Buch lesen: «Princess of Fortune»
“Did you ever guess that you’re the first gentleman I’ve kissed?”
He hadn’t, not at all, but that guileless confession kept him painfully hard. And might all the lords of the admiralty forgive him, he was kissing her again. She parted her lips freely for him, exploring him as much as he was her. He slid his hands along the narrowing curve of her waist, inside her dressing gown so there was nothing but the gossamer-weight linen between him and the quivering fullness of her breasts and this had to stop.
He released her and forced himself to step away from temptation. Her hair was mussed and tousled, her cheeks flushed, her nightclothes askew and, damnation, he’d never wanted any woman more than he wanted this one, whom he’d no right to have.
“Oh, my,” she murmured. “That was not pretending, was it?”
“No.” The blood was still thumping through his body, demanding to be obeyed. “That was as damned real as it gets.”
Praise for bestselling author Miranda Jarrett
“Miranda Jarrett continues to reign as the queen of historical romance.”
—Romantic Times
“A marvelous author…each word is a treasure, each book a lasting memory.”
—The Literary Times
The Golden Lord
“Sexual tension runs high. There are…secrets to be kept, mysteries to be solved and a traditional ending in which sharing truth wins true love.”
—Romantic Times
The Silver Lord
“The characters and plotting are very good and deftly presented.”
—Affaire de Coeur
Princess of Fortune
Miranda Jarrett
MILLS & BOON
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For Mary Jo,
A most excellent friend, and a writer who always
inspires, with affection and admiration.
And who else can remain so cheerful
when the fire siren wails at 6:00 a.m.?
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
Kingdom of Monteverde, 1796
W ho would have dreamed that London—wicked, wealthy, barbarous London—would become her only sanctuary?
London. Oh, dearest saints in heaven, whatever were her parents thinking?
Isabella forced herself to take another deep breath as she stared out the window of her bedchamber, striving to master the panic and fear knotting in her chest. She still could not quite believe she was leaving this view, this room, this house, and this life, with no guarantee that she’d ever return. Usually so full of activity, the palace now seemed forlornly silent, her father and brother already gone and most of the servants fled to the hills.
Next—last—to go would be Isabella. Earlier her trunks had been taken away, and as her lady’s maid fastened the rows of buttons along the sleeves of her jacket, she felt these last minutes here in her home slipping away more relentlessly than the grains of sand in an hourglass. Inside her kidskin gloves her palms were already moist with anxiety, and her heart raced with dread for what lay before her.
But she was the only daughter of the King of Monteverde, and a Fortunaro princess must be strong as a lioness, full of courage and pride like the fierce, noble beasts that graced the family’s arms. Yes, yes, a lioness of gold: that was what she was, and with fresh determination Isabella drew in her breath and raised her head to what she hoped was a more regal angle.
“Isabella, hold still,” scolded her mother with her usual impatience. No one would ever guess that Mama, too, would be fleeing tonight—which was, of course, the point. Mama was as exquisitely dressed and coiffed as she was every evening, her favorite rubies around her throat and her still-beautiful face with the heavy-lidded eyes so artfully painted that, by candlelight, she could pass for Isabella’s sister instead of her mother.
“If you continue to fidget, daughter,” she continued, looking down her famous nose at Isabella, “and do not let Anna dress you properly, I shall turn you over to the French and that vile little Corsican instead of to the English.”
At once Isabella went still, letting the maid finish dressing her in her traveling clothes. Mama was right: she was eighteen, far too old for such childish restlessness. If it weren’t for General Buonaparte and his ridiculous war turning all the royal houses upside down, a suitable marriage would have been arranged for her long ago.
“That it should come to this, Your Highness,” said the Marchese di Romano grimly, the last of her father’s advisers left in the palace, and one of her mother’s closest friends. He was an older man whose eyes now seemed to wander in opposite directions and who relied weightily upon his gold-headed walking stick, but no one at court had ever doubted that his mind remained as sharp and clever as any fox’s. “That a Fortunaro princess should be forced to scurry away like a low skulking thief, to snivel and beg for mercy from those heathen English—”
“Oh, hush, Romano,” said Mama mildly. “She is going to England because it is the only country that Buonaparte cannot capture. There is no other place where she will be as safe.”
Idly the marchese tapped his stick on the polished floor. “The English will adore our dear princess, you know,” he said, studying Isabella with a connoisseur’s eye. “They are all penny-gallants for a pretty face in distress.”
“She is more than simply a pretty face, Romano,” said her mother sternly. “She is my daughter, and a great beauty.”
“Of course, of course,” said Romano softly, soothing. “She will have no equal among those milk-fed English ladies.”
Though Isabella kept her head proudly raised, as if already confronting those English ladies, her unhappiness was mushrooming. Didn’t Mama plot and plan as expertly as any general? Hadn’t she already explained every detail to Isabella, how it was her duty to be the one Fortunaro to go into exile in London? Isabella wasn’t a fool, and she didn’t need Romano to tell her how to behave. The Monteverdian army had already been pounded and swept by the French in battle after battle, the few remaining troops now poised at the gates of the city for the same surrender that had humbled Florence, Naples, Venice, even great Rome herself. How could Isabella not fail to understand her role as the last proud symbol of her family’s defiance, there under the protection of the King of England?
But why must it be her duty—her fate!—to be the only one sent so far, far away for safekeeping? Why was she standing here in this near-empty palace, her clothes weighed down by the gold coins and jewels sewn into the seams and her heart made even heavier at the thought of the dangerous, lonely voyage before her?
As if to answer, the rumbling roar of the guns began again, closer now than ever before.
“It is time,” said Mama briskly, arranging her cashmere shawl more elegantly around her arms. She took Isabella by the shoulders, her face so close that Isabella could see how the powder settled into the lines around her mouth. “You must go, my brave little lioness. We cannot let the English change their mind, can we? You will go, and you will always remember who you are, what you are, and bring nothing but honor to our name.”
Isabella gave a quick jerk of a nod, not trusting her voice to answer. She must be brave and daring like Mama, and she must not weep and wail like a baby who’d not gotten her way. She turned each cheek for Mama to kiss, then kissed her in return, the quick brush that Mama had always preferred.
“I—I’ll miss you, Mama,” she said with a gulp, blinking back her tears. “God be with you, and with Father and Giancarlo, too.”
“Of course He will, my darling,” said Mama, her smile brilliant as she patted Isabella’s cheek. “He always watches over us Fortunari, doesn’t He? Now Romano and I must go, and so must you. Farewell, Isabella. Farewell!”
And as quickly as that, Mama was gone, leaving only the fading scent of her perfume and the click of her lacquered heels on the marble floors, followed by the fainter tapping of Romano’s stick. Swiftly Isabella turned away. She did not weep, of course, because Mama wouldn’t want that, but inside she felt as empty and abandoned as the palace itself.
She wished that when they’d said farewell, Mama had spoken less of duty and honor, and more of love. She wished that same farewell had been longer, warmer, sweeter, something for Isabella to remember on the perilous voyage to England, instead of the quick, formal parting before Romano. She wished she could admit her fears, instead of always having to be brave as a lioness. She wished—she wished for many things that couldn’t be, things that even a Monteverdian princess had no right to desire.
“Bah, Her Majesty has no heart,” muttered Anna, purposefully just loud enough for Isabella to hear. “No heart at all.”
“Enough, Anna,” said Isabella sharply. It didn’t matter that the older woman had become her lady’s maid by default, one of the last few servants who hadn’t panicked and fled the palace, or that Anna would be her one link with her old life as they traveled together. Isabella’s mother insisted that such familiarity should never be tolerated, no matter the circumstances. “It is not your place to fault my mother, unless you, too, wish to be branded a traitor.”
“Traitors, traitors,” muttered Anna, linking her finger and thumb together in the sign against evil. The gesture made her look even more like an ancient little crow, dressed in black from her stockings to the kerchief tied beneath her chin. “What does loyalty mean these days, eh, with the French devils at our gates?”
“Base-born rabble, nothing more,” countered Isabella, automatically repeating her father’s description of the tawdry French army. To her family, such upstarts were below contempt, unworthy to be even an enemy of their own ancient kingdom. “Our brave army will not waver before such a mob.”
Anna sniffed loudly, that sniff saying much about the pitiful chances she gave the brave Monteverdian army. “Your bonnet and gloves, my princess.”
Isabella lifted her chin so Anna could tie the bonnet’s silk ribbons in a bow, then took the gloves herself, unwilling to let Anna see how her fingers were trembling. Weren’t the Fortunaro women as famous for their strength as for their beauty? Couldn’t she prove herself worthy of her mother’s faith in her to do what must be done?
“Her Majesty said for you to make every haste, my princess,” insisted Anna. “Her Majesty said—”
“It is not your place to speak with such freedom, Anna,” said Isabella curtly, a perfect echo of her mother’s reprimands. “Do you see me disobeying my mother? Do you see me dawdling? Rather it is you and your clumsy old fingers that have delayed me with my dressing.”
“Forgive my clumsiness, my princess,” mumbled Anna, bobbing her head up and down by way of apology. As she did, a rough little pendant slipped free of her bodice: three twigs lashed with red thread into a triangle and strung on a black cord.
“What is that around your neck, Anna?” asked Isabella suspiciously. “You know heathen charms and talismans are not permitted in the palace.”
Quickly Anna tucked the pendant back into her bodice. “It’s naught to do with the devil, nor with the priests, my princess. It’s a family sign, that is all.”
“It still has no place here, and I do not wish to see it again. Now come, bring that lantern, so we might be on our way.”
For the last time, Isabella hurried down the marble staircase, the weight of the treasure stitched into her clothes slowing her steps. Down one flight, then another, into the dark, narrower hallway that led to the lower gardens and the beach. She’d never come this way by night, and certainly never with only a single servant holding a lantern against the darkness. Cobwebs brushed and clung to her clothes, and as she heard the mice scrambling to keep clear of the light, she whispered a quick prayer to guard her against whatever dangers might lie within the murky shadows.
Oh, that bats and rats and spiders and cobwebs might be her only threats!
“This way, my princess,” said Anna, puffing with exertion as she unbolted the last door for Isabella. “The English sailors will be waiting for you on the beach.”
Isabella nodded, holding her heavy skirts to one side as she slipped through the door. Vines had been allowed to grow over the door to disguise it, and as she shoved them aside, the lacquered heels of her slippers sank into the soft sand. The air was cooler here near the sea, and Isabella could taste the sharp tang of salt as she nervously licked her lips. At the water’s edge, perhaps thirty feet away, she could make out the dark shadow of a longboat pulled up on the shore, with men sitting waiting at the oars and two others standing aft, doubtless looking for her. Large men, lowborn and rough, speaking quietly among themselves.
Englishmen.
“Go ahead, Anna,” she said, striving to hide her anxiety as she hung back in the shadows. “Tell those men to come greet me properly.”
But Anna didn’t move, her wizened face inside the black scarf as set as a wooden mask. “You tell them yourself, my princess. I’ll go no farther, not with you.”
Isabella stared at her, stunned. “How dare you speak to me with such insolence? Come here at once, Anna, and do as I say!”
But Anna only shook her head, jutting out her pointed chin for emphasis. “I will never leave Monteverde, my princess,” she said, hissing the words like a curse, “and never with a spoiled little bitch like you.”
Isabella gasped with shock. No other servant had ever spoken to her like that; no, no other person in her memory ever had. “Anna, how dare you—”
But Anna had already slammed the door shut against Isabella.
“Wait!” Isabella grabbed the doorknob, frantically jiggling it with both hands. “Anna, open this door at once, I say! At once!”
But all she heard through the heavy door was the sound of the bolt in the lock scraping into place, and the echoes of Anna’s footsteps fading away down the hall, abandoning her to her fate alone.
“Anna!” she shouted, her fear rising by the second as she thumped her fists against the door. “Anna, come back now!”
“Miss?”
Instantly she turned around, her heart racing in her chest. She could make out little of the English sailor’s face in the shadows, but there was no mistaking how he loomed over her, the prow of his cocked hat pointing downward as he addressed her. The long, dark boat cloak he wore made him seem larger still, but from the braid on his hat and the brass buckles on his shoes, she guessed he must at least be an officer, and perhaps what among the English passed for a gentleman. Beside him was another man with a long pigtail down his back, dressed in rough canvas trousers and a worn, striped jersey that marked him clearly as a common sailor.
And these two were to be her saviors. Oh, Mama, what have you done?
“I’m sorry to have frighted you, miss—er, that is, signora,” said the officer. “But I do need to know if you are—”
“I am the Princess di Fortunaro,” she interrupted in imperious English, drawing herself up as tall as she could. She must be brave and proud, and hide her fear for her family’s sake. “I am not a ‘miss.’ You must address me as ‘my princess.’”
“Very well, then,” said the officer heartily as he touched the front of his hat, and also obviously relieved that she spoke English. “I am Lieutenant Goodwin, at your service, my princess.”
Isabella nodded but didn’t answer. She wasn’t precisely sure what to say in return, true, but she was also waiting for him to show proper regard and respect, and to bow low to her. Wasn’t it enough that she’d made the effort to address him in his own language? But she must recall that he was English, and the English were widely known to have no manners whatsoever. Barbarians, all of them, from their Hanoverian king on down.
“You have, ah, any followers who will be joining you?” he asked, looking past her to the closed door, and cheerfully unaware of how much of a barbarian he was. “Servants?”
“No,” she said, already feeling more alone than she’d ever been before. “There are none that I can trust.”
“No abigail to tend to you?” he asked with surprise. “You’ll be the first lady the old Corinthian has ever seen, you know, there among all us hoary sailors.”
She regarded him with chilly disdain, wishing to put more distance between them. “Not a lady, Lieutenant. A Fortunaro princess.”
“Aye, aye, quite right you are,” he said quickly. “I warrant you’re ready to come aboard, my princess? We’ve already stowed your dunnage, and we’re ready to shove off whenever it suits.”
Isabella frowned. She had worked hard at her English lessons, particularly hard once Mama had decided she must go to London, but these words, these expressions—aboard? stowing? dunnage? shoving off?—had not been in her tutor’s primer. Whatever was this Englishman asking of her?
Gruffly he cleared his throat. “We cannot keep the ship waiting much longer, my princess, not if we wish to get you away safely. We’ll lose the tide.”
The ship, and the tide. That much Isabella could understand. She looked beyond the man and the longboat, and farther out in the bay she now could make out the dark silhouette of the English ship, outlined by the lights from its lanterns. At such a distance it seemed small, as insubstantial as canvas scenery for a saint’s day pageant, and hardly sturdy enough to carry her and these men clear to London.
To London.
“My princess?” The lieutenant was offering the crook of his arm to her as support, as gallant a gesture, she supposed, as an Englishman could muster. “You are ready?”
Oh, please, God, please, grant me find the courage to be strong and brave and worthy, to be a true Fortunaro princess!
She took a deep breath, holding her head as high as if she were wearing her best diamond tiara instead of a plain plush bonnet for travel. She could do this, and she would, one step at a time. Ignoring the lieutenant’s arm, she bunched her skirts to one side to lift them from the sand, and began walking—one step, then the next, and the next after that—across the sand to the waiting boat.
To her future, and to London.
Chapter Two
F or Captain Lord Thomas Greaves, all his dreams of glory and golden plunder crashed in the instant the porcelain monkey shattered against the east wall of the Countess of Vaughn’s drawing room.
Not, of course, that Tom realized it then.
“Ah, the ladies,” said Admiral Edward Cranford pleasantly in the next room, as if this were all the explanation necessary for crashing statuary. “My sister Lady Willoughby and the others shall be joining us presently.”
Thomas nodded, striving to match the admiral’s pleasantness even if it didn’t make a damned bit of sense. It was most unusual for an admiral like Cranford to summon a captain to call upon him socially like this, here at his sister’s house in Berkeley Square instead of the navy offices at the Whitehall, and more unusual still for any ladies to be included.
But Tom would overlook it. Desperation could do that to a man, and God knows he was desperate.
“You were saying you’d found a new commission for me, sir?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation back to more profitable ground. “What ship is it? When can I join her?”
Cranford hesitated, an ominous sign. “Not a commission, exactly,” he hedged. “Not a new ship, but a special assignment from the admiralty. One that is, I believe, uniquely suited to your talents and experience, as well as your rank by birth.”
Disappointment rose sharp in Tom’s throat, and he fought to keep the bitterness from showing on his face. He could guess what was being offered: a regulating captaincy in the impress service, little better than being a kidnapper, and rightly loathed in every seaport town. Or perhaps they’d granted him a plum place in one of the dockyards, sitting day after day on a tall stool at a desk and growing fat like any other countinghouse drone.
But what else could Tom expect? It didn’t matter that he was only twenty-eight, or that he was the fourth son of the Earl of Lerchmere, or that he looked and felt as fine and fit as ever, and quite sufficient to earn the ladies’ approval. What did matter was that the navy had judged him to be an invalid officer, and the navy never changed its collective mind.
For over a year he’d been landlocked, impatiently recuperating from the wounds that had nearly killed him, but he’d beaten all the odds. He’d survived, hadn’t he? He was ready, more than ready, to offer his life again in the service of his country. He was a captain in the greatest navy in the world, his dark blue uniform coat bright with gold lace and brass buttons and hard-won medals on his breast, but none of it was worth a brass farthing without a ship and crew.
“I appreciate the special consideration, Admiral,” he began, trying to keep his words civil. “But I do not believe I require any such preferential treatment. I would prefer that my record stands upon its own merits or lacks.”
The admiral puffed out his cheeks and frowned, the thatch of his white brows bristling across his ruddy-brown face. “You know it wasn’t my decision to make, Greaves.”
“But surely you have influence to change it, sir,” said Tom. He’d spent more than half his life in the navy, and he knew the peril and consequences of speaking too forcefully to a superior, yet he was struggling to keep his temper in check. How could he do otherwise, when his whole life and future were slipping from his grasp? “A sloop, a ketch, anything with a sail! Given that the country’s at war, there surely must be some suitable command—”
“Not for a man in your condition, no.”
“For God’s sake, sir, all you must do is look at me!” For proof Tom held his arms away from his sides, strong and steady and without the slightest tremor. “I’ve mended good as new—better than new! Those infernal surgeons at Greenwich said I was as close to a miracle as they’d ever seen, Lazarus himself, and if that doesn’t make me fit for a new command, why, then I—”
“What the surgeons said was no active duty for two years,” said the admiral sternly. “Two years at the least, to see what course that musket ball takes within your chest. The navy cannot afford to have captains in command whose physical well-being is not to be trusted, especially not one carrying a chunk of French lead next to his heart.”
“But I’m not some damned cripple!” Tom thumped his fist three times on the table beside him, desperate to prove his words. “Look, sir, I’m strong as an ox, aye, and I can thrash any man who dares say otherwise!”
“Damnation, Greaves, then you’ll have to thrash me,” countered the admiral sharply, “because I’ll not let you take that risk, or risk the lives of your men in the process, not when—”
But before he could finish, the double doors between the two rooms flew open and a small, furious woman charged through them, her hands clenched into tight, tiny fists bristling with rings on nearly every finger. Although she was dressed extravagantly for so early in the day—even Tom knew that wine-colored velvet lavished with gold embroidery was not customary at this hour for Berkeley Square, nor were the lavish necklace and bracelets of rubies and pearls—her thick black hair had not yet been brushed, a mass of tangled, knotted curls that bounced against her back with each indignant step.
“Admiral Cranford!” she called, marching directly to the older man, who bowed low in return. Her English was filtered through another language, her accent without apology. “Thank the saints you are here! These women know nothing, worse than nothing! You tell them, Admiral, tell them what imbeciles they are!”
Belatedly Lady Willoughby came hurrying after, the head of the hurled porcelain monkey in her hand as evidence, and her mouth puckered with distress, as if fearing the wrong words would once again slip out.
“The girl came with the best of references, ma’am,” she said plaintively, setting the grinning monkey head on the edge of the mantel. “She has dressed the hair of the Duchess of Kent, and all her daughters. How was I to know she wouldn’t suit?”
“But I am not this Duchess of Kent, am I, eh?” said the young woman, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. “Nor am I one of her daughters, or sons, or small, yapping terriers, either. Ah, perhaps that is what your pretend-maid truly is, a groom to lapdogs! Admiral, Admiral, you see how I am treated, how little respect they show to me!”
Astounded, Tom watched and listened as if it were a Drury Lane farce. The admiral had said that they’d be joined by ladies; he should have warned him instead of this high-handed little harpy. Here he’d been struggling to control himself before his superior, while this chit felt free to rage at Admiral Cranford like a Billingsgate fishwife.
“The maid tends only to fine ladies, not to dogs,” insisted poor Lady Willoughby, wringing her hands. “Brother, I assure you no insult was ever planned or wished for!”
“‘No insult,’ ha,” repeated the younger woman darkly, lowering her chin so her heavy-lidded eyes seemed to smolder with righteous fire. “Would you have me as bald as a pigeon’s egg, then, with every hair ripped from my head? Is that how you would show me honor and respect?”
“Oh, come, ma’am, I’m sure my sister meant no insult,” said the admiral with a forced jollity. “We all want what’s best for you, you know. I’m sure your hair can be set to rights in no time.”
With an exasperated sigh, the younger woman flung her arms in the air, beseeching heaven to take her side and showing a good deal of her breasts in the process.
“Fools and lackeys, every one,” she muttered in Italian. “Toss all their wits together, and it still would not half fill a thimble!”
And that, for Tom, was enough.
“Their manners are worth a bushel of your so-called wit,” he answered in Italian, automatically using the same curt tone that served to humble disrespectful crewmen. “These fine people don’t deserve such rubbish from you. I’d say a dog groom was what you damned well do need, for I’ve never heard any other bitch carry on like you are now.”
The young woman gasped and swung around to face him, lifting her chin high. “Who are you, to dare address me so?” she asked suspiciously, continuing in Italian. “Do you not know who I am?”
“I am Captain Lord Thomas Greaves, miss,” he said with a smile and a brusque bow. “And as for your name, miss, I do not know it, nor do I particularly care if ever I do.”
“There now, Greaves, I knew you’d charm the lady by speaking to her in her own lingo,” said Cranford heartily in English. “But high time I made the proper introductions, aye? Your Royal Highness, might I present Captain Lord Thomas Greaves, the captain I told you about, and a hero if ever there was one. Greaves, the Princess Isabella di Fortunaro of Monteverde.”
“Your Royal Highness. I am honored,” said Tom, though he didn’t feel honored at all. He felt tricked. A princess, and from Monteverde at that. What in blazes was Cranford up to, anyway? Monteverde might be the oldest of the Italian monarchies, but it was also regarded as the most indolent and decadent, with more blissful corruption packed inside its borders than in the rest of the Continent combined. How could one of their princesses come to surface here, in poor Lady Willoughby’s drawing room?
He took a deep breath to control his temper, then another. “Your servant, ma’am.”
But though it was her turn to answer, she didn’t. She simply stared at him, just stared, reluctantly tipping her head back so she could meet his gaze. She was short, true, not that any man would notice her height once he’d seen how seductively rounded her small figure was beneath the red velvet.
She wasn’t pretty, either, not in the agreeable pink-and-white, strawberries-in-cream way that English girls were pretty. Her features were strong, her profile the kind minted into ancient coins. Framed by that tangle of black hair, her skin was golden pale, with a deeper rose to stain her cheeks and lips. And she seemed unable to keep still, constantly shifting and turning and twisting and gesturing, with an actress’s instinct of how best to keep all eyes firmly on her.
No, decided Tom, she wasn’t like English girls. Her beauty was richer, more opulent, like strong claret after milky tea, and likely just as apt to cause a headache and regrets the morning after.
“Your English is most accomplished, ma’am,” he said at last, falling back into Italian. If she was going to insult the others again, at least he could spare them hearing it. “I compliment you.”
Her smile didn’t reach quite her eyes. “Your Italian, Captain, is fit for the barnyard,” she said, reaching up to touch a finger to one dangling ruby earring. “However did you pretend to learn it?”
Well, then, he could smile, too, if that was the game. Any good frigate captain worth his salt recognized a challenge when given, even if it came from a princess intent upon drawing attention to her breasts by tracing her fingertips idly along the edge of her neckline.
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