Chapter 3
Luke Bannock didn’t trust things he couldn’t understand, and he’d never understand things that couldn’t be looked up.
Princess Danielle Allard d’Orleans was remarkably un-look-up-able; not in a book, nor a newspaper, nor in a report from a
paid informant. He could research her French family of birth and locate Ivy Hill, Kent, on the map, but beyond that, she was
a mystery. He wasn’t even certain how old she’d been when she’d come to England. It was an understatement to say that she
was unknown to him. Luke scarcely crossed the road without careful study of what might lay on the other side, and now he’d ridden two
days and a night to bind himself to a question mark. His obsession with acquiring Princess Danielle had, he now realized, kept him from learning a bloody useful thing about her. He’d not dared to ask St.
James’s Palace for fear they would snatch the betrothal back.
Instead, he’d hired a man to travel to France and learn more about the exiled Orleans family.
The last thing he needed was to marry the girl, haul her to France, and discover some legal obstacle to their union.
While his man prowled about France, Luke himself spent considerable time researching princesses in general and French exiles in particular.
Exiles seemed to share one goal: to return home.
And why wouldn’t they? Born in a palace, waited upon by servants, awash in jewels?
What self-respecting royal exile would want to remain in cottage-y, sheep-thick Kent if castles and a royal court awaited them in France?
As for princesses in general, the more Luke learned, the more he realized he was marrying more of a rank or an institution
than a person. Princess Danielle was, obviously, a person, but she was a person whose life was devoted to the service of her
title. In essence, she belonged to France, a country to which Luke intended to return her. After he used her as leverage to
recover his friend, he would take her to Paris and set her free. Luke’s own mother had been the daughter of an earl—hardly
a princess, but titled just the same—and she was so very devoted to her title, she’d rejected anything that might tarnish
it, including her bastard son. Princess Danielle, he’d surmised, would be no different.
Prince George had offered to bring Princess Danielle d’Orleans to London so that his courtiers might ease the awkwardness
of their unconventional union, but Luke had refused. Too time-consuming, too much fuss. Instead, he’d dragged Fernsby to Kent
to meet her where she’d exiled for some twenty-odd years. Fernsby was, for all intents and purposes, a courtier himself. Even
better, he was predisposed to fine manners and good cheer. The introduction would go better with his air of pleasantness.
Standing here now in the sunny village of Ivy Hill, Luke cursed all the things he’d allowed himself to assume.
First of all, Princess Danielle’s house made no sense.
They’d found New Bridge Road with little effort, but the size and scale of the property was all wrong.
The cottage was tidy and boasted a thriving garden, but it was small and modest. French princesses, even in exile, surely resided in proper manor houses with private grounds for safety and a stable for livestock.
In Luke’s hometown, his mother’s family lived in a castle on a cliffside with a walled garden and a gatehouse occupied by round-the-clock guards.
“Perhaps she makes her home in all five of these cottages,” Fernsby theorized, looking at the dwellings up and down New Bridge Road. “A sort of compound? Perhaps
there’s value in hiding her within the confines of a humble cottage, but comfort in colonizing more than one of them.”
“God help me if she requires an entire street of houses to be comfortable,” Luke muttered. When Luke married the girl, he
intended to install her in the house given to him by the Prince Regent. He’d not seen the place, but it was grand enough to
have a name rather than a number—Eastwell Park, it was called—so it should be sufficient. He’d wanted to clap eyes on the
princess before he’d sorted out the house. His plan had been to quietly study the village, observe her surrogate family from
afar, get a sighting of the girl. He would make discreet inquiries, watch how the family lived, gauge her displeasure with
life in exile. When he knew more, Luke would leave his card and request to call.
Best-laid plans. He’d studied nothing and inquired of no one. His opportunity to research had vanished when he’d strode up
her garden walk. Her surrogate parents sat, gaping at him, from the other side of an open Dutch door. He had two choices:
introduce himself or run.
He’d opted to say his name. The lot of them stared back, their expressions registering shock and mild terror.
There was an old man—stooped, white-haired, watery-eyed.
He looked like a cobbler but introduced himself as Silas Dinwiddie.
Next to him—taller and straighter, her jaw clenched, her nose high—was an old woman, Mrs. Dinwiddie.
Luke knew these to be the names of Princess Danielle’s surrogate parents.
There were also two young women. The first was smallish, plumpish, with pale yellow hair. She stared at Luke as if he glowed.
A relative, Luke thought, or a neighbor. She had the look of someone paying a visit; gloves on, hat on, with the delighted,
rapt expression of someone observing gossip rather than playing a starring role in it.
Lastly, the other young woman was—
—the princess, Luke realized.
The other woman standing in the parlor was Princess Danielle Allard d’Orleans.
Luke knew this like he knew a dark cloud meant rain. The realization was a cold, brisk wind. The air pressure dropped and
there was a sharpness to the color of the light. He could but stare.
“How do you do, Captain Bannock?” she said. “Please do come in.”
Oh no, Luke thought.
I won’t come in.
Oh no—please no—not you.
She rounded shabby furniture and scattered cats, walking to the door. She had ebony hair and ivory skin. Her expression conveyed
disbelief and wariness—but also forbearance.
The very last thing I need at the moment, Luke thought, is a beautiful, forbearing storm.
He felt himself begin to sweat. The force of all he did not know began to capsize him. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself rapidly
sink. Words failed him.
“Forgive our rudeness,” Princess Danielle was saying. “You’ve taken us by surprise. We’d only this moment been speaking of you.”
“Have you been?” he asked.
Up to this point, Luke had divided his life into two parts: before he’d learned to read and comprehend things—and after. Since the “after,” he’d sworn never to return to the blind, bumbling
helplessness of the before. Largely, he’d succeeded in this, Surcouf’s surprise attack notwithstanding. He was, Fernsby once
observed, the most well-read smuggler in the history of contraband.
Except no book would help him now. Staring into the heart-shaped face of someone who appeared nothing like a pawn or an institution
and even less like a person pining for France. She appeared so young, could she be twenty? She was easily ten years younger
than Luke’s own thirty-three years. Why had he not considered her age? Or the possibility that he would find her beautiful?
Luke was drowning in all the things he’d been so foolish as to not consider.
Behind him, he could feel Fernsby craning to make his own assessment. Luke stepped up, pointlessly blocking the man who’d
been brought along to smooth over situations just like this.
“Indeed we have, sir,” she was saying.
Indeed we have, sir, Luke repeated in his head. He struggled for the next thing to say. Years ago, he’d taught himself the vocabulary and accents
of genteel speech. Smugglers made a better living if there was no man in the middle, and he preferred to negotiate directly
with buyers. He’d wanted to speak like a gentleman because quality paid quality its due. It had been no effort to learn proper
English, but now, in this moment, he could barely remember his name.
“We should be delighted to join you, miss,” Fernsby volunteered, peering around Luke. “James Roundhouse, Viscount Fernsby, at your service.” He swept off his hat.
The visiting girl with the hat made a gasping sound and reached for the arm of a chair. The two old people bobbed in deference.
The loss for words inside Luke’s head whistled on.
“Pleasure to meet you, my lord,” said the woman who was the princess. Her voice was regal and bold. The voice of royalty.
It’s her, he thought again. He was so certain this woman was Princess Danielle, Luke wondered how she’d hidden in the plain sight
of this Kentish village for so many years. Did everyone in the village simply acknowledge that a princess lived among them?
“Welcome to our home,” she was saying, ushering them inside.
“You’re too kind,” said Fernsby, striding to a chair. Luke followed, head bent, heart pounding. The room teemed with cats,
coiling around boots, flicking tails, darting beneath furniture. Fernsby sneezed and yanked a handkerchief from his waistcoat.
A white kitten was grooming itself in one of two unoccupied chairs.
Mrs. Dinwiddie said, “We’ve a tabby who’s just had kittens I’m afraid. Please excuse the little ones.”
Luke said nothing. He was somehow eight years old again, illiterate and ignorant, running wild on the docks, trying to survive
the many challenges of life in the same moment they happened.
“You have a lovely home, Mr. and Mrs. Dinwiddie,” Fernsby volunteered.
“Thank you,” said the old couple in unison.
“But is it your . . . primary residence?” Fernsby ventured gently. “That is, do you live in New Bridge Road year-round?” He blew his nose with a honk.
“Oh yes,” said Miriam Dinwiddie, pride in her voice. “This cottage belonged to my aunt. She left it to me, and when we retired