The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (15 page)

He considered what he and Mitchell would have talked about in such a setting . . . almost anywhere. “Women.”

She met his gaze. After a moment said, “There must be other subjects of passing interest to males.”

“Horses. Gaming. None of which a tutor would discuss with his charge.”

The serving woman appeared with their plates and pint pots. For several minutes, silence reigned while they sampled the tavern's offerings, and discovered them palatable enough.

“I know,” Angelica said, struck by inspiration. “You can tell me about the goblet—about why it's so valuable to those bankers.”

He hesitated, then said, “You know of Sir Walter Scott, the novelist?” When she nodded, he went on, “Scott is a patriotic Scotsman, and in '18, was also great friends with Prinny, who at that time was in dire need of something—anything—to appease the populace. Scott, like my father, had an obsession, in his case centering on the Regalia of Scotland, also known as the Scottish Honours. The regalia dates from James IV's time, but had been lost early in the eighteenth century, roughly a hundred years ago. No one had taken it—it had simply been misplaced and no one knew where it was. The history of the regalia appealed to Prinny—when Cromwell ruled, he specifically set out to destroy all the regalia, the symbols of monarchy. He melted down the English regalia, and all the other royal crowns he could find, then came north to seize the Scottish Honours, but he never found them. But the regalia was only hidden—it promptly resurfaced after the Restoration, and was used for many state occasions at Scone and Edinburgh, but then . . . nothing more was known of it.”

Dominic paused to scoop up the last mouthful of his pie, chewed, swallowed, then went on, “Scott was convinced the regalia had simply been put away in Edinburgh Castle, and all those who knew where had died. He convinced Prinny to mount a thorough search of the castle—a massive undertaking—and the regalia was discovered in an old chest in a long-forgotten robing room. Prinny was in alt—he now had the oldest surviving British regalia restored to the Crown. There was much made of it at the time, which helped a trifle in balancing the public's view of their regent, at least for a while.”

“I remember something of that.” She waited while he downed a draft of his ale, then prompted, “How does that connect with the goblet?”

“The regalia found by Scott comprised the crown, the scepter, and the sword. What was missing was the coronation cup.”

“The goblet.” She only just remembered to keep her voice low.

He shot her a warning glance, then nodded. “It's a jewel-encrusted goblet of solid gold, about eight inches high. Centuries ago, the cup had been entrusted to Beauly Priory, which is near Guisachan lands, and during an upheaval within the church in the late sixteenth century, the cup was passed to my ancestors for safekeeping. The cup remained with my family throughout the subsequent turmoil, then later, after the Restoration, it was called for whenever it was required to complete the regalia for a state occasion, but was always returned to us. We became the protectors of the cup, and the charge placed upon us was that we should only hand it over to complete the regalia. During the years the rest of the regalia was lost, we held the cup.

“But although we had it, we more or less forgot about it as it was never called for, not for over a hundred years. When the rest of the regalia was rediscovered, no one knew to send for the cup. I knew it existed, but along with my father, I saw no need to hand it over to shore up public support for an unpopular Sassenach prince.”

“Naturally not.”

He paused, then said, “My father's scheme was inspired in a way. We would have surrendered the cup at some point, but he saw the potential and, sure enough, the bankers he contacted were so keen to get into the good graces of the ex-regent, now George IV, that they were happy to hand over a massive sum just to have the chance, at some point, of presenting the king with the Scottish coronation cup, a goblet very few people know exists, to complete the regalia George now holds so dear.”

She stared at him. “That's an amazing story.”

He sipped his ale, then drained the pot.

“One thought.” She met his gaze as he set down the pot. “If we need more time to reclaim the original, would it be possible to make a replica and give that to the bankers, to hold them off?”

“If we had the original to copy from, perhaps a duplicate could be made, but even then the pieces of the regalia are all of similar vintage. Trying to match gold that old, let alone the jewels . . .” His lips set. “Regardless, we don't have the original, and once we do, we won't need a copy.” He nodded to her pint pot, from which she'd barely sipped. “We should go. If you've finished?”

When she nodded, he tossed coins on the table, then rose.

Remembering her guise, she immediately rose, too, then followed him to the door.

T
hey walked east along the river to Tower Bridge. There, Dominic surrendered to Angelica's pleading, and they took a boat from under the bridge's southern end to Greenwich. The park around the observatory was filled with nurses, governesses, and tutors escorting their charges on outings in the fresh air, but none of those present were from society's elite.

As they strolled along the paths, Dominic gradually relaxed—a little. Enough to turn some of his attention to his supposed charge. After watching her for a while, he murmured, “You're improving.”

Pacing alongside him, her hands clasped behind her, she responded with a tip of her down-bent head.

They strolled for nearly an hour. Courtesy of various comments and observations, he learned that, despite appearances, she'd been a tomboy and could skip stones over water better than most males. She could also fly a kite; after helping three youngsters untangle the strings of theirs, she showed them how to get the kite aloft, then make it swoop, soar, and swoop again.

Watching from a distance, he saw the children's joy, heard their delighted squeals, switched his gaze to Angelica's face, and felt his heart clench. The ability to enjoy simple pleasures was a facility to treasure. It was one he had lost, but he knew its worth.

Something shifted inside him, settling deeper, more definitely anchored.

A Cynster princess who knew her own strengths, her own worth, who was willful, headstrong, fearless, and a tomboy to boot . . . guarding such a lady, protecting her from all harm, would never be a simple matter.

Eventually leaving the three children, she returned to his side. His inner self approved.

“Well. Now what?” Beneath her hat, her cheeks were aglow, her eyes bright.

Strolling on, he considered. She hadn't made any stupid mistakes. And while he sensed she was aware of his protective streak, of the tension that gripped him whenever she did anything potentially dangerous, she hadn't played the tease but instead had toed any line he'd drawn, accepting his strictures, at least as long as they'd appeared reasonable to her.

And despite that moment of flaring desire in the hackney, she hadn't retaliated. He'd expected her to, but she'd made no move to pay him back. Perhaps because she, too, was susceptible to that unsettling leap of pulse, that disconcerting distraction; she couldn't distract him without distracting herself. She hadn't tried but had instead remained focused on learning how to pass as a youth.

He was still feeling his way with her, learning how to deal with her. Dealing with another as an almost-equal wasn't something he'd had to do often, much less on a daily basis. All things considered, he suspected that this was a moment to give a little.

Glancing at her, he murmured, “As your disguise has improved so much, is there anywhere you'd like to go that you could only go if disguised as a youth?”

Beneath the brim of her hat, he caught a glimpse of shining eyes. “Oh, yes—indeed there is.”

T
he pit at the Theatre Royal late that afternoon was a seething, shifting mass of men and youths, with the occasional prostitute thrown in for good measure. Cheers erupted on all sides when the heroine or hero trod the stage; when the villain appeared, boos and hisses abounded.

Dominic stood more or less in the middle of the good-natured, jostling throng gathered to watch the late matinee performance. Angelica, hat crammed low over her brow, stood directly before him, shielded from the worst of the press, but clearly visible from three sides.

The only positive in their position was that all eyes were fixed on the stage. Except for his. He continually scanned the crowd, alert for any sign that someone had noted the unusually fine skin of the youth in front of him, or that said “youth's” eyes were uncommonly fine, with long curling lashes, and a brightness to them that was inherently . . . not just effeminate but feminine. Or that the youth's lips left the question of gender beyond doubt.

Thus far, the lure of the stage had won out.

He had no idea what the play was about. The risk of discovery, and the likely result if anyone did realize that a lady in disguise stood in their midst, was more than enough to fill his mind. To have every instinct on high alert, and turn every muscle to steel.

His mind wasn't so much in thinking mode as reacting mode. Ready to react to the danger when it flared. And he couldn't even lay the blame for his state at her boot-shod feet.

He'd brought this on himself. Jaw set, he silently swore he would never again fall into that trap. Next time he would inquire as to her wishes without making any, even implied, open agreement. Her desire to visit the pit at Drury Lane had stunned him, but he'd gone too far to retract; he'd already complimented her on her much improved disguise.

So here he was, stiff as a post in every way, with every nerve alert and tension literally thrumming through him.

The play must have reached some critical point; engrossed, the crowd surged forward, pressing closer to the stage. He stood like a rock and the crowd parted on either side, leaving Angelica protected from the jostling flow, but as the crowd before her thickened, it pushed her back. She edged back, and back, then, on a smothered gasp, she was shoved back—and plastered against him.

He tried to step back, but there were multiple shoulders locked behind him, and on either side; courtesy of the surge of humanity, he was trapped, too.

Angelica caught her breath and tried to ease away from the male body scorching her back, but the crowd before them grew even more dense, pressing her even more firmly against him. She tried to edge sideways—

“
Don't
.
Move
.”

The words, gritted out through clenched teeth, froze her; his voice had dropped to such a gravelly growl that she'd only just made them out.

Drawing in a tight breath, she stayed where she was and, with outward calm, continued to stare toward the stage while her senses rioted.

His body was rock-hard. All of it. When he'd manhandled her during her kidnap, she'd noticed the hardness of his chest, the solidity of his shoulders, but . . . this was hardness of quite a different stripe.

This was arousal. His thighs were granite pillars on either side of hers, his erection a solid ridge against her lower back. She was pressed against him from shoulders to knees, which presumably explained why he didn't want her shifting; as she understood things, his present condition might be bordering on the painful, and her sliding against him would only make matters worse.

So she stayed where she was, only to discover that being plastered against him affected her, too. He felt scaldingly hot, and that heat transferred to her. She grew increasingly warm, as if subtle flames were spreading beneath her skin. And that skin somehow grew more sensitive, until any little shift of her clothing registered as a sensual abrasion. As for her breasts, they swelled beneath the band she'd used to restrain them . . . until she was in discomfort, if not pain, too.

Until the question of how long she could bear it and
not
move became a very real concern . . .

In unison, the crowd let out a long sigh, then a second later, erupted with whoops and cheers, followed by rowdy applause.

Finally, after another interminable few minutes, the curtain swished closed, and the play was at an end.

“Stay where you are.”

Another order from above, but in the next instant the big doors at both sides of the pit opened and the crowd started to stream away to either side.

The instant the pressure of bodies eased, Dominic stepped back and ended the torture.

As the departing crowd thinned, he tweaked Angelica's sleeve. Head down, she fell into step alongside him; together they joined the rear of the departing horde.

They stepped outside into deepening dusk. He glanced at her face, despite the fading light saw the bloom of a blush still high in her cheeks, washing down the side of her throat . . . she'd been as affected as he.

Hauling his mind from dwelling on that, he scanned their surroundings, then halted.

She looked around as if enthralled by the hackneys and the noise and confusion. “Well! That was an adventure.”

He cast her a look, waited until she glanced up and met it. “The next time I take you to the theater, we'll be getting a private box.”

He held her gaze for an instant, then looked around, forcing his mind to deal with the moment, to gauge their chances of grabbing a hackney.

“Come on.” He stepped out along the pavement heading toward Covent Garden; there would be plenty of hackneys there. “The others will be wondering where we've got to.”

He was wondering the same thing.

A
hackney proved hard to come by, but eventually they returned to the mews in Bury Street. Dominic held open the gate in the garden wall, then followed Angelica up the path to the house.

It was past eight o'clock when they entered the servants' hall. Brenda and Mulley were sitting at the table; both rose as Dominic and Angelica appeared.