Claiming the Princess (Hidden Royals #3)

Chapter 1

St. James’s Palace

London, England

“All set to procure a wife, Bannock?”

“No,” said Luke Bannock, the truth.

“What of meeting the Prince Regent, then?”

“Also, no,” Luke said. Another truth.

“But what about—?”

“For God’s sake, Fernsby,” Luke bit out, “can we enjoy silent reflection on wives and regents? For five minutes. Please.”

Fernsby cleared his throat. “You’re not nervous, Bannock? Not even a little?”

“No,” said Luke, “not even a little.”

“Well. Good for you, sir.”

“Yes, good for me. Are you nervous, Fernsby?” Luke should make some effort. Fernsby was an ally, after all.

“Well, the Prince Regent is my second cousin,” Fernsby mused.

“Is he cousin enough to grant my reward? Did I fish you out of the Atlantic Ocean for no other reason than to be peppered

with inane questions?”

“A joke!” Fernsby chortled. “You are nervous. I may chatter, but you take the piss. Never you fear, Bannock. Prince George is cousin enough. He’ll wish to appease a grateful nation.”

Luke frowned. This was no assurance at all. Prince George, now the Prince Regent, would place national appeasement just above

rewards for smugglers and second cousins, which was very low, indeed.

“I’m acquainted with the prince, obviously,” Fernsby boasted. They trailed behind a footman, winding through the dim marble

corridors of St. James’s Palace. “Family gatherings and the like. He is a very dear friend to my mother.”

Oh yes, Luke thought. Fernsby’s mother. Luke remembered the man crying out for the woman on the night of the attack.

“Here’s how I predict this meeting will unfold,” Fernsby continued. “First, I’ll be asked to read an account of the rescue.

The prince will ask how the Crown might repay you for your service. You’ll state your request—betrothal to the French girl—and

he’ll say something like, ‘It shall be done,’ and off we’ll go. This meeting is a formality—he simply wanted to meet you. Everyone wants to meet you, Bannock.”

“Must you describe the attack, James?” Luke knew Fernsby would mention the rescue, but he hated hearing their experience read aloud

like a tragic play. People lapped up the details for entertainment while Luke’s crew drowned again and again. Luke was tortured

by nightmares that replayed the attack as he slept, and they were never so vivid as when he was forced to hear the thing trotted

out at length.

“But of course we must recount the attack,” Fernsby was saying.

“It was nothing short of a miracle what you did, Bannock; the very definition of heroism.” Now they idled outside the throne room, waiting to be summoned by the prince.

“The country needs a hero, Bannock,” Fernsby went on.

“Absolutely my narrative will be read aloud. I spent a fortnight writing the thing.”

Before Luke could reply, the large doors opened and a herald intoned their names. Fernsby was off like a shot, marching the

long strip of carpet like a man in a footrace. Luke rolled his shoulders, gave his strangling cravat a yank, and began to

walk.

The Prince Regent—pink, swollen, overdressed—slouched in a golden chair at the far end of the room. Behind him, a circle of

robed advisors hovered, scribbling in dossiers. The dais was illuminated by a forest of candelabras. Servants scurried to

and fro, tending a fragrant feast on a sideboard. In the shadows, hunting dogs watched Fernsby’s frenetic march. Luke tried

to acknowledge the singularity of the experience, to marvel at the home of the king, at the flesh-and-blood prince who studied

him over the rim of his cup, but there was no mental space for marveling or acknowledging. He thought of only one thing: acquiring

the French princess.

“Remember proper address for me when we are in the company of the prince,” Fernsby whispered over his shoulder. “Never ‘James.’

Not ‘Lieutenant.’ Use the title. This is a palace, not the galley of a ship.”

“Yes, my lord,” Luke said on a sigh.

Five minutes later, after copious bowing and ring kissing, Lord Lieutenant James Roundhouse, Viscount Fernsby, was asked to

state their business before Prince George.

“If Your Royal Highness will indulge us,” Fernsby said, “I’ve prepared an account of Captain Bannock’s courage, cunning, and

unfaltering loyalty to Crown and Country on the night of September 12, 1812. As the only other surviving soul . . .” and here

a humble head tilt “. . . I’ll endeavor to represent the man and his actions.”

Luke eyed the prince. In his experience, men of elevated rank preferred narratives of their own courage and cunning rather than the achievements of others. The prince took a slurp from his bejeweled goblet and said, “Off

you go, then, Jamie.”

Fernsby exhaled and unfurled a piece of parchment. Clearing his throat, he began to read:

“ ‘Sir, the man standing before you, your loyal subject Captain Lucas Michael Bannock, is nothing short of a national hero.’ ”

Oh for God’s sake, Luke thought.

“ ‘He has, to my witness, demonstrated honor, and valor, and prodigious courage under the most violent of aggressions. Accounts

of his bravery and fierceness have been, I’m proud to report, no exaggeration.’ ”

Getting on with it, Luke sang in his head.

“ ‘Mr. Bannock hails from the village of Helford, near Falmouth, in Cornwall,’ ” Fernsby read. “ ‘A mariner by trade, he’s

widely known and well respected in the county, with family ties to the Earl of Canham, also of Cornwall.’ ”

Never one to tolerate gross inaccuracies, Luke translated the truth in his head. The man standing impatiently before you is Luke Bannock. If ever he spared a thought for King or Country, it was to evade customs officials. He’s Cornish by birth,

a smuggler by trade, and the unacknowledged bastard son of the Earl of Canham’s eldest daughter. He is largely unknown to the decent people of Cornwall, which is his strong preference.

“ ‘Since the early days of fighting French forces in Spain,’ ” Fernsby continued, “ ‘Mr. Bannock has given his time, resources, property—in fact risked his very life—for the cause of English victory in the Peninsula. Specifically, he’s sailed more than one hundred voyages across the Celtic Sea to deliver War Office dispatches to officers on the battlefield in Northern Spain.’ ”

Luke rolled his neck again. Fernsby’s penchant for hyperbole was painful. Why not say what actually happened? Since the early days of fighting in Spain, the Royal Navy has thrown pots of money at Captain Bannock in exchange for his

begrudging assistance. When the Navy’s payouts exceeded Luke’s smuggling profits, Bannock agreed to ferry War Office paperwork

back and forth to Spain.

“ ‘Captaining his own vessel, a thirty-five-foot schooner christened Phoenix, aided by his loyal crew of twenty-five local men,’ ” Fernsby went on, “ ‘Captain Bannock has out-sailed, out-fought, or

stealthily evaded French warships and blockades, pirates and privateers, winter squalls and summer storms. In so doing, Bannock

and his courageous crew established an essential link in the chain of communication between the War Office and military leadership

in Spain, thereby saving the lives of countless English fighting men.’ ”

Luke blinked, determined to keep his face without expression. Was the repeated reference to his “loyal crew” necessary? They

weren’t a single body of mindless loyalists, they were individuals and friends. They were young men who’d signed on for the

lucrative work of smuggling brandy and wound up running errands for the king. And drowning for their trouble.

“ ‘I’ve had the privilege of serving as War Office attaché on five sailings with Captain Bannock,’ ” Fernsby continued. “ ‘And

I stand here today, a living man and instead of a ghost, because of his actions on our fifth and final sailing. It cannot

go unmentioned that while Bannock managed to save my life, all six marines in my detachment and the entirety of his crew was

either captured or—’ ”

And now Luke stopped translating. The memories poured in, cold and deadly; his lungs constricted and his throat clamped shut.

Luke ground his teeth, fighting the urge to walk away from this unnecessary account, from this room, from the palace.

Of course he couldn’t go; not if he wanted to acquire the French princess, not if he meant to avenge the ones who did not survive.

“ ‘Phoenix was nimble and quick, cutting a smooth line through heavy fog that night, chased by heavy rains to the west,’ ” continued

Fernsby. “ ‘The sky was moonless and the seas were rough. The low visibility and rising wind worked together to conceal a

lurking French lugger called Kersaint. The lugger outgunned Phoenix and was crewed by double the men. It was under the command of decorated French captain Vincent Surcouf, known also as the

Comte d’Moulac.

“ ‘We were fifty nautical miles east of the Spanish coast when Kersaint sailed upon us. The French captain brought the lugger close, sliding into place starboard. With no preamble or fight, he

demanded our surrender.

“ ‘Captain Bannock, as you’ll learn, would sooner die than surrender, and he leaped to action, rallying his gunners. But Surcouf

had navigated so close, Phoenix’s guns could not depress to fire.

Without the guns, Captain Bannock signaled his crew to board the crowding French lugger and go hand-to-hand instead.

The crew of Phoenix—experienced fighters, one and all—scrambled for swords and grapples, but before they could broach the hull of Kersaint, the lugger dropped sail, caught wind, and pulled away, maneuvering backward as quickly as it had come alongside. Before

Bannock’s gunners could return to their own guns, Kersaint—now with enough range to fire—let loose a barrage of artillery, firing upon Phoenix at close range.

The cannon blast destroyed Phoenix’s foremast and killed half of Bannock’s boarding party.

Now dead in the water, Phoenix listed drunkenly, drawn sideways by its felled mast.