A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(49)

Emmeline turned her head and regarded Colin askance. A coquettish lilt stole into her voice. “Well, I would believe it of him. He does have that roguish air.”

Miss Gateshead, you have no idea.

“Perhaps a spy.” This, from Mrs. Pickerill.

Minerva’s annoyance neared its boiling point. She couldn’t take any more of this silliness from the women, and Colin’s quiet misery had her truly concerned. Now he seemed to have stopped breathing entirely.

“Why don’t you just tell them the truth, brother?” Perhaps it would help him to talk. He did love spinning outlandish tales. And if he were speaking, he’d simply have to start breathing.

He cleared his throat. “Oh, I don’t like to say.”

Mrs. Pickerill looked suspicious. “It’s simple enough, isn’t it? Names, destination.”

“Yes, of course,” Minerva jumped to agree, casually sliding her arm through Colin’s. “But it’s not a matter of how we are,” she improvised. “It’s who we might be that complicates matters.”

“And who might you be?” Miss Cordelia Gateshead inched forward on her seat.

“Do tell them, brother,” Minerva urged. “It’s so very diverting. And I think what we need right now is a little diversion.”

She gave his arm a surreptitious squeeze. I’m here. You’re not alone.

He nodded. “Well, you see . . . the truth of the matter is . . .” He put his hand over Minerva’s. “We might be royalty.”

Every lady in the coach gasped, Minerva included. Well, she’d asked for this. At least there’d be no cobras or lepers this time.

“Royalty?” Miss Gateshead sat tall. “How astonishing.”

“That was our reaction, when the solicitors found us.” Colin began to sound himself again. His incorrigible, devilish self. “But it’s recently come to light that our father was possibly descended from the line of Prince Ampersand, ruling monarch of Crustacea.”

“Crustacea,” Cordelia echoed. “I’ve never even heard of it.”

“Neither had we!” he exclaimed. “We had to dig out the atlas from our father’s library and dust it off when we received the letter last month. A very small principality, apparently. High up in the mountains, along the border of Spain and Italy. The entire economy is based on the export of calendula and goat cheese.”

Minerva bit back a laugh. Any imbecile with an atlas knew Spain didn’t border Italy. And good luck growing calendula on a mountaintop.

“What did the letter say?” Cordelia asked.

“You see, some months ago, tragedy struck the tiny alpine paradise. The entire Crustacean royal family was wiped out by a particularly virulent strain of violet fever.”

“I’ve never heard of violet fever.”

“Neither had we,” Colin said. “We had to break out father’s old medical tomes next. Didn’t we, M?” He patted her hand. “It’s very rare. But almost always deadly.” He clucked his tongue. “A true tragedy. It wiped out the prince, the queen mother, all the royal children. Unless they want to hand over the realm to this vile, sniveling, warty usurper called . . .” He looked to Minerva. “Sir Alisdair, was it?”

She snorted.

“They had to find someone in the royal line. They searched far and wide, and then they found us. So we’re off to the ancestral family home, you see. To retrieve our birth records and the family Bible and such. By this time next month, you could be looking at the prince and princess of Crustacea.”

Emmeline sighed. “It’s like a fairy tale.”

Yes, Minerva thought. Just like a fairy tale. Absolute rot, from beginning to end.

“Oh, it’s no fairy tale,” Colin said. “Don’t envy us our sudden elevation. If we are royalty, our lives will cease to be our own. We’ll have duties, won’t we? We’ll have to leave England—our beloved homes and friends—behind. And then there’s abandoning the hope of love.” His expression went somber. “A prince can never expect to find love.”

In unison, the sisters pressed their hands to their hearts.

“He can’t?” Cordelia asked.

“No, he can’t.” With an air of thoughtful sincerity, he leaned forward. “You see, if I remained just poor, simple Mr. Colin Sand of Sussex, I could take a fancy to a pretty girl I met while traveling. Ask permission to court her. Take the time to become better acquainted. Share with her all my dreams and fancies and secrets, and learn hers. Bring her sweets and bouquets.” He cast a wistful glance out the coach window. “Like any man, I’ve enjoyed my youth, sown my wild oats. But deep down, I always wanted that tender romance with the right girl. Someday.”

Good Lord. He spun these tales so convincingly, even Minerva had to remind herself it was all fabrication. She’d once made the mistake of believing those lies. It’s you, Minerva. It’s always been you. She could still hear the mocking laughter ringing off the turret walls.

This time, at least, she could have been the one to laugh. The young Misses Gateshead were so far gone, they’d all but tripped over the horizon.

Such charm was a talent, she had to give him that. Twenty minutes in the same carriage, and he had two well-bred gentlewomen utterly enamored with a reluctant prince who’d turn down the riches of the world for a chance at true love. Their hearts, souls, smiles, and virtues could be his for a single, smoldering gaze. They’d probably queue up to take turns.