The Rogue Prince, Page 2

  “Yes, Mama. But at home—”

  “You are not in Cambridgeshire, boy!” Crusley said abruptly.

  “You’re not helping, Crusley,” said Charlotte.

  “What do you know of raising boys, Charlotte?” Elizabeth, Lady Crusley, who was the mother of two sons, raised a sardonic brow.

  Maggie felt a headache starting, and wished she had not found it necessary to come to London.

  “Really, Maggie,” said Beatrice, and the others finally fell silent. “You must try to have better control of the children. And your nurse. Why, she just allowed Zachary to run straight into the—”

  “Nurse Hawkins has much to do, Mother, looking after both of the children.”

  Maggie lowered her son to the floor and stood, taking his hand in hers. “We’re not accustomed to Town.”

  She did not stay to listen to her mother’s retort. Instead, Maggie made her way through the crowd of unwelcome relations who’d finally seen fit to pay her this incredibly inconvenient visit, and upstairs to deal with Zac as well as Nurse Hawkins, who was sure to be distraught.

  Maggie still felt shaken by the incident, and astonished by the actions of the stranger in the street. She could not help but wonder if any of the men of her family would have risked their own lives and limbs to save her son from a trampling. She doubted it. Shefford hadn’t even bothered to go outside when Zac had run into the street.

  And yet a perfect stranger—a foreign royal, for heaven’s sake—had rushed to Zachary’s aid, even though he might have been seriously injured himself. He was truly a hero.

  “Are you very angry, Mama?” Zachary asked as they climbed the stairs.

  “Terribly. You disobeyed Nurse Hawkins and put yourself into a great deal of danger, young man.”

  “I hate it here! I want to go back to Blackmore Manor.”

  “It’s not yours to decide what we will do, or when,” Maggie said, though she silently agreed with him.

  They climbed up to the attic bedroom that Zachary shared with his little sister. The room was large enough to accommodate a nursery and play area, with a bedchamber at the back for Nurse Hawkins. It was very different from the children’s rooms at Blackmore Manor, and Maggie wished they were still there.

  She disliked London immensely, and had lost her naïve desire to please her mother and sisters. It had finally become clear to Maggie that such a thing was not possible. Her mother and siblings would always hold her guilty for “carrying on” when Chatterton had assaulted her—he a man of thirty, and she a child of nine years. She’d been traumatized by his inappropriate advances, and he’d been publicly shamed to the point of suicide.

  Hawkins was waiting when Maggie entered, holding Lily in her arms, looking pale and over-wrought. “I will tender my resignation immediately, my lady,” she said, handing the little girl to Maggie. “I can give you no adequate excuse for—”

  “Please, Nurse Hawkins,” said Maggie. “I understand what happened. And I believe my son owes you an apology for disobeying you. Zachary?”

  “Sorry, Nurse Hawkins,” was the boy’s petulant answer.

  “Go on, Zachary,” said Maggie.

  “I’m sorry for running away when you told me to come back.”

  “Go ahead, then,” Maggie said to him. “You are to sit here in your bedchamber and look at a book until I decide you may come out.”

  “But Mama!”

  “No arguments, my dear young man.”

  Maggie closed the door behind her as she and the nurse left the room.

  “He was so fast, my lady,” said the woman who’d been with Maggie since Zachary was born. Hawkins had provided far more support than Maggie’s own family after Julian’s death, watching over Zachary and taking charge of six-month-old Lily, while Maggie recovered from the birth of her daughter and the shock of her loss. “No matter how much he runs and plays in the park, he wants more.”

  “I know,” Maggie said. “He has enough energy for two boys his size.” And when she and Shefford visited Julian’s solicitor tomorrow, she would ask for funds to engage a governess for him. He was nearly six years old, and it was past time for him to begin his formal education. “We’ll just have to keep the front door bolted from here on.”

  “Yes, my lady,” said the nurse, so shaken Maggie didn’t think she would ever again give Zachary a free moment in which to misbehave.

  Maggie could not return to face her family just yet, so she retreated downstairs to her bedchamber and stood at her dressing table for a moment to compose herself. The danger to Zachary had been all too real, and the thought of losing him was unimaginable. She was embarrassed by the realization that it was far more distressing than actually losing Julian had been.

  Her mad dash to the street had been unseemly. Even worse was the stab of longing she’d felt when she looked into the prince’s deep green eyes. Her raw emotions had no doubt given him the wrong impression—and yet she’d been deeply aware of those broad shoulders and powerful male physique.

  He seemed to be all strength and dependability, compared to her husband’s continuous irresponsibility and frivolousness—which were the cause of his death, in fact. If only Julian had had a sensible bone in his body, he would not have gone boating on a November morning when storm clouds threatened. He would have considered the consequences of his actions.

  Dolefully, Maggie pinned up her hair. Neither her mother nor any of her sisters had returned to Blackmore Manor after Julian’s funeral, in spite of Maggie’s invitations. Not even Shefford had come up, and he was Julian’s executor. Only her dear friend, Victoria Ranfield, had come, but her responsibilities to her own family had limited her to visiting only twice.

  Still, it was more than her family had done.

  Maggie had felt abandoned as a new widow, and had struggled to deal with her children and the management of the rapidly declining estate. It was clear now that she had not managed well, for there never seemed to be enough funds for all that was needed. Perhaps worst of all was that she’d had to face the truth about her family. After all the excuses she’d made for them since Chatterton’s death, she’d finally understood how much they actually despised her.

  There was too much to do for Thomas to linger in Hanover Square, harkening back to the darkest days of his life. And yet he regretted leaving the pretty young mother. He would have enjoyed looking into her velvet-lashed eyes a while longer, thinking about the future he might have had if he’d not been set up to take the fall for a robbery he hadn’t committed.

  He’d have married a comely Suffolk girl, and continued the horse breeding tradition of his forefathers. No doubt he would have had a cottage full of children by now, and a sweet, warm, feminine body to curl up with during the cold nights.

  But the life that had been thrust upon him was devoid of warmth. Hatred burned inside him, but it was an icy heat that had frosted the chambers of his heart. He had naught but disgust and revulsion for the life that he’d been forced into, and his only redemption was vengeance. Only when his accusers had been adequately punished would Tom find the peace he needed in order to move on.

  He walked back to the place where he’d left his carriage and driver, and traveled the short distance to Limmer’s Hotel, where sporting men were known to gather. During the racing season, it was at Limmer’s that they would make their books and speculate among themselves on the year’s best runners.

  It was early days yet, and Tom’s men were still gathering information on his foes. They’d learned that Danvers—Lord Blackmore—was dead, but that unlucky fact had merely changed the character of Tom’s revenge. The man’s family would pay dearly, just as the Thornes had paid.

  Tom was a patient man. He would wait until he knew more about his enemies before he firmed up his plans and put them in place. And he would not be satisfied with anything less than a complete destruction of those who had hurt him so profoundly.

  He took a seat and ordered a meal, then asked for a Sporting Review. While he sat an
d skimmed the journal, he listened to the racing talk, and learned which two-year-olds were the most promising, and what races were going to be the most exciting in the coming season. He heard rumblings about Paragon and Palmer’s Gold—Shefford’s two prime Thoroughbreds—which were said to be unbeatable.

  So much the better.

  Everything was falling into place, like threads on a weaver’s loom. The destruction of his enemies’ reputations and finances wouldn’t be anything near the devastation Thomas and his family had felt when he’d been wrongly accused and convicted, but would go a long way toward balancing the slate.

  Perhaps then, Thomas would be free of the dark memories that shaped his every thought and action.

  Maggie would not apologize for leaving her family in the dining room of Julian’s town house, partaking of the supper Beatrice had taken it upon herself to order. She had reconciled herself to the way her family regarded her. It was difficult enough being the plain, lame sister who didn’t quite belong among them, but she’d crossed the line when she’d reacted with screaming terror to her far older cousin’s attempted molestation.

  In Maggie’s opinion, Chatterton had been a vile lecher who preyed on young girls. To her family, Maggie had wrought the destruction of a “perfectly fine” nobleman, a man who would one day have become the Duke of Norcross. Equally important, he’d been on track to become the husband of her sister, Charlotte. On his death, the title had passed to some distant relative who had no allegiance to Maggie’s mother or sisters. They’d lost a very powerful connection for the family.

  And it was all Maggie’s fault.

  It had taken far too many years for her to grasp that she had not been the guilty party. She had not enticed Lord Chatterton in any way, other than by being small and lame, and isolated on the day in question. She’d been the perfect prey for the kind of man he was.

  Of course no one had ever explained his assault, nor had they really believed her accusations, in spite of some vague rumors of other young girls falling prey to his aberrancy.

  And yet his suicide had told the truth of the matter.

  Maggie would have thought it undesirable to continue an allegiance with a man so twisted he would comport himself in such a perverse manner with a little girl. But her family had not agreed. Charlotte’s betrothal to their older cousin had meant all, and they blamed Maggie for Chatterton’s fall.

  Maggie considered herself fortunate not to have fully understood the man’s intent at the time, though she shuddered even now at the thought of the ugly gleam in his eye when he’d cornered her in the nursery and—

  She would not think of it now, after so many years had passed. There were more pressing issues to consider, such as keeping her children safe in Town. And trying to guess why her family had descended upon her now. It was likely that Beatrice had insisted they all come at least this once, to avoid any appearance of a rift in the family.

  She decided that Beatrice could play hostess, since Maggie had no interest in doing so. There was only one reason she had come to Town, and that was to see what could be done about having her dower portion released. Shefford was the executor of Julian’s estate, but he had not responded to her pleas for assistance, and she’d been without credit in Blackmore for over a month. She couldn’t make the desperately needed improvements in Blackmore’s lands until she had some money.

  She sent Nurse Hawkins down to the kitchen for her own supper, and picked up her daughter, Lily. Keeping the little girl on her lap, she sat down beside Zachary on a comfortable settee before the fire in their cozy attic bedchamber. The children had already had their evening meal and were ready for bed, but it was Maggie’s habit to draw them a story before they went to bed.

  It wasn’t enough just to tell them a tale of adventure and exciting events. Maggie’s habit was to draw pictures of the pirates and highwaymen, as well as the heroes and maidens who populated her stories.

  Her skill at drawing was just a silly hobby, certainly not the high art of her sister, Stella. But her lack of talent did not bother her, for she’d never wanted to do more than amuse, and sometimes instruct, her children with her meager abilities.

  “That’s the man who pulled me from the street, Mama,” said Zachary, noting the likeness Maggie had drawn of the prince. He was as dark and seemed as dangerous as a pirate, and yet he’d performed the good deed of saving Zac from the racing carriage.

  “Don’t you think he should be the hero of our tale?” she asked her son.

  “Well, he didn’t fight pirates, did he?” Zac queried, rising up on his knees and leaning close to watch every line that Maggie drew.

  “Well, of course I don’t know for certain, but I believe he is fully capable of fighting pirates,” she replied with a smile. The magnitude of the man’s heroism mattered not to Maggie. She was just thankful he’d had exactly what was needed to save her son from disaster.

  She wondered if he’d noticed his effect upon her. Her shock at Zachary’s near death had been enough to cause her heart to thunder in her chest, but the prince’s touch had stopped the breath in her lungs. She’d felt a quickening inside that had naught to do with Zachary, and everything to do with the man whose grass green eyes had looked at her as a man might look at a lover.

  Not that Maggie had any experience in such things. She had felt awkward and unappealing during her one short season, and her sisters had scoffed at her flimsy attempts at flirting. Because of her lameness, she couldn’t dance a creditable set, and she’d been too shy to be any good at conversation. Her season had been a disaster, which had made it quite easy for Shefford to pressure her into marrying Julian Danvers, his good friend.

  There wouldn’t be any other offers, her mother and Shefford had claimed, not when Maggie was still such a gangly, awkward thing at age twenty—with a lame leg, no less. The years-old Chatterton scandal had not helped, either, but Julian had been willing to overlook Maggie’s shortcomings to know that he’d be getting a suitably innocent, biddable wife.

  Lily took her thumb from her mouth. “Is there a bairn, too, Mama?”

  “I hadn’t thought of a bairn, love. Shall we give one to the handsome captain and his wife?”

  “No!” Zachary protested. He got up from the settee and took up a fighting stance. “No babies, Lily! The captain must fight the villains on the sea!”

  “Where on earth did you learn such a thing, Zachary?” Maggie asked, aghast.

  “From Willy Johnston,” Zachary replied with bravado. “We do boxing at home!”

  “Come back here and sit down, young man,” Maggie said. She wasn’t quite sure what boxing was, but she had some idea that it involved two grown men throwing punches at one another. It was not something she wanted her son to be any part of.

  If only he’d had a more conscientious father, if only Julian had spent more time with his son, perhaps Zachary would have a more even temperament.

  But Julian had always had more important things to attend to in Town—estate management, he’d said, and business affairs. Maggie would have accompanied her husband on his trips to London if he’d ever asked her, but Julian had wanted to spare her, saying that his frequent treks to London were wholly tiresome. There were solicitors and managers and agricultural meetings he needed to attend.

  Maggie decided she could tolerate London for a few more days. As soon as possible, they would return to Blackmore Manor, where her children would be safe from carriages racing through the streets, and other unforeseen dangers.

  And Maggie would be safe from the ridiculously volatile reaction of her heart at the courtesy of a stranger.

  Chapter 2

  Two days after the incident in Hanover Square, Thomas read through the invitations that his good friend, now known as Nathaniel Beraza, had left on the table. The two men were close in age, and they’d found it expedient to watch each other’s backs during the years of their incarceration in the penal colony. It had been a dark hole of a place, rife with unthinkable hardship and violence.
Survival in those first few months had been difficult, but between them, they’d managed to get by.

  Nate had a handsome, open face. With his coppery hair and bright blue eyes, he could be a very engaging fellow when he chose to be, but he was not a man to toy with. Tom’s friendship with him had grown throughout the horrific years they’d spent at Norfolk and in Botany Bay trying to survive, doing whatever was necessary to avoid the marines’ vicious whips.

  But it was Tom who’d watched over Duncan Meriwether, giving the old man a portion of his own food when others stole Duncan’s, and protecting him physically from the fiercer prisoners on the island. It was to Thomas that Duncan had bequeathed the vast, ill-gotten treasures he’d stolen during his pirate days.

  Duncan had been transported for life for his years of buccaneering, but he’d never told anyone of the riches he’d hidden away in a cave on an uncharted south Caribbean isle—not until Thomas. Duncan had called the place Sabedoria, after his Portuguese cohort who’d stashed his own treasures there before being killed in a raid.

  The old pirate had quietly babbled about living like a king on a Greek isle one day, in spite of his life sentence. Tom had humored him until the old man’s last brutal beating. Then he’d carried the bloodied, broken man away from the pillory. He’d taken Duncan into his own hut and placed him on his own raw pallet.

  Tom remembered cringing at the sight of the cruel slashes in the old man’s back, but there’d been nothing he could do to help him, nothing but offer him a few sips of water, and his own company.

  Duncan had refused the water, taking hold of Tom’s arm, squeezing as tightly as he was able, and insisting that Sabedoria and the treasure were real. Tom had known the old man would not survive that last flogging, so he’d humored him, letting him sketch a map on an old cloth with a piece of charcoal to show Tom the location of his treasure isle.

  “It’s on the south side. There are caves just under the water in a freshwater cove,” he’d said. “Look there.”