A Prince Among Men (17 page)

Ophelia had sense enough not to answer.

"Not merely because of your ill-judged foray
into publishing, but because we had your interests at heart."

Ophelia clenched her fists. The temptation to tell them they had no notion of her true interests was very great and would be utter folly. She waited for her father to continue.

"In truth, these new meetings with Miss Gray are more injurious to the family than your earlier association with her."

"How can that be?" Ophelia could not resist asking.

"Do you know who Miss Gray's mother is?" her mother asked.

"What can it matter? She's dead."

"She's not dead. She's very much alive and so notorious that Miss Gray cannot be eligible for even the most modest of matches, and for her to aspire to your brother's hand—"

"She doesn't aspire to Jasper's hand. She has no such thought. And if such foolishness entered her head, I would be quick to point out that a snob like Jasper is beneath a woman as fine and sensible as Hetty."

"Silence," roared her father, startling Pet into furious barking, which lasted several minutes while Lady Searle stroked the dog, soothing him with soft murmurings.

When the room was quiet again except for the snapping of the fire in the grate, her father spoke. "Miss Gray's mother is that novelist, Amelia Hart."

"Mrs. Hart is Hetty's mother?" Ophelia was sure Hetty did not know and that Solomon did not want to her to know. And Mrs. Hart was holding that knowledge over her former lover's
head, making him look sick and miserable in her company as Ophelia had seen at their evening gathering.

"Her former liaison with Solomon Gray is widely known and must preclude all possibility of a respectable match for Miss Gray, whatever her personal attractions or merit."

Ophelia stared at the floor. Her mother was speaking, but she couldn't listen. Hetty deserved respectability and love, and Solomon had tried to provide both. Ophelia could not stand by and see her friends hurt, but she hardly knew what to do to help them. Except that she must get out of this room and think.

She looked up into her father's frowning face.

"Do you understand, miss?" he said.

"What?" She glanced around. Her mother was kissing Pet. Jasper was straightening his cravat.

"You will not leave this house except in the company of your mother until the ball."

Ophelia lifted her chin. "And Jasper, who polluted himself with Miss Gray's company? Is he also confined to mother's company?"

"Jasper," said her mother, "has done nothing. You misled him about your friend's character."

"Her character? Her character is superior to the collective character of this entire family." Ophelia threw her hands up and spun on her heel, heading for the door.

Pet came off the sofa, barking furiously, snapping, and circling Ophelia, halting her in her tracks.

"Sit," her father commanded the dog. Pet obeyed, plopping his hindquarters to the rug in
front of Ophelia, his bark subsiding into a low rumble in his throat.

"Ophelia, do not add impertinence to your other crimes," her father continued. "You will not walk out on your parents." He beckoned to his wife. With stately dignity they swept from the room, the dog waddling at their heels.

A lump of coal collapsed in a soft hiss in the grate. Ophelia did not trust herself to speak.

"Well, that was uncomfortable," said Jasper. "Father makes a fellow feel like he's in short coats again."

Ophelia didn't turn. "Is that what concerns you, Jasper? The discomfort of it all?"

"No, damn it, Sprite. It's the deception. You should have told me the truth about Miss Gray from the start. You could
see
…
you could see
…
Well, devil take it, you should have told me."

"Why? So that you could avoid forming an attachment with an unsuitable girl?"

"Yes, damn it. What if I had come to care for her? Then where would I be? What would Mother and Father say to that?"

Ophelia let a harsh laugh escape her. She faced her brother. "Jasper, you're an idle, pretentious snob. I wouldn't let you marry my friend."

Jasper's mouth opened and closed twice. "I'm a snob? Well, you
…
you are a spoiled, deceitful baggage. Where did you go that night you were supposed to come to the Candovers'? And who have you been kissing? Wyatt says you have that look, and I've come to think he's right. You'd better watch yourself, Sprite, or you'll end up married to Dent before a month is out." He looked around for his hat and gloves, found
them, snatched them up, and headed for the door. "Excuse me. I have work to do."

"Work? Your valet does your work. No wonder you haven't found Mirandola yet."

Chapter 12

A
s Jasper leaned against the stable wall, waiting for one of the undergrooms to bring his cattle round, the quiet of the place made him feel some queer, disagreeable emotion he was sure he'd felt before but couldn't quite name. He straightened and brushed a piece of loose straw from his trouser leg. He was in the heart of London, yet he felt removed from society. It must be the pungent odor of the place— dust, leather and sweat, and underneath a hint of horse piss and rotted hay—smells of honest toil.

Your valet does your work.
His sister's words had chafed at him for days. If it weren't for Ophelia, he'd be dining at his club or playing cards or flirting happily with the newest incomparable. Instead, he'd dismissed his valet Plumb from duty outside the tailor's shop, and had taken over the dull work himself. It reminded him of long hours on his own at school, and suddenly he knew what it was he felt—loneliness.

He poked his head through the wide doors to see if he could hurry the groom along, and found
Clagg making entries in the stable books.

"Evenin', sir." Clagg looked up from his work. "Waitin' fer yer cattle?"

"Yes."

"I'll give the lads a hint, sir," Clagg offered, pushing up from his chair.

Jasper thanked him, but Clagg didn't move.

"Bye the bye, sir, been meanin' to speak w' ye about that stallion ye bought."

Jasper nerved himself for some quip at his expense. He'd forgotten the embarrassment of the chestnut stallion that had thrown the stables into chaos.

"New man's worked a miracle on 'im. Sound 'orse. Ye should take a look at 'im someday."

"I will." Jasper felt mildly better. Perhaps his judgment was not so very faulty.

But his four-day vigil outside the tailor's had been fruitless so far. He had detected nothing more suspicious than the Italian tailor's apparent attachment to a saucy shopgirl from the perfumer's establishment at the end of the street.

It seemed pointless, all his hanging about, hoping to catch the prince. Who would care? Lord Castlereagh would hardly notice Jasper's contribution while weightier matters of state were pressing. Jasper would not find himself elevated to the inner circle at the Foreign Office or trusted with delicate dealings with foreign governments.

He sauntered back out to the yard. He couldn't remember why he'd been so determined to find the prince just a fortnight ago. But a treacherous little voice inside whispered that he did know, that finding the prince had mattered when he could tell Hetty Gray about it. And now it didn't
matter because there was no chance of seeing Miss Gray's eyes light when he related his success.

For the hundredth time he blamed Ophelia for allowing him to think her lovely friend eligible. Ophelia deserved her punishment. Her defiance of society's rules was folly. He hoped they
would
marry her off to Dent. His treacherous little voice spoke again, telling him he wanted Hetty Gray, and he was jealous of his sister's courage in daring to break the rules. He tried to silence the voice by recalling Ophelia's unfeeling frankness.

As he thought of it, he realized that Ophelia wouldn't change. She'd break the rules again, and find a way to meet her friend. He should be watching his sister, not the tailor's shop. And when Ophelia made her escape, he should follow. She would lead him straight to Hetty Gray. Then he would tell Miss Gray directly what he thought of her presumption. Once he told her his feelings, he would be himself again without this unaccountable melancholy, and he would devote himself to the season's pleasures.

The undergroom brought the horses out, while two stablehands rolled the curricle from its house, but the carriage suddenly bored him.

"On second thought," he said to the groom with the horses, "I'll walk." When they all just stared at him, he added, "Sorry to trouble you."

He reached in his pocket for some coins, and tossed one to each man. As the undergroom turned the horses, a new thought struck him. "Do you know Lady Ophelia when you see her?"

The man nodded. Jasper tossed another coin
his way. "If you see her in this stable, saddle my horse and send for me directly."

He left the yard in a few quick strides. Eventually Ophelia would bolt, and he would be ready for her.

And she
did
…
sooner than he'd expected. The very night after he'd made arrangements with the undergroom. The man was as good as his word. Jasper found his mount ready and could see the hindquarters of his own chestnut stallion disappearing down the lane as he left the stable.

It took considerable patience to hang back in the evening traffic, but he was rewarded when he saw Ophelia and her companion enter a house on a modest street in Kensington. He found the mews, stabled his horse with a groom, and went looking for the chestnut stallion. A couple of inquires told him he'd come to the right place. Still, he hesitated at the door, preparing himself for disappointment or embarrassment if he was wrong.

"Miss Gray, please," he said to the mob-capped woman who opened the door.

"Who may I say is calling?" the woman asked.

"Jasper Brinsby."

Her eyes widened. "In here, sir," she said, ushering him into a small, dark parlor. She lit a lamp and vanished. The furnishings were surprisingly tasteful, with a fine landscape painting over the mantel. He laid his cloak, hat, and gloves across the rolled arm of a small, elegant sofa. Things he planned to say to Miss Gray tumbled through his mind. He took a deep breath, trying to settle his
thoughts. He had only to put her in her place and he could go.

A whisper of light footsteps in the hall sent his heart skipping. The door opened and Hetty Gray entered, so lovely, that he could think of nothing whatever to say.

She looked stricken; her hands were tightly clasped. "You've come for Ophelia, of course. I'll send her to you at once. But I hope you won't tell your parents. She really shouldn't marry Dent," Hetty finished in a rush.

Jasper swallowed. In the lamp's glow the golden curls around her face seemed to have a light of their own. Her dress made him think of pale champagne. "I didn't come for Ophelia."

A puzzled look came into her eyes, but she said nothing.

He took two careful steps toward her, watching her eyes. "I came to see you." That much was true. He became interested in the place at the base of her throat where her pulse beat.

She spun away from him toward the hearth, looking down into the empty grate. "What you must think of me for concealing my origins from you, I can't imagine."

Jasper opened and closed his mouth unsuccessfully twice. "You must despise me for the most shallow sort of snobbery." It was not what he'd planned to say at all.

She shook her head, the little golden curls swinging.

"Miss Gray." He moved to close the gap between them. "Look at me," he urged her, his throat suddenly tight.

Another little shake of her head. Putting his
hands to her shoulders, he turned her gently. "Hetty." His voice cracked. He tilted her face up to his. "Can we start over again?"

A dizzying moment passed.

When she nodded, he stepped back, holding out his hand. "Very well, I'm Jasper Brinsby, prize fool." Slowly she raised her hand to meet his. "And you are the wise, benevolent Miss Gray?"

A little sob escaped her, she denied his compliment with a shake of her head.

"Of course you are," Jasper said firmly. "Glad to make your acquaintance."

"Your family will be angry and embarrassed that you came to see me." Her eyes grew sad again, and she withdrew her hand from his.

He squared his shoulders and struck a martial pose. "My family will throw great obstacles in our path, but we will overcome them with heroic efforts."

She smiled her wise, sad smile. "Do you think we can?"

"Yes."

She seemed unconvinced, but Jasper wanted no doubts now. "Are you going to invite me in?" he asked.

"You want to join our party?"

"It will probably be a great blow to my pretensions, but yes."

"You won't give Ophelia away or embarrass her?" She looked severe, her brows drawn together, and he forgot to answer her as he realized there would be hundreds of looks to get to know, to catalogue.

"I owe Ophelia too great a debt."

She smiled at that. "Come along, then, and meet the Gray circle."

Jasper didn't know what he'd expected, exactly, but it wasn't Solomon Gray and his guests. Ophelia cast him one horrified glance and exchanged a look with Hetty that apparently calmed her fears. Mr. Gray welcomed Jasper civilly, but with reserve. Amelia Hart stunned him. He saw at once where Hetty got her looks, though he was puzzled at the introduction, for there seemed to be no acknowledgment of Mrs. Hart's relation to the Grays. As for the others, their wit was dry and sharp, their clothes fashionable, and their looks sophisticated. Then Jasper forgot them all, for standing at Ophelia's side, looking little older than his portrait, was a man who was unmistakably Prince Alexander di Piovasco Mirandola.