The Barefoot Princess (2 page)

“Oh, dear.” Miss Victorine stood with the candle tilted, the wax dripping on the floor. “Oh, dear.”

Gathering the sail under his arm, Pom bowed to Miss Victorine. “I’ll leave His Lordship t’ ye, Miss Sprott. Call me if ye have need o’ me.”

Miss Victorine gathered her composure. She righted the sputtering candle and patted Pom’s arm. “We won’t call you. There’s no reason for anyone to know what you’ve done here, and I promise we would die rather than betray you to His Lordship.”

“I know, ma’am. I appreciate that.” Pom clumped up the stairs to the backdoor.

Amy followed to let him out, and the wariness learned through years of poverty and deception made her inquire, “No one in the village knows what we’ve done here…do they?”

“Haven’t a clue.” Pom tipped his fisherman’s hat, stepped out of the kitchen and disappeared into the gloom composed of fog and darkness.

What had he meant by that? Amy wondered. Did he mean the villagers hadn’t a clue, or he didn’t know if the villagers had a clue?

Yet she saw no use in worrying now. The deed was done, and the venture was so bold, so unusual, the surprise itself foretold success.

That was what she told herself. That was what she hoped.

Pom entered the pub and hung his hat on the rack beside the door. Turning, he saw every person looking at him eagerly. “It’s done,” he said.

A collective sigh wheezed through the air.

“Don’t tease us, gent! Tell us the details.” His wife stood with a bar rag in her hand. She tied her blond curls up in a pink ribbon, her blue eyes sparkled as if the sight of him gave her pleasure, and her handsome mouth was asmilin’.

Pom didn’t understand why Mertle had chosen him, of all the fishermen in the village, to be her man, but he counted himself lucky to have her. He gave her the nod that meant he loved her, and added, “It went well.”

Sitting at a table, he set his elbows on the surface and waited while she served him his dinner. He ate as if he was starving, which he always was. When he finished, he picked up the mug of ale and drank it dry.

Then he noticed everyone still stared at him as if expecting more of a report than he had given. Words came hard for him, so with some difficulty, he said, “His Lordship’s chained in Miss Victorine’s cellar. The ransom note’s been left fer Mr. Harrison Edmondson.”

“That bastard,” Mertle said roundly. “Get on, gent!”

“Now we’ll see what Lord Northcliff has t’ say when he wakes up,” Pom said.

“He won’t be happy, I trow.” Vicar Smith tapped his fingertips together.

The vicar was an elderly man with tufts of white hair on his head and great growths of gray hair over his eyes. He had a weak chin, a strong character, and a way of stating the obvious.

But Pom wasn’t a learned man, and perhaps it needed to be said. “Nay,” he agreed gravely. “That he won’t.”

“Will Miss Rosabel’s plan work, do ye think?” Mertle asked.

Pom contemplated his wife. “Don’t know why it shouldn’t.”

“Well, I can’t approve.” Mrs. Kitchen imagined herself to be a leader in the village, and she sniffed in disparagement. “It is shameful that ye’ve taken part in this drama. Shameful!”

The pub grew quiet under her rebuke.

Pom clearly saw the doubts that plagued the simple folk, and struggled to express why a plain fisherman like himself had helped with such an outrageous deed. “Miss Rosabel is right.”

“About what?” Vicar Smith asked.

“Lord Northcliff owes us,” Pom said. “He owes Miss Victorine.”

“Why are we taking such a chance for
her?
” Mrs. Kitchen demanded.

Hands on her hips, Mertle swung away from Pom and advanced on Mrs. Kitchen. “Because she’s helped every last un o’ us at one time or another, and she’s been around long enough that she’s helped our parents, too. She’s a good woman. The best. We’d be damned fer deserting her now.”

Mrs. Kitchen tried to hold Mertle’s gaze, but Pom knew from experience that no one could face his wife when she fixed him with that outraged stare. Mrs. Kitchen snapped her mouth shut and gazed down at her toes.

“We’re doing His Lordship a favor.” Mertle looked around at the tavern, challenging their doubts. “Aren’t we, Pom?”

From the depths of his soul, Pom dragged a down-to-earth statement. “Aye. He’ll learn. He needs t’ realize he’s done a bad thing.”

“He’s a lord,” John said sourly. “Lords don’t learn.”

“We’ve got t’ give him a chance.” Pom hadn’t put so many words together at one time in years. But he had to do so now. He recognized how important this was. “If we don’t he’ll keep on until he’s sinned so much his black soul will drag him down to hell.”

Chapter 3

C
lutching Lord Northcliff’s greatcoat, Amy carried it down the stairway.

This greatcoat was emblematic of everything that was wrong with Lord Northcliff. Sewn by a London tailor, it represented vanity incarnate. Made of the finest black wool, the greatcoat cost enough to have fed the village for a year. It was long and heavy, fashioned with a plethora of capes about the shoulders, each lengthier than the first, and…Amy dropped her head into its folds and took a lingering breath. Lord Northcliff’s coat smelled of leather and tobacco, and she was transported back to the palace in Beaumontagne, to her seat on her father’s knee. There as she burrowed in his jacket for sweets, she had felt safe, beloved, cherished.

Her heart warmed with unwilling fondness—but not for Lord Northcliff, she assured herself. For the memory of her father. Only…she hated to know that anything about Lord Northcliff reminded her of the affection that had celebrated her childhood.

As Amy set foot in the cellar, she held the coat at arm’s length.

Miss Victorine stood petting Coal and sadly looking down at Lord Northcliff’s limp body. “He was such a pleasant lad,” she said.

“He’s changed.” Amy tossed the greatcoat onto the rocking chair. She couldn’t wait to be rid of it, with its intoxicating scent and its precious weight.

“He used to coax one of the fishermen to row him over to the island.” As she gazed through vague blue eyes at Lord Northcliff, Miss Victorine whispered, “He’d come to visit me and I’d serve him tea and my cream cakes, which he called the best in the world.”

“As he should, since they are.” With a grunt of effort, Amy pulled the blankets out from underneath Lord Northcliff and prepared to roll him between the sheets.

“He’s a very handsome man, isn’t he?” Miss Victorine asked in a wistful tone.

“How can you say that?” Amy didn’t bother to glance at his face. “He has stolen our livelihood.”

“Dear, stealing has nothing to do with the fact that he was a fine-looking lad who grew up to be a fine-looking lord.” Miss Victorine’s lace-gloved hands fluttered into the air, then descended to rest at her waist. “Just because I’m too old to climb the ladder doesn’t mean my mouth doesn’t water when I gaze on the peaches.”

Amy caught her breath on a choking laugh. Miss Victorine was an odd mixture of aged sauciness and old maid primness. She was quite severe with Amy’s outspokenness, chiding her for any untoward remarks, yet she had lived alone for a very long time, and she believed that entitled her to say whatever she pleased. That candor was one of the reasons Amy found her so endearing.

In a reflective tone, Miss Victorine said, “His father was not at all handsome. It’s a bit of a surprise to see young Jermyn looking like a darling angel.”

Amy looked at the man lying on the bed.

A darling angel? What madness made Miss Victorine call the marquess a darling or an angel? He was neither; rather he was a spoiled lad who snatched what he wanted without a care for anything but his own desires.

Yet…yet Amy had to admit he did draw the female eye. His skin was toasted brown—from hunting, she supposed, or some other outdoor dilettante activity. He had a very nice nose, as noses went—strong and well-shaped. His lips were too big and soft, although perhaps that was because they had fallen open and a hearty snore issued from between them.

Miss Victorine giggled. “He sounds unharmed.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” For the first time since Lord Northcliff had burst into her life and ruined it with his perfidy, Amy wondered who he was and why he had done what he had done. “Did no one teach him anything of morals and responsibility?”

“His father did! He was a good man. A good lord.” Wearily, Miss Victorine sank into the rocking chair and pulled Coal into her lap. The big cat curled himself up as tightly as he could, yet his front feet hung over onto the seat. “He was overly proud of his heritage, and taught his son to be proud also, but perhaps he was right. After all, the Edmondson family is one of the oldest in England. The original Edmondson was a Saxon lord who stood up to the Conqueror and declared his claim on Summerwind. The official legend says William I was so impressed with his bravery he gave him the island.”

Sensing more to the story, Amy asked, “And the unofficial legend?”

“Says that the Saxon’s wife had softened William’s wrath in a bedtime tussle and won her husband the land.”

Amy laughed aloud.

“I don’t know, Amy.” The chair creaked as Miss Victorine rocked, a troubled frown on her plump face. “Do you think we’ve done the right thing?”

Amy perched on the mattress beside Lord Northcliff’s shoulder and took Miss Victorine’s hand. Pressing it reassuringly, she said, “I truly do, but more important, we don’t have a choice. We have no money. The villagers have no money. This Lord Northcliff is trying to run you out of your house—he says you owe him rent!—and the villagers off their lands, and your family has been here for over four hundred years, and their families have held their land for at least as long as the Edmondsons. With ten thousand pounds, we can go where we wish and leave money for the villagers, too.”

“But even if we succeed I’m going to have to depart my dear island.” Miss Victorine’s hand trembled in Amy’s.

“
When
we succeed,” Amy said firmly. “I know we’re going to have to find another home, and isn’t it horrible that he’s chasing us away? But we were going to have to leave anyway, and this way, with the money from the ransom, we’ll be able to go somewhere we like and buy ourselves a nice new home, one that has no cracks to let the mice and the rain in.”

“I’m too old to enjoy a new home.” Miss Victorine’s faded eyes were pleading.

“Wherever you go, I’ll go and stay with you. I promise. We’ll be happy.” Amy hated to see Miss Victorine so miserable, and she burst out spitefully, “And who knows? Maybe someday Lord Northcliff will crash his carriage for good and all, and we’ll be able to come back to Summerwind.”

In horror, Miss Victorine snatched her hands away. “Don’t wish for his death. It’s bad luck!”

Coal stood up and glared at Amy.

Amy murmured an apology to Miss Victorine and rubbed Coal under his soft chin. But she didn’t really regret her ill-wishes. When she thought of how Lord Northcliff was ruining the life of a poor, sweet, old lady, she wanted to shriek with frustration. She wanted to shake him until he saw sense. She wanted to…she wanted to arrange a carriage accident that would finish him off.

When she saw Miss Victorine trying to be brave and hide her misery, Amy burned with fury at the darling angel called Lord Northcliff.

Miss Victorine stared at the supine form behind Amy. “He lost his mother when he was seven, and he was raised without any feminine softening influence. That was why he used to come to me, I think. He liked to be petted and cosseted.”

“Don’t all men?” Amy asked tartly.

“I suppose.” Miss Victorine sighed as if she were weary. “But some lads we want to pet, and some we want to slap.”

Startled by the gentlewoman’s vehemence, Amy asked, “Who do we want to slap?”

“Mr. Harrison Edmondson has never been a favorite of mine. He is Lord Northcliff’s uncle, and I blame him for young Jermyn’s indifference to his lands and his people. Harrison radiates cold, and his eyes are small and set closely together.” Miss Victorine nodded sagely. “You know what that means.”

Amy didn’t have the foggiest idea, but she nodded back and stood. “You’re exhausted. You should go to bed.”

“I couldn’t sleep! Not after this excitement.” But Miss Victorine’s eyelids drooped as she contemplated Lord Northcliff, and Coal’s eyes drooped as he contemplated Miss Victorine. “His mother was an amazingly pretty woman. Dear Jermyn has his mother’s coloring, and it looks even better on him.”

It was true. His hair was a searing mahogany that made Amy’s fingers itch to touch the curls and see if they burned. She did touch the slanted brows, so oddly dark, brushing them lightly with her fingertips. She checked to see if any soot came off, if he suffered from some peculiar desire for black brows, but it appeared nature had created that improbable combination of hair color and facial hair.

It was a curious thing to hold a vital man under her control. Odd and intoxicating. Musing aloud, she said, “I wonder if his body hair is red or black.”

Miss Victorine gasped. “Amy! That is nothing that a proper young lady such as yourself should concern herself about.”

Although Amy had tried to explain the life she’d led before she had made her way to the isle of Summerwind, Miss Victorine couldn’t comprehend her background. Miss Victorine knew only that Amy was nineteen years old and had the manner of a princess—which she truly was, although Amy would never admit
that
to anyone here.

Yet the two of them had something in common—a wicked, mischievous streak, so Amy grinned at Miss Victorine. “Probably I shouldn’t concern myself with his body hair; I do it to please you.”

“Most certainly not.” Miss Victorine sounded prim, but she scooted her chair closer. “I have never seen an unclad male form in my life, and I haven’t suffered for the lack.”

“By an extraordinary coincidence, I haven’t seen an unclad male form in my life, either. I’d say it’s time to remedy the situation.” Tugging his shirt open, Amy peered down at his chest.

“We can’t look at him when he’s unconscious! It’s…it’s immoral.” Miss Victorine fanned herself with her handkerchief.

Coal watched the white cotton as if contemplating how it would shred.

“Dear Miss Victorine, we abducted him from his own estate. I hardly think sneaking a peek at his chest compares.” Letting his shirt drop back, Amy added, “Besides, we looked at his
face
.”

“That’s different.” Miss Victorine leaned closer. “What color is it?”

“What color is what?” Amy teased.

“You know. The hair on his body.”

Amy flashed her a grin. “Red.”

“Appropriate,” Miss Victorine said crisply.

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re gazing upon the gateway to hell.”

“I don’t think I looked that far,” Amy said reflectively. “Here, help me put him under the covers. I doubt if he wakes before morning.”

“Mr. Edmondson!” Royd, the butler, stood in the doorway of the study at Harrison Edmondson’s London home. “There’s a messenger come from Summerwind in Devon, and he says it’s urgent!”

Harrison Edmondson, Jermyn’s uncle and his business manager, wondered if luck had done what planning and stealth could not. He doubted it; success had never felt so far away as in these last few weeks, and if he didn’t bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion soon, he’d be the great-uncle of a bouncing baby boy who would be the heir to the whole grand and glorious Edmondson fortune.

As he remembered the list of possible brides he’d been ordered to submit to his arrogant twit of a nephew, his hands curled into claws.

Give him a pistol and he could do the job himself.

Hell, he didn’t even need a pistol. He glanced toward the glass-front cabinet he kept in his office. Inside was a variety of interesting weapons—French poison rings, Italian daggers that popped out to surprise the victim, a sword hidden in a cane…

And when committing murder, no planning, no weapon could compete with an opportunity presented and seized.

He knew that. He had seized opportunity before.

The messenger crowded in behind Royd, splattered with mud, his chest heaving from his hard ride. With a tug of his forelock, he presented Harrison a stained, slashed missive. He gasped, “Footman found it…in the gazebo…affixed with a knife.”

“My good man!” Royd remonstrated, a fearful eye trained on Harrison. “You can’t burst into Mr. Edmondson’s presence in such a manner!”

Harrison waved his butler to silence. In a soft, measured tone that promised retribution, he said, “If you can’t keep him out, then I suppose he will burst in.” Snatching the missive from the man’s insistent hand, Harrison opened the crinkled sheet and read the carefully penned lines.

I hold the marquess of Northcliff captive. Leave ten thousand pounds in the old Northcliff’s Castle on the isle of Summerwind, five days hence or your nephew dies.

Harrison gaped, disbelieving. It wasn’t…it wasn’t possible! Such a happenstance was amazing, impossible…more than he could stand.

Throwing back his head, he burst into wild laughter.

At last, at long last, fate had played into his hands.