Sweet as the Devil (16 page)

“I wonder,” the principessa said, a teasing note in her voice, “whether Blackwood might detour south and see to my enemies as well.”

“I’m sure something can be arranged with Count Beventini.” Ernst thought well of the young captain of Antonella’s palace guard.

“No, no, darling,” the principessa said, spurning the offer with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Perhaps later when all this messiness is resolved. The boys are with their tutors on a walking tour of Switzerland and won’t be back until fall. They’re in no danger, nor am I. Leave Jacopo to his little mistress for the summer. He deserves a holiday.”

Sofia absorbed the conversation with disbelief, the prince and principessa talking of life-and-death issues with no more concern than they would discuss the latest court gossip. Bloody hell—what miserable wind of fate had landed her in this labyrinthine web? She simply
had
to find some way out.

As if she were doomed to failure, the door suddenly opened and Jamie walked in. He’d changed into riding clothes—his coat conspicuously well cut, his linen immaculate, his boots polished to a turn—which didn’t bode well for her prospects of flight. His luggage was here. They must be leaving soon.
Think, think, I have to think!

Jamie masked his surprise on seeing Ernst. The servant sent to fetch the prince had returned empty-handed. “You’re back, I see,” he mildly said. “How was dinner at Devonshire House?”

Taking his cue, Ernst replied, “Boring. Politics, politics, nothing but talk of politics over dinner. And yours?”

“Champion and I discussed polo. You remember him.”

“Yes, of course. Ferguson informed me of Antonella’s early arrival,” Ernst offered, his underlying message conveyed with a bland smile. “It was a perfect excuse to take my leave. “

“I don’t blame you. Politics can be dull fare. Does anyone besides me need something stronger to drink?” He glanced at Sofia.

“No thank you. I don’t have your hard head.”

Ernst laughed. “No one does. You need Scot’s blood.”

“Fortunately, I’m equipped,” Jamie drawled, moving toward the liquor table.
So Ernst had Ferguson on the lookout for Antonella. Not his usual style. Alarming in fact.
The prince had never before concerned himself with the arrival of a lover—rather the opposite.
Damnation.
Was Ernst’s interest in the principessa going to prejudice their plans?

A clairvoyant observation as it turned out.

Jamie had no more than relaxed in his chair with his drink than Ernst reached out to take the principessa’s hand. Turning to Jamie, he restlessly cleared his throat before speaking. “Antonella and I were thinking we might sail for Madeira. Her cruiser could be in Portsmouth in a few days. I need not remind you that it’s armored and carries twelve guns and a crew of a hundred. Also, as you know, her estate in the hills is guarded and secure. A safe enough venue, wouldn’t you say?”

“Very safe. Take Miss Eastleigh with you, and the men and I will go to Vienna.”
Perfect. Deliverance.

Sofia sat bolt upright. “You’re not taking me out of Britain!”

“Madeira is lovely, my dear.” Ernst smiled at his daughter. “There’s even a modicum of society for entertainment.”

“I won’t go! I
won’
t
!” Realizing she was sounding childish, Sofia took a calming breath. “I’m sorry,” Sofia said in a more temperate tone, although the color was still high in her face. “I don’t mean to be difficult, but I’m a Londoner born and bred, my friends are all here, my occupation is here, my dealers and clients. I don’t want to go to some strange country,” she firmly added. “I could even hide in the city if necessary until this Von Welden is restrained. I know any number of cloistered haunts where no one can find me.”

“What a resourceful daughter you have, Ernst. She’s really quite charming. But my dear,” Antonella went on, turning to Sofia, “you don’t understand a man like Von Welden. He’s a monster who’ll stop at nothing to gain his own ends. And for a duchy like Dalmia—really . . . I shudder to think of what lengths he might go. Please, my dear, do come with us.”

Jamie recognized the phrase
Come with us
clearly signaled that Ernst and the principessa’s plans were fixed. Or Ernst, in his current extraordinary infatuation, didn’t choose to oppose Antonella’s wishes.

Which put him back at square one.

Playing bodyguard to Ernst’s uncooperative daughter. Not completely insensible to the prince’s dilemma, Sofia suddenly recognized a way to accommodate Ernst and herself as well. “What if I were to present my case to the police or Scotland Yard? That way I’d be protected and could stay in London until this Von Welden is dealt with.”

Jamie frowned. “Von Welden speaks for the emperor,” he explained. “He would see that your story was discounted. You’d be portrayed as an hysterical, irrational woman.”

“Prince Ernst could validate my story.”

“What story? Von Welden would deny everything. There’s no proof he had Rupert murdered,” Jamie patiently refuted. “There never is when others do his killing. And Queen Victoria’s government isn’t going to antagonize an important official of a friendly monarchy without conclusive evidence. I’m sorry. The system can be corrupt, justice for sale, et cetera, but the police won’t help,” Jamie flatly said. “And you’ll be out in the open with a target on your back.”

“Bear in mind that Von Welden had Rupert killed, my dear,” Ernst noted. “This isn’t a police matter, nor a judicial one, nor even remotely concerned with ethics. I wish you’d reconsider and sail with us. But if not,” he said after a glance at Sofia’s closed expression, “Jamie will see that no harm comes to you. You’ll be in good hands. None better. Now if you’ll excuse us,” he added, a lifetime of self-indulgence exempting him from conventional courtesies, “Antonella has had a long journey.”

As the door closed on the couple, Sofia murmured, “Once a libertine, always a libertine. I’d say we’re on our own.”

“I’d say you’re right.” The prince was seriously aristocratic and seriously rich; such men did as they pleased.

“It annoys you, too.”

He shrugged. “I’m not paid to be annoyed.”

“He must pay you very well.”

“It’s not about money. I have more than enough.” He drained his glass and set it aside.

“Don’t tell me you’re bound by duty or loyalty—allegiance . . . all those antiquated virtues no longer of any account.”

“Then you wouldn’t understand,” he said.

Uncurling from her lounging pose, she sat upright and looked at him with an unflinching gaze. “Try me. Make some sense out of this ungodly horror.”

He looked at her, his expression unreadable. Then apparently coming to some decision, he spoke in a brief, detached way. “My family has served as guardsmen to the Battenbergs for almost a hundred fifty years. Loyalty and allegiance are core principles in our business.”

“Your family must have emigrated after the defeat of the clans in ’45?”

“At the time, the whole world was awash with Scottish mercenaries. It was that or the hangman.” His voice was flat, the twice-told tale played out long ago.

“Yet you’re still there, even after the restoration of Scottish lands and titles.”

“I have an estate in Dalmia, men-at-arms, people who depend on me.”

“Ernst who depends on you.”

“It’s not just that.” His voice dropped in volume. “Rupert shouldn’t have died.”

“And you’re Ernst’s avenging angel.”

“You’re mistaken. It’s a question of justice. Von Welden’s doesn’t deserve to live,” Jamie said, brusque and curt.

“So you’re doing the world a favor.”

His smile was chill. “Something like that.”

“What if he kills you first?”

“He won’t.”

A quiet certainty echoed in his words, the utter implacability of his conviction sending a small shiver down Sofia’s spine. “But in the meantime I must go to Scotland.”

He employed his comfortable voice. “I would naturally appreciate your cooperation.”

“Or failing that, you’ll use other means.”

He didn’t immediately reply, and when he did, he spoke so softly she had to strain to hear him. “Accept it or not, Miss Eastleigh, without my protection, your life is forfeit.”

The blood drained from her face.

Finally
, he thought.

She started shaking.

H
E HESITATED BRIEFLY, his charitable instincts tempered by his susceptibility to the lovely Miss Eastleigh. But she was pale and trembling, obviously stricken with fear, and common civility required he come to her aid. Rising from his chair, he reached her in two strides, sank down on one knee, and not trusting himself to touch her, said in carefully controlled accents, “You’re safe. No one will hurt you. I promise.”

She was shivering, her hands clenched in her lap; sweat had broken out on her brow. “I don’t want to die,” she whispered, as though he’d not spoken or she’d not heard. “I’m terrified. I don’t know what to do!” With the words
your life is forfeit
ringing in her ears, she had finally grasped the enormity of her situation, and even
terror
was too tame a word for her unbridled fear. She looked up, her eyes bright with tears, a suffocating panic demoralizing her spirit. “Please hold me,” she said, feeling desperately alone. “Hold me tight.”

Dear God
, he thought. It was an impossible situation. He should refuse her. Directly or perhaps more kindly, indirectly. “There’s no need for alarm, Miss Eastleigh. You’re protected. My men and I won’t fail you.”

Her tears spilled over and a glistening trail of wetness ran down on her cheeks. “What if you can’t protect me?” she said with a small gulping sob, wide-eyed and shuddering. “Antonella said that man was a monster. What if his thugs come and kill me in my sleep or torture me or—”

“They can’t. I’ll be with you—always.” A promise he wouldn’t have made if she wasn’t becoming unstrung. “You’re completely safe. Look at me. Look,” he said sharply enough that she obeyed, although her blank, wild stare was worrying. “My troopers will be close at hand as well.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “No one can come near you without our leave.”

Drawing in an unsteady breath, she tried to return his smile but managed only a quivering twitch of her lips. “Forgive me. How trying this must be for you.” He was a professional soldier, and she was being unnecessarily hysterical. “I shall strive to be more courageous. I promise—oh dear.” She caught her breath as a fearsome image filled her brain, and swallowing hard, she whispered, “I’m sorry, but the image of—a brutish man with a knife . . . standing over me”—she paused, steeling herself against the ghastly specter—“keeps reoccurring. It’s my overactive imagination I know, but—” She gasped.
The hideous, sunken eyes, the ghoulish face was drawing near.
“Hold me,” she whimpered, lifting her hands in an imploring gesture. “Even just for a minute—
please.
”

She was the picture of woe with tears streaming down her face, her breath coming in little hiccuping sobs, her arms outstretched. A forlorn, frightened little waif in illfitting clothes—a far too beautiful waif. “I don’t know if I can be responsible,” he gently said, understanding that he had to be disciplined for them both.

“You don’t—have . . . to be.”

“Yes I do.”

“I won’t ask—for more. I promise.”

He held her tearful gaze for a moment, then smiled. “Easy for you to say.”

She laughed midsniffle, a small, silvery trill.

And he hoped the worst was over. Maybe he could oblige her and hold her for a few moments. The frightened waif was certainly easier to deal with than the reckless daredevil who’d climbed out the window at Groveland House or the headstrong coquette who’d threatened to seduce him. The lady was audacious like her father. Or had been until cold reality had tipped the scales.

So—a circumspect embrace seemed in order. He’d render Miss Eastleigh the consolation she needed—in a friendly yet impersonal way—and once she was reasonably calm again, they could proceed to the carriages waiting outside. His men were ready, his plans already afoot, and if all went well, they would be far from London by morning.

Like most intentions, it didn’t fall out exactly as planned. After lifting her from her chair, he gingerly set her on his lap, held her at a respectful distance, one arm at her back, his fingers slack at her waist, his other hand in limbo for a moment before bypassing her thighs to come to rest on his knee. Dipping his head slightly to meet her gaze, he smiled faintly. “Better now?”

The vivid green of his eyes was muted in the lamplight, but the sympathy in his voice was clear. “Much better, thank you. You’re very kind.” And with a soft exhalation, she relaxed against Jamie’s hard, muscled body, surrendering to the sheltering warmth of his superior strength.

Curling the fingers of her left hand around the soft brown wool of his lapel, she rested her head on his chest with another sigh of misty-eyed relief. Any of Sofia’s friends would have been startled; she was neither fragile nor clinging. In fact, she abhorred such females. But nothing was what it once was. In a world gone mad, Jamie Blackwood had become her bulwark against fear, her security, her island of calm.