Page 83 of A Problem Princess

He leaned over and placed a lingering kiss to her thigh. Her pulse spiked. So did the ache throbbing between her legs. If he wanted to distract her from the seriousness of what he was telling her, he was doing a fine job.

“That’s—” She cleared her throat, but the raspy tone he’d put there didn’t go away. “That’s not possible. How could they…”

Her voice trailed off when he reached up to undo the blanket she’d wrapped around herself. It slipped off her shoulders and fell to the bed, revealing her naked body to his gleaming eyes.

“By using those same blackmailed and bribed officials to call out in unison for a new monarch, a new governmental structure.” He rose to his feet and gently pulled her up to hers. “One they can control.” His voice lowered to a thoughtful murmur. “Perhaps one who’s been leading Scepter all along.”

She lifted her arms over her head as he raised the shift into the air and slid it down over her body. His hands caressed her far too lightly. She arched her back toward him to cajole him into caressing her harder, but he only smoothed the cotton down over her hips and reached for her petticoat.

“But the regent, all the royal dukes and princesses—” She caught her breath when he put his arms around her waist to draw the string tight and tie it at the small of her back. She swallowed hard. She was used to being dressed several times a day but never facing her dresser so closely as this. Certainly never by a man. And certainly not by one who slid his hands down her backside and cupped her bottom against his palms. “Ten of them…between the throne and…a new ruler.”

“A monarch who’s gone mad, a regent who cares more about his own pleasures than he does about the British people, royal dukes and princesses whom the entire empire considers scandalous and immoral, none of them able to assure the security of the government, and all of them likely just as mad as their father?” He stepped back to pick up her discarded corset, and Cordelia felt instantly cold at the loss of his nearness. “If enough high-ranking people in the government call out for change, their cries will be echoed by average citizens across the empire.”

He helped her into her short stays and began to tie up the front closure, careful not to draw it too tight. She reminded him, her breathing coming shallow and fast, “Calls for reform are a long way from revolution.”

“Not so long,” he continued in a murmur. He tied the lace and paused, his fingertips only inches from her taut nipples. “Soldiers will refuse to take up arms to defend King George and his family, and Parliament will vote for their removal. The royals will be run out of England the exact same way James the Second was, and a new monarchy will be put in place.”

“I don’t understand.” She leaned toward him to beg with her body to be caressed the way he’d done last night when they’d made love. “What does any of it have to do with me?”

“Because it seems that Scepter is more than just a group of revolutionaries.” He absently traced his fingertips over her nipples through the thick fabric and frowned, distracted. “I believe Scepter is a man, the same man who has been leading and plotting the revolution all along.”

She grabbed his wrists and stilled his hands, her heart skipping. “And you think that man is my uncle?”

“I know so.” His expression turned grim. “The only way he can have himself named king of Great Britain is to remove the current royal family.” He paused. “And any other heir in his way.”

Her skin prickled with fear, and she pushed his hands away. “You’re wrong.” She stepped back and snatched up her dress herself before he could put it on her. She couldn’t have borne it. “Uncle Ernest would never do anything like that. How could he?” She shook out the dress, then yanked it on over her head to cover herself from his eyes as quickly as possible. “Monrovia is at least a fortnight’s travel away by fastest carriage or ship, and this visit is the first he’s made since he inherited the crown. Logistically, it’s impossible.”

“The wars made it possible. Soldiers coming and going who could ferry messages, diplomatic envoys crisscrossing the Continent, secret dispatches that anyone who saw would think were related to the fighting. If those paths failed, then Monrovia also keeps an ambassador in London who brings sealed dispatches to England all the time. Those men probably didn’t even know they were sending along information and orders from Scepter.”

She clenched her teeth and shoved her arms into the dress sleeves, too upset to reply to that. What he was telling her wasabsurd…wasn’t it?

“He also had loyal men inside England,” Clayton continued. “Once they’d maneuvered into positions of power, he wouldn’t need as many dispatches. And believe me, Princess, they were loyal beyond measure.”

As she fumbled to button up her bodice, he somberly approached her, turned her back to him, and buttoned her up himself. She shivered, this time not from arousal.

He lowered his mouth over her shoulder to her ear. “They blackmailed, bribed, raped, and murdered their way into power and into having others do their bidding. I have seen such atrocities committed by them that it would sicken you just to hear about them.”

She didn’t doubt that. Her stomach was already roiling.

“And they attempted to kill you twice, for no other reason than you’re standing in their way.”

“Noneof that proves my uncle is the one behind it.” She stepped away and faced him. “There are displaced monarchs and dukes all over the continent since the wars.” Her hands shook so hard she could barely straighten the dress and pull it into its proper place. “Why, all the Bonapartes themselves would love nothing better than to come back to power. For God’s sake! This Scepter person could be any one of them. You have no proof that Scepter is my uncle.”

“The Monrovian royal coat of arms,” he said evenly.

She blinked, unable to follow that abrupt change in conversation. “What about it?”

He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small pendant. It dangled from its chain as he held it out for her.

She recognized it. “The key from our crest.”

“I took that from a general last year who had organized a riot to storm Westminster. It’s Scepter’s symbol. A shibboleth they use to recognize each other.”

She stared at the necklace as if it were a snake about to strike. She didn’t dare touch it.

“This symbol has been found on all of Scepter’s most important operatives,” he explained. “When your uncle announced plans to address Parliament, the Monrovian coat of arms was published in all the newspapers and broadsheets right next to the announcement. Scepter’s army has been waiting for a signal to start their revolution.Thatis what they’ve been waiting for.”

He put the necklace into her hand and closed her fingers around it.