A Prince in the Pantry E-Book

May McGoldrick

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 130

Beschreibung

Prince Timour Mirza, an heir to the Persian throne, is visiting England on a diplomatic mission to choose a wife. Brought up in a world where his every move is dictated, Timour longs for one night of freedom. Pearl Smith was raised amid London's ton, but a reversal of fortune has left her father languishing in debtors' prison. Now, on the night of the grand ball, she has been reduced to working below stairs at the Whitwell House in London's fashionable West End, the unwitting victim of a former friend's venomous envy. Curious about the life of everyday people, Timour trades his clothes and his position with a companion and escapes the masquerade ball. With the absence of his royal regalia, his darker skin and his beliefs draw unwanted attention. Stunned and humiliated by women she thought were her friends, Pearl flees the mansion. But the last thing she expects is to become the champion of a tall, dark stranger. And in the hours that follow, as a full moon bathes London in a May glow, Pearl and Timour will find that love can come when it's least expected.

Leseprobe

A PRINCE IN THE PANTRY

A REGENCY NOVELLA

MAY MCGOLDRICK

BOOK DUO CREATIVE

Thank you for choosing this book. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review. Feel free to connect with the author.

A Prince in the Pantry. Copyright © 2021 by Nikoo and James A. McGoldrick

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover Art by Elefont Books Cover Design

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Edition Note

Authors’ Note

Preview of Borrowed Dreams

Also by May McGoldrick, Jan Coffey & Nik James

About the Author

1

London

May, 1814

Pearl Smith drew a handkerchief out of the cuff of her sleeve and patted the perspiration from her upper lip. The windowless sewing room in the basement of Londonderry House was suffocatingly hot.

The work on the cream-figured, silk muslin dress was finished. The garment hung on the wall hook, the hem mended. It was the only project that had been left for her today, and Pearl was glad. She was anxious to get back to her father, who was battling a summer cold and refused to take his dinner unless she was there with him.

Gathering up her bag and basket, she turned and started for the door but stopped short as she banged her knee on one of the benches.

She paused to rub the bruise, but it was quickly forgotten when a screech from a child drew Pearl’s head up. A consoling voice drifted in from the laundresses’ room next door, along with the higher pitch of other children.

Every day, the women brought their youngsters—some infants, others barely waist high. Some helped and some sat or lay swaddled along a wall while the mothers worked. Whatever grievance Pearl had with the uncomfortable room she was assigned to do her sewing in, her situation was nothing compared to how those laundresses suffered. The heat and the steaming odors of soap and starch and bluing rising from the great wooden vats was dreadful. And that was before lugging their heavy baskets out into the bleaching and drying fields in Hyde Park.

In her previous life, Pearl had scarcely thought of how hard servants worked, but she now recognized the endless drudgery and discomfort these people endured.

The clock chimed the noon hour as she stepped out of the sewing room. Walking down the hallway, she was thinking of stops she needed to make when an upstairs maid suddenly appeared in her path.

“Sorry, miss. But are you leaving?”

“I’ve finished my work for the day. Why?”

“Begging your pardon, but the mistress sent me down for you. She wants you in her sitting room.”

Pearl looked past the young woman down the corridor. She still had an hour of brisk walking to get home to her father.

The maid must have sensed her misgivings. “I can tell her you already left, if you like.”

All of the servants were aware of Pearl’s situation. It was no secret, and a few actually treated her with a mixture of sympathy and kindness. This woman was one of them.

Pearl laid a gentle hand on the woman’s arm and shook her head. “It’s all right. I’ll go up and see Miss Cly before I leave.”

The Londonderry House was the town residence of Lord Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary. The powerful politician and his wife had no children, and they’d taken in their niece Rosa Cly as their ward several years ago. During the Season, Rosa circulated among the highest levels of society. But what mattered most to Pearl was that she had some influence with her uncle.

“Oh,” the maid said as an afterthought. “You should know, Miss Ivy Bartlett is up there with the mistress.”

Pearl thanked her. She knew Ivy from her previous life, as well. Once upon a time, she and Ivy and Rosa had traveled in the same circles. Never exactly friends, but certainly friendly acquaintances.

Pearl hurried through the subterranean corridors of the mansion. She climbed the stuffy, narrow stairwell used by the servants until she reached the floor where Rosa’s apartments were located.

There was no one in the wide hallway, and the door to the sitting room stood slightly ajar. Voices drifted out.

“Does she really live there? In the prison.”

“Yes, in Marshalsea Prison.”

The first voice belonged to Ivy Bartlett; the second was Rosa’s.

“How does she tolerate it?”

“She doesn’t have much choice, now does she. Besides, she wants to be with her father.”

Pearl stopped and put her bag down beside a large Chinese vase outside the door. She wished she could block her ears, but this was surely just an echo of conversations between other members of the ton since her father was taken off to debtor’s prison.

“How inconsiderate of Perceval Smith not to think of his daughter’s future,” Ivy said.

“It was certainly irresponsible of him. It’s no surprise what happens when you borrow more money than you can afford and then fail to pay it back.”

Pearl felt heat rising into her face. She forced herself to stand still, restraining herself from barging in and defending him. This was not what happened to her father. There was nothing intentional or fraudulent behind their change of fortune.

Not too long ago, her father had been the most successful importer of fabrics into France and England. He’d been ruined last autumn when the British wartime government seized the assets of his company for doing business with the French before the current outbreak of war.

Now he was languishing in debtors’ prison, and Pearl hoped Rosa might help get him out of Marshalsea.

“So, what’s she doing here?” Ivy pressed. “She’s hardly a trained domestic. What do you have her doing?”

“Sewing, so long as it’s not too complicated a job. Sometimes I ask her opinion on dresses I’m planning to have made. She always had a good taste.”

Pearl did have some knowledge about fabrics. Muslins and Batistes and silks. Classic materials with Etruscan and Egyptian decoration and woven or embroidered borders. Mending dresses to feed herself and her father, however, wasn’t something she’d ever imagined doing.

“And she ended up working for you how?”

“She asked me for a job, and I gave it to her.”

With Napoleon abdicating last month, Pearl hoped that Rosa would convince Lord Castlereagh to get involved. His lordship certainly had the power to help Percival Smith, and the two men had once been friends. But to approach Rosa and simply ask such a huge favor wasn’t conceivable. Working in Londonderry House and appealing to her sense of compassion was another matter.

“You have a heart of gold,” Ivy continued. “I wouldn’t be so generous.”

Pearl couldn’t take it anymore. The more she listened, the more she was pained by Ivy’s attitude. This was the same response she and her father had received from many of their supposed friends.

Taking a breath to compose herself, Pearl knocked and went in.

The two women were lounging on sofas that faced each other in front of a marble fireplace. The room had been redecorated in the past year, reflecting the simpler tastes of fashion that had been sweeping the homes of the ton. Persian carpets filled the floors with symmetrical arrangements of colorful garden flowers. Sheer gauze drapes billowed in front of open windows that faced out onto the green expanses of Hyde Park. A tray filled with pastries and cups of tea—Rosa’s late breakfast—sat on a low table between them. A footman stood in attendance in the corner.

“There you are,” Rosa said in greeting, brushing her blonde tresses back over her shoulder as she turned to face Pearl. “I was afraid you had already gone for the day.”

“Not yet.”

“How is your father?”

“A little better. Thank you for asking.”

Pearl looked from Rosa to Ivy. The other woman’s eyes had turned toward the refreshments on the table. No acknowledgment that they’d ever known each other.

“You remember Miss Bartlett, don’t you, Pearl?”

“Of course.” She nodded politely. “I hope your mother and sisters are doing well.”

Ivy’s gaze slowly shifted toward her, but nothing was offered in response. The look was appraising, moving from head to toe, studying every flaw in Pearl’s dress and shoes before drifting to the window.

“Ivy and I were just speaking about the ball tonight. I have a favor to ask.”

An uncomfortable feeling prickled over her skin. Tonight was Lord and Lady Whitwell’s Midsummer Night’s Dream Masquerade Ball. The most anticipated and extravagant event of the Season. The guest list included everyone of wealth and importance in London.

“A favor?”

Rosa smiled. “I do love your practical sense, Pearl. No, not a favor. I am asking you to do a job for me.”

She waited to hear more.

“As you know, my dress is ready. The mask I intend to wear is here, as well.” Rosa glanced at her friend. “Ivy, did I tell you I had it modeled after the one the fairy queen Titania is holding as she turns away from Oberon in that painting at the new gallery in Pall Mall?”

“I have to see it.”

Pearl knew all of this. Every step of preparation for the ball had been shared with her. She’d even helped Rosa with the fitting, running gold silk cord lacing through seventeen pairs of eyelets earlier this week while the lady’s maid looked on.

“You’ll be the most beautiful woman at the ball,” Pearl said for the sake of saying something.

“Thank you. But I also need to be ready for any unexpected mishap with the dress.”

“Nothing should go awry,” Pearl assured her.

Ivy broke in, speaking for the first time since Pearl entered the room. “But something always goes wrong, doesn’t it?”

“She’s right,” Rosa agreed. “That’s why I want you at the Whitwell House tonight during the ball. Just in case I need you.”

Pearl felt the blood drain from her face. Although she’d already guessed the ‘favor’, the request was crushing. Never mind the fact that she’d be locked out of Marshalsea all night. The possibility of being seen by any of her former friends would be too awful.

Since her father’s imprisonment, she’d stayed out of the eye of the ton, except for approaching Rosa. Ivy’s attitude here was stark affirmation of how others would treat her.

“You will do it. You’ll come, won’t you?” Rosa asked.

“I…” She tried to come up with an excuse.

“No one will see you,” Rosa said in a quiet voice, obviously guessing at Pearl’s discomfort. “You’ll be below stairs, far from the notice of the guests.”

Ivy was watching Pearl like a crocodile eyeing its prey, waiting for her answer.

Pearl wanted to refuse, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t risk denying Rosa and damaging the connection.

“Very well. I’ll be there,” Pearl replied. “In the sewing rooms.”

“Thank you,” Rosa replied. “I was saying to Ivy just before you walked in that you wouldn’t abandon me in my time of need.”

The underlying meaning in the words struck home. She went out, leaving the door slightly open, as she’d found it. While she picked up her things, snatches of the women’s conversation again reached her.

“Who would have thought?” Ivy sounded practically triumphant. “Last year, she was the center of attention for all the men. And tonight she’ll be⁠—”

“Considering her circumstances,” Rosa interrupted, “Pearl will happily stay out of sight. She won’t be competing with you for anyone’s attention.”

“You’re right. But enough about her.” Ivy’s voice turned conspicuously low. “But on the topic of competition. Is it true that a Persian prince will be attending the Whitwell’s ball tonight?”

“Yes, but you can just stay away from him. He’s already spoken for.”

“I heard he just arrived in London. Spoken for by whom?”

“By me.”

Pearl hurried down the hallway. She didn’t want to hear about any prince or duke or earl or viscount…or any eligible bachelor whatsoever. So much had changed. Her life had been upended dramatically. Her responsibility now lay with supporting and helping her father.

And right now, she needed to get to the prison and get him settled before leaving him alone for the evening.

2

Prince Timour stared out the window of the carriage as it rolled through the streets of London. The route from the embassy had taken them along tree-lined streets, past large stone mansions and broad parklands where patches of rising mist caught the fading glow of the evening.

His cousin, Ali Khan, had been talking continuously. He was a good friend—they’d been companions since childhood—and he’d grown into a man who took quite seriously the tasks that were given to him. Right now, a bit too seriously.

“The ambassador never responded to Lady and Lord Whitwell regarding the way you wish to be introduced at the ball tonight, Hazrat-e Ajal.”

Timour glanced at Ali, who rarely addressed him so formally. He was using a title that translated into ‘Your Excellency.’ The prince sensed a note of nervousness in his friend’s tone. All day, he’d been trying to impress on Timour the importance of the evening in completing their diplomatic mission.

“Would you prefer Shahzadeh Timour Mirza…or Prince Timour Mirza? Of course, in either case the British guests will assume Mirza is your last name, rather than a proper address for the Qajar king’s son. But I believe that will take less time than having them try to repeat all of your proper names and titles.”

Timour recalled a day when the two of them had joked that he needed ten servants and a wagon to carry around his titles.

“It doesn’t matter how they introduce me.”

“The English people are a peculiar sort. They will insist on knowing just how much deference they need to demonstrate.”

Ali Khan was a frequent spokesman in diplomatic situations. He had a cheerful demeanor that hid a shrewd mind. Timour couldn’t fathom how his friend had avoided viewing the world with cynicism. As for himself, he saw that people always looked to their own interests. Everyone else be damned was the prevalent attitude.

“You decide.”

“Perhaps we should have them announce you as Mirza Timour Khan, Lord High Prince of Iran. Or Shahzadeh. Or Persia’s Royal⁠—”

“Decide on one and be done with it, Ali. I really don’t care.”

Unperturbed by Timour’s impatience, he thought about it for a moment before continuing. “Then we shall have them introduce you as Prince Timour Mirza of Persia. Simplicity is the best policy with Englishmen.”

Timour waved a hand, totally indifferent to the matter. Several months of travel, with diplomatic stops along the way, had left him bored with formal banquets and entertainments. He was ready to set sail for home. But that wasn’t going to happen for another month.

He knew this was an important visit, both for his country and for himself. The peace treaty signed between Russia and Iran last year had made the British nervous. Now the English wanted to make a deal of their own with the Persian government. Timour knew the reason was largely geographic. Iran’s location made it a physical buffer between Russian armies and British India.