Miranda Jarrett Page 10

  “Most likely your little villa is in ruins now,” she said, not trying to hide her bitterness. “The French took great amusement in using any buildings along our cliffs for their artillery drills.”

  “But they would not dare touch your great palace,” he said, soothing, realizing he’d misstepped. “Surely those fierce Roman lions at the gates would keep away any lowly Frenchmen.”

  “Those lions were Roman, Lord Darden.” It was no surprise that he’d admired the lions. Every visitor did. The huge snarling beasts were carved from stone and pitted by time, and on saints’ days the local women would put garlands of flowers around the lions’ manes, as if to placate their snarls. “They’re Fortunaro lions now. They were taken as tribute from the Forum itself, ages and ages ago.”

  He smiled indulgently, as if he’d known the history of the lions already, but wouldn’t embarrass her by saying so. “Of course they now belong to your family, ma’am. How would I have guessed then that someday I’d be dancing with the fair Fortunaro princess those lions once guarded?”

  The dance separated them before Isabella had to answer, but it also gave her the few moments to look beyond her first impressions and think, think. Her mother had sent her here to London to garner support for Monteverde’s cause. But she’d already discovered that most Englishmen had never heard of her little country, let alone wished it well against the French.

  Yet what if she could persuade Darden to frame his memories of Monteverde into verse, to be published and shared? It wouldn’t have to be good verse—and given the sampling Isabella had heard this evening, her expectations were not high—but any work by a handsome young peer would be sure to find some audience. She might even grant permission for him to dedicate such a work to her. As the dance brought him back before her, she was smiling at the prospect, and therefore at him as well.

  “You are enjoying yourself, ma’am,” he said as he took her hand again. “I am pleased to see it.”

  But Isabella shook her head impatiently as they turned together. “I would make a request of you, Lord Darden.”

  His own smile widened, uncomfortably close to a leer as he let his focus wander lower, to the low-cut front of her bodice. “I will oblige you in any manner you please, ma’am, and in any place that you desire.”

  Such appalling familiarity should never be tolerated, but for the sake of Monteverde, she somehow held her temper in check. She would have to persuade him to cooperate, though she wasn’t exactly sure how. Ordinarily all she’d have to do is ask, and the person obeyed.

  “You have an empathy for my country, Lord Darden,” she began, “and you say you have a gift for verse. Now if you could only—”

  But too soon the dance came to an end, the music stopping and the partners separating.

  “Wait, Lord Darden, I am not done,” Isabella said impatiently as he bowed to her. “I have not dismissed you. You must stay, and listen.”

  “I’d no intention of leaving you, ma’am,” he said, making no move to release her hand. “But I believe the next dance is a country jig, and hardly conducive to conversation. Might I suggest a retreat to a quieter place?”

  She nodded but pulled her hand free. “For conversation, Lord Darden. Only conversation.”

  “Oh, yes, by all means.” He was leading her quickly across the room, threading through the other guests and dodging footmen with trays of food and drink, and finally through a side door and down a shallow run of steps into the garden behind the house. He walked out onto the terrace and into the moonlight, pausing to turn when Isabella didn’t follow.

  “Should I add the evening air to your list of dislikes, ma’am?” he asked, the moon silvering his fair hair above the black clothes. “Does that not agree with you any more than our newspapers?”

  “You presume, Lord Darden.” Tom had warned her of the perils lurking for her in shadowy gardens, but she also recognized the danger of walking alone in the dark with a man like the marquis, especially since he’d been drinking. “We shall converse here.”

  He shook his head, his frown showing his displeasure. “We might converse, ma’am, but it will not be a conversation of any warmth with you perched so far above me on that step, like the rarest bird of paradise.”

  “Most rare, and most proper.” She did in fact feel a bit like a bird on a perch, here with the toes of her slippers balanced on the edge of the last step, with him the glossy black cat ready to pounce if she fell. And where, she wondered with growing uneasiness, was her loyal watchdog Tom? “Now to our conversation, Lord Darden.”

  “Indeed, ma’am.” He came to stand directly before her, a model of respect with his hands at his sides. At least he would have been had not the step raised Isabella the exact height to place his eyes level with her décolletage. “You had a request for me, ma’am?”

  Uneasily she snapped her fan open, using it to shield her breasts. She hoped he showed more originality in his verse. “A suggestion, Lord Darden.”

  He shook his hair back from his forehead and smiled up at her, his voice now low and purposefully seductive. “I am always ready to oblige a lady’s…suggestions, ma’am.”

  Before she’d realized it, he’d circled around and climbed onto the higher step behind her. She gasped with indignant surprise, and hopped backward, off the last step and away from him.

  “You forget yourself, Lord Darden!” He followed her off the steps, tracking her, forcing her to keep backing away along the patio, and she thought again of that sleek, predatory cat as she fought the panic that reduced her voice to a squeaking yelp. “You forget your—your place!”

  He lowered his chin, his eyes now lost in the shadows. “I remember that you’d something to ask of me, ma’am, and that I was willing to do whatever I could to please you. A favor, an obligation—”

  “Santo cielo—that is, yes. Yes.” She had to stand her ground and stop backing away before she found herself with him beneath the trees, and what Fortunaro ever retreated with such cowardly ease, anyway? “Write me a tribute to my country in your finest verse, Lord Darden, and publish it for all England to read. Yes, that is what I wish from you. That is what I want.”

  Then she stopped backing away, her chin raised with defiance and her open fan pressed across her chest like a painted ivory shield, so abruptly that Darden stumbled off balance and tripped. Swearing, he jerked his hands outward to catch himself and caught Isabella instead. With a shriek of outrage she swung her elbow up and struck the cleft in his chin as they fell together in a tangle of arms and legs.

  “Let me go free, Lord Darden!” Frantically she tried to wriggle clear of him, the silk of her gown catching on the rough stone beneath her. If anyone found her in this shameful position, she’d be ruined, in a way that only a princess could be. All she could see was the black of the marquis’s coat, his chest pressed over her face in a smother of superfine wool. He was bigger than she’d first thought, heavier and stronger, too, and pox him, he was laughing. “Let me go at once!”

  She heard the scrape of metal to her left, the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn. With a final shove to Darden’s chest, she managed to push herself free.

  The first thing she saw was the tip of the sword pointed at her and the marquis. The second, when she looked up, was Tom’s face, his expression as black as the night sky behind him and every bit as menacing as the sword in his hand.

  “Go ahead, Darden.” Tom lowered the blade of the sword to rest on the other man’s sleeve. “Oblige the princess and let her go free, else I shall have to remove you for her.”

  Chapter Seven

  Three minutes, thought Tom furiously. Three minutes ago he’d left the princess safely dancing while he’d been way-laid by Lady Allen, three agonizing minutes while Isabella had been out of his sight, and this—this was what had come of it.

  “I’m not known as a patient man, Darden.” He pressed the tip of his sword against the other man’s sleeve, not enough to pierce it, but enough to give his warning teeth. �
��Let her go, Darden.”

  “I’m not exactly holding her, am I?” With the flat of his palm, Darden carefully pushed the sword aside and disentangled himself from Isabella’s skirts. “You can run in your guns now, Captain, or haul down your flag, or whatever it is you old sea dogs do.”

  “What he did was defend me against you, Lord Darden.” Isabella scrambled to her feet, twitching her skirts away from him and muttering more to herself in Italian. “That has nothing to do with being a sea dog, or whatever other ridiculous insult you choose.”

  With a final sniff she came to stand beside Tom—not precisely at his side, which would show too much dependence, but near enough to show that she’d rather be with him than Darden.

  Of course, that was only because she hadn’t realized how angry Tom was with her, too, now that he knew she was safe. What in blazes had she been doing, wandering off with a dishonorable bastard like Ralph Darden? Hadn’t her mama the queen taught her to avoid scoundrels with too much lace on their shirts?

  Tom had known Darden all his life, and he hadn’t improved with time. The marquis drank heavily, fought trumped-up duels, lost vast sums at cards, chased petticoats of every rank, and got himself up like a macaroni so he could pretend to write bad verse. Darden was, in short, everything that disgusted Tom about being an English aristocrat, yet in three short minutes Darden had managed to carry off the princess like a prize, while honest, honorable Tom was left foundering in his wake.

  “You are unhurt, ma’am?” He sounded like some damned trained parrot, asking Isabella this yet one more time. “Unharmed?”

  She sniffed again, straightening her tiara as she glanced back in the direction of the party. In a way, she should be thankful that Darden had taken her out a side door, where none of the other guests inside had witnessed her indiscretion. She wanted people to speak of her and her country, true, but the last thing she needed was to have her name linked with Darden’s.

  “Thank you, Captain. I am quite fine.” She turned back to him, her voice still breathy with excitement, her hair tousled, things he damned well should not be noticing. She narrowed her dark eyes, slanting her gaze at him with a conspirator’s finesse. “Which has everything to do with you being a gentleman.”

  But Darden only chuckled derisively.

  “Pray, what is that ‘everything’ worth, ma’am, if the gentleman does not behave like a gentleman?” Still mindful of Tom’s sword, Darden slowly stood, dusting his arms and legs with fastidious attention. “You can defend Greaves’s actions all you wish, ma’am, but the sorry truth is that no English gentleman would willfully draw his sword whilst the other gentleman is unarmed.”

  Isabella gasped. “He did so in my defense!”

  “He did so without provocation, ma’am, and without any need.” Darden bowed curtly. “You were never in any danger from me, ma’am, none at all.”

  Purposefully Tom sheathed the sword and stepped back. “I won’t let you lead me off course, Darden, and I won’t let you twist this into some wretched affair of honor. My orders are to protect the princess against all dangers. You were that danger, and I protected her. Now come, ma’am, I’ll take you to rejoin the others.”

  But as he took Isabella’s arm to lead her away, Darden blocked their path, his chin down and a peculiar half smile on his face. “So you would walk away from me, Greaves? You would pretend that this is no different from scrapes in the orchard when we were boys?”

  “I don’t have to pretend one damned thing to you, Darden, and if you are still mired in your boyhood, wanting to race all comers to the top of an apple tree—well, that is none of my affair, is it?” Any idiot could see that he was spoiling for a fight, the signs as sure as the bristling fur on a mongrel’s neck, and Tom had no intention of obliging him. “Now if you will excuse me, the princess must—”

  “No, Greaves, I shall not excuse you.” Again the marquis blocked their way. “Not until you admit your game.”

  “There is no game, Darden.” Tom could sense Isabella’s anxiety beside him, and he worked to keep his voice steady and firm. “You said yourself I’ve no humor in me.”

  Darden rippled the fingers on one hand through the air between them. “But this isn’t about your humors. This is about how once again you’ve arranged things to let you play the hero for the princess, without any real risk to yourself.”

  “That’s not true, not at all!” the princess exclaimed. “However can you say such a lie?”

  “But is it a lie, ma’am?” The marquis shook his hair back from his forehead. “All my life it seems I’ve heard how brave, how daring, how glorious, our Captain Lord Greaves is. But if he were such a great hero, then why is he here in the Duchess of Avery’s drawing room, hiding behind your petticoats? Why isn’t he off at sea, firing his cannons and fighting the French, the way any good respectable hero should?”

  “Damnation, Darden, that’s enough!” exploded Tom, finally pushed too far. He hadn’t heard the whispers himself, but if Darden was saying it, then there must be others with the same opinion, the same questions about his courage and integrity. “If what you want from me is satisfaction, then—”

  “You will not fight a duel over this!” ordered Isabella fiercely, pushing between them. “I will not allow it!”

  But Darden only smiled, his gaze locked with Tom’s. “Alas, ma’am, we are not in Monteverde. What a pity.”

  “This has nothing to do with you, Bella.” Tom shifted her to one side, shielding her from Darden. If only he’d been able to do that earlier, then none of this would be happening now. “This is between us.”

  But Isabella shoved back. “I will not be pushed aside, and I will not let you—what is that music? What is happening?”

  Quickly she faced the door, standing on her toes as she craned her neck to see what could merit the crashing fanfare of horns that had interrupted the dancers.

  But Tom didn’t have to turn. Fanfares like this one were a well-known feature of Lady Allen’s entertainments, and he knew exactly what the horns signified—or rather, who. “It’s the prince, ma’am. The Prince of Wales.”

  “He is an English prince? He is here?” She caught her breath with excitement. Her whole body seemed to vibrate with excitement, the possibility of a duel forgotten, or at least shoved aside. “A son of your king?”

  “The eldest, and heir to the throne. But that doesn’t signify that—”

  “You must take me to him at once, Captain.” She didn’t wait for him to agree, but was already hurrying through the doors.

  Tom had no choice but to follow; he couldn’t let Isabella go off on her own again, especially not in search of the prince. Who could guess what kind of trouble she’d find next?

  He nodded curtly at the marquis. “We shall finish this later.”

  “By all means, Captain.” Darden bowed low over his leg with a mocking flourish. “Don’t let the game escape, eh?”

  “To hell with you, Darden,” Tom snarled, turning away before he blundered any further.

  How in blazes had he let himself be goaded so far like that? He swore to himself with disgust. The admiralty frowned on dueling as a sign of impulsive judgment, as well as a selfish waste of manpower. If word of how close he’d come to challenging Darden ever made its way back to Whitehall, he could forget that new ship forever. Nor would he deserve another command, letting a worm like Darden needle him with such ease.

  But for now the princess was the key to his future, and as quickly as he could, he cut through the excited crowd to reach her. She’d already been gathered up by Lady Allen, who clearly was in raptures at having two royal persons under her roof at once. Yet though Tom now stood on the edge of the circle around them, he could not speak to get Isabella’s attention. Especially here with the prince, Tom had to remember that one never addressed royalty directly, but waited to be addressed first. Alone together, she might be his Bella, but here—here he’d no claims to her at all.

  “So we must be cousins, Isabella,” t
he prince was saying, his thick fingers spread over the front of his embroidered waistcoat. “How vastly fine to discover such a charming relation in this way! You must come to Carlton House, my dear. We shall quite embrace you.”

  Isabella smiled warmly in return, and tipped her head to one side so she had to look up through her lashes. Tom recognized that head-tipping as something she only did when she was pleased or happy—something he now glumly wished he did not know.

  “Yes, yes,” she was saying, effortlessly raising her voice so others could hear her, as well. Not even Lady Allen could draw and hold attention like Isabella, or be so lovely while she did it. “What a comfort it will be to know you are here in London during this troubling time for me, gallantly there if I should need to call upon you.”

  The prince’s already abundant chest seemed to swell with pleasure, his ruddy face beaming under her attention. What man wouldn’t, thought Tom, whether prince, commoner or navy captain?

  “You’ve but to say the word, my dear.” The prince leaned closer to Isabella, as if every other person in the room weren’t listening as well. “I’ve visited your country myself, you know. Seeing you here puts me to mind of your mother. A beautiful woman, the queen.”

  “Indeed, she is.” For a moment, Isabella’s smile faltered, distracted by the mention of her mother. Tom wasn’t surprised, considering the uncertainty surrounding her family’s fate, and he longed to be able to reach out and comfort her.

  But then with a deep breath, Isabella’s smile returned brighter, even more winning, more charming than before, and Tom’s admiration for her persistence rose. This was precisely what she’d come to England to do, and damnation, she’d found a way to do it.

  “But you would scarcely know my country now,” she was saying. “The French have treated Monteverde most barbarously, swallowing us up in their greedy conquest. We fought with all our hearts and might, but we are a small country, and without the help of our stronger friends, Monteverde will become nothing more than a corner of France.”