The Leopard Prince
“It seems that my father might very well be yours as well,” Bennet said now to the child. “We have similar eyes, you know.”
“But mine are brown.” Will frowned. “The shape, he means,” Harry said. “Oh.” Will thought about that for a bit, then peeked at him. “What about Harry? Am I his brother, too?”
“We don’t know,” Harry said quietly. “But since we don’t, we might as well say we are. If you don’t mind. Do you?”
Will vigorously shook his head. “Good,” Bennet said. “Now that’s settled, I’m sure Will is as concerned as I am about your impending nuptials.”
“What?” Harry lost the smile that had begun to form on his lips.
“The thing is, Lady Georgina is the Earl of Maitland’s sister.” Bennet pursed his lips. “And if she decides to dig in her heels… might be a problem, the two of us going up against an earl.”
“Huh,” Harry said. It hadn’t occurred to him before that he might have to go through his lady’s brothers in order to speak to her. But if she was well and truly mad at him… “Damn.”
“Exactly.” Bennet nodded. “It’d help if we could send word ahead to someone in London when we reach the next town. Have them reconnoiter, so to speak. Especially if it takes a while to get you a fresh horse.” Bennet looked at the mare, who was definitely lagging.
“Aye.”
“Not to mention, it would be nice to have someone at our back when we confront Maitland,” Bennet continued. “I know a couple of blokes in London, of course. Might be up for it, if we can convince them it’s a sort of lark.” His brow furrowed. “They aren’t usually sober, but if I impress upon them the seriousness—”
“I have some friends,” Harry said. “Who?” “Edward de Raaf and Simon Iddesleigh.” “The Earl of Swartingham?” Bennet’s eyes widened. “And Iddesleigh’s titled, too, isn’t he?”
“He’s Viscount Iddesleigh.” “How the hell do you know them?” “Met through the Agrarian Society.” “The Agrarians?” Bennet wrinkled his nose as if at a bad smell. “Don’t they debate turnips?”
Harry’s mouth quirked. “It’s for gentlemen interested in agriculture, yes.”
“I suppose it takes all kinds.” Bennet still looked dubious. “Christ, Harry, I had no idea. If you have friends like that, why the hell are you playing around with me and Will?”
“You two are my brothers, aren’t you?” “Aye!” Will shouted. “So we are.” Bennet’s face broke into a broad smile. And then he tipped back his head and laughed into the rain.
“THIS BLUE IS VERY NICE, my lady.” Tiggle held up the gown in question, spreading the skirts over her arm.
George glanced at the frock so enticingly displayed and tried to muster some enthusiasm. Or at the very least care one way or the other. It was her wedding day. She and Tiggle were in her bedroom in her London town house, which was presently strewn with the bright colors of rejected frocks. George was having a hard time convincing herself the wedding was real. It was only a scant week since she and her brothers had talked to Cecil, and now she was readying herself to marry him. Her life had taken on the aspect of one of those horrid dreams where a ghastly doom was inevitable and nobody could hear the screams.
“My lady?” Tiggle prompted.
If she screamed now, would anyone hear? George shrugged. “I don’t know. The neckline doesn’t really suit me, does it?”
Tiggle pursed her lips and set aside the blue. “Then what about the yellow brocade? The neckline is square and quite low, but we could put in a lace fichu, if you like.”
George wrinkled her nose without looking. “I don’t fancy all the ruffles about the bottom of the skirt. Makes me look like a cake with too much marzipan decoration.”
What she really ought to wear was black. Black with a black veil. She looked down at her vanity and touched with one finger the little carved horse standing on it. The swan and the eel sat to either side of the horse. They looked rather forlorn without the leopard to guard them, but she’d left him behind for Harry.
“You’ll have to decide soon, my lady,” Tiggle said from behind her. “You’re to be wed in less than two hours.”
George sighed. Tiggle was being awfully kind to her. Normally, a bit of vinegar would have shown through her lady’s maid façade by now. And she was right. It was no use holding on to dreams. Soon she would have a baby. Its welfare was of far greater importance than the silly fantasies of a woman who liked to collect fairy tales.
“I think the green, the one embroidered with lilies,” she said. “It isn’t as new as the others, but it’s rather fine and I’ve always felt it became me.”
Tiggle gave a sigh of what sounded like relief. “A good choice, my lady. I’ll get it out.”
George nodded. She pulled out one of the shallow drawers at the top of her vanity. Inside was a plain wooden box. She opened the box and carefully laid the horse, the swan, and the eel inside.
“My lady?” Tiggle was waiting with the gown. George closed the box and the drawer and turned to prepare for her wedding.
“THIS IS WHERE THE AGRARIANS MEET?” Bennet looked incredulously at the low-slung entrance to the coffee-house. It was on the bottom floor—really the cellar—of a half-timbered building in a narrow back lane. “The place isn’t going to fall, is it?” He eyed the second floor looming over the lane.
“It hasn’t yet.” Harry ducked and entered the smoky room, Will sticking close to his side. He’d asked de Raaf to meet him here.
Behind him, he heard Bennet swear as he caught his head on the lintel. “The coffee had better be good.”
“It is.” “Harry!” A large, pockmarked man hailed him from a table.
“Lord Swartingham.” Harry made his way to the table. “Thank you for coming, my lord. May I present my brothers, Bennet Granville and Will?”
Edward de Raaf, fifth Earl of Swartingham, frowned. “I’ve told you to call me Edward or de Raaf. This my lord stuff is ridiculous.”
Harry merely smiled and turned to the second man at the table. “Lord Iddesleigh. I hadn’t expected you. Bennet, Will, this is Simon Iddesleigh.”
Will merely ducked his head. “Charmed.” Iddesleigh, a lean aristocrat with ice-gray eyes, inclined his head. “I had no idea Harry had relations. I was under the impression that he’d sprung fully formed like Athena from a rock. Or maybe a mangel-wurzel. It goes to show one can’t always go by impressions.”
Iddesleigh flipped a lace-trimmed wrist. “Wasn’t much else going on today, anyway. Thought I’d tag along. It was either that or attend Lillipin’s lecture on compost layering, and fascinating though the subject of decay may be, I can’t think how one could take up three whole hours on it.”
“Lillipin could,” de Raaf muttered.
The boy banged down two steaming mugs of coffee and whirled away.
Harry took a scalding sip and sighed. “Do you have the special license?”
“Right here.” De Raaf patted his pocket. “You think there will be objections from the family?”
Harry nodded. “Lady Georgina is the Earl of Maitland’s sister—” But he cut himself off because Iddesleigh was choking on his coffee.
“What’s wrong with you, Simon?” de Raaf barked. “Sorry,” Iddesleigh gasped. “Your intended is Maitland’s sister?”
“Yes.” Harry felt his shoulders tense.
“The older sister?”
Harry merely stared, dread filling him. “For God’s sake, just spit it out,” de Raaf said. “You could have told me the bride’s name, de Raaf. I only heard the news this morning from Freddy Barclay. We happened to meet at my tailor’s, wonderful chap on—”
“Simon,” de Raaf growled. “Oh, all right.” Iddesleigh suddenly sobered. “She’s getting married. Your Lady Georgina. To Cecil Barclay—”
No. Harry closed his eyes, but he couldn’t shut out the other man’s words.
“Today.”
TONY WAS WAITING OUTSIDE, hands clasped behind his back, when George emerged from her town house. Raindrops speckled the shoulders of his greatcoat. His carriage, which had the Maitland crest in gilt on the doors, stood ready at the curb.
He turned as George descended the steps and frowned with concern. “I was beginning to think I would have to come in after you.”
“Good morning, Tony.” George held out her hand.
He enveloped it in his own big hand and helped her into the carriage.
Tony took his seat across from her, the leather squeaking as he settled. “I’m sure the rain will stop soon.”
George looked at her brother’s hands resting on his knees and noticed again the scabbed knuckles. “What happened to you?”
Tony flexed his right hand as if testing the scrapes. “It’s nothing. We sorted out Wentworth last week.”
“We?”
“Oscar, Ralph, and I,” Tony said. “That’s not important now. Listen, George.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to go through with this. Cecil will understand, and we can work something out. Retiring to the country or—”
“No.” George cut him off. “No, I thank you, Tony, but this is the best way. For the baby, for Cecil, and even for me.”
She took a deep breath. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, even to herself, but now George faced it: Somewhere deep inside, she’d secretly hoped Harry would stop her. She grimaced ruefully. She’d expected him to come charging up on a white stallion and sweep her off her feet. Perhaps wheel his stallion around while fighting ten men and go galloping off into the sunset with her.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
Harry Pye was a land steward with an old mare and a life of his own. She was a pregnant woman of eight and twenty years. Time to put the past behind her.
She managed a smile for Tony. It wasn’t a very good one, judging by the doubt on his face, but it was the best she could do at the moment. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a grown woman. I have to face my responsibilities.”
“But—”
George shook her head.
Tony bit off whatever he was going to say. He stared out the window, tapping long fingers against his knee. “Damn, I hate this.”
Half an hour later, the carriage pulled up before a dingy little church in an unfashionable part of London.
Tony descended the carriage steps, then helped George down. “Remember, you can still end this,” he murmured in her ear as he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.
George just thinned her lips.
Inside, the church was dark and somewhat chilly with the faint smell of mildew lingering in the air. Above the altar, a small rose window hung in the shadows, the light outside too dim to tell what color the glass might be. Tony and George walked down the uncarpeted nave, their footsteps echoing off the old stones. Several candles were lit at the front near the altar, supplementing the feeble light from the clerestory. A small group was gathered there. She saw Oscar, Ralph, and Violet as well as her imminent husband, Cecil, and his brother, Freddy. Ralph was sporting a yellowing black eye.
“Ah, the bride, I presume?” The vicar peered over half-moon glasses. “Quite. Quite. And your name is, umm”—he consulted a piece of notepaper stuck in his Bible—“George Regina Catherine Maitland? Yes? But what an odd name for a woman.”