Princess of Fortune. Miranda Jarrett
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what course that musket ball takes within your chest. The navy cannot afford to have captains in command whose physical well-being is not to be trusted, especially not one carrying a chunk of French lead next to his heart.”
“But I’m not some damned cripple!” Tom thumped his fist three times on the table beside him, desperate to prove his words. “Look, sir, I’m strong as an ox, aye, and I can thrash any man who dares say otherwise!”
“Damnation, Greaves, then you’ll have to thrash me,” countered the admiral sharply, “because I’ll not let you take that risk, or risk the lives of your men in the process, not when—”
But before he could finish, the double doors between the two rooms flew open and a small, furious woman charged through them, her hands clenched into tight, tiny fists bristling with rings on nearly every finger. Although she was dressed extravagantly for so early in the day—even Tom knew that wine-colored velvet lavished with gold embroidery was not customary at this hour for Berkeley Square, nor were the lavish necklace and bracelets of rubies and pearls—her thick black hair had not yet been brushed, a mass of tangled, knotted curls that bounced against her back with each indignant step.
“Admiral Cranford!” she called, marching directly to the older man, who bowed low in return. Her English was filtered through another language, her accent without apology. “Thank the saints you are here! These women know nothing, worse than nothing! You tell them, Admiral, tell them what imbeciles they are!”
Belatedly Lady Willoughby came hurrying after, the head of the hurled porcelain monkey in her hand as evidence, and her mouth puckered with distress, as if fearing the wrong words would once again slip out.
“The girl came with the best of references, ma’am,” she said plaintively, setting the grinning monkey head on the edge of the mantel. “She has dressed the hair of the Duchess of Kent, and all her daughters. How was I to know she wouldn’t suit?”
“But I am not this Duchess of Kent, am I, eh?” said the young woman, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. “Nor am I one of her daughters, or sons, or small, yapping terriers, either. Ah, perhaps that is what your pretend-maid truly is, a groom to lapdogs! Admiral, Admiral, you see how I am treated, how little respect they show to me!”
Astounded, Tom watched and listened as if it were a Drury Lane farce. The admiral had said that they’d be joined by ladies; he should have warned him instead of this high-handed little harpy. Here he’d been struggling to control himself before his superior, while this chit felt free to rage at Admiral Cranford like a Billingsgate fishwife.
“The maid tends only to fine ladies, not to dogs,” insisted poor Lady Willoughby, wringing her hands. “Brother, I assure you no insult was ever planned or wished for!”
“‘No insult,’ ha,” repeated the younger woman darkly, lowering her chin so her heavy-lidded eyes seemed to smolder with righteous fire. “Would you have me as bald as a pigeon’s egg, then, with every hair ripped from my head? Is that how you would show me honor and respect?”
“Oh, come, ma’am, I’m sure my sister meant no insult,” said the admiral with a forced jollity. “We all want what’s best for you, you know. I’m sure your hair can be set to rights in no time.”
With an exasperated sigh, the younger woman flung her arms in the air, beseeching heaven to take her side and showing a good deal of her breasts in the process.
“Fools and lackeys, every one,” she muttered in Italian. “Toss all their wits together, and it still would not half fill a thimble!”
And that, for Tom, was enough.
“Their manners are worth a bushel of your so-called wit,” he answered in Italian, automatically using the same curt tone that served to humble disrespectful crewmen. “These fine people don’t deserve such rubbish from you. I’d say a dog groom was what you damned well do need, for I’ve never heard any other bitch carry on like you are now.”
The young woman gasped and swung around to face him, lifting her chin high. “Who are you, to dare address me so?” she asked suspiciously, continuing in Italian. “Do you not know who I am?”
“I am Captain Lord Thomas Greaves, miss,” he said with a smile and a brusque bow. “And as for your name, miss, I do not know it, nor do I particularly care if ever I do.”
“There now, Greaves, I knew you’d charm the lady by speaking to her in her own lingo,” said Cranford heartily in English. “But high time I made the proper introductions, aye? Your Royal Highness, might I present Captain Lord Thomas Greaves, the captain I told you about, and a hero if ever there was one. Greaves, the Princess Isabella di Fortunaro of Monteverde.”
“Your Royal Highness. I am honored,” said Tom, though he didn’t feel honored at all. He felt tricked. A princess, and from Monteverde at that. What in blazes was Cranford up to, anyway? Monteverde might be the oldest of the Italian monarchies, but it was also regarded as the most indolent and decadent, with more blissful corruption packed inside its borders than in the rest of the Continent combined. How could one of their princesses come to surface here, in poor Lady Willoughby’s drawing room?
He took a deep breath to control his temper, then another. “Your servant, ma’am.”
But though it was her turn to answer, she didn’t. She simply stared at him, just stared, reluctantly tipping her head back so she could meet his gaze. She was short, true, not that any man would notice her height once he’d seen how seductively rounded her small figure was beneath the red velvet.
She wasn’t pretty, either, not in the agreeable pink-and-white, strawberries-in-cream way that English girls were pretty. Her features were strong, her profile the kind minted into ancient coins. Framed by that tangle of black hair, her skin was golden pale, with a deeper rose to stain her cheeks and lips. And she seemed unable to keep still, constantly shifting and turning and twisting and gesturing, with an actress’s instinct of how best to keep all eyes firmly on her.
No, decided Tom, she wasn’t like English girls. Her beauty was richer, more opulent, like strong claret after milky tea, and likely just as apt to cause a headache and regrets the morning after.
“Your English is most accomplished, ma’am,” he said at last, falling back into Italian. If she was going to insult the others again, at least he could spare them hearing it. “I compliment you.”
Her smile didn’t reach quite her eyes. “Your Italian, Captain, is fit for the barnyard,” she said, reaching up to touch a finger to one dangling ruby earring. “However did you pretend to learn it?”
Well, then, he could smile, too, if that was the game. Any good frigate captain worth his salt recognized a challenge when given, even if it came from a princess intent upon drawing attention to her breasts by tracing her fingertips idly along the edge of her neckline.
“When I was a boy,” he explained, “my father indulged his interest in Vitruvius, and moved our family to Rome for three years. I learned Italian while there, and having often been stationed in the Mediterranean, the language has proved a useful skill.”
“Rome,” she said scornfully with a little flick of her fingers. “That explains so much.”
“Ah, but Monteverde,” he said easily. “That explains even more.”
He half expected her to slap him. If he were honest, he was almost disappointed that she didn’t. Instead she limited herself to a sibilant hiss of frustration between her clenched teeth, and an extra twitch of her dark red skirts away from him.
“I’m so glad you are here, Captain,” gushed Lady Willoughby, her relief so fervent she was nearly weeping from it. “The princess has been so lonely here, without anyone to speak with, and the condition makes her intemperate. You shall make such a difference in her life in London. How happy she must be at last to meet someone like you!”
But the princess did not look happy, nor, for that matter, was Tom himself feeling exactly cheerful. He’d come here at the admiral’s