Gabe considered it. “Very well, but you—” He stabbed a finger at the count. “—behave yourself. I would not have any lady exposed to your uncouth behavior.”
He led them to the drawing room, opened the door, and said, “You see, Sir Walter? No stolen prince or princess.”
Count Anton shoved past them. “Aha!” he exclaimed in triumph and pointed to the woman sitting in front of the fire with her back to them. “There she is!”
Tibby turned with raised eyebrows. “I beg your pardon,” she said with frosty disapproval. She glanced from Gabe, to Sir Walter, to the count. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”
Gabe turned to the squire. “This is Miss Tibthorpe, whose house was burned down yesterday. I have offered her refuge here, indefinitely.”
The squire bowed. “Miss Tibthorpe, may I offer my sincere condolences on your loss. It was a shocking thing—”
“A shocking thing indeed when one’s house is burned under one.” Tibby stared fiercely at the count. “My sole comfort is the sure and certain knowledge that the perpetrator will burn in hell!”
The count prowled toward her in a threatening manner. Gabe stepped in between them. “One more step…” he said in an icy voice.
Ethan moved in to stand beside Miss Tibthorpe. He said nothing, but his stance made it clear he’d heard the exchange.
The count snarled at Tibby, “Where is she? Where is ze princess?”
“Which princess do you mean?” Tibby said calmly. “I am acquainted with several.”
The count gave a growl of frustration and glanced suspiciously around the room. Spotting a pair of small shoes behind a curtain he pounced. “Aha!” He dragged back the curtain and pulled out a small boy.
“Oy, watcher doin’? Lemme go, ya big ape!” Jim pulled free with a string of bad language that in normal circumstances would have had Mrs. Barrow reaching for a bar of soap to scrub out his mouth with. She beamed proudly at him from the doorway.
“The stolen crown prince, I believe,” Gabe said to Sir Walter. “He learned that language from the gypsies, no doubt.”
“Pah, he is nothing but a beggar boy!”
“Who are you callin’ a beggar—” Jim began before he was hushed by Mrs. Barrow.
The count stabbed an accusing finger at Tibby. “This woman knows Princess Caroline!”
Sir Walter pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Do you, madam?” he asked.
Tibby gave him a cool look. “Princess Caroline of Zindaria? Yes, of course I know her. She was one of my most distinguished pupils. I also had the honor of instructing the current countess of Morey, and Lady Hunter-Stanley as well as the Honorable Mrs. Charles Sandford.” She smiled graciously at Sir Walter.
“Then where is she?” The count ground out.
Tibby looked down her nose at him. “Princess Caroline left my care when she was fifteen years old.”
“You have exchanged correspondence,” the count alleged.
Tibby raised an eyebrow. “Naturally. I correspond regularly with all my girls.”
The count snapped his whip against his boot. “She was coming here, to you! She said so in her letters.”
Tibby raised both eyebrows. “Reading other people’s letters? How very dishonorable.”
“Pah! Do not evade ze question. She made arrangements to come here with the boy.”
Tibby gave a faint smirk. “Did she? Really?”
Count Anton frowned. “What do you mean?”
Tibby smoothed her skirts placidly. The mouse teasing the tiger. Gabe bit his lip. She was enjoying this, he saw. Getting even for a little of what she had suffered at his hands. Count Anton snapped his whip against his boot, harder and harder, his temper mounting, his pale eyes boring into her.
Eventually she said, “What one writes and what one does are often quite different.” She looked at the squire. “And if people who read letters not addressed to them go off on wild goose chases as a result, well…” She bared her teeth at the count in the pretext of a smile.
