Princes of Charming (15 page)

"Yes, ma'am."

Dru stood back to survey her creation. "And you certainly have no need to be afraid when you look so beautiful." She dropped a curtsey and smiled. "Your highness, Princess Ella."

The maid tried to look solemn but broke into a nervous giggle that ended in a snort.

"Now for a quick stiffener," said Dru, pouring two glasses of wine from a decanter on the dresser. "Just the one. We don't want to be late."

She was going too of course, as chaperon for the Princess. Her own dress was dark burgundy and she wore the minimum of jewelry, but when she glanced at her reflection in the mirror, she thought there was an extra twinkle about her person tonight. Where it came from she couldn't say, but it was definitely there. Must be the sex, she mused. One had no need to pinch ones cheeks or wear rouge, when recent acts left the blood warm under the surface. Even days later.

For luck she slipped his gold watch into the hidden pocket of her skirt, along with a scented lace handkerchief, a small bottle of smelling salts—always necessary on an evening of tight corsets and great exertion, and her little leather-bound book, which she never let out of her possession since it contained information on all her clients. Even at night she slept with it under her pillow. If anyone ever threatened to expose her she would have leverage to get assistance from some of the highest in the land, as long as she had her little book.

"Am I in there?" Brandon Wilder had asked her as they lay in bed, wrapped languidly around one another.

"No. You're not a client," she'd replied, sleepily, her head nestled against his wide shoulder.

And he'd moved his head to look down at her. "Then what am I?"

It was a question for which she had no answer. Fortunately he didn't press for one and shortly after that she'd fallen asleep in his arms.

She thought of it again now, while standing before the mirror in her dressing room. Never in her life had she slept in a man's arms. The Earl, her only lover, always left before she fell asleep, never spent the entire night in her company.

So what was Brandon Wilder? Drusilla had refused any suggestion that they embark upon a formal affair. He claimed he was staying in England, but how could she be sure he wouldn't up and leave again as the mood took him? Besides, he was a man who might seduce any woman with that heated glance and wicked smile. But she would not share again. This time she wanted all or none and clearly Brandon Wilder could never be satisfied with one woman.

What was he to her?

A wonderful lover who'd brought her back to life. He had undone her tight corset.

She was intensely grateful to him. Where everything had been dull and dreary before she found him seated at her table at the Dalton, now life was imbued again with excitement and hope. Even a fresh fall of snow, which would usually make her think of nothing more than the inconvenience of getting out her ugly, but practical, warm woolen drawers, suddenly turned the world into a shimmering, enchanted place where anything might happen.

* * * *

Looking down the sweep of marble steps to the grand ballroom, Drusilla felt the rush of excitement from heel to hair. The Wynthornes' townhouse was one of the largest in London, an elegant palace in a Viennese style, ablaze that evening with candles and crystal chandeliers, their flickering light reflected in countless mirrored panels and gilt trim.

Couples moved across the floor in a rainbow of color ranging from bright jewel tones to delicate pastels with fountains of ruffles. Drusilla had planned for "Princess Ella" to make a grand entrance, which necessitated being late, but this was a tricky business for it was considered a great faux pas to arrive after Prince Edward, the highest ranking aristocrat invited. As it happened Prince Edward had an eye for beautiful women and could be remarkably forgiving under certain circumstances.

They'd have to hope for the best. If it didn't work, of course, Princess Ella could simply go back the next day to being Polly—albeit Polly with an entire new set of manners and diamond jewelry, both of which would stand her in good stead for the future. Polly had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Her last word of encouragement given, Dru left her creation to walk out alone to the top step. She watched the master of ceremonies lean forward, take the invitation card and heard Polly's light whisper. Dru held her breath as she stood out of sight behind a fringed damask drape.

"The Princess Ella of Cinndere," the solemn fellow announced.

Below them the dancing continued to a Chopin waltz, but diamond earrings flashed as faces turned to observe the ethereal vision poised at the top of the staircase. Fans stilled, raised to hide whispers. Gentlemen stood taller, eyes following the new arrival, taking her in slowly, greedily, slyly.

Polly did not falter. She held her head high, the glittering choker around her throat dazzling as it caught prisms of candlelight. Her slender figure seemed almost too light in the peach silk, as if she was no more than a wisp of air temporarily transformed into a human being.

As they rode to the ball in a coach borrowed from another of Madame Pantoufle's clients, Drusilla had asked Polly whether she was sure. She'd begun to fear she might have pushed the girl into this scheme, but the maid had smiled at her.

"Oh, I want it ma'am. A person has to take every chance that comes, don't they? This is mine."

Now, one step at a time she descended the stairs with the smooth, unhurried grace of a woman who was born to mingle with royalty. No one watching could ever guess she was a house maid, risen up—as Polly herself had said—like a Phoenix from the ashes. A girl who should never even be seen as she went about her daily tasks. Tonight they all saw. They had to.

She was a credit to her tutor. Drusilla felt such pride that a few tears threatened to spill over her lashes and that would never do. She blinked them back, tipping her chin up and smiling.

There, she thought, let all those hypocrites look at Polly and feel themselves humbled. As they should be. Satisfied that her mission was so far a success, she turned down the servants staircase, leaving that glittering world behind.

* * * *

Everywhere he looked there were long white silk gloves, reaching and curving, enclosing in a menacing fashion. Men stood about in their black evening clothes like penguins at the zoo, amiably awaiting feeding time, while their ladies fluttered back and forth, sharing gossip behind their fans, eyeing up their rivals, comparing gowns and gems. And their penguins.

This was the sort of scene he'd left England to avoid. Now he was here again, in the thick of it, trying to guide his son through the nest of vipers. He daren't look at anyone too long, in case he should see a face he recognized after twenty years. The last thing he wanted was some old flame leaping out to demand a dance, when he probably wouldn't even recall her name.

When they heard the Princess Ella announced, he followed Nick's gaze to where she stood. It was as if every breath in the ballroom was held for that split second.

So that was what she was up to. Very clever, was his immediate reaction. The young woman's pastel gown flattered her slender form with simple lines and the soft, dreamy color made the darker hue of her skin even richer in the rosy light of so many candles. Against her black hair, a slim tiara of white diamonds and teardrop pearls stood out dramatically, a cluster of falling stars on a moonless night.

She posed there and he could almost hear her counting. Then she made her way down to the ballroom floor, her gaze fixed on a point several feet above them all.

"Well, there she—" Turning to find Nick, he realized his son was already making his way through the crowd to meet her, anxious to beat any other potential suitor. He laughed, shaking his head.

Yes, very clever. Of course, Nick was at that certain age when a man could be swept off his feet by a wide pair of eyes, a pert set of bubbies and just the right angle of a wistful smile. He'd been there himself.

Speaking of which...now where was she? He had no doubt she must be nearby since her protégée had just arrived. Drusilla would never send her little maid into the fray alone.

Spying two determined looking women heading his way, Brandon hastily diverted his course through the bodies gathered near.

* * * *

Sipping her glass of punch, she looked over the crowd. Here in this corner she stood with the chaperons and ladies who had no desire to dance. It was a muted gathering, like fat contented birds sunning themselves, they were in no hurry to forage or take flight. Sometimes they shook out their feathers and preened, but mostly they were restrained, happy to be out of the hunt.

Although Drusilla assured herself that she was the same, tonight, for some reason, she found a challenge in maintaining her steady demeanor. Occasionally she caught a glimpse of Polly dancing by, having the time of her young life, but still keeping her head up, shoulders down, as her teacher had shown her. A woman's posture could carry her through a great many situations. Dru should know. There were times when her figure and a strong spine were all she had.

A person has to take every chance that comes, don't they?

Oh yes, indeed.

"Mrs. Kent. There you are."

She almost dropped her cup. Spinning around, she found herself staring at his chest, an ivory waistcoat and then, eventually, his tanned face. And those steel-grey eyes.

"Perhaps you will do me the honor of joining me for this dance, Mrs. Kent of Devonshire?" he said.

Cheeky monkey
! "I am not here to dance." She knew every eye was upon her. Every matronly chaperon was in danger of losing that contented fluff of chest feather.

And Dru was in danger of losing her bloomers again.

"What are you here for then?" he demanded.

"To wait."

"For what?"

"My charge."

He looked over his shoulder and then back at her again. "She's busy. With my son."

Before she could even form a reply he took the half-empty cup from her hand and passed it to the nearest startled lady. "Now it's our turn," he said.

He was going to make it hard for her, she could see. A woman like her, alone, with a discreet business, could not afford—

"It's time for us, don't you think? By the by, do you
know
the time?"

She began to get very hot. "No. I told you I don't—"

"I haven't got a watch, you see," he said. "I lost mine years ago. Had to rely on other people for the time ever since."

"Why wouldn't you get another?"

"Because I liked the one I had. It was special. Belonged to my grandfather Charming. The hands always stuck at midnight for some reason. I liked its...quirkiness. No other watch would ever do for me but that one. Always hoped I'd find it again one day. Somewhere."

Her eyes were wide, two rich brown pools of practiced innocence. "Oh."

"I'll know it of course, if I do find it. Because I'm sure it will be stuck on midnight."

She touched the opal brooch at her throat. Did he remember her now? Was he about to expose her as the little kitchen maid, an imposter there among the upper classes? She faced him bravely, keeping her mask up until the last possible moment. "Where did you lose it? Perhaps someone found it."

He tilted his head. "Or some little thieving magpie stole it."

There was a pause while the lights seemed to blaze bright around her, almost blinding her. Her heart was beating so hard she feared it might burst out of her chest. Drusilla turned and hurried away. So much for bravery.

But she knew he followed. His steps were loud behind her. She picked up speed and passed through a curtain into a narrow corridor.

Still his heavy footfalls quickened in her wake, so she began to run, her skirts lifted. She pushed through a baize-lined, swing door into the servants quarters and ran on, seeing no one and nothing in her path.
It was as if her past chased after her, meaning to catch up.

Suddenly she was back living on the streets, stealing bread and coin to stay alive. Once she'd even stolen a pair of shoes. Then came that stormy day when a strong gust of wind blew her straight into the caring arms of a stout cook, who was on her way home from market. From that chance meeting she'd worked to improve her lot, but always, underneath it all, she was still that skinny little guttersnipe with one eye on the ground for fallen pennies, her ears primed for a bobby's whistle or an angry shout of accusation.

One more step and she was out in the snow. It was still falling and a thick layer covered the path. There were no other prints in the pristine white blanket under her feet and she knew he would follow her easily. What point was there now in running? She stopped in the glowing circle of a street lamp and felt in her pocket. She'd give him the watch back. There, that was it. Give the watch back. Say she hadn't known it was his.

Drusilla flipped open the gold watch case and, of course, the hands were both stuck on the number twelve, proving it was his.

Just then, as he caught up with her, a thin crust of snow already forming on the shoulders of his elegant evening jacket, the distant sound of a church tower clock struck twelve. Midnight.She was breathing hard, holding out the watch.