The Perfect Princess (19 page)

“Sit,” said Harper, pointing to a chair beside the fire.

When Richard was seated, a bowl was thrust into his hands. “I’m not hungry,” he said.

“Good, because I’m not offering you anything to eat. That’s gravy, beef gravy. That should settle your stomach. And you’ve got to have something. Lady Rosamund says you’ve hardly eaten for two days.”

Richard stared at his bowl, then looked at the door that led to the hall and Rosamund’s room. Harper was talking as though Rosamund were an ally, and that didn’t make sense to him.

Harper took the chair opposite and took up his own bowl: beef stew, thick and tender, the way he liked it.
When Richard made to set his bowl aside, Harper said testily, “I don’t think you knows how lucky you is.” He jabbed with his spoon, indicating the door to the hall. “That girl has worn herself to the bone to save your life. She’s done as much—more—than I could do if I’d been here, and as we both know, I’ve had plenty of practice on the battlefields of Spain. She brought your fever down; your wound smells clean; she made you drink kettles of weak tea and did other unmentionable things that we won’t go into because it would only embarrass her. And this is how you repay her? You’re not out of the woods yet. So act the man, and get that gravy down you. And if it stays down, then we’ll see about supper.”

Richard’s eyes were fixed on Harper.

His chief’s expression, Harper thought humorously, was oddly touching, shades of disbelief and horror. Eyes twinkling, Harper said, “Aye, there was no one else here to take care of you, so Lady Rosamund did whatever was necessary, as if you was her own brother, she said.”

“And where the devil were
you?”
asked Richard, scowling. Impressions were flitting in and out of his mind. He’d known someone was nursing him, but he’d thought that someone was Harper.
Rosamund?
he thought, and a curious lump lodged in his throat.

“I told you. The militia slowed me down.”

Richard stared at the beef gravy, and after a moment put a spoonful to his mouth. Harper’s words and his own impressions were still revolving in his mind. After taking several spoonfuls of gravy, he looked over at Harper. “If you weren’t here, why didn’t she leave when she had the chance? Why did she stay and nurse me?”

“She did leave you, but she came back.” Harper offered Richard a thick slice of bread, which he absently accepted. “She thinks you’re innocent, you see, and she doesn’t want to see you hang.”

Richard gave Harper another fixed stare. “She thinks I’m innocent?”

“That’s what she said.” Harper chuckled. “I’m as amazed as you. But there’s no saying how females gets these odd ideas in their heads.”

“I
am
innocent.”

“Yes, but what I’m asking myself is what you did or said to convince Lady Rosamund of it.”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Well, we knows it wasn’t your charm, because you don’t have any. So it’s just as I said. Women get these strange notions, and there’s no explaining it.”

Richard chewed on the bread and sipped the beef gravy without being aware of what he was doing. He knew he must be terribly ill, because he was beginning to feel maudlin again.

“Would you like more?” asked Harper, removing the empty bowl from Richard’s hands.

Richard shook his head. “Did Rosamund make the stew as well?”

Harper stared. “Hardly. She’s a duke’s daughter, remember? She knows how to boil water, and that’s about it.”

“Then how does she know so much about doctoring?”

“Horses,” said Harper succinctly.

Richard’s brows rose. “Horses?”

“In the duke’s stables. That’s what she told me. Seems like a Devere would be ashamed not to tend his own cattle when they falls sickly. You was lucky you didn’t break a leg, or she might have been tempted to put you out of your misery. Permanently.”

As his shoulders began to shake, Richard pressed his right arm hard against his chest to ease the ache. “No, not Rosamund,” he said. “she is incapable of hurting anyone.”

His chief’s expression, his tone of voice, and his way of referring to Lady Rosamund by only her Christian name had Harper’s mind buzzing. If he hadn’t known
better, he told himself, he’d be half convinced that a little romance was brewing here. But he knew that couldn’t be the case, because he knew his chief too well. Though the colonel never lacked for a pretty woman in his bed, he never became attached to any woman. In fact, he was indifferent to them. Harper had long since decided that his chief had been badly burned once and had no wish to repeat the experience. No one understood better than he. He’d been burned so many times that he’d sworn off women for life.

He’d wanted something better for his chief, though, than to turn into the cantankerous old bachelor he’d become. He’d wanted him to meet the right woman. But not by the wildest leap of his imagination had he thought the right woman would turn out to be someone like Lady Rosamund Devere.

She wasn’t the right woman. She was the wrong woman, in every way, and he hoped the colonel had the sense to see it.

Richard said, “Why did I sleep so long?”

Harper shrugged. “Fatigue. Loss of blood. Concussion. And Lady Rosamund gave you a few drops of laudanum to stop you thrashing about.” A thought occurred to him, and he went on, “How did you get that nasty gash on the side of your head? Lady Rosamund couldn’t explain it.”

Richard gave a sheepish grin. “I fell asleep in the saddle, and when I tumbled to the ground, I cracked my head. Just as I got up, Rosamund slipped from the saddle, too, but I caught her as she fell.”

Rosamund again
, thought Harper, not liking the sound of this. Maybe the fall had scrambled his chief’s wits, or maybe the laudanum had weakened his defenses, and in an hour or two he’d be more like himself—cold, reserved, and cynical, just the way Harper liked him. “What made you bring her here?” asked Harper at length.

Richard shrugged. “I kept running into militia, and by the time I was clear of them, I was too ill to think of anything but getting here. I wasn’t sure if I could do it.”

Harper thought about this and nodded. “So,” he said, “what are we going to do about her?”

“Do about her?” echoed Richard. He was staring at the fire with a small, unreadable smile barely touching his lips. “We’re going to send her home and forget about her.” He bestirred himself and looked at Harper. “She’s not going to tell anyone where we are. She could have done it by now if she’d wanted to. Besides, when we send her home, no one will be after me for that reward, and the hue and cry will die down. It’s the best solution all round.”

All things considered, Harper thought this was an excellent idea.

After a while, Richard straightened and said, “Is there anything to drink around here?”

Harper found the decanter and poured the drinks. When he was seated, Richard took a healthy swallow, then said, “Bring me up-to-date, Harper. Tell me again why you took your time getting here, and leave nothing out.”

This was more like the chief. Harper happily obliged.

S
he hardly knew what to say when Harper ushered her into Maitland’s bedchamber then disappeared. Maitland looked so different,
elegant
was the word, in a blue superfine jacket and black trousers. She thought he’d still be in bed.

Her own gown, which Harper had dug out of somewhere, might have belonged to a governess. It was a gray kersemere and, to her great relief, buttoned up the front. The hem came to her ankles, but only because she’d let it down. Harper couldn’t find shoes to fit her, so she was still wearing his boots. She had washed her hair, and since she didn’t know how to dress it, it fell around her shoulders in an unruly mop. She brushed it back nervously. He seemed more at ease than she.

“Lady Rosamund,” he said, “please take a chair. You must excuse the setting.” He smiled wryly and gestured with one hand toward the bed, which was now made up. “But after what we’ve been through together . . . well, this is the warmest room in the house. If we light a fire
in the drawing room, it will take forever to warm up, and someone has to stoke it.”

She knew what he meant. Harper had explained the situation to her. Local people had been hired to get the house ready for their arrival, but it was too risky to keep them on. The story that Harper had given out was that his master suffered from consumption of the lungs and had decided to come into the country for his health. He would be bringing his own servants with him. But there were no servants. All the work had to be done by them.

As she perched on the edge of the chair he indicated, and he took the chair opposite, she studied him carefully. He was too pale. She thought he winced when he adjusted his position.

“Lady Rosamund,” he began, “I must thank you for—”

She cut him off rudely. “You shouldn’t be out of bed. All my hard work will be for nothing if you have a relapse. I know you too well now, Richard Maitland, to be taken in by you. You’re not feeling half as well as you pretend.”

He breathed deeply and almost glared at her, but one of those sudden, warm smiles lit up his face. “Will you let me finish what I started to say? I’ve decided to send you home, Lady Rosamund. You leave tomorrow at first light. Harper will take you as far as Windsor, then he’ll hire a chaise to take you to Twickenham.”

He was back to calling her Lady Rosamund, and she found it oddly hurtful. This was his way, she supposed, of telling her that she was becoming too familiar. She dredged up a smile. “Well, we’ve heard that one before, haven’t we?”

He had the grace to look guilty. “I know it must seem as though I broke my word to you,” he said, “but I had no choice. We were surrounded by militia. What else could I do?”

She didn’t know why she was being so contrary. She’d already deduced that Maitland and Harper now regarded
her as a friend. No one kept watch over her. She could come and go as she pleased. In fact, she’d anticipated that this was how it would end.

She found herself suddenly wishing that she could put back the clock, that she hadn’t visited Callie, or made that fateful trip to Newgate, that she had never met Richard Maitland.

He was studying her face. Frowning, he said, “I mean what I say. I’m sending you home.”

“I believe you.”

“I thought you’d be happy.”

“I am.”

“Then what is it? What are you thinking?”

She was thinking that she would never see him again. She said, “Where will you go? What will you do?”

He gave her an odd, twisted smile. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

Her back stiffened. “You think I’ll betray you? I won’t, you know.”

He stared at her across the hearth, his eyes wide. “It never once entered my mind. There is no one I trust more than you. Not now.” His expression changed, and he went on, “I’m going to clear my name. That’s what I’m going to do.”

Her response was quick and harsh. “You should be thinking rather of how you can start a new life where nobody knows you.”

He answered her just as harshly. “Lucy Rider was murdered. I can’t let her killer get away with it. This is something I
have
to do.”

“I know, I know,” she said softly.

Their eyes locked, and in a single heartbeat, it was as if they were seeing each other for the first time. Everything of no consequence was stripped away—her rank; his prejudice. The clock continued to tick; the window-panes continued to rattle; the fire to splutter and flare. They were oblivious of everything but each other.

Richard recovered himself first. Looking away, he said in an oddly gruff voice, “I’m sure Harper left us a decanter of sherry. Ah, there it is.” He touched a hand to his chest and winced. “Would you mind pouring, Lady Rosamund?”

“Not at all.” Her voice was natural, her smile was natural, but when she poured out the two glasses of sherry, her hand shook. She couldn’t believe what was happening to her.
Dear Lord, not him!
she prayed.
Anybody but Richard Maitland! Anybody!

It was this extraordinary situation that was responsible, she told herself. First, he’d terrorized her, then he’d stirred her pity, and now he was treating her as an ally. No wonder she was confused. When she was back home with her family, she’d regain her balance.

Before the silence could become too self-conscious, she said quickly, “So who are your enemies, Richard?” His Christian name had slipped out so naturally that she was taken aback. A quick glance in his direction assured her that he hadn’t noticed. He was preoccupied with his own thoughts. “Have you narrowed it down?”

He accepted the glass she offered him and said, “As a matter of fact, I have. A dozen or so.”

“Who would have believed you could be so popular?”

He shot her a look from under his brows, saw her impish smile, and chuckled. “That’s the number of cases I’ve worked on since I took over at Special Branch.” He took a sip of sherry. “But if we go further back, to the Spanish Campaign, well, agents aren’t exactly in the business of making friends.”

“So the motive is revenge?”

“Or I may know something I don’t know I know, and someone is afraid that one day it will click into place and all will be discovered. But I don’t think that’s the reason I was targeted.”

“Why not?”

“Because Lucy’s murderer could have killed me at any time. Why wait? Why engineer this elaborate plot so that I would be disgraced? I think he planned the whole thing, down to my execution.”

She shook her head.

“What?”

“The knife wound. You might have died from it.”

“Yes.” His mouth flattened. “That’s what puzzled me. But if he’d wanted to kill me, why not stab me in the back or smash something over my head?”

“Because,” she answered slowly as she thought it through, “the authorities would have known that someone else must have been in the room besides you and Lucy.”

“And the same goes if the knife wound had been mortal.” He flashed her a smile. “Maybe he wanted me to bleed to death. Maybe I’m crediting him with too much imagination, too much foresight. But I don’t think so. All the same, I don’t think he intended to hurt me as much as he did, but I moved, you see, and the knife slipped. Now drink your sherry before I outpace you.”