Say Yes to the Princess, page 4
Looking out the window now, he saw none of this; he saw only the blight beyond the gate. Eventually, he’d bought the surrounding properties, but he’d not yet earned the money to renovate them. They leaned at odd angles up and down Lamb Street, gutted by fire or rotting with neglect. With no future payouts as the Royal Fixer, there would be no money to repair them.
So be it. Fine. These were unexpected challenges, certainly, but Killian would solve them by selling other properties and rethinking the scale of his future. He was nothing if not adaptive and resourceful. This, also, wasn’t the regret. The source of his regret was her.
The encounter at Tattersall’s would not leave him. Over and over, his brain retraced the memory of their exchange. It was like reading the same page of a terrible book again and again. Despite his best interests, he thumbed to it ten times a day. He’d underestimated her, an amateur mistake. He’d made assumptions about her cleverness, which was considerable, and her gullibility, which, in fact, she did not possess.
He’d been so very wrong about all of it. And it made no difference what the palace wanted. Her Serene Highness would never consider Killian Crewes—not as a paramour, or even an amusing friend. Her Serene Highness had not even allowed him to fetch her a cab.
It had been arrogant and foolish of him to offer any service to her, and oh, how Killian hated playing the fool. He was not a distinguished man, not respected; he wasn’t even necessarily well-liked, but he was no fool.
Except at Tattersall’s. Except with her.
It hadn’t been a shaming, per se. She was not cruel. He could pretend this, but it was untrue. There’d been no dressing him down or turning away as if he wasn’t there. She’d simply told him no. Her rejection had been an uncomfortable reminder, a little note tucked into his pocket: he could fix many things—low things, criminal things, things that were sloppy drunk or blinded by conceit—but he could not, should not, endeavor to engage people who were above him.
And Princess Elise was so very far above him.
At least I’ll never have to see her again. His chief consolation.
Regret was one thing, but the threat of making repeated overtures to a bloody princess and enduring her dismissal was more than he wished to contemplate.
“I’ll never see her again,” Killian mumbled on the fourth day, still waiting for some rebuke from the palace.
He tossed a pile of architectural schematics on his desk and shoved up. The plans were rubbish now, of course. He’d been just about to file them away when he heard Hodges coming into the front hall.
“Kill?” the manservant called from the entryway.
“In the office,” Killian shouted back.
“Delivery,” Hodges said, leaning into the door and holding out an envelope. “It’s just come. I intercepted a boy on the steps.”
“What is it?” Killian asked, staring at the smooth, stiff envelope like poison in a dram.
“The boy didn’t say.”
“What boy was it?”
“Messenger. I’ve not seen him before.”
“From the palace?”
Hodges was confused. “Not liveried, if that’s what you mean.”
Without looking down, Killian slid a finger inside the flap and ripped.
“What’s it say?” asked Hodges.
“It is an invitation,” Killian said flatly. “To a ball. At St. James’s Palace. Tomorrow night.”
“Well, look at you,” Hodges crooned with a whistle. “A proper guest to a royal ball.”
“Indeed.”
Killian stared at the invitation like he’d accidentally picked up someone else’s gloves.
Social gatherings with the royal family were not unknown to Killian; during the Season, he was in and out of St. James’s Palace several nights a week. But rarely, if ever, did he receive an invitation to the home of the king. He was not seated at dinners. He didn’t dance or exchange pleasantries with gentle guests.
He joined events already in progress, played cards, listened for gossip, and stood guard over drunken relations. He removed imposters and chased randy dignitaries from the hedge maze.
“I’d not yet mentioned this to you, Hodges,” Killian finally said, “but there is a good chance they’re about to cut us loose—cut me loose.”
“Cut? What’ya mean?”
“The sack. No more work from the palace.”
“Bollocks,” said Hodges.
“I . . . I failed miserably with the princess, didn’t I? She will have complained about our encounter at Tattersall’s. Not to mention, the job was to entertain her. It’s been a fortnight since I was assigned to her, and I’ve done nothing of the sort. Actually, I’ve somehow managed the opposite. Perhaps they mean to tell me at this ball.”
Hodges was shaking his head. “I’m doubtful they devote time at royal balls discussing the likes of you and your job, Kill. It’s more for dancing and drinking and the like.”
“No, I mean they’ll use the crowds and revelry as an excuse not to explain. They’ll dismiss me, and I’ll go. A public fete provides so many convenient distractions, doesn’t it? The awkwardness of parting ways will be smoothed over.”
Hodges shrugged and turned to go. “If that happens, it’ll be the first time a royal duke has thought about something so common as awkwardness.”
“There has to be a reason for the invitation,” Killian called after him. “Perhaps—perhaps they mean to pass along the princess to some other hired fixer? Perhaps I’m meant to . . . to brief this person at the ball?”
Killian stared down at the invitation, conjuring up the image of Princess Elise. Heart-shaped face. Green-brown eyes. Olive skin that seemed so very supple against black silk. He heard her voice in lyrical French and crisp English. And then he thought of some other man taking over the truly questionable work of “occupying” her.
“I’ll need the onyx suit,” Killian heard himself say.
“Right,” Hodges yelled from the stairs. “Might also consider a haircut.”
“Aye,” Killian said, looking again to the invitation.
It was miserable to fail at a job that any idiot could do, a job he didn’t even like.
It doesn’t matter, he told himself.
And she doesn’t matter.
And no one cares.
I do not care.
Five days later, standing in the glittering ballroom of St. James’s Palace, glass empty, hair freshly cut, Killian repeated this mantra—I do not care—like a song stuck in his head.
“Ah, there you are, Kill,” said His Grace Edward, the Royal Duke of Kent, fourth son of the king. He carried a boiled lobster on a dinner plate that slid back and forth between wedges of shiny lemon.
“Highness,” Killian said carefully, bowing. Edward was a few years older than Killian and had been several years ahead of him at Eton. In the line of royal dukes, Killian’s closer association was the king’s fifth son, Ernest. They’d been classmates in school. When it came to business, however, the king generally dispatched Edward to direct Killian. The two men were cordial, but they weren’t old friends. If they meant to sack him, naturally they would send Edward.
“You’ve come right on time. Excellent. My mother is not likely to let the girls out to play for long.”
“Pardon?” asked Killian.
“The French girl. Princess Elise. I can hardly introduce you properly if the queen has squirreled her away to her nunnery.”
The daughters of King George lived in a section of the palace known formally as the Queen’s Chapel and informally as “the nunnery” because the queen kept the girls and their companions under restrictive schedules and tight surveillance. The queen was jealous of their time, determined to have her daughters remain at home to attend her in old age rather than marrying and having families of their own. There was little access to outside callers, especially men. King George’s daughters were allowed to preview the first hour of any nighttime fete—but only the first hour. And the girls were positioned away from the general revelry. No man was permitted to approach them without an advisor or member of the family.
“You’ve been working your magic with her outside the palace, I know, but the king is impatient to have her taken in hand sooner rather than later,” Edward told Killian. “We cannot tarry another week—another day, in fact. The king wants her dazzled into submission now. Tomorrow, if you can manage it.”
“Dazzled into sub—”
“She’s a cold, remote little chit, isn’t she?” conceded Edward. “I had no idea until I endeavored to locate her myself. Wanted to herd her in your direction. Standoffish and difficult, that one. I can see now why my father wants her numbed and docile. But never you fear, we’ll work together to pin her down, won’t we?”
Killian stared at him.
“Come on, then,” Edward said, making a summoning motion with his lobster. “The queen will lock up the girls soon enough, and our chance will be lost. I waited until Mama was otherwise engaged, but if we move quickly, we won’t have to stand on ceremony.”
Edward trudged across the ballroom, and Killian followed, trying to disguise his confusion. He stacked and restacked the royal duke’s words in a different way, hoping they’d make sense. Killian was not being sacked. He was being thrust more deeply into the ploy. The objective remained, only now it was more specific. Render the princess “numb.” Make her “docile.” Tomorrow, if possible.
“Highness?” Killian began, searching for the least damning way to reveal, She does not like me. He searched also for a way to suggest that “numbing” an otherwise harmless princess was, surely, an overstep.
The words were not found. Instead, he did something that he rarely, if ever, did in his work as fixer: he asked for more details.
“Highness?” Killian began. “But can you say what His Majesty has in mind for this . . . ‘distraction’ I’m meant to enact?”
“Well, it’s become less an issue of ‘what’ and more, ‘when.’”
“Right,” allowed Killian, annoyed. “There’s a schedule now.”
“Indeed. And the schedule is: as soon as possible. A proper flirtation should begin tonight. Honestly, the flirtation should have already commenced. Why do you think I summoned you to this ball?”
Killian wouldn’t answer that. Instead, he said, “Noted. ‘As soon as possible.’ But how distracting am I meant to be?”
Edward giggled. “Oh, you know”—the royal duke made a wide, circular gesture with his plate—“flatter her, scribble out a few lines of soppy poetry, whisk her away on little jaunts through the countryside, close the carriage curtains and make her see stars.”
Killian’s head began to pound.
“When we thought of you for this job, we envisioned you . . . in a way . . . charming her?” mused Edward. “The goal is to make her lose interest in nosing about Crown business and foreign affairs. Diplomatically we’re not really meant to tell the girl what to do, you see. And we cannot trap her in the palace—she’s not a prisoner—but the troublesome meddling and attention-seeking must stop. Likewise, these rambles of hers. She believes herself to be invisible in that ghastly black attire, but of course the opposite is true. If she leaves the palace in your company, we hope she’ll dress to please you rather than shock anyone who has the misfortune of turning a corner and catching sight of her. We thought the two of you might do the typical, courtship-y things . . . the opera, Hyde Park promenade . . . an exhibition. Picnicking? Why not? A few days at the seaside would not be remiss.” He wiggled his eyebrows at Killian.
“Just to be perfectly clear—because I’ve heard you say ‘seduction’ from the beginning—the king means for me to engage in behavior that is less than . . . respectable? With the princess?”
Edward made to walk away. “Do whatever is necessary to shut the girl up. Delight her so thoroughly, she doesn’t realize she’s being shut up. That is what we mean. If you can manage this without getting her in a family way—all’s the better. But then again, if she’s breeding, we’ll have the perfect excuse to remove her from the palace altogether, won’t we? We can stick her in a convent and be done with it.”
Killian stopped walking.
The duke felt him fall away and turned. He lowered his lobster. Frowning, he stalked to Killian’s side.
“If you’re asking what lines should or should not be crossed,” whispered Edward, “I’d say, don’t.”
“Don’t?”
“Don’t ask.” Edward gave Killian a knowing look. Killian blinked at him, and the royal duke added, “We trust you to get the job done.”
With this, Edward pivoted and resumed his march across the ballroom.
Killian stood motionless, staring at the thick, rounded shoulders and emerging bald spot on the back of Edward’s head. He’d been asked to do many unsavory things in service to the crown—ugly things, illegal things—but this?
This?
He was just about to say something—he wasn’t certain what, but something—when Edward turned around and studied him with an expression Killian had never seen before.
“Killian, I’ve been meaning to tell you,” the duke said coolly. “The four old warehouses in Limehouse? You know the ones? You had some interest in them, did you not?”
Killian narrowed his eyes. Surely not.
“Would you believe,” continued Edward, “that our agents in Bond Street have sent word—just this week, in fact—that we’re to offer the warehouses up for sale very soon?”
“In fact, I cannot believe it,” Killian said slowly.
It was no accident that Edward should mention the warehouses here, now. The royal dukes were largely ignorant of the property owned by the Crown. And yet, they’d clearly gone to the trouble tonight. They were educated enough to offer Killian an effective bribe.
Why is this girl so important to the royal family? Killian wondered.
But Edward was underway again.
“Ah, there she is,” the royal duke said. “My sister promised she’d get her here, and without that ridiculous veil, thank God. Oh, and she’s worn gray—how festive.” Edward rolled his eyes. “No matter. You’ll make her feel like a diamond—I’ve seen your ministrations before. After I’ve made the introductions, you may get right to it. No more beating ’round the bush. This introduction should have been done properly from the start. Oh well—water under the bridge. We’ll see to it now. I’ll make it so very clear that I give you my blessing, et cetera, et cetera. Your handsome face and dashing form will do the rest. You can make some plan for a diversion—then off you’ll go. Honestly, tomorrow would not be too soon. It cannot be said enough. We want to please the king, don’t we?”
And now he turned back to shoot Killian a wink, one of a hundred such winks Edward had shared with him over the years. It was Killian’s custom to answer that wink with a subtle salute, but tonight Killian could only stare—stare and follow the son of the king through the ballroom, trying to breathe around the icy block of dread in his throat.
“Bonjour!” called Edward, approaching the section of the ballroom set apart for his sisters and their friends. It was a wall lined by tall urns of flowers and burly footmen. Plush sofas and divans were scattered in a shallow half circle; the daughters of King George—easily the least happy women in the ballroom—and their friends draped themselves on the plush seating in various poses of boredom and wistfulness. Three of the women held little dogs in silk bows, panting in the warm ballroom. There was a parrot on a perch. Servants hurried in and out with trays of refreshments. The women made little reaction to the royal duke, but Killian felt their collective attention lock on him like cats watching a mouse.
“How miserable they all look,” tsked Edward. “Pity, my mother allows my sisters to attend court balls, but she does not permit them to dance.”
Killian smiled at the women—a reflex. In general, female courtiers enjoyed Killian’s smile; in general, they enjoyed Killian. He knew better than to grin at the daughters of the king, but their friends were a different story, and he’d engaged in dalliances with a myriad of female courtiers over the years. Before Princess Elise, any “fix” involving a female courtier had been quick and easy work.
That was before.
Now the royal family expected Killian to play the Pied Piper to a woman who would sooner give him the cut direct.
“Princess Elise,” called Edward, shouting to a seated figure on the periphery, her head bowed over a book.
At the sound of her name, Her Serene Highness glanced up.
Looking into her face was like coming to the end of a deep cave and seeing the sun. Killian inhaled slowly. Her eyes went to Edward first and then Killian. Their gazes locked, and held, and she closed her book. A tingling in Killian’s chest followed the gentle arc of the book cover.
I’m sorry, he wanted to say.
I’ve been given no choice.
Do your worst.
I’m sorry.
Please.
“But will you allow me to introduce an old friend, Princess?” Edward boomed to her. “He’s wanted to make your acquaintance for some time. I’ve been remiss in not doing the honors.”
Edward came to a stop before her, and she stood, glancing between the royal duke and Killian. The royal duke beamed down, and she dipped into a reverent curtsy. Killian had never seen a curtsy quite so smooth or deliberate, a thing of beauty.
She, he thought, is a thing of beauty.
Her hair was unadorned save a thick velvet ribbon. She wore only a small cross on a silver chain around her slim neck and oval pearls at her ears. She held her book in both hands, clutching it to her chest.
All around her, bored royalty glittered and drank and surveyed the ballroom with haughty judgment. She was somber and graceful and appeared to be patiently biding her time. Her head was slightly bowed; he couldn’t see her eyes.
I want, Killian thought, the desire as powerful as it was simple.
I want her to look at me again. I want to see her face.
I want her.
And then it occurred to him: he hadn’t been simmering to embers because she’d rejected him; he’d been rapidly catching fire . . . because he wanted her.
