Eloping with the Princess (Brotherhood of the Sword #3)
Robyn DeHart
To Z, I suspect someday we’ll discover you’re secretly a princess. You’re most certainly mine. I love you to the moon and back.
To Emily, who I swear is truly the other half of my brain. There is no writing without you.
To my incomparable editor Alethea, your patience is never-ending, as is your brilliance. Thank you for your continued support of me.
And as always, to my husband Paul, for too many reasons, but mostly for loving me so well.
Prologue
London, 1825
“Jason! Come quickly,” Patrick said.
Jason looked up from his wooden horse to see his younger brother bolt into the room. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“It’s Tom. Father is dismissing him. You must stop him. Who will care for the horses if he’s gone?”
Jason didn’t wait around to console his brother. Instead, he ran from his room and down the large marble staircase to find his father. He skidded to a halt outside of the viscount’s study. The voices coming from inside were raised and angry.
“You’ll never find anyone else who can handle your horseflesh the way I can,” Tom said.
“I realize that,” the viscount said. “You are the very best, and that is not lost on me. However, it has been brought to my attention that Jason is spending far too much time with you. It’s simply not right. He is my heir. Unfortunately, you are a bad influence on the boy.”
Jason wanted to run into the study, to tell his father it wasn’t true. Tom was a friend. He’d been kind to Jason, taught him so much about horses and how to care for them, and so many other things. He wanted to tell his father this was Jason’s own fault; he’d been the one to seek Tom out, to badger the stable master with questions until the man had relented and answered. Jason knew, though, that nothing he said would matter.
He’d heard all of this before, primarily from his grandmother. His father’s mother was a strict woman who still had her thumb on her son, doing her level best to remain in charge of the family despite her husband’s death long before Jason was born.
Jason tried so hard to be a good boy, one his grandmother could be proud of, but he’d always seen the scorn in her gaze. The truth was she’d never liked Jason. He’d felt that about his grandmother from his earliest memories. And it wasn’t that she didn’t care for children, because she seemed perfectly fond of his younger brother.
“I have a right to spend time with him,” Tom said. “You know that. We agreed on that much. Where is Genny?”
“She is not here, but suffice it to say, she agrees with this decision. You have had your time with him. But he is getting older, and now is the time for him to start learning my ways, the ways of his future,” Jason’s father said.
“He’ll never be like you,” Tom said, bitterness dripping from his words.
“Do not forget you were paid quite handsomely for your silence. As an added incentive for you to remain silent, I will also ensure you leave here with the best recommendations. You shall be able to have any job you wish.”
Silence?
About what? Jason knew there were secrets between their stable master and his parents. But he’d never known about what precisely. He had his suspicions, but he’d never dared ask.
“This is for the best. For Jason. I’m certain you can appreciate that,” his father said, his voice gentle.
Tom said nothing, merely grunted, then pushed his way out into the foyer. His dark eyes found Jason, and he walked directly up to him. Jason could have sworn there were tears welled in the stable master’s eyes. He grabbed hold of the front of Jason’s shirt.
“Remember this, boy, blood will always tell. They can cover everything up with these high manners they’re teaching you and that fancy education, but in the end, blood will tell. You can’t run away from who you are.” With that, he released Jason and walked away.
It would be another six months before Jason learned the full truth…that Tom was his father. That his mother had had a brief affair. And that, although according to the entire world he was the heir to his father’s title and estate, Jason was nothing more than a bastard.
Chapter One
Isabel Crisp had always considered herself the most ordinary of women. Of unknown or undetermined parentage, she relied on the generosity of her uncle, Lord Thornton, to fund her rather mediocre education at St. Bartholomew’s School for Girls. At nineteen, she had long ago made peace with her lack of prospects. After all, if her uncle had intended to withdraw her from school and launch her into Society, it would’ve happened long ago.
Apparently, however, her uncle was as disinterested in her future as he was in her education. As for Isabel herself, she hoped one day to find a position as a governess, or perhaps to be allowed to stay on at St. Bartholomew’s as a teacher.
She certainly never expected to be leaving St. Bartholomew’s any time soon, especially not before sunrise. But her aunt, Lady Thornton, had come to retrieve her. They had no sooner stepped outside when something gripped her arm and tugged. Or rather someone. Pain and panic shot through her, and she struggled against the man as he dragged her away from the school and her aunt.
Then the man who had accompanied her aunt came after her assailant, punching him square in the face. The man released her arm and howled in pain. Isabel scurried away. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears, thundered against her chest. Lilith grabbed her and pulled her into the waiting carriage. A minute later her aunt’s companion jumped inside the carriage and yelled to the driver to move.