“Why would you be dowered with your family’sentire estate? What if your father had had a son?”
“Well, my father did not have a son, but I suppose if he had done, that boy would have inherited the title only. Not the lands or the house. They are tied tomymarriage.”
“But why?” Gabriel hadn’t questioned the betrothal as a boy, but in hindsight it was a very odd arrangement, indeed.
“Money,” she said. “Your late father gave my Papa a loan at the time of the betrothal. Sorry, it’s a challenge for me to continue speaking as if you’re a stranger in all this.”
“I might as well be a stranger,” he tried.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” she said tiredly. “To answer your question: Papa has become too ill to explain his motivations, but I believe at the time, he desperatelyneeded money. He’s a good man—well-liked and respected—but he is prone to bad investments. Your father was an old friend and he gave Papa the desperately needed loan. The terms of that exchange sawyoubetrothed tome, despite the fact that we were toddlers. And my dowery would be Winscombe. It was all my father had at the time.”
“Your future marriage was the collateral on the loan?”
“Not just collateral,” she said, “it was the repayment.”
“But why did they—”
“The benefit to your father was... you would eventually own Winscombe, which is an ancient English estate so very close to the coast of France. The benefit to my father was money in the short term and a prince for his daughter in the long term. It was a bit of a shortsighted arrangement, honestly—rash and unorthodox. But there is a friendly history between our two families; generations of intermarriage and alliance. And our fathers were great friends, weren’t they? There was an understanding that you would grow up to be a generous steward of Winscombe. This was all before French princes began losing their heads to the guillotine of course.”
“Yes. A lifetime ago,” he said.
“Sorry. That was insensitive. What I mean is, I’m no student of French foreign affairs, but the French Revolution happened and we never heard from any of the d’Orleans family again. Until now. I can only guess things are looking up for royal sons of France, because this person, this imposter princeMaurice, is not shy about flaunting the title and staking claim to everything to which he feels entitled.”
“If Maurice is flaunting the title,” said Gabriel, “why pursue your obscure estate in the English channel? The portfolio of d’Orleans properties is extensive—everything from seaside villas to castles.”
“Money. Again, money—it’s the answer to so many questions, isn’t it? Maurice intends to sell Winscombe. French aristocrats have been left with very little. The rioters gutted Crown property during the Terror and now Napoleon is leading the country into its eighth year of an expensive war. Money and lands are scarce for the average French princeling, I believe.”
Gabriel thought of this. He read the papers, but it was difficult for him to guess at his family’s solvency. His father was dead, of course, but he’d lost touch with everyone else, even his mother. He tried to remember this man—his second cousin Maurice. He was older than Gabriel; a lanky youth who ran with other cousins in their teens. Gabriel outranked him, of course, but he remembered that Maurice went out of his way to treat Gabriel like a child. And he was so very preoccupied with the family’s royal blood, despite the fact that everyone in their circle was related to the king in one way or the other.
Gabriel also remembered Maurice’s zeal for almost (but not quite) taking cruel advantage of servants for sport. If a footman brought tea, he would badger the man to fetch small additions to the spread, one item at a time, for the novelty of seeing him scramble. Back and forth to the kitchens he’d send the man for a salt cellar, a larger spoon, a smaller spoon, a dish of olives, a husk of vanilla seeds, a fresh napkin, milk for the cat, open the drapes, draw the drapes—on and on it went. All of this, just for a snicker from other cousins,but Maurice thrived on the attention. Even as a boy, Gabriel had been bothered by this unnecessary abuse of rank.
“Honestly,” Lady Ryan was saying, “I would have married the imposter prince if he’d been decent and fair-minded—a man who I could remotely tolerate.” She stared into her cup. “I’m twenty-four and unmarried, with no proposals to speak of. I had no debut in London, but I’ve been out in Guernsey society—such that it is—for years. My childhood betrothal was not common knowledge. As far as anyone knows, I’m fully available. Even so, there has been no interest, so—”
She glanced at him and then away. “Why shouldn’t I consent to an arranged marriage? When the proverbial wolf has been at our door for so many years? Winscombe can be profitable, I believe, as soon as we dig out of our father’s mismanagement. He is dear to us, obviously; but his health and our financial problems are dueling burdens that encroach on two sides. As soon as we curtail one of them, the other flares. My sisters and I live with the pervasive feeling of almost-but-not-quitedrowning, as if we’re just about to reach the surface and take a breath, but then—no. We gulp down only the smallest little watery gasp, and under we go again.”
She made a sad little chuckle. “If some man turned up, claiming to be my betrothed, and he consented to join our good fight toward solvency and gave me the chance to have a family of my own, I would’ve gone along.Ifhe wasn’t terrible. But the imposter prince issovery terrible. And he has no interest in our father or increasing the productivity of Winscombe. He means to sell it off in parts and relocate me and my youngersister to France. He would leave Diana and our father behind to rot. He wants no family with me, although he does seem keenly interested in making my younger sister something like his concubine. I know it all sounds unbelievable—and trust me, it isbeyond all belief—but it’s happened. And we are scrambling to subvert it. Scrambling tooth and nail.”
Gabriel put aside her comments about her willingness to marry “just about anyone” and tried to learn more about his cousin Maurice. There must be some way to turn him out without Gabriel, himself, leaving Savernake Forest.
“This imposter prince, as you call him,” he asked, “did he simply turn up with his dogs and begin ripping jewelry from your neck? Did he size up everything at once and claim it?”
She shook her head. “No, not at first. He arrived unannounced on an ordinary summer day. He was accompanied by two carriages, a retinue of servants, and a great many trunks and dogs and horses. I was actually in the kitchen garden with our cook when they arrived. We were sorting out what vegetables we may put up for winter to clear room for autumn planting. When I saw his procession, I thought,What’s this? A traveling band of actors?I’d never seen so many flags and banners and liveried horses and trunks lashed to carriage rooftops.
“I met his herald—the man travels with his ownherald—on the front stoop and, after five minutes of convincing the man that I wasnota servant and, in fact, Lady Marianne Daventry, the man bade me to make myself ‘presentable for His Serene Highness, the Prince d’Orleans.’
“I was so confused by all of it—the carriages, and the bandying about of this royal title, and this man tsking over my perfectly presentable day dress—that I mistakenly believed the heraldwasthe prince himself—a grave insult, apparently. Also, proof of my poor breeding. It was the last straw, and the herald actually returned to the vehicles in a huff and closed himself up inside. I was standing on the stoop, trying to decide what to do, when Charlotte opened the front door.”
“Your sister?”
She nodded. “The youngest. And...” an exhale “...a singular beauty, if I do say so. Everyone else does. When she was in view, four men spilled from the carriage, and the herald announced Maurice, Prince d’Orleans, without further delay, and on and on it went. We were given no choice but to invite them inside. I rang for refreshments and Charlotte and I received them in the drawing room. The man came to ruin our lives and I served him tea. Kind of like what’s happened here between me and you,” she said taking a bite of cheese.
Gabriel ignored this. “And then they broached the topic of the betrothal?”
“No, first the lot of them—the imposter prince, his herald, various courtiers, and a steward—made certain we were all properly introduced and they understood who was who.Iwas the eldest. My sister Charlotte was the youngest, barely fifteen. Our middle sister, Diana, was in the stables that morning. My father, the earl, was indisposed. When this was sorted, they asked when they might speak to Papa.”
“Who is ill,” provided Gabriel.
“It’s his heart, we believe,” she said. “He drifts in and out of consciousness, and even when he is alert, it is only enough to eat and be washed. That day, he’d been particularly lethargic. I offered my apologies and told them the earl was not well. If I’d known their true purposes, I would’ve lied and said he was in London, or Scotland, or on the moon. But I did not know, and the imposter prince launched into a thinly veiled interrogation about Papa’s fitness, including questions about what male guardian looked after us. By the time I comprehended the very great risk of revealing too much, Charlotte had rattled off thorough answers to all of his questions. Within ten minutes, the imposter understood that we were three women living alone on a vast estate with an invalid father and no other protection. It’s obvious that Winscombe is weather-beaten and in need of repairs. He could also see that I’d remained unmarried all these years and was perfectly situated to honor the original betrothal. Finally, he saw that I had at least one beautiful sister who might be swept up to sweeten the deal.”
