Page 3 of Lord Fournier’s Shameless Princess (Scarlett Affairs #4)

D irk walked through the salon doors just as his caller sighed and set her half-filled plate on the small table before her. She rose to greet him, the look of a startled animal suffusing her lovely oval face. Her polite homage of standing to greet him was totally unnecessary, especially at this time of night in what was obviously an emergency for her.

“Princess, I welcome you,” he said with a polite bow as she rose to her feet.

She was dressed in breeches, boots, and a faded blue man’s waistcoat, gaping over a fine muslin shirt clinging to her curves. Wherever she’d come from, she had ridden hard and fast. Mud spattered her boots. One small splash marred her left cheek. Her hair had suffered in her run. Yet its gold blinded him as it had the first night he had beheld her.

She’d acted a right hellion to him months ago, but now, clearly, in her anxious state, she was more subdued. And from what he and Bartel had gathered, she’d come alone, too. Hazardous for a woman to be out in the world without a soul to call her friend, no matter her hauteur or her knowledge of the terrain. For that, he took to her more kindly than ever before. She was his friend’s sister, and he would help her.

“I do apologize for my delay.” He owed her that. He could tell from her expression and her anxious stance that she was not here to scold him. A relief, that. They could move to the matter that obsessed her.

She tried to smile. The effort was valiant, but her attempt failed. “Your man said you were expected, my lord. I asked to wait and hope you do not find it remiss that I was so forward.”

Tonight she was civil. He welcomed it. He himself was tired and dismayed by what he’d learned today. He was in no mood to argue or fend off the level of frustration she had presented to him in June. Tonight, she was a woman undone, fatigued and needy.

“Not at all forward of you.” He strode forward, drawn to her like a bee to flower. Water to land. Moon to earth. He’d been captivated by her beauty months ago, even though she was so furious with him. Yet he gazed at her now, and his heart swelled just to see her so bereft, so unkempt…and yet so exquisite.

He grabbed the back of chair—that or he’d fail to find words. Only to himself could he admit one thing: she had lived in his reverie, lo, these many months, as the loveliest woman he had ever seen. Yet he was a wise man, raised by caring parents, educated well, and tempered by a Society that condemned him for a transgression he had not committed. He was thirty-one years of age, and he was wise to the effects of a lovely woman on a man. Especially one so long celibate as he. Beauty might not commend a lady to a man and forgive all else, but he knew Liesel’s past, and her reputation made her even more appealing to him. She had courage and stamina, a mind of her own, all characteristics that commended any man or woman.

If he were known as more honorable, if he were of higher rank than mere baron, if he and she lived in less perilous times and she were not a princess of one of the richest principalities in Europe, he could warm to her, want her, keep her as his own. But he was none of those, and she was beyond his reach. He would maintain his distance—and aid her in all she required.

She tipped her head, modest and sweet. “I am grateful for your hospitality, sir.”

He smiled at her. Her English was so smooth that he would not have known she’d been born in Rittenburg and belonged to one of the most ancient royal families of Europe. Her six years in a Kent school had polished a continental jewel into a rare gem that those in George III’s court had once coveted as one of their own.

Dirk could barely breathe looking at her. Never had he viewed a woman of such grace and perfection. He’d been struck by her that night she invaded his boudoir. God knew, he probably marveled at her now like a fifteen-year-old boy. She shimmered, so near, so ethereal in the candlelight. Even in her threadbare clothes that fell over her svelte body like a waterfall, she was delectable.

Better, tonight, she was not angry with him. Worse, she was distraught. That she did not hide. The lines of her oval face drew tight against her cheeks. Her extraordinary violet eyes were wide with expectation. Her lips, lush and pink, were pursed. Her hands, her elegant, ringless fingers, clasped tightly together. And her stance, regal though it appeared, defined the insecurities of her presence here.

“I deserve no apologies, Lord Fournier. I am the one who intrudes. And just as I did last time I was here, I come at a terrible hour.”

He reached out and took her hands between his. She was cold. Trembling. One did not touch a princess of the blood. But tonight, at this moment, he cared not for protocol. His job was to soothe her and welcome her. She was a guest, seeking relief. In his firm embrace, he felt her muscles relax. “Let us speak no more of our last meeting, Your Highness. I see you are distressed, and I bid you to calm yourself and tell me at once how I can help you.”

He led her to sit on the settee beside him—so close, he ordered himself to listen to her, lest he simply admire her and drink in her loveliness. But he had such problems. Unlike that time before, he could now regard her at his leisure, and oh, did he enjoy the ambiance.

Last year, the moment she had spoken to him, she had arrested him. His sight, his hearing, his masculine appreciation for her elegant female form were captured by her outrage—and her grasp of power. Of course, it was of some consequence that he had been naked, and she, though fiercely angry with him, took little notice. But now, she presented a problem, a wound. She wanted help. He was not surprised, because tonight, even before she arrived, he had garnered his own evidence that she had failed at her task. She was as finished as he, failing at the same mission he had set more than a year and half ago.

“I have just come from Ettenheim.” Her voice in its normal octave was melodic, a contralto full of mellow enticements.

“Ah.” This was indeed the worst. How much did she know about the French invasion of Baden territory? “Tell me all you know.”

“The Duke of Enghien knows that Bonaparte’s Foreign Affairs Minister Talleyrand and Chief of Police Fouché have declared Bonaparte’s life in danger. They think Enghien plots to lead a coup, enter France, and kill him. I saw Enghien this morning and told him he must leave at once, sail north along the Rhine, or go south to Lake Constance—simply do something !”

Dirk nodded, resigned to the inevitable now. “He refuses.”

“You know?” she asked with sinking voice and shadowed gaze. Clearly, Liesel of Rittenburg was not yet resigned to the dismal future the duke had sealed for himself.

“I do.” Dirk pondered how much to reveal to her. Those in Scarlett’s ring had rules of conduct, all meant to keep each of them safe should one be taken and tortured for information. She had divined his real purpose with Enghien and told him of hers. Both their lives were at risk. Still, he would tread carefully, offering little. “I fear the duke has run out of time.”

“I told him not to go to Strasbourg last month,” she bit off in frustration, and then looked miserable for having ridiculed the man.

“That is not the greatest of his so-called sins.” He got to his feet and went to the sideboard, where Bartel had furnished the long bar with an array of cold foods, brandy, schnapps, and a crystal carafe of white wine plunged in a bucket of ice. “Forgive me, I have been on the road all day. I have not eaten, and I must.”

He’d noticed that she had partaken of only a bit of Bartel’s offerings. She must have more. Why a young woman of the old German aristocracy needed a fine meal, a tall brandy, and a good night’s sleep was a nightmare. That was of Bonaparte’s making. “Will you join me, Your Highness, in wine, brandy, or schnapps, perhaps?”

“Schnapps, please.”

He smiled to himself. The lady was no wilting flower. He poured and returned to her with a full goblet of peach liquor for both of them. “The French know that the duke has received a pension from the British government for many years. It was the means by which he survived.”

She huffed as she took her glass. “Heaven knows that neither of Louis XVI’s two surviving brothers sent him anything to live on.”

The self-styled King of France, Louis XVIII, who lived in Prussia these days, and his younger brother Artois were miserly pimps, living off the charity of continental royalty who would host them and clutching every amenity to their own breasts.

“They are two greedy buggers.” Dirk sat beside her and took a sip of his schnapps. The warmth of it sliding down his throat increased his good humor, and he took another drink. “But when their cousin the Duke of Enghien refused to renounce the throne last March, Bonaparte knew he would always be a threat. Marrying the Rohan girl and living in her family’s house helped the duke to live a happy life.”

Dirk watched her closely to see her reaction to his next statement. She did not stir, only meeting his stark gaze with her own.

“But he has welcomed too many French monarchists to his home. Agents have warned him to be less hospitable. Plus, he puts his person in danger. He remained much too near the border, and the French fear he can easily cross…and bring an army.”

She drank, taking her time to savor the liquor and close her eyes in appreciation. Dirk’s masculine interest stirred far too much at the look of satisfaction on her face. This was no time to allow his libido to rise. He cleared his throat and focused on her earnestness instead.

She opened her eyes. “He is peaceful. Married. In love with his wife,” she added. “He has no guards, no army. But today, he received a runner who told of a detachment of soldiers crossing the Rhine. A general led them.”

Caulaincourt. Yes, I saw him myself. Dirk had met the man two years ago when he arrived in Paris with his cousin and head of mission, Kane, Lord Ashley. He would not alarm her more by revealing any of that. Instead, he gave what little comfort he could. “It is a breach of international law to cross a border armed.”

“Yes!” She waved a hand. “But what does my cousin, the margrave, who calls himself a benevolent ruler—what does he care? He has aligned himself with Bonaparte over and over again. Karl of Baden wants more land and a ducal title. He petitioned Vienna to name him an independent elector in the empire. I don’t believe he has any desire to stop a contingent of French from crossing his border.”

Dirk agreed the margrave had no desire and no ability. “If the French do cross, they will create an international incident.”

“If they do,” she said, frustrated now, “what good will it do for Karl to decry it as a crime?”

“I agree, princess.” He was as defeated by the facts as she. It was time she knew how severely he too was limited in aiding the Bourbon Duke of Enghien. “Two of my colleagues have been arrested by Baden guards. One escaped, thank goodness. He is in England, at last. But the other, I fear, sits in the Citadel of Verdun.”

She put down her glass, appalled. “Two of mine have disappeared as well.”

“It was Karl of Baden who ordered mine arrested. I would say he authorized your friends’ imprisonment, too.”

“You think it possible that the margrave would allow an intrusion of French soldiers on his soil and say nothing?” She stared at him.

He downed his liquor in one swallow and shot to his feet. “I do indeed.”

She closed her eyes a moment, but when she opened them, she squared her shoulders. “I have failed, Lord Fournier.”

He saw the toll it took on her confidence to admit that. Once more, he went to sit beside her and committed the faux pax to grasp both her hands in his. She did not flinch. Nor did she wilt. The lady could appear a virago, but was at heart a woman of substance. Given their recent acquaintance and the fact their first encounter was not friendly, he would reassure her of his compassion. “You tried to persuade Enghien. As did I. Another of my colleagues, also.”

“My older brother, too.” She took back her hands.

“Prince Rainer visited Enghien?” That was news none of his runners had given him.

When she nodded, so did Dirk. Bold of Rainer, particularly since he among princes was alone to publicly rail against French intrusion in German affairs and proclaim he would never yield his own domain to Bonaparte. For that defiance, he was as much a target of Bonaparte as Enghien.

That led Dirk to his next concern. “I must ask, where is Rainer tonight?”

She blinked, and her expression drifted to one of despair. “I do not know. I was last home in October, and he had left weeks before. He left me a note of what he intended next.”

Dirk saw she told the truth. He knew not where her brother had gone either. He should. For weeks, his runners had kept him abreast of conditions in Rittenburg and the two principalities surrounding it. The little territory hummed along, its commerce good, its people prosperous.

Rainer and his father had done excellent jobs steering the members of their own Bundestag. Trained in democratic processes by Rainer’s father, those men were devoted to their countrymen’s peace and prosperity. Moreover, they were lauded as upstanding and loyal to their young Prince Rainer. His friend had no reason to fear they would vote to ally themselves with Bonaparte.

But Rainer never was at home to nurture his subjects. Weeks ago, Dirk’s men had lost sight of him. Dirk feared the prince had either disappeared into Prussia or had been taken by the French. True, in Berlin no one boasted of hosting the popular Prince Rainer. But Talleyrand did not proclaim Rainer a prisoner of French hospitality, either.

“What did Rainer write to you?” he asked.

“That he would continue his work with his allies against Bonaparte. That he would never stop.”

“And where do you think your brother is now?”

She surged to her feet. Her posture was that of a woman trained from birth to show fortitude and to command all before her. Yet she clasped her hands so tightly that her knuckles went white. “My best guess? I’d say a French fortress city. Verdun. Or Koblenz, where so many German revolutionaries terrorize their new rulers, the French.”

“You think he is still on the Continent?” He had to know all the challenges Rainer faced. If her brother was in Berlin or Paris or even hell, Dirk had to calculate what current chances of success any German state had against Bonaparte. “Rainer is not in London?”

“He would never go begging to King George.”

Dirk agreed that Rainer had always been too proud to go to the British monarch. But circumstances changed.

“Especially,” she went on, shaking her head, “because I have not been a proper lady toward George’s cousin.”

Dirk smiled. “Good for you.”

She stilled at his agreement, her expression easing with his approval. “Rainer might be in Berlin,” she speculated. “They offered him funds to increase our army.”

“Did he take them?” Dirk knew the answer to that, but again, he could not display all his cards.

“I do not know. I have been in Ettenheim and Strasbourg. Even my best friends, the Rohans, who are now related by marriage to Enghien, have no news of Rainer.”

Dirk shifted the subject. “I understood he had been trained by your father that you were not only his heir but his chief advisor. Why would he not tell you where he intended to go?”

She spread her hands. “He does not trust his communications. Never into England. Never to me there. He always feared they would be intercepted. Plus he knows there is this rivalry between the Home and Foreign Offices. They fight in their little offices while we here suffer and starve from their rules.”

Dirk had seen the poverty suffered by many in Rhenish cities caused by the French rules to restrict shipping on the river. “The French have no idea how to administer other people. One day they will pay for that.”

“I have worked to make that day soon. So have you, sir.”

“I am no one of importance. I do my small job.”

“Convincing princes and electors to place their trust in the Prussians or the British. You may call your work small, but you have been successful. Would that Rainer could join you and end his travels.”

Dirk had tried to convince her brother to do just that.

“I know,” she said with a sigh. “You failed with him. You are here and have been since the Amiens peace began. You have done good work, all this time, traveling up and down the Rhine, slipping into Strasbourg, up to Verdun and back again. Heaven knows where else you have been in your duties.”

He cautioned himself to not be too complimented by her knowledge of his work. He stood once more, and at the bar, he picked up a small plate and began to serve himself some supper. He needed a moment to think.

“Have you tried the ham?” he asked her as he forked a paper-thin slice, then considered the four pretty cheeses before him.

“What?” Laughing, she came to stand beside him. Her warmth dissolved his attempt to remain logical. “No.”

“I like a mix of hard and soft cheese. What do you prefer? The blue? Did you try it?”

“No!” She put a hand to his wrist.

She was so close, he absorbed the need in her eyes. She could touch him at will. He could get used to that—protocol be damned.

“Can you not listen to me?”

He nodded. “I do listen. But you are here for help. So now I say, I will be more attentive if you tell me things I do not know. You must trust me.”

She took a few paces to and fro, then faced him, stalwart but frightened. “I cannot go home.”

Now that was news. He returned to the settee. Then he sat back, his gaze fixed on hers, took a bite of the blue cheese, and tore off a piece of brown bread. Digesting all that along with the fear she suddenly showed him, he dusted his fingertips and pushed away his plate. “Why?”

As the eldest sister of the hereditary Prince of Rittenburg, she was her brother’s heiress if anything happened to him. German laws in Rittenburg allowed women to inherit in order of their birth. If Rainer disappeared or died, she would inherit all responsibilities for her little principality. Tiny though the territory was, her subjects were literate, rich, and hardworking. They produced, second to the town of Heidelberg, the most bound books and pamphlets in all of Germany. The city of Rittenburg sat on the Main River, a major thoroughfare east and west through hundreds of ancient German cities and principalities. The Rittenburg burghers were prosperous, selling books and etchings and producing wood carvings of excellent quality for doors, frames, and interior designs. The farmers outside the city produced a healthy crop of wheat and barley each year. Beer was a favorite drink and export. Cheeses and sausages came next.

She spun to face Dirk. The desperation on her face told him her situation was dire. “I cannot go home. But I must. I have heard of all our friends you have ushered away from the touch of icy French fingers. I need your help.”

He wiped his hands on his serviette. “You are here. We are now friends. Tell me first why you can’t go home, princess.”

“I was discovered by French agents in Strasbourg a few days ago. Despite all my ruses, someone discovered me or remembered me. I know not which. But I do know I was chased by two Frenchmen calling my real name.”

Dirk remained stoic. That she had come here to him would lead French agents to him. He had worked so diligently to hide his duty to Britain. But there was nothing for it now. If she led the French here to him, he too was lost.

“You have come disguised as a man.”

“Dressed so, yes.” She swept a hand down to denote her breeches and boots.

No man ever looked so scintillating. He crossed one leg over the other to conceal his appraisal.

“I did weave and dodge,” she said. “I split from two of my associates outside of Offenburg. They run south to Lake Constance.”

Which means you and I traveled many of the same roads today to get to Karlsruhe tonight.

“Sir,” she said, barely audible to him, “if the French take the Duke of Enghien, it is not long before they will come north looking for me.”

True. “Worse, once they leave here, they will go north to Rittenburg.” Dirk rose to his feet, his desire to keep her safe as strong as his desire to touch her, comfort her, and keep her. He knew the next thing she would say. “And they most definitely want your brother.”

“To get him, they will capture my two sisters and my younger brother,” she announced.

The horror of it loomed before him like an ogre. Dear God. Yes. He ran a hand through his hair. “They’ll use them as ransom to demand both you and your brother surrender.” And if Rainer were put in a French donjon and lovely Liesel were locked away with some vicious turnkey…

Memories of the story told last June by his friends the Earl of Appleby and his lovely companion, Vivienne Massé, flooded his mind. Viv’s sister Diane had been captured and hauled off to a Paris prison during the Terror. She had died there. Dirk considered the extraordinary woman before him and knew he would never allow anyone to take her away to any dark cell.

“I fear the French have issued an arrest warrant for me. I know the deputy of that man Fouché. He knows me.”

“Vaillancourt?” Dirk was appalled. Appleby and his lady had told him horrid tales of that man’s depravity. Appleby had also told of the deputy’s desire to trap Lord Ramsey’s beloved lady into serving as his mistress. “How?”

Liesel nodded. “I was a kitchen maid in his household.”

Dirk stared at her. “What?”

“I am good at disguise.”

“If he knows who you are, evidently you are not that good!”

She flinched. “Yes. I admit that. I hate to, but I do. But don’t you see ?” she beseeched him, tears glistening on her golden lashes.

And his heart swelled to overflowing.

“I must save my innocent sisters and little brother. Vaillancourt will take them, use them, and demand Rainer surrender to him.”

Dirk knew her by her deeds, her word, her reputation. He and she had clashed. But they knew of each other and each other’s sentiments. He could not permit her to think he did not care.

So he committed the greatest offense against her august person: he took her in his arms. She came as easily as a river to the sea. She embraced him and clung. He felt each elegant arc of her finely sculpted body. Her heartbeat. Her gulp to force back her tears. She was lithe, pliant in his embrace, and so damn delicious to hold. But he was her hope. And if he was to be her savior, he had to seal himself off from the urges of his desire. They would be allies. They would be friends. That would be all.

He pulled back and saw she had choked back her tears. “You have done well to come to me. I returned home tonight knowing as much as you that the French will soon confront Enghien. I predict they will take him to France at the points of guns. All of that means you are right. We will leave, you and I. Tomorrow at the earliest, or as soon as I can organize my household here.” He smiled, like a father, a brother, anyone other than a man who saw her as the woman he’d take if he were free and as noble as she. “You will go upstairs and bathe. You will acquire a few clothes from me, I suppose. Though on second thought, I doubt they will fit you.” He laughed. “My valet will have answers. But we will leave tomorrow. We are, I think, married. Herr und Frau Schmidt? Shall we say, from…? I don’t know. Basel. I will have Bartel dig out a set of forged passport papers. Yes,” he assured her with a wryness he felt with a twist in his heart. “I keep a supply for any need. You and I will go, sailing north up the Rhine to the Main and over to Rittenburg.”

“Thank you.” She stood back, flexing her shoulders as if she shrugged off his inappropriate embrace.

She had to, didn’t she? But comforting her was his sole mission tonight, wasn’t it? A spark of desire told him he’d do it again and again.

She tipped up her chin, cool, aloof at once, as if she wore a crown. “My little brother and sisters are so dear. They do not deserve to live their lives in a French prison.”

“And they will not.” He stepped far away. “You and I will take them to London, and all of you will live happily until the day you can return, free of fear, to your rightful home.”