Nobody's Princess

Book 3: The Wild Wynchesters

by Erica Ridley

Genres: Regency Romance; Women's Fiction; Action & Adventure Romance

Synopsis

A fun and feminist Regency romp from a master of the genre hailed as "a delight" by Bridgerton author Julia Quinn.

Nothing happens in London without Graham Wynchester knowing. His massive collection of intelligence is invaluable to his family’s mission of aiding those most in need. So when he deciphers a series of coded messages in the scandal sheets, Graham’s convinced he must come to a royal’s rescue. But his quarry turns out not to be a princess at all… The captivating Kunigunde de Heusch is anything but a damsel in distress, and the last thing she wants is Graham’s help.

All her life, Kuni trained alongside the fiercest Royal Guardsmen in her family, secretly planning to become her country’s first Royal Guardswoman. This mission in London is a chance to prove herself worthy without help from a man, not even one as devilishly handsome as Graham. To her surprise, Graham believes in her dream as much as she does, which makes it harder to resist kissing him…and falling in love. But how can she risk her heart if her future lies an ocean away? 

Release date: July 26, 2022

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

1

April 1818
London, England

Graham Wynchester turned away from the carriage window. “Are you certain you won’t need me?”

Beside him on the seat, his sister Tommy sent him a flat look. “It’s a simple infiltration and recovery. We’ve done it a thousand times.”

Across from her in the carriage, Miss Philippa York didn’t look up from the mountain of books open on her lap. The toes of her half boots played with Tommy’s beneath the lace of Philippa’s gown. “I’m fairly certain I’ve memorized every word written on the topic.”

“Righting a miscarriage of justice isn’t something you read,” Tommy teased as she smoothed the distinctive red waistcoat of her Bow Street Horse Patrol uniform. “It’s something we do.”

“These aren’t gothic novels,” Philippa protested. “They’re Graham’s intelligence albums on the building, owners, and staff. Each one is incredibly thorough.”

Graham grinned at her. His reconnaissance was always useful, but Philippa was the first to cling to his compendiums as though she adored the journals just as much as he did.

If all went well, that would soon change. A week ago, one of Graham’s informants had learned that an important foreign dignitary would be visiting London and had requested the Crown provide documentation disclosing potential security concerns at all the significant places a royal guest would be likely to visit.

Graham was made for a task like that!

The Crown hadn’t requested his intervention. The Home Office had begrudgingly accepted Graham’s offer to submit his own report… after he pointed out that he wouldn’t even be aware of the project, were it not for clear holes in security that Graham knew of and the Crown did not. The Prince Regent would see Graham’s talents firsthand. In the meantime, he was sworn to secrecy about his involvement in the upcoming diplomatic preparations.

After a lifetime collecting other people’s secrets, Graham finally had a delicious one of his own. And if all went very, very well, he might even achieve the dream he’d cherished since he was a child: acknowledgment by a royal.

“Someone can help me.” Graham’s sister Elizabeth sat across from him, sheathing and unsheathing three different sword sticks. “Which deadly blade should I wield? The one with the serpent handle, the one shaped like a raptor, or the one Marjorie painted with daisies?”

He pointed at the innocuous-looking cane covered in flowers and festooned with ribbons. “They definitely won’t anticipate a rapier through the heart if you sally in with that confection.”

Philippa looked up from her reading, alarmed. “Do you really think—”

“He’s bamming you.” Tommy adjusted her beaver hat. “Elizabeth will pretend to be violent, which will distract the inn’s proprietor. You’ll slip in and out undetected whilst I detain my sister after a prolonged and dramatic tussle.”

“I don’t have to pretend,” said Elizabeth. “I could poke a few of them, just for flair. They’re the villains who stole…”

While Tommy and Elizabeth bickered over the appropriate bloodiness of a staged altercation, Philippa met Graham’s eyes.

“What about you?” she asked. “Do you need help with your mission?”

Bursting into sisterly laughter, Tommy and Elizabeth ceased their row at once.

“Help with…a wild-goose chase?” Elizabeth said in disbelief.

“It is nothing of the sort.” While performing reconnaissance for his government, Graham had stumbled across a mystery—one that gave him the perfect cover for going out on research expeditions in person, rather than relying exclusively on his network of spies. There was legitimate work to be done. “A woman is in grave danger, and I am going to save her.”

“You don’t know that she’s in danger,” Tommy said. “You stumbled across a series of personal advertisements in the newspaper implying a ‘package’ was being tracked and subsequently went missing.”

“He didn’t stumble across anything,” Elizabeth said. “He reads every word of every advertisement and every column in every publication. It’s where half his intelligence comes from.”

“Twenty-three percent,” Philippa said helpfully. “His network of spies are also quite informative.”

“And so is my own personal reconnaissance,” Graham reminded them. “Such as today. Just think! Perhaps I shall finally rescue a princess.”

Elizabeth scoffed. “How would someone lose a princess? We’d know if someone lost a princess!”

“This is your second day looking for her,” Tommy added. “Have you considered you might be misreading the situation, and no one is missing?”

He waggled his finger at her. “You’re a doubting Thomas, both of you. You’ll see.”

“Graham’s right.” Philippa closed the albums on her lap with care. “My ladies’ reading circle independently studied the obfuscated messages and reached similar conclusions.”

“See?” Graham told Tommy. “They’re the experts. Philippa and her friends solved a centuries-old enigma and designed a military cipher. If they say I’m right about this…”

Philippa nodded. “It does seem that two or more individuals are attempting to capture a woman, for reasons unknown. She has gone missing. Whether she escaped or was abducted by those hunting her, is also unknown.”

“Exactly what I said. Two dozen clever bluestockings agree with me. But not my own sisters!”

Elizabeth smacked him with her cane. “You said ‘princess.’”

“My darling expert,” Tommy stage-whispered to Philippa. “What are the chances the missing woman is a princess?”

“Unknown,” Philippa whispered back. “But unlikely.”

Graham lifted his nose. “It doesn’t matter. Wynchesters rescue anyone who needs rescuing.”

“We usually wait until a client invites us to intervene,” Elizabeth reminded him.

“Not Graham.” Tommy poked his shoulder. “If he even senses an injustice, he springs into motion like a freshly wound clock. There’s no stopping him…or his imagination.”

“One day, I’ll scale a tower to save a princess,” he informed them. “I’ll rescue her standing atop a noble steed with a rose between my teeth.” He pantomimed the pose.

“Those are not things that people do,” Elizabeth said. “It makes no sense. Why carry a flower in your mouth? And why should anyone stand on a horse?” She turned to Philippa. “What percentage of Graham’s ‘reconnaissance skills’ comes from the circus?”

“Ninety percent,” Philippa replied. “Mayhap closer to ninety-five.”

“Bah.” He tapped the panel behind him and the carriage rolled to a stop. “I’ll see you spoilsports at dinner, and we’ll see who has had the more exciting day. I’ll wager five quid it’s me.”

“Ten quid!” called Tommy as Graham leapt from the carriage onto a cobblestone street just outside of Mayfair.

He brushed a barely perceptible wrinkle from his new mazarine-blue frock coat. He did not know which country the expected dignitary would visit from, or when he or she was to arrive. In the event the missing woman was indeed a stray princess, he wanted her first impression of him to be favorable. Like all his clothes, this afternoon’s elegant ensemble was specially tailored for ease of movement, should he suddenly need to scale cathedrals or leap across rooftops. One never knew when one would need to perform daring feats for a damsel in distress.

This day would be full of adventure. He could feel it. Graham had fathomed out the pattern in the covert advertisements.

She, or her captors, possessed a copy of Boyle’s Court Guide, and was systematically appearing outside each aristocratic residence in the exact order they were listed in the guidebook.

Graham hadn’t the least notion why the sightings followed this pattern. Following a popular—if outdated—tourist guide was a baffling manner in which to conduct a covert abduction…and an equally baffling manner in which to evade capture. But Graham was certain which homes were next on the list. He owned every printing of the guidebook and had determined the edition his quarry was following.

He picked up his pace.

Two refined ladies heading toward him on the pavement startled and clutched their reticules to their bosoms as they edged to one side.

Oh, for the love of…Keeping his gaze straight ahead, Graham clenched his teeth and maintained a carefully cordial expression as he passed. His Schweitzer & Davidson waistcoat cost more than both their ensembles combined, but his skin was darker, which meant he was obviously a dastardly miscreant out to rob them.

His sisters and sister-in-law need not withstand such daily insults, because their skin was white as milk.

The ladies liked to tease their bachelor brother for holding out for a princess, but the truth was, Graham didn’t just dream of rescuing a royal. He wished he were one.

No one would snub him if he had a crown.

As recently as 1759, an African prince had been fêted by the ton and welcomed with open arms into the beau monde and all its amusements. He’d even received a standing ovation from the audience at Drury Lane. But one needn’t look to the past to see the intangible advantages of royalty. Queen Charlotte had distant African ancestry. Her son, the Prince Regent, was an absolute disaster, and he would be fawned over the rest of his life.

If Graham were a prince, he wouldn’t squander his position on gluttony and bad wagers. Just think how many more good works could be accomplished if he could influence the entire country! Having been raised in the glare of footlights until the age of ten, Graham was used to commanding attention. What he lacked was social standing. Playing ringmaster to a network of equally lowborn informants did not make him king, but at least he was using his gifts to help others.

Such as the missing woman.

He drew to a stop across the street from a large, terraced home. Was she here? Was she frightened? Was she still in danger?

There were too many people walking up and down the pavements, too many carts and carriages crowding the street. He would not be able to spot her from the street.

He needed a bird’s-eye view.

There was no convenient aerial rope like the one he’d used in the circus, but Graham had long since learned how to use his surroundings to launch him higher. He ducked back in the direction he had come, found the first empty alley, and began to run down it as quickly as he could.

He launched himself into the air and touched his right foot to a wooden crate, then his left atop a dusty barrel. The toe of his right boot grabbed purchase along a slender doorframe, his left a particularly jutting brick. With one final leap, his hands gripped the edge of a cornice, and he swung himself atop the roof. All without ripping a stitch in his well-tailored coat.

Hunching low to the roof, he traced his steps back, this time with the advantage of two stories’ height. He could see over the river of pedestrians, over the slow moving sludge of London traffic, and into the grand residence opposite.

The gardens were empty of everything but grass and meticulously tended flowers. The doors and windows were shut, but the curtains had been parted to let in sunlight. No terrified faces peered from the glass. No hulking villains dragged their captive through the roses.

Graham crouched on his heels in frustration. How was he supposed to save the missing woman if he couldn’t find her?

There was no sign of—

Wait.

There, on the corner diagonally opposite from his perch, across the street from the terraced home. A beautiful woman stood in shadow, scribbling furiously in a small book.

It didn’t just look like a surveillance operation. He recognized the pretty young lady. She had been amongst the passersby the last time he’d gone looking for his soon-to-be client.

This could not possibly be a coincidence.

From this angle, the brim of her bonnet blocked his view of her face, but he remembered it perfectly from the day before. The bonnet’s ribbon was an unusually bright purple-pink, but that wasn’t what had caught his attention. He’d walked past her—then did so again, slower— because of her beauty.

Soft, flawless skin in a rich, smooth brown. Wide-set eyes as dark as the black hair disappearing beneath her bonnet in elegant braids. Curling black lashes. A mouth that pouted adorably, lost in concentration on whatever note she was jotting. Tall, for a woman. Well-formed. Sturdy and capable, as though she spent her days jousting, or some other equally improbable venture.

She had intrigued him so thoroughly the day before, he’d forgotten his mission for a full five minutes before he recalled himself. He’d spent the afternoon scouring the grounds of the next residences listed in the guidebook, in hopes of finding his quarry.

She was the one, Graham was sure of it. He had found her at last!

He had no idea what difficulty she was in, but he was here to solve it. He turned and raced back across the roofs to the alley where he had ascended.

“Fear not, fair maiden,” he called as he leapt through the air to the empty alley. “Your devoted knight has come!”

2

Kunigunde de Heusch would not permit anything to stand in her way.

Not the oppressive gray skies threatening rain overhead. Not the harsh language the Londoners spoke in too many accents, either speaking too fast to comprehend or mumbling too low to pick out any words at all. Not this huge, overwhelming city with houses scrunched against each other and crowds of people so dense one could be carried along for a hundred meters without one’s boots scraping the ground. She definitely would not allow herself to be cowed by the two Royal Guardsmen hunting her down to cart her back home.

Kuni rubbed her arms. She had never felt more out of place than in the moment she’d stepped off the boat and onto the pier. Everything was so different! The sights, the smells, the weather, the architecture. Things were new when she expected old, old when she expected new, big when she expected small, small when she expected big, bright when she expected sedate, and dull when she was hoping for a splash of color.

And she was different from everyone else. Years of practicing grammatically perfect upper-class English could not fully erase her natural accent. When she opened her mouth, she received one of two reactions. Either an exclamation of Ooh, where are you from? or else, Netherlands! I met a fellow from Amsterdam once! He’s called James. Perhaps you know him?

Balcovia wasn’t part of the Dutch empire, and hadn’t been for over a century, not that anyone here seemed to care about those details…or much of anything. The London sky was sooty, the streets dirty, people and livestock darting every which way in front of horse-drawn carriages without a single care for their lives or for Kuni’s constantly pounding heart.

How she missed Balcovia’s wide, open vistas, its rolling hills and endless fields of green grass or yellow tulips, and its brilliant orange and pink sunsets! That was her view from the tower. Until this past week, Kuni rarely left the vast royal grounds for more than a few hours, unless it was to travel from the Winter Castle to the Summer Palace in a luxurious carriage fit for a princess.

Here, she was on foot. On foot! It sounded so simple. Kuni trained in every spare moment—blades, combat, maintaining stiff military posture for hours on end. At court, she danced until dawn. And yet her feet had never been in greater agony than now. The muscles of her thighs and calves twitched in protest whenever she paused, begging her to stop this madness and spend a few days reclining on plush cushions with nothing more pressing to do than sip chocolate by the fireside.

She could not indulge such slothful whims. Kuni had precisely forty days to achieve the impossible, and she’d used ten of those days already. Time was against her.

So were Balcovia’s two best Royal Guards. Several times, they’d almost caught her. She’d managed to evade them purely by luck.

“Not luck,” she muttered in Balcovian. “You’re just as talented as they are. That’s why you’re here.”

“What’s that?” said an unkempt red-haired man with uneven whiskers, whose fetid breath smelled like some sort of alcohol that would never be served in a royal castle. “Are you lookin’ for some private company?”

“N-no,” Kuni stammered. “Carry on, good sir.”

Good sir? Was that how one greeted leering drunks who propositioned strangers in the street? She was beginning to think her tutors had no actual experience traveling abroad.

And how should they? Neighboring France had been at war since before Kuni was born. Fifteen years ago when Napoleon had begun to seize power throughout the continent, Balcovia’s military had joined a European coalition to fight back. All pleasure travel had stopped. It was too dangerous. Whatever information her tutors knew about England or France was many years old.

The intoxicated man leaned closer. “Give us your name, girl.”

Kuni bristled. The thought of being spoken to in such an insolent, familiar manner! By a person such as this!

But she was trying to remain unnoticed. Causing a scene of any sort would be the fastest way to catch the eye of the Royal Guardsmen hunting for her.

She clutched her thick journal to her chest as though it were a Bible.

“I am Sister Mary Smith,” she replied in her best, most repressed English accent. “Please carry on with your day elsewhere.”

The whiskered man looked confused, but he tottered away.

Kuni sagged farther into the shadows in relief.

Even if the strange man hadn’t unsettled her, she would have been tempted to give a false name. The English didn’t even try to pronounce Coo-nee-goon-deh before laughing and asking what people really called her instead of Kunigunde.

To which she always replied with her full name and honorific, “Juffrouw Kunigunde de Heusch.”

After all, none of them ever shortened their interminable, tongue-twisty “Right Honorable Miriam Darlinda MacMontague-Hargreaves, Dowager Marchioness of Brambleborough-on-Featherfettle” names to something like “Bambi” for her.

For the most part, Londoners looked right through her, especially dressed as she was now. It was not a phenomenon she was accustomed to as a member of the royal retinue—and she could not help but harbor mixed feelings about it, even if the anonymity was useful.

Still, she had work to do. If that meant wearing the oldest, plainest castoffs from her lady’s maid, Kuni was more than willing to do it.

She was on a mission to outperform Balcovia’s own Royal Guard.

In anticipation of an upcoming royal visit, her king had sent two of his Royal Guardsmen on a forty-day scouting expedition to identify strengths and weaknesses of English traditions and architecture, and ascertain which security measures should be put in place.

Unfortunately, the king’s two best Royal Guards were also Kuni’s brothers.

Floris and Reinald laughed at her for daring to dream herself capable of becoming a Royal Guard. This was her sole chance to prove herself as capable as any man. No—better than an ordinary man. By providing the most useful intelligence herself, she would illustrate her true worth and at last be granted the title and uniform she longed for in the most elite infantry regiment in all of Balcovia.

Her brothers were Royal Guardsmen. Their father had been a Royal Guardsman. Their grandfather. Their great-grandfather. All the de Heusch men for generations had been chosen and honored by their king.

Kuni had trained with her brothers since she could toddle. Spent every spare second copying the royal soldiers’ movements with military precision. Threw a knife before she could write her name. Stealth and skill gave her the edge in one-on-one combat. With throwing knives, the enemy needn’t even sense her presence before Kuni’s blade struck true.

The power royal companions wielded was invisible. Secrets, access to protected areas, influence over the princess.

Kuni wanted to be visible. To fight on the front lines, not hidden behind doors. To guard the princess, not embroider handkerchiefs beside her. To train with the soldiers, as a soldier. She would not rest until she wore the Royal Guard uniform with pride.

She intended to compete for a place in their ranks this summer along with the other aspiring soldiers. But the king would never allow a woman to join the competition unless she gave them a reason…such as being the hero of this mission. She had already penned her observations on two dozen residences. Shoddy security at each—honestly, the English would do well to hire her—and Kuni was well on her way to finishing on schedule.

Perhaps there would even be a spare day or two to take in the sights, such as…Who was that?

Kuni’s exhaustive knowledge of her London guidebook vanished from her head. Although she was generally unimpressed with the men she’d met thus far, she had just caught sight of a man who had passed by her the day before. An absolutely exquisite gentleman with tawny golden skin, a stunningly handsome face, a well-tailored English coat, buttery buckskins that showed his muscled form to perfection, and an exceedingly arrogant stride.

Good God, for a man like this, a woman would happily learn all twenty unpronounceable words in his title.

She dipped her head lower before he could catch her staring. Her bonnet’s brim cut off her view at his wide shoulders, which allowed her to drink the rest of him in without the risk of meeting his eyes. His easy pace exuded confidence and a lethal grace, as though his prey would not sense his approach until it was too late. But…she had noticed.

The attractive man was not walking in her general direction. He was striding straight toward her.

3

Kuni stepped back toward the shadows. Her heel scraped the brick wall behind her. There was nowhere farther to duck, no place to hide.

She had somehow caught this magnificent gentleman’s eye and would have to send him on his way without so much as a word. She could not risk drawing attention to herself with an altercation. No scenes. No fuss. Invisible.

He stopped directly in front of her, dangerously close.

She lifted her head until his face came into view. Her breath caught.

He was even handsomer than she’d first thought. Strong jaw, wide mouth, black curls tumbling into breathtaking golden-brown eyes. It was truly unfair to have so much beauty stuffed into one man. Englishwomen no doubt crossed the street at a run to “accidentally” swoon into his embrace.

She gestured for him to go away.

He didn’t move.

She made emphatic get-out-of-here arm movements that were impossible to misconstrue.

He tilted his gorgeous head. “Who are you running from?”

Kuni pressed her lips together. Attractive gentlemen were the hardest to be rid of. They couldn’t imagine a woman not wanting them around.

Yet she dared not give him a scalding setdown. If her brothers were in earshot, the sound of her familiar voice would give her away. A dramatic scene would be even more likely to draw them in her direction.

Instead she pointed at her throat and shook her head vehemently, as if she were mute. There. That would shoo him off.

To her surprise, he appeared delighted by this development, and immediately began moving his hands and fingers in a series of rapid, meaningful gestures Kuni couldn’t follow in the least.

Sign language. This angelic male specimen was fluent in sign language. He was too perfect to be real.

If this had been Balcovia, any of the princess’s companions would have faked a swoon into his arms.

“Please go,” she hissed in her best English accent. Two syllables. Easy.

His chiseled jaw fell open and his golden-brown eyes widened in shock. “You’re Balcovian?”

What? How? Why?

Kuni glared at him in consternation. She was the trained soldier on a secret mission, yet he kept quickly and casually outperforming her every maneuver. Perhaps her reconnaissance report ought to recommend that the king’s Royal Guard should employ this character along with herself.

“I beg you to be gone, you great snuffling rose blossom!”

He genuflected. “I am here to save you.”

She yanked him back up before anyone saw him bowing at her. “I forbid you from saving me. I command you to be gone.”

“You ‘command’ me?” He frowned in befuddlement. “What kind of person gads about ‘commanding’ other people—” He stared at her and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Are you a princess?”

“I am not a princess,” she said quickly.

Too quickly.

Something in her tone or her face made him think his guess was not too far off the mark. He brightened as though she’d given him a gift he’d been waiting for all his life.

He tilted his head toward the sun. “I knew this day would come.”

She took advantage of his inattention to hurry past him.

He was at her side before she’d completed her first step.

“How did they lose you?” he asked in wonder. “I can barely tear my eyes from you for even a second. I fear no other woman will ever look as fine.”

She refrained from acknowledging she felt much the same way about him. In another context, she might have let him have a waltz or two. Perhaps even steal a kiss beneath the moonlight. But she was not here for flirtations.

“No one lost me,” she informed him, walking faster. “I evaded. Now, as charming as you think you are, I hereby fully and irrevocably decline this and all future offers of assistance. Good day, sir.”

He hesitated, visibly confused. “You are on the run?”

She blinked at the unfamiliar phrase.

“Fleeing capture?” he clarified. “Attempting to escape from the two hunters who have been stalking you?”

All right, yes. That was exactly what she was doing. How he had guessed her circumstances, Kuni hadn’t the slightest clue. But the more time she spent chatting with him, the greater the likelihood one of her brothers would be lucky enough to fall with his nose in butter, as they say. Once they heard or glimpsed her, they’d—

She gasped and flattened herself against the nearest wall.

Her knight blocked her protectively as his fin. . .