Miranda Jarrett – Princess of Fortune (страница 12)

Now she could see over the top carved wooden frame that supported the bed’s curtains. The bottom of the frame was lined with the same brocade as the curtain, gathered into a showy sunburst over the mattress, but the top, here where no one would ever see, was covered by a stitched piece of coarse muslin, tacked into place only in the corners. Using a butter knife that she’d kept from her breakfast tray for the purpose, Isabella pried the tacks free, slowly peeled back the muslin and sighed with relief.

There, sandwiched between the lining and the muslin, lay the quilted linen petticoat of her traveling clothes, the skirts spread out in a fan so the outline wouldn’t show from below. Gently she touched the petticoat, reassuring herself that it hadn’t been touched, and again whispered thanks to her mother for suggesting such a clever hiding place. No one, certainly not foolish Lady Willoughby, would ever think to look here.

Lightly she traced one quilted channel, her fingers following the lumpy outlines of the treasure stitched within for safekeeping. Scores of gold coins, each stamped with the Fortunaro lions, were only the beginning. The real prize was the oval rubies, big as pigeon’s eggs and set in hammered gold, that had been in her family since the first Fortunaro had stolen them from the Caesars in Rome and made them the centerpiece of the crown jewels, a symbol of everything grand in her country.

On the voyage to England, the sheer weight of the petticoat and its hidden treasure had been a constant burden to Isabella, but that was nothing compared to the responsibility that had pressed upon her every minute since she’d left Monteverde. Not even her father the king had known she had the jewels, and Mama had made her swear terrible oaths never to tell another.

Isabella’s fingers stilled over the largest ruby, the one etched with the Fortunaro lion. Captain Lord Thomas Greaves had asked her if she’d anything that someone would kill her for. She hadn’t answered him honestly about that, nor had she told him how she’d seen the little triangle made of twigs around the woman’s neck. She couldn’t, not without raising too many other questions she’d no wish to answer. But he’d listened to her, anyway, and the readiness with which he’d accepted her evasion had saddened her no end.

How could it not? He was appallingly masculine in a rough English way, and if she were a sleek Italian lioness, then he was surely the model for the blustery wild lion that stood behind the British throne. No wonder she’d been drawn to him the moment she’d entered the drawing room, and no wonder, too, that she’d wanted to kiss him this afternoon, a giddy, foolish impulse that she’d regretted at once.

Flirtation was not why she’d been sent on this journey. She was not here to amuse herself with the man assigned to watch over her, no matter how broad his shoulders might be, or that he alone in London had made the effort to speak her language. In the long, long lineage of the Fortunaro, she was an insignificant nothing, except for what she might do now for her family’s honor.

As if to remind herself, she touched the jewels one last time before she pulled the muslin back in place and pressed the tacks back into the corners with her thumbs. But instead of climbing down to the floor, she slumped wearily on the chair, her hands resting on her bruised knees and her bare legs dangling over the chest.

She liked Tom Greaves, and she trusted him, and if they’d been born any other two people in this world, then that would have been plenty. But not only were those rubies hidden in the canopy reason for someone to pursue her; for a Monteverdian princess, they were also reason to die.

With a little sob, Isabella buried her face in her hands, and gave in to the unfairness that had become her life.

Chapter Five

T om walked down the empty street toward the river, wanting no other company than his own. He’d given up trying to sleep any longer in his unfamiliar bed in Lady Willoughby’s guest room, and had set out from the silent house when the skies were still dark, or at least as dark as they ever were in London. Now the first light of dawn was pinking the horizon, and heavy-eyed linkboys were going from light to light, dousing the night’s flames for the coming day.

The early morning was chill, damp with dew that had fallen like a silvery haze over the dark wool of Tom’s uniform coat, and his breath showed before his face. Yet still he walked on, lengthening his stride in the foolish hope that exercise alone would be enough to ease his restlessness.

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