Chapter Thirty-One
“If only they’d had a white horse,” said Bartholomew, trotting along beside Gabriel on the road to Winscombe. “Think of how princely you would look if you rode in on a white horse.”
“There were no white horses,” Gabriel said, shrugging his shoulders in the tight waistcoat beneath the even tighter jacket. Everything he wore was constricting and hot. His brother-in-law, Killian, was a tall man, but he wasn’t as thick as Gabriel. Even Agnes could only do so much when there wasn’t enough fabric.
“But shouldn’t you have a crown or some other headpiece?” Bartholomew continued. “The hat looks almost better on you than it does on me—almost, but not quite—but if we’re meant to send a message, and that message is ‘The prince has come,’ I think perhaps a crown might be more obvious. I could fashion you a sort of ancient Grecian halo out of olive leaves. Are there olives, do you think, on this island?”
“No thank you,” said Gabriel. “Crowns are only used in ceremonial dress, Bartholomew. Nothing looks more fake than overplaying the part.”
They were ten minutes from Winscombe—Gabriel, Bartholomew, and Sister Marie—and they’d crested the hill that gave view to the English Channel and the ocean beyond. Bartholomew and the nun had turned up at the Winscombe stables seven hours ago—just after midnight. Gabriel had almost run them through with a pitchfork before he’d realized who they were.
“What are you doing here?” Gabriel had whispered, raising his lantern to their faces.
“We’re here to return the maid of Lady Ryan,” Bart had whispered back.
“Return who?”
“The maid. Agnes. Lady Ryan left her behind.”
“Ryan left everything behind. She traveled only with a small satchel. What are you doing here?”
“Your sister sent us, Highness,” the nun, Sister Marie, had told him, speaking in French.
He’d turned to stare, stunned by the use of his title. He’d blinked into the darkness allowing the words to hit him over the head, to see if they knocked him out.
Your sister sent us, Highness.
Elise, trying to reach him still. The title; popping up to startle him like a ghost.
But the nun hadn’t sounded adoring or subjugated when she’d said it; she simply sounded practical. And a little impatient.
“Incidentally,” Bartholomew had continued, “we’ve left the maid Agnes at the hotel in St. Peter.”
Gabriel had looked back at him. “Why?” He’d been so confused.
“Because we’ve also brought a traveling case of Killian’s clothes, and Agnes is going to”—and here Bartholomew had made the gesture of scissors—“sew you into them until you look like a proper prince. Also, we left her behind because she’s deuced annoying. Not an ideal travel companion in carriages nor boats. Riding horseback from the hotel to Winscombe was out of the question. I hope she’s as proficient with a needle and thread as Elise claims, because she complains. A lot. Many tears. And repeated requests for the privy. But never you fear. We contained her in the hotel with hot chocolate. She’s waiting. But we shouldn’t tarry. She has the look of a bolter, honestly, and she’s very close to home.”
And then Gabriel—despite his fatigue, despite the lack of a solid plan, despite the fact that pretending to embody his real identity felt very similar to simply accepting that identity—had experienced an epiphany. He’d realized that a full life, richly lived, came with no guarantee of rest, or a plan, or control. There were compromises, and wild guesses, and degrees.
Perhaps humanity set up some men as princes and others as horsemen and perhaps he could—in the name of love—be both of them, come what may. For a time. In the name of love.
And so Bartholomew and Sister Marie had hauled him to St. Peter and set about kitting him out like a prince. He wore Killian’s suit. He had a haircut and a shave. He’d squeezed into fine boots and a shiny hat and very tight kid gloves. When all of it was finished, Gabriel had looked in the mirror and barely recognized the man who stared back.
No, that hadn’t been entirely true—he’d seen his father’s face. The sight of this had caused him to step away from the others, to sit on the foot of the bed, to drop his head, and mourn. He’d mourned his father—a prince who’d given his life to starving, outraged people; people who’d loved him one summer and wanted him dead the next.
He’d mourned the loss of his mother, who sent her children away and never looked back.
He’d mourned his sister, who’d been lost to him for fifteen years—who’d suffered in her own way, and who’d started a new family when her own family was too dead, or too selfish, or too damaged to come for her.
Gabriel had also acknowledged that, despite the pain of exile, his parents had provided the boys’ school in Marlborough as an escape route that might keep him safe. He had not been safe, but he had not been unhappy. And he’d also stayed alive.
Finally, he’d spared a moment for Samuel Rein—a man who wouldn’t recognize him now, clean-shaven and wearing fine clothes. Samuel had taken an angry, terrified little prince from the forest floor and made him into a man.
When he’d thought of these things and smoothed them out like open letters inside his heart, Gabriel had told Bartholomew and Sister Marie that he was ready. They’d traded in the modest mount from yesterday for a stallion.
“Did you intend to reveal yourself as prince, even if we’d not come, Gabriel?” Bart asked now, riding beside him.
“Yes, I did intend to,” Gabriel said. “But this is better. A very large part of being royal—”
“—is wardrobe!” provided Bartholomew. “Elise said the same thing.”
“She knows. It’s why I grew a beard and wore skins in the forest,” Gabriel said. “It made me the opposite of a prince.”
“I wasn’t meant to force you to wear the clothes,” admitted Bartholomew. “When we found you. They sent me to be a silent source of useful assistance. And only if you needed me. Also, to miss the first week of the new school term.”
“You will not miss school, my lord,” said Marie from behind them.
“It was Ryan’s sister Diana who convinced me,” Gabriel said. “Last night. Do you know what she said when she met me?”
“That you were large and hairy and frightening?”
Gabriel snorted. “‘Not impressed.’ That’s what she said. I’d spent years descending into this bearded, muscled, imposing man, but in the end, I made no impression at all. Not as a forest-dwelling woodsman, and certainly not as a prince. She saw me only as a lackluster husband for her sister. And, she wasn’t mistaken.”
“Do not deceive yourself,” said Bartholomew, “my friend Denny and his brothers were terrified of you. You are worthy of a passing glance, I assure you.”
“I don’t care how I appear,” Gabriel said. “Truly. But, I can be compelled to make the necessary impression, if only for a day. I can do this for Ryan.”
“Brilliant,” sang Bartholomew. “Will there be fighting?”
“No there will not be,” said Sister Marie from behind them.
Ryan was seated at the breakfast table, her marriage license laid out before her, the d’Orleans signet ring on her finger. She’d dressed in clothes from her own wardrobe; a pale pink day dress that had been her mother’s, the fabric turned, the darts removed, and the waist raised to be less old-fashioned. Her hair was tied back with a ribbon. Her mind was clear of Gabriel Rein. She would deal with his abandonment and her shattered heart later—after she’d saved her family and restored order to her home. There was something about a broken heart that helped put this business with the childhood betrothal into perspective. She was not afraid of Maurice, not anymore. After the chaos of emotions she’d experienced in the last month, fear had moved to the back of the line. She was resolved.
She heard Maurice’s two dogs before she saw them; their claws tapping on the stone floor and ravenous sniffing. Ryan closed her eyes. The dogs preceded him to any room; he would be moments away. It was time. She would not, she vowed, indulge the pretense of small talk. There’d been too many shows of mannerly reserve when he’d first come. Manners made most things easier, even unlawful subjugation. But the takeover of a family should not be easy for Maurice. It should be very, very difficult. As someone who’d devoted her life to making things easier for everyone, Ryan was long overdue to be difficult.
She would say the words the moment he entered, no preamble—not even a hello. She would invite him to see for himself; to study the license. She would extend her hand and offer the ring for his scrutiny.
She would say, This will not happen again, and again, and again. If necessary, Diana waited in the next room with a musket.
“Ryan!” called a breathless voice from two rooms away. It was Charlotte, racing down the stairs. They’d tucked her safely away with Papa and bade her not to come down for any reason. And yet—
“Pardon me, er, Highness,” Charlotte could be heard saying next, her voice surprised and excited. Ryan head footfalls on the marble in the great hall. Next came dogs barking and Maurice’s snarl.
“Pardon me, pardon me, pardon me,” sang Charlotte. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Ryan looked to the door that concealed Diana and her musket. Her sister poked her head out, confused and worried.
What?Diana mouthed.
Ryan shook her head.
“She promised to remain with Papa,” Diana hissed.
“Ryan!” Charlotte called breathlessly—and then she was there, skidding to a stop in the dining room doorway with Maurice’s hateful dogs on her heels. She clung to the doorjamb, panting.
“Look out the window, Ryan!” cried Charlotte. “Someone is coming! Look!”
“Either stop shouting or stand on a chair, Charlotte,” Diana called to her. “He’ll not call off his dogs and they become agitated when voices are raised.”
“The dogs,” came Maurice’s voice from the corridor, “have done no wrong. They are perfectly well-mannered unless provoked. What is the fuss—”
“Look!” insisted Charlotte, pointing to the window as she climbed onto a chair. “Out the window. Ryan, you must look!”
Ryan glanced at Diana—and then, heart in her throat, she stepped to the window. Diana crowded in beside her, musket in hand. With shaking fingers, Ryan pressed back the sheer drapery. The day was cloudless and bright; she blinked in the morning sun.
“My God,” whispered Diana.
“What is it?” Maurice snapped from behind them. “Lady Charlotte, get down from there. You girls have the manners of rabble, I swear it.”
Ryan ignored him. She ignored the sun in her eyes, and the dogs sticking their pointed noses into her skirts. She ignored the laughter bubbling from Diana beside her. She saw only the man riding slowly, proudly, mounted tall on a gray stallion, to the gates of Winscombe. Behind him, the grooms and coachmen of Maurice’s caravan bowed on bended knee, faces to the earth.
“But is that him?” whispered Diana in disbelief.
“Who?” demanded Maurice, striding to the next window, yanking back the drapes.
Maurice drew breath to make some comment, but he fell silent at the scene outside the window. He gaped.
Finally, he asked, “And who is that meant to be?”
But he knew—Maurice knew. And Ryan knew. And anyone with eyes could see that an actual, honest-to-God prince had just cantered through the gates of Winscombe. His Serene Highness, a Prince of the Blood.
“I told you!” cheered Charlotte from atop her chair. “I saw him from Papa’s window. Jenkins has hauled Papa from bed to see it. Papa believes him to be his old friend, Prince Phillipe. But I said—”
Ryan didn’t answer, she snatched up the marriage license and fled the room, sprinted down the front hall, and threw open the front door. Maurice’s dogs bolted beside her, running to the horses with a chorus of barks.
Gabriel looked up, working the reins to control his mount. He made his familiar clicking noise, settling both the stallion and the dogs. Then, he lifted his face to the house and looked at her.
The sun beamed down, warming her, reflecting a pink glow from her dress. The breeze died; the ocean over the distant cliff went still. Ryan was suspended in a blinding moment of deliverance.
He’d come. He’d come for her.
And oh, God, just look at him. He was every bit himself and also every bit a prince. For a nervous moment, Ryan lost heart. He looked so transformed with a clean-shaven face; in the hat of a proper gentleman; with gleaming boots and a riding crop and a wool jacket. He looked magnificent. The most refined, handsome, brilliantly turned-out man she’d ever seen. Tears of pride and love filled Ryan’s eyes. She sucked in a breath. Charlotte and Diana crowded on the stoop beside her but came up short, gaping at the striking figure of a proud prince on a dancing horse.
“There is nothing to see!” Maurice was insisting from behind them. “The Daventrys have a caller—a neighbor or a peddler, no doubt...”
Ryan glanced back. Winscombe’s curious staff and Maurice’s twitchy entourage pushed behind him, straining to have a look.
“Come,” whispered Ryan, taking her sister’s hands. “Let everyone see. Make room.”
She clipped down the steps, pulling Diana and Charlotte with her. A scrum of mystified staff and courtiers spilled onto the stoop.
“Is this the same person from the barn?” marveled Diana, squinting at Gabriel.
“Everyone curtsy,” whispered Ryan breathlessly, pulling them toward him. “When we reach him, we’ll curtsy.”
Ryan knew he’d seen her, but she had yet to catch his eye. He’d affected a detached sort of arrogance; he kept his gaze elevated and remote. He spoke in French to—
And now Ryan looked more closely...
—to Sister Marie and Bartholomew, who trailed behind him on their own mounts.
But how had they—?
But when had—?
“Good morning, Princess,” Gabriel said in French, spinning his stallion.
Ryan locked eyes with him. His expression was formal and resolved.
Ryan stared at him—looked deep in his eyes—searching for some sign that he could manage it, that he wanted this, really wanted this. His horse spun again, and he whipped about, seeking her out. When their eyes met, he cocked an eyebrow and... winked.
Ryan let out a little gasp. Immediately she dipped into a curtsy. Beside her, Diana and Charlotte dropped into their own deep curtsies.
“Good morning, Highness,” she said.
“What is the meaning?” demanded Maurice, pushing his way through the crowded stoop. “What, I ask you? Truly? You must be joking.” He clipped down the steps. “Who the devil are you? What is this? Playacting?”
Ryan and her sisters turned to watch him. His voice was bold, but Ryan could see the careful study he made of Gabriel’s face. All around him, Winscombe staff had followed Ryan’s lead and dropped into bows and curtsies. Maurice’s courtiers looked uneasy and confused.
“Get up,” shouted Maurice. “Get up—all of you. I am the Prince d’Orleans. Where was this respect and supplication when I arrived? Pray?”
“Hello, cousin,” Gabriel said in French, his voice bored and weary. He dismounted and Bartholomew leaped from his mount and took the reins.
“Careful how you address me, sir—you’re no cousin of mine,” Maurice said, answering in English. “I’ve never before seen you in my life. What is your business here?”
“Forgive my tardiness, I was detained yesterday in port. But I’m here now; come to join my wife, the Princess Marianne, and to see her family. We were married in a private ceremony in England.”
Gabriel dusted his hands, slapping them together. He turned and tossed his whip to Bartholomew who caught it and smothered a youthful shout.
“I’ll not stand for this charade,” threatened Maurice, speaking now in fast, spitting French. “If you believe yourself to know me, sir; or to know this family, be prepared to prove your identity with more than a proud gallop and a shiny hat.”
“And what did I say about a crown?” Bartholomew asked beneath his breath.
“Servants are easily fooled,” Maurice declared, “and Lady Marianne and her sisters have ample motivation to play along. She was averse to me from the very beginning—and for no reason. Stupid chit—”
And now Gabriel lunged. It was, Ryan thought, one of her very favorite things to observe. She’d seen it first with Channing Meade and again with Nevil Stanhope. He’d also lunged at Ryan herself several times, although with a different purpose. He was ever so quick and light on his feet.
Now he took Maurice by the shoulders and backed him into the side of Winscombe’s great stone facade. He pinned him there, lowered his face to Maurice’s, and spoke rapidly in whispered French.
Maurice summoned his courtiers to pull him off, but no one moved. He made a general cry for help in English and in French. He shouted for his dogs. The assembled staffers, courtiers, sisters did nothing. Even the dogs kept back. All of them watched as Gabriel informed his cousin of who he was, and who Maurice was not, and what would happen next.
“Oh brilliant,” Bartholomew was saying, “I’d hoped there would be fighting.”
“My lord,” warned Sister Marie.
Bartholomew ignored her and sidled his way to Ryan’s sister Charlotte.
“Hello,” the boy said to Charlotte. “In the spirit of revealing true identities, I’m actually not a royal page, but an earl, if you can believe it. Earl Dunlock. How do you do? But can you tell me: If your sister is married to the brother of my aunt—are you and I related, do you think?”
It was funny, and marginally concerning, and so very much in character for Bartholomew, but Ryan couldn’t warrant it. She saw only Gabriel, clean-faced, poshly dressed, blindingly handsome, avenging and confident and walking toward her. Choosing her.
She let out a little whimper, watching him come.
“Princess Marianne,” he said, walking to her.
“Yes?” she whispered.
“Where is my welcome?”
He was close enough then, and she threw herself into his arms.
“You came,” she breathed. “Look at you. You came for me.”
“Sorry for the delay,” he whispered into her ear. “We wanted to head off any and all arguments, didn’t we? We wanted it to stick. Bart and the nun arrived, and I recognized the opportunity to do it up properly.”
“You’re brilliant.”
“I’m in love,” he told her, kissing her neck. “I’m so very in love with you, Lady Ryan Daventry d’Orleans. If you’ll have me, I want to have a go at a real marriage.”
“Yes,” she said, crying against him. “Yes. I want that too—so much. It’s all I want. I love you, too, Gabriel. I love you so very much.”