Chapter 23

As the open landau proceeded through the open gates at Hyde Park Corner, Blythe found herself relaxing for the first time since the shock James had dealt her the previous night. There was something about an excursion that always made her happy. How could she fret on such a splendid spring day?

Clusters of daffodils dotted the greensward on either side of the road. The harness of the horses jingled in harmony with the twittering of the birds. Lulled by the gentle rocking of the coach, she tilted up her face to the afternoon sun and relished the warmth on her skin.

“I see that you like the outdoors, Miss Crompton.”

Prince Nicolai’s deep voice drew her attention to him. He and Lady Davina occupied the seat opposite Blythe and the Duke of Savoy.

Looking at James, she felt a little clutch in her chest. In the charcoal-gray coat and buff breeches, he appeared every inch a royal. His transformation involved more than a mere change of clothing. He exuded the natural confidence of a man who has been born to wealth and privilege.

It remained a mystery to her how a footman could manage to impersonate a prince so well. More and more she was learning that James was a man of many talents. There could be no doubt he would succeed in life at whatever he did.

At the moment, his dark eyes held a hint of mischief. He was enjoying the masquerade, and he wanted her to do so, too. Blythe smiled at him, for now that she’d overcome the alarm of seeing Prince Nicolai in society, it truly was amusing to keep such a delicious secret from their companions.

“I do like the outdoors,” she replied. “I grew up in India, where the sun is always hot and bright. My sisters and I spent a great deal of time outside.”

Lady Davina adjusted the pink parasol to shade her face. “I cannot imagine doing such a thing. Everyone knows that the sun’s rays are harmful to a lady’s delicate complexion.”

In her present good humor, Blythe could not take offense at the girl’s pretentiousness. “That must be why Mama would so often scold us that we looked as brown as the natives.”

“How vulgar.” The duke’s daughter tut-tutted. “Gentlemen prefer ladies to take more care with their appearance. Don’t you agree, Your Highness?”

“A bit of sun can be beneficial,” James said. “I’ve often thought that it lends an attractive glow to a lady’s face.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting that ladies abandon their bonnets and parasols.”

“In the kingdom of Ambrosia, our noblewomen have a great love for the sun. Only nuns and elderly widows cover their heads.”

Davina looked so dismayed that Blythe bit her lip to stifle a laugh. How wicked James was! And how wicked he tempted her to be. She had the mad urge to untie the ribbons beneath her chin and toss her straw bonnet into the wind. How lovely it would feel to let the breeze stir her hair, to enjoy freedom from the cage of conventions required by society.

Instead, she turned to the duke. He had been sitting placidly, his gouty leg stretched out, and Blythe was chagrined to recall that she had never fetched him the pillow he’d requested the previous evening. She had forgotten everything in the drama of seeing James as Prince Nicolai.

Today she would make up for her neglect.

“What say you, Your Grace? Will you weigh in on our debate?”

Smiling, he reached out to pat her hand. “Both you and my daughter are lovely. I would not dare to disagree with either of you.”

Lady Davina pouted. “Oh, Papa. You are just being polite.”

Catching Blythe’s eye, James waggled a dark eyebrow. He did it so swiftly that no one but she caught the movement. A bubble of mirth rose in her. Once again, Blythe had the distinct impression that he was flirting with her—just as he had done by giving her the caged finch, and just as he had done by writing that stirringly romantic note from Prince Nicolai.

James had a rakish way about him that appealed to the weakness of her bodily desires. But nothing could be more dangerous than for her to act upon her attraction to him. She must not squander the opportunity he had provided her. The purpose of this drive today was for her to become better acquainted with the duke.

The trouble was, the landau had joined the slow procession of carriages and horsemen up and down Rotten Row, a broad sandy avenue that stretched all the way to Kensington Gardens. On such a fine afternoon, all of the beau monde had come to Hyde Park in their stylish garb. It was the fashionable hour, the place to see and be seen.

The duke’s attention swiftly became absorbed in nodding at friends and acquaintances as they passed in their carriages. Many stopped to exchange greetings and gossip.

But mostly, they wanted to meet Crown Prince Nicolai of Ambrosia.

Blythe marveled at all the interest in him. She had never seen so much bowing and scraping in all her life. James became the haughty, slightly bored royal who afforded his admirers a cool smile and a few words of conversation. The more proudly and arrogantly he behaved, the more obsequious they became.

Watching him, she could scarcely believe he was the same man who served her breakfast and delivered the mail. All of her worries had been for naught. James played the role of prince as if he’d been born to it. He showed not the slightest hint of his true station as a footman.

Trust me, my darling.

Warmth curled through her. She did trust him. He had a keen intelligence and an infectious zest for life. No gentleman could have more honor, either, for he had not seduced her even when she’d thrown herself into his arms that night in her father’s office.

And she adored his sense of humor. Every now and then, while the duke and Lady Davina were busy talking to an acquaintance, James would wink at Blythe or flash her a droll look. It was a reminder that they shared a private jest on all these fawning aristocrats.

She fingered the pearl necklace at her throat. According to Kasi, it was supposed to bring great luck. Blessed by the Hindu god Shiva, it would enable her to wed a prince. How foolish was she to wish that such a silly superstition could really come true?

Very foolish, indeed!

Then she saw something that drove all other thought from her mind. An open carriage approached from the opposite direction. In it sat a trio of ladies, all snooty patronesses at Almack’s.

One of them was the Countess de Lieven.

Blythe lifted a gloved hand to warn James, then dropped it to her lap. He wasn’t looking her way and what could she say in front of the duke, anyway? There was no escaping this confrontation.

The carriage slowed to a halt right beside the landau. Blythe sat with a rigidly polite smile on her face. James didn’t know how much these particular ladies reveled in their specialized knowledge of pedigree and rank.

Davina introduced Lady Sefton, the Viscountess of Castlereagh, and the Countess de Lieven. “May I present to you Crown Prince Nicolai of Ambrosia.”

He gave them a regal nod and a raffish smile. “To meet three such lovely ladies is indeed an honor. Countess, I have heard that your husband is the Russian ambassador.”

Elegant in green striped silk, the Countess de Lieven observed him avidly from beneath the straw brim of her hat. Her scrutiny of him held a hint of suspicion. “Yes, and he is most interested in meeting you as he professes to be unfamiliar with the nation of Ambrosia. You must come to my salon next Thursday.”

“If my schedule permits.”

“Where shall I send the invitation?”

Blythe froze with her fingers tightly clutched in her lap. Dear God, what would James say to that?

“You must forgive me for not revealing the address of my lodgings,” he said with majestic arrogance. “I do not care to be inundated with a flood of letters and visitors.”

Lady Davina leaned forward, eagerness lighting her patrician face. “Your Highness, I would be most happy to collect any invitations on your behalf.”

“How very kind, my lady.” James made a negligent gesture. “So be it, then.”

The flow of traffic required the vehicles to move on, and the conversation ended. Just in time, for Blythe feared Countess de Lieven would ask him probing questions about Ambrosia. The woman was too sharp by half and her face had shown subtle signs of her doubts about his background.

Blythe frowned at James, but he merely smiled back in unperturbed calm. Even with his limited knowledge of the ton, he had to realize the danger of tangling with the countess and the ambassador. Deceiving the nobility in a social atmosphere was one thing; it was quite another to fool officials in the highest levels of the government.

“What an honor for you to be invited to one of the countess’s political salons,” Lady Davina told James. “Not even Papa is attending—although I am sure that if he wished it, he too would receive an invitation.”

“Heaven forbid,” the duke said, grimacing as he shifted his gouty leg to a more comfortable position. “I cannot abide such meetings, sitting in a circle and hashing over affairs of state. It is as tedious as listening to the droning of speeches in Parliament.”

“We have differing interests, then,” James said, “for such an event sounds fascinating to me.”

Fascinating?

Was he actually intending to go?

Horrified, Blythe said, “I thought you were busy with trade meetings, Prince Nicolai. You said so yourself last evening.”

He turned a benign look on her. “There is always time for such an important event, Miss Crompton. After all, the diplomatic contacts to be gained could be most beneficial to the people of my country.”

He had to be teasing her. She could not believe otherwise. It would serve no purpose for him to attend such a salon, for it had nothing at all to do with him distracting Lady Davina from the duke’s side.

Blythe vowed to give him a stern reprimand at the earliest opportunity. This was not his ruse. It was hers to direct as she saw fit. He must not be allowed to run rogue by doing such things without her permission.

Compressing her lips, she turned her head to look out at the passing scenery. They had reached the end of the avenue, and the coachman guided the landau around for the return trip. Then they had to run the gauntlet of yet more aristocrats who clamored to meet the celebrated Prince Nicolai of Ambrosia.

James greeted them all with royal civility. Never once did he deviate from his role.

Lady Davina took great satisfaction in telling everyone that she was collecting invitations on behalf of His Royal Highness if they would care to send them to her. Several times, she aimed an arch look at Blythe as if to gloat over the fact that the prince had singled out Davina to act as his personal secretary.

The snobbish girl had no idea how she was being duped. And yet perhaps the joke ultimately would be on Blythe. Concern about the political salon remained at the edge of her mind. Would Prince Nicolai be exposed as an imposter by the Countess de Lieven? Then what would happen to James?

He would lose his position. He might even be prosecuted for fraud and end up in prison. And it would be all Blythe’s fault.

As the coach headed out of Hyde Park to take them home, the Duke of Savoy directed a smile at her. “May I say, Miss Crompton, you are looking exceptionally fine today.”

The compliment took her aback. “Why, thank you, Your Grace.”

“I trust you will reserve the first dance for me tonight at Lord Gilpin’s ball.”

“Of course.”

That was that. He turned to speak his daughter, whose pinched lips indicated disapproval. James raised an eyebrow at Blythe as if to mock her quick acceptance of the duke. But what else had James expected her to do? She could hardly refuse Savoy when furthering the cause of a marriage between them was the point of this drive.

Gazing out over the busy streets, Blythe wondered at her lack of enthusiasm. She felt no sense of triumph or anticipation. Was it possible she found the duke to be … dull?

The disturbing notion wormed its way into her mind. There could be no doubt she was more drawn to James. That was only natural, for he was handsome and dashing and closer to her in age. He made her laugh and he stirred her desires. By contrast, the Duke of Savoy was rather starchy and settled in his ways, more like a father than a suitor.

Blythe bit her lip. What was she thinking to compare the two men? A footman could never measure up to a duke. She must not forget that His Grace could give her the perfect life, or that her parents would benefit from her exalted place in society.…

As the coach rumbled past an alleyway, she glimpsed a sight that drove out all other thought. A gang of adolescent boys surrounded a small gray object on the cobblestones. One of them kicked at it, and it attempted to dart away, only to be encircled again by its tormentors.

Eyes wide, she turned back to stare in horror. “It’s a dog,” she gasped. “Those boys are torturing him.”

“Street urchins,” the duke said, his lips curling in disgust. “It is no concern of ours.”

James sprang to his feet. “Stop this coach at once.”

The coachman immediately began to slow the team of horses.

“Your Highness, surely you cannot think to interfere,” Lady Davina said. “It’s far too dangerous—”

He vaulted over the side of the still-moving vehicle and ran toward the band of boys. Blythe hastily unlatched the door and jumped out, too, even before the footman at the rear could fold down the step.

Stumbling, she swiftly regained her footing and dashed after James. Only one thought filled her mind, to rescue the poor animal before it was injured or killed.

Ahead of her, James gave a shout. The boys saw him coming and scattered in all directions. One attempted to snatch up the dog, but James caught him by the scruff of his neck. The brat tore himself free and took off at a run.

Blythe reached James just as he knelt on one knee to see to the cowering animal. Whimpering, the dog quivered in fright.

She crouched down, peeling off her glove to extend her bare hand to the mutt. “Oh, you poor dear. Are you hurt?”

“Have a care, he might nip.”

“No, he won’t. There, you see?”

The mutt cautiously sniffed her fingers and began to wag its stubby tail. Blythe continued to croon, telling the dog he was her sweet, pretty darling, even though his fur was so dirty and matted that she couldn’t even discern its true color.

James gently examined the beast for injury. “It doesn’t look as though she’s suffered any permanent damage,” he said.

“She?”

“Indeed. She’s only a pup, and a skinny one at that.” James had abandoned the prince’s accent for the moment. “The question is, what are we to do with her?”

Blythe made an instant decision. “I’m taking her home, of course.”

“Are you certain that’s wise?” he said with a keen stare. “Your mother doesn’t appear to like dogs—or any other pets.”

“She needn’t know.” Petting the mutt, Blythe considered how best to elude her mother’s sharp eyes. “We’ll simply have to sneak the dog in the back door and let her live in the kitchen.”

James arched an eyebrow. “We?”

“I, then. I will smuggle her into the house and see if one of the other footmen will look after her for me.”

“Perhaps the prince should adopt her. It might prove amusing to convince Lady Davina that this mutt is a rare, long-lost breed that somehow escaped from Ambrosia.”

Blythe giggled. She glanced over her shoulder at the landau, parked halfway down the street. With all the traffic noise, it was impossible for them to be overheard. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“You should know by now that I would dare anything.”

The rakish glint in his dark eyes brought to mind things she oughtn’t be thinking about. Things that involved kissing and caressing. Things that appealed to her far too much.

“We had better return to the coach,” she said. “The duke will become impatient.”

“A calamitous event that must be avoided at all costs.”

On that sardonic note, James stood up, then helped Blythe to her feet. Tail wagging, the puppy regarded them with mournful brown eyes. Suddenly she hopped onto her hind legs and braced her front paws on his breeches, leaving dirty streaks on the buff fabric.

“Minx,” he said, reaching down to scoop up the dog without a care for his fine coat. “That might be the very name for you. You’ll need a proper bath and a brushing as soon as possible.”

Wriggling with happiness, Minx washed his chin with her pink tongue.

Blythe smiled. “I do believe you have a new admirer, Prince Nicolai.”

“She’s far too forward, considering we’ve just met.” He lowered his voice to a husky murmur. “A pity she doesn’t realize I would sooner have kisses from a different girl.”

“Lady Davina?”

“Try again.” His gaze dipped to Blythe’s mouth, making his meaning deliciously clear. Then he returned his eyes to hers. “Shall we go? Prince Nicolai must shame our two companions into allowing this grimy little mutt to share the coach.”

As they walked back toward the landau, James carrying the dog tucked in the crook of his arm, Blythe felt a warm glow in the region of her heart. He had been quick and decisive in saving the puppy from harm. It had been the act of a fine, decent man who was noble in character if not in birthright.

So what did that make the Duke of Savoy?

She hesitated even to consider the question.

*   *   *

“I wonder if we should wait downstairs,” Edith asked, parting the lace under-curtain in her boudoir to peer down at the street. With the weather so fair, the green square teemed with pedestrians. “That way we can step quickly outside to greet Prince Nicolai when Blythe returns.”

“Is that why you summoned me from my work?” George said. “To make a decision as to where you should stand? Do as you see fit. It matters naught to me.”

Edith stepped briskly to stop him from leaving the room. Her husband looked irritated, his lips thinned and his eyes frowning. It never failed to amaze her how obtuse men could be about courtship. Situations had to be orchestrated, events planned in advance, opportunities seized lest they be lost forever.

She patted his hand. “Don’t be cross, dearest. I need your help. If you would just have a word with Prince Nicolai, perhaps you can persuade him to accept our dinner invitation.”

“He’s already turned us down. And what is this sudden interest in him, anyway?”

“Blythe was very taken with the prince last evening, as he was with her. Did you not notice the way they kept gazing at each other?”

“Frankly, no. However, she’s stated several times that her wish is to marry the Duke of Savoy.”

“But she can do better.” Edith gripped his hands hard. “Only think, George. No one among our acquaintances has a daughter who has married royalty. Not Lady Wargrave, not Lady Grantham, not even the Duke of Savoy himself.”

“What? I won’t have my daughter going off to live in a remote country where we’ll never see her again.”

“But they’ll be able to visit from time to time. Imagine, darling, our grandson could be a king.”

George shook his head decisively. “Absolutely not. I forbid it. Your ambitions are taking you much too far this time.”

“But dearest—”

“No, Edith. That is my final word on the matter.”

Lips pursed, she watched him wheel around to leave the boudoir. She had to concede the issue. Once George made up his mind, it was difficult to convince him otherwise. Blythe would have to wed the duke.

At the doorway, George turned back around. “By the by, did you ever find that letter?”

Nothing could have been better designed to distract Edith from her matchmaking scheme. “No. It’s still missing. I’ve searched everywhere.”

“Well, see to it that you keep looking. I needn’t warn you of the consequences should it fall into the wrong hands.”

As he left, a cold fear settled in her bones. Yes, she knew that all too well. They could lose everything: the house, their wealth, their standing in society. And in a court of law, possibly even their very lives.

She had queried the maids, moved every piece of furniture, but to no avail. Where had that blasted letter gone?