“Blast you, Greaves, haven’t you figured this yet?” Cranford said, lowering his voice as he continued. “Princess di Fortunaro was rescued from Buonaparte by a British navy vessel, and as long as she chooses to stay in England, she will remain under the navy’s protection. That’s His Majesty’s own wish and decision, Greaves, not the princess’s, not mine, and most certainly not yours. It’s the king’s, mind?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Tom, his shoulders squared at attention and his expression studiously blank, the only acceptable response for a sailor being dressed down. “I know where my duty must lie, sir.”
“Very well.” Cranford’s voice was flinty, leaving no chink for argument. “These are your orders, Greaves. You will be quartered here in my sister’s house, for as long as the princess also remains as a guest. You will accompany the princess whenever she leaves the house, you will be armed, and you will be ever watchful for her safety and well-being.”
“I am to be the princess’s bodyguard, sir?” This was worse than being a mere clerk in the dockyards. Far, far worse. “Those are my orders, sir?”
“That, and more,” said the admiral. “Because you’re a lord in your own right, you’ll be her escort, invited to attend the same parties and balls and whatever other folderol pleases the princess, and to the palace, of course.”
“She is in such danger, sir?”
“She is a vibrant symbol of resistance to Buonaparte’s forces,” said Cranford firmly, “and in these unsettled times, symbols matter a great deal. Her life could be at constant risk, and yet it is important that she be seen about London, seen by the very scoundrels who would kill her.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Tom with gloomy resignation. He would rather face any odds in battle at sea than suffer through this on land.
The admiral clapped him on the shoulder. “Buck up, Greaves,” he said. “It’s not so bad as all that, is it? How many times in your career will you ever receive orders as agreeable as these? Squiring a pretty young princess about London at the height of the season?”
Tom didn’t agree. To be chained to the side of that spoiled creature through an endless round of noisy, crowded parties—damnation, why didn’t he just put the pistol to his own head now, and finish what the French had begun?
He glanced past the admiral’s shoulder. The princess was standing before the fireplace, studying her reflection in the looking glass as she smoothed and braided her hair, using only her fingers. She caught his eye, paused, then looked back into the mirror.
“I had no choice but to learn to dress my own hair while I was trapped upon that verminous warship,” she explained as she deftly coiled the braid and tucked it into a neat knot on the top of her hair. “There was no proper lady’s maid there, either.”
Stunned, Tom watched as she took her bonnet from the waiting maidservant and settled it on her head herself. But it wasn’t just seeing how capably she could braid her own hair after she’d made such a fuss. It was the way she was finishing dressing here in the middle of the drawing room. There was an unsettling intimacy to her movements, a seductive balance between royal propriety and nonchalant display, and almost too late Tom realized he’d been staring at the way her breasts pushed higher when she lifted her hands to place her hat.
“If only I had known, ma’am,” began Lady Willoughby, unable to keep the plaintive exasperation from her voice. “If only you had told me you could do—that is, that you knew how you liked your hair dressed, why, surely we could have—”
“Just because I can, Lady Willoughby, does not mean I should.” The princess held out her arms so the maid could drape a paisley cashmere shawl over her shoulders. “Pray recall who I am before you make another such suggestion. Now come, Captain Greaves. The carriage should be waiting, or at least it shall if that has not been bungled like everything else.”
“You are leaving, ma’am?” Tom uneasily realized he was to be included in her plans. “You have an invitation?”
She folded her arms before her, the long tassels on her shawl hanging down nearly to her knees. “I am going anywhere outside this prison of a house. Beyond that, I neither know nor care.”
Without waiting for Tom’s answer or even to see if he followed, she swept grandly from the room and toward the front door, leaving Lady Willoughby to once again scurry along in her wake.
“Women.” Cranford shook his head, as if that single word could sum up all the world’s real ills. “You’ll need a pistol before you accompany the princess, Greaves. Unless, of course, you are carrying one at present.”
“No, sir.” Tom could not believe that these really were his new orders from the admiralty, to trail around London like an armed nursemaid after a spoiled princess. Damnation, he didn’t want to believe it.
“These shall see you through.” Cranford opened the top drawer of the sideboard and took out a long pistol box, holding it open for Tom to choose which gun he preferred. So all of this had been planned from the start, even his acceptance, and as he lifted the nearest gun from the case, he wondered if even that, too, had been preordained. There was nothing fancy about the gun, a standard-issue pistol such as any sailor would carry into battle, yet Tom found the familiar feel of such a gun in his hand oddly comforting. At least something in this morning was as it should be.
“I do not expect you to train that upon every greengrocer’s window, Greaves.” The admiral watched with approval as Tom raised his arm to test the gun’s sight. “After all, we’re in London, not the Peninsula. It’s more a precaution than anything, a way of letting the rest of the world know you are serious about the princess’s well-being. Most of the villains who could bring her any real danger are cowards, anyway, and simply being at her side should be enough to scare them away.”
“I shall follow my orders, sir.” Tom took the plain leather belt that the admiral offered, buckled it low around his waist and hooked the pistol to the ring on the side. It wasn’t exactly the height of London fashion, hanging there over his waistcoat, but it would serve the purpose that the admiral wished.
The admiral nodded. “I never doubted you’d do your duty, Greaves. You’re an officer of the king, and you’ll do whatever is necessary. While you are out with the princess, I’ll have word sent to your lodgings to have your dunnage packed and sent here. You have a manservant?”
“John Kerr, sir. He has been with me since my first command.” Old Kerr would be as disappointed about these new circumstances as Tom was himself, and just as unhappy that they wouldn’t be returning to sea.
“Then I shall make certain my sister has a place for him here, as well.” The admiral unstopped the decanter of port on the sideboard, poured it into two glasses and handed one to Tom. “Here you are. You might need a little fortifying, eh?”
Tom took the glass, the sun turning the liquor golden between his fingers. The surgeons had advised him against drinking, fearing the toll that alcohol might take on his heart, but when he thought of the woman waiting for him in the carriage outside, he decided the risk was worth it. If the port did kill him, then he wouldn’t have to join her after all.
“Long live the king.” Cranford lifted his glass, and Tom did, too. “And confusion to the French.”
“Confusion to the French,” echoed Tom, “especially in Monteverde.”
He downed the port in one long swallow, feeling its heat ripple through him. He stood very still, glass in hand, and waited for the shock, or stabbing pain, or whatever it was that the liquor was supposed to do to him.
But nothing happened. The songbirds in the garden outside were still chirping among the roses, the admiral’s nose was still red, and he, Captain Lord Thomas Greaves, was still very much alive.
“Best