Page 4 of A Prince Among Pirates
The remainder of dinner goes exactly as one might expect it to—stiff, polite conversation, which slowly suffocates me until I am sure I will pass out or simplydie. So when my father invites all the men in attendance for an after-dinner brandy, I make my excuses and slip out into the garden for a breath of fresh air.
Father doesn’t argue; the last thing he wants is to share a companionable drink with me. But I’m not out there long before a shadow looms behind me.
“Are you not cold?”
Iamcold. I’m freezing my bollocks off, but I turn to Prince Henry and force a smile. “Not terribly,” I lie. “I’m not much of a fan of brandy.”
“Or of your father, it would seem.”
I go very still and stare at the prince. I’m sure my expression falls into one of dismay, but I cannot control my face for the moment. “Your—”
“I mean nothing by it,” he insists, with a smile nearly charming enough to compete with my own, were he twenty years younger. At least the bags under his eyes aren’t quite as defined out here under the blue-toned shine of the moon.
“Forgive me if I seem ungrateful,” I say. “I am, of course, honored that Your Highness plans to attend my wedding… but I don’t understand why.”
Prince Henry laughs and claps a hand onto my shoulder in a far-too-familiar gesture that is both unprincely and alarming. “I have known your father a very long time, Christopher-Henry. Not to mention your mother.”
My heart leaps into my throat at the mention of my mother. All at once I am sure I am going to lose my supper, and one hand flies to my stomach in preparation. “My mother?” I ask, breathless. No one has ever mentioned her to me—despite my constant nagging on the subject.
“Oh, yes,” Prince Henry says, his expression softening. He appears younger and almost handsome as he smiles fondly at some memory. Is that smile meant formy mother? I’m both horrified and intrigued. “I remember the day she arrived from the Ottoman Empire with her family. She was striking in her beauty. You look so much like her, you know.”
I am reeling as his words sink in. I have always suspected my mother was not English—my complexion alone is proof of that—but that was the extent of my knowledge until this moment. I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “Do I?” I ask, and I hate how my voice cracks.
“Of course,” Prince Henry says with another laugh. “Do you not agree?”
I have often wondered what my mother looked like. I bet she was beautiful, but I have never seen her likeness. My father has no paintings of her, nor a locket with her portrait I might have cleaved to as a child. Talk of my mother has always been strictly banned in this house.
“I am sure I would agree with you had I ever laid eyes upon her, Your Highness,” I say when I’ve regained control of my senses. “My father…” I lick my lips as I come up with an appropriate lie. “My father hadn’t the chance to have her likeness painted before she died.”
Prince Henry frowns, his mouth turning down. “No?” he asks. Is he angry, or is that pity? I can’t tell, and it unnerves me to see such an expression almost as much as it unnerves me to be having this conversation at all. He seems to remember himself and shakes his head. “Such a pity,” he murmurs. “She was a rare beauty, your mother.”
I want to cry. I want to get away from the prince and his sudden sincerity. I prefer to mislike him and his leering, crass comments—his kindness terrifies me. “Your Highness,” is all I can manage, my voice tight and halting. I swallow once more, but that damned lump refuses to budge.
“I had best go back in and entertain your father,” the prince says, with one last smile.
All I can do is nod stiffly and force my body into a neat bow as he turns to make his way inside. I stare at his back as hedisappears into the house, and only when my lashes turn to ice do I realize I have lost control of my emotions.
It feels like an eternity has passed before the house finally goes still for the night. Every inch of my skin itches as I pace back and forth in my bedroom. My wedding suit is laid out neatly on the settee at the foot of my bed, staring at me—taunting me. My father chose black. How very fitting for the funeral of my youth and happiness.
I turn away from it and press the heels of my hands into my eyes. Tonight has been strange and terrible, and I am more agitated than ever. It isn’t enough that I must sign away all hopes of living a life of my own tomorrow evening, but this business about my mother, and the prince’s soft smile when he spoke of her, has my stomach in knots.
The trunk beneath my window catches my eye, and before I have consciously made the decision, I am suddenly in motion. I pack frantically, stuffing as much into the trunk as I can without taking the time to properly fold anything. I don’t even stop to consider whether the waistcoats I pack match the jackets I choose—that’s how frantic I am.
By the time I’ve finished, there are small piles of discarded garments on the floor and a few bits of fabric poking out from the seam of my trunk. I leave it there and slip out of my room, glancing back at the bedroom of my childhood for a mere second before I make my way along the hallway andshuffle down the stairs as quietly as I can manage.
What am I doing? What am Idoing? Before I can muster an answer, I am sitting at my father’s desk, prying open the locked drawer where I know he keeps his banknotes. It opens with a crack and I freeze, gaze darting to the shadow of the door. I wait with bated breath, but nothing happens.
I can’t even allow myself a sigh of relief. Exhaling quietly through my nostrils, I snatch up a bag of coin and as many notes as I can take without making an obvious dent. Just before I close the drawer, my name catches my attention:Christopher-Henry, written across an envelope in an unfamiliar, looping hand. I reach for it, taking in the frayed folds and water-stained corners. I haven’t the time to read it now, but I tuck it into the pocket of my jacket with the bag and notes. Then I push the drawer shut and rise from my father’s chair. The coins are heavy in my pocket, but not quite as heavy as that envelope.
As I make to step around his desk, the glint of gold catches my eye, and I freeze. Tucked beside my father’s flint box and sealing wax is the signet ring with our family crest on it—two lions on either side of a chevron shield. I have no obvious need of it, but something tells me to snatch the ring anyway, so I do. I drop it into the purse before I can change my mind, and hurry from the room.
There are no servants in the hall, so I make my way back up to my bedroom. I open the trunk once more and shove my stolen booty deep into the folds of fabric, before tucking everything neatly inside. I drop the lid, lock it, and pocket the key, then stand back to admire my handiwork.
What a bloody disaster.
How am I to get this monstrosity down the stairs and out into the street without being heard or seen? It seems impossible, but my pulse is rushing through my ears and leaving no room for rational thought. I take the trunk by the handle and drag it as quietly as I can across the floor. I can move it barely an inch at a time, but the slow progress works in my favor to prevent any loud scraping sounds it might otherwise have made.
I’m quite certainhourspass before I get the trunk to the top of the stairs, and just as I feel I might burst into tears and give up, I hear a soft gasp behind me. I spin about and nearly pitch down the staircase, saved only by my firm grasp on the leaden trunk’s handle.
