But the maid stopped walking halfway across the room. She was obviously flustered by the prince’s presence, as well she should have been, and dipped an imperfect curtsy and almost spilled the soup. “Don’t mind him, Ann. He shouldn’t be here.”

But Ann did mind him. Her face turned red and she so ardently avoided making eye contact that Caroline couldn’t help but notice. She couldn’t imagine how shy one would have to be not to at least steal a glimpse of the man—he was a handsome prince! But Ann Marble was working very hard to keep her gaze averted from him as she carried the tray across the room.

She put the tray on Caroline’s lap and almost spilled it again when Beck burst through the door, his hair dripping from being combed wet.

“Caro! You’ve come to! What a relief it is to see you sitting up. Martha says we ought to apply one more poultice,” he said, striding across the room. “The fever has broken, but we must be cautious and draw the last of the illness out of you. So if you have the slightest inclination to help the poultice along, I suggest that you do so.”

Caroline picked up her spoon. “How on earth does one help a poultice along?”

“What? I’m not a doctor, darling, so I can hardly be expected to know. But do heed what I say. I hope you are never so ill again. We were desperately close to having you leeched.”

“Leeched!” she exclaimed as Beck straightened the tray on her lap.

“You see? That’s why I need you to help the poultice along.” He gestured for her to sit up and removed some of the pillows from behind her. “Oh dear, your hair,” he said with a wince. “Well, Martha will repair it. If she can, that is. It looks as if some of it might need to be cut out—”

“Beck!”

“Ah, here is Martha with the poultice,” he said as her lady’s maid appeared at her bedside.

Whatever she was carrying smelled bloody awful. “Might I have the soup first?” Caroline begged. “I’m famished.”

“Yes, of course!” Martha chirped. “And then we’ll put this on your chest.” She pushed Caroline gently forward and put the same pillow behind her that Beck had just removed. She smoothed Caroline’s hair. “Dear me,” she said, wincing. “That will take some work.”

This was exhausting. Caroline wanted only to eat her soup and sleep again. She looked around her brother to see if the prince was still standing insouciantly at the foot of the bed. But he’d disappeared.

And so had Ann.

The only way Caroline could be certain the prince had been here at all was by the presence of the very cheerful flowers on her bed stand. She frowned down at her soup as Beck nattered on, proclaiming himself so relieved she would recover in time for the Montgomery ball. “I know how you love a ball,” he said, pleased with himself for remembering.

Caroline might have been desperately ill, but she was still whip smart when it came to men, and she still knew when they were catting about.

And that rake of a prince was catting about with one of their chambermaids.

CHAPTER ELEVEN


Invitations have been delivered for the Montgomery ball, an annual event that marks the beginning of the summer social calendar. All persons of import will be in attendance, including the new prime minister. His wife will not be in attendance, however, as she is said to be enjoying her cabbage garden in Kent. Other guests will include a recently widowed earl who is in much demand and, naturally, a visiting prince to round out the list.

Ladies, a hint of rouge on your cheeks at dusk will give you a healthy, youthful glow, which will delight your husband and keep him at home.

—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and


Domesticity for Ladies

ANN MARBLE WAS a mousy thing, and Leo was mystified how she came to be involved in this indelicate matter.

He caught her in the hall when Beck had come into Lady Caroline’s room. Cornered her, really, in a manner he was not proud of, particularly given how frightened she had seemed of him. “You’ve nothing to fear,” he assured her. “I need your help.”

She looked frantically about, her eyes growing wider. “I told you, I could lose my position!” she whispered harshly.

Leo was not used to anyone saying no to him and wasn’t quite certain how to convince her she must do as he said without causing a scene. “It is imperative that I speak with you—”

“Not here,” she said quickly, and craned her neck to see past him. “In the market on Wednesday.” She glanced up at him warily.

Leo stared at her. “The market? What market?”

She whispered something.

“Pardon? I didn’t catch that. I am not... I don’t know the markets,” he admitted. How could he possibly know? Everything he needed was purchased for him.

“Half past two. I’m to buy poultry. The good chickens come on Wednesdays.” And then she whirled and dipped to one side, as if she thought he would try to stop her, and fled down the hallway.

Leo stood there like a dunce, confused. What had she said? All he’d heard was half past two on Wednesday and good chickens. But which market? How did he go about finding a poultry market without drawing attention to himself? And bloody hell, as if he didn’t have any number of things he must do on Wednesday, the lass had summoned him like a suitor...

All right, he didn’t have so many things to do on Wednesday. Tea with the Alucian ambassador, that was all. He never had anything of importance to occupy him—he generally filled his days with social calls and gentlemen’s clubs. In light of what he was endeavoring to do now, that all seemed rather...indolent. Yes. In light of what he was trying to do now—very much on his own, thank you—it was embarrassingly indolent.

Beck finally emerged from his sister’s room, his vivacity and naturally jovial spirit having returned to him, babbling about her renewed health and the fact that she’d lapped up that bowl of soup with the eagerness of a dog. Off they went to the club, where Beck passed around the room, reporting to anyone and everyone that his sister was “much recovered”—although she hadn’t looked so recovered to Leo—and “fit as a fiddle.”

Then Beck sat and complained that Leo had hardly touched the gin and wondered aloud why that was. “You don’t think you’ve come down with an ague, do you?” he asked. “Caro might have been very contagious.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Leo said. He’d lost his appetite for drink, that was all. His thoughts were on the need to discover where one purchased chickens in London, and what one had to do to gain entrance to the market. He was too bothered by this business with these poor Weslorian women and the men who would treat them so ill, and how ill prepared he was to do anything about it. Last night, he’d lain awake, tossing and turning, trying to make sense of his life. It was as if his twenty-ninth year had crept up on him like death and had found his life lacking in so many ways. He’d done nothing worthwhile.

Leo was ashamed of himself. But on the other hand, he wished he had tackled something a little less complicated than freeing women sold into slavery.

He and Beck were soon joined by two other men, Mr. Humble and Sir Granbury, both of whom were eager to celebrate Lady Caroline’s return to health, although neither seemed to know her. When the talk turned loud and boisterous and Beck complained of hunger, he insisted they carry on to a restaurant nearby that he claimed prepared a very good beefsteak.

Leo saw his opportunity and blurted awkwardly, “I’ve had a hangering for good poultry.”

The three men looked at him.

Leo looked back.

“I believe you meant to say hankering, Your Highness,” said Sir Granbury.

“Pardon?”

“The word you are seeking is hankering, not hangering,” Beck supplied, grinning.

“Ah. Thank you.” Leo could feel a warmth in the back of his neck. He’d picked up some words in the last few years that he had not learned from his childhood English tutor.

“If it’s poultry you want, I’ve the best in Lancashire,” said Mr. Humble. “You’ll not see better meat than what is produced on my land. Plump birds.” He used his hands to demonstrate just how plump.

“It is good poultry, Davis, I will grant you that,” Beck agreed.

“Perhaps something a bit closer than Lancashire,” Leo suggested. “Surely there is a market...”

“What have you got all those servants for?” Beck scoffed. “Send them out to fetch good poultry and don’t concern yourself.”

The three men nodded in agreement. Leo would have, too, because naturally, if he wanted poultry, he would tell someone, and it would magically appear on his plate. “Truth be told, sirs...my man does not have an eye for the fattest hen.”

“Neither do I,” said Sir Granbury, and the three men burst into laughter. Various jests about the gentlemen’s appendages and how they’d like to fit said appendages into fat hens went round the table while Leo tried to think of another way to ask about the market.

When the laughter died, he said, “But is there a market for poultry? Someplace I might send him?”

Mr. Humble shrugged. “There is Leadenhall. Or Newgate.”

Leadenhall! That’s what Ann Marble had whispered.

“Not Newgate,” Beck argued. “Leadenhall for poultry, Newgate for beef. Everyone knows it.” He looked at Leo. “Tell your man to go to Leadenhall.”

“Yes, thank you—I will.” That answered the question of where. But as the four of them prepared to leave the gentlemen’s club and seek supper, he moved on to fretting about how he’d convince Miss Marble to tell him what he needed.


ON WEDNESDAY, Leo had to convince his valet, Freddar, that he did indeed want to dress like an unassuming gentleman of English descent. “But the cut of the English suit does not serve your physique, Highness,” Freddar had sniffed.