The Rogue Prince (12 page)

Maggie was just a means to an end, and her presence that afternoon had served exactly the purpose he'd hoped for. Shefford had come running, just as Tom and Nate had anticipated.

“You've got a few that would give my Thoroughbreds a run for the money,” said Shefford, watching carefully as the horses returned to the stable, one by one.

“No doubt.” He set Lily on her feet next to her mother and Maggie took the little girl's hand in her own. She appeared perplexed, as well she should be. Tom's attitude had shifted completely, his attention entirely focused on the marquess and the horses. All was going as planned, and he could almost hear the machinations going on in Shefford's mind.

Bringing Maggie and her children out here had succeeded in getting Shefford to come, without directly inviting him. Racing against Tom's horses had to be his own idea, and the way Tom planned
it, Shefford was going to have to talk him into racing.

Zachary pulled on Tom's coat. “Have you any dogs?” he asked, distracting Tom from the cunning light in Shefford's eyes.

“No, Zachary. Sorry. No dogs.” He noticed that Shefford kept his eye on the paddock until the last horse was inside.

“Why not?” Zachary asked.

“That's enough questions, Zachary. It's rude to pry.”

“But I like dogs,” the boy said. “I miss Bloom.”

Maggie sighed and glanced apologetically at Tom. “Most of our neighbors in Cambridgeshire have dogs.”

“But not you? Who—
what
—is Bloom?” he asked. Anything to demonstrate a disinterest in racing.

Maggie licked her lips before she replied, and Tom's breath quickened. “Our old sheepdog died last winter.” She patted Zachary's shoulder. “She was big and furry, but the most well-behaved canine in all of Cambridgeshire. Zac and Bloom were inseparable.”

The boy's expression darkened, but he scampered away and climbed up a few of the rungs on the paddock fence to look at the pony that Garay had left outside. Tom refused to be touched by the boy's loss. It was nothing compared to the harm the boy's father had cost Tom.

“It's been diffic—” Maggie began, but Shefford interrupted her.

“I believe I could get a few good English Thoroughbreds out here for a friendly race or two.”

Thomas clenched his teeth at the man's rudeness toward his sister, disliking the marquess more than before, if that could even be possible. In spite of his disgust, he acknowledged that things were progressing exactly as he'd planned.

Slowly and deliberately, he turned his attention from Zachary and looked at Shefford dubiously, playing his part in the farce. He shrugged with feigned indifference. “Even if I agree to race them, they won't be ready for at least six weeks. What do you think, Beraza?”

Nate rubbed the back of his neck, as though mulling it over, although they'd already discussed the way they would handle this question. “No. It will be two full months. The horses have been inactive onboard ship for months—except for a few breaks at our ports of call. And we'll have no easy time finding qualified riders.”

“I don't mind waiting until you're ready. Shall we arrange for a meet?” Shefford asked.

“Perhaps,” Thomas said, appearing reluctant. He'd brought some of his best American racers, but to an untrained eye, they did not appear as refined as the horses his father bred up in Suffolk, not even his champion, Arrendo. It seemed that the difference was going to be enough to fool Shefford and his friends into thinking they could be bested on the track.

Ted Careaga had already told Tom he would have the horses ready in three weeks. They'd been
in top racing form when they departed New York and he believed it wouldn't take long to get them back in shape. Since Careaga had trained horses before his conviction and transportation, he knew horses well.

For further insurance, Tom had his ringer.

Arrendo was the fastest race horse Tom had ever seen, and his look-alike, Sarria, was the big chestnut with the white stocking that Zachary had noted before Shefford's arrival. The two horses were identical, down to the marking on their left rear legs. They had the same ginger mane and tail, both lacking any cornets or heel markings, although Sarria had a small nick behind his left ear. It was the only way to tell them apart, but only the closest inspection would reveal the difference. Shefford would never know he'd been duped when they put Arrendo in Sarria's place and raced him instead.

All of Tom's American horses were great competitors, but Arrendo had never lost a race. As fast as Sarria was, his “twin” could beat him.

There were a great many variables in Tom's plan for Shefford's destruction, but he'd tried to anticipate every possibility, down to keeping Arrendo in his own barn. But it was almost laughable, how easy it was to deceive such an arrogant man. Shefford never guessed that he was about to be swindled out of his last pound and pressed to desperation to win a horse race.

“How do you feel about a wager?” Shefford asked.

Thomas looked away. “Lord Shefford, I'm not certain I care to race my horses. It's nothing personal, I assure you.”

“You're going to run them on that new track, are you not?” Shefford coaxed. “Why not make some sport of 'em?”

Beraza spoke up. “I don't think you want to race your horses against our Sabedorians.”

“I wouldn't be too sure of that,” Shefford said, hiding a confident smile under his thick mustache. “In fact, I would wager money against the sweet bloods you've got here. As fine as they look, I know of a pair of stallions that can outrun anything.”

Tom believed he was talking about his own Palmer's Gold and Paragon.

“All right, you're on,” said Beraza, appearing to be answering impulsively, although Thomas knew that was not the case. They'd gone over several possible ways that this conversation might go. “Ten thousand pounds on Arrendo against any British horse you name.”

Shefford's complexion paled, but there was no other indication of a loss of composure. Tom guessed he was considering when the best time would be to sell the shares he'd just bought in the Manchester Canal, and what his net profit might be, based on the lies he'd been told by Saret's men. “Arrendo?”

“Aye, our best racer,” said Beraza. “He's the big chestnut with the left rear stocking.”

Shefford narrowed his eyes as he looked at Beraza, likely calculating the time factor, and
making a mental evaluation of the horses he'd just seen before they were hustled away into the stable. “I know of—In fact, I own a stallion that will give him a good run. Shall we double your ten thousand?”

Tom heard Maggie's gasp, but could not acknowledge it. All was going according to plan. “Hold, Beraza. I have not given you leave.”

“What harm will it do, Your Highness?” Nate asked. “Arrendo thrives on a good contest.”

Tom shook his head. “I have no interest in having to shoot my favorite horse when he breaks a leg in a foolish race.”

“He won't fall, I'm sure!” Nate entreated. “I think you should give him a go.”

Thomas paused, obviously considering Beraza's words. He finally shrugged. “Very well. But I hold you responsible for the good health of that horse.”

“Of course!” Beraza gave Tom a quick bow, then turned back to Shefford. “Twenty thousand pounds? How paltry. Shall we say forty?”

Shefford cleared his throat. “Only if we can move the race up to…shall we say, four weeks?”

Tom swallowed his satisfaction. It was exactly what they'd hoped Shefford would say.

Especially since they knew the marquess did not have nearly enough ready cash to cover the bet. He was going to have to buy into Roarke's tobacco smuggling scheme and turn a quick profit in order to back up his foolish, foolish wager.

“F
orty thousand pounds!” Maggie hissed after they'd climbed into Shefford's carriage. “What can you possibly be thinking?”

Shefford lowered his eyelids to slits and allowed the hint of a smile to brush his lips. “That I will soon be a very rich man, indeed.”

Maggie was taken aback. If he had such enormous wealth, he should have offered to resolve Julian's debts. Or at least, helped Maggie deal with them. “You have that kind of money?”

“Of course not. But my estates are worth far more than forty thousand.”

“Are you saying you would mortgage them?” she asked, appalled. Good heavens, he was as bad as Julian.

“I won't need to.”

Maggie didn't know anything about racing. She'd had very little contact with horses after her accident, only riding in her small gig at home, or in her carriage in London. But she knew that Shefford bought and sold horses as though they were corn.

“You have a horse that can win, then?”

His smile broadened. “I can beat any one of those cows with Palmer's Gold. Or Paragon.”

Maggie gave him a questioning glance.

He shuttered his gaze as he spoke. “Bought them both last year. Either one can outrun any of those Sabedorian horses.”

“You hope.”

He made a disparaging noise, and Maggie felt her brows crease. This was the worst side of Shefford, one he usually managed to hide. But she had witnessed enough of his underhanded exploits in years past, when he'd gotten the better of some poor prey, through means both underhanded and dishonest. She wondered what he was thinking now.

“As I mentioned last night, the Sabedorian prince is obviously your
particular
friend,” he remarked with an ugly sneer. “I don't see why we cannot profit by it.”

“How absurd. There is nothing I can do to help you win this preposterous race.”

Shefford looked at her thoughtfully. “I've noticed the way he looks at you, Margaret. As though he cannot wait to toss your skirts up around your ears.”

“Hush, Shefford!” Maggie felt her face color, and turned away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing that he'd flustered her. Glancing at Zachary, she saw that her son was occupied with counting light posts as they drove through the streets toward Hanover Square. He did not appear
to have heard his uncle's crass remark. “Anyway, don't be ridiculous.”

“It's hardly ridiculous, Margaret. Any number of women would—”

“I thought you wanted me to marry some wealthy friend of yours.”

He smiled and his expression called to mind a sly dog, slinking away with a stolen treat. “This is so much better. There is no need to shackle yourself to this foreign prince, but he seems to have no end of blunt. Even that demned ambassador of his is rolling in it. You can get all the information I need about his stables while you…
earn
a few valuable gifts. If you play it right, you'll be able to pay off Julian's debts by the time the upstart sails back to Sabedoria.”

“I cannot believe you would suggest such a thing.” Or that he would consider somehow trying to bilk Thomas, who was clearly a man of consequence.

“Don't be so picksome, Margaret. None of the ladies at the Waverly's ball seemed to find the man distasteful. I don't know why you should.”

“This discussion is over, Shefford. Do not count upon my cooperation.”

Maggie busied herself with the ribbons on Lily's bonnet and tried to understand what had just happened with Thomas. The afternoon had made no sense. She'd been in a state of constant awareness, and the brush of his hand, even his slightest glance, had set her heart palpitating in her breast. He'd kissed her senseless while Lily napped, as though
he had no intention of delaying their tryst. He'd been so caught up in their kiss that he'd even forgotten Lily's presence in the room.

Even now, Maggie's skin tingled with frustration, her womb tight with desire.

But after Shefford's arrival, Thomas could not have spared her the time of day. Maggie was no petulant girl, but neither was she a fool. Thomas had taken her to the heights of arousal, then let her fall back to earth in a state of extreme frustration.

He was toying with her, amusing himself with the poor widow whose husband had not respected her, either. Not that he could know anything about Julian's duplicity, but Maggie wasn't going to allow herself to become vulnerable again.

The prince of Sabedoria could find some other likely woman to tease with the promise in his eyes and in his kiss. Clearly, she was not meant to engage in an affair, for it was much too complicated for her inexperienced heart.

Besides, her decision to engage in an illicit romance had been a hasty one. It had been the direct result of her anger and hurt over Julian's disloyalty. And Thomas had come along just then, and muddled her senses with his incredible kisses and his intimate touch.

She pressed her hand to her breast and forced herself to erase the memory of all that he'd done to her while riding in his carriage, and the passionate kiss they'd shared while Lily slept in his sitting room. Such sensations were much too intense to sustain, and besides, Maggie had much more
urgent matters to think of. With her life in chaos, she needed to deal with it without complicating it. She could not allow a foolish flirtation to make matters worse.

There was no room for the frustration she felt. She had lived without a man for the past two years—no, it had been the entire duration of her marriage. For Julian had hardly been a husband to her. And the prince of Sabedoria was only a distraction, who wouldn't even tell her how long he planned to remain in England.

She had to get another picture to Mr. Brown by week's end, and it would require that she attend another social event in order to acquire some subject matter. Maggie realized she couldn't possibly draw a satirical tableau from every affair she attended, or someone would surely figure out the identity of Randolph Redbush.

Which meant she would have to attend more than two social occasions every week. Just the thought of so much socializing tired her, or perhaps it was the afternoon's letdown that had worn her out. She'd been so very keen to be with Thomas again…

No. It was because she was accustomed to country hours and country activities in Cambridgeshire. Now it would be necessary to miss the children's bedtime while she stayed up until the wee hours, far too often. With the schedule she'd need to keep, her morning jaunts to the park with Nurse Hawkins and the children would be out of the question. She would have to dress in stylish—

Her heart sank. She had no gowns appropriate for what she must do, and it was going to be a long time before she could afford any new clothes. It was certain she could not go out repeatedly into society wearing the one gown her sister had already loaned her.

Though she had no desire to ask her family for any favors, she resigned herself to what she must do.

“Shefford, would you please take me to Stella's house?” Maggie did not imagine that her sister would be pleased at her request.

“But Mama,” Zachary protested, “I want to go home and tell Nurse Hawkins about my pony ride.”

“I'll take him back to Hanover Square,” Shefford said.

Maggie felt a frisson of unease at his devious glance. She didn't want Zac or Lily to spend any more time with their unscrupulous uncle than was absolutely necessary. “No, the children will come with me. Thank you kindly for the offer, though.”

“You and I will talk again, Margaret. I am quite serious about what I said.”

“And I am serious about the answer I already gave you. I don't know what you can possibly be thinking, Shefford.”

A few minutes later, Maggie and the children entered Stella's house and discovered her mother having tea with her three other daughters in the drawing room. As Beatrice looked up at her, she resisted the urge to smooth back her hair, and
check to be sure that her buttons were fastened correctly.

She wished it was not necessary to come here for help. If there was any other option, she would have taken it. But she was capable of swallowing her pride for her children's security.

She took Zac's hand, raised her chin and held Lily against her breast as they walked into the drawing room.

“Good heavens,” Charlotte drawled. “Must you dress like a governess or an upstairs maid when you go out, Margaret?”

This time, she did glance down at her plain attire, which was all she had. “I—”

“Well!” said Beatrice, ignoring her eldest daughter's blatant insult. “I'm surprised you deign to visit us.”

“What do you mean, Mother? I've only been in Town a few days.” She crouched down to unfasten Lily's coat and decided they would not bother her today. No matter what they said—

“Never mind, Margaret,” said Stella. “Tell us what happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know perfectly well.”

“Don't be coy, Margaret,” said Charlotte, whose husband, the wealthy baron of Aughton, seemed to absent himself from most family gatherings that Maggie could recall. He was significantly older than Charlotte, and a widower with children when she married him. Any number of Beatrice's tirades included the complaint that it had been difficult to
secure good marriages for the girls after the Chatterton scandal.

Lord Aughton was no duke, but he was a well-heeled and well-respected gentleman. Charlotte could have done worse, but it was quite clear she did not see it that way.

“We heard you went out to Delamere House with the Sabedorian!” Elizabeth said. “Do not tell us nothing happened.”

It was beyond annoying that it was only Thomas's notice that had piqued their interest.

“Is Delamere's house as grand as they say?” Elizabeth asked as a maid came in and took Maggie's pelisse and gloves from her.

Maggie sent Lily and Zac along with the maid to the kitchen for a cup of milk and something to eat, aware that she would have to satisfy her sisters' curiosity. She needed their cooperation. “Yes, it's beyond grand.”

“And so is the prince,” said Elizabeth. “I never got a chance to dance with him at the Waverly's.”

“I heard that he only danced with the girls on the marriage mart,” said Charlotte, and Maggie wondered if that was true. She felt a twinge of jealousy toward all those fresh young ladies. Clearly, their mothers hoped Thomas would favor one of them, judging by the way they'd flocked around him at the ball.

“I wouldn't know,” Maggie said.

“But he went to your house this morning,” said Elizabeth, who did not bother to hide her astonishment.

Maggie took a seat and tried not to clench her teeth. “He only wanted to see if Zachary was truly unhurt after—”

“Oh, Margaret, don't be simple!” Stella said. “He took a specific interest in you.”

“You're mistaken,” Maggie said quietly but firmly. “And I would appreciate it if you would not mention such nonsense again.”

She did not miss the continued calculating expressions in her sisters' eyes, but she ignored them. “I've decided to go to Lady Sawbrooke's musicale tonight.”

“Well, that's a piece of good news,” said Beatrice. “I am pleased to see that you've finally come to your senses.”

Maggie gave her mother a puzzled look.

“Clearly, the prince isn't thinking about making you his wife,” said Stella, and Maggie swallowed her shock—and hurt—at her sister's blunt statement. It might be true that a man as attractive and desirable as the prince of Sabedoria wouldn't want to marry her, but he'd found her appealing enough to make love to her.

It was a piece of information she had no intention of sharing with her sisters.

Beatrice nodded, agreeing with Stella. “A suitable, English husband will not just appear out of thin air.”

Unless his name happened to be Kimbridge, Maggie thought. She blinked back the sudden sting of tears at the back of her eyes, and wished her family did not have such power to wound her.

She did not bother to correct Beatrice's misconception that she'd decided to seek another husband. She was through with men and their confusing ways, and needed to get out into society for another reason altogether. “I wonder if I might borrow another gown, Stella. For the musicale.”

“Did you not bring any decent clothes to Town?” Stella asked petulantly.

“I had not really planned on staying more than a few days,” Maggie replied, even-toned. “And in any case, I haven't been to a party in years. I have nothing suitable.”

“You will have to order some new gowns, Margaret, if you intend to go out into society,” Beatrice said. She turned to Stella. “Clearly, she cannot wear your blue crepe again so soon.”

The silence in the room was palpable, but Stella finally spoke. “I suppose I can find something for you to wear.”

“Well, you needn't sound so keen on it,” Maggie retorted. “I'll just go and see if Victoria Ranfield can spare something.”

“Don't you dare,” Beatrice hissed, aghast.

“She's much taller than you, in any case,” said Elizabeth.

“You don't know how much wheedling I must do in order to get Horton to put up funds for a new gown,” said Stella, her whine grating on Maggie's nerves. At least she had a reputable husband who could give her the funds she needed.

“I'm sorry,” said Maggie, curbing her frustration. “If I cannot borrow from Victoria, I suppose
I'll just have to ask Shefford if he will pay for—”

“Oh twaddle,” said Beatrice, standing abruptly. “Margaret needs clothes if she's to catch another husband. She cannot wait to have new ones made.” She turned to Elizabeth then. “You're all of a size now. Elizabeth, you must have a few suitable gowns to contribute.”

Elizabeth kept her eyes down and sipped her tea, while Maggie thanked God that her mother hadn't yet learned of the dismal state of her finances. Nor would she.