February 1815
It was a good day to die.
But perhaps she was already dead, her body merely refusing to acknowledge what her heart knew.
Princess Isabella Genevieve Elizabeth Chastaine walked across the Westminster Bridge, agony infusing each of her steps. She was to have met Davide here when he arrived in England. It was the only landmark they could think of in the short time before they parted ways in Leaudor.
Cold wind blew over her, raising goose pimples down her spine. She wished she had gloves and a coat, anything to keep her warm. Her flight to England had not allowed for anything beyond the clothes on her back, and they were much too fine for her to blend into obscurity. She had traded them for food, a dress and a set of boys clothing. But her meager food supplies had run out. And now, so had her time.
The clatter of carriages crossing back and forth over the bridge beat a steady rhythm. She stared at them with unseeing eyes. In the distance, smoke billowed from the countless factories. How she hated this place. The crowded city, the offensive smells, the heavy cape of gloom that seemed to drape the rooftops. Though today marked a surprising reprieve from such conditions.
She gazed upwards. For once the London sky wasn’t dark with the shadow of clouds. The brilliant blue hinted at more spring-like conditions, and she squinted against the bright sunlight. She marveled at how the day could be so outwardly beautiful and peaceful when her world had come to an end. Surely the normal gray canvas was more appropriate.
How she longed for the raw beauty of her homeland. The rolling green hills sloped gently to the base of the rugged mountain ridge that spanned the entire northern front of Leaudor. To the west, the Marble Cliffs stood a proud monument to the strength of her country. If only she were as strong.
She shuffled forward until she reached the center of the bridge. The discomfort of the cold hardly matched the raw pain that clawed at her throat, enticing her to scream. But she stared stoically out over the Thames and drew on her rapidly depleting reserves to squelch the cry that swelled in her throat. How easy it would be to slip over the side and drop painlessly into the water below. Would she even feel the hand of death wrapping around her?
She shook her head, berating herself for entertaining the thought. This was no time to get mired down in self-pity. Her people needed her. She had a duty to uphold, a legacy to protect, and most importantly, she had revenge to seek.
A hot tear slipped down her cold cheek. Davide. Good, kind Davide was dead. The only person she had left in the world and he was gone. When she had read the news in a London newspaper, she hadn’t wanted to believe it.
Her fingers curled tightly around the icy stone of the ledge, the roughness abrasive to her bare hand. Her thin dress offered little in the way of protection from the biting cold, but she felt little beyond the grief clouding her mind and her soul.
She’d lost everything that mattered, and she’d never felt more alone than at this moment. A fresh wave of despair hit her so hard, her knees buckled, and she leaned against the bridge for support. Her tears splashed onto the stone below, and she watched as they slipped from view perhaps to mingle with the dark waters of the Thames.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two men approaching. Slowly, she leaned forward then turned her head ever so slightly to take in the source of her attention. They stared at her, their rough appearance striking fear within her. She blinked rapidly to dispel the tears. Her vision clearer now, she chanced another look. She didn’t believe in coincidences, and this was not the first time she had seen these two.
They moved purposefully toward her, making no attempt at subtlety. A few short months ago, such action would have caused her no alarm, but attempted assassination had a way of making her wary. Of everyone and everything. Anger quickly overrode her choking grief even as fear pricked her consciousness.
They weren’t overly large, and she was confident she could manage escape, but she never liked it when she was outnumbered. And lately the odds had been anything but even.
She quickly weighed her options. She could stay and confront the two men. She could run, though she wouldn’t likely get far in her current mode of dress. Or she could jump over the side of the bridge and take her chances in the Thames.
Her nose wrinkled in distaste. The way she saw it, none of the options afforded much comfort. Her hands grasped the ledge of the bridge once more. She would just have to pray Father Ling’s tutelage in the fighting arts didn’t let her down now.
A warm hand closed over hers. “I wouldn’t advise doing that if I were you. The waters are quite frigid this time of year.”
She spun around ready to do battle. How had this man gotten so close without her notice? “What are you about, sir?” she asked, attempting to inflect enough righteous indignation in her voice to dissuade him. But she feared it came out more as a terrified croak.
“My apologies for startling you, madam. I merely sought to prevent a most unpleasant incident.”
Her eyes narrowed as she quickly took stock of this new, startling situation. “And what incident would that be?” She glanced sideways to see where the two ruffians were and was satisfied to see their progress halted for the moment.
Turning her attention back to the man in front of her, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth as she decided if he meant her harm.
“You will pardon my presumption, but it appeared as though you may have been contemplating leaping over the side.” His deep voice rumbled over her and held a slight tone of concern.
She relaxed ever so slightly and stared balefully at him. “Your gallantry is appreciated, sir, but I had no such intention.” A tiny twinge of guilt bit her as she remembered briefly contemplating just that.
“What is your name?” he asked, a little too much interest flashing in his dark eyes.
She tensed once more when she caught him glancing over at the men who stood a distance away. Suspicion heightened her senses, and she studied this stranger intently. He was far too well dressed to be with these men. His overcoat parted to reveal the expensive cut of his waistcoat. Smooth breeches encased muscular thighs and polished Hessians gleamed in the bright sunlight. His crisp British accent held more aristocratic tones, surely a step up from the thugs who watched her in the distance. But her instincts screamed that he was every bit as dangerous, even as he smiled warmly at her.
“My name is B-Beth,” she said, hating herself for stammering over the lie.
His eyes narrowed, and he pushed a lock of dark brown hair over his left ear. It was an impatient gesture as if he in no way believed her.
He stared hard at her. “Well, Beth, it is simply something my conscience will not allow, to leave a woman in distress. If you will pardon my forwardness, it appears as though you could do with a good meal and a warm fire. My home is not far from here. I will see to it that you have both.”
