One Night With A Prince (35 page)

The door swung open behind them to admit Mr. Talbot and Colonel Bradley, clearly in an already inebriated state. “Byrne!” the colonel cried. “You should try some of Stokely’s—Oh, Lady Haversham. Didn’t mean to interrupt. We thought we’d see if Byrne would join us in a drink.”

“It’s all right,” she murmured, grateful for the reprieve. At least she wouldn’t have to hear Gavin admit that he never wanted children, an admission that would shatter her in her already fragile state. “I was just heading off to bed.”

Before they could say anything else, she fled.

Gavin watched her leave, too stunned to do more than stare after her. Children. With Christabel. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it beyond his efforts to prevent it by using French letters.

“Come on, Byrne,” Talbot said, weaving on his feet. “The lady is gone, so come have some brandy with us. Stokely’s broken out the best stuff.”

Gavin whirled on them, his frustration with Christabel twisting into fury at them. “Of course he has. He’s hoping that if you drink enough tonight, you’ll be too bloody cropsick tomorrow to play decently, and then his team will win the pot. He does it every year, and you fools fall for it every time. Why do you think he and I always win?”

He surveyed them with a sudden surge of disgust. “I don’t know why I even bother with the lot of you. You’re idiots, every last one. You deserve to have Stokely fleece you. Good night, gentlemen. Enjoy your drink while you can. Because after tomorrow, you won’t be able to afford brandy for some time.”

“Now see here, no need to be an ass—” Talbot began, but Gavin was already out the door and in the corridor, looking to see if he could catch Christabel.

But no, she’d disappeared. He would think that she was searching, except that she preferred to sleep a few hours first and do her work after there was little chance of running into Stokely. Unlike Gavin, she
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wasn’t used to late nights. Which meant she was presently in her room, where between Rosa and the chair she kept propped against the handle, she might as well be behind a castle moat. So there was no chance of trying to change her mind by kissing her and making love to her and talking of marriage and the future.

And children.

A groan escaped him as he stared up the staircase that led to the family wing.He could have a family wing—the house at Bath was large enough for it. And if he had his barony, he could pass the title on to his son—

Damn it, he wasn’t going to get the barony, not if he followed his plan for vengeance. Gritting his teeth, he strode off toward the other part of the house, trying to blot Christabel’s words from his head.What about our children?

He’d never wanted children before. Why should he want them now? An image rose unbidden, of her nursing a babe at her breast, of a little lass with red curls perched on his knee or a dark-haired boy calling him Papa—

Damn her! Christabel was driving him insane with her talk of their future. Raucous laughter assaulted his ears, and he gave a wide berth to the drawing room from whence it came. Stokely was in there filling the men’s bellies with drink. Then he would send them to bed stinking drunk, where they’d get into rows with their wives or mistresses. And no one would awaken in any condition to focus on a card game. Except Stokely, of course. For the first time, he felt sickened by the scheming and manipulation and outright chicanery involved in the man’s little games. And his disgust stretched beyond the baron to the women who’d been making advances to Gavin ever since they’d heard that Christabel wasn’t sharing his bed. To the supposed

“gentlemen” of his club, who scoffed at him behind his back for being in “trade” even while they drank his liquor and ate his food and took advantage of all the amenities of his club as if it were their due. Damn them all. Once he had his barony, he’d tell them to go to hell. No,he reminded himself again, he wasn’t going to have a barony. Instead, he was going to heap calumny on his own head by unseating Prinny from the throne. And for what? Don’t lie to yourself that you’re doing it for her.

Of course he was doing it for her.

All right, so his mother had never asked for vengeance, had never prodded him to seek it. Although she’d cursed the prince in her early days, she’d changed after the fire. She’d said that having her life spared had made her realize that life was too precious to spend it hating. And why should she? He’d done all the hating for her—hating those who’d unjustly called her a whore, hating Prinny…hating himself.

He walked up the stairs to his room in a daze. Yes, hating himself. For sleeping through the fire, for not
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being able to protect his mother, for being born. Christabel wasn’t far wrong—part of the reason he wanted this so badly was to quell the guilt he’d felt ever since he’d been old enough to know he was a bastard, to know that his very existence had altered his mother’s future. Yet she was right about something else, too. His motherdid want him to have a happy life. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have made such sacrifices for him.

Now he meant to reward her sacrifice by destroying any possibility of a happy life for himself. Because if he couldn’t have Christabel, he couldn’t be happy.

He stopped outside his bedchamber as a hollow pain settled in his gut. He couldn’t take this anymore—being without Christabel, going off to his empty bed alone every night, not having her to tease and provoke and hold. Only two women had ever looked at him with true love in their eyes. Only two women had ever looked beneath his defenses to see a man of worth, a man capable of more than he’d shown the world heretofore.

And he would disappoint them both, destroy his future and theirs—and the future of his children—just for the chance to thumb his nose at a man who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as they. He must be insane.

Abruptly, he turned on his heel and headed back down the stairs. No more—it was time to put an end to the nonsense. He’d find those letters if he had to spend all night searching. And if that didn’t work, he’d bargain with Stokely.

No matter what he had to do, he would get the letters back for Christabel. And only for Christabel. Chapter Twenty-Two

If you find a lover who can be faithful to

you, hold on to him with all your might.

—Anonymous,Memoirs of a Mistress

The next day, Christabel slipped into the main drawing room as the clock struck one. Except for the two teams who’d won early and were probably still abed, the other players would be at the tables. Lord Stokely would be overseeing his guests, even though he was done with this round. And she’d seen Gavin dozing in the music room.

But she couldn’t think about him right now. Or the fact that she’d passed Lady Kingsley heading for the music room. An assignation? With the only woman he’d ever loved? She couldn’t bear to think it. But she had to face the prospect of a future without Gavin, of hearing about him with some new mistress, while she and Papa weathered whatever awful prospect lay before them. Shaking off the icy fear stealing down her spine, she set her fan on a console table near the door. She’d been using the fan as her excuse for being in any room. If a servant came in or one of the guests, she said,

“I was looking for my fan—have you seen it?” Then she’d pretend to find it and leave the room. After so much time searching, she’d developed a routine. Begin at the door and work steadily around the room twice. In the first time around, she examined the furniture, though she doubted she’d find the letters just sitting in some drawer. The second round was for the walls. She searched every panel and
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molding within reach, looking for anomalies in paint and trim and design, anything that might hide a safe. Of course, once she found one, she’d have to deal with Gavin, because he could open it, and she couldn’t. But she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

She’d just opened a drawer when she heard the door open behind her and a voice say, “You won’t find them in there, Lady Haversham. What kind of an idiot do you take me for?”

Whirling to face Lord Stokely, she felt her blood freeze as he reached behind him with a cold smile to turn the key in the drawing room door, then drop it into a coat pocket.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She fought not to show fear as she edged toward where her fan lay on the console table. “I was looking for my fan.”

His hand came down on hers just as she reached for it. He pocketed her fan, too, and her heart sank. A chilling laugh escaped him. “We both know you weren’t looking for any fan, my dear. You and Byrne must take me for a complete idiot. I know what you want—and you can be sure that you willnever find those letters just lying around in some drawing room. I have them in a very safe place, I assure you.”

Oh, Lord, he knows everything.

He shocked her by lifting her bare hand to his lips and kissing it. “Of course, you might persuade me to share the fruits of my labors if you make the effort. You might as well receive something from this scheme, too. The letters did belong to your family, after all.”

When he closed his mouth around her forefinger and sucked, it was all she could do not to punch a hole in his palate. But she wasn’t ready to draw the battle lines—she’d find out what she could while they were still on good terms.

So she swallowed her disgust, and asked coyly, “What do you mean, you could help me get something, too?”

He lifted his head, but didn’t release her hand. “I knew you would see reason. Especially after Byrne kicked you out of his bed.” His eyes gleamed. “Your dear Philip didn’t leave you with much, did he? And the prince is no doubt breathing down your neck for the letters.”

She schooled herself to show no response. “What is your offer, sir?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Greedy little spitfire, aren’t you? I think you’ll like what I propose. If you’ll tell Prinny that you’ll authenticate the letters if I’m forced to publish them, then I will make you rich beyond your wildest dreams.”

“Byrne offered me riches, too,” she lied. “Why should I takeyour offer?”

“He doesn’t have the letters. And I do. When Prinny marries me off to Princess Charlotte—”

“He’ll never do it,” she broke in. “His Highness has loftier husbands in mind for her.”

The baron snorted. “Given the choice between marrying his daughter to me or losing his chance to be king, the prince will never choose Charlotte, I assure you. And if heis fool enough to do so, then I can sell those letters to a publisher for a hefty sum.” He entwined his fingers with hers and drew her close.
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“Especially if you agree to tell your side of the story. They’ll be fighting over who gets to publish the book. You were what age when you and your father sailed off to Gibraltar with a prince’s son? Six? Seven?”

“Eight,” she said tightly.

“Perfect. A child’s perspective.”

She fought down the roiling of her stomach. “You forget that my father is still alive. And he could be hanged for treason if they’re published.”

Lord Stokely shrugged. “Your father’s a general—he could flee to America or any number of places from France, and no one would ever find him.” He bent his head to her ear. “Youare the one you should be thinking of, my dear, not your father.”

When he placed a wet kiss to her ear, she eased her head away from him with a shiver. “And I suppose a friendship with you would be part of this bargain.”

“Of course.” His eyes bored into hers, lust shining in their depths. “I will be a most generous lover, my dear. I know you have nowhere to go, but I would set you up in any house in London that you choose, a slew of houses if you want. Princess Charlotte comes with a substantial dowry, so I could afford to shower you with jewels and gowns and—”

“There’s only one problem with that,” she said, extricating her hand from his. “I don’t particularly care for jewels and gowns and houses in town. And I have no desire to be your mistress.”

“Holding out for marriage, are you? Not sensible, you know. A penniless marchioness is of little more use to a man than a penniless milliner.” He ran his slimy gaze down her. “Some fellow might marry you for your obvious charms, but beyond that, you’re little good to a man.”

“Then why would you want me for a mistress?” she snapped.

“Because I happen to like obvious charms.” He slid his hand about her waist. “And you’ve shown that you prefer men of my sort.”

“Not really.” Time to get out of his. She wrenched free of his hold and backed toward the door. “I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse your generous offer, Lord Stokely. Being one man’s mistress is more than enough for me.” She searched for something that might make him open the door. “In fact, Byrne and I had planned to meet here to search for the letters. He’s probably on the way even as we speak, and since he’s adept at picking locks—”

“Good try, Lady Haversham, but it won’t wash. I saw him heading out into the gardens with Lady Kingsley right before I came in here. Why do you think I chose that moment to speak to you?” As he stalked her, his smile sent a shiver down her spine. “Ever heard the phrase,divide and conquer ? Lady Kingsley is interested in renewing her acquaintance with your good friend Byrne.”

He lunged forward and caught her around the waist again. “And I’m interested in beginning one with you.”

She shoved against his chest, not only to force him away but in hopes of finding where he’d stuck her fan. “But I’m not interested in beginning one with you.”

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“You will be. As soon as I show you I can be an even better lover than Byrne.”

He lowered his mouth to hers. Blast, he gave her no choice. She reached down and grabbed his ballocks, squeezing them more tightly than she’d squeezed Gavin’s that first time. No one could say she didn’t learn from her mistakes. It must have been the right amount of pressure, for he jerked back, his eyes popping wide. “What the devil—”