The Rogue Prince (6 page)

“There is some jewelry in the safe at the manor,” Maggie said, sounding quite desperate to her own ears. “It belonged to Julian's mother and I'm sure it must be quite valuable.”

Shefford shook his head. “You musn't have looked there lately, then.”

This could not be happening. “What do you mean?”

“Julian sold most of it,” Shefford replied, “to pay his gambling debts.”

If Maggie had felt ill while sitting in Victoria's drawing room and receiving the news of Julian's duplicity, there was no adequate description for what she felt now. Her husband had ruined them. She had hoped he'd gained some maturity after Zachary's birth, and accepted his responsibilities, but it was now obvious that she'd deceived herself during all the years of her marriage. Her husband had never changed. He was the same rash and reckless scoundrel he'd been in his youth.

“Shefford, you are Blackmore's trustee, how could you have let this happen?”

“Julian's debts had to be paid,” he said simply,
and Maggie wondered if he had always been so lax about important matters. Shefford had never seemed to care much about anyone's interests but his own, but she couldn't believe Julian would name him as trustee if he'd known how little attention he would pay to Blackmore affairs.

Except that Julian had been just as careless about his own affairs. He would never have foreseen this, because he had been entirely lacking in foresight. Not to mention fidelity. Or reliability.

“What will I do?” Her breath caught in her throat. “How will we manage?”

“You are going to remarry. A rich man.”

A cold chill crept up her spine as she thought of the conversation she'd overheard earlier. She told herself that Shefford could not have orchestrated this…this
debacle
…in order to put her into dire straits. Could he?

She looked into his cold eyes. Oh God, he
had
. He believed she had no choice but to marry his friend, Kimbridge, a man she had met on one previous occasion and had not been impressed. She wondered if Shefford had done the same thing when he'd pushed her to marry Julian. For what reason had
he
needed a pliable, biddable wife?

Obviously, it was in order to pursue his fast life in Town while he kept his plain, unsophisticated, unquestioning wife at his country estate where she wouldn't interfere with his amusements. He'd gotten his legitimate heir, and had talked of siring a spare—

Maggie quelled the scream that welled up in her throat. Julian had betrayed her in every possible way. Not only had he conducted affairs with women during his frequent visits to London, he'd gambled away Zachary's inheritance as well as their income. And Shefford was no better. As trustee, he had to have known about Julian's debts. Yet he'd done nothing to protect her rights. She'd trusted Julian and then Shefford to see to her interests.

Maggie realized she shared a good deal of the blame for her present situation. She had been the “biddable” wife while she should have been challenging her husband more often, demanding answers to the questions she asked him. When he sold off his horses just before Lily's birth, Maggie should have made him tell her what was going on. She should have paid closer attention when the ancient Blackmore sword collection disappeared, and when Julian disposed of a number of valuable paintings in the manor house, saying he could no longer abide them.

In every instance, Julian had clucked his tongue at her questions and told her not to worry, as though she had the brains of a child. Maggie would have smacked her head against Mr. Clement's desk if it would have changed anything.

“My lady, you still have your portion of the annuity from your grandmother, Countess Rilby,” said the solicitor.

Her paternal grandmother had left her a modest sum, certainly not enough on which to live, or
to raise two children. Or to maintain Blackmore Manor.

Maggie felt numb. Somehow, she managed to pull on her pelisse and gloves, fumbling as Shefford stood and assisted her. She might have bid Mr. Clements good day, though she was in such a haze of mental disorder, she wasn't even sure how she got herself from his office to the front door of the building.

She didn't know what was worse—Julian's marital infidelity, or his destruction of Zachary's birthright. She didn't think society yet knew about the state of her finances, but they soon would, just as Julian's indiscretions had been common knowledge in Town. Maggie wondered if any of them had been remarked upon in the society columns.

“Lord B, of Cambridgeshire, was seen leaving the Drury Lane Theater with the notorious Miss W.”

Maggie's cheeks burned with humiliation.
How could Julian have done this to her?

Now Shefford wanted her to marry another wastrel, Robert Kimbridge. Maggie had no intention of complying this time, although she did not know quite what she was going to do. Nor did she know who she could turn to for advice. Obviously not to Shefford, who'd convinced her to marry Julian in the first place. And Maggie had never cared for Mr. Clements, whose disdain for her was palpable in every word he spoke.

Every man she'd ever relied upon had failed her, starting with her own father, who'd died far too soon after the Chatterton incident. Maggie had
needed him desperately then, since he was the only one who'd shielded her from her mother's anger. He was the only one who'd agreed that she had done the right thing in screaming for help when her cousin had attempted to harm her.

Her mother's second husband had barely taken notice of Maggie and her sisters, and after his death, Maggie had ended up with her stepbrother as her guardian. And if he believed Julian and Kimbridge were good candidates for marriage, then she would be better off with no guardian at all.

She had already decided that Shefford would have nothing to say about how she conducted her life from here on, but the day's revelations solidified her feelings. She was quite aware that she needed to figure a way to take control of her own life. Fortunately, with a widow's freedom, she could do as she pleased.

If only she had funds.

“I have a friend…” said Shefford.

“I'm sure you do,” Maggie said angrily. Every man in London could go hang for all she cared. Not a single one was worth even a second thought. Except, perhaps one.

“He's wealthy and well connected—”

“And a lame, destitute country widow would suit him perfectly, is that it, Shefford?” She did not enjoy sounding like a petulant child, but there was a limit to what she would endure. She was a grown woman now, and if she was not mistaken, her prince had found her desirable. He might not wish to marry her, but she had no intention of agreeing
to yet another marriage for the convenience of another young scoundrel.

The carriage came to a halt and Shefford took hold of her forearm. “You're in a corner, Maggie.”

“Not as much as you might think,” she said, pulling her arm from his grasp. She stepped out of the carriage and went up to the house, only to retreat in dismay when she heard her mother's voice. She could not imagine what Beatrice was doing there, unless it was to harangue her over some triviality.

Maggie closed her eyes and muttered a few choice words she'd never thought to utter in her life. If only she could just take the children and return to Blackmore Manor.

 

Nathaniel Beraza would attend the Waverly ball with Thomas as his Sabedorian “ambassador,” along with his American cohort, Edward Ochoa, as his foreign minister. Ochoa was a former lawyer who looked like anyone's benevolent grandfather. Tom didn't know what crime Edward had been convicted of, but he'd practiced law in America, and now made a perfect Sabedorian minister, mature and erudite. Tom had already paid him handsomely to play his part, and had promised even more after Tom's crew of ex-convicts completed their undertaking successfully.

They'd decided to keep their fictitious background simple, for that made it far easier for all of Tom's associates to keep their stories consistent.

All but Ochoa had been imprisoned in one hell
ish place or another by the English crown, or as slaves on
Butcher's Blade
. Ochoa had his own felonious history, and each man had a mix of talents, all of which would be useful as Tom put his plans into play.

Nate came into Thomas's hotel room, already dressed for the Waverly ball. He'd grown up in a London flash house, and earned his way by picking pockets wherever the opportunity presented itself. He'd been especially fond of racing events, but he'd progressed to some serious larceny before being condemned to the penal colony at a young age. He was independently wealthy now, but his loyalty to Thomas was unquestionable.

“Don't we look like a couple o' royal bastards,” he said, grinning, slipping back to the east London accent he'd worked so hard to eliminate. They'd all worked hard to perfect their roles, altering their speech slightly, becoming accustomed to fine clothes, and learning the customs of moneyed people and their servants.

Nate reached over to straighten the golden ribbon that hung around Tom's neck. It held a perfectly authentic-looking Sabedorian medal with a large emerald set in its center. Tom wore his formal suit of clothes—a black coat and trews, with a white waistcoat and neck cloth. Beneath the medal, lying diagonally across his chest, lay a scarlet sash. Over his dress suit, Tom would wear his specially made scarlet robes, the dominant color of the flag one of his men had designed for Sabedoria.

The play was about to begin, and Thomas felt ready. His assignation with Maggie had been postponed, which was obviously for the best. He could afford no distractions in his quest to destroy his enemies. Maggie, with her alluring eyes and velvet femininity, was a huge disruption to his composure. Though his desire for her had not dwindled in the hours since leaving her in Hanover Square, his common sense told him his energies were better spent focusing on Shefford, Maynwaring, and the Blackmore estates. His plan was complex, with many facets, and a failure of any part could threaten the whole.

Mark Saret entered the room and greeted them. “You'll have them falling over themselves to please you,” he said to Tom.

“One can only hope,” Thomas replied wryly. “You have some news?”

“Aye. Andrew Harland has managed to get himself employed as a footman in Shefford's house.”

“Excellent,” said Tom, appreciating Saret's talent for accomplishing what needed to be done. No doubt one of Shefford's current footmen had needed to leave the marquess's employ for some reason—likely relating to a generous monetary enticement. Now Andy Harland was in a position to learn all sorts of information from Shefford's household that might not otherwise be available to them.

“What of Maynwaring? Anything new there?”

“His Honor Judge William Maynwaring is now His Honor
Lord Justice
Maynwaring. He is still
on the bench, and still rendering overly harsh sentences. He lives in a mansion in Kensington.”

“Anything more on the Blackmores?”

“Julian left a wife and two children who live up at the family estate in Cambridgeshire. Shefford is the trustee of his estate, and guardian of his children.”

“Which means he has control over their finances?”

“Correct.”

It felt wholly unfair that Julian had died before Tom had had the opportunity to destroy him, and the disappointment still was a bitter draught to swallow. The years of dreaming, of hungering for the sight of a ruined Julian Danvers, falling on his knees in desperation at Tom's feet, were wasted.

He stalked to the window and placed his hands upon the sill. Looking out at the traffic below, he watched the dandies in their top hats and expensively cut suits walking to their various fashionable destinations. No doubt Lady Blackmore was the same kind of irresponsible snob that Julian had been. Tom was going to see to it that she and her children paid for Julian's misdeeds, just as Tom's family had done.

“Then whatever financial disasters we devise for Shefford—you still believe we can orchestrate it so that Blackmore's estate suffers along with him?”

Saret gave a quick nod. “We haven't as much information on Blackmore as we've got on Shefford, but I've got a man on it now.”

“Good.”

“Shefford has an estate in Oxfordshire, as well
as some property in Dorset—providing far less income than would support his extravagant lifestyle. He likes to live on the edge.”

“Does he gamble?”

“Some, though he is not known as a great winner.”

“He owns thoroughbreds.”

“Recent purchases,” said Saret. “And no noteworthy wins with previous horses in the past few years.”

Which boded well for the horse race Tom had in mind, the one that would deliver the fatal blow to Shefford's finances. Tom intended to crush him. “What of the Waverly ball?”

“Ah. Something I can answer definitively!” Saret said with a grin. “Shefford will be there. Harland is assigned to accompany his carriage.”

“Perfect. Now, see what more you can find out about His Honor
Lord Justice
Maynwaring.”

 

“I will not hear of it, Margaret!” Lady Shefford's shrill voice cut through Maggie's mental haze. “The duchess is one of my closest friends, and now that you are here in London, she will consider it a slight if you do not attend the ball tonight.”

“Mother, I do not care if—”

“Well, you should!” her mother carped. She took one of Maggie's old ball gowns from the wardrobe and placed it on the bed. “You are out of mourning and it's time you found another husband.”

“But I don't wan—”

“Do you expect to stay a widow for the rest of
your life?” Beatrice paced back and forth in Maggie's bedchamber. “No woman was meant to be alone.”