Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

N ando had never liked bees.

Which was why, when the buzzing sound followed by the intense sting in his upper arm hit him on the Mayfair street as he approached his waiting carriage, he was so damned infuriated. It was also why he didn't understand the hot rush traveling down his arm. Or the sight of his coat sliced open to his flesh as he glanced down to find the offending insect and deliver it to its rewards.

Dimly, it occurred to him that he'd heard a resounding bang just before the infernal bee had struck him with its pestilential vengeance. Something that, now that he thought upon it, had been rather reminiscent of a flintlock firing.

"Your Royal Highness?"

The voice of his guard, Bruno, permeated Nando's bewildered musings. There was something warm and wet on his arm, something stinging and fiery too. Bruno looked distressed. Nothing made sense, Nando's mind whirling with countless thoughts that were unrelated. What social engagements had he agreed upon for the evening? He was desperately in need of a whisky. What time of day was it? Why was his vision turning black around the edges?

Something was terribly wrong with him.

Damn it all, had Miss Brett laced his tea with poison? He wouldn't put it past the cunning minx.

Nando's head continued to swim. Blood. That was the wetness. Red and dripping from his left hand.

"Your Royal Highness, you've been shot," Bruno told him in their native language, his voice curt and clipped. "We need to get you to safety."

Shot?

He swayed.

Ye gods, shot.

So that was what this was.

It hadn't been a bee after all. Fancy that.

A great commotion swirled around him suddenly. A sea of faces. Shouts. People were pouring from town houses. Horses were neighing. Bruno shielded him with his body.

"Take me home," he ordered his guard, thinking that if he had to die, he may as well do so from the comfort of his own bed.

No sense going to Hades right here in the street like a stray mongrel.

"We need a doctor, Your Royal Highness," Bruno said. "You're losing too much blood."

"Eh, I've plenty of it." He attempted to reassure his faithful guard, but his lips felt numb, and so did his tongue. "Some to spare."

Nando wasn't certain what he'd said, if anything. His vision was growing increasingly blurred and dark, as if he were watching the world become smaller and smaller until there was nothing left but a pinprick of light to call him back to the living.

He wasn't sure he wanted to go there.

His knees weren't sustaining him any longer. Drowsily, he looked down.

More blood.

So much of it.

A puddle in the street. Marring the boots he favored.

"Damn it," he slurred to Bruno, "this is my favorite pair of boots."

"Come, Your Royal Highness," Bruno said sternly, his face as tense and taut as Nando had ever seen it. "You mustn't stay on the street. It isn't safe here."

Nando wanted to argue, but his mind felt as if it were fashioned of porridge.

"Someone shot me," he announced as if it were a new development.

"Yes, Your Royal Highness." Bruno was shepherding him back up the walk as others swarmed around them.

Faceless, nameless servants. Where had they all come from?

Had the delicious Miss Brett shot him?

He didn't think she possessed the capability, let alone a requisite firearm.

"I think I'd like a glass of shiskwy, Bruno," Nando added. No, that didn't sound right.

"Of course, Your Royal Highness," Bruno said, guiding him to the front door of the town house he'd so recently vacated.

"Whisky," he tried again, pleased that his muddled brain had been able to elucidate.

"You'll be needing more than whisky," Bruno grumbled.

Nando was helped into the town house, where the butler greeted him with appalled alarm. More shouts ensued, and Nando dripped his life source all over the marble entryway.

Suddenly, Miss Brett was there. She looked like an angel with the sunlight catching in her ethereally gold locks. She fluttered toward him, a worried butterfly.

"Your Royal Highness, you've been wounded," she exclaimed.

"It's a mere scratch," he reassured her gallantly and then listed to the right like a ship about to go down at sea.

"Send for Dr. Crisfield at once," Miss Brett demanded sternly before taking Nando's uninjured arm and cleaving to his side as if it were where she belonged.

Ah, bliss. She was warm and soft and she smelled like a blooming flower garden in summer, and he wanted her to wrap him in her arms and never let him go. He'd happily get shot every day if it meant this sort of reception from her.

"Can you manage to take the stairs, Your Royal Highness?" she asked fretfully.

"If I say no, will you offer to carry me?" he asked, stumbling into her.

This damned loss of blood was causing him to feel faint. But he also thought he might be in love with the woman.

"Get me a cloth to press to his wound," Miss Brett ordered, taking command in a way not even Bruno could. "He's losing too much blood."

Domestics scattered to do her bidding. Nando swayed again, and Bruno wrapped a burly arm around him, keeping him from falling to his face. A cloth was presented, and Miss Brett pressed it to his wound.

Pain lanced him as he hissed in a breath. "Ye gods, that hurts."

"I'm sorry, but you can't afford to keep bleeding this way," she said.

Bruno muttered something about saints in their native language. Nando didn't quite catch it all. But he was moving with the help of Miss Brett and his guard, floating toward the staircase and then taking the steps in halting progression. Bleeding on his host's carpets. It couldn't be helped. He'd happily pay the princess and her husband, the wealthy commoner Archer Tierney, to have them replaced.

If he didn't die, that was.

He didn't think he was going to die.

At least, he hoped he wouldn't. He wanted to feel Miss Brett's lips beneath his at least once before he met his demise.

"I'm afraid there's no chance of that," Miss Brett told him frostily.

Well, hell. Had he voiced his desire to kiss her aloud? It must be all the cotton filling his head. And the pain from his wounded arm. And that damned blood that continued to flow. More now, soaking the cloth she pressed to his wound. Coloring her dainty, pale fingers. He looked at it and felt dizzied.

"Your Royal Highness, keep moving," she commanded him sternly. Then, in a softer tone he couldn't resist, added, "Please."

He'd do anything she asked of him. That was his stupefied thought as he stumbled his way up the stairs, bleeding everywhere and leaning on Miss Brett and Bruno for aid. Everything unfolded in a flurry as they reached the top of the stairs. A strapping footman appeared, replacing Miss Brett, and Nando was hauled into a bedchamber.

"Miss Brett," he called, needing her.

Her presence calmed him. He had to have her at his side. To the devil with this footman. He struggled with the lad, extricating his arm, roaring with exasperation and pain.

"I'm here, Your Royal Highness." Her voice wrapped around him, soothing him.

"I need to see you," he muttered.

What he didn't need was a damned footman in her place.

Their procession stumbled to a bed.

Excellent, because that was where he wanted to be with Miss Brett most. Except she wasn't joining him there, because the bloody footman and Bruno were in the way. Also, his boots. And the rest of his clothes.

"Miss Brett, I need you," he rasped, the world going sideways as he was tipped into the bed in none-too-gentle fashion.

Or perhaps he fell. He couldn't be certain. Everything was growing dim and faint at the edges.

Thankfully, he didn't land on his wounded arm. He huffed out another bark of pain at the jostling.

"Be careful with him, gentlemen," Miss Brett was chiding.

She was still here. Thank Deus. It seemed to him that he couldn't draw another breath without her. Everything was painful and jumbled. She was the sole source of comfort; not even Bruno's familiar presence at his side held sufficient weight.

With his uninjured hand, he reached for her.

"Don't leave me," he begged.

She took his bloodstained hand in hers, lacing their fingers together.

"I'm here, Your Royal Highness," she said, before looking to Bruno. "A fresh cloth, please. He's bleeding through this one."

She was still holding something to his wound, staving off the flow of blood, he realized. Miss Brett had more fortitude than he'd even supposed, and he found himself absurdly proud of that realization.

"Nando," he told her, his eyelids growing heavier by the moment. "I insist."

His eyes slipped closed. He heard her voice as if from afar.

"Stay with me."

But there was an inviting pull of darkness clawing at him, growing ever more difficult to resist. He wanted to stay with Miss Brett as she had asked. But he also wanted to go. He was weary. Tired.

So very tired.

He fell into the blackness to the soft sound of her voice, the searing pain in his arm, and the comforting sensation of her hand in his.

"Do you think His Royal Highness will survive?" Princess Emmaline asked, her countenance stricken, her voice subdued.

Hours had passed since the mayhem of the afternoon, when Prince Ferdinando had been wounded. The princesses had long since returned from their shopping expedition to find the house in an uproar. After changing into fresh garments, Eleanora had joined Princess Emmaline, Princess Annalise, and their older sister Princess Anastasia in the drawing room at the latter's behest.

Like almost every other female in his vicinity, Princess Emmaline had been easily charmed by Prince Ferdinando. She was smitten with him, Eleanora suspected. Princess Annalise was no different. They were both easy prey for a man so potently seductive, his every smile crafted to woo, his voice like sin, his charm as easy as it was undeniable, the words that left his tongue pure flirtation, a blatant invitation to be wicked.

As wild and wayward as the Boritanian royals were, they were kindhearted girls, every bit as lovely on the inside as they were on the outside. Eleanora didn't doubt the veracity of their concern for the prince.

Nor did she question the precariousness of his current circumstances.

He'd been shot, and he'd lost a great deal of blood.

An alarming amount.

Dr. Crisfield was a preeminent physician, and he had arrived posthaste. His work had been calm and efficient. Eleanora could find no fault with the care His Royal Highness had received. But although the bullet had narrowly avoided shattering bone, Prince Ferdinando was not by any means assured of a swift convalescence.

He'd been so pale and still when she had finally forced herself to leave his side, her garments stained red, her heart heavy with worry. Her experience in the sickroom, coupled with her proximity, had rendered her an easy option for assisting Dr. Crisfield when he had arrived. The prince's guard had poured enough laudanum down his throat to render him complacent for the serious nature of the surgery that had followed. Eleanora had remained for the grueling procedure, hating when the prince stirred and moaned, knowing how dangerous the days awaiting him would prove.

"We will pray that he does," she answered the princess firmly now, trying to keep the worry from her voice, lest the princesses fret more.

Because she wasn't certain what would become of the handsome, scandalous rogue who had been flirting with her so easily a mere half hour before he'd been laid low by a bullet. There had been so much spilled blood.

His pleading voice came back to her along with the sharp spear of guilt. Don't leave me.

She'd had to leave him. She hadn't had a choice. She had her position to consider, and the return of the princesses had meant she'd needed to go. Besides, it hadn't been proper. She was an unwed lady, and it was unseemly for her to remain in a bedchamber with the prince.

"We've been praying since we heard the news," Princess Annalise said worriedly.

"We all have," Eleanora agreed, feeling faint with concern and fear.

"Who do you think would have dared to attempt to assassinate a prince here in London?" Princess Emmaline asked, her fingers twisting in her pale muslin skirts.

At least she wore a gown today, Eleanora thought absently. The trousers the princesses had insisted upon wearing about society—including at balls—had left the ladies of the ton whispering behind their fans in shocked horror.

"A great many people would dare," said Princess Anastasia now, her tone grim. "There is danger everywhere, Emmaline dearest, and you'd do well to never forget it."

"I thought it was safe here in London," Princess Annalise said, moving to a window in the drawing room and peering out of it cautiously from the side, as if she feared the villain who had dared to shoot Prince Ferdinando yet lurked in the street below.

"It is as safe for you here as it is anywhere," Princess Anastasia answered firmly. "And we have my husband to protect us. I assure you, there is no one more adept at facing and defeating enemies than he is."

In a decision that had shocked society, Princess Anastasia had cried off on her arranged marriage to King Maximilian of Varros, a marriage that would have solidified an alliance between their troubled lands. Instead, she had married a commoner, Archer Tierney. Mr. Tierney was wealthy and had powerful connections, but he would never be a king. Theirs was a love match. Mr. Tierney and Princess Anastasia had settled into a life together in London, and they were the darlings of Society.

The princesses, however, had spent the last ten years beneath the tyrannical rule of their uncle. They desperately needed polish to be turned into diamonds of the first water. That was where Eleanora had come in.

"Thank heavens for Mr. Tierney," Princess Emmaline said, still plucking fitfully at her gown.

It was another habit Eleanora would have to try to persuade the princess to control. She committed the reminder to her unwritten list of tasks for the month.

"Mr. Tierney has been a godsend," Princess Anastasia agreed with a small, private smile that Eleanora recognized.

She tamped down the pang of envy at the princess's obvious contentment and the love she had for her husband, because Eleanora had long ago accepted that her life would never be what she had once longed for it to be. Her secrets were too great. And at eight-and-twenty, she was a spinster firmly on the shelf. No man would wed her now.

It was for the best.

"You are so fortunate to have found him, Stasia," Princess Emmaline agreed, speaking to her sister familiarly.

The family, though royal, was refreshingly honest and caring, quite without the artifice Eleanora had come to expect from the quality or those aspiring to join its ranks. She admired the St. George family, and she admired Mr. Tierney as well.

Still, she couldn't help but to feel like an interloper in this cozy scene of sisterly intimacy.

"Perhaps I should leave Your Royal Highnesses," she interrupted gently. "I had planned on some further lessons, but given the nature of the day, it may be more prudent to wait."

"I couldn't possibly think of learning dance steps when Prince Nando is so gravely ill," Princess Annalise said.

Good, because neither could Eleanora. But she couldn't say that, of course. Nor should she even be thinking it. She couldn't afford to care about a man like him. Or any man, for that matter. But most especially not a scoundrel prince who was too handsome by far and who had all the women of London at his feet.

"Naturally not, Your Royal Highness," Eleanora agreed. "It's not my intent to cause further harm."

"Miss Brett, perhaps I might have a word with you in the hall?" Princess Anastasia requested politely.

She was a striking brunette with icy blue eyes and a commanding presence, and together with the sinfully handsome Mr. Tierney, they made a lovely couple. Eleanora was accustomed to mingling with the cream of society, but she still found herself in awe of the regal Princess Anastasia, despite the princess's agreeable nature.

"Whatever you wish, Your Royal Highness," Eleanora concurred, not wanting to cause any additional upheaval.

It wasn't her place. Her place was to be on the periphery. To play her role and never interfere. To be, in short, invisible. Unless it was required for her to appear and accede to the wishes of her employers.

Only Prince Ferdinando had seen her. Seen her in a way that had made a restless yearning burn deep inside her. In a way she couldn't afford to indulge in.

Ever.

She offered each of the princesses a humble curtsy and followed in Princess Anastasia's wake as she departed the drawing room. In the hall, Princess Anastasia made certain to close the doors so that her younger sisters wouldn't be able to eavesdrop on their conversation before turning to Eleanora.

"Thank you for your efforts on Prince Nando's behalf," Princess Anastasia said, her face fraught with worry.

It was as if a mask had slipped and the calm, poised fa?ade she had presented to her sisters shattered. The previously composed princess appeared starkly worried.

"You needn't thank me, Your Royal Highness," Eleanora said. "It was my honor to assist the household in tending to the prince."

A scratching sound at the door suggested that the princesses weren't above eavesdropping after all.

With a raised brow, the princess inclined her head toward the hall. "Walk with me, Miss Brett?"

"Of course." Eleanora moved to keep pace with the princess, following her down the hall and away from curious, listening ears. "How may I be of service to you?"

"Oh, my dear Miss Brett, it is too kind of you to ask," Princess Anastasia said, reaching for her arm and giving it an affectionate squeeze that defied the bonds of their relationship. She sighed heavily before continuing. "You know that Prince Nando is beloved to me, even for all his faults and despite my determination to see him stay far from my sisters, do you not?"

Eleanora nodded. "Yes, Your Royal Highness."

"His brother, King Maximilian, is married to my dearest friend, my former lady-in-waiting, Queen Tansy. I promised her that I would see to Nando as best as I could whilst he was here in London." The princess paused, her lower lip quivering. "And now, he has been gravely wounded. I fear she'll never forgive me. Nor will I forgive myself if anything…if he were to…"

Her words trailed away, as if she couldn't bring herself to give voice to the real possibility that Prince Ferdinando would die from his injuries.

"I am so sorry, Your Royal Highness," Eleanora hastened to say, feeling at a loss as to how she might proceed in such delicate circumstances. "If there is any way I can be of assistance, please know I'm here in every capacity you require."

"I was hoping you would say that," Princess Anastasia said as they approached the grand staircase. "Because—and pray tell me if I am overstepping, Miss Brett—Prince Nando is in a great deal of pain. He's been calling for you ever since you left his chamber earlier after you assisted with Dr. Crisfield."

"It was most inappropriate of me to be so bold," Eleanora said, terrified that she was about to lose her position for daring to enter an unwed man's chamber and aid a doctor. She had seen the prince without his shirt. In a bed. And whilst she had been preoccupied by his state and the sight of so much blood, she couldn't deny that it had been most scandalous of her to be present. Under any other circumstances, it would have been beyond the pale. Indeed, perhaps the princess felt it was.

"It was perfect, Miss Brett," the princess shocked her by saying. "Just as you are. I am heartened, as I know my dear friend the queen would be, that you were there to aid Nando in his time of need. And I am selfishly hoping you might be willing to do so again."

Eleanora was hardly perfect. Far from it, in fact. If the princess had any notion of just how far, she'd likely be shocked. They were on the staircase, slowly ascending, leaving the younger princesses behind in the drawing room. The house was wreathed in funereal silence, even the domestics traveling with a more pronounced, ominous hush than before.

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you're asking of me, Your Royal Highness," Eleanora said earnestly. "But whatever it is that you wish, rest assured that I'll be more than happy to do it."

"Nando is restless," Princess Anastasia said, frowning. "He's in quite a state. I've seen him myself, and he was thrashing and carrying on in such a fashion that I can't do anything but fear for his welfare. If indeed he doesn't contract an infection or worse after the injury he suffered today…"

"How may I help?" Eleanora asked, fearing she already knew the answer to that question.

"He has been calling for you, Miss Brett, and insists no other will suffice," Princess Anastasia said, her countenance a mixture of worry and regret. "He says he won't rest peacefully unless you're at his side, and I very much fear he will do himself greater injury if he doesn't stay calm. Perhaps you might spare him a few minutes to put him at ease. His man Bruno will be in attendance, of course. You have nothing to fear where your reputation is concerned."

Either Prince Ferdinando was delirious with fever and laudanum, or he was being his scoundrel self once more.

It didn't matter. Eleanora would deal with him. She needed this lucrative post. Needed the unrivaled éclat she could receive from aiding royal princesses.

She didn't hesitate in her response.

"If it is what pleases Your Royal Highness, I would be honored," Eleanora lied.

"Oh, Miss Brett." The princess blinked furiously, her long, dark lashes doing nothing to stay the flow of tears threatening to spill. A few trailed down her cheeks. "I'm indebted to you, truly."

"Nonsense," Eleanora said with false brightness. "I am indebted to you , Your Royal Highness. With your blessing, I'll pay a quick call upon the prince's sickroom."

"Thank you, my dear. You're an angel," Princess Anastasia said.

Eleanora stifled a guilty flush, but she held her tongue and followed the princess back to the rooms where Prince Ferdinando had been taken.

Just in time to hear His Royal Highness shouting that he must see Miss Brett or he wouldn't have another drop of bloody laudanum, followed by a crash.

Oh dear heavens. Eleanora stiffened her spine, preparing to enter.

It sounded as if sitting with Prince Ferdinando was going to be a greater challenge than she'd feared.