Princess of Fortune. Miranda Jarrett

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      “I appreciate the special consideration, Admiral,” he began, trying to keep his words civil. “But I do not believe I require any such preferential treatment. I would prefer that my record stands upon its own merits or lacks.”

      The admiral puffed out his cheeks and frowned, the thatch of his white brows bristling across his ruddy-brown face. “You know it wasn’t my decision to make, Greaves.”

      “But surely you have influence to change it, sir,” said Tom. He’d spent more than half his life in the navy, and he knew the peril and consequences of speaking too forcefully to a superior, yet he was struggling to keep his temper in check. How could he do otherwise, when his whole life and future were slipping from his grasp? “A sloop, a ketch, anything with a sail! Given that the country’s at war, there surely must be some suitable command—”

      “Not for a man in your condition, no.”

      “For God’s sake, sir, all you must do is look at me!” For proof Tom held his arms away from his sides, strong and steady and without the slightest tremor. “I’ve mended good as new—better than new! Those infernal surgeons at Greenwich said I was as close to a miracle as they’d ever seen, Lazarus himself, and if that doesn’t make me fit for a new command, why, then I—”

      “What the surgeons said was no active duty for two years,” said the admiral sternly. “Two years at the least, to see what course that musket ball takes within your chest. The navy cannot afford to have captains in command whose physical well-being is not to be trusted, especially not one carrying a chunk of French lead next to his heart.”

      “But I’m not some damned cripple!” Tom thumped his fist three times on the table beside him, desperate to prove his words. “Look, sir, I’m strong as an ox, aye, and I can thrash any man who dares say otherwise!”

      “Damnation, Greaves, then you’ll have to thrash me,” countered the admiral sharply, “because I’ll not let you take that risk, or risk the lives of your men in the process, not when—”

      But before he could finish, the double doors between the two rooms flew open and a small, furious woman charged through them, her hands clenched into tight, tiny fists bristling with rings on nearly every finger. Although she was dressed extravagantly for so early in the day—even Tom knew that wine-colored velvet lavished with gold embroidery was not customary at this hour for Berkeley Square, nor were the lavish necklace and bracelets of rubies and pearls—her thick black hair had not yet been brushed, a mass of tangled, knotted curls that bounced against her back with each indignant step.

      “Admiral Cranford!” she called, marching directly to the older man, who bowed low in return. Her English was filtered through another language, her accent without apology. “Thank the saints you are here! These women know nothing, worse than nothing! You tell them, Admiral, tell them what imbeciles they are!”

      Belatedly Lady Willoughby came hurrying after, the head of the hurled porcelain monkey in her hand as evidence, and her mouth puckered with distress, as if fearing the wrong words would once again slip out.

      “The girl came with the best of references, ma’am,” she said plaintively, setting the grinning monkey head on the edge of the mantel. “She has dressed the hair of the Duchess of Kent, and all her daughters. How was I to know she wouldn’t suit?”

      “But I am not this Duchess of Kent, am I, eh?” said the young woman, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. “Nor am I one of her daughters, or sons, or small, yapping terriers, either. Ah, perhaps that is what your pretend-maid truly is, a groom to lapdogs! Admiral, Admiral, you see how I am treated, how little respect they show to me!”

      Astounded, Tom watched and listened as if it were a Drury Lane farce. The admiral had said that they’d be joined by ladies; he should have warned him instead of this high-handed little harpy. Here he’d been struggling to control himself before his superior, while this chit felt free to rage at Admiral Cranford like a Billingsgate fishwife.

      “The maid tends only to fine ladies, not to dogs,” insisted poor Lady Willoughby, wringing her hands. “Brother, I assure you no insult was ever planned or wished for!”

      “‘No insult,’ ha,” repeated the younger woman darkly, lowering her chin so her heavy-lidded eyes seemed to smolder with righteous fire. “Would you have me as bald as a pigeon’s egg, then, with every hair ripped from my head? Is that how you would show me honor and respect?”

      “Oh, come, ma’am, I’m sure my sister meant no insult,” said the admiral with a forced jollity. “We all want what’s best for you, you know. I’m sure your hair can be set to rights in no time.”

      With an exasperated sigh, the younger woman flung her arms in the air, beseeching heaven to take her side and showing a good deal of her breasts in the process.

      “Fools and lackeys, every one,” she muttered in Italian. “Toss all their wits together, and it still would not half fill a thimble!”

      And that, for Tom, was enough.

      “Their manners are worth a bushel of your so-called wit,” he answered in Italian, automatically using the same curt tone that served to humble disrespectful crewmen. “These fine people don’t deserve such rubbish from you. I’d say a dog groom was what you damned well do need, for I’ve never heard any other bitch carry on like you are now.”

      The young woman gasped and swung around to face him, lifting her chin high. “Who are you, to dare address me so?” she asked suspiciously, continuing in Italian. “Do you not know who I am?”

      “I am Captain Lord Thomas Greaves, miss,” he said with a smile and a brusque bow. “And as for your name, miss, I do not know it, nor do I particularly care if ever I do.”

      “There now, Greaves, I knew you’d charm the lady by speaking to her in her own lingo,” said Cranford heartily in English. “But high time I made the proper introductions, aye? Your Royal Highness, might I present Captain Lord Thomas Greaves, the captain I told you about, and a hero if ever there was one. Greaves, the Princess Isabella di Fortunaro of Monteverde.”

      “Your Royal Highness. I am honored,” said Tom, though he didn’t feel honored at all. He felt tricked. A princess, and from Monteverde at that. What in blazes was Cranford up to, anyway? Monteverde might be the oldest of the Italian monarchies, but it was also regarded as the most indolent and decadent, with more blissful corruption packed inside its borders than in the rest of the Continent combined. How could one of their princesses come to surface here, in poor Lady Willoughby’s drawing room?

      He took a deep breath to control his temper, then another. “Your servant, ma’am.”

      But though it was her turn to answer, she didn’t. She simply stared at him, just stared, reluctantly tipping her head back so she could meet his gaze. She was short, true, not that any man would notice her height once he’d seen how seductively rounded her small figure was beneath the red velvet.

      She wasn’t pretty, either, not in the agreeable pink-and-white, strawberries-in-cream way that English girls were pretty. Her features were strong, her profile the kind minted into ancient coins. Framed by that tangle of black hair, her skin was golden pale, with a deeper rose to stain her cheeks and lips. And she seemed unable to keep still, constantly shifting and turning and twisting and gesturing, with an actress’s instinct СКАЧАТЬ