A Prince in the Pantry

Special Excerpt

Chapter 1

London

May, 1814

Pearl Smith drew a handkerchief out of the cuff of her sleeve and patted the perspiration from her upper lip. The windowless sewing room in the basement of Londonderry House was suffocatingly hot.

The work on the cream-figured, silk muslin dress was finished. The garment hung on the wall hook, the hem mended. It was the only project that had been left for her today, and Pearl was glad. She was anxious to get back to her father, who was battling a summer cold and refused to take his dinner unless she was there with him.

Gathering up her bag and basket, she turned and started for the door but stopped short as she banged her knee on one of the benches.

She paused to rub the bruise, but it was quickly forgotten when a screech from a child drew Pearl’s head up. A consoling voice drifted in from the laundresses’ room next door, along with the higher pitch of other children.

Every day, the women brought their youngsters—some infants, others barely waist high. Some helped and some sat or lay swaddled along a wall while the mothers worked. Whatever grievance Pearl had with the uncomfortable room she was assigned to do her sewing in, her situation was nothing compared to how those laundresses suffered. The heat and the steaming odors of soap and starch and bluing rising from the great wooden vats was dreadful. And that was before lugging their heavy baskets out into the bleaching and drying fields in Hyde Park.

In her previous life, Pearl had scarcely thought of how hard servants worked, but she now recognized the endless drudgery and discomfort these people endured.

The clock chimed the noon hour as she stepped out of the sewing room. Walking down the hallway, she was thinking of stops she needed to make when an upstairs maid suddenly appeared in her path.

“Sorry, miss. But are you leaving?”

“I’ve finished my work for the day. Why?”

“Begging your pardon, but the mistress sent me down for you. She wants you in her sitting room.”

Pearl looked past the young woman down the corridor. She still had an hour of brisk walking to get home to her father.

The maid must have sensed her misgivings. “I can tell her you already left, if you like.”

All of the servants were aware of Pearl’s situation. It was no secret, and a few actually treated her with a mixture of sympathy and kindness. This woman was one of them.

Pearl laid a gentle hand on the woman’s arm and shook her head. “It’s all right. I’ll go up and see Miss Cly before I leave.”

The Londonderry House was the town residence of Lord Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary. The powerful politician and his wife had no children, and they’d taken in their niece Rosa Cly as their ward several years ago. During the Season, Rosa circulated among the highest levels of society. But what mattered most to Pearl was that she had some influence with her uncle.

“Oh,” the maid said as an afterthought. “You should know, Miss Ivy Bartlett is up there with the mistress.”

Pearl thanked her. She knew Ivy from her previous life, as well. Once upon a time, she and Ivy and Rosa had traveled in the same circles. Never exactly friends, but certainly friendly acquaintances.

Pearl hurried through the subterranean corridors of the mansion. She climbed the stuffy, narrow stairwell used by the servants until she reached the floor where Rosa’s apartments were located.

There was no one in the wide hallway, and the door to the sitting room stood slightly ajar. Voices drifted out.

“Does she really live there? In the prison.”

“Yes, in Marshalsea Prison.”

The first voice belonged to Ivy Bartlett; the second was Rosa’s.

“How does she tolerate it?”

“She doesn’t have much choice, now does she. Besides, she wants to be with her father.”

Pearl stopped and put her bag down beside a large Chinese vase outside the door. She wished she could block her ears, but this was surely just an echo of conversations between other members of the ton since her father was taken off to debtor’s prison.

“How inconsiderate of Perceval Smith not to think of his daughter’s future,” Ivy said.

“It was certainly irresponsible of him. It’s no surprise what happens when you borrow more money than you can afford and then fail to pay it back.”

Pearl felt heat rising into her face. She forced herself to stand still, restraining herself from barging in and defending him. This was not what happened to her father. There was nothing intentional or fraudulent behind their change of fortune.

Not too long ago, her father had been the most successful importer of fabrics into France and England. He’d been ruined last autumn when the British wartime government seized the assets of his company for doing business with the French before the current outbreak of war.

Now he was languishing in debtors’ prison, and Pearl hoped Rosa might help get him out of Marshalsea.

“So, what’s she doing here?” Ivy pressed. “She’s hardly a trained domestic. What do you have her doing?”

“Sewing, so long as it’s not too complicated a job. Sometimes I ask her opinion on dresses I’m planning to have made. She always had a good taste.”

Pearl did have some knowledge about fabrics. Muslins and Batistes and silks. Classic materials with Etruscan and Egyptian decoration and woven or embroidered borders. Mending dresses to feed herself and her father, however, wasn’t something she’d ever imagined doing.

“And she ended up working for you how?”

“She asked me for a job, and I gave it to her.”

With Napoleon abdicating last month, Pearl hoped that Rosa would convince Lord Castlereagh to get involved. His lordship certainly had the power to help Percival Smith, and the two men had once been friends. But to approach Rosa and simply ask such a huge favor wasn’t conceivable. Working in Londonderry House and appealing to her sense of compassion was another matter.

“You have a heart of gold,” Ivy continued. “I wouldn’t be so generous.”

Pearl couldn’t take it anymore. The more she listened, the more she was pained by Ivy’s attitude. This was the same response she and her father had received from many of their supposed friends.

Taking a breath to compose herself, Pearl knocked and went in.

The two women were lounging on sofas that faced each other in front of a marble fireplace. The room had been redecorated in the past year, reflecting the simpler tastes of fashion that had been sweeping the homes of the ton. Persian carpets filled the floors with symmetrical arrangements of colorful garden flowers. Sheer gauze drapes billowed in front of open windows that faced out onto the green expanses of Hyde Park. A tray filled with pastries and cups of tea—Rosa’s late breakfast—sat on a low table between them. A footman stood in attendance in the corner.

“There you are,” Rosa said in greeting, brushing her blonde tresses back over her shoulder as she turned to face Pearl. “I was afraid you had already gone for the day.”

“Not yet.”

“How is your father?”

“A little better. Thank you for asking.”

Pearl looked from Rosa to Ivy. The other woman’s eyes had turned toward the refreshments on the table. No acknowledgment that they’d ever known each other.

“You remember Miss Bartlett, don’t you, Pearl?”

“Of course.” She nodded politely. “I hope your mother and sisters are doing well.”

Ivy’s gaze slowly shifted toward her, but nothing was offered in response. The look was appraising, moving from head to toe, studying every flaw in Pearl’s dress and shoes before drifting to the window.

“Ivy and I were just speaking about the ball tonight. I have a favor to ask.”

An uncomfortable feeling prickled over her skin. Tonight was Lord and Lady Whitwell’s Midsummer Night’s Dream Masquerade Ball. The most anticipated and extravagant event of the Season. The guest list included everyone of wealth and importance in London.

“A favor?”

Rosa smiled. “I do love your practical sense, Pearl. No, not a favor. I am asking you to do a job for me.”

She waited to hear more.

“As you know, my dress is ready. The mask I intend to wear is here, as well.” Rosa glanced at her friend. “Ivy, did I tell you I had it modeled after the one the fairy queen Titania is holding as she turns away from Oberon in that painting at the new gallery in Pall Mall?”

“I have to see it.”

Pearl knew all of this. Every step of preparation for the ball had been shared with her. She’d even helped Rosa with the fitting, running gold silk cord lacing through seventeen pairs of eyelets earlier this week while the lady’s maid looked on.

“You’ll be the most beautiful woman at the ball,” Pearl said for the sake of saying something.

“Thank you. But I also need to be ready for any unexpected mishap with the dress.”

“Nothing should go awry,” Pearl assured her.

Ivy broke in, speaking for the first time since Pearl entered the room. “But something always goes wrong, doesn’t it?”

“She’s right,” Rosa agreed. “That’s why I want you at the Whitwell House tonight during the ball. Just in case I need you.”

Pearl felt the blood drain from her face. Although she’d already guessed the ‘favor’, the request was crushing. Never mind the fact that she’d be locked out of Marshalsea all night. The possibility of being seen by any of her former friends would be too awful.

Since her father’s imprisonment, she’d stayed out of the eye of the ton, except for approaching Rosa. Ivy’s attitude here was stark affirmation of how others would treat her.

“You will do it. You’ll come, won’t you?” Rosa asked.

“I…” She tried to come up with an excuse.

“No one will see you,” Rosa said in a quiet voice, obviously guessing at Pearl’s discomfort. “You’ll be below stairs, far from the notice of the guests.”

Ivy was watching Pearl like a crocodile eyeing its prey, waiting for her answer.

Pearl wanted to refuse, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t risk denying Rosa and damaging the connection.

“Very well. I’ll be there,” Pearl replied. “In the sewing rooms.”

“Thank you,” Rosa replied. “I was saying to Ivy just before you walked in that you wouldn’t abandon me in my time of need.”

The underlying meaning in the words struck home. She went out, leaving the door slightly open, as she’d found it. While she picked up her things, snatches of the women’s conversation again reached her.

“Who would have thought?” Ivy sounded practically triumphant. “Last year, she was the center of attention for all the men. And tonight she’ll be—”

“Considering her circumstances,” Rosa interrupted, “Pearl will happily stay out of sight. She won’t be competing with you for anyone’s attention.”

“You’re right. But enough about her.” Ivy’s voice turned conspicuously low. “But on the topic of competition. Is it true that a Persian prince will be attending the Whitwell’s ball tonight?”

“Yes, but you can just stay away from him. He’s already spoken for.”

“I heard he just arrived in London. Spoken for by whom?”

“By me.”

Pearl hurried down the hallway. She didn’t want to hear about any prince or duke or earl or viscount…or any eligible bachelor whatsoever. So much had changed. Her life had been upended dramatically. Her responsibility now lay with supporting and helping her father.

And right now, she needed to get to the prison and get him settled before leaving him alone for the evening.

Chapter 2

Prince Timour stared out the window of the carriage as it rolled through the streets of London. The route from the embassy had taken them along tree-lined streets, past large stone mansions and broad parklands where patches of rising mist caught the fading glow of the evening.

His cousin, Ali Khan, had been talking continuously. He was a good friend—they’d been companions since childhood—and he’d grown into a man who took quite seriously the tasks that were given to him. Right now, a bit too seriously.

“The ambassador never responded to Lady and Lord Whitwell regarding the way you wish to be introduced at the ball tonight, Hazrat-e Ajal.”

Timour glanced at Ali, who rarely addressed him so formally. He was using a title that translated into ‘Your Excellency.’ The prince sensed a note of nervousness in his friend’s tone. All day, he’d been trying to impress on Timour the importance of the evening in completing their diplomatic mission.

“Would you prefer Shahzadeh Timour Mirza…or Prince Timour Mirza? Of course, in either case the British guests will assume Mirza is your last name, rather than a proper address for the Qajar king’s son. But I believe that will take less time than having them try to repeat all of your proper names and titles.”

Timour recalled a day when the two of them had joked that he needed ten servants and a wagon to carry around his titles.

“It doesn’t matter how they introduce me.”

“The English people are a peculiar sort. They will insist on knowing just how much deference they need to demonstrate.”

Ali Khan was a frequent spokesman in diplomatic situations. He had a cheerful demeanor that hid a shrewd mind. Timour couldn’t fathom how his friend had avoided viewing the world with cynicism. As for himself, he saw that people always looked to their own interests. Everyone else be damned was the prevalent attitude.

“You decide.”

“Perhaps we should have them announce you as Mirza Timour Khan, Lord High Prince of Iran. Or Shahzadeh. Or Persia’s Royal—”

“Decide on one and be done with it, Ali. I really don’t care.”

Unperturbed by Timour’s impatience, he thought about it for a moment before continuing. “Then we shall have them introduce you as Prince Timour Mirza of Persia. Simplicity is the best policy with Englishmen.”

Timour waved a hand, totally indifferent to the matter. Several months of travel, with diplomatic stops along the way, had left him bored with formal banquets and entertainments. He was ready to set sail for home. But that wasn’t going to happen for another month.

He knew this was an important visit, both for his country and for himself. The peace treaty signed between Russia and Iran last year had made the British nervous. Now the English wanted to make a deal of their own with the Persian government. Timour knew the reason was largely geographic. Iran’s location made it a physical buffer between Russian armies and British India.

So, negotiations took place, fortunes were paid, deals were made, and here he was, making good on the last piece of the contract. The English wanted a ‘family’ connection, and Timour had been ordered by the shah to come to London and choose a wife.

That made this trip highly personal.

“Lord and Lady Whitwell’s ball tonight is an extravagant affair,” Ali said, breaking into his thoughts. “You, of course, are in courtly regalia. But many guests will be wearing costumes.”

“They’ll probably think I am in costume.”

Ali grinned. “That’s quite possible.”

The prince turned his gaze to the street again as they passed a lamplighter on the sidewalk. “Have they given you the name yet?”

“The name?”

“The name of the woman I am to marry?”

“You have the freedom to choose whomever you wish.”

“Do I?”

“Of course.”

This would be purely a marriage of diplomacy, and Timour knew exactly how these things worked. The British government surely wanted a spy inside the court of the royal family. Someone to report on the Qajar king’s every move. That meant they’d already decided on whose hand he’d be offered. His ‘choice’ would be severely limited.

“The English are not in the habit of giving up control. They’d never plan a treaty without having the key players selected and in place.”

Ali pressed a hand to his heart. “I honestly don’t know anything more than what I’ve already told you.”

“Ali, my friend, we’re in London for only a month. Don’t you have the itinerary that lists the receptions I must attend and whose homes I will visit?”

“I have it here.” Ali produced a document. “Every day of our stay in England is scheduled.”

“Look down that list. With whom shall I be spending the most time.”

Ali ran his eye down the list of events before answering. “Lord Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary.”

“Does Lord Castlereagh have a daughter who is of marriageable age?”

“He has a niece and ward. A Miss Rosa Cly. She is being introduced to you tonight.”

“I thought so.” Timour was rarely wrong.

He dropped his tall beaver-skin hat on the seat beside him. He then took off the heavy gold chain and the jewel encrusted badge of royalty and the ornate belt of pearls and rubies. He started unbuttoning his coat.

Ali stared, dumbfounded. “What are you doing, Timour? We’re almost there.”

“Give me your coat.”

His cousin shrank back. “No, we’re not doing this. You remember what happened last time.”

A wry smile pulled at the corner of the prince’s lips, but he quickly replaced it with a look of sympathy.

A year ago, they’d swapped places on a visit to Istanbul, and Timour had slipped away. Unfortunately for Ali Khan, he’d been recognized as a substitute right away upon his arrival at the palace on the Bosphorus. Red-faced, he’d borne the brunt of the embarrassment while Timour enjoyed a great night roaming the streets and cafes of that magnificent city. Official letters of apology from the Persian court had followed.

“Ali, there is no one here to recognize us. Besides, it’s a ball, a masquerade. It’s not an official reception.”

“You promised your father you would take this seriously. If this goes badly, you won’t suffer. But I’ll find myself herding goats through the snows of Mount Damavand…if I’m lucky.”

“Don’t worry. I intend to take this seriously. Changing places will allow me to see and judge Miss Rosa Cly—who is undoubtedly my future wife—from the safety of your perspective.”

“They won’t be too thrilled when you suddenly turn up as the real Prince Timour, you know.”

“It will be fine. Now hurry up and give me your coat.”

Ali Khan smiled weakly as he did as he was directed. “Once again, I’m going into the fire for you, cousin. And we both know who will come out of this with his beard singed.”

Timour leaned forward and dressed in the other man’s attire. “That’s the spirit.”

“I assume you want my hat, too.”

“No. It’s too small.”

Ali scoffed and a few moments later, the carriage pulled up to the sidewalk in front of the mansion of Lord and Lady Whitwell. An army of footmen held lanterns as costumed and richly dressed guests disembarked from the line of vehicles and went through the open doors of the entrance. Behind a gate, blazing torches lit up a walkway that appeared to lead to gardens on the side and behind the stately home.

“I’ll be in shortly,” Timour said to Ali before they climbed out.

“What do you mean? You were to walk in with me. Pretend to be me.” There was a note of panic in the other man’s tone. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going into those gardens and have a smoke. I’ll be in before you get through the receiving line.”

A look of resignation settled over Ali. “I’ve always had a fondness for goats, anyway.”

Timour set off along the torch lit path through manicured gardens of greenery and flowers. Darkness was settling in quickly, and the sounds of talk and laughter and orchestral music came from the open doors and windows of the house.

He followed the path for a short distance and wandered from one garden enclosure to the next. Finally, he paused beneath a stone archway covered with climbing roses and looked across a wide square of precisely trimmed greensward, glistening with new-formed dew. Fruit trees cast shadows across portions of walkways.

This was exactly what he was hoping for. What he needed. A peaceful, unplanned moment to himself.

For all of his twenty-eight years of life, from his education to his travels to his residences—even deciding his future wife now—Timour’s life had been orchestrated by the king and the court. It was no different from the lot of his older brother, who was first in line to wear the crown. Or the six others ahead of him in the line of succession. To tolerate the velvet chains of his existence, Timour learned early on that he needed to get away by himself. That meant running away. Of course, he always went back, but those few stolen hours or days were a necessity for survival.

He listened to the noises drifting down from the house and patted his coat pocket for his cigar. It wasn’t there. He was wearing his cousin’s coat.

“Ali, gonahan neyaz daree.” Ali, you need some vices.

“What was that rubbish ye just said?” a gravelly voice asked from behind him.

So much for a peaceful moment, Timour thought. Glancing over his shoulder, he made out the bulky shape of a man standing in the darkness. “Not rubbish. The words were spoken in a different language. Be on your way.”

“What did ye say?”

The English. Already, he wasn’t impressed. He waved a hand. “Never mind. What I said wasn’t directed at you.”

“Who the devil d’ye think ye are?”

Timour let out a frustrated breath and finally turned. There wasn’t only one, but two men stood in the shadowy path. They were the same size, as tall as Timour. Their clothing matched the grooms that were running around by the entrance of the house.

“I don’t want to get you in trouble. I wasn’t speaking to you. Be on your way.”

“Get us in trouble?”

“Be on our way?” the second man asked, his voice as squeaky as a pig in distress. “What d’ye say, Melvin? How ’bout we teach this one a lesson or two in manners.”

Before Timour had a chance to respond, the one named Melvin stepped forward, the end of a club in his hand arcing through the evening air toward the prince’s head.