Chapter 3 #2
from service in St. James’s Palace, we came straightaway. Silas’s family home is in Scotland, obviously.”
“Oh very good,” affirmed Fernsby. “I knew several Dinwiddies in school. Excellent chaps. Crack shots. You’re a devoted huntsman
I presume, Mr. Dinwiddie? I’ve never met a Scotsman who wasn’t.”
“No, my lord,” said Silas Dinwiddie. “I relocated to London as a youth and left all of that behind, didn’t I.” He glanced
at his wife.
“Well, your hearing’s been saved, then, and good for you,” said Fernsby, sneezing again. “Gunshot takes a toll on the ears.
But the primary sport in Kent must be fishing, is it not?”
No one agreed nor disagreed about the primary sport in Kent. The conversation faded into mindless chatter about the weather.
Luke glanced at the woman he was certain was Princess Danielle. He may have failed to learn enough about her, but he knew
plenty about himself. When it came to women, Luke’s strong preference had always been easy, and generous, and soft. Taken
as a whole, Luke’s life had not been what he’d call “carefree.” Because of this, he never invited more struggle when he could
choose less. Danielle Allard d’Orleans looked like she would be . . . if not a struggle precisely, then certainly a colossal
amount of effort.
It could not be said enough: She was so bloody young. Not a child, but energetic and pure; while he was weathered and hard-lived. The light behind her eyes was bright and clear. At the moment, she had the look of something small and fast that was about to bolt.
Luke had not prepared himself to give chase on this visit. He was hardly a lazy man, but something about her made him question his own stamina. The act of rescuing his
old friend Linus Welty would require a great deal of work. The currency he would use to make it all happen—Princess Danielle—was
meant to require no work at all. Luke had earned this currency (he’d earned her) by treading water for three days with Fernsby clinging to his broken shoulder. At this point, he’d grown weary of treading.
He would swim no more.
“Captain Bannock knows a thing or two about fishing,” Fernsby was saying, “considering his Cornish roots.”
The occupants of the room turned to study Luke. The princess looked at him as if he was something fanged and scaled that might
rise from the depths. A cat leaped into Luke’s lap and Fernsby sneezed again.
Enough, Luke thought. He’d been taken by surprise and he had no background information, but he was not helpless, nor was he a coward.
He must discover the truth.
“I beg your pardon on behalf of my friend,” Luke said. “I fear Lord Fernsby suffers from a sensitivity to cats. It was never
our intent to impose on your morning, and we will not linger. However, before we go, might I be so bold as to inquire after
the names of the ladi—”
“Oh but we’ve been terribly remiss, haven’t we?
” cut in Silas Dinwiddie, shoving up. “Please allow me to introduce our Dani and her friend. Lord Fernsby, Captain Bannock, please meet our neighbor, Miss Amelia Broom.” He extended a hand to the young woman with the flowered hat.
Amelia Broom floated from her seat, stealing glances under lowered lashes. She sank into a deep curtsy.
Fernsby stood and Luke followed. The cat in Luke’s lap meowed in protest, and Luke clutched him to his ribs.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Broom,” said Fernsby.
“How do you do,” Luke muttered.
“And,” added Silas Dinwiddie, extending a shaking palm to the other young woman, “our, er, daughter, Danielle Allard.”
Luke minced through the man’s words, searching for titles. He did not hear “Princess,” or “Her Serene Highness,” which was
the address for members of the Orleans branch of the French royal family. There’d not even been a “Miss” before her given
name. Why? Why say her name—Luke had heard it, clear as day—but not her title? What the devil was going on? Luke glanced at the old
man. He was flushed and sweating and staring at his daughter like she was about to ship out with the Navy.
“How do you do?” Fernsby was saying.
“Hello,” Luke said, inclining his head. He gave a shallow smile, waiting for someone in the room to say more. Instead, silence
settled around them like cat dander. The women retook their seats. Luke and Fernsby followed. Out of sheer frustration, Luke
began stroking the cat on his knee. The animal tried to bite his glove with every pass.
Finally, he said, “Forgive me, but I was given to believe—”
“Dani, dear,” cut in Silas, “but should we offer the gentlemen a cup of tea?”
And now the old man had interrupted him twice. Luke didn’t stand on ceremony, but the rudeness was impossible to miss. Was
Silas Dinwiddie trying to curtail his questions?
“Tea?” challenged Danielle Allard, looking to her father.
“Of course, dear,” said her mother. “And why shouldn’t we offer tea? There’s water in the kettle, it’s just a matter of stoking the fire and doing up a tray. You know the one, don’t you? Amelia will help you.”
The girl called Amelia stood, but Danielle Allard did not move. She glanced at her friend, then back to her mother. “Tea?”
she repeated skeptically. “Now?”
“If you don’t mind, Moppet,” soothed Silas. “In my view, there’s never a bad time for tea. I presume these gentlemen have
traveled all the way from London. Amelia Broom will help you.”
“There are tarts, made only yesterday,” reminded Miriam Dinwiddie, a subtle snap to her voice.
Danielle Allard stared at them, a little confused, a little suspicious, a little annoyed. Silent questions darted through
the room like crows. The assembled cats looked back and forth between the old couple and the young woman.
“Dani?” warned Miriam Dinwiddie.
“Yes, yes, alright,” Danielle Allard finally said. She gestured to her friend. Amelia Broom looked as if she’d been chosen
by King Arthur to take a seat at the Round Table. Danielle Allard looked as stiff and trapped as the sword in the stone.
“There’s a good girl,” praised Silas Dinwiddie. “Off you go.”
“I make it a rule never to decline tea,” proclaimed Fernsby, wiping his nose, “if it’s not too much bother.”
“No bother at all,” assured Silas, smiling after the young women. When they had gone, he spun to Luke. “I beg your pardon,
sir, but are you a good man? A fair man? Just and kind?”
“What?” Luke said on a cough. His hand froze over the cat and tiny teeth dug into his glove.
“Forgive my plain speaking, sir,” whispered Silas Dinwiddie, his voice frantic, “but we must know. Before another word is said. Are you a good man?”
“I . . .” Luke was completely at a loss. He’d considered his “goodness” about as much as he’d considered his ability to fly
to the moon. Although, when it came to this man’s daughter, Luke’s intentions were not, to the point, “ideal.”
“If you’ll permit me, sir,” said Fernsby, cutting in, “I can vouch for Captain Bannock and will do ’til my last breath. You’ll
find him to be the very best of men. Accounts of his bravery and valor have not been exaggerated, nor has the praise heaped
upon him by my cousin, the future king. Cast your worries aside, sir, madam, I’d wager to say there is no better a man than Luke Bannock.”
Slowly, Luke turned to stare at James Fernsby. Never let it be said that the viscount did not repay a life debt. And with
an unnecessary level of hyperbole. Fernsby knew Luke intended to use Danielle Allard d’Orleans as bait and barter to get revenge
on Vincent Surcouf. And yet, here he was, proclaiming Luke’s goodness to her parents. Luke felt his face go red. The backs
of his wrists tingled. These were lies, and Luke was prisoner to all of them. If he wanted the princess, he could not contradict.
And Luke absolutely had to have the princess. There was no other way to rescue Linus.
“Oh, thank God,” Silas Dinwiddie was saying. “I knew the palace would not send a dishonorable man. When I read the letter
from St. James’s, I said to myself, ‘Prince George would send only the very best.’ ” He was nodding hopefully at Luke.
“A letter, was it?” Luke said carefully.
Luke expected the princess to know of the betrothal; of course the palace would send word.
He meant to only fill in his motives. But something was missing from this introduction.
There was far more to fill in here than simply what Luke required from this girl.
“And Dani also knows that she is to become your wife,” added Miriam. “Although only just. We’d managed to tell her about the
betrothal the moment you knocked, if you can believe it.”
“I cannot say what I believe.”
“But sir,” whispered Silas, “we must confess to you that the betrothal is the only thing Dani knows.” He cast a glance at the kitchen door.
“Meaning . . . ?” Luke asked slowly.
“I mean, Danielle has been raised in our care without the knowledge of her true identity.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Dani’s rank and title,” explained Silas, “they are unknown to her. She has no notion that she is a princess. Or that she’s
French, for that matter.”
“You’re joking.”
Miriam drew in a watery breath and dropped her face in her hands. Silas Dinwiddie closed his eyes. Slowly, he shook his head.
“Oh dear,” said Fernsby. “But how has she—”
Luke cut him off with a raised hand. “Forgive me. I would like to comprehend. Are you saying that Danielle Allard d’Orleans
has been raised here in this village—in this very cottage—under the impression that she is your daughter? The natural-born daughter of you lot?”
“Oh no,” Silas rushed to say, “she knows that we are not the actual parents of her birth. We have cared for her—we have loved her—as if she is our own, but she is aware that her true parents are members of an esteemed family of rank . . .” He petered out.
“ ‘. . . an esteemed family of rank,’ ” repeated Luke, his mind spinning.
“. . . that’s right, a high-ranking family whose duties and obligations placed her in . . . in harm’s way,” Silas continued.