“Oh, Captain my lord, I am so sorry this has happened!” Mrs. Copperthwaite was flushed and distraught, seeing a scandal that could destroy her business. “How was I to know the creature was mad? She has not been a fortnight in my employ, and I only took her in from pity, and because her stitching was so fine, but now—now the only place fit for her will be the gaol!”
“The woman must be tried under your English law.” Isabella spoke again in English. She knew she must be strong and calm, a Fortunaro lioness, and not let anyone see the terror that still hammered in her chest. “Then I am sure she will receive the punishment she deserves.”
“You show great character and courage, miss.” Mrs. Copperthwaite’s smile had a desperate edge. “No wonder Captain his Lord Greaves counts you among his acquaintance, miss.”
The seamstress twisted again in the footmen’s grasp, just enough so she could spit at Isabella’s feet.
“Ha, she is no miss!” she shouted in English, making sure everyone would hear. “You do not know who she is? You do not know?”
“Quiet,” ordered the captain sharply. “You’ve said enough.”
But the woman only laughed, even as the two men that held her half dragged her toward the door.
“She is the only daughter of the villainous royal oppressor of the Monteverdian people!” she shouted over her shoulder. “She is the Princess Isabella di Fortunaro, may she burn forever in the hottest flames of hell!”
Chapter Four
M rs. Copperthwaite gasped, audible to all in the suddenly silent shop. It was equally evident that she was reappraising the princess, trying to shift her opinion of the young woman’s flamboyant dress from that of a gaudy actress or mistress to exotic, eccentric royalty.
“Is this—is this so?” she asked tentatively. “Are you truly—”
“Yes,” the princess said softly, her voice scarcely more than a whisper. “I am.”
“Oh, my goodness.” Mrs. Copperthwaite’s hand fluttered over her chest. “Oh, Your Royal Highness, forgive me!”
She sank into a deep curtsy before the princess, her head bowed and meek. One by one, all the other women in the room followed, graceful dips of crushing pale linen and silk.
It was like nothing Tom had ever witnessed, a scene better suited for the boards at Covent Garden than a Bond Street milliner’s: a melodramatic capture, the princess’s true identity revealed by her would-be assassin, and then in unison every person in the whole wretched shop dropped in an awestruck curtsy. The princess herself couldn’t have choreographed it for more self-centered grandeur.
And yet Tom saw at once that she wasn’t enjoying the spectacle at all. Although he’d easily thwarted her attacker, the surprise and shock had shaken the princess in ways he hadn’t expected. She wasn’t accustomed to real danger like that he’d encountered all his life, and it showed. She’d turned uncharacteristically silent, for one thing, and inside the black brim of her bonnet her face had gone as white as bleached linen, her dark eyes enormous with fear and her mouth pinched. All of her imperious mannerisms had fled, and what was left made her seem very young and very, very vulnerable. She’d stopped being the grand royal Monteverdian princess, and become like any other young woman abruptly confronted with her own mortality.
Thomas held his elbow out for her to take, and when she didn’t, he gently captured her little gloved hand himself and tucked it into the crook of his arm. Following his orders, he had wanted to remove her from the store before anyone learned she was a princess. Now, with that secret gone, he realized how much more important it was for the woman herself that he extricate her from this situation as soon as he could.
“Shall we leave now, ma’am?” he asked. “The carriage is just outside.”
She nodded, and took a shuddering breath as she turned toward Mrs. Copperthwaite. “You may rise. No such ceremony is necessary.”
“Oh, but it is, ma’am!” The older woman straightened, her eager smile proof of how much she wished to gain a royal customer. “It’s not every day we have a great lady of your rank honor us with your custom. What pleases you, ma’am? What might I fetch to show you?”
“Another time, perhaps. I find I am no longer in the humor for such diversions.” She raised her chin, a bit of her customary demeanor returning. “Captain, I am ready.”
“Good day, Mrs. Copperthwaite.” Tom bowed solemnly, then led the princess from the store to the carriage. She managed her exit with a sweeping grace, her free arm angled from her body to show off the drape of her shawl, but only he was aware of how heavily she was leaning on his arm for support.
“You were brave, ma’am,” he said as the carriage drew away from the pavement. “That wasn’t easy for you, I’m sure. You did well.”
“I did not.” Unhappily she slumped back against the squabs. “I wasn’t brave. I was unwise. You said so yourself.”
“That was before, ma’am.”
“Saints in heaven, such a mortal difference.” She sighed and pulled off her bonnet, letting it drop onto the seat beside her. Even in the warm carriage, the color had not returned to her cheeks, leaving her with a drained, forlorn pallor. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “I do not wish to speak of this morning again, Captain.”
“I am sorry, ma’am, but you must.” Though he was trying to be kind, there were simply too many unanswered questions about this morning to pretend it hadn’t happened. “You can’t pretend this didn’t happen. I will send for a surgeon to attend you once we return to the house if that will—”
“I told you, Captain, I am not fragile, and I do not require any of your surgeons’ attendings.” She sighed again, wincing as she rubbed her palms together. “Now I wish quiet to contemplate.”
Thomas frowned. The princess did not strike him as a contemplative woman by nature, but if that would help her recover, he could scarcely object.
“Very well, then,” he said softly. “We shall speak later.”
“Later,” she mumbled, her eyes squeezed shut. “Not now.”
Tom suspected she was only pretending to sleep, just as she was pretending to contemplate, but he would grant her that, too. He could use a bit of contemplation himself. Although he had already realized that nothing concerned with the princess would be easy sailing, even so he couldn’t have predicted the disaster they’d found in that infernal ladies’ shop.
What incredible odds had placed the Monteverdian seamstress in Copperthwaite’s? Monteverde was a tiny country. There couldn’t be that many refugees making their way to England, let alone living and working at a skilled trade in London while they plotted revenge against their former king. How much more were those odds compounded by the preposterous coincidence of the princess impulsively stumbling from the carriage into that particular shop at that particular time? Not even the most confirmed gamblers at White’s could have predicted such a sequence.
And now it would be up to Tom to guess what would happen next, with the princess herself as the stakes.
He watched her as she slept, or contemplated, or whatever it was she was doing to escape his questions. Though her face was at ease, there was a fresh wariness clouding it that hadn’t been there earlier, and he was sorry that he hadn’t been able to spare her that change. The admiral hadn’t told him much of her history, or even the details of how she’d escaped the French to come to England. He didn’t know what had become of her family. War was never a good place for a young woman, and he wondered grimly how many other things she’d witnessed or experienced that she wished never again to discuss.
And he’d meant it when he’d called her brave. When the woman had come