A Prince Among Men (16 page)

Ophelia drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. "You're right. She
is
observant. It's one of the things I most like about her."

Jasper groaned and jumped up. He circled the room with impatient strides, swearing to himself,
and came to a halt beside Ophelia's bed again. "I've got to find Mirandola. Then she'll see I'm not an idiot." He turned away and went to her mantel, looking at himself in the glass.

"Did you find out what he—"

"I'm going to be clever this time." Jasper made an adjustment to his cravat. "I'm going to study up. I've been reading about Italy all morning. Can hardly believe it, of course. Every power in Europe has been trying to get a piece of the place for years. No wonder Mirandola doesn't trust Castlereagh."

"Jasper, that's very sound. If you understand the prince and why he ran away, you're much more likely to persuade him to return to negotiations."

"That's what I thought." He grinned at her in the mirror. "And I won't bother Miss Gray again until I have some definite information to tell her."

"Wise." Ophelia nodded gravely.

"Do you think she likes green?" Jasper turned. "Did you see her last night?"

Ophelia plucked the counterpane, avoiding Jasper's gaze. This new Jasper was more alert than the old one had been. "It was such a squeeze at Marchmont's after the opera." She tried to think of a way to stem his questions about Hetty before he asked about her family. She threw back the covers and reached for her wrapper. "You know, I borrowed a book you probably need. Let me find it."

At her writing table she pushed aside the notes she'd made on Berwick's poem. "Here. Sismond's
History of the Italian Republics.
There's a section on Trevigna.
"

"Thanks, Sprite." Jasper took the little volume reverently. "This is just the thing." He flipped through the pages and showed her the heading Trevigna. "Well, thanks." He turned and strode for the door.

"Jasper?" she called before he could get away. "Did you find out what Mirandola looks like?"

He looked up from Sismond's book, his hand on the doorknob. "Yes, I saw a miniature that Burke has. Funny, Mirandola doesn't look anything like an Italian prince."

Chapter 11

"
T
o kiss or not to kiss?"

Open and indiscreet, Alexander's question made Ophelia glance round the Grays' stable. They were alone. Alexander, having dismounted, was looking up at her. His perceptive gaze recognized her indecision, while she regarded him from Shadow's back, unwilling to descend and admit she wanted his kiss. To think the word started butterflies of agitation beating their wings in her.

"You mustn't think I come to Hetty's for kisses."

"That's why I come," he said.

Ophelia twisted the reins around her hands.

"We're going to face this dilemma every time you ride, Ophelia. Your groom wants to kiss you."

"How can you admit it so freely?"

"How can I conceal it?"

She thought he could if he could turn the blue of his eyes to something cool and gray. "And if I refuse?"

"You choose," he said with a little bow. "The
lady is sovereign. The man is her servant and must obey her."

"What are you talking about?" she asked.

"The rules
of
…
love."

"Love?" She couldn't help looking at him then.

Of course, he'd caught the irony in her tone, and that had started him thinking, wondering. She could see it in his eyes. "What rules?" she asked.

"I read them in a book."

"In your father's library?"

He nodded.

"An amazing
library. Your father was a…
?"

"Great reader," he said lightly. "You are used to giving me commands. You can command in this, too, if you like. I'll obey."

He led Raj to a stall while she sat, Studying her hands. When Shadow moved restlessly under her, impatient now for Ophelia to dismount, Alexander returned and steadied the mare with a touch on her bridle.

It was odd to think of commanding him in this matter. It was nothing to say "Saddle my horse" or "Clean the stalls." Those were not commands of his will, but only of his body. To say "Kiss me" or to withhold permission gave her an odd sense of power. She slanted a glance at him, detecting a finely drawn tension in his mouth. He wanted to kiss her. He had admitted it. Surely that gave her some power over him.

"Very well," she said, freeing her foot from the stirrup. "I agree to your rules."

He put his hands to her waist, catching her as
she slid from Shadow. "You haven't heard them all."

She started to draw back, but the expression in his eyes held her. "If we kiss," she asked, "how do I tell you to stop?"

"Tug on my ear? Step on my foot?"

"I'll tug on your ear," she agreed solemnly.

"Test me."

She nodded, her throat suddenly dry. His hands tightened on her waist, and he lowered his mouth to hers slowly, making a ceremony of her permission. His lips brushed hers lightly at first, then clung, full and open and consuming, different from the hasty kiss they'd shared the day before. This exchange began in acknowledged purpose and led to revelations of longing and need.

She barely remembered their signal, fumbled her hand up from his shoulder to his ear. At her touch he stopped, wrenching his mouth from hers. She could feel his heated breath on her shoulder for a long, pulsing instant. Then he stepped away, turning his back to her.

He reached for Shadow, and under his shaky touch the mare shivered with a jingle of steel. Another groom entered the stable, leading a pair of carriage horses, and Ophelia slipped outside.

H
ours later, on their way back to Searle House, she told him, "I'm not fond of rules."

He gave her a wry smile. "These are all to your advantage." They rode side by side in the last stretch of lane before the stables, the horses pulling a little, eager for the comforts of their stalls.

"Tell me the rest, then."

"Love should be kept secret."

"Sensible."

"When made public, love rarely endures."

"That explains the dearth of it in marriage."

"In a crowd, the lover must treat his beloved almost as a stranger."

"Discretion, always wise."

"Meetings of lovers should be difficult to arrange."

She risked a glance at him and then couldn't look away. "How often did you read this book?"

"Once."

"Recently?"

"Years ago."

"And you remembered so much? You've must have been very interested in the subject matter."

"Never as much as now." He flashed her a grin.

"That," she said, trying to ignore a fluttering sensation in her middle, "is mere flattery. What do the rules say about flattery?"

"I forget."

"Liar."

"There is another rule I remember."

"What?"

"Love is suffering."

"That's not a rule."

"It's the one rule every lover obeys." They reached the stableyard gate, and conversation between them came to an end, but she gave her hand to him at the mounting block, and he held it even when her feet were firmly on the ground. Reluctantly, she pulled away.

* * * * *

O
phelia moved lightly among the gossiping groups at the subscription ball. Now that she had added kissing Alexander to her secret offenses against society, she must be very careful to appear as unremarkable as possible. But for once she found it easy to appear shallow and heartless and bored. After all, everyone was doing it.

Fortunately, society had other transgressors to punish, as if who was in or out were a mere children's game of choosing. Lord Byron was out, his sins exposed by his estranged wife. A week before, society had given him the cut direct, ignoring a party in his honor. Brummell was out, forced to flee his creditors. Everyone who remained was full of unspoken self-congratulation at retaining a place among the elite.

Nothing changed among them. They were impervious to ideas, but they danced well, so Ophelia danced, with Dent, who was dull; Ayres, who was proud; and Wyatt, who was merely offensive. He was pursuing a besotted-looking girl in white, but he requested a dance with Ophelia as she stood at her mother's side. She smiled with false sweetness, agreeing to a quadrille, not the waltz he had requested. Jasper found her between sets.

"Have you seen Miss Gray?" he asked.

Ophelia sobered instantly. "She doesn't have vouchers, Jasper."

He was looking about the room, but that brought his gaze back to Ophelia. His brow wrinkled in puzzlement. She could see him thinking, trying to square his high opinion of Hetty with what her inability to get vouchers might mean about her standing in society.

"I suppose this sort of ball is too mercenary for her taste." His disappointment in Hetty's absence was plain. He stopped looking around the room.

Ophelia softened. She could not bring herself to tell him that Hetty would never receive vouchers. "Yes, her family thinks private balls are better for forming attachments," she lied.

Jasper shoved his hands in his pockets. "Well, I just wanted to tell her of our progress in the Mirandola search."

"Jasper, what have you found out?"

"Actually, the Foreign Office received a letter from an Italian named Ferruci. According to his letter, the prince is behind a plan to call a constitutional congress in Trevigna this fall."

"Your prince is oddly democratic, isn't he? What does he mean by this congress?"

"We're not entirely sure, but it puts his disappearance in a new light."

"How so?"

"If he is behind this republican movement in Trevigna, his disappearance at a critical moment in negotiation is a hostile act. A republican government is unlikely to enter into any agreement with England, you see."

"Then what happens to your search?"

"It's more important than ever that I find him."

"What are you going to do?"

"I've set my man to watch the tailor's shop. If there are any suspicious comings and goings, he's to find me straightaway."

"Oh." Ophelia tried to shake off the disappointment she felt at her brother's methods of
conducting a search. To think his valet was standing in the dark on a drizzly night while Jasper led debutantes around a ballroom put her out of all patience with her brother. So much for his ambition to rise in the foreign service or even to impress Hetty. It occurred to her that she rather admired Alexander because he didn't have anyone to wait on him. She excused herself when her new partner approached.

J
asper watched his sister join the set, smiling and nodding at her partner as if utterly engrossed by his remarks, which Jasper knew she wasn't. It struck him then that for all his sister's apparent compliance, she actually did pretty much what she wanted to do. She had evaded their parents' efforts to marry her off for nearly two years, and she was being less than forthcoming in the matter of Henrietta Gray.

"
Evening, Brinsby," said a voice at his side.

"Wyatt." Jasper acknowledged his companion without turning.

"Is your sister giving you trouble?"

"What?" Jasper looked away from the dancers. Wyatt and his sister had raised expectations briefly in the last season, but nothing had come of them. Now that he thought about it, Jasper found it rather curious that Ophelia never spoke of Wyatt.

"Has she formed an attachment this season?"

"Sprite? Not likely. She hardly pays any attention to her partners."

"She's paying attention to someone, I'll wager."

"What makes you think so?"

"She's got the look of a woman who's been kissed."

Jasper stared at his friend. "Give it up, Wyatt. I ought to call you out."

"Just a friendly warning, Brinsby." He sauntered off, and Jasper was left with a suspicion that his sister was deceiving him. He recalled the night she'd pla
nned to meet him at the Candov
ers' and hadn't shown. She never answered his questions about Miss Gray. The more he thought about it, the more he felt entitled to some straight answers. If he couldn't get them from his sister, then he would have to ask his mother.

A
lexander let himself into the tailor shop by the back door around midnight. He lit a candle in the hall and crept up the stairs to his room. He needed to catch up with his correspondence. There was no telling what Francesca was up to or whether Hume and Tollworthy were doing their part to get the Trevigna Fund going.

At the landing a sleepy Lucca greeted him in a magnificent frogged silk robe and slippers. He wrinkled his handsome nose as Alexander passed. "Majesty, you must stop this peasant work. You are soiling the hands of a king."

"The boots at least." Alexander tossed his gloves on the desk and held up his relatively clean hands. "You aren't offended by honest sweat, are you, Lucca?"

"You joke, but we had visitors. Spies, I'm sure of it."

"Spies?" Lucca was taking the English government entirely too
seriously if he thought Castle
reagh would trouble to send spies to look for the
missing prince of Trevigna. Alexander shed his jacket and cravat.

"A gentleman,
molto signore,
and two ladies. One fair, very pretty; one dark with the eyes of a hawk." Lucca's countenance grew very sad. "The gentleman
bought the forest green double-
breasted coat."

"The forest green?"

Lucca nodded.

Alexander felt a pang of regret. It was one of his finest coats. The clothes he wore in the stable were showing the effects of daily contact with horses, dust, and mud. He sank onto the bed and tugged at his left boot. "The fellow has good taste, but that doesn't make him a spy."

"The man had the wits of a celery stalk, but the little dark lady, she was like a
lazzarone
with a stiletto, very sharp."

"The government sent a female spy?"

Lucca looked grave. "I think she knows."

"Knows what?"

"That we are selling your coats."

"Even if she knows they're my coats, which I very much doubt, you are selling them, not I. If questioned, you'll say you bought them from a secondhand dealer in Monmouth Street."

Lucca sniffed. "Flies don't enter a closed mouth."

"Don't worry." Alexander set his boots aside and moved to the desk. "You are following all our precautions for sending and receiving letters?"

"Of course."

"Then no one will find us."
Alexander lit the desk lamp. "Are there any letters from Trevigna?"

"From Donna Francesca, they come like cheese on macaroni."

Alexander leafed through the pile. Aunt Francesca was undoubtedly his most reliable correspondent. Where were the others he needed? He settled himself in the chair. "Thanks," he said over his shoulder. He heard the slap of Lucca's slippers retreating down the hall as he opened the first letter.

It was late when he'd sorted out the conflicting demands and suggestions. He had spread five letters in a line across the desk. In the first Aunt Francesca praised Federico Tesio's daughter and explained how well her proxy courtship was proceeding. The girl apparently had the stately dignity of an empress. Her family was aware of the financial uncertainties of the royal house of Mirandola but were prepared to overlook any of Alexander's embarrassments in the service of Trevigna.

Of the other letters, the first was from a nobleman in Aunt Francesca's camp. In his view any effort to develop a republic was misguided and dangerous. He wrote of the uncertainties of the time and of the general opposition in the wake of the fall of France to any republican undertaking. Ferruci was active again, and all of Trevigna wanted a strong government to oppose the bandit. Alexander should not trust anyone who agreed to a constitutional convention. He should take his aunt's very sound advice to marry and get an heir.

Tollworthy's letter was hardly more encouraging. The London Committee for the Restoration of the Italian Republics was divided and floundering. The republican faction in Trevigna, having heard rumors of Alexander's upcoming marriage, was sending a man to London to negotiate independently with the committee. The investors were alarmed. Tollworthy devoted two pages to their fears and questions.

In a shorter missive, Aunt Francesca wrote that she would be arriving in London with Tesio's daughter sometime before the first of May.

Only the last letter was a pledge of support for the constitutional convention Alexander had planned for October. He had fifty letters promising attendance so far. He needed twenty-five more, at least. He would have to send another round of pleas.

"Majesty?" It was Lucca with a tray of bread, cheese, and wine. "You should eat."

Alexander cleared a place on the desk for the tray and leaned back in his chair. "I didn't mean to keep you awake," he said, rolling his stiff shoulders.

Lucca set down the tray. "If you can stay up, so can I." He shrugged.

"Go get another glass, then. You can help me sort out this tangle." He waved his hand over the letters.

They made short work of the bread and cheese and sipped the wine in silence for a while.

"Is the news very bad, Majesty?" Lucca asked.

Alexander was tempted to deny it, but he didn't. "Francesca's meddling has turned the republicans against me. They are sending their own man to London. We have less than a fortnight to convince the committee that there will be a constitutional convention in October.
"

"They doubt you?
"

"Tollworthy wants to know when and where the congress will be held, how many representatives there will be, how soon they can expect a constitution to be adopted, and when we will hold the first general elections." He swore a satisfying oath he'd learned from one of his fellow grooms.

"
Madre della Virgine,
where did you get such a phrase?"

"May not a prince swear?"

Lucca smoothed the folds of his silk robe with offended dignity. "You are angry. You work and work and do not hit one nail on the head. I do not understand why you do not give up the stable. Stay here and write your
…
letters."

Alexander regarded his wine. There was one reason he would not leave his job, but he wasn't ready to tell Lucca about kissing Ophelia Brinsby. He drained his glass. "Thank you for the meal, Lucca. I'm going to write a few more letters tonight. Can you take them tomorrow?"

Lucca rose and bowed. "Of course, Majesty."

T
he unexpected summons to her father's library came as Ophelia was readying to go to the theatre. She knew without asking that she had been found out in some way. There was no chance to send a warning to the stables lest Alexander be questioned and sacked. She followed a sober-faced footman down the hall to whatever doom awaited her, thinking only that she
wouldn't know where to find Alexander if her father had already dismissed him.

At the library door, she paused for a deep breath. She would not give anything away. She knocked, and at her father's call, entered.

Her father stood with his back to a lively fire, his hands spreading his coattails. Her mother reclined on a small sofa with Pet's head in her lap, and Jasper stood in the middle of the carpet, looking miserable and apologetic. Pet roused himself so far as to offer her a low growl of greeting.

"Miss," said her father, "you have some explaining to do."

"Yes," said her mother, stroking the dog. "Jasper says he's met you twice in the company of Miss Gray."

She cast her brother a swift glance, wondering which time Jasper had failed to mention. "We met quite by accident, mother. Miss Gray is free to come and go about London as she pleases. I didn't see any harm in exchanging a few words in passing."

"Hardly the story your brother tells us," her father said.

Jasper cleared his throat. "But I assumed they were together. Perhaps you should have questioned Ophelia first."

Her father turned his most serious you've-let-us-down face on Jasper, who subsided at once. "Ophelia, when you were sixteen, we asked you to sever all ties with Miss Gray. Do you remember why?"