Kirk nodded. “What now? Will you bring her to the palace to see the Regent? He will likely offer his protection and safe passage back to Leaudor with a contingent of English soldiers. He’ll be quite eager to restore stability to the Leaudorian throne.”
“I think you are correct in your thinking. I’d like you to go to the palace and arrange the meeting with the Regent. It will buy me some time to try and learn as much as possible from the princess. But the main thing is, she will be safe at the palace.”
“And off your hands,” Kirk said with a grin. “Then perhaps you can take a much needed break. Hole up at that estate of yours for a while and do some hunting.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to deny owning an estate. Old habits die hard. He was unused to owning much in the way of anything. His life as an operative wasn’t conducive to having more than the basic necessities.
But he knew Kirk referred to Simon’s father’s estate. The one Simon had grown up on. And left as soon as it was possible to do so. A move he had never had cause to regret until his brother’s suicide.
He couldn’t put it off forever, though. Perhaps Kirk was right. Maybe he would take a break and return to the place he had once called home. But first he had to deliver the princess to the palace.
“Go on to the palace,” he directed Kirk. “Tell His Majesty that I will deliver the princess at his convenience.”
Kirk disappeared through the door and Simon slowly made his way to the stairs. It was time to come clean with the princess.
He paused a moment outside her door, deciding on the best course of action. He was a direct person, and there wasn’t a reason to deviate from that now. It would be better just to come out and let her know he was aware of her identity then go from there.
That is if she wasn’t ready to cosh him over the head for locking her in the room.
He unlocked the door and swung it open. A rush of cold air hit him directly in the face. “What the hell?” he muttered as he stepped further into the room. His gaze skirted around the now-empty room to the open window by the bed.
Had the fool woman jumped from a second story window? He rushed over and looked down, half expecting to see her lying on the ground below. But all he saw were small footprints leading away from the window out toward the gate that lead out of the garden.
She was gone.
Chapter Two
Isabella dropped from the window to the soft ground below, wincing when she felt a twinge in her ankle. Quickly recovering, she hurried across the small garden and let herself out the gate leading to the alleyway.
She stepped to the curb and waved frantically at an oncoming hack. The last of her money would have to be spent on the fare. The meal she had just eaten would sustain her until she could think of a way to replenish her funds. She hurled herself inside and urged the driver forward.
She stared blindly out the window, the passing traffic a blur. Her fists tightened beside her, her nails digging painfully into her palms. Relief lessened some of the tension entrenched in her chest, but she knew she still had far to go.
How close had she come to disaster? And who was this man who had thrust himself so arrogantly into her path? She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and chewed in consternation. This Englishman could have close ties to the British crown, and if he did… Her thought trailed off, anger clenching her teeth tighter on her lip. The sharp, metallic taste of blood spread on her tongue, and she relaxed her jaw.
Why else would he, an earl, offer assistance to a lowly common woman? Could he know who she was? The idea sent a fresh surge of fright scurrying over her.
There was much about the earl that simply did not add up. Why did he not live in a more fashionable area? Isabella’s knowledge of London was limited, but even she knew the majority of peers lived in Mayfair or St. James. And why did he not employ a full staff? Such a fact suggested to her that he spent little time in residence.
She shook her head, angry that the earl had intruded so rudely on her top priority.
She must go back home. Now that Davide would not be meeting her in England, the responsibility for her country rested squarely on her shoulders. She was the sole heir to the throne, and if she was unable to return to take the crown, Jacques’ path to rule would be unimpeded.
Her only hope was he would be unsuccessful in the quest, but then she couldn’t count on him upholding the traditions of her country, which had been in place for centuries. He had already proven he would do whatever necessary to attain his goal. What was circumventing the sacred journey into the marble cliffs when he had done far worse?
Her stomach rolled as fear briefly paralyzed her. What ifshewas unable to complete the quest? She closed her eyes. Failure was not an option. To contemplate such would be admitting defeat.
A fingernail snapped, and she released her fingers from her steely grip. Under no circumstances would she allow a murdering traitor to upend everything her father had worked for.
When the carriage finally halted, she scrambled out and dashed into the building where she had rented a room. She quickly took stock of her sparse belongings and gathered only the things she could easily carry.
Not giving a care to the fabric, she ripped the clothing from her body then reached under the bed and brought out the pair of breeches she had secured there. She thrust her legs into pants that resembled those Davide had been wearing the last day she’d seen him. Fresh tears sprang to her eyes, and she angrily dashed them away. Her grief staggered her, but she could not give in to the overwhelming pain building within her. Her life depended on the actions she took right now, this moment.
When she was attired in the breeches, she took the discarded dress and tore long strips from the skirts. Wrapping the strips around her breasts, she secured the ends in front and tucked them underneath the binding. She threw the shirt over her head and shoved it into her breeches.
Bending over the small cot, she fumbled in the linens for the small piece of rolled up parchment she had loosened from the hem of her dress. She pulled at the collar of her shirt, reaching down to tuck the map underneath the tight binding over her breasts. She picked up her royal insignia ring, her hand closing reverently over the object of her heritage. Dropping it into a small pouch, she drew tight the strings and stuffed it just inside the waist of her pants.
They were all she had left in the form of valuables. Most of her money had been spent for information about Davide. And then, in one of life’s sick little ironies, she had read of his death in a newspaper of all things. Tucked away in black and white, seemingly unimportant, a mere tidbit of interest to the English.
