The Barefoot Princess (9 page)

“No! Dear boy, you’re the m…marquess of Northcliff.” A big tear ran down Miss Victorine’s face and plopped into the dirt. “You should be d…dining on beefsteak and strawberries, not dirty b…buns.”

“The one thing I’ve enjoyed during my imprisonment is the chance to eat simple foods.” He took a hearty bite and discovered he hadn’t brushed off enough of the dirt. It ground between his teeth. Gamely he ignored the grit and tried for a little flattery. “I have missed your cooking, Miss Victorine.”

She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “I told her you were a nice boy. I
told
her.”

He chewed and smiled with all the charm of which he was capable. But it seemed Miss Victorine was not comforted and Jermyn realized his charm felt rusty, like a commodity he doled out too seldom.

“Miss Victorine.”

She looked up, and in her eyes he saw no sign of madness or senility. But there was loneliness and a sadness so old and deep, he wondered that he hadn’t recognized it before.

“Miss Victorine.” With his hand under her arm, he helped her to her feet. “This evening you should bring your shuttle down and show me how to make beaded lace.”

“You don’t really care about making lace.” The pieces of the broken cup caught her attention, and her lip trembled.

“Probably not, but I do care about your company. It’s lonely down here, Miss Victorine, and it would seem I’m to be here for quite a few more days.” He dragged the appeal from the depths of his shriveled, selfish heart. “Won’t you spend your evenings with me?”

Miss Victorine perked up, then grew silent and sad again.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

In a soft, disappointed voice, she asked, “What about Amy?”

“She can come, too.” And if it killed him, he would be polite.

For Miss Victorine’s sake.

“So.” Jermyn struggled with the tiny, palm-sized shuttle, miles of fine twine and dozens of tiny beads. His fingers were too big. Too clumsy. His rough skin snagged the thread. And if any one of his friends in London saw him sitting in the cellar with two women and a cat, doing handwork, they would laugh so hard he’d fear for the cleanliness of their linens. “What do you plan to do next?”

“About you, you mean?” Amy pointed at his beading. “You missed a stitch.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Let me see.” Miss Victorine placed her glasses on her nose, leaned close to the light, held the lace at arms’ length, and squinted.

He grinned at her maneuverings. “Miss Victorine, you need new glasses.”

“Yes, dear, that’s probably true. There.” She pointed. “Unravel to there and start again, and you’ll be just right.”

“See?” Amy muttered under her breath.

He grunted, unraveled, and started the painful process of making lace with tiny beads…again.

This evening the two of them were painfully civil, speaking in even tones, politely, and avoiding each other’s gazes. It was easier for him if he didn’t look at her; in that manner, he kept lust and fury in check.

“She can’t afford new glasses,” Amy said. “That’s something she’ll buy when we get the ransom.”

“Uncle Harrison isn’t going to pay the ransom.” Jermyn could scarcely contain his irritation. “Remember?”

“Today I wrote another letter to Mr. Edmondson reducing the ransom.” Amy smiled as if she were confident in her strategy. “He’ll pay it now.”

“You reduced the ransom?” Incredulously, he repeated, “You reduced the ransom?”

“That’s what I said.” Amy worked the beading quickly and efficiently. “Just hours ago, I delivered the letter to your home and left it where the butler would find it. I saw a messenger ride toward Mr. Edmondson’s house—”

“You reduced the ransom? As if I were an unwanted
hat?
Or an old hunting dog? Or a stained handkerchief?”

“More like the old hunting dog than anything else,” Amy said pertly.

He tensed, ready to snap back.

“Amy!” Miss Victorine reproved. “You promised!”

“Sorry,” Amy muttered.

“Not a hat, my lord.” Miss Victorine shifted the cat on her lap. “Nothing so inconsequential. We made a small adjustment in our demands so Harrison could collect the moneys.”

“Uncle Harrison has no need to
collect
the moneys,” Jermyn said scornfully. “I’ve allowed him to handle the family fortune.”

“We believe he’s invested it in factories and is short on cash,” Amy said in that even tone that signified she had regained control.

“Ludicrous!” Jermyn answered.

“Then why didn’t he pay your ransom?” Amy asked in a sweetly reasonable tone.

Jermyn didn’t know the answer to that. He had read the letter. He didn’t understand Uncle Harrison’s almost goading tone, or his glib refusal to give in to death threats.

Jermyn had begun to wonder if he understood anything.

“Never mind, my lord.” Amy offered him false consolation. “In a mere three days, you’ll be free.”

Chapter 10

H
arrison Edmondson waved the messenger out of his office, then opened the second letter with trembling eagerness. He read the note, and his anticipatory glow was extinguished like a candle flame. “Why am I constantly surrounded by bunglers? Why is it so hard to commit one simple little murder?” He pulled out a new sheet of paper, uncorked his ink, and wrote an answer designed to infuriate his nephew’s captors.

This time, they had better do the job they had promised they would do.

Amy scanned the sheet, then lowered it in despair. “He won’t pay the ransom.”

As if Pom had expected exactly this, he nodded. “Well. Got t’ go t’ the pub.” He donned his hat and his damp wool coat. “Me wife’s working there and I need me supper.” He strode out of Miss Victorine’s kitchen into an evening filled with a gray mist and lowering clouds.

Amy stared after him. He had accepted the news stoically, while she wanted to shriek and pound her fists on the table. What was Mr. Edmondson thinking? Never had Amy imagined such callous indifference to the fate of a man who was, in fact, a very important lord—and Mr. Edmondson’s own nephew! “What are we going to do now?”

“Let His Lordship go.” Miss Victorine sat at the well-scrubbed kitchen table, her hands folded in her lap. By all appearances, it seemed this refusal presented no surprise to Miss Victorine, either.

Nor, truth to tell, was Amy particularly astonished. The first time, she had been shocked and stunned. But she’d spent three days dreading this exact moment, and now she saw no recourse but to forge ahead. Far too loudly, she said, “We will not let Lord Northcliff go!” Then she moderated her tone. “We can’t. We’ll hang.”

“He wouldn’t hang me.” Miss Victorine sounded very sure.

“He would hang me.” Amy was equally sure.

Through the open cellar door, she heard Northcliff holler in a false reasonable tone, “Miss Amy, could I see you for a moment?”

“How does he do that?” Amy exploded. “Know that I’m up here and news has arrived?”

“He told me he can tell who’s up here by the creaking of the floorboards.” Miss Victorine stood, picked up Coal, cradled the big cat in her arms, and said, “It’s time for our nap. Wake us when you’re done.” By that she meant that Amy had gotten them into this, and Amy was responsible for dealing with the unruly lord imprisoned in their cellar.

Amy supposed that was just. But she didn’t like it. “I’ll tell him.” She slapped the letter down. “But I’m not carrying any crockery down with me this time.”

“That is the best plan. I haven’t a lot of china left.” Miss Victorine limped toward her bedroom as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

Amy stood. She shook the creases out of her skirt, and checked her bodice to make sure that the neckline remained high enough to hide all glimpse of cleavage from Northcliff.

Of course she wasn’t indecent. This was one of Miss Victorine’s old gowns, but even the most discreet bodice could gape and somehow show more than she intended. Picking up her shawl, she wrapped it around her shoulders and secured it at her waist. Over the last two days she’d developed these habits, for while she and Northcliff had exchanged no more of those improper conversations, and Northcliff had taken care to keep his licentious opinions to himself, she still felt…uncomfortable in his presence. Something about him made her…cautious.

Restless.

Sleepless.

Breathless.

He no longer spoke of his desire, but some stirring female intuition suspected he experienced it, and reluctantly she acknowledged that she felt odd, too. Uncomfortable. Sort of like she had indigestion. She frequently found herself glancing at him out of the corners of her eyes, and just as frequently found his gaze on her. When he spoke to her, the tone of his voice made her want to squirm and smirk like some flirtatious schoolgirl. It was all very awkward, and she hated feeling awkward. She hated feeling anything—toward him.

The first time she’d seen him, she’d wanted nothing more than to capture him, get the ransom, and depart with Miss Victorine. She hadn’t thought about him at all except as a lousy, miserable creature and a means to an end.

Now it seemed she could do nothing except think of him.

She certainly couldn’t get rid of him.

And when she did, she feared she would never forget him.

Life had been so simple before she met Jermyn Edmondson, the marquess of Northcliff.

Last time she had received a ransom refusal, she had descended into the cellar with trepidation.

This time she descended in defiance. Northcliff sat propped up on two pillows, pretending to read a book, but she knew, she
felt
his attention on her. She stopped at the other end of the long table and shook her finger at him. “Lord Northcliff! What kind of vexious nephew have you been that your uncle doesn’t care whether you live or die?”

Northcliff looked up at her. She couldn’t read what he was thinking in his expression or in his eyes. In fact, he seemed preternaturally calm. “Jermyn,” he said.

“What?” What was he talking about?

“My name is Jermyn.” He put the book down on the edge of the table. “And I have a great desire to have you call me by my name.”

She hadn’t expected that response, and the unexpected made her uneasy. He knew today was the day they would hear back from Mr. Edmondson. He should be demanding news of his release. Instead he wanted to chat?

She inched closer to him, staring and wondering if the long stretch of inactivity had taken its toll on his wits. “My lord, your name is of no interest to me.”

“Really? That’s odd, Lady Disdain, because
your
name is of great interest to me.” He lounged against the blankets, his mahogany hair an attractive mess. “Might I know it?”

“You know my name.” What was this new interest he showed in identifying her?

Had he somehow stumbled onto the secret of her past?

But no. That was impossible. He’d been hidden here for six days. He had no way to discover anything.

She glanced toward the stairs.

Unless Miss Victorine had spoken. But Miss Victorine had sworn she would be discreet, and Amy trusted her.

“Your real surname, please.” He spoke crisply, a man who expected to be obeyed.

“No.” Heavens, no.

“What do you fear?”

What did she fear?
She feared returning to Beaumontagne to a life of stultifying propriety and a mismatched marriage. She feared an assassin’s bullet. She feared having to leave Miss Victorine for her safety.

In an odd way, she feared Jermyn and his influence on her, because he made her want different things than she had ever wanted before. “My lord, I fear nothing.” She smiled to cover the lie. “I have news about your release. May I continue?”

“Do.” He waved a negligent hand. “Pray, do.” He was chained to the bed in the basement of a cottage on the isle of Summerwind. His clothing was in shambles. His jaw, a jaunty, determined edifice, sported a scruffy beard. Yet he managed to exude a kind of noble command that overcame his crude surroundings and his ignoble situation. How did he do it?

And why was she impressed?

“Your uncle again has refused to pay the ransom.”

“How could you have imagined that a silly girl like you could successfully blackmail the marquess of Edmondson or his agent?”

At his condescending tone, her hostility leaped to life. “My scheme is sound, it’s you and your uncle who’re twisted. And what do you mean, calling me a silly girl?”

“You
are
a silly girl. You don’t understand the forces you’ve unleashed.” He smiled with such confidence, she itched to slap his face. “Move a little closer and I’ll show you.”

Trust him to direct this quarrel toward the physical awareness that vibrated between them. “What a cad you are. You distrust women.”

“Why would I distrust women?” He sneered like a man bred for sneering. “Perhaps because they kidnap and imprison me?”

She waved a dismissive hand.
“I
did that. I am not a typical well-bred English female, so to use me as an example is to avoid the question—and that makes the answer obvious. You don’t like women.”

“A man who uses females for companionship is a man who exposes himself to anguish.”

“Anguish?” She didn’t know what to make of his cool comment.

“Men and women are different. Women are careless, bright, and beautiful creatures created to break a man’s heart. In a man’s world, the sky is blue and a vow is eternal. In a woman’s world—” He shook his head, and his sneer became a grimace, pained and directed—at himself. “I’ve never had a peek at a woman’s world, so I don’t know the color of the sky. But I do know that for a female, no vow is eternal.”

“I don’t understand.” She did understand that they’d moved beyond the easy quarrel into something more. Something anguished. Something personal.

He leaned toward her. “When you were a child, did your mother tell you she loved you?”

“My mother died at my birth.”

“Fortunate you.” He relaxed back against the pillows.

Shocked, she said, “My lord, that is cruel.”

“No, trust me, it’s the truth. You don’t realize how lucky you are, and that probably explains why you’re so intelligent, daring, interesting—so different from the usual run of female.”

“I’m not flattered.”

“You should be. You may be wild and outspoken, but I know when you speak, no matter how much I hate it, you’ll speak the truth. I watch you with Miss Victorine, and I know that when you give your loyalty, your loyalty is undying.”

“I suppose.” She inched away.

He sounded half mad, speaking feverishly and watching her with eyes that glowed golden with intensity.

“Do you know my mother used to take me on her knee and tell me that she loved me? She put me to bed every night with a story, and woke me every morning with a kiss. She made sure I was happy, protected, carefree.”

“She sounds lovely.” Although his tone told her a different story.

“She was. The most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. The one woman my father ever loved. Some people called her a foreigner—she was Italian, from an impoverished family, a mad choice my father made on his grand tour, but she charmed everyone with her auburn hair and brown eyes and vibrant laugh. She was so kind, such a loving mother, so much in love with my father. All the other women wore subdued colors, but not my mother. She wore reds, beautiful rich hues that would have made any other woman look washed out and pale. She gave the most wonderful parties, and at one of them I heard some of the noble ladies gossiping. They said she rode a gelding too big and fast for her, that she flaunted herself. They said the way she dressed indicated a light mind and an immoral disposition. I was seven. I didn’t understand what they meant, but I knew I didn’t like their tone, so I ran into the drawing room and attacked them. I kicked one old besom right in the shin.” Northcliff’s intensity arched through space toward Amy like light made visible. “When I told my father what had happened, he laughed and kissed me on the top of the head.”

“Good for you.” She liked the idea of the childish Jermyn and his fevered defense of his mother.

“It was the last time I ever heard him laugh,” Northcliff said flatly. “The last time he showed me anything but formal affection.”

Somehow during this conversation the two of them had edged into something more than the razor-sharp repartee that had marked their moments together. Or had the change happened more slowly, over six days of enforced intimacy, over evenings spent in a ill-lit cellar reading, beading, talking?

What was it Miss Victorine had said about Lady Northcliff?
We lost her when Jermyn was seven.

Yet faced with a hard-eyed lord, Amy suspected Miss Victorine had avoided awkward explanation and a painful memory. “My lord, what happened to your mother?”

“When I was seven years old, she ran away with our foreign agent.”

“What?” Amy shook her head in bewilderment. “But you said she was kind and a loving mother and in love with your father.”

“It would appear my childish affection misled me.”

“I don’t
believe
that. You
couldn’t
have been so wrong.”

“No? Yet she is gone.” Northcliff’s bored tone hid his pain, but he couldn’t conceal the bleakness in his eyes. “In all my life I’ve never heard another word from her.”

“I don’t believe you!” She couldn’t stand such an ending to the fairy tale of the beautiful, kind, devoted mother.

“My parents fought that day. I had never heard them raise their voices, but they did then. I couldn’t understand them—I was outside the door—but Father was very angry, cold, and cutting, and Mama was passionate, fiery, arguing as if her very existence depended upon winning…the next thing I knew, she had taken her horse and ridden the road to the harbor.” Northcliff recited the tale softly, not really understanding what had prompted him to reveal himself to Amy. Not that she wouldn’t have heard the story if she remained here long enough—he was surprised she hadn’t heard it yet—but to no one had he ever revealed his feelings. What was it about this girl that made him rattle on? “Our ship was there. Mama was seen speaking to our foreign agent. He boarded, taking her with him. They told the captain she would be disembarking before they sailed. But she never came home. She left me. She left my father. She never came home.”

“I don’t believe it,” Amy repeated. “How could a woman who loved her son and her husband leave without a backward glance?”

“I’ve wondered that a thousand times. I have only two possible answers. She didn’t really love us.” He watched Lady Disdain closely as he offered his second theory. “Or else all women are flighty and disloyal.”

Amy didn’t even stop to think. “That’s stupid. Both of your theories are stupid.”

“What do you mean, stupid?”

Amy stood within the reach of his arms, daring him to grab her, to shake her, to offer her violence. And he was ready to do just that. In the six days since he’d been taken, he had walked to the end of his chain countless times. He had beaded two inches of lace. For the sake of Miss Victorine, he had had civilized conversation with this she-devil. He had even done the exercises the doctor recommended—lifting his injured leg in the air, turning his foot in circles, pressing it to his chest.