Page 26 of Prince of Scandal

Ashton nodded as he sat down beside her. “My manservant, Franz, prepared the basket. He doesn’t trust the kitchen staff to fold the napkins just so.”

“Franz?” she queried. “Is he Austrian?”

He went still. “Prussian. Is that an issue?”

Georgiana blinked. “Of course not. I was just curious. Did you meet in Prussia? Sometimes I think you have an accent, like perhaps you were born abroad.”

Ashton didn’t say anything, merely took dishes out of the basket and laid them out on the floor: a loaf of crusty bread, butter, sliced ham, a wedge of cheese, a small bowl containing white cabbage with a salty, sour scent that made her mouth water, and a large slice of golden pastry stuffed with apple, cinnamon, and raisins that she might well trade her firstborn for. There were also bottles of wine and lemonade.

Oh no. Had she been too bold? Maybe he didn’t want to share anything about himself. Just his body.

“You don’t have to answer that,” she added hastily. “I—”

“I was born abroad,” he said slowly. “In Prussia. Berlin, to be precise. I came to England when I was twenty-three. After spending some time in London, I moved here to Brundall. I prefer the country. Been here ten years now. I try to blend in. Behave and speak like an Englishman. It’s easier that way.”

Georgiana bit her lip at the halting explanation. There was a wealth of underlying emotion in his voice, but she couldn’t quite decipher what it was. Anger? Hurt? Sadness? This was definitely not a topic to pursue. Not after a wonderful afternoon of pleasure. “I daresay it is. People can be quite awful to those from abroad. But I simply must have some of this scrumptious-looking food before I expire. Curves like mine do not exist on fresh air, Ashton.”

He nodded, his face clearing. “What will you have?”

“Everything. I must ask, what is that cabbage dish? Do I eat it alone or with something else?”

“Sauerkraut,” he replied. “It can be used like a pickle, I suppose. Particularly good with bread and cheese. But make sure to leave room for Franz’s strudel. His mother is Austrian, and it’s a family recipe. You’ll not taste better anywhere.”

Georgiana snorted as she handed over an empty plate. “What a ridiculous statement. I always leave room. What is life without dessert but a barren wasteland of despair?”

He laughed then, as he filled her plate with food. But now she near-itched with curiosity. Ashton Latimer wasn’t a Prussian name. Were his parents English? Diplomats, perhaps?

Who was he, really?

CHAPTER 6

“Forgive me, Your Highness, but as yet I haven’t been able to discover much about Mrs. King. I am a trifle baffled. It is like she just…appeared.”

Ashton glanced at Franz in the mirror as his manservant carefully, expertly shaved his overnight beard growth. In truth, Georgiana baffled him as well. Some aspects of her widowhood just didn’t seem to ring quite true, and yet she was so open about other things. Like her limited sexual experience. That he would swear on a Bible was accurate. And the fact that her bastard husband had been Rupert. Ugh.

He'd not been able to control his revulsion at hearing that particular name. Virginia had fled back to Major Lord Rupert Osbourne, and even after a decade he wanted to punch the bastard in the face so hard his own family wouldn’t recognize him. Osbourne carried himself as a man of honor with an impeccable service record in the British Army, a soldier and a gentleman, but every so often a rumor would surface that spoke of an underlying vicious streak and a hearty disdain for those less powerful. Equally troubling: the strangely vague circumstances of Virginia’s death just six months after they wed, but also the fact that his lordship had been widowed twice more after her, both within a year of the wedding. No man of wealth and standing could be so frightfully unlucky. Surely. Yet not once had the English authorities investigated. For some unknown reason, any accusations or gossip fell away from Rupert Osbourne like water from a duck’s back.

Ashton cleared his throat. “Do not fret, Franz. I’m sure information will come to light eventually. I must confess, though, Mrs. King asked a direct question and I did tell her we were originally from Prussia.”

Franz actually halted in his shaving. “You did?”

“Nothing about my title or our positions in society, though. She heard traces of an accent in my speech. I was disappointed. Thought we had both practiced enough to sound like the loftiest Etonians.”

“We do,” said the manservant, wrinkling his nose. “Sometimes I even disconcert myself. I am relieved you haven’t lost any of your German, though. That would break my heart.”

Ashton snorted. “In that we speak it every morning and evening, I doubt that could happen…by the by, do you miss Berlin? If you wished to return for a visit, I would gladly purchase ship and stagecoach fares for you.”

Franz shook his head. “Unnecessary, Your Highness. I have fashioned a most satisfactory life here in England. Even found a good man in Tommy to love, something I certainly wasn’t expecting in my fifties. In saying that, there are a few things I will confess to nostalgia over.”

“Such as?”

“Feeling like an ant under the Brandenburg Gate. Strolling along Unter den Linden to the City Palace. All those hot summers at the lakeside estate. However, I will be forever grateful that we remained in England after the…ah…incident. I could not have borne witnessing the fall of Berlin to that French turd Bonaparte. God bless our mighty General von Blücher for so soundly defeating him at Waterloo.”

“I believe,” said Ashton mildly, “the Duke of Wellington and his men had something to do with that also.”

“Bah. Perhaps the English helped a little. But everyone knows who the real hero was. And how he oversaw the rebirth of the Prussian Army, to be all-conquering once again. My only disappointment is that the English banished Bonaparte to Saint Helena rather than shooting him through the heart. He deserved to die for the plunder of Berlin alone.”

Franz wasn’t wrong there. The Frenchman’s army had marched into the city after winning the Battle of Jena-Auerstedt in 1806, turned Berlin into a client state of France, and forced them to pay huge indemnities. That occupation had lasted until 1813. The only silver lining of such a terrible cloud: the Prussian Army had undergone huge reforms and become strong once more after several humiliating defeats. And Berlin had risen once again, snatching back from France the large sculpture of Victoria, Roman goddess of victory, that had sat atop the Brandenburg Gate. Indeed, while some felt the Congress of Vienna after Waterloo had been overly harsh on France, no Prussian would forgive or forget the indignities of that occupation.