Page 21 of A Problem Princess

Andthatmade him sound like a callous arse taking advantage of a distraught woman. But the truth would have been far worse. That he’d kissed her because she was in pain and afraid, because she needed to be reassured that she would be safe.

Because he simply couldn’t resist.

“That had better be all,” Marcus warned. “The last thing the Home Office needs is to start a war with Monrovia.”

“The Home Office can go stuff—”

“Oryouto be accused of treason.”

Ludicrous! Clayton laughed at the idea. “It’s only treason if a man beds the consort or a princess in the line of succession. And since I have no plans to seduce Queen Charlotte, the Princess of Wales, any of the royal princesses—andespeciallynot Princess Sophia—” He shuddered at the thought. “I think I’m safe.”

“Is that really the defense you want to present at your court-martial?” Marcus asked dryly.

Oh, for God’s sake!“It was only one kiss, and it won’t happen again.”

“Best keep it that way.”

Irritation flared in Clayton’s chest at his old friend’s overstepping. “I’m not daft enough to pursue a foreign princess.” No, apparently he was exactly that daft. Which only increased his irritation, this time at himself. “But I also won’t let anyone harm her.” Putting an end to their conversation, he called out to the men waiting in the hallway just outside the door. “Guards!”

The door opened, and the same two palace guards who had tried to arrest him slipped nervously inside the room.

“Take down another drape and wrap up that body.” Clayton pointed at the lump on the floor. Another layer of damask would keep the blood from seeping through and being visible. “Secure it onto the settee with cords from the drapes as if you’re moving nothing more than a heavy piece of furniture and cushions. Then carry the whole lot out the rear service entrance, put it onto a wagon, and haul it ten miles outside the city. Find an isolated spot and dump it in a woods at least fifty yards from all roads and lanes. Dump the drapes and cords somewhere at the edge of London, then take the settee to the regent’s upholsterer to be recovered.” He added in a mutter, “I’m certain he keeps one on retainer.”

Marcus cocked his head thoughtfully as he listened to Clayton bark out orders.

“Tell anyone who asks that wine was spilled on the settee and that it needs to be recovered before the regent sees it. That’s why it was removed in the middle of the night, understand?”

“But there’s no stain on it,” one of the guards foolishly argued.

Clayton snatched up his glass of port and spilled it across the blue brocade settee. He calmly set down the empty glass and nodded approvingly as the dark liquid soaked into the upholstery. “There is now.”

Both guards stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

“That man was never here.” Clayton pointed at the body on the floor and spoke in a voice so icy cold that the guards turned white. “Do you understand? You never saw him.”

The two men nodded, then began their grisly task of removing the body.

Marcus came up close beside Clayton and lowered his voice. “You’re awfully good at knowing how to dispose of a dead body. One would think you’d had experience with it.”

“Occupational hazard,” he returned, deadpan.

He watched the two guards work, but he was still preoccupied with the princess. Why would anyone want to harm a beautiful, intelligent, and warm woman like her, princess or not? What could possibly be gained from her death?

He crossed his arms and faced Marcus. “Tell me everything you know about Monrovia.”

Eight

Cordelia smiled brightly at a group of children from the Foundling Hospital as they stood on the rear terrace of Buckingham House and sang to the guests gathered on the great lawn for Queen Charlotte’s garden party.

For once, the English weather had cooperated and provided a perfect spring day filled with bright sunshine, fluffy white clouds, and a soft breeze. Every lady wore a dress in pale pastel, and the gentlemen all donned light gray or cream-colored finery. Even the children were all dressed in new white clothes that made them look like precious little angels. Knowing children the way she did, though, Cordelia feared their clothes wouldn’t stay white for long.

“Wonderful!” she called out as the children finished their song. She clapped out her gratitude, although careful to avoid hurting her forearm, which had been healing nicely since the attack two days ago.

Luckily, her glove hid the much smaller bandage the doctor had put on her arm this morning, and the original pain of the wound had lessened dramatically since the attack. It barely bothered her now unless she thoughtlessly moved her hand the wrong way. Certainly, she wouldn’t be joining any games of battledore and shuttlecock or lawn bowling anytime soon, but at least she was well enough to carry out all her engagements.

Not that she had a choice. Cordelia suspected that had she lost an entire arm, she would still have been forced to meet with the Foreign Secretary and Lord Liverpool.

Cordelia pushed the unpleasant thoughts from her mind and hurried forward to greet the children as they stepped off the terrace and into the garden. From a basket held by a footman at her side, she presented each child with a gift bag containing school supplies, soap and flannels, and ripe oranges. They bounced off in excitement with their treasures toward a long row of refreshment tables and their piles of pastries, candies, and sweet fruits.