about her since you were a child?”

“Only Uncle Harrison, and he said he was surprised she hadn’t left sooner. That she was a flighty foreigner and—” Jermyn stopped, abruptly aware and defensive.

“If you don’t trust the messenger, you can’t trust the message.” Jermyn had said that about Grandmamma’s courtier, and only now did Amy realize how true it was.

Tonight she would write directly to Clarice, inform her where she was, give a tactful rendition of the pagan wedding ceremony, ask all the questions she longed to know, and most important, she would tell Clarice that she doubted Godfrey. She’d say Jermyn was going to speak to the Beaumontagne Embassy and find out the truth about Grandmamma, about the assassins, and about Beaumontagne itself. And she hoped Clarice would approve.

“It doesn’t matter whether I trust Uncle Harrison and what he said about my mother. The truth doesn’t matter, because the fact is—she’s gone. Your father died in battle, an honorable death. We lost them both. But we’re not our parents. Perhaps my father failed my mother in some way. I know that was the question that tormented him.”

“The poor man!” Amy’s heart bled for the late marquess. “Did he tell you that?”

“Once. Only once. But I don’t believe he failed her. My father was a conscientious lord, and he loved her. He raised me to be like him and take responsibility for what was mine. I had simply forgotten his teaching—until you so forcibly reminded me.” Jermyn took her fingers and lifted them to his lips. “You’re good for me.”

Sometimes families argue. That doesn’t mean that they should separate.
But she couldn’t say it, for hadn’t she done exactly that? Left Clarice in Scotland rather than insist they work things out?

And Jermyn wore a still expression, the sort that hid an anguish deeper than the sea. So to lift his spirits, she said in a saucy tone, “I always say chaining a man is a good way to deal with his stubbornness.”

“Do you?” His hands tightened. “I always say a smart wife knows when it’s time to stop talking and kiss her husband.”

He was challenging her to change the topic. To get his way.

She relished a challenge. Her sisters knew it. Rainger knew it. They’d been able to tease her into dragging them around the castle grounds in their little carriage, and walking the parapet three stories up over the courtyard. They’d all been thrashed for that, and Grandmamma, for all her age, had a strong arm and an unerring sense of justice.

Amy had seen lovers in villages and manors, and they always looked besotted. How hard could it be to kiss a man silly?

Pushing him flat on the grass, she applied her lips to his. The brim of her hat enclosed them in a dim world of his breath and her breath, his smile and her persuasion. Soft, warm, damp, his mouth opened under hers and she pursued his tongue with hers. The slow slide, the gentle touches, the heat of his body under hers; they worked like narcotics to turn her into a woman who found adventure within the confines of one man’s arms. It was a voyage she loved making. It was a voyage she loved taking him on.

With conscious coquetry, she pressed her breasts into his chest, reminding him how much he loved to caress her nipples. She massaged his shoulders, then with one hand sliding down his body, she found his erection and stroked it. The material of his trousers strained as their kiss deepened and changed from challenge to passion. Impulsive, irresistible, infinite passion.

They rolled over and over, bodies driven together by weight and need. The scent of crushed grass rose, heady and warm, and they kissed with mindless passion until they bumped into something…

Something that gave her a hard kick. A man’s cultured voice snarled, “How many times have I told you servants that you are not to use the gardens of Summerwind Abbey as your own private den of vice?” Amy found herself lifted off Jermyn by her collar.

The voice belonged to a tall man with a long, thin chin to match his long, thin nose and blue eyes set close together in peevish displeasure. “Girl, you’ll not roll around in the grass like a wanton while
I’m
butler at Summerwind Abbey, and you there—” The man looked down. He must have recognized Jermyn, for his voice rose like a little girl’s. “My lord! I didn’t realize…I didn’t know…please forgive my insolence…” The hand holding her gown shook with a distinct tremor.

Gazing down at Jermyn, Amy knew why. He looked like a man who’d been interrupted in the middle of coitus. He looked like a man who could kill.

Slowly he rose to his feet: taller than his butler, younger than his butler, and absolutely furious. “Walter, I would suggest you take your hand away from my—”

Wife.
She could see the word hovering on the tip of Jermyn’s tongue, and ruthlessly she interrupted. “Jermyn, you should commend Walter for his vigilance in watching over his staff and their virtue.”

“What?” Jermyn glared at her with red-rimmed, incensed eyes.

She glared back meaningfully.

His fury retreated enough to allow good sense to reign. “Oh. Yes. Of course I should. Still”—Jermyn plucked his butler’s hand from the back of Amy’s gown—“it would be best if Walter removed his hand from my fiancée.”

“Your…fiancée…my lord, I never imagined…is that why you went missing?” Walter blanched until Amy felt almost sorry for him. Almost. “I mean, my lord, we’ve been worried about you, especially Biggers…and I, of course, I was terrified for your safety.”

“As you should have been. I had been kidnapped. I’m sure you arranged a desperate search, but you can call it off now. I’m home.” Jermyn leaned into Walter’s face. “To stay.” He leaned back. “Now perhaps you’ll go and ask Mrs. Valentine to prepare a room for my dearest Princess Disdain.”

“Princess…?” Walter’s gaze darted over Amy’s miserable garb.

“Disdain,” Jermyn said again, and they watched as Walter backed away, bowing, then turned and hurried toward the house.

“So much for our idyll.” Jermyn looked to the sky, then out toward the island. The breeze lifted his hair off his forehead and tossed it around his face. “But it’s probably safer in the manor. There’s a storm brewing, a big one.” Taking her hand, he said, “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

Chapter 22

I
n the cottage, later that afternoon, Biggers took one look at Amy in her clean, pressed and absolutely dreadful leftover from Miss Victorine’s wardrobe, and his expression of horrified disbelief made Jermyn want to guffaw. But he held back his amusement while Biggers stammered, “If…if I might be so bold, Lady Northcliff…the carriage will be here soon to take you to Summerwind Abbey. The servants are anxiously anticipating meeting their new mistress. I dare say they’ll expect a little more than your usual…That is, your style is your own, unusual and versatile, but at this, the first formal presentation at your lord’s country seat, you might wish to freshen the…” His hands quivered in the air as he tried to think of a tactful way to criticize Amy’s attire.

Obviously, he failed, and his voice died away.

“Biggers, you’ll want to leave off calling me Lady Northcliff.” She sounded absolutely unruffled and her expression was no more than slightly interested. “Especially since Walter believes I’m Jermyn’s
future
wife.”

“Quite right, my lady. I believe I hear the carriage now.” Biggers cleared his throat and looked relieved.

“Biggers, you’ll stay behind and return the cottage to its previous state.” Jermyn helped Amy into her short, shabby cloak. He thought she looked lovely with her dark hair piled atop her head, her bonnet, now slightly crushed, perched atop her head, and her beautiful skin rosy from his lovemaking. “It’s imperative that no one know we were here this week or our tale of being engaged to be married will be ruined.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “So until the wedding ceremony in your chapel, we’ll be chaste?”

Her smile flirted and taunted, and he marveled at how quickly Amy had learned to entice. “There is an advantage with living in a building that was once an abbey.”

“What is that, Jermyn?” She pulled on her tattered gloves.

Biggers moaned softly.

“The place is riddled with secret passages,” Jermyn told her.

“But my lord! You’re not suggesting you’ll visit my bedchamber for a tryst?” She fluttered her lashes and tried to look shocked.

With a straight face, he replied, “Absolutely not! You’ve already proved your skill at sneaking into my bedchamber, so I thought you would come to mine.” She burst into laughter, a full-bodied peal of merriment. Taking his arm, she scolded, “Layabout!”

“Only with you, my bride. Only with you.”

At the door she halted. “Give me a minute, please.” Turning back, she stared at their honeymoon cottage, allowing her gaze to touch the stone fireplace where last night the flames had rollicked, the curtained bed where they’d explored each other, slept and woke to explore again, the drooping bouquet of flowers she’d gathered and put on the table. He heard her breath catch, saw her expression of aching melancholy.

She liked the simplicity of this place. It suited her, and he wondered, not for the first time, how she would adapt to the role of mistress to a great country estate.

Turning back, she walked with him into the bright sunshine.

The crest of the marquess of Northcliff graced the pristine white side of the open carriage. Inside, the wood trim gleamed and the black leather shone. The spirited team of chestnuts pranced as they waited, and the coachman and footman wore powdered wigs and a formal blue livery.

Jermyn was bringing his bride—or, some thought, his future bride—to his home, and he well knew the show he should make and the judgments that would be made based on that display.

“Milton is my loyal coachman,” Jermyn told Amy. Loyal, yes, and he’d been hurt even more than Jermyn during the accident that had broken Jermyn’s leg. When the carriage had rolled, Milton had taken a blow to the head which had rendered him unconscious for three days. He really shouldn’t be working yet, but Jermyn had needed him and Milton wouldn’t hear of anyone else taking his place.

Before Amy, Jermyn would have taken Milton’s loyalty for granted; now he planned a thank you in a sum large enough to enable Milton’s son to become a solicitor. “And Bill is my own footman. You can trust these lads with your life.” If anything went wrong with their plan for Uncle Harrison, she would need to know her allies.

Bill set the steps for Amy to climb inside, but she lingered on the ground, letting them get a good look at her. “Milton, Bill, thank you for taking such good care of his lordship for me.”

“M’lady.” Bill bowed.

“Miss Rosabel.” Milton tipped his hat.

She took Jermyn’s hand and stepped into the carriage. When Jermyn settled himself beside her, she said, “No one knows what to call me. We need to decide on the proper form, and heaven knows your elaborate English etiquette must have something to cover this occasion.”

“Did you not have forms of etiquette in Beaumontagne?”

“Indeed, but English high society has a barrage of rules, and I’ll never remember all of them.” She looked disgusted that she even had to try.

“We are a self-important bunch, aren’t we?” As Milton set the horses in motion, Jermyn leaned back and wrapped his arm around Amy’s shoulders. He hated to leave the cottage almost as much as she did. Even as they left, he made plans to return—and be alone with Amy once more. “I think we should call you ‘princess’ or rather—Your Highness.”

“A little ostentatious, don’t you think?” She inclined her head toward Milton and raised questioning brows.

“But it’s true, and you should be accorded the respect due royalty.”

“Exiled royalty is nothing but an embarrassment. No, my lord, I prefer ‘Miss Rosalyn.’”

“As you wish, my dear.” He was well-aware of his servants’ listening ears, and he knew that although both were loyal to him, that wouldn’t discourage them from spreading gossip—gossip which this time he wished to spread. Satisfied that his intention had been a success, he pointed out to her the sights of the estate: the gardens, the paths, the ancient oaks and rimming the estate, the cliffs that dropped off to the restless sea. She asked about the history of the area, and he kept up a light chatter.

Yet the air felt still and stale with the scent of salty ocean and old shipwrecks. The horses whinnied unhappily as if sensing nature’s gathering wrath, and Milton utilized all his skill to handle them.

Jermyn scanned the sky and a shiver ran down his spine as if someone had walked on his grave. The leading clouds had a thin, stretched, ragged appearance, followed by bulbous puffs sagging across the blue. On the horizon, like an ominous hand, a dark line rose with the speed of a runaway horse.

Jermyn had seen his share of storms, but never a storm like this.

Amy had grown up far away and seemed mercifully unaware. In a teasing tone, she said, “I don’t know why you marquesses of Northcliff call this Summerwind. The wind blew all winter, too.” The breeze picked up, plucking tendrils of her hair from beneath her bonnet and tossed them in circles.

“Year-round-wind takes too long to say.” As the road meandered toward the house, it skirted close to the sea. The waves gnashed at the rocks, growing wilder under the impetus of the gathering gale. “We’re almost there. Around this next bend, you’ll have your first view of the house. Or rather—the view of the house the guests are supposed to see.”

She leaned forward as the horses took the corner.

“Summerwind Abbey is a great rabbit hutch of a place.” He scanned the building, looking it over as he always did when he approached. “A little medieval, mainly Tudor and Stuart, with one wing of Georgian sticking out like a sore toe. Architecturally, it’s hideous.”

“And you love it,” she said shrewdly.

“Yes. I admit I do. For a long time, I didn’t allow myself to remember that, but all those hours I spent alone with just a manacle reminded me of what was important in my life.” Picking up her hand, he kissed the fingers. “And what is important in my life, I offer to you.”

“Thank you.” But her gaze slipped away from his, then rose, then slipped away again.

He thought…he hoped she wanted to ask
For how long?
Then he would say
For as long as you like.

But the silence between them grew until she giggled and said, “You really owe me a lot for locking you up. It’s improved your character immensely.”

She didn’t giggle well. It wasn’t in her character and it showed him only too clearly the fight he had ahead to keep her with him. He smiled as she wished him to do and said, “I’ll give you what’s coming to you. Don’t worry about that.”

She grinned at him, obviously relieved that their conversation had returned to safe waters.

The carriage pulled up to the front steps. The servants were lined up in order of rank with Walter and the housekeeper at the front and the scullery maid at the back.

“Here we go.” Jermyn patted Amy’s hand. “There’s no need to be nervous. Walter’s a louse that needs to be wiped out, but the rest of the servants will be delighted to meet their future lady.”

As the footman set the steps, she flashed Jermyn an ironic glance. “Nervous? I’m not nervous. Resigned would be a better word.”

He didn’t understand what she meant until he descended and offered her his hand. Then he saw it.

The mantle of royalty settled on her shoulders. Her lips curved gently. She stepped gracefully from the carriage and thanked him in a warm, throaty voice. She placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her to the head of the line, repeating each name as he introduced her. She engaged each servant in a glance that expressed personal concern and interest. Yes, she wore clothes so old and worn as to be threadbare, but it wasn’t her gown that they noticed. It was her manner; this woman, Jermyn realized, had made many an arrival at stately homes and palaces, arrivals in which she was the center of attention. She’d learned how to make anyone she met respect her.

He had believed her when she told him she was a princess; it was the only reasonable explanation for her education, her manner and her pride.

But he hadn’t seen her in action before. He hadn’t had the proof ram him in the gut.

Like his mother, his wife was foreign, but unlike his mother, Amy was born to rule. And although he tried to shake the thought away, it shadowed this bright moment of triumph.

If duty called, an English lord could scarcely hold a Beaumontagne princess.

15 May 1810

Mon Cher Uncle,

Glorious news! I have escaped the clutches of the evil villains who abducted me for their own gains and am now free! I know you rejoice with me and will attend as a guest at the house party I am throwing to celebrate my thirtieth birthday! Which, by the by, is going to cost more than I had anticipated. The invitations to all the right people, the necessary expense of food and drink, and of course the salaries of the increased staff. Therefore, kindest, dearest uncle, I
request demand
require an advance on my yearly allowance. As much as the fortune can afford right now, please.

Perhaps you have heard tales of my losses in gambling; however, let me assure you those are rumors of the most vile sort, a mere tempest in a teapot, and absolutely untrue. In addition, I am sure I will recover the moneys without having to use Summerwind Abbey as a stake. Please assign my allowance to my account at once. I look forward to seeing you the tenth of June for the festivities, and rest assured that as my only surviving relative, you’ll be treated with the highest honors.

Your most loving and faithful nephew,
Jermyn Edmondson
The most honorable and noble marquess of Northcliff

Harrison Edmondson burst into laughter. It rang through the emptiness of his office.

Outside the door, his footman cringed and covered his ears.

Harrison rubbed his hands together. Why, the little pustule had a brain after all! Who would have thought it? All was clear now.

Northcliff had arranged his own kidnapping because he needed money. Very clever in the general run of things, for certainly most uncles would be fond enough to send the ransom.

Harrison frowned. Why wasn’t Northcliff screaming his silly little head off that his
cher uncle
hadn’t sent the ransom?

Harrison’s face cleared. Because Northcliff didn’t know enough about his cash holdings to realize he could have ten thousand pounds immediately, and much, much more when the factories and estates were tapped.

He frowned again. But as Northcliff reminded him, his thirtieth birthday was rapidly approaching and nothing had been accomplished in the way of eliminating him. None of the people he had hired to kill the little pustule had succeeded—not the assassin, not the carriage driver, not the butler who stuffed the barrels of Northcliff’s gun collection. This incompetence proved one axiom was true.

If you want something done right, do it yourself.

Harrison called his valet and ordered his bags packed for a house party at Summerwind Abbey. Then, thankful for his unusual hobby, he chose a variety of weapons to use on his nephew…whenever opportunity presented itself.