Ten days later
One of the benefits of Monsale being extremely wealthy was that he was able to support less financially secure London celebrities such as the renowned cook and author Doctor William Kitchiner. His patronage ensured that he was in receipt of a, as rare as hen’s teeth, invitation to the official launch of not only Kitchiner’s cookbook The Cook’s Oracle but the exclusive dinner which was to follow.
Monsale’s excitement at the prospect of an evening of mouthwatering splendor dimmed somewhat as his carriage drew up close to number forty-three Warren Street, Camden. His driver couldn’t make it to the front door as the Prince Regent’s royal carriage was parked rather inconveniently in the middle of the road, effectively blocking the rest of the way.
The carriage, however, was the least of Monsale’s concerns.
Damn. All the other guests will go hungry if Prinny gets his hands on the food.
But even the thought of missing out on the supper wasn’t really the problem. A man was well entitled to be wide of girth, Monsale had no issue with that; it was gluttony that set his mood to dark. The Prince Regent had a well-deserved reputation for not only eating his hosts out of house and home but pressing them for money.
More than once, Monsale had been forced to dip his hand deep into his own pocket to stay in good with the future king. He could only hope that Doctor Kitchiner’s food would keep the prince happy tonight.
Stay out of Prinny’s way and all will be well.
This evening was meant to be a welcome respite from his complicated life. A moment where he could pretend to himself that he was someone else. Not the leader of the rogues of the road, nor even the Duke of Monsale. Just him. He hadn’t been himself for many years, but deep inside, he hoped that the young boy who grew up digging his toes in the pink sands of Bermuda still existed.
No one knew that side of Monsale, not even his closest friends. Many people guessed that they had his measure, but none did.
His own reputation about London society was at times unclear. He had heard plenty of the spiteful rumors concerning his sudden rise to Duke of Monsale. Malicious tales that told the story of how thirteen-year-old Andrew McNeal had used a bloody blade to kill both his father and uncle on the same night in the wilds of Bermuda.
After committing the murders, he had seized both the title and his uncle’s ship. Upon arriving in England, he had claimed the enormous Monsale wealth for himself.
Now that is pure fiction.
The fact that the dukedom was on the verge of ruin at the time, didn’t ever seem to figure in the story. He had arrived in London a wild, brutish orphan and that was more than enough for many ton folk to judge him unsuitable, and therefore an outsider.
He climbed down from his carriage and walked the rest of the way to Doctor Kitchiner’s house.
Inside the cramped foyer of the modest home, Monsale picked up a copy of the new cookbook and flipped it open. It was good to be able to have something to show for all the money he had invested in the project.
His good humor quickly faded as he thumbed through the seemingly never-ending pages of rambling prefaces, advice to cooks, and guides to measures. He had got through more than a third of the book before he stopped. Disappointment sat heavy, his hopes for a light entertaining read effectively crushed.
Where are the damn recipes? This isn’t what I gave him all that money to create.
He was tempted to put the book down, but persevered. When he finally spotted the contents page, Monsale sighed with relief.
Now this is more like it. Food to delight the reader.
His gaze roamed down the long list of recipes. Soups, sauces, fish, vegetables. The dishes seemed endless.
Monsale’s stomach growled as he imagined how delicious Italian sauce with mushrooms would taste. He licked his lips.
I hope the book launch is quick, and we can get down to eating. I am famished.
“Ah, another lover of the art of food.”
Monsale snapped the book shut and with a polite smile firmly nailed to his face, turned to greet the prince. He bowed low. “Your royal highness, it is both an honor and a pleasure to see you here this evening.”
Prinny held out his hand and a perplexed Monsale took it. Unsure as to what he should do, he bowed once more. Normally, the prince barely gave a grunt in his direction. To be spoken to was most unusual. Requests for money normally came via the prince’s private secretary.
Obviously, the rest of the invited guests are not nobility, and if that is the case then their purses won’t be substantial enough for Prinny to be bothered wasting his time with them. Which means I am going to be stuck with him.
There went his evening.
“Did you see the recipe for wow-wow sauce? It looks fabulous,” gushed the prince.
Monsale blinked. “I beg your pardon. Wow-wow sauce?”
Prinny laughed, as did the rest of his small retinue. “Yes, it’s an invention of Doctor Kitchiner’s.” He pointed at the cookbook. “Recipe three hundred and twenty-eight. It has port, wine vinegar, mushrooms, and all manner of other things. Hence, its name. You keep saying wow, every time you find another ingredient.”
“I see,” replied Monsale.
He wasn’t sure as to what was more unsettling. The oddly named recipe or that the Prince of Wales was being friendly toward him. Monsale’s nerves were on edge.
What does he think he has over me? It must be something. There must be a reason for him being so nice to me. What could it be?
It couldn’t possibly be anything about the movement of tax-free goods from France to England. Prinny had long been one of Augustus Jones’s best customers. And while the Prince of Wales might have done some rash things in his time, Monsale was certain he wouldn’t ever be so foolish as to mention that he had dealings with smugglers. And most certainly not in public. If it ever came to light that the future king had been stealing from the government coffers, a bloody revolution might well follow.
No. It had to be something else.
There were many things Monsale, and his friends had done over the years which might see them hauled before the courts. Or in his case, the House of Lords.
Deuce. Am I about to be arrested?
Monsale’s senses kicked up to high alert. Was this the night when he might finally have to make use of his flee box, empty its precious contents, and make a run for the continent? Into a life of exile.
He swallowed deep, fighting to keep control. To force down his fear and show no emotion.
Don’t panic. Monsale had a finely tuned network of well-paid sources working deep within the palace and the government. People who should be able to warn him if anyone was about to make a move and seek to have him arrested.
I bloody well hope so. They cost me a small fortune.
He got a hold of himself; this was not his first time dealing with an unknown threat. The occasion called for a light touch. Cheerful banter and the appearance of not having a care in the world.
But all the while his mind was racing. What had gone wrong?
Oh god, why did I venture out to a social event like this on my own?
Balls and major functions were far safer. He could hide in the numbers.
I really ought to take Lady Naomi up on her offer to dance. No one would be so gauche as to attempt to arrest me in the middle of a waltz.
A trickle of sweat slid down Monsale’s back as the Prince of Wales stepped closer, a sly smile sat on his lips.
“So, Monsale, will we be seeing you at the royal gala next week? I have some wonderful entertainments planned for the guests. I just need to press-gang Doctor Kitchiner into helping with the food,” said Prinny.
His laughter at his own feeble jest, had the hairs on the back of Monsale’s neck standing to attention.
“I am sure he would be more than happy to serve his future king. If you like I could have a quiet word with him on your behalf— right this very minute. I live to serve your royal highness,” replied Monsale.
It was common knowledge in London that Prinny loved to be constantly reminded that he was one step away from sitting on the throne. And while the regency made him king in all but name, he was still a prince in waiting.
When the prince smiled sweetly at him a second bead of sweat trickled down Monsale’s back.
What the devil are you up to?
Whatever it was, there was every chance it was going to cause him trouble. Prinny wasn’t one for showing grace or exchanging pleasantries, not unless there was a gain in it for him. There must be something that the prince wanted. But what?
What do I have that he feels it is worth his time to be nice to me?
Out of the corner of his eye, Monsale caught sight of an approaching footman bearing a tray of hot hors d’oeuvres. He made a strategic move sideways. Only a fool placed himself between Prinny and food. The servant had barely managed a respectful bow before the prince had liberated three of the morsels from the plate and stuffed them into his mouth.
Did you even take the time to look at them?
Monsale sensed an opportunity to make his escape. He bowed low and took a hurried step back, startled when another member of the royal entourage took a firm grip of his arm. The courtier leaned in. “Don’t forget the gala next week, your grace. His royal highness expects you to attend.”
“Of course, I would be both honored and delighted. I shall make certain that it is penned into my diary as soon as I return home.”
He was far richer than the prince, and in many ways more powerful, but no one refused a direct request from the future king. Monsale of course had no intention of attending the gala. Rather, a mysterious illness would befall him on that particular night, and he would send his deepest regrets at being so suddenly indisposed. He made a mental note to ask Adan to pen the letter in advance.
His appetite gone, Monsale made his apologies and promptly left. Climbing back into his carriage, his mind was focused on the machinations of the Prince of Wales.
Whatever it is that I have, does he plan to ask nicely for it, or just take?
By the time Monsale returned home, he had a long and thoroughly unpleasant list compiled in his head. Things which he suspected Prinny would love to get his hands on, as well as the possible reasons as to why.
The hour was late, but he wasn’t going to waste any time attempting to sleep. He marched up the main staircase of Monsale House, making a beeline for Adan’s private sitting room. If the Monsale estate steward stuck to his usual evening routine, he would still be up.
He marched into the room. His temper simmered on the edge of boiling over into full-blown rage. “What the hell does Prinny have over me?”
The gray-haired Adan set his book aside and slowly rose from his chair by the fire.
“Your grace. What do you mean?”
Monsale raked his fingers through his sandy brown locks. “The fat royal brat was sweetly pleasant to me this evening. He even asked if I was coming to the royal gala at Carlton House.”
The color drained out of Adan’s face. The Prince Regent was never nice to people unless they could give him something of value, or worse, he could hold a particular thing over them. He was avaricious to a fault.
“I haven’t heard a thing. But I will get onto it right away. Should I commence with your contingency plans?” said Adan.
Monsale closed his eyes, racking his brains as to what could possibly make the prince speak to him in such a charming manner. He didn’t want to panic, but it would be reckless for him to turn a blind eye to this sudden development.
“Have the yacht brought down the coast closer to Dover. In the morning, start working our sources for information. Someone has to know what he is up to, Prinny is not known for being subtle, especially if it means he can lord it over one of us. Me in particular.”
In the morning, Monsale would send word to Harry, Stephen, and George, informing them of this evening’s events. His note would also include directions for the rest of the England-based rogues of the road to immediately set to work on uncovering any sort of plans the prince may have with regard to the Duke of Monsale. If the English establishment were finally going to make a move on him, he wasn’t going to go down without a fight.
His friends had to know that they were also likely in danger. They may well have given up their criminal ways, but if the hammer was about to fall heavy on him, they would surely be next.
Adan made his way to the door, then stopped.
“To my way of thinking, Spain is currently the best option for a safe haven. The Spanish have enough going on in their country without wishing to deal with the trifling matter of an English duke on the run. I will have the travel trunks made ready for us.”
Monsale had friends in the north of Spain who would gladly give him sanctuary. Powerful men with connections in high places.
And while the choice to flee England would be hard enough for him, he wasn’t prepared to impose a life of exile on his loyal steward. Adan deserved to make his own choices.
“Keep our trunks separate. If they do decide to make a move, I want you to undertake a fast run to Monsale Castle and retrieve the chest. Where you go after that, will be your decision, not mine.”
No one need to make mention of the pirate’s treasure that Monsale had hidden in the family crypt at Monsale Castle. His steward was the only other person who knew that while the young Duke of Monsale had arrived in England dressed in tattered clothing, he had secretly brought with him the small chest which Nevis had handed over that fateful night in Bermuda. A chest filled with gold Spanish doubloons.
The contents of the chest were more than enough to allow the loyal Adan the freedom to decide whether he would follow his master into exile or start a new life on his own terms.
The steward reached for the door handle, then turned back to Monsale. “I swore a lifelong oath to serve the McNeal family and that is what I intend to do. I’ve yet to see your grace walk away from a fight, and I don’t expect I ever will. And while there is no shame in making plans, wherever you go—so do I.”
The pirate within him stirred and Monsale grinned. “Whatever it is that the prince thinks he has over me, he has no idea of what I am capable of doing.”
If the future king of England thought the Duke of Monsale was going to be an easy target, he was in for one hell of a shock.
He doubted the residents of Tucker’s Town, Bermuda would ever forget the night that the guns of one of His Majesties frigates, were let loose upon the rough, shanty town, reducing it to rubble.
But since that day, when a young Monsale had stood on the deck watching the fires of his revenge light up the night sky, he had learned to steady his hand. To find darker, more secretive ways to bring his enemies down.
Committing treason against the British crown was not something that even a duke undertook without a great deal of concern for its bloody repercussions.
“Please let it be something else, something which I can control,” he muttered.
Lady Naomi Steele’s words slipped back into his mind
You have a duty to make sure that the sixteenth Duke of Monsale is born and the title continues.
If it came down to a fight against the powers that be, he might well have to bend, to stop from breaking. It went against everything he had ever done, but his loyalty to the McNeal family was all that truly mattered. The line must be preserved.