A Regency Charade (6 page)

So the Princess and the True Prince were wed. Then, one day, the Princess chanced to fall down the Spanish Steps in Rome, and she suddenly realized that she’d fallen in love with him. She was not at all certain how it had happened, or when, but as he carried her back to the hotel that day, she found herself staring at his face with an unexpected feeling of adoration. Her heart seemed to swell in her chest with warmth and joy. He was so sweet and honest and good, he made her feel unworthy. It was a feeling so new and powerful that the Princess was almost frightened by it. How could this Prince, with his keen mind, his upright character, his youthful enthusiasms and his high standards have chosen her to love? She was so shallow, so selfish, so spoiled
!

At that moment, the Princess resolved that she would change. She would make herself over. She would read, study, strengthen her mind and her character, and become worthy of him. She would grow from an imperfect Princess to a perfect wife
.

Priss shut her eyes in pain. Those days and nights in Italy shone like bright diamonds in her memory—diamonds that could cut right through her. After that day of her accident, nothing—not even the weather—had interfered with her blossoming happiness. She had walked with him hand-in-hand through the streets of Rome, listening to his explanations of the ancient landmarks, filled with admiration for his knowledge. She’d lain in his arms at night quivering with pleasure at his touch. Even the prospect of the end of their wedding trip and their imminent return to London had not dampened her joy. Rather, she’d eagerly anticipated the return, for it was to be the start of her new resolve; in London she would begin to make herself into a woman he would be proud of.

But the unexpected visit from Blake Edmonds, four days after their return, had destroyed everything.
Not in her wildest dreams could poor Princess Priscilla have imagined that the small sins of her past could return to seek such retribution
. Even now, when she could review the scene with some semblance of dispassion, she couldn’t quite comprehend how a foolish conversation with Blake—which had seemed to her nothing more than a minor annoyance—had grown and enlarged itself into a nightmare powerful enough to ruin her life.

Blake had heard that she had returned from abroad, and he’d come to pay a call. She had not been comfortable at the sight of him on her threshold, especially since his emotions seemed not to have changed since she’d last seen him, but she had not anticipated a
scene
.
Her
emotions had grown so far in another direction that his declarations, claims and accusations seemed unreal and silly. It was preposterous that he could still care for her—he’d had no word from her for months. It seemed to her that he’d exaggerated everything that had passed between them. Their relationship had so far receded from her consciousness that it now seemed no more significant in her memory than a dance at a ball held years before. She felt sorry for Blake, of course, but only as one might feel for an unfortunate stranger. It didn’t occur to her that Alec might take the incident seriously.

She’d been
glad
when Alec had come into the room that evening. Her husband, she believed innocently, would be able to explain to Blake (much better than she’d been able to) that she was a happily married woman and could no longer have anything to do with suitors from the past. Alec would be direct and blunt, and he’d promptly show the fellow the door.

But as she’d heard Blake repeat his nonsensical allegations to her husband, she’d begun to realize how dreadful they might sound to Alec. Innocent and inexperienced in the ways of society, he might very well misinterpret what he’d heard. Then she’d taken a good look at her husband’s face and realized that he’d been affected even more deeply than she’d imagined. His lips had whitened, his cheeks were like chalk, and his eyes had become almost blank with pain. And she’d been stricken with fear—chilling and ominous fear.

At that moment, Princess Priscilla became aware that her fairy-tale days were coming to an end. Somehow, her hitherto charmed life had fallen apart. She saw her husband move toward the door, and she tried desperately to hold him back … to explain. But he broke from her and ran from the room
.

For three days she waited, silent and numb, at the window. But he didn’t return. Everything seemed unreal … nightmarish. She didn’t believe what was happening. It was impossible, she told herself, that he didn’t realize how deeply she loved him. He would soon remember their happiness in Italy and, at any moment, he would return to her, ready to listen to her explanation, ready to forgive, ready to take her into his arms again
.

But he didn’t come. Instead, his solicitor appeared in her doorway with the news that he had gone to Spain. She listened, apparently calm, to what he had to say, told him in a steady voice that she would not agree to any decree of nullity or divorce at this time, thanked him for coming, saw him to the door … and fainted dead away. When she awoke, she was not a fairy-tale princess any more
.

Priss brushed aside the familiar tears, wondering if the well from which they flowed would ever run dry. Fairy tales ended, but real life went on and on. Her story had been a dismal one ever since. She could not recover her health after she’d learned from Mr. Newkirk that Alec had bought a commission and gone to fight on the Peninsula. She was weak and listless and could barely drag herself from bed in the mornings. Desperately, she’d sent for her mother and, as soon as she’d arrived, heartbrokenly poured the entire story into her mother’s ear. Together they’d decided that Priss had acted wisely in not agreeing to dissolve the marriage. They would wait—for whatever time was necessary—for Alec to return. Until that time, the world in general and the old Earl in particular would not be told of the marital difficulty. It was enough for them to know that Alec had gone abroad to fight Napoleon. As for the rest, it would be a secret known only to Mr. Newkirk and themselves. Priss was no longer a fairy-tale Princess, but she
was
Lady Braeburn … and Lady Braeburn she would remain.

But her defiant hold on her title was an empty gesture if Alec continued to stay away. She didn’t care about being a Countess. She only wanted a chance to talk to him, to try to explain, to see if …

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running footsteps in the corridor outside her door. She had barely time to turn from the window before her door flew open and her mother burst in. “Prissy, my love, you’ll never
believe
—!” she cried in obvious agitation.

“Mama! What
is
it?”

“Come at once! It’s
Alec
! They’re
bringing him in now
!”

Chapter Four

Mr. Isaiah Hornbeck had been faced with a dilemma. He’d assisted Captain Tyrrell out of the inn and into a coach, but before he’d managed to worm a direction from the fellow’s lips, the young officer, drunk as a fiddler, had fallen into a stertorous sleep from which he would not be roused. To make matters worse, the weather had completely changed since the two men had entered the inn. It was now raining with a steady, discouraging persistence. Hornbeck blinked perplexedly at the innkeeper who’d assisted him. “Which hotel did he say he wanted?”

The innkeeper shrugged in complete unconcern. “I didn’t ’ear ’im say nothin’,” he muttered as he turned to hurry back to more pressing duties.

Hornbeck scratched his head. “Where am I to take him, then?” he asked aloud.

“I know one or two ’otels that’s proper fer a gent,” the coachman offered, the rain dripping unnoticed over the edge of his hat brim.

“I’m stayin’ at a decent lodgin’ myself,” Hornbeck said musingly, “but I don’t know as I ought …”

Hornbeck had gotten himself into a most awkward fix. On the one hand, Tyrrell had distinctly said that he wanted to be taken to his hotel. He’d probably already deposited his baggage there. Hornbeck would willingly drop the fellow off at his hotel, since that was his wish, if only he could remember the name. On the other hand, the Captain had revealed that he had a home of his own right here in London. Why had he wanted to go to a hotel at all when he had a perfectly good place of his own? There was a wife there, too. A pretty little poppet, more than likely. Wouldn’t she fall into a devil of a pucker if her husband failed to come home all night?

He peered into the coach at the sleeping soldier and shook his head at him. “Ye’ve pushed me right into the suds, ye have, Captain Tyrrell,” he accused, “and there ye be, sleepin’ as innocent and untroubled as a babe.”

“Did ye say ’is name’s Tyrrell?” the coachman asked.

“Aye, I did. Why?”

The coachman scratched his nose reflectively. “Seems I’ve ’eard the name. There’s a place goes by the name Tyrrell ’Ouse. In ’Anover Square if I recollect rightly.”

“
His
place, do ye think?” Hornbeck asked doubtfully.

The coachman shrugged. “Can’t say. It ain’t no lodgin’ fer a mimper.”

“Oh? Somewhat grand, is it?”

“Aye, ye can say that!” the coachman grinned.

Hornbeck hesitated. It could well be the wrong address, and all he’d have for his pains would be a contemptuous look from the butler and a door slammed in his face. At best, he’d be delivering the Captain to the very place he had no wish to go. But if the house in Hanover Square
did
turn out to be the Captain’s home, he could at least tell the butler where he was staying, thus permitting the little wife to learn her husband’s whereabouts. And he could then take the Captain off with him in good conscience.

“Well?” the coachman inquired impatiently. “’Ave ye made up yer mind? I don’t take no delight in standin’ about in this ’ere downpour.”

“Aye, let’s be off.” He climbed into the coach with an air of decision. “Hanover Square it is, then.”

Lady Vickers, contrary to her daughter’s expectation, had not been able to fall asleep that afternoon. She’d tossed about on her bed for almost an hour, but sleep eluded her. It was her daughter’s emotional condition that kept the mother from her usual composure. The girl had been a bundle of nerves ever since the men had begun to return from Waterloo. Every knock at the door would make the poor creature start. The sound of a carriage passing on the street would bring her to the window. If her blasted son-in-law did not soon return, Lady Vickers very much feared that her daughter would become physically ill.

The sound of the rain drumming on the windowpanes did nothing to ease her restlessness. The past few years of living with her daughter in London had not been soothing to a woman of her years. First there had been the strain of helping her daughter adjust to her sudden aloneness. Then there had been the worry over Alec’s safety during all those years of war. And now, even though peace had come and Alec was safe, there was no peace here in Hanover Square.

Perhaps, she thought, a glass of warm milk would be relaxing. She got up and called for her abigail, but there was no answer. Impatiently, she went to the door. The sound of strange voices from the entryway downstairs brought her to the top of the stairway. “What’s amiss down there?” she asked querulously.

The butler appeared at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at her. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, my lady, but there’s a gentleman here saying the strangest things.”

“Really? Who is he?” Lady Vickers asked, starting down.

Mr. Hornbeck hove into view. “Isaiah Hornbeck, ma’am,” he said, removing a dripping beaver and bowing awkwardly. He stared up at her, his bristly eyebrows lifting in surprise. “I beg pardon. I must have made a mistake. Ye can’t be …”

Lady Vickers descended the remaining steps. “I can’t be
whom
, Mr. Hornbeck?”

“Cap’n Tyrrell’s wife. I’d been told that this is the Tyrrell domicile.”

“This
is
Tyrrell House,” Lady Vickers assured him, looking him over curiously. The man looked quite respectable, his rain-dampened clothing too stylish and substantial (despite the rather loud color of his coat) to belong to a tradesman. His manner of speech, too, was not easy to place. It was not that of a London gentleman, but it wasn’t uneducated. The man was a puzzle.

But he was looking at
her
in even greater puzzlement. “I … er … didn’t expect a lady of yer years … that is …” He reddened and fiddled with his hat brim awkwardly. “I do beg yer pardon, ma’am. It’s just that I’m a bit surprised—”

“To find that Captain Tyrrell’s wife is a woman of my advanced years?” Lady Vickers broke into a gurgling laugh.

“Oh, not
advanced
, ma’am. A man o’ my age would be a fool to call a lady as young as yerself a woman of advanced years. To me y’re a mere babe. But, ye see, compared to the Captain, ye’ll have to admit—if ye don’t mind a bit of blunt speakin’—”

“The
Captain
?” Lady Vickers’ smile faded abruptly, and her breath seemed to catch in her throat. “It has just occurred to me … are you saying that you’ve
seen
the Captain?”

“Yes, my lady, I have.”

“Are you … speaking of Captain
Alexander
Tyrrell?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve only come to inquire if he lives here.”

“B-But … why?” She looked at him sharply. “Are you
acquainted
with him?”

“Yes, ma’am. I think ye could say that.
Does
he live here?”

“I will answer that question
after
you’ve answered mine,” she said with a kind of nervous firmness as she tried to keep calm. “
Why do you ask
?”

“Because, my lady, I wish to leave a message with his wife.”

“I see. Well, what is the message?”

“You
are
his wife, then?” Hornbeck asked suspiciously.

“All you need to know, my good man, is that you may feel quite comfortable about leaving the message with me.”

The bristly eyebrows knit again. “I can’t say, ma’am, that I’d feel comfortable about it at
all
. All this backin’ and fillin’ we seem to be doin’ is makin’ me feel uneasy. If ye’ll excuse me, I’ll just go out the way I came in.”

“No!” Lady Vickers reached out a hand in alarm. “Mr. … er … Hornbeck, wait!” She took a few quick, nervous steps toward him, glanced about her at the servants (all of whom seemed to have gathered nearby to observe the curious goings-on) and hesitated. Then, in a quietly restrained voice, she said, “I’m sorry. I haven’t been very polite. Please follow me, Mr. Hornbeck. We’ll go into the sitting room, where we can be
private.
” This last was accompanied by a formidable glare directed at the servants.