A Murderous Relation by DEANNA RAYBOURN

Author:DEANNA RAYBOURN
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2020-03-09T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

13

The prince sat up slowly, shaking his head from side to side. “Templeton-Vane,” he said, focusing his gaze on Stoker.

“Yes, Your Royal Highness. And Miss Speedwell.”

Eddy blinked several times as he looked at me. “Are you both tied to those chairs?”

“As you are to the bed,” I replied helpfully.

His gaze dropped to the iron cuff at his ankle, securing him to the bed by a length of chain. “Who the devil would have the effrontery to do such a thing?” he demanded, sitting bolt upright.

“It is rather complicated,” I began.

“Try,” he ordered.

“Very well. The man who has taken us captive is an Irishman by the name of Edmund de Clare. He is a relation of mine and it was my abduction he intended to effect.”

Interest kindled in his eyes. “I say, what did you do? Did you steal his money? Run off with an unsuitable man?” He flicked a glance to Stoker and had the grace to blush slightly.

“Oh, I am as unsuitable as they come,” Stoker said blandly, “but de Clare was intent upon abducting Veronica long before she met me.”

I threw him a repressive glance over my shoulder. “That is not helpful.”

He shrugged and I went on. “Nothing like that,” I assured the prince.

“What was all that palaver about you and a throne?” he inquired.

“My uncle is rather strongly in favor of Home Rule. He thinks Ireland should be for the Irish,” I explained.

“Oh, one of those,” Eddy remarked, punctuating his comment with a jaw-cracking yawn. “I say, is there food?”

“Only a little porridge they brought round earlier, but it was thoroughly nasty,” Stoker said.

“Is there any left?” Eddy asked, his nose quivering like a hopeful rabbit’s.

“None,” Stoker replied.

“Are you quite certain—” Eddy began.

“Will you stop talking about the bloody porridge!” I demanded, blazing him to silence. He reared back, clearly astonished.

“No one except my papa ever speaks to me like that,” he said, his tone decidedly sullen.

“It is your papa I mean to talk about,” I said coldly. I took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “He is my papa as well.”

Eddy looked at me a long moment. “Are you certain? I mean, you’re much better-looking than my other sisters.”

“Quite,” I said, cutting off the word sharply.

His expression softened. “Papa has not been stingy with his affections. I daresay there are more of you born on the wrong side of the blanket than the rest of us know about.”

“I was not born on the wrong side of the blanket, not entirely.”

He blinked rapidly. “Whatever do you mean? Papa cannot take a second wife. Motherdear is his wife and he is not a Mussulman. The Church of England would never allow it.”

From behind me, Stoker’s fingers stole into mine, clasping, warming, lending me his strength and his support. I gripped them back with all the strength of a drowning woman, never more grateful for his presence.

But he said not a word, knowing this tale was mine to tell.

“My mother was an actress called Lily Ashbourne,” I began.

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