Cordina's Crown Jewel

  His two hours stomping through the woods was a natural expression of justifiable aggravation. He didn’t go off in snits.

  In the morning, suffering from a surprisingly nasty hangover, he convinced himself he didn’t want her to come back. He liked his life the way it had been before she’d plunged into it. And he didn’t like, not one damn bit, this sensation of loss and misery. Which was, no question about it, completely her fault.

  By the second day, he was edgy and busily working himself into a temper again. She had absolutely no business running off before he’d finished yelling at her. But it was just like her, wasn’t it, to stick that chin out, shoot that nose in the air and flounce off. He should’ve recognized it as princess behavior from the get-go.

  When she cooled off and came back, he had a great deal to say to her.

  Why the hell hadn’t she come back?

  Didn’t matter to him, he reminded himself and struggled to concentrate on his work. He had plenty to do to keep himself occupied while she was off sulking. In fact, maybe he’d just pack up and take himself back to the dig. It was where he belonged anyway.

  And it gave him a hard, rude jolt to realize he’d planned to take her with him. He’d wanted to show her the place, to watch that interest and intellect shine in her eyes when she got her first look at his pet project.

  He’d wanted to share that with her—and that was terrifying. He’d wanted to share everything with her. He couldn’t believe how much that hurt.

  Just as he sat, unsteady in the knowledge that she really wasn’t coming back, he heard a car coming down the lane.

  He knew it! He sprang up, fueled with relief, pleasure, fury, and had reached the door in one leap before he stopped himself. This was not the way to handle it, he decided, or her. He’d wander out, casually. Then he’d let her apologize.

  Feeling smug, and generous, he stepped outside. Everything inside him sank when he saw it wasn’t Camilla climbing out of the car. It was his parents.

  “Surprise!” Alice Caine ran toward the porch in her ancient and sturdy boots. Her hair, a streaky mess of mouse-brown and gray was, as always, falling untidily from beneath a scarred bush hat. She was trim as a girl, with a face splattered with freckles and lined from a life in the sun.

  She leaped on her son, gave him a slurpy, smacking kiss on the cheek, then immediately turned to her husband. “Niles, let the boy get the bags. What’s the point in having a big, strong son if you can’t use him as slave labor? How’s the shoulder, Del?” she asked him. “And the rest of it?”

  “Fine. It’s fine. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “If you had been, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” She tipped down her dark, wire-rim glasses. Though she grinned, she was sharp enough to have seen her son’s shocked disappointment when he’d stepped out on the sagging porch. “Got some coffee?”

  “Sure. Sure.” Ashamed of himself, he bent down—she was such a little thing—and gave her a quick hug.

  “Drove three hundred fifteen miles today.” Mumbling in his public school English accent, Niles Caine finished noting the mileage in his tattered book as he crossed to his son. “Made good time.”

  He was a big man, tall and dashingly handsome at sixty-seven. His hair, a mop of it, had gone shining silver, and his eyes, green as his son’s, were jewel sharp in his tanned face. He tucked the book into the pocket of his faded shirt, then gave Del a crushing bear hug. “How’s the shoulder?”

  “Fine. Better. What’s up with your dig?”

  “Oh, we’re just taking a break. Clear the mind.” Alice said it airily, one warning look at her husband, as she strode into the house. She stopped dead, fisted her hands on her narrow hips. “Del. You’ve got a woman.”

  “What?”

  “Look at this. Flowers.” She arched her brow at the wildflowers tucked into bottles. “Scents,” she added, sniffing a bowl of potpourri. “Clean.” She ran a fingertip over a tabletop. “Definitely a female on the premises. Where is she?”

  “She’s not here.”

  Ah, Alice thought. Poor baby. “Niles, my hero, would you run into town and get me some ice cream?”

  “Run into town?” He stared at her. “I’ve just got here. I haven’t so much as sat down yet.”

  “You can sit down in the car on the drive to town.”

  “Woman, if you wanted ice cream, why didn’t you say so when we were still in the bloody car?”

  “I didn’t want any then. Something with chocolate.” She rose on her toes to kiss his scowling mouth. “I’ve such a yen for chocolate.”

  “Flighty, fluttering females,” he muttered, and stomped back out to the car.

  Alice simply walked to the couch, sat and propped her boots on the table. Smiling, she patted the cushion beside her. “Sit. Coffee can wait. Tell me about the woman.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. She was here, she was a constant annoyance. Now she’s gone.”

  Cranky, wounded bear, she thought indulgently. Just like his father. “Sit.” Her voice firmed—she knew how to handle her men. “Why did she leave you?”

  “She didn’t leave me.” His pride pricked, he dropped onto the couch. “She was just working for me, temporarily. Very temporarily,” he muttered.

  And at his mother’s long, patient silence, he cracked. “I kicked her out. If she’s too stubborn to come back … I don’t need her underfoot anyway.”

  “There now.” She patted his head. “Tell Mommy all about the horrible girl.”

  “Cut it out.” But his lips twitched.

  “Was she ugly?”

  “No.”

  “Stupid then.”

  He sighed. “No.”

  “A cheap floozy.”

  Now he laughed. “Mom.”

  “That’s it then.” She slapped a hand on his thigh. “A cheap floozy taking advantage of my poor, sweet-natured, naive little boy. Why, I’ll fix her wagon. What’s her name? I’ll hunt her down like a dog.”

  “She’s fairly easy to find,” he murmured. “Her name’s Camilla. Her Royal Highness Camilla de Cordina. I could strangle her.”

  Alice tossed her sunglasses and her hat on the table. “Tell me,” she said. So he did.

  She listened while he worked himself back and forth through temper, into misery and back into temper again. So often, she noted, he had to leap up to pace the room just to keep up with himself.

  His description of Camilla—except for the irritating, interfering nuisance portion—jibed with the lovely note she’d received some days before from Her Serene Highness Gabriella.

  A gracious—and clever—note, Alice mused, one that acknowledged Gabriella’s gratitude to Delaney for his hospitality to her daughter. Alice hadn’t been sure if having anyone consider her son hospitable was more of a surprise than learning he was being so with a member of Cordina’s royal family.

  But she was a woman accustomed to thinking on her feet, and adjusting in midstride when necessary. The contents of the note had caused Alice to drag her husband from the Arizona dig and head home to see for herself just what was what.

  Now that she’d seen, she had a very good idea just what was what.

  What came through, in huge, neon letters to her mother’s view, was that her son was completely, pitifully in love.

  And it was about damn time.

  “So she left,” Del finished. “That’s for the best all around.”

  “Probably so,” Alice agreed calmly. “It was shortsighted of her to deceive you. Certainly she should’ve felt comfortable—frankly even obliged—to be forthcoming with you after you told her your own lineage.”

  “Huh?”

  “Obviously a viscount is lower in rank—considerably—from a princess, but she should’ve had the courtesy to trust you as you trusted her.” Delighted by her son’s blank face, Alice crossed her booted feet at the ankle. “You did tell her your father is Earl of Brigston—and you are Viscount Brigston.”

  “It didn’t come up,” Delaney said, then
added with more heat. “Why would I?” as his mother simply watched him coolly. “Who remembers anyway? I never use it.”

  Unless it suits you, Alice thought. But it was enough, she decided, that she’d planted that little seed. “There’s your father, back with the ice cream. Let’s have some with our coffee.”

  * * *

  She gave her son a day, partly because she simply enjoyed him, and partly because she knew he had to chew on things. She debated how she’d tell him she’d been in communication with Camilla’s mother.

  “He might get his back up all over again,” she mused as she cast her line into the pond. “It would be so like him.” At her husband’s grunt, she turned to where he sat, papers scattered over his lap and the ground. “Pay attention, Niles.”

  “Hmm? What? Damn it, Alice, I’m working.”

  “Your son’s work.”

  “Just leave him alone. A man should handle his own affairs without any interference.”

  “Hah. So you said to me thirty-three years ago this coming winter. Look where it got you.”

  “Got me you, didn’t it?”

  She grinned out over the water. Two peas in a pod, she decided. Her men were two very stubborn peas.

  Before she could decide how best to handle things, the matter was taken out of her hands. Del swooped through the woods, making enough racket to scare away every fish for ten miles, and scooped her right off her feet.

  “We’ve got new funding.”

  “Good thing, because we’re not getting any fish for dinner.” Still she hugged him. “That’s wonderful, Del. Who?”

  “I don’t have the details—just got the call from the university. I’ve got to get back to the dig. Sorry to run out on you like this.”

  “Don’t be.” She tucked her tongue in her cheek. She saw how it would work now. Perfectly. “Give us a call once you’re settled.”

  “Will. Have to pack.”

  * * *

  That evening, while her son was—very likely—steaming over the idea that his funding was being generated by the interest and influence of a young princess, Alice sat and composed a tidy and formal note to Her Serene Highness Gabriella de Cordina.

  The Earl and Countess of Brigston, along with their son, Lord Delaney, Viscount of Brigston, were very pleased to accept her gracious invitation to the Autumn Ball in Cordina.

  * * *

  “It’s insulting.” Camilla waved the latest communication from Del. “Rude and insulting and just like him.”

  Gabriella sat calmly, fixing simple pearls at her ears. Guests who had been invited to stay at the palace for a time before and after the ball, would be arriving shortly. “It sounded perfectly polite and informative to me, darling.”

  And she found it very telling that in the month she’d been back in Cordina her daughter had lost none of the heat where Delaney Caine was concerned.

  “That’s because you don’t know him,” Camilla raged on. “Insufferable is what it is. Reporting to me as if I were some sort of accountant. Dollars and cents, that’s all. He doesn’t tell me anything about the finds—the things he’d know I’d want to know. And see how he signs them? Dr. Delaney Caine. As if we were strangers. He’s detestable.”

  “So you’ve said.” Gabriella turned on the chair of her dressing table. Her hair was swept back from a face her husband told her grew more lovely with each year.

  She didn’t believe him, but it was nice to hear. Her eyes, the same tawny gold as her daughter’s were quietly sober and showed none of the humor and anticipation she felt.

  “I’m sure he’s grateful for your help in funding the project, Camilla. You parted on such bad terms, he probably feels awkward as well.”

  “He should feel awkward. He should feel sorry and small.” She whirled around her mother’s lovely room. Stared out the window at the stunning view of the gardens, the bright blue sea beyond. “I didn’t get the funding for him in any case. I got it for the project. The work’s the priority. It’s an important find and it deserves to be completed.”

  And her daughter’s interest in the work hadn’t waned in the weeks since she’d been back. If anything, Gabriella reflected, it had increased. She’d spent hours with books, had gone to the university to speak to professors who were knowledgeable, had raided their library for more books and documents on archaeology.

  She’d neglected none of her duties. It simply wasn’t in Camilla’s makeup to do so. There were times Gabriella wished she were less dedicated. Even though she’d been worried, she’d been pleased when Camilla had taken those weeks for herself.

  Her own heart had hurt when her little girl had come home with hers broken. She was grateful their relationship was such that Camilla had confided in her. About falling in love—and becoming Delaney’s lover. It helped a woman, Gabriella knew, to talk to a woman.

  And now, though she knew her daughter suffered, part of her rejoiced that Camilla’s heart was constant. She was still very much in love. Her mother, with a little help, intended to see she got what she wanted. Even if it meant a little—very little, she assured herself—finagling.

  She rose, crossing to her daughter to lay her hands on her shoulders, a kiss on the back of her head. “Love isn’t always polite.”

  “He doesn’t love me.” Camilla hurt still, sharply. “Mama, he looked at me with such contempt, turned me out of his life with less compassion than you would a stray dog.”

  And should answer for it, Gabriella thought fiercely. She was counting on her daughter to see that he did. “You weren’t honest with him.”

  “I was trying to be honest with myself. If I was wrong, there still should’ve been room for … It doesn’t matter.” She straightened her shoulders. “I have my interests and duties, and he has his. I wish this ball were over and done.”

  “When it is, you’ll go on your first dig. It’ll be exciting for you.”

  “My mind’s full of it.” Ruthlessly she folded Del’s formal letter, set it aside. As she would, she promised herself, set thoughts of him aside. “Imagine me, studying artifacts from the Lower Paleolithic in France. Dr. Lesuer has been so generous, so forthcoming. I’ll enjoy working with his team and learning from him. But now, I’m behind schedule. Sarah Lattimer will be here in a couple hours. I believe I told you about Sarah—the shop keeper from Vermont who was so kind to me?”

  “Yes, you did. I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

  “I want her to have a spectacular time. Aunt Eve’s going to give her a tour and she’ll have a chance to meet Uncle Alex before the ladies’ tea tomorrow.”

  “I need you to greet some of my personal guests with me—the Earl and Countess of Brigston and their son. They should be here within thirty minutes. I’m entertaining them in the Gold Parlor on arrival.”

  “Yes, I remember.” She glanced at her watch. “I don’t suppose you could have Adrienne fill in for me.”

  “Your sister’s in the nursery with young Armand and the baby. I won’t keep you above fifteen minutes,” Gabriella promised.

  “I’ll be there. I’ll just adjust a few things in my schedule.” She started out, came back and picked up Del’s letter. “I need to have this filed,” she murmured, and hurried away.

  Exactly twenty-nine minutes later, Camilla dashed down the main staircase. Preparations for the Autumn Ball—and all the events leading up to and following it—were well under way. The regisseur, the palace manager, would overlook no details. And should he, her aunt’s eagle eye would scope them out.

  Her Royal Highness, Princess Eve de Cordina was Chatelaine of the palace, and a woman who stood beside her husband as he ruled the country. But she often had her own opinions about matters of state, and had her own career apart from her royal duties. Her Hamilton Company of Players was a world-renowned theatrical group and she was also a respected playwright.

  Her example served to remind Camilla that with ambition, work and brains, a woman could do anything. Even be on time—barely—to meet guests
when her plate was overfull.

  She was nearly at the base of the steps when the man jogging up to her caught her by the shoulders. He was handsome as sin and smelled comfortably of horses.

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “Uncle Bennett. I didn’t even know you’d arrived.” She kissed her mother’s youngest brother on the cheek. “And already visited the stables.”

  “Bry and Thadd are still out there,” he said, referring to his two young sons. “Hannah’s around here somewhere. She wanted to talk to Eve. And look at you.” He ruffled her short hair. “Very chic.”

  “How was your trip to England?”

  “Successful. I found the perfect mare to breed with my stallion.”

  “I want to see her and all the rest of you—but later. I’m late.”

  “What’s this about some American who needs a good ass-kicking?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’ve already seen my father.”

  “On the way in from the stables. I volunteered to hold his coat.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have the chance. I don’t see the ass he’d like to kick being within striking distance any time in the near future. A bientôt.”

  “But—” Puzzled, Bennett watched her dash off. Someone had their information skewed, he mused, then began to smile as he climbed up the steps, hoping to search out his brother and harass him for details.

  Knowing Reeve MacGee, Bennett doubted that Camilla’s father had the wrong data.

  Camilla slowed to a dignified if brisk walk as she moved through the palace. Flowers, fresh and elaborate, speared and spilled out of vases and urns. Her heels clicked efficiently on the sparkling marble floors.

  The occasional servant paused to bow or curtsy. She greeted most by name, but continued on. She hated being late.

  By the time she made it to the Gold Parlor, she was. By six minutes. Because she heard the low murmur of voices, she took another moment to smooth her skirt, her hair, take a breath and fix a welcoming smile on her face.

  When she stepped in, she saw her mother was already seated in one of the conversation areas, pouring tea from one of the Miessen china pots into cups for a middle-aged couple.

  The woman caught her attention first. Such an intriguing look, Camilla thought. Lovely in a unique way, and casually disheveled. She wouldn’t have called the baggy tweeds fashionable, but they certainly suited the woman.

  The man rose as she approached. She started to speak, to apologize for her tardiness in greeting them. Then couldn’t speak at all. He was, she thought, stunned, an older and more distinguished version of Del.

  She needed to find a way to get the man off her mind, she ordered herself, when she started seeing pieces of him in dashing and dignified English earls.

  “Camilla, I’d like to introduce you to the Earl and Countess of Brigston. Lord and Lady Brigston, my daughter, Her Royal Highness Camilla de Cordina.”

  “Lord and Lady Brigston, I apologize for not being here with my mother to welcome you to Cordina. Please, sit and be comfortable. I hope you enjoyed your trip.”

  “We’re delighted to be here, Your Highness.” Alice smiled as she curtsied, then shook hands with Camilla. “As is our son. May I present Lord Delaney, Viscount Brigston.”

  Her thoughts whirled as Del moved from the far window and crossed the room toward her. Her heart beat too quickly—first with the sheer joy of seeing him, and then with confusion. And lastly, with anger.

  Viscount Brigston, she thought. What was this? How did the American scientist become a British aristocrat? The nerve of him.

  She inclined her head, coolly, then lifted her chin. “My Lord,” she said in a tone frigid as winter.

  “Madam,” he returned, and with annoyance clear in his eyes, took her offered hand and kissed it.

  * * *

  She got through it. Camilla was too proud, and too innately well mannered not to. But the following thirty minutes were torture. She held up her part in conversation. Which was more, she thought darkly, than Del managed. He barely grumbled monosyllables, and only when directly addressed.

  Why did he have to look so big and handsome and male? The suit and tie should have dwarfed him somehow, or tamed him by a few degrees. It did neither.

  “My son,” Alice said at one point, “is delighted and grateful for your assistance in funding the Bardville Project, madam. Isn’t that right, Del?”

  He shifted in his chair. “I’ve relayed my appreciation, and the team’s, to Her Highness via letters and reports.”