“Carry on, John Coachman!” the young lady called.
As the carriage jolted into motion, Minerva felt Colin’s muscles go rigid as iron. She knew that familiar pang of sympathy for him—but truly, he had no one to blame for this situation but himself. And it would only be a short ride.
He’d survive.
“I’m Miss Emmeline Gateshead.” The beribboned young woman stuck out her hand, and Minerva shook it. “This is my sister, Miss Cordelia Gateshead, and our companion, Mrs. Pickerill.”
Minerva made her polite greetings to all three. She might as well have saved her breath. All three young women were instantly riveted to Colin. No surprise. The man drew female attention like a sponge draws water.
“And what takes the two of you north?” Miss Gateshead asked. “I didn’t quite catch your names.”
“Oh.” Minerva was suddenly panicked. “Well. We . . .”
“Don’t tell us! We’ll guess,” Cordelia said, smiling. “It will help to pass the time.” She tipped her smile in Colin’s direction. “Are you an officer, back from the war?”
“No, miss. I’m no hero.”
Minerva would have said the same, a few minutes ago. But now she wasn’t so sure. From the moment they’d entered the coach, she’d been aware of the tension in Colin’s body. Now, her spectacles had begun to fog over from his shallow breaths. But no one else in the carriage suspected his struggles. He was enduring the torture quietly, manfully.
Perhaps even heroically.
“Pity, for you’d look so fine in uniform.” Emmeline’s remark prompted a chastening harrumph from her companion. “Did you come from Town?”
“We came through it,” Minerva answered. “But home is rather further south. On the coast.”
Cordelia gasped. “I know. He’s a pirate!” The younger lady collapsed into giggles.
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?”