Chapter Five

Meanwhile, at Brunswick House upon Thames…

A s usual, in the aftermath of the ball, Bea had taken the carriage to visit her old acquaintance, Violet, the Countess of Langley, who’d hosted the ball and set up the coup that had catapulted Pippa into the epicenter of the season.

The morning sun spilled through the lace curtains of Violet’s dining room, casting a soft, golden glow across the array of breakfast foods laid out on the table. Still feeling the echoes of last night’s ball in her weary muscles, Bea anticipated a morning filled with light conversation about the event and perhaps some speculation on the coup that had been the talk of the Ton. However, as she entered the room, a different situation occurred. The butler led Bea to the table instead of Violet’s drawing room for the usual tea.

“Oh, Bea, I hoped you’d be here in time!” Despite the puffy circles under her eyes that betrayed her lack of sleep, Violet was always the picture of elegance, even at this early hour. She was serving herself a generous portion of coddled eggs.

“In time for what?” Bea asked when one footman pulled a chair back for her to sit and another poured her a cup of coffee.

What was most unusual, however, was Violet chewing with vigor and stuffing half a slice of toast in her mouth. “Hungry?” she sputtered as if her appetite had left her no time to swallow before her next bite.

Bea tried not to grimace, but her stomach growled at the sight of the lovely display of the breakfast set for guests, which usually didn’t include her. The table was covered with dishes of kippers, several tiny white bowls of what she knew to be jams, covered by notched lids and porcelain spoons sticking out of a small hole in each one, as well as racks filled with fresh, toasted bread, and a pot of steaming tea promising to round off the hearty meal.

Yet it wasn’t the food nor her hostess’ insatiable appetite this morning that caught Bea off guard. Instead, it was the guest who entered the dining room after she’d taken a seat. He was a young man, dashing in a worldly way that words seldom captured, with an easy manner that spoke of good breeding and intelligence that flickered in his dark eyes. His politeness was evident in the slight bow he offered Bea, a gesture of respect that seemed almost from another era.

Or another country.

Bea knew Debrett’s well and couldn’t recall anyone who’d matched his description, much less anyone of any status whom she hadn’t met before.

“There you are. How good of you to join us for breakfast.” Violet pressed the napkin to her mouth and nodded toward the seat across from Bea. The guest took his place with all the elegance of a true gentleman, one hand behind his back and a curt incline to thank his hostess.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice warm and inviting, filling the space between them with an immediate sense of familiarity.

Aha! He was titled, or else he wouldn’t dare forego the etiquette of more formal forms of address when dining with the Countess of Langley.

As soon as he spoke, Bea realized that he wasn’t English, but she couldn’t pinpoint the slight accent—a combination of a French lilt and the Russian rolling “r,” and yet, it was neither.

“I see the preserves from the orchards have arrived,” he said, and Violet waved grandly at the little porcelain jam pots.

Oh no, Violet was already plotting something, and Bea hadn’t even had time to ask her for help.

“Lady Beatrice Wetherby, may I formally introduce you to our esteemed guest who found himself at our doorstep last night, seeking shelter after the ball?” Violet’s eyes sparkled with the thrill of the introduction, a secret pleasure in the orchestration of social connections that was a hallmark of her character.

He was impeccably dressed in cream-colored breeches, polished riding boots, a dark blue waistcoat, and a matching velvet coat. This man was not searching for shelter; he was a surprise house guest.

Then, turning to the young man, whose polite interest had sharpened into keen anticipation at Violet’s preamble, she continued, “Prince Ferdinand Constantin Maximilian Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen, this is Lady Beatrice. She is a cherished friend of this household, with a keen wit and a generous spirit that endears her to all who know her.”

“A display of sweet delights for me this morning,” the prince said, looking at Bea rather than the jams.

Taking the seat across from her, Bea couldn’t help but smile, the formality of their introduction melting away in the face of his flattery.

So Violet had a prince in store after the ball.

Cunning.

Smart.

Bea had to give her credit; she was a master manipulator of humankind.

She met Violet’s gaze momentarily, and they understood each other perfectly.

“Stan is a Hohenzollern and has traveled widely,” Violet started.

“I’m only a Hohenzollern on my mother’s side, I’m afraid,” he said as he lifted a cup of coffee to his mouth.

“Prince Constantin Ferdinand Maximilian—” Bea started. No, that didn’t sound correct. She furrowed her brows.

“Ferdinand Constantin Maximilian Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen,” Violet corrected her.

“Right.” Bea shot her a thank-you-for-embarrassing-me look. There was a reason one had the chance to memorize the names of aristocrats in order before the balls, lest this exact embarrassment occur where one forgot the order of someone else’s given names.

“My friends call me Stan; it’s part of Constantin,” he said with a smile. Bea cocked her head. How did Violet know that misspeaking his name would put her on a friendly basis of using their given names so quickly?

He spooned the strawberry jam onto… that couldn’t be right. Before she could say anything, Violet reacted.

“That’s jam,” her friend pointed out. Apparently, she also thought he was concocting something incorrect for his breakfast.

“I know. Strawberry. Brought fresh in a barrel from Somerset,” Stan said, now swirling his teaspoon in a bowl of clotted cream and custard with the strawberry jam instead of layering them on the toast.

The mixture turned into a frothy pink mass. Disgusting.

Then, he brought the spoon with the connection to his mouth and closed his eyes to savor it.

Bea wasn’t sure if she’d cringed visibly, but when the prince saw her, he chuckled.

“Where I’m from, we pair foods differently than the English. My apologies if my habits offend you.”

“Not at all, Your Highness.” Bea inclined her head as was polite and busied herself with the napkin’s folds in her lap lest he see disgust on her face.

“Just Stan, please. I don’t dwell on formality, Lady Beatrice.” As she looked up, he wiped his hands on his napkin and put one hand to his heart. “Sometimes, I miss the simple breakfasts I grew up with at Bran Castle. I had a governess with deep roots in the agriculture of the nearby Bra?ov, so there was always fresh branz? de vaci .” He pronounced the Romanian with the distinct ease of a polyglot. She’d heard the language before; it was close to Latin.

“Is it a type of marmalade with custard?” Bea asked.

“No,” he chuckled. “It’s cow’s milk cheese, a very soft and creamy kind. I’ve had similar in Greece, Bulgaria, Poland, and even in Austria, Lady Beatrice. Just not in England.”

“You have reservations toward our country?” Bea wished she hadn’t asked when Violet shot her a look filled with daggers—sharp ones.

“I always value fresh cheese and fruit over the hypocrisy of etiquette. When a person means to be respectful, there are ways other than platitudes to show that.”

His earnestness was refreshing after all the men she’d met at Almack’s, and Bea couldn’t help but trust this prince already.

“Bea. My friends merely call me Bea.” Heat rushed to her face and neck.

He smiled and ate his odd mixture with a visible appetite.

“Bra?ov is in Transylvania,” Violet explained.

“I know. It’s surrounded by the Southern Carpathians,” Bea said, reaching for a slice of the buttered toast.

Stan gave her an appreciative nod.

Violet, however, signaled “no” with her head, which meant as much as “don’t bore him with your recitation of geographical trivia.”

“Stan is the fourth son of a noble family with deep roots in European aristocracy,” Violet said with the gravitas of a matchmaking matron and not the young woman she was. “From what I’ve gathered, the prince has devoted himself to studying international relations, languages, and military tactics, proving himself to be both a scholar and a capable officer. Is that right, Your Highness?”

“You flatter me, Violet.” He reached for a slice of toast, too. “But it’s true. I’ve only recently arrived in England.”

“So you were on the continent during the Napoleonic war?” Bea asked. “How exciting!” She clapped her hands together and immediately regretted it when she felt Violet’s triumphant stare. “I mean, it was surely dangerous.”

The young man chuckled, the sound rich and inviting, and Bea felt a flicker of intrigue. “I suppose there’s an adventure to be had in every new experience,” he mused, his eyes meeting hers across the table. “Though I must confess, my own preferences lean toward simpler fare.”

As they conversed, Bea learned that he was on a short stay in England, a mysterious detail that lent an exotic allure to his already intriguing persona because he was going to depart soon.

Please take me with you. Anywhere as far away from London as possible.

His observations on English customs, delivered with a blend of wit and genuine curiosity, drew Bea into a conversation that felt as comfortable as it was captivating.

Violet, watching the exchange with a knowing smile, seemed pleased with the unfolding dynamics. Here, under the guise of a simple breakfast, was the beginning of a connection that promised to chart an unexpected course.

“The region of Bra?ov is caught between powerful forces,” Stan explained over breakfast. Me too, Bea thought to herself. “The Austrians, with their relentless ambition, seek to exploit the gold mines nestled deep within the Carpathian Mountains, draining the land of its natural wealth. Meanwhile, the looming presence of the Ottoman Empire casts long shadows over the region, an ever-present threat that seems to press in from all sides.”

“Thus Bran Castle stands as a solitary sentinel amidst this turmoil?” Bea asked, and the prince gave her another nod, this time laced with a smile.

Bea felt a kinship with that castle—surrounded, besieged by external pressures, yet standing tall. Her own heart was a territory coveted by the ambitions and desires of others, each moment a battle for autonomy. Just as the mountains hemmed in the region, her choices seemed constrained by duty and expectation. But amid that encirclement, there was a strength within her, a resolve as enduring as the stone of a fortress. She knew she must navigate the treacherous landscape with care, seeking a path that honored both her heart and her obligations. And yet, even though she owned a collection of atlases for physical topography, they didn’t show her the path forward when it involved landscapes of the heart.

The distance between London and Bra?ov seemed like a refuge, but something about it felt wrong and hollow. Why was he so far from the lands he was meant to rule, and could this mysterious prince truly offer her everything her heart desired?

With each shared laugh and exchanged glance, Bea’s initial surprise gave way to a realization. With his intelligent eyes and easy charm, Violet’s guest had transformed a routine morning into a moment brimming with possibility. As they continued to talk, navigating the nuances of English breakfast traditions and their respective cultures’ peculiarities, Bea looked forward to discovering what surprises the day might hold. Perhaps she could check off every criterion of her list and surprise her mother with a betrothal after all?