A week after that she'd unpropped the lid of the grand piano, dropping it onto the fingers of the Russian counsel while practicing her dusting in the Music Room, and shattered one Ming Dynasty horse when she knocked it off its pedestal while beating the dust from a tapestry chair. The next day her father had instructed that her lessons be confined to sewing, then immediately revised that order to exclude sewing done by machine. From that day forward, her homemaking skills were directed toward the traditional ladylike arts of the nobility—menu planning, flower arranging, embroidery, and gardening. The palace topiaries had suffered slight damage, the goldfish had been fed more often than usual, and a few of the roses had been pruned too enthusiastically, but her name was read along with all the other girls in Christianberg who marked their Sixteenth with a bouquet of white flowers and a silver pin in the shape of a bouquet, inscribed with the year and the Karolyan motto: love, duty, family. The silver pin had been her mother's idea—a commemoration given to all the young women in the land upon the occasion of their sixteenth birthday.
Giana had worn hers ever since. She cherished her pin, placing as much value on it as she did the Karolyan Crown Jewels. With the exception of that silver pin and the locket her mother had given her on her twentieth birthday, everything she had — her wealth, her titles, her position in life—had all been awarded to her by virtue of her birth. But her silver pin had been earned. She had worked for it. She reached up and traced the familiar contours through the bodice of her gown. She didn't dare wear it where anyone might see it and inquire about it, so she wore it pinned to her chemise, just above the edge of her corset, close to where her locket hung around her neck, suspended from a fine gold chain. The Seal of State hung on a sturdier chain fastened about her waist where no one would ever see it. "I earned my pin."
"Yes, Your Highness, but..." Max stared into his princess's shining blue eyes. He couldn't, in good conscience, recommend a course of action that he feared might expose hoi identity and compromise her safety. But he couldn't refuse her, either.
"We can do this, Max."
"Princess, have you considered that by taking the work meant for the surrounding villagers, you may deprive them of wages and the livelihoods they need to survive?"
Giana hesitated. She hadn't considered that. And, in truth, she had no wish to deprive the crofters of badly needed wages. She had had no idea, when she arrived, that Scottish Highlanders were so impoverished or that her godmother, Queen Victoria, had failed to provide her beloved Highland people with a means of earning a sufficient living. Giana looked at her adviser. "We — I —" She was trying to learn to use the singular pronoun, but it was very hard to remember to be an "I" rather than the "we" she had always been. "I shan't accept wages."
"Oh, but you must, Your Highness," Max informed her. "To do otherwise would raise suspicions. These days no one works as a domestic except as a means of earning wages."
"Then we — I — shall donate my wages to charity. You and Gordon shall arrange for them to go to the needy so that I might become an anonymous benefactor."
"Very good, Your Highness." Max didn't have the heart to tell her that the meager wage she would earn as a domestic would do very little to alleviate the suffering of the poor.
"The staff, of course, shall keep whatever they earn. Isobel and Langstrom shall resume their roles as housekeeper and butler. Josef shall be in charge of the stable. Brenna and I shall be the maids, and you shall be the lodge steward."
Max cleared his throat. "I believe that is the position Gordon currently holds, Highness."
"Oh." She thought u moment. "Then you shall be the..." She frowned, searching her brain for the common equivalent for the title of Lord Chamberlain, the head of the royal household. "Overseer."
"I beg your pardon, Your Royal Highness, but paid employees do not require an overseer. I believe that, in English, the term is most commonly used to describe the taskmasters assigned to direct slaves and convicts."
Giana felt the heat rise in her cheeks. "We didn't mean to insult you, Max. We — I — only meant that you shall be whatever it is that Scottish commoners call the Lord Chamberlain," she pronounced. "You shan't be just the Master of the Household, you shall be the person responsible for the maintenance and staffing of the royal residence — wherever that may be — in exile and when we return to Karolya."
Her announcement brought tears to Max's eyes. For nearly four hundred years Gudrun men had been assigned to the Prince of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya's household, and not one of them had ever risen above the position of Private Secretary to His or Her Serene Highness. His princess had, in one sentence, promoted him to the highest office any member of his family had ever achieved. Or ever hoped to achieve because the Lord Chamberlain was the highest-ranking member in the royal household, answering only to the royal family.
He bowed his head. "I am deeply honored, Princess."
Giana managed a sad smile. "You deserve far better," she said. "The position of Lord Chamberlain isn't much of an honor at the moment. We've only a borrowed royal residence and a staff of six for you to supervise, but we hope to make it up to you when we return to the palace at Christianberg."
"You need not worry about making anything up to me, Your Highness," Max told her. "I'm honored to serve you in any capacity."
"And I am honored to have you." She stood up. "I shall require help," she said softly. "Although I earned my Sixteenth pin, I do not, as you reminded me, have quite enough practical experience to attend to all of the duties necessary to run a hunting lodge. Although I'm extremely proficient in mopping and dusting, my skills in cooking and laundry are not as proficient. You may secure additional staff from among the crofters to instruct and assist us."
Max winced again. "Of course, it shall be as you command, Princess. But may I suggest that Your Highness might put her skills to better use in a supervisory capacity?"
Giana shook her head. "I cannot occupy a higher position in the household than Langstrom and Isobel," she said. "They are supposed to be my parents. I fear that having a daughter supervise their activities might arouse suspicions as to our identity."
Max bowed. "You are correct, Princess."
"Then assemble the other guests and inform them of the owner's arrival." Giana reached out and placed her palm against Max's cheek.
"Guests, Princess?" He looked up and lifted an eyebrow in surprise.
"Guests for one more night," she explained. "For tomorrow we become staff." She gifted Max with mischievous smile. "I may be a Princess, but even I noticed that none of the staff normally occupied bedchambers on the same floor as the family." Giana didn't know about the accommodations of the other members of her little entourage, but she suspected that the rooms they occupied bore little resemblance to the room she had chosen for herself—the one with the large marble fireplace and a massive four-poster bed piled high with feather mattresses.
"There is still time for you to change your mind, Your Royal Highness, and avoid the attic." He winked at her. "The position of housekeeper includes a private room."
"I'm tempted," she replied honestly, "because I shall hate to give up that wonderful bed, but Isobel will be a better housekeeper than I."
"Isobel will have no need of the housekeeper's quarters.
She's Langstrom's wife. She'll share his bedchamber." "And I will share a bedchamber in the attic with Brenna." Max shook his head. "If you feel you must, Your Highness." "I must." She laughed. "But not until tomorrow."
Chapter 4
A Princess of the "Blood rRoyal never disagrees with those of higher rank, or expresses a difference of opinion to those of lesser rank.
—-Maxim 201: Protocol and Court Etiquette of Princesses of the Blood Royal of the House of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya, as decreed by His Serene Highness, Prince Karol I, 1432.
Open up!" Adam banged his fists against the ''solid oak front door, and then began a rapid tattoo with the brass doorknocker. "Open up!"
By the time he reach
ed the front door of Larchmont Lodge, the light mist that had greeted him in at the train station in Glasgow had become a torrential downpour with wind gusts that threatened to sweep him off the steps. Holding on to the doorknocker with one hand to brace himself against the gale-force winds, he fumbled in his coat pocket for the front door key. Bascombe hadn't had the key on him when he'd lost the deed to the place to Adam in a high-stakes poker game during his tour of Nevada and the American West. Adam hadn't wanted to accept the deed in the first place. He enjoyed winning his opponents' cash as long as he knew they could afford to lose it, but the thought of winning family property made him uncomfortable. His attempts to excuse Lord Bascombe's debt had been rebuffed. The man had insisted he accept the lodge as payment for his losses, and Adam had been compelled to do so. He'd filed the deed away in his safe and had all but forgotten about it until a key to the front door arrived by mail some three months later along with a note detailing the outbuildings and the furnishings and informing Adam that although though the lodge was no longer fully staffed, a caretaker named Gordon Ross remained in residence to look after the place.
When he'd ridden onto the grounds, Adam had thought the lodge was empty. He'd sent a telegram to the caretaker from London instructing him to hire a staff and make the lodge ready for his arrival, but that didn't mean the man had done it or if he'd received the telegram telling him to do it. Murphy had tried to warn him when they left the train in Glasgow, suggesting they spend the night in a hotel in the city and send another telegram before continuing the journey into the Highlands, but Adam wouldn't hear of it. He'd been cooped up long enough—first on the ship, then in London, and finally on the train. He was ready to see the countryside, ready to see Larchmont Lodge and weigh its commercial appeal.
Because he didn't want to be shot for trespassing, Adam had planned to go to the Ross's cottage first to apprise the man of his arrival. He'd meant to ride around to where he knew the caretaker's cottage sat some distance from the main house at the back of the property, but a flicker of light through the window of the lodge caught his eye. It was late, and although no one hurried across the yard with an umbrella and a lantern to greet him, the light at the window and the smell of chimney smoke told him that lodge was inhabited. It seemed that Gordon Ross had gotten his telegram after all. The staff — if there was staff — had most likely retired for the night, but someone was inside the lodge, and he might as well join whoever it was—after all, he owned the place.
Adam let go of the brass knocker, reached up, and readjusted the brim of his hat and the collar of his mackintosh in an effort to redirect the steady stream of rain dripping down his neck. He shivered as a gust of wind blew across the lawn, but he managed to fit the front door key into the lock. He was wet, cold, and thoroughly road weary and had spent the last few miles of the journey looking forward to a roaring fire, a hot meal, and a bed. Adam knew that he might have to do without those comforts tonight, but not without a fight. "I know you're in there." He lifted his hand to bang on the door once again. "Open up!" Adam shouted one final warning, then turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door.
The door flew open, crashing against the interior wall with a thud that shook the frame. The key bounced out of the lock and skidded across the marble entry while a man and a woman dressed in nightclothes leapt back to avoid the torrent of cold rain. Adam stepped over the threshold, grabbed hold of the front door, and slammed it shut. He leaned his back against it, breathing heavily as he removed his hat and raked his fingers through his hair.
"I'm Adam McKendrick." Adam dropped his hat on the marble-topped table in the entry hall and offered his hand to the other man. "You must be Gordon Ross."
The older man retreated, shaking his head as he stepped away from Adam's outstretched hand.
Adam withdrew his hand and frowned. "Then, who?"
The woman stepped forward, responding with the answer to Adam's question before the man could form a response. "Staff," she replied in a thick Scottish burr. "I'm Isobel Langstrom and this is my husband, Albert. We're part of the staff."
"Staff...," Adam breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank God." He removed his mackintosh, shaking the water from the folds as he glanced around for a place to hang it.
Albert took the coat from him.
"Thanks." Adam left the couple standing in the foyer and started up the staircase. He took the stairs two at a time. "I've been traveling all day. I'm wet, cold, and tired. I'd like a roaring fire and a soft bed as soon as possible. And please see that my horse is tended to right away." Pausing at the top of the landing, he asked, "Where's the master suite?"
"Last one on the left," Isobel replied automatically, "but, my lord ... wait..." She started up the stairs behind him.
Adam waved her off. "No need to show me," he said. "I'll find it."
He heard the low noise and recognized it as a warning growl seconds before he opened the door of the master suite. "What the devil—" The air left Adam's lungs in a rush and a series of white-hot stars danced against a black background as the base of his skull thudded against the hard floor.
He couldn't see his attacker until he was flat on his back with a hundred plus pounds of a massive animal—an ugly shaggy-coated brute that appeared to be some sort of missing link—a cross between a dog and a Shetland pony—standing on his chest. The soft glow of the lamplight illuminated the brindle-colored fur on the dog's legs and the white fur of his underbelly. A flash of light sparkled off the dog's neck, and Adam realized he was staring at a black velvet collar trimmed with gold braid and studded with what appeared to be paste diamonds. He lifted his head to get a better look, and the dog growled another warning. "Wagner! Cease!"
The beast was obedient, responding immediately to the command. Unfortunately, he responded instantly by lying down. Adam's head connected with the floor once more. He let out a groan and another whoosh of air as the dog's elbows pressed against his stomach. "Wagner, you may have killed him!" The animal whined at the rebuke, shifting his weight as he buried his nose in the hollow beneath Adam's left ear and his elbows deeper into Adam's ribs. "Not quite." Adam gasped the words. "Good," she breathed. "You are alive." Blinking hard to clear the stars from his eyes, Adam looked up and beheld his savior standing in the center of the bed. He groaned again, this time in abject disappointment. His savior was blond and beautiful and female, and if the length of her legs was anything to go by, very nearly tall enough to look him in the eye. Her body, silhouetted through her long white nightgown by the light from the table lamp behind her, was slim and curved in all the right places. A thick rope of tightly braided hair hung past her hips and she bore the delicate, classical facial features that had graced the canvases of great painters for centuries. He couldn't see her feet, buried as they were in the mound of bedclothes, but he supposed they were as classically beautiful as the rest of her. "What the hell is this? Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my bed?" Her eyes widened in shock. "Wagner is one of the finest wolfhounds ever bred, and I am Her Ser—" she began in a haughty tone that set Adam's teeth on edge.
"Our daughter!" The shout echoed through the room, covering whatever it was the girl was about to say.
Adam turned his head in time to see Isobel rush through the doorway. He looked from Isobel to the Amazon standing on the bed. The top of Isobel's head was several inches below his chin, and Albert was only an inch or so taller than his wife. "Your daughter!" Adam's tone of voice held a healthy measure of disbelief.
"Yes," Isobel and Albert nodded in unison. "Our daughter, Georgiana Langstrom." Isobel turned to the girl. "Georgiana, meet Mr. Adam McKendrick from America, the new owner of Larchmont Lodge."
"How do you do, Mr. McKendrick?" she asked.
He stared at her as she extended her hand with the grace of a prima ballerina and waited patiently for him to take it. Adam rolled his eyes. Beauty appeared to hold an entitlement all its own. His sister, Kirstin, would have responded in exactly the same manner. All the world
was a stage—populated by blondes aspiring to be great tragediennes. Adam didn't know whether to laugh or to cry, to shake hands with her or crawl to his knees and pay homage. He settled for indignation. "How do I do? How do I do?" He sputtered. "I'm lying flat on my back in the middle of the floor with a hundred-pound dog on my chest. How do you think I do?"
"Rude." Georgiana narrowed her gaze at him. "And there's no need to be rude, Mr. McKendrick."
"Really?" He tried to shove the dog off him, but the beast refused to budge. "I can think of a dozen reasons—beginning with him." He glared at the wolfhound.
"Wagner! Off!" She pointed to the dog, then patted her thigh. "Come!"
Wagner obeyed, first by standing on Adam, then stepping over him in order to hurry to his mistress's side.
Adam pushed himself to his feet.
Wagner growled in warning once again and Adam growled back.
Georgiana clucked her tongue at him. " 'Manners maketh man,' " she quoted. "William of Wykeham."
" 'She speaks, yet she says nothing,' " he retorted. "William Shakespeare." Adam smiled. "And if we've concluded this war of quotations, I'll take the opportunity to remind you that you haven't answered my question."
"What question was that, Mr. McKendrick?" Georgiana pretended ignorance.
"What are you doing in my bed?"
"We didn't know when to expect you, sir," Isobel hastened to explain. "The attic quarters need cleaning and repair and the beds are short and narrow ..." She sighed. "And, as you can see, our Giana is taller than most girls. So tall that her feet hang off the mattresses." She shrugged her shoulders. "But the master suite has a huge bed, and we saw no harm in allowing her to sleep in comfort until you arrived. If that has offended you, then I beg your pardon, sir."
"You must not blame my parents for wanting to provide the best for me," Giana told him.