The facts that, now that they were safe and on the move again, her hands had begun to shake and her stomach felt exceptionally queasy, and she believed she could begin to weep rather copiously if anyone so much as looked at her slightly askance, were all suddenly being brought very much home to her. She'd been reckless, and she could have been dead.

Why did she not stop to consider the consequences before she acted? Why did the illogical and impossible always seem rational and infinitely plausible when her wild Romany blood was up, as Tatiana had always told her?

Alina was proud of her Romany blood, but even as she looked for some excuse to explain away her more rash and ridiculous actions, she did not think it fair to blame that blood. She knew where the blame truly lay, and it was with her.

Just another failing she would have to apply herself to correcting before she became a bride. And just another reason to resent the absent Justin Wilde. If he had done his duty, he would have been riding in the coach with her-the coach that would be on its way to London-and nowhere near those hideous highwaymen. He would have taken up the brace of pistols and defended her. Why, if she looked at the thing long enough and hard enough, it was all his fault that she was sitting here, her beautiful new outfit ruined, muddy water dripping off the tip of her nose.

All of which she would tell him when he came to fetch her from this Ashurst Hall they were heading for. If he came to fetch her.

Beside her, as he attempted to insert a much-folded cloth inside his unb.u.t.toned jacket, Luka groaned, and Alina brought her straying mind back to attention.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Luka, I'm neglecting you. Are you all right?" she asked him. "Tatiana, why didn't you help Luka out of his jacket, so that we can see to his wound? Oh, never mind, you were probably too busy watching me make an utter cake of myself. Here, let's do it now."

"I was told we were only little more than a mile from Ashurst Hall just before we were attacked, my lady," he told her. "I can wait until we arrive. You shouldn't have to see the wound. It isn't seemly."

"Neither is bleeding yourself dry," Alina pointed out, but the coach had now turned, and the wheels were suddenly covering much smoother ground, the ruts and jaw-jarring potholes of the other road no longer in evidence.

"My lady...your clothing?"

Tatiana's warning brought Alina back to her own personal dilemma. That was probably vain of her, but she couldn't help herself. She was about to meet Justin's friends-an English duke and d.u.c.h.ess, no less-and she was going to see them for the first time while looking as if she'd just finished rolling about in a pigsty. Oh, how Aunt Mimi would have laughed to see her like this, and then pointed out that it was no less than she would have expected from her mongrel niece.

"I'm going to blame him for that, too," Alina declared as Tatiana, being a down-to-earth sort in times like these-at least once the shooting and the shouting were over-asked her ladyship to please spit on the corner of yet another linen square, so that the servant could wipe some of the dirt off her ladyship's cheeks.

But then I might allow him to kiss me again...

CHAPTER FIVE.

JUSTIN WILDE ARRIVED at Carleton House just after midnight, clad in his usual impeccable evening clothes and looking fresher-and smelling better-than most of the other guests of His Royal Majesty, the Prince Regent.

His appearance in the midst of the haut ton was a surprise, and presented a dilemma to everyone else present. Did they pretend not to see him? Did they nod as he pa.s.sed-after all, he would not have gained entry without an invitation from the Prince Regent. Did they dare to approach him, clap him on the back, behave as if they were delighted to see him again, after dealing him the cut direct only a few months earlier, when he'd first returned to London? So much of society was in knowing whom to speak to and whom to avoid.

But he did look dashing, his well-remembered handsome, impeccable self. All that fashionably styled dark hair above those oddly unreadable green eyes. The way his black evening clothes fit his exemplary body. His snowy-white neckcloth always above reproach, tied in an intricate style of his own design, one that had never been successfully copied. That insouciant walk, as if he saw nothing in the world he feared. Pockets so deep his wealth seemed to have no measure at all. He was a true rara avis in all respects, the compleat, set-up gentleman. And hadn't he always had a smile for everyone, a joke for the men, a compliment for the ladies?

Yes, Baron Wilde was a bit of all right, really. Perfect in so many ways. Shame about him in that duel over his s.l.u.t of a wife, firing early like that and shooting poor what-was-his-name in the back. b.l.o.o.d.y coward...

No one could possibly imagine that the subject of their mingled awe, envy and repulsion had just spent the better part of two days in the saddle, or that he was harboring thoughts of committing dire physical mayhem on the body attached to the pudgy, beringed fingers he was now bowing over with such grace.

But, then, that had always been Justin's way. His smile belonged to everyone; his thoughts were his own.

During his first years in town, he had been sought after, admired, hugely popular with not only the ladies but their mamas, and welcomed by other gentlemen to be one of any party or sporting event. Because he was pretty and mannerly. Because he was entertaining. Because he genuinely enjoyed life.

Before.

Before, in his shallow and trivial youth, he'd married Sheila Broughton after being dazzled by her pretty face, and the way, frankly, they seemed to turn all heads whenever they entered a room together. She had fit him well, rather like his perfectly tailored waistcoats.

Better he should have married his tailor....

He'd never loved her. After the first few months of their marriage, he hadn't liked her, either, any more than she had liked him. He'd married her fine good looks, and she'd pledged herself to his t.i.tle and deep pockets.

Still, they could have stumbled along, together yet not together, for several dozen years. Many did.

It was Sheila's lack of discretion that had brought both of them down, and taken Justin to that dew-covered lawn where his d.a.m.ned unerring aim had put a period to both Robbie Farber's existence and his own frivolous life as he had known it.

Eight years. Eight long years spent exiled from his country, his estates. Eight interminable years of doing whatever was asked of him, in the hope of gaining a pardon that would reunite him with his homeland and keep his neck out of a noose.

He'd returned to Mayfair only a few months ago, to learn that memories in the ton were longer than he would have imagined. There had been no welcome from anyone save Tanner Blake, Duke of Malvern, and Rafe Daughtry, Duke of Ashurst. But even those friendships hadn't softened society's condemnation of him. The three days he'd spent at his town house had been enough to convince him that he had rushed his reentry into Society, and he had taken himself off again, prepared to await the following spring season before trying again.

Now he was back, only two months pa.s.sing between a nearly universal cut direct from those who had eight years earlier called themselves his friends and tonight's very visible acceptance by the Prince Regent-all part of the bargain they had struck.

Justin could hear the whispers, even as he could not make out the words. When he bowed his way back from the prince, it would be to see those same people who had judged him, had shunned him, now taking their cue from the prince and rushing up as if they were delighted to see him again.

And he could, in return, be delighted to see them, allow himself to be brought back into favor. Even as he cursed them all for sycophants and fools, while also cursing himself for ever believing this life was the one he wanted, the life he'd sacrificed so much to regain.

"A word in your ear, sir?" Justin suggested quietly. "You may frown as you lead me off, as if preparing to give me one last stern scold before welcoming me back into the fold of sheep standing all about us now, breathlessly antic.i.p.ating your reaction and ready to take their cue from you."

"d.a.m.n you, what are you up to, Wilde? Where's the gel?" the Prince Regent asked sotto voce as he allowed two footmen to help him to his feet. He pointed toward a door off in a corner, and Justin fell into step directly beside him, in just the way George Brummell had dared to do, as if declaring them not only friends, but equals. Oh, this would add to his consequence; being so publicly taken off for a private coze with the heir to the throne. How Prinny must hate that. "What are you doing here, Wilde? It was to be tomorrow night, at Covent Garden."

"What? And miss this delightful gathering?" Justin responded lightly, insinuating his arm through the prince's crooked elbow, knowing the man had no choice but to allow the intimacy. "Imagine my delight, sir, when I returned to London and espied the invitation waiting for me on my desk."

He refrained from mentioning that the invitation had served to remove the problem of how to break into Carleton House at four in the morning and somehow make it past the guards.

"One of my fool secretaries must have already added you back to my invitation list. You shouldn't be on that list yet, not until you're bracketed with the gel. It was a mistake."

"I wondered as much. But then I thought, my, how can I resist? After all, the wish of our Royal Highness can be nothing less than my command. I fair flew through my toilette, I tell you-taking only a miserly three hours to make myself presentable-and then hastened straight here. Please forgive my tardy and doubtless disheveled appearance. Although my man, Wigglesworth, persists in telling me that this waistcoat flatters me no end."

"Humph," the Prince Regent responded, which was as good as a compliment on Justin's attire, combined with a curse that His Royal Highness would never see a waistcoat so fine himself...or be able to see past it to his toes, either, come to that.

They'd entered the anteroom now, and Justin carefully first shut, then locked the door, deftly pocketing the key.

"The gel?" the prince said without preamble. "Where the devil is the gel? Did you forget her on the docks? Can't you get the straight of anything, Wilde? She's supposed to be with you."

Justin's smile never wavered. It was the sort of smile that could make a guilty man feel the sudden need to find a quick exit. "You mean, sir, where is the daughter of one Lady Anne Louise Farber, sister to Robbie Farber, once Earl of Birling, and the man I shot down eight years ago for having maligned my then estranged wife's nonexistent reputation?"

The prince shot a quick look toward the door. "You, um...you found that out quickly."

Justin raised one well-defined eyebrow, feigning surprise even as his every suspicion was confirmed. "Oh? So you're already aware of the connection? My, my, and here I was, prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt, call the whole thing coincidence and be done with it. After all, how can a mere loyal subject even begin to conceive that his presumptive sire might be so devious, so cold-bloodedly calculating?"

"It wasn't like that, Wilde. Not at the beginning, at least."

"At least? Tell me, is it still considered regicide if you're no more than a sorry excuse for a regent, and not the king? Or, knowing the mood of the populace, would I be looked upon more as a hero if I were to wring your d.a.m.n neck for you in the next minute?"

The prince's normally pink cheeks disappeared in the full, florid flush that now possessed him from cravat to hairline. "You cannot speak to me this way! I'll summon the guards."

"Do that," Justin continued almost affably. "I've locked the door you keep eyeing-the only door to this quaint little closet set aside for your a.s.signations with any of the plump, aged ladies you seem to enjoy having play mother to you. By the time the guards manage to break it down, you'll be on the floor, your face blue and your tongue swollen half out of your mouth. Not a pretty picture, I promise you. They won't even be able to shove your tongue back in your head for the state funeral. They'll have to snip it off."

The man who lived only for the day he would become His Majesty, George the Fourth, winced, and nearly gagged.

"Ah, so you do remember who I am and what I do, don't you, sir? Who you and others like you made me? One minute, no more-that's all it would take. But it would be the longest, and the last, minute of your life."

The prince's eyes shifted to the door, and then back to the key Justin was dangling in front of his face. "I didn't set out to have it happen this way," he said, nearly pleaded. "When Francis came to my ministers for our help with his problem and his possible solution, he mentioned the name Farber. I remembered the name. That's when I realized I had just the man for what he wanted done."

"Me."

"Yes. You. You're just the right man. I read the dispatches, you know. You have no conscience, no scruples. Everyone agreed you were perfect."

Justin refused to react to the prince's opinion of his character, or the lack thereof. "Counted on that, did you? And that's why you summoned me from Vienna. That's why you offered me the pardon I'd begun to believe would never become fact. That very expensive pardon with all those intricate strings tied to it. How wonderful for you that you could benefit your own pocketbook, even as you a.s.sisted your new ally."

"Well, yes," the Prince Regent admitted, relaxing slightly. "That did work out rather conveniently for me, I will admit to that. My creditors have become increasingly strident. Why should the benefits all run in Francis's direction?"

"Stupid, yet clever. The two, combined, make you a very dangerous man, Your Royal Highness. There are times I not only wonder if a monarchy is necessary, but if any of you should be allowed to breed. Eight years. Eight years I've thought of nothing but returning to England. To my homeland and my home. Now I find myself wondering what all the fuss was about, why I even cared."

"If that's true, Wilde, I am deeply sorry. But I immediately saw that you were the obvious choice. Who better than the Crown's own a.s.sa.s.sin to protect the lady from an a.s.sa.s.sin?"

Justin's eyes went cold. "Please, allow us both now to put an end to that particular comedy. You could have found someone else to do what Francis needs done-and what your new bosom chum the king of Austria needs done has nothing to do with safeguarding the lady, but very much to do with ridding Francis of a nuisance. I am simply an added amus.e.m.e.nt you've thrown into the mix. How jolly for you, to know that you've bracketed Birling's niece to the man who killed him. Why, I imagine you think it all but borders on the poetic."

The prince said nothing. Which spoke volumes.

Disgusted but not surprised, Justin pushed harder, needing to hear what this pathetic man had to say. "Admit it. I want to hear you say it. If I were to fail to eliminate Francis's enemy and the Lady Alina were to die because of that failure, her death would mean nothing to you."

"Who?" The Prince Regent, known for many things, was not often included on any list numbering the sharpest knives in his chef's kitchen.

"Never mind," Justin said, suddenly unpardonably weary of this conversation. "I know what you want me to do."

"You've always known that. I want you to marry the gel."

"So you say. From where I stand, it seems you wish me to a.s.sa.s.sinate a very powerful and visible public figure for you and your royal friends, while you both keep your hands and your countries clean of the dead. And the devil with what happens to the gel."

Prinny had the wit to at last look somewhat sheepish. "All right, yes, I will admit to not considering the possible problem with the woman. But you are now her protector, and she could have none better. Marry her, and keep her safe from this man the king is convinced wishes her dead. Yes, making the man dead in the process. They're one and the same, really, as long as he dies. And what do you care about this man? You've killed so many. Then you'll be free of any further obligation. You have my word on that, d.a.m.n it."

"You'll forgive me if I remain less than confident."

"As for this young woman who so concerns you? You will bring her here, present her to me. Why, it would be my honor to give the bride away at Saint Paul's. That should make up for something, showing you are totally accepted by me, by the Crown. And then remain here in town for the small season?"

Justin didn't answer, but only bowed. "You really are a fool, aren't you? And now, as I'm fairly certain I've outstayed my welcome, I think it is time I rejoined my affianced bride."

He turned toward the door, the key once more in his hand.

"Wait! I have to know. Would you have done it?" the Prince Regent asked, his voice trembling slightly. "Would you have...murdered me? Because you wouldn't have outlived me for more than a few heartbeats, once my guards arrived. Had you thought of that?"

"Why do you think you're still alive, Your Highness? Much as I know you hadn't planned it this way, you've actually unwittingly given me something to hope for, to live for. Or, I should say, someone."

Justin held open the door to allow the Prince Regent to exit ahead of him, but the man stopped just at the threshold, his gaze on the a.s.sembled guests in the larger room, his complexion paling this time rather than flushing. "Wait. You didn't answer me. I admit I didn't consider the young lady in all of this, the possible danger to her. But you will protect, you've said as much. Now will you be bringing the gel here to London? That was the arrangement. To bring her here, present her to me, use the special license I managed for you. I didn't mean what I said. And then all will be forgiven, yes?"

Justin wondered how and when the prince would get back to the subject that most concerned him-after the worry over where his not-always-loyal subjects might put his sliced-off tongue before they buried him.

"I thank you, sir, but in point of fact I prefer to handle arranging my own nuptials. There will be ample time to visit London in the spring, during the season. For now, I should think my soon-to-be wife and I will adjourn to my estate and get to know each other. Oh, dear, wait a moment. Now you're frowning again, aren't you? That rascal Wilde, you're thinking, he's making a muddle of everything. I'm supposed to have my fiancee make her curtsy to you tomorrow night at Covent Garden, when that fierce-looking gentleman in the uniform of the Austrian high command isn't present, as he is tonight. Shame, shame on me."

"You already saw him? But you came into the room and headed straight to me. Like Doomsday, you know, no matter how you smiled."

"Men who labored as I did don't survive long if they fail to enlarge their powers of observation. Yes, I saw him. Inhaber Jarmil Novak, and your guest. Allow me, please, to hazard a guess-he is Francis's new Minister of Trade, and simply delighted to be on our sh.o.r.es, although probably not because of any fervor to encourage England's importation of fine Austrian cheeses. He has to know without having been told that he's been sent here to eliminate the last of the Valentin's, never thinking that it is he who is to die. I was wondering how you'd bring us all together."

"So d.a.m.ned smug, figuring it all out. Aren't you clever? You're not amusing, Wilde. Not at all."

"Unforgivable of me, I'm sure. And yet I will persevere. He arrived with quite a surprisingly large retinue, didn't he? Big, strapping fellows, part of his own private regiment? You have all the makings of a splendid entertainment, and all of it to take place here in London, where you can watch it unfold. You really should thank King Francis. He has no idea how solving his problem for him has become your personal delight. Too bad that the lady and I won't be obliging you."

"Wilde, wait! Don't you dare to turn your back on me. We have an agreement. I can still destroy you. I can snap you in two the way I snapped George when he dared to ridicule me, so that you'll never be able to show your face in London society again. Worse, I still could order you tried for murdering poor Robbie Farber, and have you hanged."

The guests closest to them heard most of what had been said, and were doing their best to pretend that they hadn't, even as they, collectively, all leaned in closer, as if they were on a ship that had begun listing to starboard.

As long as he would be the subject of gossip all over Mayfair by tomorrow, as long as he was so determinedly burning his bridges, Justin thought he might as well give them all something more to natter about over their morning chocolate.

"Why, Your Royal Highness," he said, shock in his every word, "are you saying that your signature is not your bond, your word not your oath? Can it be that your personally signed pardon, bestowed upon me only after I had gratefully and without question poured fifty thousand pounds into your private coffers, means nothing if you say it means nothing?"

"With those words, you have just nullified your pardon and forfeited your life," the Prince Regent whispered fiercely.

"Possibly, sir. Probably. But not the lady's. You might wish to warn Inhaber Novak of that fact, if not alert him to the target on his own back. Even on yours, if the lady is harmed. You and your new friend Francis played your game poorly, Highness, as I've already seen your cards. You will see mine only as I lay them out. But trust me on this. Mine are better. Oh, one thing more about the way I play the game. You were a lucky man tonight, as I very rarely bluff. I won't do it again."

Justin turned on his heels and strode out of the large reception room, feeling every eye on his back, with two particular sets of those eyes boring straight into it.

Riding clothes and his mount were both waiting for him at his town house, and he was changed and in the saddle within a quarter hour. He probably would not see London again in his lifetime, and for some reason this fact did not bother him. After so many years of longing for this city, this country, he could find no love in his heart for either.

He would not have believed this possible, only two short days ago. But that was before he saw a pair of frightened golden eyes looking to him for answers and rea.s.surance. He'd been handed a gift, a way to do penance for so many crimes, so many mistakes.

Justin Wilde may have failed himself over the years, d.a.m.ned his own soul any number of times...but he would not fail her.

CHAPTER SIX.

THE GIGGLES DREW HIM. Young, unaffected. The joy of life being enjoyed. He'd laughed like that, he was sure. Long ago. A lifetime ago.

He'd spent another day and a half in the saddle, riding across country, backtracking, until he was convinced he wasn't being followed, that his destination was known to him and only to him. Because the last d.a.m.ned thing he'd ever do would be to bring the h.e.l.l following him down on his friends.

Justin Wilde had done a lot of stupid things in the course of his two and thirty years. If he were to apply to his friends for a list, the length of it might surprise even him. But threatening the life of the heir to the throne of England had been the topper. That step, once taken, was impossible to correct, even if he'd wanted to, and he didn't.