Page 25

F or just the second time in his life, Alistair awoke in the morning to the pleasure of finding Constantia in his arms. And for the second time, he held her close a moment longer than he should before hoisting himself from bed. Oh, he wanted to stay—just as he had wanted to once before. But he’d kept her up half the night making love and talking and making love while talking. She had earned her rest.

By rights, he ought to have been exhausted too. But an unusual energy, an unfamiliar excitement buzzed in his veins.

He was in love. He was loved in return.

Of course, a man schooled in practicality and self-restraint did not easily shake off his skepticism. A princess? A fortune? Those were fairy tales on which it wouldn’t pay to rely. But love? Love was real.

He and Constantia made one another happy. And whole. They were going to marry, no matter what.

Of that, he had no doubt at all.

So while she slept, he rose and dressed. The storm had passed, and if he knew his guests, some of them would be ready to depart at dawn.

As he had expected, he found the rector and his wife with Forster in the entry hall awaiting their carriage, which had already been ordered.

“Just the man I hoped to see,” Alistair said, approaching the rector with hand outstretched. “I wish to marry Miss, er—the, uh—well, Constantia.” Lord, it would be easier when she was Lady Ryland. “As soon as possible.”

The rector’s wife smiled with her merry, twinkling eyes. “Of course you do. Every man should find a woman who sees in him nothing but the best.”

“Very well, very well,” said the rector, shaking Alistair’s hand as he nodded to his curate. “Samuel here will read the banns this Sunday.”

Four weeks would be an eternity. He might have pleaded for a special license, but that would have meant going to the bishop and more time spent away from his bride-to-be. And there were plans to make, shopping to be done, Christmas to celebrate—he must hope that keeping busy would make the time go by fast enough.

Alistair nodded and turned to Forster. “If it suits you—and unless I’m very much mistaken, I believe it will—you might as well read out another set of banns at the same time.”

Forster jerked back his head in surprise. “You don’t mean—?”

“You and Eddie.” He lifted his brows in something he hoped would pass for sternness, though there was too much joy in his heart to manage the real thing. “Or did I mistake your intentions toward my sister?”

“God, no,” the other man exclaimed, which prompted a little cough of disapprobation from the rector. “Thank you, Ryland.” Forster now gripped his hand and was shaking it vigorously. “Thank you very much.”

Someone summoned Eddie, who appeared, still in her wrapper, to hear the good news. After the three guests had been successfully dispatched, she turned to Alistair, her eyes shining with tears of happiness and gratitude, and sniffled, “I’ll just order breakfast, shall I?”

“A big one, if you don’t mind,” he called over his shoulder to her as he headed toward the library.

He’d worked up quite an appetite last night.

In the library, which he’d assumed would be empty at this early hour, he found Harry already hard at work. “You know,” he said, bending to plant a kiss on her head as she leaned over the table, “I actually doubted you when you said you were keeping up with your German studies. I’ve never been so glad to be proved wrong.”

“Well...” She sent him a sidelong glance. “I never believed you when you said you’d let me have drawing lessons someday. So, I suppose we’re even.”

He laughed, then twisted a piece of heavily-inked paper toward himself, though he couldn’t read it. “Harry? Do you think this business might be a ruse?”

To his surprise, she laid down her pen and looked up, giving the question serious consideration. “I don’t,” she concluded after a few moments of thought. “Who would bother? All this time and effort”—she waved a hand over the paper-covered table—“and to what end? I think, in spite of how unbelievable it sounds, Herr Schenk is who he claims to be.”

“Which means Constantia is who he says.”

“A princess.” Her voice was breathy and full of wonder, an unexpectedly sweet reminder of the little girl she had once been. When had his sisters all grown up?

He squeezed her hand, nodded, and intended to retreat to his desk, but another question niggled at him. “I understand that sometime after I left last evening, Schenk said something about money?”

Harry shuffled through two stacks of paper, finally found whatever it was she sought, and slid a page toward him, using the nail of her first finger to underscore a number. A low whistle escaped between his teeth. “But that won’t be British pounds,” he reasoned aloud.

“He told her last night that her father did everything he could to protect the family fortune from his brother, whom he’d always suspected of treachery. Unless my German’s truly terrible, the money has been sitting in a British bank for years. So, yes.” She tucked the paper back into its stack with a decisive motion, as if she considered the matter settled. “That’s in pounds sterling, brother dear.”

Good God.

“Have you...have you mentioned this to any of your sisters?”

A frown of confusion dug into the space between her dark brows. “Why would I? It’s Miss Coop—er, I mean, well...” The title of princess didn’t rise naturally to anyone’s lips, it seemed. “It’s her money,” Harry finished, as if that settled the matter.

It was. And his dear Constantia wanted to share it with him.

He sat down behind his desk, staring for a long moment at those hated ledgers, before slipping two sheets of foolscap from the center drawer and dipping his quill. Dear Lady Stalbridge, he began. Much of the story would have to come later; it was Constantia’s to tell. But the countess deserved some explanation, some reassurance. After what he suspected had been weeks of worry following his last letter to her, she deserved some share of the joy.

And when that was written, he started in on the second sheet. Unless he saw it in Alistair’s own hand, Miles would never, never believe what had transpired. Remarkable, really, how similarly their lives had turned out, in spite of their many differences. Each of them had fallen in love with one of Mrs. Goode’s Misses, in spite of that young lady’s rather unflattering depiction of him—in words, in Miles’s case, rather than pictures.

Perhaps a guide to misconduct wasn’t such a bad thing, after all.

As he sanded and sealed the paper, Alistair smiled rather impishly to himself. He had mentioned nothing of it in his brief note, of course—a gentleman didn’t kiss and tell—but Alistair felt certain he finally had one up on his friend. Miles, for all his wild times and rakish ways, had never taken a princess to his bed.

Then, stomach rumbling, he handed off the letters to Wellend for posting and went to breakfast. Harry, who was focused on her translations, promised to join him in a little while.

In the family sitting room, which also served as the breakfast parlor, he found Edwina, Danny, and Aunt Josephine.

“Ryland,” said his aunt, her voice as sharp and bitter as the coffee in her cup. He gave her an answering nod. “You look a wreck,” she went on as he filled a plate with eggs and sausage and toast. “But I suppose one can’t wonder at it. I doubt any of us slept well after that ridiculous drama last night. Well, let’s put it behind us this morning, shall we?” she said. As he sat down across from her at the large round table, his back to the door, she withdrew a folded piece of paper from her sleeve. “I’ve taken the liberty of compiling a list of eligible young ladies in and around Bristol who—”

“Alistair won’t be needing that,” Eddie said quietly.

Reflexively, Aunt Josephine curled her fingers around her lorgnette, which was lying beside her plate. “I beg your pardon, Edwina?”

It was Danny’s turn to chime in. “My brother won’t be needing your list.” She smiled knowingly at him around her teacup as she lifted it to her lips and drank. “He’s marrying a princess.”

“Princess,” Aunt Josephine scoffed. “Your brother may be dull, but he’s sharp enough to know a swindle when he hears one.”

Alistair enjoyed a few mouthfuls of his breakfast before replying, determined not to let his aunt spoil another perfectly good meal. “A German envoy, a royal proclamation, crown jewels—rather elaborate for a swindle, don’t you think?”

“So she managed to hire some...refugee”—she fairly spat out the word, then paused for a shudder of distaste—“from the Continent, had him tell a tall tale, and then flash around a sheet of parchment and a pair of earbobs made of paste. I should have thought that you of all people would recognize it for what it is: utter madness.” She tapped one bony finger against her temple. “Perhaps it’s something in the paint that twists their minds.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Constantia said from just inside the doorway.

Her voice struck his aunt like a bucket of cold water on a hot summer day, and she began immediately to sputter.

Ignoring her, Alistair rose and welcomed his beloved into the room with outstretched hands. The kiss he’d first intended for her cheek was quickly diverted to her soft lips instead.

She looked remarkably beautiful to him in the morning light, clad in the same simple woolen dress in which she’d come to him last night, rather the worse for wear for having lain in a heap on the floor of his bedchamber for hours. Her hair was a tumbled mass of curls, though somewhat smoother and glossier than usual, thanks to his sisters’ efforts the evening before.

“I suppose you’ve come down this morning expecting to be paid for that travesty of a portrait?” Aunt Josephine sneered.

“You may keep your money, Lady Posenby,” Constantia answered calmly. “And that painting, too, for all I care.” She darted a mischievous glance his way that told him she preferred a certain, er, less formal drawing she’d made. Then she twined her fingers with his and gripped his upper arm with her other hand. “I have everything I really need.”

“You don’t mean—? Surely you’re not suggesting—?” Aunt Josephine scrambled to her feet, making the dishes on the table rattle. “Ryland, you can’t possibly mean to marry that woman.”

“I do.” He looked down into Constantia’s eyes and covered her hand with his. “In fact, I’ve already spoken to the rector this morning. I hope that meets with your approval, Princess?”

For answer, the corners of Constantia’s mouth curved in an ever so slightly crooked smile.

“I will not stay and be a part of this travesty,” declared Aunt Josephine, snatching her lorgnette and her list from the table. “I intend to leave for Bath this very hour. Come, Danielle.”

“No,” he said, not lifting his eyes from his bride’s. “Go if you wish, by all means, Aunt. But Danny’s staying here.”

Danny flew from her seat to embrace him, and her new sister too. In half a moment, Eddie had joined them. With a snarl, Aunt Josephine stormed from the room, and snarled again when she met Harry and Herr Schenk on the threshold.

The pair of them entered—the big German had to duck his head—and looked about, rather bewildered. “ Alles in Ordnung? ” the envoy asked, after greeting Constantia with a deferential bow.

That question required no translation. “Order? Never,” Alistair answered with a laugh. Extracting himself, he took the other man by the arm and led him toward the sideboard. “Harry, how do you say breakfast ?”

Harry thought for a moment. “ Frühstück? ”

It was, Alistair thought, the most absurdly joyful, joyfully absurd word he had ever heard. The six of them were still laughing merrily over everything and nothing when Freddie and Georgie appeared in the doorway and asked, in wide-eyed unison, “What did we miss?”

The Countess of Stalbridge sat cross-legged on the bed while having her hair done. That she was in the nursery, that the mattress lay on the floor beneath a tent made of the former dining room draperies, and that her stylist was a girl of not quite seven, only made the moment more perfect.

Ferncliffe’s nursery décor had been a hurried attempt on Oliver’s part to make the empty attic a welcoming and magical place for the Earl of Stalbridge’s niece and nephew, who had arrived on their guardian’s doorstep far sooner than expected.

Oliver’s unique gifts in such matters were attested to by the fact that the children had absolutely refused to permit a single change to his makeshift design. They loved to fall asleep beneath a “starry sky” of dark blue silk poked with holes, and to entertain their adult family members—Oliver, who was no relation to the children at all, had been bestowed with the honorary title of cousin on the very day of their arrival—in a cozy space that was wholly without pretension, and wholly their own.

While Luca, who was five, pretended to read aloud from yesterday’s newspaper, Isabella arranged Tabetha’s hair to highlight the distinctive silver streak that ran through its dark length. “Uncle Kit,” she exclaimed when the earl entered the nursery and peered beneath the tent. “Come see how beautiful Aunt Beth looks!”

Kit grazed warm eyes over his wife. Her hair, normally pinned in a sleek coil, now hung over one shoulder in a messy braid. He smiled. “Beautiful indeed. Always.” Then he stood so he was only visible to them from the knees down, held open the flap of the tent, and announced, “Cousin Oliver is here, and he’s positively weighed down with Christmas presents. I wonder who will help him?”

Two noisy squeals and less than half a minute later, he was alone beneath the tent with his arms around Tabetha. “How disappointing,” she teased, as Kit nudged her braid aside to nuzzle beneath her ear. “Now I’ll never hear the end of that article Luca was reading to me.”

“So this is where my newspaper’s disappeared to. Had he got to the review of the art exhibition yet?”

She giggled girlishly when he found a particularly ticklish spot. “You do realize he can’t actually read?”

“Mm.” Kit brushed a kiss across her cheek as he reached for the newspaper. “Lucky for us both, I can. If I remembered my spectacles.” He patted his coat pocket, found them, and put them on. “Ah, here we are. It was this bit in particular I thought might interest you: ‘Placing second in the watercolor category, a whimsical composition entitled Ladies Reading, With Swords ’—hmm, I’d like to see that—‘signed only with the initial C .’ You don’t suppose that’s your mysterious Miss C., do you?”

Tabetha considered the possibility. “Miss Nelson did mention that she’d told them something about entering a painting in an exhibition. Oh, if it is Constantia’s work, I hope the good news has made its way to her.”

“It really doesn’t seem right for you to look so beautiful, even when you’re worried,” he told her, brushing a few stray silvery strands away from her blue eyes.

She lifted one shoulder in mock despair. “I’m afraid it can’t be helped. I’m beautiful always, remember?” He laughed then, and so did she, though she truly was concerned for Constantia. “She’s always been such a private person. Do you suppose it would be meddling overmuch in her affairs if I were to write another letter to—?”

“Letter,” Kit echoed. “Good heavens. Your beauty has me so distracted, I almost forgot. Oliver asked me to give this to you.” Once more, he reached into his breast pocket. “He said it was delivered to the house in Town last week, and he thought rather than forwarding it on, he would bring it to Ferncliffe himself when he came.”

There was something vaguely familiar about the precise, masculine handwriting. With trembling fingers—she’d not entirely got over the shock of last month’s threatening letters, despite the fact that all had turned out well—she broke the seal and unfolded the paper. “It’s from Lord Ryland.”

“Oh?” Kit leaned back against the mattress and tugged Beth down beside him. “What’s he say?”

“Miss Cooper is safe! She’s been in his care all this time, just as I hoped, and—oh, my! Oh, I certainly didn’t expect that! He says they’re to be married in a month.”

“Well, well. Another Miss becomes a Missus. I suppose we ought to send a nuptial gift.”

“Mm, yes,” she agreed absently, suddenly conscious of the fact that her husband’s arms were around her and they were alone. The letter fluttered to the mattress as she turned in his embrace. “I think I really must do something different with the magazine, don’t you?”

He made a sound that might have been agreement but was more likely a response to her plucking off his spectacles and tossing them aside. “Tomorrow will surely be soon enough to decide, my dear.”