“Will the ring tell us who we truly are?” Arabella asked.

The soothsayer’s face was harsh and stunning at once, pockmarked across her cheeks but regal in the height of her brow and handsome in its strong nose and dark eyes.

“This ring . . .” the Gypsy intoned, “belongs to a prince.”

“A prince!” Ravenna gaped.

“A prince?” Eleanor frowned.

“Our . . . father?” Arabella held her breath.

The bracelets on the woman’s wrist jingled as she ticked a finger from side to side. “The rightful master of this ring,” she said soberly, “is not of your blood.”

Arabella’s shoulders drooped, but her dainty chin ticked up. “Mama gave it to Eleanor to keep before she put us aboard ship to England. If it belongs to a prince, why did Mama have it? She was not a princess.” Far from it, if the reverend’s suspicions were correct.

The fortune-teller’s lashes dipped again. “I do not speak of the past, child, but of the future.”

Eleanor cast Arabella an exasperated glance.

Arabella ignored it and chewed the inside of her lip. “Then what does this prince have to do with us?”

“One of you . . .” The woman’s voice faded away, her hand spreading wide above the ring again, fingers splayed. Her black eyes snapped open. “One of you will wed this prince. Upon this wedding, the secret of your past will be revealed.”

“One of us will wed a prince?” Eleanor said in patent disbelief.

Arabella gripped her sister’s hand to still her. The fortune-teller was a master at timing and drama; Arabella could see that. But her words were too wonderful.

“Who is he? Who is this prince, Grandmother?”

The woman’s hand slipped away from the ring, leaving it gleaming in the pale light. “That is for you to discover.”

Warmth crept into Arabella’s throat, prickling it. It was not tears, which never came easily to her, but certainty. She knew the fortune-teller spoke truth.

Eleanor stood up. “Come, Ravenna.” She cast a sideways glance at the Gypsy woman. “Papa is waiting for us at home.”

Ravenna grabbed up her puppy and went with Eleanor through the tent flap.

Arabella reached into her pocket and placed three pennies on the table beside the ring, everything she had saved.

The woman lifted suddenly wary eyes. “Keep your coins, child. I want none of them.”

“But—” The Gypsy grabbed her wrist. “Who knows of this ring?”

“No one. Our mama and our nanny knew, but we never saw Mama again, and Nanny drowned when the ship sank. We hid the ring.”

“It must remain so.” Her fingers pinched Arabella’s. “No man must know of this ring, save the prince.”

“Our prince?” Arabella trembled a bit.

The Gypsy nodded. She released Arabella’s hand and watched as she picked up the ring and coins and tucked them into a pocket.

“Thank you,” Arabella said.

The soothsayer nodded and gestured her from the tent.

Arabella drew aside the flap, but the discomfort would not leave her and she looked over her shoulder. The Gypsy’s face was gray now, her skin slack.

A wild gleam lit her eyes.

“Madam—”

“Go, child,” she said harshly, and drew down her veil. “Go find your prince.”

Arabella met her sisters by the great oak aside the horse corrals around which the fair had gathered for more than a century. Eleanor stood slim and golden-pale in the bright glorious light of spring. Sitting in the grass, Ravenna cuddled the puppy in her lap like other girls cuddled dolls. Behind Arabella the music of fiddle and horns curled through the warm air, and before her the calls of the horse traders making deals mingled with the scents of animals and dust.

“I believe her.”

“I knew you would.” Eleanor expelled a hard breath. “You want to believe her, Bella.”

“I do.”

Eleanor would never understand. The reverend admired her quick mind and her love of books. But the Gypsy woman had not lied. “My wish to believe her does not make our fortune untrue.”

“It is superstition.”

“You are only saying that because the reverend does.”

“I for one think it is splendid that we shall all be princesses.” Ravenna twirled the pup’s tail with a finger.

“Not all of us,” Arabella said. “Only the one of us who marries a prince.”

“Papa will not believe it.”

Arabella grasped her sister’s hand again. “We must not tell him, Ellie. He would not understand.”

“I should say not.” But Eleanor’s eyes were gentle and her hand was cozy in Arabella’s. Even in skepticism she could not be harsh. At the foundling home when every misstep had won Arabella a caning—or worse—she had prayed nightly for a wise, contemplative temperament like her elder sister’s.

Her prayers were never answered.

“We will not tell the reverend,” Arabella said. “Ravenna, do you understand?”

“Of course. I’m not a nincompoop. Papa would not approve of one of us becoming a princess. He likes being poor. He thinks it brings us closer to God.” The puppy leaped out of her lap and scampered toward the horse corral. She jumped up and ran after it.

“I do wish we could speak to Papa about it,” Eleanor said. “He is the wisest man in Cornwall.”

“The fortune-teller said we must not.”

“The fortune-teller is a Gypsy.”

“You say that as though the reverend is not himself a great friend to Gypsies.”

“He is a good man, or he would not have taken in three girls despite his poverty.”

But Eleanor knew as well as Arabella why he had. Only three months before he discovered them starving in the foundling home, and Eleanor about to be sent off to the workhouse, fever had taken his wife and twin daughters from him. He had needed them to heal his heart as much as they needed him.

“We shan’t have to fret about poverty for long, Ellie.” Arabella plucked the ring out of her pocket and it caught the midday sunshine like fire. “I know what must be done. In five years, when I am seventeen—”

“Tali!” Ravenna’s face lit into a smile. A boy stood at the edge of the horse corral, shadowy, in plain, well-worn clothes.

Eleanor stiffened.

Arabella whispered, “No one must ever see it but the prince,” and dropped the ring into her pocket.

Ravenna scooped up the puppy and bounded to the boy as he loped forward. His tawny skin shone warm in the sunlight filtering through the branches of the huge oak. No more than fourteen, he was all limbs and lanky height and underfed cheeks, but his eyes were like pitch and they held a wariness far greater than youth should allow.

“Hullo, little mite.” He tweaked Ravenna’s braid, but beneath a thatch of unruly black hair falling across his brow he shot a sideways glance at her eldest sister.

Eleanor crossed her arms and became noticeably interested in the treetops.

The boy scowled.

“Look, Tali.” Ravenna shoved the puppy beneath his chin. “Papa gave him to me for my birthday.”

The boy scratched the little creature behind a floppy ear. “What’ll you call him?”

“Beast, perhaps?” Eleanor mumbled. “Oh, but that name is already claimed here.”

The boy’s hand dropped and his square shoulders went rigid. “Reverend sent me to fetch you home for supper.” Without another word he turned about and walked toward the horse corral.

Eleanor’s gaze followed him reluctantly, her brow pinched. “He looks like he does not eat.”

“Perhaps he hasn’t enough food. He has no mama or papa,” Ravenna said.

“Whoever Taliesin’s mama and papa were, they must have been very handsome,” Arabella said, fingering her hair. She remembered little of their mother except her hair, the same golden-red as Arabella’s, her soft, tight embrace, and her scent of cane sugar and rum. Eleanor remembered little more, and only a hazy image of their father—tall, golden-haired, and wearing a uniform.

The fortune-teller had not told her everything, Arabella was certain. Out there was a man who had no idea his three daughters were still alive. A man who could tell them why the mother of his children had sent them away.

The answer was hidden with a prince.

Arabella’s teeth worried the inside of her lip but her eyes flashed with purpose. “One of us will wed a prince someday. It must be so.”

“Eleanor should marry him because she is the eldest.” Ravenna upended the puppy and rubbed its belly. “Then you can marry Tali, Bella. He brings me frogs from the pond and I wish he were our brother.”

“No,” Arabella said. “Taliesin loves Eleanor—”

“He does not. He hates me and I think he is odious.”

“—and I aim to marry high.” Her jaw set firmly like any man’s twice her age.

“A gentleman?” Ravenna said.

“Higher.”

“A duke?”

“A duke is insufficient.” She drew the ring from her pocket anew, its weight making a dent in her palm. “I will marry a prince. I will take us home.”

The Pirate

Plymouth August 1817 Lucien Westfall, former commander of the HMS Victory, Comte de Rallis, and heir to the Duchy of Lycombe, sat in the corner of the tavern because long ago he had learned that with a corner at his back he could detect danger approaching from any direction. Now the corner provided the additional benefit of a limited landscape to study.

On this occasion the landscape especially intrigued.

“Ye’ve got the air o’ a hawk about ye, lad.” Gavin Stewart, ship’s physician and chaplain, hefted his tankard of ale. “Is she still looking at ye?”

“No. She is looking at you. Glaring, rather.” Luc took up from the table the letter from his uncle’s land steward, folded the pages and tucked them into his waistcoat pocket. “I think she wants you gone.”