Prince Of Swords
Anne Stuart
Copyright 2011
Dear Reader, This is another of one of my favorite historicals, one with more a romp-like feel than the dark and dangerous hero. After all, you can’t take an aristocratic cat burglar too seriously, and a tarot-reading heroine with an unseen mother can make life even more interesting. It’s the first book I wrote for Kensington, and they went all out with promos and little tchotkes. I was in our local post office, talking to Art, the postmaster, when he handed me a small package from my editor. I jumped up and down and said “this is one of the promo items they’re doing” and ripped off the covering. My editor had sent the little photo wrapped up in a Tampax box. I doubt Art has ever forgotten my reaction to thinking they were sending out tampons to promote my book.
I got to use the Tower of London, a nod to my disputed family heritage (I AM a Stuart but I seriously doubt if I’m descended from Mary Queen of Scots, as my family loved to insist, any more than I’m related to JEB Stuart, the Civil War general). Not only that, I got to use the word “defenestration” in dialogue. What more can you ask?
Hope you love it!
Anne
One
London, 1775
Lady Plumworthy had magnificent jewels. All of society knew that—they’d been subjected to the sight of heavy, badly cut diamonds and emeralds draped around her bewattled neck far too often, ear bobs dragging down her lobes and grazing her dimpled shoulders. They were jewels fit for a courtesan, as Lady Plumworthy had once been. Now, however, she was an ancient, raddled hag with a soul even uglier than her aged face. She’d gone through three husbands, each one richer than the last, and amassed an impressive number of wealthy lovers during her lengthy career. She still kept impecunious young men at her beck and call, and she decked herself in her battle trophies.
In truth, she deserved to lose those trophies. And Alistair MacAlpin, the sixth Earl of Glenshiel, meant to see that she did.
Downstairs the night was lively. Lady Plumworthy’s ball was a smashing success; a crush of people danced and gamed and ate with careless abandon. Several couples had already found their way to secluded bedrooms. Lady Plumworthy was known to be particularly benevolent about such matters. What few people realized was that she liked to observe.
Alistair knew far too much about Isolde Plumworthy, nee Bridget Stives. She’d been casting out lures that were becoming increasingly more like threats, and if he hadn’t found his current mode of occupation, he might well have been forced to succumb.
He scooped the heavy mass of emeralds from her dressing table, where she’d tossed them earlier. Arrogant old crones were always the best subjects for his particular attention—they never imagined someone would dare broach the sanctity of their bedroom unless specifically summoned.
Alistair had broached the sanctity of many bedrooms, for any number of reasons. He had come to the wry conclusion that nowadays he derived far more pleasure from stealing than from sex.
He slipped the jewels into the soft velvet pouch he’d brought with him for that purpose, flattening them so they wouldn’t present an unsightly bulge beneath his gray silk jacket. Five minutes later he was sipping claret and ogling Miss Carstairs’s cleavage. And the diamonds that danced above it.
“Are you going to come hear the fortuneteller, my lord?” she asked, pressing closer in the crowd. She smelled strongly of rose perfume and body heat. He smiled at her.
“There’s a Gypsy here tonight? How enterprising of Lady Plumworthy.”
“Not precisely a Gypsy. A card reader, one who can tell the past, present, and future by a turn of the cards. How can you resist?”
“Quite easily, my pet,” he said, having had occasion to sample Miss Carstairs’s cleavage firsthand. “I know my past, my present is obvious, and I make it a policy never to think about the future. It’s far too morbid.” He detached his hand from hers gingerly. “You go ahead and see this Gypsy, and if he happens to mention anything about me, you can come back and report.”
“I told you, it’s not a Gypsy. It’s a young Englishwoman Lady Plumworthy has hired for the occasion. Not of our class, of course, but she should prove a little less eccentric and a great deal less odorous than the usual.”
“A cit fortuneteller? How singular.” He wanted to leave. Now that he’d managed to fill his velvet pouch, the jewels weighed heavily against him, and he wanted to escape back to his tiny house on Clarges Street, where he could admire the huge, ugly jewels at his leisure and calculate how much money they would bring him. And whether he’d sink more of it into the rapidly decaying pile of stone known as Glenshiel Abbey, or simply scatter it at the gaming tables.
But he didn’t dare leave yet—it would be too remarkable. At least a fortuneteller might manage to beguile him enough to bear the next two or three hours until he could escape.
Miss Carstairs caught his hand again. “Come with me, Alistair. I may need you for moral comfort if she tells me something depressing.”
“Trust me, my love,” he murmured, allowing her to draw him through the crowds of people toward one of his hostess’s gaming rooms. “Morality is one thing I’m in short supply of.”
The room was even more packed than the ballroom. He could see Isolde Plumworthy, her stately bulk ensconced on a chaise, her hand upon the satin-breeched thigh of young Calderwood. The boy was barely out of leading strings—twenty if he was a day—and he looked both terrified and flattered by Lady Plumworthy’s attention. Pity, Alistair thought, turning away from them.
At first he couldn’t see the clairvoyant through the crowds of people. Miss Carstairs lost her grip on his hand, for which he was devoutly grateful, and they were separated. He moved through the crush with his usual feline grace, slyly observant beneath half-lowered eyelids.
It took him a moment to realize that the quietly dressed young woman who sat at the green baize table was, in fact, the fortuneteller. She was concentrating on the cards laid out in front of her, her head bowed, so his first impression was of a small, well-shaped head crowned with a neatly arranged cap of hair, light brown, ordinary enough. She was dressed in a sedate blue dress with a minimum of ornamentation, and the hands that held the pack of cards were devoid of even a plain silver ring. Pretty hands, though, he thought, and willed her to look up at him.
If she felt his silent summons, she managed to ignore it, a fact that amused him. He moved to the edge of the room, behind her, where he could watch the back of her head and his fellow guests’ gullible reactions.
Her head lifted, and he could see her profile. Surprisingly delicate for a bourgeoise, he thought. He moved slightly, hoping for a better glimpse, but she managed to elude him. The longer he was unable to get a proper view of her, the more determined he became.
Her voice was soft but surprisingly clear, and no cit’s voice. “I see a man, Lady Plumworthy,” she murmured. “In your bedchamber.”
Alistair didn’t move as the crowd tittered. There was no reason why she should be referring to him, when there were far more obvious reasons for a man to be in Isolde’s bedchamber. The leering smile she cast at young Calderwood suggested that Lady Plumworthy agreed.
“A lady doesn’t admit to such things,” Isolde announced in a voice subtly less cultured than her fortuneteller’s. Isolde Plumworthy had risen in the world during her long and varied career. Alistair could guess that the fortuneteller, conversely, had fallen upon impecunious times.
He moved slightly, still frustrated by his inability to get a glimpse of her. “This man is not a friend or a suitor, my lady,” the girl said quietly. “He is a thief.”
Alistair grew very still indeed. The buzz of conversation increased, and Lady Plumworthy no longer seemed quite so sanguine. “You’re t
elling me I shall be robbed?” she demanded, releasing her grip on Calderwood’s thigh.
The young man took that moment to escape, wise child that he was. Alistair stayed watching. “I believe the robbery might already have occurred,” the girl said.
“Nonsense!” Lady Plumworthy hissed. “No one would dare...”
“Perhaps the Cat has struck again,” Freddie Arbuthnot said with a silly laugh. “It’s been quite a time since he’s been on the prowl.”
“I do believe, Freddie,” Alistair said lazily, “that the Cat has never been seen. How can you be sure it’s a man?”
“Don’t be daft,” Freddie protested. “What else could it be? There’s more than physical agility involved in these robberies. There’s incredible daring and cunning as well. Don’t expect me to believe a child could carry out such involved and outrageous schemes.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a young woman,” Alistair said smoothly.
She turned then, as he knew she would, goaded by his subtle suggestion, and he was able to view her with lazy deliberation. He took his time doing so, lifting his quizzing glass with casual disdain.
She was past the first blush of youth, which relieved him. She wasn’t astonishingly beautiful, though he could find no fault with her small nose, her generous mouth, her high cheekbones, or her stubborn chin. If there was anything unusual about her face, it was her eyes. They were far too wise for a woman only a bit past twenty, and their clear, translucent green-blue reminded him of distant seas. Her hair was streaked with light, and what he could see of her form was trim and well shaped. But it was her eyes that held him. Dangerous eyes. Contemplating him with odd clarity.
He smiled at her. He had no faith whatsoever in fortunetelling, or in quiet young women being able to see past his indolent exterior. He knew perfectly well how such sharps worked—they took a combination of fact and conjecture and came up with a logical guess. The Cat hadn’t made an appearance for quite a while; he was due to strike. And the fortuneteller was betting her reputation that it would be tonight.
“Don’t intimidate the child, Glenshiel,” Lady Plumworthy chided him. “I’m hardly likely to have given her the run of the house. If you like, we can have her searched for any missing trinkets before we leave.”
“Only if you allow me to do the searching,” he drawled, but his eyes were caught with hers, and he could see the wariness, and the sudden anger there.
“This is tedious,” Lady Plumworthy announced. “I’m more interested in my love life. Come, Miss Brown, let’s concentrate on the rest of my reading. I’ve been told remarkable things about you—I’d hate to think I was mistaken in hiring you for the evening.”
If the old hag thought she could cow the mysterious Miss Brown, she was as deluded as she was about her irresistibility. The girl turned back to her with more dignity than Isolde had ever possessed. “Certainly, your ladyship. If there is a robbery, it would be only a temporary inconvenience. A more lasting influence would involve...”
Alistair stopped listening. He had no interest in the Page of Swords or the Knight of Cups, and he doubted the rest of the crowd did. He was interested only in Miss Brown, and if that were indeed her true name, then he was the Archbishop of Canterbury.
In truth, there was very little that had held Alistair’s interest in months. Even his marked fondness for women and the pleasures of the flesh had begun to pall. Scented skin and pleasant sighs were all well and good, but the women all seemed much the same. He’d vaguely considered despoiling an innocent, but even among the new batch of young ladies he could scarcely find a virgin, and virgins were highly overrated anyway. Gaming was tedious—either you won or you lost, and relying on the fall of the card seemed a rather silly thing to do.
The only thing that brought him the slightest bit of pleasure was stealing. He no longer needed the money—he had a dislike of amassing too many possessions, and he’d managed to pay for temporary repairs to Glenshiel Abbey. Enough to keep it in one piece until his heir took over.
He expected it would be one of his prosy, distant cousins. The possibility that he might live long enough to marry and breed a son seemed both unpleasant and unlikely. At least he’d done his bit to keep the place going.
But Miss Brown entertained his interest far more than anyone or anything had since he could remember. He lounged against the damask-covered wall, surveying her. What would she do if he suddenly dropped the velvet bag on the table in front of her, proclaimed his guilt, and demanded how she knew the truth?
She’d probably faint dead away at her inadvertent luck. She knew nothing, absolutely nothing, and the look that had passed between them had merely been one of mutual curiosity, tinged with animosity on her part. She looked at him and saw nothing more than an indolent society creature.
He’d felt no animosity at all, just the predatory instincts of a hunter. It had been a long time since he’d been intrigued by a woman. He wasn’t about to let the delicious sensation disappear into the night with the mysterious Miss Brown.
He could spike her guns quite effectively, of course. By choosing tonight of all nights for the Cat to make a new appearance, he’d played right into her hands. He could just as easily sneak back upstairs and return those oversized, gaudy jewels to their place amid the spilled powder. That in itself was an entertaining challenge, and he was half tempted to do so, before he considered the ramifications.
If Miss Brown were proven correct in her surmise, her reputation would be made. She would be the darling of the ton, invited to give readings at all the best parties. Sooner or later he would get her alone. And he intended to enjoy far more than a reading from her pale, generous mouth.
But were she to be proven the fake that she had to be, she would leave and he might never see her again. He wasn’t going to let that happen.
The jewels were warm against his body through the layers of cloth. Miss Brown wore no jewels, and he idly considered what she might look best in. Blue topazes would bring out the color of her eyes, but they wouldn’t be costly enough. Pearls, thick, creamy pearls draped around her body. And nothing else.
“What does that look signify, old man?” Freddie had sidled up to him, a curious expression on his vague, pleasant face.
“Boredom, Freddie, nothing more. Are you ready to lose this quarter’s allowance?”
“You never know, Alistair. I might possibly win this time,” he replied, leading the way toward the gaming room.
Alistair paused in the door, he wasn’t quite certain why. He turned his head to glance back at the impeccably demure Miss Brown, only to find those magnificently strange eyes on him, sharp with doubt.
His smile was faint and infinitely challenging, and he sketched a formal little bow. She quickly turned away, pretending she hadn’t been watching him. But Alistair’s mood was sanguine when he joined Freddie at the tables, and he even allowed him to win a few hands before he took to fleecing him in earnest.
Alistair MacAlpin, sixth Earl of Glenshiel, son of one of the oldest, most respectable families of England and Scotland, could pinpoint the exact moment he decided to become a jewel thief. It had been a night very much like this one, but in fact, most of his nights bore a tedious sameness. He had lain alone, naked, in the huge, high bed he’d recently shared with the energetic Lady Highgate, and he spied the diamond necklace lying beneath the dressing table. And he’d decided to take it.
He’d always had an eye for jewelry, indeed, for most pretty things. His nanny had called him a magpie in his youth, when he’d been attracted to the glitter of fine jewels in his mother’s jewel case.
But his mother had died when he was twelve, and the jewels had been locked away for the time when they would be presented to his older brother James’s wife. A younger son had no cause to be concerned with the MacAlpin family jewels, and he’d accepted their loss with his usual coolness.
They never made it to James’s wife. James had never had a wife. He’d gambled and drank his life into co
mplete and utter ruin in three short years, and when they buried him, there was nothing left of the estate but an ancient title, a ruined manor house in Scotland, and an empty jewel case.
That jewel case had come to symbolize all that Alistair lacked in his life. And when he’d left the damp, drafty halls of Glenshiel Abbey and traveled to the wicked city that had been his brother’s downfall, he brought the empty case to remind him how empty life was. As if he needed reminding.
Even from his vantage point on the bed he recognized the necklace. It belonged to Lord Edgerstone’s horse-faced daughter, the one with the pursed lips and the haughty manner. When he and Clarissa Highgate had first tumbled into this darkened bedroom, Alistair had assumed, correctly, that they weren’t the first to make use of its privacy, though he never would have suspected Miss Edgerstone would lift her skirts for anyone outside the marriage bed.
He lay in bed, lazy, sated, and contemplated his alternatives. He could take the necklace and present it to the heiress, preferably in public, in the presence of her cold stick of a father and the stiff young lordling who’d probably dared to lie between her legs.
Or he could simply pocket the piece. He had no money—he relied on the generosity of friends and the cachet of his empty title, but there was a limit to how far that would take him, and he was already finding certain demands to be uncomfortably pressing. The necklace would go a way toward meeting those demands, and provide him with a few elegancies. And he had a soul that took a fond delight in elegancies.
Not for one moment did he consider the third alternative as he lazily dressed once more. The proper thing would be to return the jewels to Miss Edgerstone privately, anonymously. But Alistair MacAlpin had never been interested in being proper. And he needed the money far more than she did.
He glanced back at the rumpled bed with a wry smile. Clarissa Highgate had been her usual energetic self—one benefit of having a mistress whose husband was more interested in young boys than in his luscious wife. He wondered what she’d think if she realized she’d taken Miss Edgerstone’s place in bed.