Page 50 of A Problem Princess

Any doubts he had that Scepter was as dead as the marquess vanished in a heartbeat.

“And the others—they’re all…” Her voice dropped to a whisper so soft that he could barely hear it above the carriage wheels. “Dead?”

“We don’t know that. We escaped. The others might have as well.”

“The comtesse.” Her hand flew up to her mouth. “Oh, poor Marie!”

“Listen to me.” He reached across the compartment and cupped her face between his hands to focus her thoughts away from the horrors swirling through her mind. “We don’t know what happened, but based on the noise, they fought back. Liverpool and the others would have made certain she was protected. Just like I protected you.”

“But there were gunshots—”

“We don’t know who fired them. I fired guns in the alley, too, and we got away safely. Harrowby most likely keeps pistols at the ready throughout his house.”

She jerked a nod against his palms, as if she could will herself to believe that everyone inside the house was all right.

Clayton knew better, but admitting to the harsh reality of the attack would serve no good.

Unable any longer to resist the need to comfort them both, he tenderly kissed her lips, then rested his forehead against hers. “Youaresafe. No one will hurt you. I promise.”

With that last lie, he pulled back and sank down onto his bench. In the lamplight, he could see glistening tears on her tear-spiked lashes.

“You told the driver to go to King Street.” She swiped the back of her hand across her eyes and looked outside at the dark night, even though nothing could be seen beyond the cracked window but the faint glows of gas lamps scattered along the street. “Aren’t we going back to the palace?”

“No.”

Her watery eyes darted back to him. “Why not?”

“It’s not safe for you there. Not until I learn more about tonight’s attack.”

“Then where are we going?”

They had to stay out of sight until he could reach the men of the Armory and learn what had happened. He couldn’t surface with her anywhere, not even within the stone battlements of Windsor Castle, not when the enemy had proven it could strike from within. And certainly not if Scepter’s army had been activated by the attack. He didn’t even dare take her to the Armory, unable to trust its twenty-foot-thick walls and twin portcullises.

He trusted no one with her life but himself.

“The unlikeliest place in the world to hide a princess,” he muttered as the carriage turned onto King Street and stopped. He glanced out the window at the wide, brightly lit town house. “The Château Noir.”

Fifteen

Cordelia stared out the carriage window. As far as she could discern, the place was simply another London town house, several bays wide and fronting the street. The only oddity was the two large men who flanked both sides of the door. Lights shone from every room, but gauzy curtains and shutters kept her from seeing anything inside.

And yet… “I don’t like this place,” she admitted warily.

“You wanted to see more of London,” Clayton reminded her, “where real people live and work. You can’t get more real than this.” He cracked open the door just enough to call up to the driver, “Take us around back.”

The man cracked the whip, and the old horse plodded onward, pulling the carriage to the end of the street, then around the corner and down the rear alley. Clayton pounded his fist on the roof to signal him to stop.

The structure looked even less appealing from the back, Cordelia decided. A collection of old outbuildings crowded the dark service yard, with piles of refuse waiting for the rag and bone men between two lean-to structures propped up against the back of the house. Another large man guarded the open rear door and laughed with three scantily clad women who stood nearby, all smoking cheroots.

Clayton shed his greatcoat and helped Cordelia into it. “Wait here.”

He opened the carriage door and stepped outside to pass a quiet word—and another coin—to the driver. When he came back into the compartment, he held the jarvey’s large hat in his hands. He placed it on her head. Its large brim fell down over her forehead and past her eyes, dwarfing her head and face.

“Perfect.” He lifted her to the ground. She was so drained from the attack and their flight that she didn’t have enough strength—or curiosity—to question his actions.

As the carriage drove away, he buttoned the coat up all the way to her chin. Then he took her arm and led her toward the house.

The guard straightened as they approached. His beefy crossed arms dropped to his sides, but his hands remained fisted as he stepped into the open door to block their way. “All guests go in through the front.”