Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(41)
Meagan chattered, but Penelope said very little. Damien didn’t blame her for feeling overwhelmed. He’d meant to let her gradually grow used to being Princess of Nvengaria, but the full force of its implications was springing on her at once. The prophecy certainly wanted to test her mettle.
* * *
Events sprang on Penelope at the fête, as well. The first was the Prince Regent.
The prince arrived in a royal coach, which was surrounded by at least two score Horse Guards riding double file. The Regent would reside at the Trask home, the largest house in the area, which meant that an entire wing had to be set aside for his use. Penelope and her mother lived mostly in the east wing, so the west wing had been made over, under Sasha’s careful supervision, into chambers fit for the stand-in monarch of England.
Penelope had no idea from whence came Damien’s resources, but cartloads of furnishings and goods had arrived the week before the prince. Workmen carried in a huge bed, wall hangings, paintings—some from Carleton House itself—soft chairs large enough to accommodate the prince’s bulk, silver plate, candlesticks, draperies, footstools, tables, padded benches, dressing tables, and a wide-seated Bath chair.
“Oh, my,” Meagan said as they watched. “Deirdre Braithwaite never had the Prince Regent staying in her house. I shall be able to crow about this for the longest time.”
The household had descended into chaos. Whenever Penelope happened to cross paths with Sasha, who was mending quickly, he’d beam at Penelope, bow, and give her a profusion of thanks for saving him. It was unnerving.
Penelope’s mother shuttled between excitement that royalty would stay in her home, and oh, dear, what about the state of the guest rooms that hadn’t been used in a decade?
Damien’s servants had taken over every aspect of the house, including the cooking, resulting in the old cook’s giving notice. It took Damien to charm her into staying. He made the hunch-shouldered cook a sort of glorified chef who could sit on her backside and shout at people as much as she liked. Most of the Nvengarian staff didn’t speak English, so the cook bellowed, and they ignored her, thus maintaining mutual satisfaction.
The morning the Regent was to appear, Penelope and Meagan waited, with Lady Trask and Michael, for his coach to arrive. The day had turned hot, dust rising on a quick breeze.
Penelope and Meagan stood a little way from the others, Meagan shielding herself with a parasol, but Penelope was too agitated to hold anything. Her bonnet would have to do to keep the sun from her skin.
Everything was happening at such a rapid rate that Penelope hadn’t had much chance to speak with Meagan alone. Meagan, for her part, was thrilled that Damien wanted to marry Penelope, certain her friend deserved a prince. But Meagan perhaps did not understand the full implications of it.
“If I go to Nvengaria,” Penelope said to Meagan in a quiet voice, “would you want to come with me? If only for a little while?” A pain darted through her heart. “I would miss you so, and truth to tell, I cannot imagine living there without you. Damien promised to find you a husband, remember?” she added, trying to make her voice light.
Meagan hesitated a long moment. Far down the road, a puff of dust rolled skyward, and the sun caught on the glass windows of a coach.
“I understand if you do not wish to,” Penelope began around a lump in her throat when Meagan remained silent. “It is a dreadfully long way.”
Meagan shook her head. “It is not that. Penelope, Damien says we cannot come with you. None of us.”
Penelope stilled. “What?”
Meagan kept her eyes on the approaching coach but her cheeks went pink. “I have argued with him already. Damien says it is too dangerous for me or my father or even your mother to accompany you. That his enemies might use us to reach you or Damien. That he cannot spare the men to protect us all.”
Penelope’s mouth tightened. “Did he?”
Meagan turned to her, her expression serious. “Penny, I think he’s right. I did not know what to do when that man ran at you with the knife. All I could think of was to dive behind the well. I couldn’t even help you.” She looked mournful. “What if I should be the cause of someone hurting you? Or Damien? I would feel horrible about it for the rest of my life—that is, if the assassins left me alive.”
“But—”
“I brought forth every argument I could think of,” Meagan said, cutting her off. “I pointed out to Damien that I am small and do not take much room, that I could look after you, and that I am a coward and would stay far away from any assassin. He countered everything I had to say. He is right. I’d only be in the way.”
“You would not be in the way,” Penelope protested, feeling desperate.
“We would, and you know it. Your mother and I would not know what to do in any danger. Look how Sasha instinctively rushed to protect you.”
“I would rather not think of it.” Penelope had relived the moment too often since it had happened. She also remembered how Sasha had relaxed and breathed out when Penelope had washed his wound in the tavern, happily declaring the pain gone.
Whether Penelope truly did have healing magic, or whether Sasha only believed in it so much that it worked, she did not know. But Sasha had recovered quickly from his wound with no ill effects. Damien’s entourage, even the cynical valet, Petri, had begun to look at Penelope with new respect.