Well, she would have memories. That was it.

  This interlude in an otherwise humdrum life would come to an end and she would at least have the memory of it.

  It hardly seemed fair. It was so unfair, in fact, a part of her thought she ought not to make it grossly unfair by refusing to see what was plainly in front of her.

  Eliza was so lost in thought that at first she didn’t notice the postman until she all but tripped over his satchel. But there stood Mr. French on Mrs. Spragg’s stoop, the two of them deep in conversation. A few steps below him on the sidewalk was his satchel with all the post, lying carelessly open.

  Eliza waved and looked down at the satchel. The mouth of it was unusually large, presumably so Mr. French could easily search the contents. Anyone walking down the street could dip down and take a letter or two without Mr. French’s notice.

  She glanced up. Mr. French was leaning against the little stone wall that surrounded Mrs. Spragg’s landing, one leg crossed casually over the other, his back to the sidewalk. Eliza could take the whole bloody bag and carry on and he’d never know it. She could certainly rummage around it for a minute or two until she found a few pieces of correspondence addressed to her father.

  She leaned over—there was a thick stack of letters and correspondence, bound by a leather tie, the top letter addressed to her father. She suddenly realized how the culprit had done it—Eliza’s father received all manner of correspondence at home, whereas most of the residents on this square received perhaps a letter or two on any given day. It would be very easy to find the post destined for number 34.

  Eliza waited patiently until Mr. French finally came down the stairs favoring his left leg.

  “Miss Tricklebank, what a delight! Shall I hand you the post, then?”

  “If you would, please. I thought I’d save you the walk.”

  “That’s very kind of you. I should like to get home to Mrs. French before it’s too late.” He picked up the bag and set the strap on his shoulder. “I suppose I dally too long on some days. Mrs. French likes me home.”

  “Of course she does. But you’re so very reliable that she must miss you terribly every day.”

  “I take a bit of pride in that, I do. Can’t say that for all the postmen. But me? I deliver every day without fail.”

  “I know that you do! That’s why I was so very surprised when another man delivered our post one day.”

  “What?” his brows rose, then knit into a frown. “When?”

  “Oh, a fortnight or so ago,” she said airily.

  His frown deepened. “I beg your pardon, Miss Tricklebank, but I don’t see how that might have happened. I walk the same route every day. You could set a clock by me, you could.”

  “Which is why I thought it odd.”

  He shook his head and gave her a kind, indulgent smile. “I think you must be mistaken, Miss Tricklebank.”

  As if she were a doddering old woman confused about her whereabouts. She wasn’t confused about a thing. “Perhaps you’re right.” She smiled sweetly. She knew very well that a woman had taken the post addressed to 34 Bedford Square from his bag, had put the note in it, then paid a stranger from the market to deliver it.

  “Very well, Miss Tricklebank, if I may leave the justice’s post to you, I shall carry on this way and finish my work for the day.”

  “You may. And good day to you, Mr. French.”

  He touched two fingers to his cap and started down the walk with his limp and his satchel.

  Eliza walked on, pulling her cloak even more tightly around her.

  As she neared number 34, she saw a coach was parked at the far corner. It was big, shiny and black, fully enclosed. It looked like the coaches that carried the queen out of Buckingham from time to time. Was it him? Her heart began to race. Surely he hadn’t come like this, in broad daylight, with a coach as big as a shed.

  Oh, Lord, surely he was not inside with her father.

  Eliza hurried home.

  There were three men standing about the coach, all of them in greatcoats, which made it impossible to see if they wore Alucian clothing beneath them, but she didn’t really need to see. She knew who they were.

  She darted up the steps of the house, tripping over the top step in her haste, then shouting at Jack and John to move away from the door. She squeezed in through a crack so they’d not escape.

  “Eliza!” Poppy hurried down the hall to her, eyes wide as moons. “You won’t believe it!”

  “Oh, but I think I will.” She thrust her things at Poppy. “Where is he?”

  “In the parlor. The judge is coming down for tea at any minute.”

  As if on cue, the judge called downstairs, “Eliza, is that you come in?”

  “Yes, Pappa!” she called.

  “Who has come?” he called.

  “Ah... I’ll see,” she said, and exchanged a frantic look with Poppy. She tried to remove her cloak as she hurried into the parlor, Jack and John racing ahead of her.

  Sebastian was standing at the mantel, either admiring her clocks or Pris, who was perched atop one of them. He turned when she banged in the door, and Eliza had only a moment to collect herself. He was so striking, so virile, and the way he smiled at her made her feel warm and a bit wobbly.

  With a quick look over her shoulder, she whispered loudly, “What are you doing here?”

  Jack and John, their tales wagging, were sniffing around Sebastian.

  “I must speak with you,” he said, moving forward through the dogs as if he didn’t realize they were there.

  “My father is expecting me for tea,” she said.

  “Then I should like to make his acquaintance, if I may.”

  “Eliza?” her father called.

  She was panicked—how would she explain the Alucian prince to her father? “Lord help you, I think you’ve lost your mind,” she said softly.

  “I can’t disagree.” He suddenly strode across the room and grabbed her up and kissed her hard on the mouth, then let go and stepped back just as her father entered the room, his hand on the strings tacked to the wall to guide him.

  Eliza turned toward her father, her eyesight slightly blurred from being thoroughly dazzled. “Pappa!” she said, far too brightly. She went to him, took his hand and helped him to his chair.

  “Where have you been?” he asked as he seated himself.

  “The market. I brought the yarn like you wanted.”

  He turned his head toward the room as if he had sight and was looking for something. “What color?”

  “Blue—”

  “What is the matter?” he asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re too anxious, darling.” He stilled a moment, as if listening. She tried to calm her breathing and looked nervously at Sebastian. He looked as if he wanted to speak.

  “Who is here?”

  “Um...”

  Sebastian opened his mouth as if to speak.

  “You are right,” she said quickly before he could utter a word. “Someone has come. Poppy, will you bring wine or tea or...better yet, whisky.”

  “Yes,” Poppy said from her place at the door.

  “Who in the blazes is here?” her father demanded.

  “I will tell you, Pappa.” She put his knitting on his lap and guided his hands to the needles. Pris leapt onto his chair and stretched along the back of it.

  “We’ve a caller,” Eliza continued. “Well, I have a caller. But he would like to make your acquaintance.”

  “He? Have you been keeping a secret from me, darling? You don’t mean to leave me, do you?”

  “What? No! Of course not, Pappa. I should tell you that he’s rather a notable caller.”

  Her father’s brows dipped. “How notable?”

  “He’s a prince,” she said quietly.

  Her father fixed his glassy gaze into space. “That is indeed a notable caller. Why is he calling?”

  “To have a word with me, actually. We’re friends—”

  “Friends,” he scoffed.

  Sebastian stepped forward, but Eliza shook her head. “We are, Pappa. I’ve helped him in a personal matter.”

  Her father snorted. “You will forgive me, Eliza, my dearest, for you are a very capable woman. But I cannot begin to imagine how you might have helped this man. Particularly after I expressly asked you to stay clear of any matter having to do with him.”

  “You did, Pappa,” she said, wincing. “But I didn’t. And now we are friends and I—”

  “Am I to meet the gentleman?” her father demanded.

  Eliza didn’t hear what more her father said, because there was suddenly a raised voice coming from the entry. Bloody hell, it was Hollis. Eliza bolted for the door to head her off, because her sister was perfectly capable of making a tense situation even worse. Unfortunately, Hollis was already at the door of the salon. She came to a halt just over the threshold and stared at them all in confusion.

  “Hollis, dearest, come in!” Eliza said gaily, opting to pretend it was perfectly natural for Sebastian to be standing in the parlor. “One more for whisky, Poppy!”

  Hollis stared at Sebastian. “Eliza! What is—”

  “I was just about to make introductions,” Eliza interjected.

  “I think you should,” Sebastian said. He bowed to Hollis. “Mrs. Honeycutt.”

  “Your Highness,” she said coolly, but curtsied elegantly.

  “Pappa, please allow me to introduce His Royal Highness, Prince Sebastian.” Was that how it was done? Eliza really had no idea. She looked at Sebastian for help, but his expression, so earnest only moments before, was politely shuttered. “My father, Justice William Tricklebank.”

  Sebastian reached down for her father’s hand. “A great pleasure, Your Honor.”

  “The pleasure should be mine,” her father said, and slowly withdrew his hand. “But until I know what business you could possibly have with my daughter, I will reserve it.”

  Hollis clamped her hand over her mouth in mortification. Eliza was not terribly surprised. Sebastian took her father’s tone in stride.

  “I appreciate a man who comes straight to the point,” Sebastian said. “Miss Tricklebank spoke true—she has been a great help to me and dispenses excellent advice. I arrived tonight hoping to seek more of it.”

  “She is invaluable in her advice,” her father agreed. “But I would hope that in the course of seeking her advice you have not extended assurances or promises you do not intend to keep, sir.”

  “Pappa!” Hollis and Eliza exclaimed in unison.

  “You have my word as a prince and a gentleman,” Sebastian said solemnly.

  Eliza’s face was flaming. She wanted to point out to her father that she was a grown woman and not an innocent maid. Before she could make her point, Poppy returned to the room with the rickety rolling cart they used when they had several guests, the small whisky tots rattling against each other. She bumped into a stack of books on the floor and knocked them over, then backed up and went around them, rolling the cart to a halt before her father.

  “Ah, here is the whisky,” Eliza said. “I think we could all use a bit. Please do sit, Your Highness.”

  “Are we not on more familiar terms, Eliza? You must call me Sebastian.”

  “Oh no,” Hollis said faintly. “Oh dear.”

  “Right you are,” Eliza said with a dark look for him. It wouldn’t take her sister or her father much effort to understand what had happened between her and Sebastian. “Will you please sit, Sebastian?”

  “I shudder to think how the two of you have come to a first-name basis in such a short time of acquaintance, but for now, I should like to know what advice you’ve sought from my daughter,” her father said, as if he’d read Eliza’s thoughts. She tried to put a tot of whisky in his hand. He waved her off.

  “She’s been indispensable to me in discovering what happened to my personal secretary,” Sebastian said, and accepted a tot of whisky from Poppy, who almost bobbled it right into his lap, she was so struck by him. “As you might imagine, after a tragic loss such as we experienced, everyone is suspect. But I have come to trust Eliza’s point of view.”

  “No doubt she has come to trust yours, as well,” her father said curtly.

  “Pappa!”

  Hollis, who would not miss an opportunity to find something to print, asked quickly, “Have you discovered who was behind it?”

  Sebastian shook his head.

  Eliza wanted to tell Sebastian what she’d learned today, but she’d not do so in front of her family. She’d always been proud that her family was free with their opinions—it had made for some healthy and honest debates over the years. But today, she preferred not to hear any of their opinions on any subject.

  “You may trust her opinion, sir,” her father continued, “but I assure you, Eliza knows nothing of murder and should not be involved. I resent that you might have put my daughter in danger.”

  “Of course he hasn’t!” Eliza exclaimed. Her father was speaking as if she were a child.

  “Eliza is very clever, Pappa,” Hollis said. “Far cleverer than any of the sheltered young debutantes His Highness may have met here—”

  “Hollis!” Eliza said sharply. “All right, that’s enough, both of you,” she said, holding up both hands. “Pappa. Hollis. I do appreciate your care and concern for me and my reputation...such that it is,” she said with a shrug. “But I’m not a fool, and the prince has been a perfect gentleman. We are friends. I am not in danger. In any way,” she said, with a pointed look for Hollis.

  Hollis frowned into her tot of whisky. “We care about you, Eliza.”

  They cared about the poor Eliza who had once been the biggest fool in all of London, and they did not want to see a repeat of that terrible time. “I know you do, and I love you desperately because of it. I made a wretched mistake ten years ago, but I am a very different person than I was then. You know that I am.”

  Hollis’s lashes fluttered as she looked down. “Don’t say more, Eliza,” she softly warned her.

  “I’ve nothing to hide,” Eliza said.

  “I have found her honesty to be refreshing,” Sebastian said. “In my daily dealings, there are many people I meet who are not entirely truthful with me because of misguided notions about what a prince should or should not know. They tend to keep things from me, or present them in a pleasing way. Eliza has been quite blunt in her assessments of both me and my situation. She speaks the truth, no matter what.”

  “She does indeed speak the truth, and I, too, rely on her advice. But she is my daughter and I would not see her harmed,” the judge said firmly.

  “I am not harmed,” Eliza said.

  “Be that as it may, you are in no position to advise a prince,” her father insisted. “If that is the sort of advice he seeks, then perhaps he will agree to dine with us this evening and see what other wisdom can be gleaned from all the Tricklebanks of Bedford Square. We are all of us dreadfully honest and free with our opinions, no matter how wrongheaded we might be.”

  “A very kind offer,” Sebastian said. “Unfortunately, I am expected elsewhere.” He looked at Eliza. “I had hoped for a word with your daughter, if we could be spared a moment?”

  Eliza looked at her family. Pappa’s eyes were fixed in her general direction, and the rest of them were all looking at her—Hollis, Poppy, the dogs...even Pris. “I can be spared,” she answered for them all. “Please excuse us.”

  Her father said nothing. His hands rested on his lap and he turned his head.

  “It has been my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Honor,” Sebastian said gracefully. “Mrs. Honeycutt,” he said, bowing. “Poppy.”

  Poppy smiled sheepishly at him. At least her opinion had changed for the better.

  Eliza walked to the door of the parlor and opened it. The prince would not go through before she did, so she shot a look at her family before passing through. She walked across the hall to the small sitting room she sometimes used to work on her clocks. There were several of them around in various stages of disrepair. Sebastian followed her inside, pulling the door closed behind him. For a fleeting moment, she thought her father was right—she had no business advising a prince. But she had to share with him what she’d just discovered. “Sebastian! I have news,” she said, grabbing his arms. “I found the man who delivered the post to me!”

  Something flickered in Sebastian’s eyes. Something hard. “I told you not to look. Where did you find him?”

  “At Covent Garden. You won’t believe it! He said the person who asked him to take the post for five pence was a woman.”

  “A woman?” He looked stunned. “What woman?”

  “He claimed not to know her, but he said she was small, with hair darker than mine, and had brown eyes.”

  “That could be any woman in England,” he said.

  “He also said her...ah...bosom was large. And that she spoke with an accent. Not an English accent, but a foreign one.”

  Sebastian’s face began to darken with a frown. “Did he recognize the accent?”

  “No—but she must have been an Alucian, don’t you think?”

  He considered that and shook his head. “It’s not possible.”

  “Of course it is!”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. “There are no more than five women in our party. Could she have been French?”

  “Why would a Frenchwoman want to deliver the note? Unless she was somehow tied to the French banker? But it could have been an Alucian woman who is not in your party. Someone who was here already, or arrived after you. A rebel who knew you’d come to England.”

  He didn’t reject the idea. He turned away from her, thinking. “And I suppose it could have been one in my party.”