Eight
Gregory stared the count down, fury scorching him like a wildfire. Because as the oddness of the count’s reaction sank in, he began to realize what this was actually about.
The bastard had intended Monique to take the place of the real princess so that if someone attempted to kill Princess Aurore, Monique would die instead. Why else have a masquerade?
But did Monique see that? Probably not, or why would she have gone along with it? She couldn’t possibly have realized it in the beginning—although she might be starting to recognize the truth now.
And the fact that she was being used as a pawn infuriated him the most. When he thought of those holes in her sleeve, his stomach roiled.
But apparently not the count’s, given how his hard gaze skewered Gregory. “Why on earth would someone wish to assassinate my great-niece?”
“I can think of any number of reasons,” Gregory snapped, “the main one being that she is the top candidate for ruler of Belgium.”
“Still?” she asked, then paled as she clearly realized what she’d inadvertently implied: that his knowledge of her masquerade might have put her out of the running. Swiftly she tried to recoup. “I wasn’t sure how my presentation went yesterday, and you were most aggressive in your questioning of me today.”
Now was his chance. He could unmask her in front of the count, who clearly wasn’t going to acknowledge the masquerade or reveal whether he knew that Gregory knew of it. Gregory could just lay everything out in the open—voice his suspicions and put an end to the danger for her.
And risk ruining himself in the process. Because if by some slim chance he was wrong about her identity, the count would have him removed from the conference. The man had powerful friends, especially if Prince Leopold was sniffing around Princess Aurore.
Even if Gregory was right about her, he still couldn’t prove it. And the count wasn’t going to admit it based on Gregory’s three-years-old memories of an actress in a theater, dressed in costume and makeup and the rest.
So confronting him might merely result in the count’s denying him further access to the “princess.” Gregory dared not chance that, for her own sake as well as his. Especially now that she was in danger.
Better to play it safe. “I questioned you aggressively,” he told her, “because that is my job. But everyone knows you are first choice. Which is precisely the problem. Anyone could resent that—the French, the Dutch, even some Englishmen who want Prince Leopold in that position.”
The count, damn his hide, was already shaking his head. “You are utterly wrong. This incident has nothing to do with the London Conference or the choice of a ruler for Belgium. Your country merely has no control over its citizens. It was a random attack by criminals. My great-niece should probably not be taken out into a public park again, not because of some attempt on her life, but because your countrymen are mad!”
“It’s more than that, and you know it.” Gregory glanced over to where Monique stood shivering, clearly still unnerved by what had happened. “Are you willing to risk her life to prove me wrong?”
The count blinked. “Well, no, but I don’t think—”
“I have a suggestion for how to protect her that will satisfy your concerns as well as mine.”
Beaumonde eyed him warily. “Oh?”
“You mentioned Guy Fawkes Day. You are right about its becoming quite a wild event—lots of people starting bonfires, creating mayhem, and making nuisances of themselves in the name of the holiday. So most events involving the conference will be suspended for the next five days, and many of the English members of the conference are retiring to the country in an effort to avoid the celebrations. You and the princess should do so as well.”
“Leave London?” the count said, clearly outraged. “That hardly seems wise when events of the conference are still going on.”
“Nothing but social events. And it hardly seems wise to me to risk your great-niece’s life so she can dance at some ball where anyone could fire upon her!” When the Frenchman blanched, Gregory fought to govern his temper. “My estate, Canterbury Court, is in nearby Kent. You and your retinue are welcome to visit while the conference is in recess. I can think of no better way to protect Her Highness than to remove her from the reach of the ‘lower classes’ you denigrate.”
Beaumonde drew himself up stiffly. “I can take care of my great-niece.”
“Of course you can,” Gregory said. “But under these circumstances—”
“Under these circumstances,” the count said, “it is better that Aurore stay here than in some isolated part of the countryside.”
Patience, man. Do not let him rattle you. “At my estate, I can control who comes in or out,” Gregory said evenly. “She won’t be surrounded by hundreds of people—any one of whom could pick her off with a rifle and escape undetected in the crowds. It will be much easier to make sure she remains safe.”
“His lordship is right.” Monique surprised him by chiming in. “What if this villain truly was trying to shoot me?”
“He wasn’t,” the count said firmly. “I can’t believe it.”
“You can’t take the chance,” Gregory countered. “Because if she was the target—”
“I tell you, there was no target!” The count began to pace the drawing room. “This is a . . . what do you English call it? . . . ‘tempest in a teapot.’ ”
“Hardly that,” Gregory said, frustrated by the man’s refusal to see the truth. He turned to Monique. “What do you think?”
She looked nervously from him to Beaumonde. “I—I’m not sure.”
Damn it, the man clearly had some hold over her that made her reluctant to gainsay him. But the thought that she could lose her life because of the count’s stubborn refusal to admit the truth—or because he had some plot afoot that might actually involve her being assassinated—chilled Gregory’s blood.
He ignored the count to say to her, “Your Serene Highness, I should like to speak to you alone, if I may.”
When she looked startled, the count narrowed his gaze on Gregory. “Why?”
“Before she makes a decision that could lead to her death,” Gregory said bluntly, “I should like to be sure she knows what she’s getting into.”
Beaumonde scowled. “I hardly see why that is necessary. She trusts me to make such decisions for her.”
“Perhaps she shouldn’t,” Gregory said without measuring his words.
The count drew himself up in clear outrage, but before he could retort, she laid a hand on his arm. “Of course I trust you, Uncle.” She cast him a look of wide-eyed worry that would bend any man to her will, even the rigid count. “But you were not there when it happened. It was terrifying. So I should like to discuss the matter with his lordship alone to determine for myself if he is overreacting.”
The count fixed her with a quelling look. “Why not do it in my presence?”
She matched his gaze with a determined one of her own. “Are you forbidding it?”
That brought the man up short. He had to realize that “forbidding it” would put her even further on her guard. “Of course not, but—”
“I am still the ruler of Chanay, am I not?” she said in the unforgiving tones of royalty.
The count’s eyes glittered, but he offered her a jerky nod.
She cast him a thin smile. “So I have the right to make these decisions for myself, to speak to whomever I must in order to ascertain what should be done. A few moments alone with his lordship is all I require. You may wait outside while we discuss it.”
If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Gregory might have laughed at how Beaumonde bridled at that, clearly disturbed that his creation was turning into the very thing she was pretending to be.
Apparently noticing how intently Gregory was watching the exchange, the count smoothed his features into calm. “If that is what you wish, Your Highness.”
“It is.”
Bowing his head to her, Beaumonde left the room.
Thank God. Perhaps Gregory could finally talk some sense into her.
Now that Monique had Gregory to herself, she wasn’t sure what to say. He was watching her expectantly. But how to talk to him without admitting to the masquerade? Because if there was still a chance that she could pull this off, she must ignore his attempts to elicit a confession.
Even at the risk to her own life?
She shuddered. For all she knew, Gregory had engineered this afternoon’s shooting just to frighten her into telling the truth. She had best tread very carefully—with the count and with him.
Pasting on a tight smile, she faced him. “Are you absolutely sure that someone wants to kill me?”
Frustration knit his brow. “Aren’t you? Do you really think anyone wants to do away with me or Flora? We have no holes in our sleeves, after all.”
“But how could anyone have known we would be at the park?” she pointed out.
“Oh, for God’s sake, servants talk—sometimes idly, sometimes with malice, and sometimes for pay. I daresay it would have been easy enough to learn your schedule.”
She raised an eyebrow. “All our staff here was hired by your government. Are you saying that your foreign office hired servants who couldn’t be trusted?”
“I’m saying that no one can be trusted when it comes to politics.”
“Even you?” she asked.
Her candor seemed to take him aback. Then a dark cloud shadowed his brow. “You don’t think I had anything to do with this.”
“Why not?” she persisted, ignoring his scowl. “You were the one who convinced me to go for a drive, the one who then turned your curricle off into a more secluded path.”
The deadly calm that came over his features was far more frightening than any anger. “And why exactly would I plot to have you killed?”
When he put it so bluntly, it seemed . . . rather unlikely. And accusing the undersecretary of the foreign office of attempted murder was probably not the wisest tactic. But, to paraphrase the English saying, in for a sou, in for a franc. “Because you wanted me to be frightened enough by the shooting to admit to this . . . masquerade you keep accusing me of.”
His jaw flexing, he bore down on her. “So you think I hired people to fire on you in a public place where anyone might get in the way. You think I risked the chance that my lackey might miss and instead hit me or the servant my office hired, and all to scare you into admitting what I know to be true? I daresay that if I did such a fool thing, it would make me the most reckless man in politics, and undeserving of my very career.”
She swallowed. He had a point.
“Look,” he went on, “I realize I rubbed you the wrong way the first time we met in Dieppe—”
“We did not mee—”
“But no matter what you think of me,” he continued, heedless of her protest, “I do have a conscience. I’m not the sort of man to risk a woman’s life—any woman’s life—for a political reason. I would certainly never risk yours.”
The fierce tone of those last words took her by surprise. “Then who would?” she asked, her heart in her throat.
“I don’t know. And until I figure out who might have reason to assassinate—”
“Stop using that word!” The very thought of this being about assassination stripped the breath from her throat. “As my uncle said, no one is trying to assassinate me.”
“And you believe him?” Cynicism edged his voice. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that there’s a reason you were asked to masquerade for Princess Aurore? Perhaps your precious count didn’t want to risk her being the one killed. Perhaps he knew she was in danger.”
The words sank into her flesh like shark’s teeth. He was wrong—the masquerade had come about because Aurore had been sick with—
Wait. What if Aurore hadn’t been sick, but poisoned? It could look the same, could it not? What if the villain had assumed that he’d botched the murder when Monique showed up in Aurore’s place, so he’d come here to finish the job, thinking she was Aurore?
If so, Lord Fulkham could be right about her great-uncle. The count had realized he must protect the real princess, and had put Monique in her place to draw the killer away.
Lord help her.
“What?” Lord Fulkham pressed her. “Tell me.”
The urgency in his voice snapped her out of her musings and reminded her that for all his apparent concern, Lord Fulkham was not her friend. Perhaps he hadn’t orchestrated the attack, but he could still be trying to use it to trick her into confessing all now that he’d learned whatever his spies in Dieppe had told him. Because clearly he’d found out something from them.
Apparently not enough to feel comfortable confronting her great-uncle with his suspicions, though. Which meant she still had a chance at brazening this out.
She stripped off her gloves with all the nonchalance she could muster. “If I were an impostor, your claims might make sense, but since I was not asked to masquerade for anyone, your supposition that someone is trying to assassinate me is absurd.”
“It’s not absurd, damn it!” Without warning, he caught her by the arms as if he wanted to shake her. “You were nearly killed, for God’s sake!”
The genuine distress in his voice shook her. “But I wasn’t.”
He merely clenched his hand in her sleeve, the very one whose holes had so disturbed him earlier. “You were lucky, that’s all. You might not be so lucky next time.” His jaw tautened. “At least consider the possibility that you were the target, and let me try to get to the bottom of what happened today. Come to Canterbury Court while I arrange for my people to do some digging into who might want the princess—you—dead.”
Her breath was coming as quickly as his now. “I don’t understand why you care so much. You think I’m some impostor—”
“All the more reason to care what happens to you. No one should have to die for another without first agreeing to the sacrifice. And you have not. I daresay you had no idea what this was really about when you began it.”
The truth of that remark hit home, sticking in her brain like a bit of childhood doggerel. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. In your heart you know those bullets were meant for you . . . or rather, for Princess Aurore.”
She scowled at him. “I am Princess Aurore.”
“Fine.” Gripping her shoulders, he growled, “Maintain your role. Play the princess if you must. But at least let me keep you safe while you’re doing it. Come with me to Canterbury Court, where I can look after you.”
The fervency of his words stirred an unruly need deep in her belly. And the way he was staring at her . . .
She couldn’t look away, but she was equally afraid to fall into those deep blue eyes. “I—I don’t know if my uncle will allow it.”
“If you’re the princess,” he said hoarsely, “then you damned well have the right to demand that he allow it, don’t you?”
She gave a shuddering breath.
“Monique—”
That sparked her temper. “Aurore,” she said firmly. “I told you never to call me Monique again.”
Something unholy and dangerous flickered in his eyes. Then he said in a guttural rasp that made the words sound more like a prayer than an appellation, “Your Serene Highness.” He moved his hands to clasp her head. “Please, I beg you, let me protect you. I cannot bear the idea of your being hurt if I can prevent it.”
She caught her breath. It was a supplication, not an order. And the raw emotion in his features sent a shiver of anticipation along her nerves. Because she could tell he meant every word.
As if realizing he’d exposed too much of his true feelings, he stiffened and added, in a dryer tone, “After all, it would be disastrous to my career to have a princess die on my watch.”
But she was having none of that nonsense. He’d gone too far, and she knew this wasn’t about his career. She could see it in the stark fear for her that glimmered in his eyes.
He started to draw his hands from her head, but she caught them, covering them with her own. Then she stretched up to brush a kiss to his cheek. “All the same,” she said softly, “thank you for caring. And for quite possibly saving my life.”
A harsh breath hissed out of him before he drew her head back to him so he could lower his mouth to hers. As his lips hovered a scant inch away, he murmured, “You’re welcome . . . Princess.” Then he kissed her.
And the world exploded into a million colors. Unlike their last kiss, this one was fierce and all-encompassing. His mouth took hers over, possessing and commanding it until her legs began to wobble and her heart to race so much that she had to grip his neck to keep from collapsing.
God, the man could kiss. His tongue drove hard and deep as his fingers buried themselves in her hair, threatening to dislodge her hairpins.
That should have alarmed her, made her see sense. Instead it drove her to tangle her tongue with his, to see if she could arouse him the way he was arousing her. Apparently she could, for he moaned low in his throat and dropped his hands to her waist to pull her against the thickness in his trousers.
She might be chaste, but she knew what that signified. She’d spoken of it in the sly words of a play, heard actresses jokingly comment on its power in their lovers, even felt its presence in the few men who’d dared to grab her and try to bend her to their will.
But never had the feel of it sent an unchecked thrill through her. Never had it sparked a heat that threatened to set fire to her blood. Never had it made her want to lift her skirts just to get closer to the promise of it.
That was dangerous. Which was why, no matter how much pleasure it gave her, she must put a stop to things before they went too far.