Kitabı oku: «The Princess Plan», sayfa 3
Eliza was not about to move away, not now, not with a prince only feet from her. And having found no place to dispose of her punch, she continued to sip it as the line slowly inched along, amusing herself with all the ways she could imagine being introduced. Miss Eliza Tricklebank. Miss Eliza Tricklebank. Miss Eliza Tricklebank, of the Bedford Square Tricklebanks. Not to be confused with the Cheapside Tricklebanks, as there had been a rift in the family after her grandfather’s death.
She bent to see around the ladies again, examining the gentlemen. The one in the middle looked oddly familiar.
No. Her stomach fluttered uncomfortably. It wasn’t possible! Was it possible? Good Lord, it was entirely possible. That was the same gentleman she’d met in the passageway. It was a prince who’d tried to seduce her? Hollis would faint with shock. Eliza might, too. He’d sipped her punch! The prince! The younger prince—
No. No, that couldn’t be, she suddenly realized. It was the crown prince who wanted to make a match. It had to be him—why else would these women be queued up like cattle to make his acquaintance?
All at once, she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. To think she’d come so close to the crown prince. She might have kissed him! She very nearly had done! He was the crown prince!
She took a breath, forcing herself to calm down.
He seemed a bit stiff to her now, actually. He wasn’t shimmering with the heat she’d felt in the passageway, nor spilling over with seductive energy. He looked to be spilling over with tedium at present. Eliza would think he’d at least attempt to be a bit more cordial if he was indeed searching for a wife. Nevertheless, she would magnanimously give him the benefit of the doubt—perhaps the stiffness in him was the result of a bad back from riding around on horses. Or fighting wars. Didn’t her father say there had been skirmishes with the Weslorians?
Whatever the reason, he clearly was not enthusiastic about these introductions. Certainly not as enthusiastic as the slight man who kept bringing young ladies forward to meet him. Now that man had a ready smile for each lady. He moved strangely, and she realized that he held a gloved hand against his side. It appeared to be misshapen and he used his right hand exclusively.
One by one, the smaller gentleman brought the ladies forward, and one by one, they curtsied before the prince. He never seemed to utter a word but would give a polite bob of his head, then turn his back and resume his conversations with fellow Alucians. It seemed shockingly rude to Eliza.
She wondered what he would say when he saw her. Would he find it amusing? She might offer him the rest of her punch. Or perhaps he would remark on her thirst for it and offer her a punch. Perhaps they’d laugh. “Oh dear, I had no idea it was you in the passageway!”
The peacock wouldn’t like that.
Eliza pictured herself before him, sinking into a deep curtsy. She would say, “Enchanté,” because he surely spoke French, the language of royal courts. He would hold out his hand to help her rise, and perhaps then he would smile, and he’d say, in perfect French, that the ball was quite pleasing, and how did she find it? And she would say, in perfect French, her fluency having improved dramatically for the moment, that she found it quite pleasing, too. He would ask if she’d yet put any names on her dance card, and when she admitted she had not, he would escort her past all the other ladies to the floor for a dance.
“Move up!” someone behind her hissed.
“Oh! Pardon,” she said, and took a sort of hop-step forward as the line advanced, as if she were playing the game “Mother May I.”
The introductions continued like an assembly line. It was the same every time—the enthusiastic Alucian introduced a lady, the lady would wax excitedly about something, and the prince would bob his head then turn away, and the poor man making the introductions had to work to gain his attention again. Some of the ladies, tired of waiting, drifted away, lured by the dancing. Others doggedly waited their place in line, Eliza among them. Why should she not? She felt so sparkly on the inside that she could not keep the smile from her face, particularly when she glanced around the ornate ballroom at all these beautiful people—well, beautiful masks. She was in Kensington Palace at a royal ball. The crown prince of Alucia had sipped her punch!
But just as Eliza was closing in on the prince with her introduction in mind, standing behind only the peacock, the prince said something to the gentleman making the introductions and began to move away. The peacock froze with indecision. Her companion looked back at her, her alarm evident behind her mask. Eliza could imagine what the two of them were thinking—that one friend would have the introduction and not the other was unthinkable.
Eliza nudged her. “Step forward! We might still make his acquaintance—”
The peacock suddenly whirled around to her. “Don’t push me! Miss Tricklebank, has it not occurred to you that you are far too old to be in this line?”
“What?” There was an age limit? There was no time to discuss it—the prince was moving away without so much as a glance in their direction, and Eliza saw her chance slipping through her fingers. She’d had enough rum punch to feel justifiably emboldened, and suddenly leapt around the paralyzed woman and blurted, “Welcome to England!” for lack of anything better to say.
In the days to come, Eliza would believe that Prince Sebastian would never have acknowledged her at all had she not sort of lurched into his path at the very moment he was striding forward, which unfortunately caused him to step firmly on her foot.
Eliza gasped with the surprise and pain of it.
“I beg your pardon, are you all right?” He quickly moved his very large and heavy foot from hers.
“Quite,” she said breathlessly and stuck out her hand as if he were the butcher who had just given her a very good price on pork. “Miss Eliza Tricklebank.”
He looked at her gloved hand as if he didn’t have the slightest idea what he was to do with it. Eliza smiled hopefully. He reluctantly and delicately took her hand in his, which felt like a vast plane of palm and fingers, and bowed over it. “Madam.”
The feel of that strong hand holding hers so carefully fired through Eliza’s veins. It was the zest of accomplishment, the thrill of having met an actual prince, not once, but twice. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance again, Your Highness. Your Royal Highness.” She smiled brightly. “Formally. Obviously, we met earlier.” She beamed at him.
“Sir,” one of the Alucian men said, and the prince let go her hand and turned away from her. Before Eliza could so much as draw a breath, he’d been swallowed up by several Alucians and hurried along.
The man who’d been introducing the women to the prince suddenly appeared at Eliza’s side. “Are you hurt, madam? Shall we have a look at your foot?”
“Pardon? Oh, no need, there was no harm.” She laughed a little hysterically. “I met the prince,” she said to him.
The man smiled. “Indeed you did.” He leaned forward and said, “You and your foot might have left a most indelible impression on him.”
Eliza laughed with delight. Her mission had been accomplished. A broad smile of pride spread across her face, and she turned her head and cast that smile at the peacock. That woman gaped at her, still paralyzed.
“I met the prince!” Eliza said again, and with a bright laugh, she nodded at the kind Alucian and walked away, aware that the peacock’s gaze was boring through her back.
That was another thing that happened when one became a spinster caretaker. One ceased to care what others thought of her.
CHAPTER THREE
Guests at the Royal Masquerade Ball were treated to three sets of Alucian dancing, all of which involve very intricate steps and require an agility and eye for precision demonstrably not possessed by a certain minister many consider to be past his prime.
Ladies, if your lovely ball gown has suffered a mishap, remember to put a teaspoon of Madeira wine to every gallon of water to remove the stain.
—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and Domesticity for Ladies
SEBASTIAN CHARLES IVER CHARTIER, the crown prince of the kingdom of Alucia and the Duke of Sansonleon, was hot behind his bloody mask and desired more of the excellent rum punch. But he would accept any liquid that might quench his thirst.
What he disliked about balls and assemblies and state suppers in general was that there were too many expectations, too many people to please. And apparently, to hear the captain of his guard tell it, too many dangers lurking beneath the gowns and the coattails around him. He was not allowed to take a drink from a servant. Protocol demanded any drink or food be handed to him by an Alucian. After it was sampled by an Alucian. And the Alucians were so intent on their duty that a reasonable man could easily believe there were hordes of rebels attempting to poison him at every turn.
Sebastian also disliked the necessity of dancing. He wasn’t a bad dancer, quite the contrary. His position in this world demanded that he be a competent dancer, and to make sure of it, his parents had hired the best dance tutors when he was younger. Still, he didn’t particularly enjoy it. He was wretched at making empty conversation, curt when answering the same questions while trying to keep names in his head. He was not adept at being social, not like his brother, Leopold.
Sebastian would much prefer to be on the back of a horse. Or in a gaming room with his few close friends. Or writing. He was currently engaged in a meticulous recording of Alucian military history. The topic interested him, but his acquaintances found his interest in the past rather dry. If he had his way, Sebastian would be more than content to keep to his study and read his documents and books. He could do without company for long periods of time. Or, he fancied he could. He didn’t really know it to be true, because as the heir to the Alucian throne, he was forced to endure a contradictory private life while constantly in the presence of others. Servants. Secretaries. Advisors. Guards.
And in full view of the public from which he was supposed to be sheltered. People had a way of seeing past the veil. His every step was recorded.
Which might explain his aversion to such events as this. He was surrounded by people he didn’t know who clambered to be close to him. People who wanted to breathe in his air and push a little closer. It was vexing and at times could be terribly unnerving. Once, when he’d been dispatched to the initial launch of one of their newest warships, two men had come from nowhere, putting their hands on his shoulder, trying to capture him or toss him into the sea before the Alucian guard fell on them and stopped them.
In large groups, he felt like a caged animal, a species on constant display.
This particular ball had been planned well before he’d ever stepped foot on England’s shores, a courtesy extended by the English crown to the Alucian crown. Negotiations for it had been handled by Sebastian’s personal secretary, Matous Reyno. It was Matous’s idea for the masquerade.
Matous had been by Sebastian’s side for many years, serving him since the day of his fifteenth birthday and investiture as crown prince. Seventeen years in all.
Outside his immediate family, Sebastian trusted no one as he trusted Matous. That said a lot for the man, really, for the Chartiers believed that no one in the Alucian Court could be trusted. The forty-year-old rift between Sebastian’s father, King Karl, and his older half-brother, Felix, the Duke of Kenbulrook, had created an atmosphere of distrust and betrayal that had followed him all the way to England.
Sebastian didn’t really fear betrayal—he tended to believe the good in most, and more than once had suggested to his father that perhaps the rift between him and his half-brother could be repaired. Sometimes men did unwise things when they were young, he’d suggested.
His father had responded with a murderous look.
His father’s fear that all men had been sent by Felix to harm them had settled into the marrow of everyone that surrounded the royal family. Especially while in England—everything and everyone was suspect.
It was that overriding suspicion that had led Matous to suggest that if everyone wore a mask, and an identical one at that, Sebastian might have some semblance of privacy. Very little, Matous admitted, but it seemed far better than wearing the sashes and the medals and rings of the knight guard Sebastian would typically wear if the ball were more formal. “It is the only way that you might attend without great attention, I think. You will not be so easy a target. And the English like the idea.”
Sebastian had laughed. “A silk mask will not protect me from all the assassins that supposedly lurk around me.”
“It will not protect you, no, Your Highness, but your elite guard will. And it may serve to confuse detractors and menaces.”
Sebastian thought his detractors and menaces were wilier than that, but then again, it hardly mattered what he thought. There were men in the crown’s service paid to think of these things, and their nerves had put Sebastian on edge since his arrival more than a week ago.
The trade agreement he’d come to negotiate was vitally important to his country but perhaps even more important to him. His father had not wanted to pursue it. The prime minister of Alucia resented Sebastian’s interference in the delicate matters of state, and insisted they ought to be thinking of the military. “We should focus on preparing for war with Wesloria,” he’d advised the king, “not pursuing trade agreements with a country so far from our shores.”
Sebastian saw it differently. This friction between Alucia and Wesloria had taken a toll on the kingdom’s economy. Border skirmishes did not come cheap, and had dented the coffers. In the meantime, Alucia had not progressed like other countries, had not begun to manufacture goods like England or America. What they needed was a stronger economy, he’d argued. Alucia might be a small European kingdom, but it was rich in resources. They needed the tools of industrialization, which England had developed above all others. The resources mined in Alucia—iron ore and copper, for example—could be traded for England’s help in creating new, viable industries. Cotton and wheat could be bartered for tobacco and sugar.
Industrialization would give Alucia the upper hand if they found themselves at war with Wesloria, where Uncle Felix continued to sow seeds of discord.
The crux of the dispute between the two royal half-brothers was that Uncle Felix, banished forty years ago to his family’s home in Wesloria when Karl took the throne, believed he had a more legitimate claim to the throne than Karl.
The question of succession had its roots in a sixteenth-century civil war, when a Chartier had first assumed the throne. Felix’s family, the Oberons, who lost that struggle and had retreated to Wesloria, propping up Weslorian kings along the way. They’d long claimed that the Chartier claim to rule Alucia was not as legitimate as theirs.
Felix had promised to unite Wesloria and Alucia under one rule if he was successful in gaining the Alucian throne, and with the many loyalists dedicated to the Oberon cause, the Chartiers feared they could be drawn into war.
Sebastian wanted to unite Wesloria and Alucia, too. He wanted the Chartiers and Oberons and their fellow countrymen to unite in the strength of industrialization and shared prosperity. Not by the ravages of war.
“The prime minister believes this to be a fool’s errand,” his father had said to Sebastian one night in his study, when the two of them had been alone save for the two footmen who stood quietly aside, ready to serve.
“The prime minister can’t see the forest for the trees,” Sebastian had said. “We won’t survive a war by falling behind the times.”
His father had harrumphed but said, “I will agree to your plan, but over the objections of my prime minister. He has threatened that the parliament may not ratify any trade agreement struck by you if it is not completely advantageous to Alucia.”
“I understand.”
“You must maintain the upper hand in negotiations,” his father had warned.
Sebastian was well aware of that. Wasn’t that the goal of any negotiation?
“There is one way you might appease me and the prime minister and perhaps pave a path to ratification.”
“Oh? How?” Sebastian had asked curiously.
“Bring home a wife.”
“Pardon?” Sebastian had laughed.
His father did not. “We’ve waited long enough. We must secure the question of succession—Felix’s son Arman has two children. While England believes in our legitimacy, Queen Victoria’s consort, Prince Albert, agrees with the view of his duchy of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, who favors Felix. They depend on Wesloria for iron ore, as you know. We can cement your trade agreement and England’s commitment to us with an English bride.”
This had not been part of Sebastian’s thinking, but instead of debating the point, he’d said nothing. He needed to think about it.
His father had pinned him with a look. “You’re not a young man any longer. You’re two-and-thirty. We must secure the succession—it’s as simple as that, son. If you can’t arrange it, then perhaps you have no business inserting yourself in these affairs.”
“I understand.”
“I hope you do. You should know that if you don’t settle on a match, when you return, I’ll settle on one for you. A bride from Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, perhaps.”
Sebastian had had no choice but to agree.
Now that he was in London, the rumors of rebellion felt dangerously real, whereas in Alucia, the threats always seemed at a remove. His security was the best of his country, and yet, Sebastian felt exposed in London. He didn’t know how his younger brother, Leopold, seemed to live relatively at ease while he studied at Cambridge.
“They’re merely rumors,” Leopold had said with a shrug when Sebastian had questioned him.
Perhaps Leopold did not hear the reports that support for their father was eroding under a relentless propaganda campaign coming from Felix. That was another thing that drove Sebastian—he believed if he could modernize the country, he could shore up support for his father.
And then again, it was entirely possible that those rumors were unfounded but louder in Sebastian’s presence, as he was the heir, the future king. Perhaps they seemed stronger here because of Prince Albert’s support of Felix and Wesloria.
Sebastian had to find a wife in this veritable sea of unmarried English women. Alliances had to be formed, and the ministers of Alucia had hypothesized that a proper English bride with strong connections to the Parliament of the United Kingdom would secure support for Alucia in a deeper rift between Wesloria and Alucia. Which potential bride, however, was an ongoing debate between the ministers that had accompanied him.
Sebastian understood his duty. He wasn’t particularly bothered by the marriage part of this bargain with his father. He’d never entertained the idea that a marriage to a woman could be made solely on the basis of compatibility and affection. He had always known it would be a political alliance in his case, just as his parents’ had been. They’d dispatched their duty to the kingdom and had produced the obligatory heir and a spare. Now they lived separate lives for the most part, his mother generally spending her time in the mountains at their ducal estate, and his father settled in at the palace in the capital of Helenamar. Sebastian assumed his marriage would follow the same path.
The Alucians had narrowed the field of eligible wives to a handful, but the hopes of English parents were evergreen. In addition to hearing the rumors of his demise at every turn, Sebastian was also being bombarded with introductions to unmarried English women.
He’d just endured a long line of them. It was ridiculous, what with all the masks. And what could anyone hope to do in a few superficial moments? Did they think he would look at one of those masked faces and Cupid would sling his arrow into Sebastian’s heart? He’d resented the need to do it, and he’d been so fatigued by the many introductions that he’d actually stepped on the foot of a woman who had greeted him with a hearty Welcome to England, as if she were standing at the port of entry, waving weary travelers through.
“Do you intend to dance?” Matous asked after Sebastian had told him that he would not accept another introduction and had proceeded to walk away.
“No.” Sebastian looked around for a waiter. What were they serving? Was it the punch?
“I would highly recommend it, sir. If you don’t, it will be remarked and your identity revealed.”
“Have I not already been remarked?” Sebastian complained. “You introduced two dozen young women to me in the corner of the ballroom.”
“Two dozen out of what could potentially have been two hundred,” Matous said with a deferential incline of his head. It was a habit of his; he sought to appear deferential when he was disagreeing or correcting Sebastian.
Sebastian groaned and looked around for a footman.
“Is there a...type...that would please you, sir?”
Matous was not asking after Sebastian’s favorite type of dance. The “type” that would please him was a naked one, preferably on a bed somewhere far from this madness. “Red hair,” he said. “I made her acquaintance at Windsor, do you recall? Widowed or separated or something like it. And a drink, man. Wine, punch, I don’t care. I must have something.”
“As you desire, sir,” Matous said crisply, and with a flick of his right wrist, sent one of the four guards, who were dressed identically to Sebastian, hurrying off to find something for him to drink.
The guard returned a moment later with a glass, which he sipped before wiping the rim clean with his handkerchief and handing the drink to Sebastian.
Sebastian downed the drink. It was the rum punch, and it was as good as the first time he’d sampled it. A thought flitted through his mind briefly—was the woman whose foot he’d mangled the same woman in the passageway? He mentally shrugged and thrust the glass at the guard. “More,” he said.
While he waited for the guard to return with more of the drink, Matous went off to find the woman with the red hair. At about the same time as the guard returned with a second round of punch, Matous returned with a woman on his arm. She was wearing a deep blue gown. Her auburn hair looked quite stunning, and her green catlike eyes glittered at Sebastian from behind a mask. She sank into a very deep curtsy.
“Your Highness, may I present Mrs. Regina Forsythe,” Matous said.
“Mrs. Forsythe,” Sebastian said. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance again.”
“The pleasure is assuredly mine, Your Royal Highness.” She accepted the hand he’d offered and rose up with a pert smile.
“You intrigued me so with your conversation at Windsor,” he remarked. “I hope it is not an imposition to resume it?”
She smiled coyly. “Which conversation was that? About the soup? Or the fact that my husband is stationed in India at present?”
She was saucy, and Sebastian liked that about her. At Windsor, when he’d asked why she had not accompanied her husband to India to give him comfort, she had slyly explained that her husband saw to his comfort, and she to hers. “Both,” he said to her question. “May I have the honor of this dance?”
“The honor would be mine.”
He presented his arm. She laid her hand lightly on it and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. The musicians played a waltz, and Sebastian bowed, then took her hand in his, placed his other hand high on her back, and led her into the dance.
“How are you finding London?” she asked.
“It has been a privilege.” Never give an answer that could be in any way misconstrued.
“How do you find your rooms at Buckingham?” she asked, her eyes glittering.
A clever little inquiry. “We are not housed at Buckingham. The queen has graciously accommodated our large party here.”
“How fortuitous.” Her coy little smile went a little deeper. “I am familiar with all the hallways and rooms at Kensington. It’s quite a complicated little palace, is it not?”
Sebastian smiled. “Quite.” He understood her as well as she understood him, as well as she and Matous and he all understood one another. Sebastian knew, without having to ask, that arrangements for private accommodations would be made.
At the end of the dance, he whispered an invitation in Mrs. Forsythe’s ear and how she might go about it if she were so inclined. The lady did not so much as blink. She slid him a look from the corner of her eye, flicked open her fan and whispered her response.
He bowed, escorted her from the dance floor, thanked her, then walked back to his group of men. He looked around for the ever-present Matous and spotted him across the room in an animated discussion with one very round Englishman. But Sebastian was quickly distracted by a couple sailing toward him at what looked like thirty knots. One of his guards stepped in front of him before the couple could accost him.
“How do you do,” the gentleman said, and bowed, exposing the bald spot on his head. “We should like to welcome His Royal Highness.”
Sebastian’s guard said nothing.
“We’d like to invite him to join us for cake,” the woman trilled. But she didn’t look at Sebastian when she said it, and he realized that they didn’t know who he was. They were hoping he or his guard would point out the prince to them.
His guard clucked his tongue at the lady. “I beg your pardon, madam, but the prince does not care for cake.”
Well, that wasn’t true at all. Sebastian very much liked cake and he could do with some now. He was starving.
“Would you be astonished to learn that my father, Mr. Cumbersark-Haynes, was acquainted with your king when they were lads at Oxford?” the man said. “Jolly good times they had, and I’m certain His Highness would enjoy the tale if you’d be so kind to point him out.”
Another guard moved discreetly to stand beside the first, blocking the couple’s view of Sebastian.
“Ah, I see. Yes, my lord,” the guard said, “the prince is just there,” and pointed across the room.
Both English heads swiveled around in the opposite direction of where Sebastian stood.
“Splendid, thank you very much indeed,” the man said. And then he leaned in close to Sebastian’s guard. “Is it true what they say? Is there to be war between Wesloria and Alucia?”
“In Alucia, we do not listen to rumor,” the guard said.
“Oh, of course not,” the woman said quickly, nodding her head so adamantly that the feathers atop her mask looked as if they were bracing against a gale force wind. “And neither do we listen to rumor.”
Except, perhaps, the rumor that war was brewing with Wesloria.
“If you will excuse us,” the guard said, and the couple were both nodding like a pair of dumbledees, the Alucian word for idiot.
The woman put her head next to her companion and began to whisper in his ear as they hurried off in search of the crown prince.
The first guard turned around to Sebastian. “I would recommend, Your Highness, that we adjourn to another part of the ballroom.”
“I recommend we adjourn to the dining room. I’m famished.”
“A private dining room has been set,” the second guard said, and indicated with his chin the direction they were to walk.
As they made their way toward the door of the ballroom, Sebastian looked around again for Matous but did not see him. The Englishman he’d seen talking to his secretary was now in the company of other Englishmen, all of them laughing together at something.
He did not see Matous again until much later, after he’d been served in a dining room and had drunk more of the delicious rum punch. He was in better spirits, looking forward to his clandestine meeting with Mrs. Forsythe. He’d even danced again, this time in complete anonymity with a young woman who focused on her feet. And when the Alucian dances were played, he joined the line with Lady Sarafina Anastasan, his foreign minister’s comely wife.
At half past midnight, Matous appeared at his side. He looked harried, a bit disheveled, and his hair was mussed. All quite unlike Matous. He said low, “All is at the ready, sir.”
Sebastian nodded. As they made their way from the ballroom, Matous said, “If I may, sir, is there some place we might have a word?”
But Sebastian had availed himself of punch and was feeling randy and desperate to be out of the mask. Visions of Mrs. Forsythe’s fair green eyes and unbound auburn hair had begun to play in his head in anticipation of what was to come. “Will it not wait?”
Matous hesitated. He glanced at the guard and pressed his lips together. “As you wish, sir.”
Sebastian took pity on his secretary and said in Alucian, “Come to my suite in two hours. We can speak freely there.”
Again, Matous hesitated. It was not like him at all—he was generally eager to please. Sebastian studied his face a moment. “Will that suit?”
“Je,” Matous said in Alucian. Yes. He bowed his head.
Sebastian carried on, his thoughts already on his tryst.
Mrs. Forsythe was waiting just inside the vestibule of the entrance marked by a clock. She smiled when Sebastian jogged up the steps.
“You must be freezing,” he said.
“I will be warm soon enough. Come.” She boldly reached for his hand. “I’ve the perfect room.”
Oh, he was certain she had the perfect room, probably procured for her by spies in the English government or perhaps even by rebels. He was well versed in all the ways someone might try and catch him in a compromising situation because he’d spent his life learning to subvert such ploys. He pulled her into him, caught her chin with his hand and touched his lips to hers. She sighed longingly.
