The Naked King (8 page)

The knot of worry in her gut tightened into anger. “Oh, I intend to do more than interrupt them.” She’d wring their necks.

“Watch your step there.” Mr. Parker-Roth guided her around a pile of dog droppings. He grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Look familiar?”

“No, you dreadful man. Harry’s . . . that is when Harry . . .” She laughed. “This is a completely inappropriate topic, but no, I don’t think that’s evidence Harry has been this way.”

He nodded. “Just thought I should check.”

They walked along the path in companionable silence. What was it about this man that gave her such a feeling of comfort? She should be frantic about the boys, but she wasn’t. She trusted Mr. Parker-Roth had the matter in hand.

That was a dangerous thing. Look at what had happened when she’d trusted Lord Brentwood.

No, the situations were not comparable. She was far older and wiser now—and Brentwood would never have taken an interest in her family.

She glanced up at Mr. Parker-Roth’s profile. What if she’d really met him at Baron Gedding’s house party? She’d certainly never have gone into the garden with Brentwood.

Mr. Parker-Roth was sinfully handsome with his shaggy sun-streaked hair, blue eyes, and long lashes, but more importantly he looked happy, as though he found life amusing. Lord Brentwood had always looked vaguely angry and a bit tortured.

If only she could do it all over—

Bah, it was a silly waste of time to consider such things. The past was the past. She had gone to the party, and she’d done what she’d done. No amount of wishing or regret would change that.

And there was no reason to think the King of Hearts would have noticed her at Baron Gedding’s party had he been there—or today if he weren’t forced to do so by his misplaced sense of chivalry.

“Have I a smut on my cheek?” Mr. Parker-Roth looked down at her, one brow lifted.

“What? No, of course not.”

“That’s a relief. You were studying my face so intently I thought I must have dirt on it.” Both eyebrows rose in mock horror. “Never tell me I have some deformity that’s escaped my notice all these years?”

She flushed. “I apologize for staring.”

His firm lips slid into a slow smile bringing his dimples out of hiding. “Anne, you can stare at me anytime you like.”

Now she must be even redder. She tore her eyes away from his face. She should be thinking about Philip and George, not Mr. Parker-Roth’s lips and dimples.

“You’re worrying again, aren’t you?”

“No.” She shrugged. “Well, perhaps a little. Are we almost there?”

“Almost.” He touched her cheek. “Don’t be too hard on the boys.”

“Too hard? They are frightening us all to death.”

“I know, but they likely have no idea the fuss they’ve caused. They know where they are. They know they’re safe. I’ll wager they will be astounded when they learn you’ve been worried. And that’s what they must be taken to task about. A gentleman never causes a lady undue worry.”

She almost laughed at that. How could the King of Hearts say such a thing with a straight face? Brentwood certainly didn’t subscribe to that philosophy. Even her father thought of himself—and his antiquities—before anyone else. He’d headed for the dock yesterday without the least concern for how she would manage Evie’s come-out.

“I can’t believe—” Wait! Was that . . . ? “I think I hear . . .”

“Yes, I’d say that’s Harry’s bark,” Mr. Parker-Roth said. “Those trees are blocking our view at the moment, but—”

Anne didn’t wait. She picked up her skirts and ran. It was farther than she’d thought. She stopped, a little winded, and leaned against the last tree before the broad expanse of lawn down to the Serpentine. There, a hundred yards or so down the river were two boys and a dog herding a bevy of swans.

“Have we found them?” Mr. Parker-Roth asked, coming up beside her.

“Yes! Oh, dear God, there they are.” The tight knot of worry in her stomach released with a flood of tears.

Mr. Parker-Roth gathered her up against his broad chest and held her as she soaked his shirt front.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered into his cravat. “I’m not usually such a watering pot.”

He hugged her a little tighter, and she rested her cheek against his chest. “You’ve just gone through a bit of an upheaval, coming to London and being saddled with the responsibility of your sister and the boys,” he murmured against the top of her head. His voice was calm and reasonable as if it were perfectly normal to have a woman sobbing in his arms in the middle of Hyde Park. “And then to have the boys wander off . . . It would be odd if your nerves weren’t a trifle overset.”

“Perhaps.” She inhaled deeply. He smelled so good. She’d stay here in his comforting embrace just a moment longer . . .

“Parker-Roth.” A man with a distinctively deep, gravelly voice spoke behind her. “How odd to see you here and in such an”—the man coughed suggestively—“interesting position.”

No! She stiffened and then pressed herself more tightly against Mr. Parker-Roth, wishing she could miraculously vanish. That voice . . . She hadn’t heard it in ten years. Maybe she was mistaken. Maybe it wasn’t—

“Brentwood,” Mr. Parker-Roth said, his tone cold.

Chapter 6

What had the bastard done to Anne? When she’d heard his voice, she’d clutched Stephen so tightly he’d thought Satan himself had appeared.

Brentwood
was
a blackguard. Stephen had conceived his disgust of the marquis at Eton when he’d come upon the cur trying to drop a new student head first into the jakes. All the other boys had stood around watching, afraid to intervene. Brentwood used his rank and greater size—he’d got his growth early—to bully anyone he chose.

Stephen had been too furious to care. He’d tackled Brentwood and, with the help of the erstwhile victim—now his good friend Damian, Earl of Kenderly—given him a taste, quite literally, of his own medicine. It had taken days and endless scrubbing for Brentwood to free himself from the stench.

It was one of Stephen’s favorite memories of his Eton career.

Brentwood usually gave him a wide berth. What—ah. A breeze brought him the scent of brandy. Hyde Park seemed to be a favorite location for inebriated gentlemen today.

“I’d always thought you such a d-discreet fellow,” Brentwood was saying, “and here I find you making love in the middle of the park to a female in the drabbest dress I’ve ever had the horror to see.” Brentwood waggled his eyebrows. “I suppose the awful garment must hide a body so d-delicious even the King of Hearts can’t restrain himself.”

He turned to the woman on his arm. “You should see if she wants to join your establishment, Mags. It would be better than working the park”—he chuckled—“though I suppose she don’t care if she gets grass stains on that d-dress.”

Mags—Madam Marguerite, the proprietress of Le Temple d’Amour, one of the rougher brothels in Town—laughed. “I could use a new bird, ’specially if the King of Hearts has taught her some tricks. Hey, girl, turn around so we can see you.”

Anne tried to burrow farther into him.

“I suggest you and your companion continue with your stroll, Brentwood,” Stephen said, rubbing Anne’s back. He’d like to toss them both in the Serpentine, but that would involve letting go of Anne—or, more to the point, persuading her to let go of him. She was now gripping him so firmly he might bear a bruise or two.

“If you’re taking a mistress, man, let me give you a hint—buy her some new clothes.” Brentwood laughed, sending a cloud of brandy-laden air Stephen’s way. “The female members of the
ton
—especially Lady Noughton—will be d-devastated to hear the King of Hearts has lost—or is at least lending—his heart to some fair Cyprian.” The marquis grinned. “Introduce us. I want to be the first to know her name.”

Anne tightened her grip even more. He
would
have bruises.

“No.” He spoke forcefully enough to cause Mags to step back, but Brentwood was too drunk to hear the warning. “Perhaps I was not clear earlier—move on.”

“Oh, now, don’t keep the girl to yourself, Parker-Roth.”

Brentwood reached for Anne, but before he could get within half a foot of her, Stephen knocked the miscreant’s hand aside.

“Ow!” Brentwood cradled his injured fingers. “No need to be nasty.”

Stephen caught Brentwood’s gaze and held it. “Try to touch the lady again, and I’ll break your hand.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Better let him be,” Mags said, tugging on Brentwood’s arm. “I’s seen that look often enuff when gents are fighting over a whore. He’s like a mad dog, protecting his bone.”

Brentwood straightened his cuffs, favoring his injured fingers. “Mad, indeed. I—”

The rest of Brentwood’s words were drowned out by furious barking. Harry was tearing up from the water, teeth bared, aiming for Brentwood. Smart dog.

Mags screamed, and Brentwood turned a pasty shade of white.

“I believe the animal doesn’t care for the color of your waistcoat, Brentwood,” Stephen said.

Brentwood glared at him. Mags had already decided flight was her best recourse and had taken off, skirts hiked up above her knees. The marquis stood firm—until Harry was about a yard from him. Then he, too, took to his heels.

Harry gave chase, barking and snarling for a short distance before trotting back to them, tongue lolling from his mouth, apparently of the opinion he’d vanquished the villains.

“Well done, Harry,” Stephen said.

Anne finally loosened her grasp on him and went down on her knees, wrapping her arms around Harry’s neck. “Good dog, Harry, good dog.” She buried her face in Harry’s fur.

Stephen looked for Brentwood and Mags, but they were long gone. Unfortunately, they were sure to discover Anne’s identity shortly. How many other oddly dressed women had been seen with him today? Hell, there must be so many rumors flying through society about Crazy Crane’s eldest daughter, no other gossip could be discussed.

Philip and George finally reached them. Both boys were remarkably dirty.

“Hullo, sir,” Philip said, somewhat breathlessly. “I’m sorry Harry chased away your friends.”

“Don’t be,” Stephen said. “They weren’t my friends. I was delighted to see Harry run them off.”

“Oh.” Philip clearly didn’t understand, but he didn’t let his incomprehension trouble him long. “You must come see the swans. Harry was herding them, Anne; it was so funny.” He looked at his sister who was still kneeling on the grass next to Harry and his mouth dropped open. “Have you been crying?” Since Anne’s poor eyes were red and her face blotchy, the observation was not beyond even a ten-year-old boy’s powers of discernment.

“No.” She sniffed. “I haven’t.”

This amazing lie kept them all silent for a moment.

George, clearly more accustomed to tumbling into bumble-broths than his brother, asked cautiously, “What’s the matter, Anne?”

“Nothing.” She burst into tears again, hiding her face back in Harry’s fur.

Philip and George looked up at Stephen with identical expressions of bewilderment.

“Your sister is merely a trifle upset.”

They blinked at him.

“Anne doesn’t usually cry,” Philip assured him.

“She’s usually pluck to the backbone,” George agreed. “You mustn’t think you’re getting a watering pot for a wife.”

Philip nodded vigorously. “Anne’s the best of sisters, sir. She might not be as pretty as Evie, but she’s much more practical. She’s the one our housekeeper, butler, and estate manager come to, not Mama or even Papa.”

“You’ll be glad to have her, really you will.” George shrugged. “And you’re too old to want a pretty wife anyway, aren’t you?”

Stephen kept his jaw from dropping, though only just. He couldn’t decide whether to give the boys a severe dressing down or to laugh. They reminded him of a trader on the outskirts of Rio who’d tried to sell him a broken down pony. It wasn’t
belo
—beautiful—he’d said, but it was very
inteligente
.

No wonder Anne didn’t value her beauty properly. And the twins thought he was too old to care about his wife’s appearance? His lips twitched. Thirty must seem ancient to ten.

“You are laboring under some misapprehensions, boys. First, I find your sister Anne quite beautiful.”

Anne’s head snapped up and she joined the boys in gaping at him.

“And second, not that physical appearance alone should govern one’s actions, but I daresay no man is too old to value a beautiful wife. And third, thirty—my age—is
not
old.”

“Oh.” Philip’s forehead wrinkled. “But Reverend Braxton’s wife is ugly. She has a squint and crooked teeth.”

“And Mrs. Trent, the butcher’s wife, looks like a sow,” George added. “She even grunts like a pig.”

“Boys!” Anne sniffed and got to her feet, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “You shouldn’t say such things. Mrs. Braxton and Mrs. Trent are both very kind and upstanding women.” She sniffed again, more desperately. Stephen handed her his handkerchief.

“Thank you.” She blew her nose vigorously. “I do apologize. I seem to have left my own handkerchief at home again.”

“You’re quite welcome,” he said. “I’m always happy to help a maiden in distress.”

“But if I continue on this way, I’ll soon have your entire supply in my possession.”

George shrugged. “Mrs. Braxton makes jolly good apple pies and Mrs. Trent lets us play with her cats, but that don’t change the fact they’re both ugly.”

“But why were you crying, Anne?” Philip asked.

Anne frowned at him. “Because I was worried about you and George. We came back from the dressmaker’s and found you gone. No one knew where you were. Hobbes was frantic—the house was in a complete uproar. In fact, the servants are all out now searching for you.”

The boys looked astounded. “But we aren’t lost,” Philip said.

“You know where you are, yes, but no one else does.” Stephen looked sternly from one identical face to the other. “I thought we’d agreed I would take you out once I returned with the ladies.”

“Well, yes,” Philip said, “but Harry needed to go for a walk, sir.”

“And this is where he wanted to go,” George said. “He dragged us along after him, really he did. And it’s very safe here. We weren’t in any danger.”

Anne’s brows snapped down and she opened her mouth as if to read the boys a thundering scold.

“I suggest we return to Crane House,” Stephen said, taking her arm. “You’ll want to let Hobbes know as quickly as you can that we’ve found the boys.”

“But—”

“You can lecture them much more comfortably at home and be subject to far fewer curious stares.”

Anne looked around. The two couples taking in the park air were indeed looking their way and whispering together.

“Yes, of course.” Anne fixed the twins with a glare that promised serious retribution. “We will discuss this further when we get home.”

They started back up the path, the boys trudging along beside them, looking very gloomy.

“If Papa had engaged a tutor,” Philip said, “this wouldn’t have happened.”

George kicked a pebble off the path. “We can’t just stay at Crane House all the time. It’s a dead bore. There’s nothing to do.”

“It’s true, Anne,” Philip said. “Cousin Clorinda won’t even let me read the books in the library anymore.”

“Philip,” Anne said, “what happened?”

George laughed. “She found him looking through a book with drawings of naked people in it while you were gone.”

Philip flushed and glared at his twin. “You were looking at it, too. That’s why she came over. If you hadn’t made that noise, she wouldn’t have known about it, and I could have put it back on the shelf.”

“What? ”
Anne spoke so sharply, Harry barked. “What book?”

Philip shrugged, turning even redder. “Just some book. I couldn’t read the title. It was in a foreign language. That’s why I pulled it off the shelf, so I could see what it was about.”

Given the artwork in the harem room, Stephen thought he knew exactly what the book was about.

“And all Evie talks about is clothes and parties,” George said. “She was never so much of a feather head at home. And you’re always worrying about something, Anne.”

Anne frowned. “Of course I’m always worrying; there’s a lot to worry about. Papa and your mama didn’t warn me they were going off and leaving me in charge of Evie’s come-out. I know nothing about London society.”

“Isn’t Cousin Clorinda taking charge of Evie?” Philip asked.

“Do you see Clorinda taking charge?” Anne’s beautiful voice was rising. “No, she’s in the library or off visiting friends.” She took a deep breath, obviously trying to get herself under control. “And anyway, George, we’ve hardly been in London twenty-four hours.”

“Well, it s
eems
like forever,” George muttered.

“Can’t you show a little patience?!”

Both boys startled at Anne’s sharp, loud tone. Clearly it was time to separate her from her brothers. “Why don’t you two run along with Harry?” Stephen said. “We’ll catch up to you when you reach Park Lane.”

He didn’t need to make the suggestion twice. The boys, recognizing an opportunity to escape when they heard one, took off without a moment’s hesitation.

Anne scowled after them. “They got off far too easily.”

“Because you didn’t get to ring a peal over them?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were going to treat them to a bear garden jaw once you all reached Crane House?”

“Yes, but it won’t be the same. I can never stay angry at them.” She looked up at him, worry shadowing her lovely features. “But they need to know they can’t go off like that.”

“I think they realized that when they saw how upset you were.”

They walked on a few paces in silence. Stephen watched Anne frown down at the path, obviously chewing over the exchange with her brothers in her mind. She clearly loved them very much.

“I’m certain Nicholas or I can solve your tutor problem by the end of the week,” he said.

She sighed. “That would be wonderful—thank you.” She looked up, a half smile on her lips but anxiety still clouding her eyes. “I do worry too much, I know. But the boys—George particularly—are so high-spirited. They know their way around the country, but London is a very different matter.”

“I agree they shouldn’t be let roam unsupervised here in Town.” He paused and looked at her thoughtfully. “One never knows when one might encounter someone one wishes to avoid.”

Anne paled and looked away.

“Are you going to tell me why you are afraid of Lord Brentwood?”

“I’m not afraid of him!”

“No? Then why did you plaster yourself to me back there?” He smiled. “Not that I’m complaining, you understand.”

She closed her eyes as if in pain. “I . . . perhaps I am a little afraid of the marquis.”

He put his hand under her chin, tilting her face toward his. “Look at me, Anne.”

She shook her head slightly and tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her.

“Anne.”

She sighed and opened her eyes. Tears shimmered over the green like rainwater on Amazon leaves. One tear spilled over and slid down her cheek. He caught it with his thumb.

“You don’t have to be afraid of Brentwood. He’s a damnable bully, I know. He has been for as long as I’ve known him. But you are betrothed to me now. I will protect you.”

More tears spilled over and she jerked her face away, turning so he couldn’t see her expression. “I’m not really your betrothed, and you can’t protect me.”