Princess Charming (35 page)

“Aye, I am he.” Mr. Selkirk drew up his bony shoulders, and Lucy’s stomach sank even farther.

“Jack Selkirk, by order of His Highness, the Prince Regent, the occupants of this household are to be placed under arrest and taken to London.”

Lucy gasped. London meant Newgate. Mrs. Selkirk burst into tears, and Lucy went cold. “What are the charges, sir?” she demanded, stepping forward.

“Sedition, inciting a riot, the usual list.” The soldier seemed almost bored. At that moment, Tom, who had been caring for the oxen, appeared in the doorway.

“You can’t arrest Mr. Selkirk,” Lucy protested. “He’s done no wrong.”

The soldier bristled. “We can arrest him, miss. And you as
well. We’re under orders to take up the entire household.”

His words hung in the air, and then in a heartbeat the main room of the cottage burst into a frenzy of motion. A second soldier grabbed Lucy’s arm, and Tom leaped forward to fight him off. Mrs. Selkirk screamed. Lucy fought as the soldier dragged her from the house. In another moment, she was thrown over his saddle, the breath knocked from her lungs. The horses reeled, and the party set off into the darkening night.

NICK DETERMINED to leave immediately for London. Let Lucy Charming have her precious reform and leave him in peace. In fact, he descended to the taproom for the purpose of settling his account with the innkeeper, but in a desperate bid to squelch the pain of losing Lucy, he allowed himself to be waylaid by one tankard of ale, and then another, until the sky grew dark, and he was too foxed to travel, even by hired carriage.

The innkeeper must have poured him into the lumpy bed, he deduced the next morning when he awoke with a pounding in his head. He stumbled to the washbasin, poured water from the pitcher, and shoved his face beneath the cool liquid. When he came up sputtering, his head still pounded, but he was awake.

Unfortunately, he was also awake to the memories of the past few days and bitterly aware of their consequences. At some point, he would have to retrieve Lucy. As he dressed and dried his face and hair, this inevitable truth stared him squarely in the face. As a point of honor, he could not bribe Mr. Whippet to blot their names from the parish register. Annulment and divorce were out of the question as well. Honor prevented him. That, and the fact that he was desperately in love with her. Honor forced him to admit that, too. He had lost enough already. He did not intend to lose Lucy as well. Nick sighed. A better man would release her from her vows. Apparently there was a limit to his heroism.

He had expected the taproom to be rather deserted at this mid-morning hour, but a buzz of voices greeted him as he crossed the threshold. A large group of men clustered near the bar, their voices echoing off the inn’s thick stone walls. The innkeeper saw him, raised a tankard questioningly, and chuckled. Nick’s stomach rolled, and he shook his head.

“Thirty or forty at my count,” a barrel-chested man was informing his listeners. “The soldiers rounded ‘em up last night. Some women, too. Mrs. Selkirk even, God bless her soul. If the old duke were here, he’d not stand for it, no matter that they said he was queer in the attic.”

Nick’s chest constricted, and his heart began to pound as
furiously as his head.

“The gaol won’t hold them all,” another man said.

“‘T’ain’t Nottingham gaol where they’ve gone. The magistrate ordered them sent to London to be tried for sedition.”

This information was greeted with a gasp and an air of resignation from men who knew all too well the ways of the ruling classes.

“That’s it, then, isn’t it?” a younger man asked, looking at the others, all of whom were older than he. “They’ve gone to Newgate. It’ll be Australia or the rope.”

“Or the colonies.”

Nick’s throat went dry, and he wished he’d accepted the innkeeper’s offer of a pint. What had happened to Lucy when the Selkirks were arrested? Surely she would have possessed the good sense to seek refuge at her family’s estate. Even with the duchess in London, there must be servants there who would look out for her. Where else would she go?

“Can you tell me how to find Charming Hall?” he asked the man nearest him. His request brought all other conversation to a standstill.

“They won’t be hiring, lad, more’s the pity,” the man replied. “The duchess turns off more servants than she takes on. Best look for employment in town.”

“No. I must find the estate.” At Nick’s insistent tone, the other men eyed him with interest.

“Are you looking for someone, then?” the man asked, measuring Nick with an appraising eye.

“A member of the family.”

“The family is in London. Except for Lady Lucinda, and she’ll be in London shortly as well, I expect.”

Nick’s shoulders tightened. “What do you mean?”

The man paused. “What’s your interest in the Charmings? We hold great store by Lady Lucy. All we have left of the old duke. Is it her you’re wanting to speak with?”

Nick decided that the truth would serve him better than a lie. “Lady Lucy is my wife.”

The laughter that erupted from the group was long and hearty. “Aye, of course,” the youngest man said, wiping tears from his eyes, “and I myself am married to Queen Charlotte.” The men shared the joke, slapping one another’s backs with enthusiasm.

“What do you mean she is shortly to be in London?” Nick demanded, patience at an end. He grabbed the man by his jacket. “Tell me where my wife is!”

The laughter died. “Easy, lad,” one of the older men said. “I did hear a rumor that Lady Lucy married some foreign fellow two days ago. But I gave it no credit. Some folderol about a prince that filled my wife’s head with foolish dreams.”

Nick drew himself up to his full height. “I am Nicholas St. Germain, Crown Prince of Santadorra. And
Princess
Lucinda is my wife.”

One man started to laugh, and the others hushed him. The original speaker, evidently the leader of the group, stepped toward Nick.

“Have you proof of this claim?”

Nick reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the marriage lines, pressing out the wrinkles and displaying them for all to see. The signature of the curate, together with the bishop’s name, provided proof of the marriage.

“Where is my wife?” he demanded.

The leader peered at the paper and then into Nick’s eyes. “Could be a trick.”

Nick reached into his vest once more and pulled out a large, golden coin. He held it out to the man. “It is my likeness, commissioned by my father on my twenty-fifth birthday for the dorrian, the coin of Santadorra.”

The man studied the dorrian and then Nick’s face. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

“One hopes not,” Nick answered, putting the coin back into his pocket, “but it couldn’t hurt your cause with the Almighty if you’d tell me the whereabouts of my wife.”

“She’s with the others,” the youngest man offered, his face now pale. “The magistrate ordered her especially taken straight to London. Said she had betrayed the ruling classes, just like her mad father before her. They’ll clap her in Newgate until she’s hanged or transported for sedition.”

Nick stiffened. “Not if I have any say in the matter.”

THE INNKEEPER insisted that Nick be given the fastest horse in the stable. Nick clasped the man’s hand and could only offer his thanks. The touch of the innkeeper’s roughened grasp humbled him. Lucy had opened his eyes, just as she had wagered him she would in an alleyway somewhere between Mayfair and Spitalfields.

Lucy. The horse’s hooves beat a rapid tattoo on the London road, but they were no match for the furious hammering of Nick’s heart or the ache that filled every corner of his being. She’d involved him in everything he’d sworn against—wagers, heroism—and he’d been redeemed. But at what price?

He could not lose her. He would not lose her. For if he did, he would truly be as worthless as his father had always said. No, Lucy Charming had changed him, despite his resolve to remain unaffected. One mere wisp of a girl, a curly-headed hoyden in heartbreakingly snug breeches, had worked her way so far underneath his skin there was no getting her out. Truth be told, her hold on him was far more than skin deep, for the moment he’d slid inside her body, she’d become embedded in his soul.

By Jove, this time he
would
rescue her. Nick grasped the reins more tightly. Failure would not be countenanced. He would remove her from Newgate and after that
 . . .
well, there was no use thinking about that. Santadorra it would be. Dwelling on the inevitable would not change the course of events that must follow.

He pushed his mount hard until both horse and rider were drenched with sweat. After a long night in the saddle, he reached the outskirts of the city and then turned the horse toward Mayfair.

NICK HAD always kept his bachelor’s establishment small, not merely because of his meager purse but also to keep his father at a distance. The Cromwell Hotel was barely respectable, but it was considerably cheaper than the Pultney or the Grillon, and the landlady was most forgiving when he was late with the rent. At the entrance to the hotel, a fresh-faced young tiger took his horse, and Nick flipped him his last coin, the golden dorrian. The tiger looked at it curiously and then bit it before shrugging and slipping it into his pocket. Nick passed through the empty lobby, pounded up the stairs, and walked briskly to his rooms, for he hadn’t a moment to waste.

The door to his apartments stood ajar, and a frisson of wariness prickled along his spine. Nick stopped just outside the threshold and listened. Perhaps it was only the maidservant changing the linen, except that he had not been at home for several days, and there was no linen to be changed. With a soft touch, Nick pushed against the door until it swung open.

“I say, Nick, you’ve been gone a devil of a long time with no word to anybody.”

Crispin lounged in Nick’s favorite chair, a book in one hand and a brandy in the other. His immaculately polished hessians gleamed in the light that streamed through the window. “Your father’s called twice today, and I was at a loss for any further explanations to account for your whereabouts.”

With an oath, Nick entered the room, shut the door behind him, and wasted no time in hastening to his bedchamber beyond. “My father deserves no explanations,” he called over his shoulder, pulling off the vest and smock as he went. He flung the garments in a corner and opened the small wardrobe. With impatient hands, he pulled out a well-made but shabby coat.

Crispin came to stand in the doorway. “Shall I summon your man?”

Nick shook his head. He intended to be gone before they could fetch the valet from his favorite tavern. “No time.” His fingers stumbled in his haste, and he let out another oath.

Crispin frowned. “Would you care to enlighten me?”

“Lucy’s in Newgate,” he blurted out as he pulled on a clean shirt. He looked up to find that Crispin had gone as
white as the shirt. “I’ve been in Nottingham with Lucy. There was a reform rally, and the king’s men and local militia routed the people.”

Crispin stepped inside the room, his brow furrowed. “Yes. The papers are filled with the news.”

“Lucy was arrested.”

Crispin slapped the doorframe. “Arrested? How in the name of all that’s holy could you let her be arrested, Nick? For God’s sake, you’re a bloody prince!”