At last, the music ended and George tried to lead Lady Clara to where Drina and Weatherby were standing. But by the time he had managed to practically drag her to that side of the room, Drina was already twirling away with Lord Cushing, and Lady Clara showed no sign of releasing her talon-like grip on his arm.
He gulped, miserable.
Chapter 3
George checked his pocket watch for the fifth time. Drina was nine minutes late. Glancing around, he wondered if she’d gone to the wrong tower, but then he heard the light sound of her footsteps.
“What took you so long?”
She shook her head. “I could hardly leave in the middle of a dance without drawing attention to myself.”
“Who were you dancing with?” he demanded, in a tone not unlike his father’s.
“Why does that matter?”
It doesn’t.
Shouldn’t.
But he’d still like to know.
George breathed in deeply to calm down, but his nose filled with the scent of Drina’s honeysuckle perfume. It caught him by surprise and he coughed.
“Let’s go, then.”
“I can hardly go into town dressed like this,” she said, gesturing to her gown.
George didn’t need any reminder of her shocking dress. He was already all too well aware of it.
“No,” he agreed. “Best not to dress like a lady at all, come to think of it.”
“What am I supposed to dress like, a gentleman?”
“Excellent notion.”
“I was only joking,” Drina protested. “I don’t have any men’s clothing.”
“You can borrow some of mine,” he said, leading the way back to his room. There was no gas lamp lit in the room when they walked in, but the fire blazing in the hearth provided enough light. Drina stood in the doorway, her enormous skirt filling the entire opening.
“Come in, I won’t bite you,” he said.
“I’m not afraid of your bite,” she said, blushing fiercely—which suggested quite the opposite. “I’m not afraid at all.”
George felt his own color rising. “I promise you that I’ll turn around.”
She took a step into the room and closed the door behind her as George rummaged through his drawers. He didn’t usually take his own clothes from the wardrobe—that was a job for his ornery valet, Mr. Humphrey. But it seemed inadvisable to call for help at this particular moment.
George took off his jacket and waistcoat, untucked his shirt and began to unbutton it. He glanced up to see Drina watching him across the room with wide eyes. He fought down the urge to flex his muscles for her.
He took off his shirt and put another on, one that was less fine. His trousers were too fancy, but he wasn’t about to take those off in front of her. George haphazardly tied his cravat and put on a dark, plain jacket.
“Your turn,” he said.
Drina stood frozen. George rummaged through his wardrobe again, pulling out a pair of trousers, a shirt, and a coat. He laid them on the bed and walked to the window, leaving his back to her. He heard her light tread on the carpet as she walked to the bed.
“I can’t take off my dress.”
He turned to face her. “I promise you I won’t look—”
“The buttons are in the back,” she choked out, her face as crimson as her dress.
“Oh.” George gulped. “I suppose I can help you with the buttons.”
She turned around as he walked toward her. He could smell her sweet honeysuckle perfume again. His heart beat faster and his hands felt as hot as if they were holding a burning poker. Swallowing, he began to undo the small buttons on the back of her dress, but his sweaty fingers felt clumsy and overlarge for so intimate a task. And there had to be at least a hundred little red buttons!
He finally exhaled as he undid the last one. “There,” he said, trying not to stare at her sharp shoulder bones above her corset.
“And the necklace,” she said.
He tentatively touched the back of her beautiful neck, almost a caress, and fumbled with the clasp. It took much longer than it should have to undo it. The top of his hands brushed against her flaxen hair—it was so soft, like the finest silk. He longed to touch it again. She made an impatient sound and he recalled himself, holding out her necklace.
Drina took out her ruby earrings and handed them to him. “You’d better put them both in your pocket,” she said. “We can’t leave them out. Mama would have my head if they were stolen.”
George obediently pocketed them both and stared at her.
“Now turn around,” she said impatiently.
He spun around faster than a wooden top. He heard her silk dress slide to the ground and he steadfastly resisted the urge to peek. And then he heard the most intriguing noise—metal scraping. But again, he resisted the urge to look.
Not long after, she said, “You can turn back around.”
Drina looked smaller in his clothes. The trousers were too large at the waist and the coat looked enormous on her narrow shoulders, but still it was unable to hide her chest. She’d laced up a pair of his boots that were obviously too large, almost clownish. When she saw him watching, she shrugged her shoulders, and George’s attention was brought to the odd metal circles on the floor beside her.
“What is that contraption?”
“A crinoline cage,” she explained. “It ties around the waist and gives your skirts shape. It saves a lady from wearing stacks of petticoats.”
George marveled at the size of the large metal hoops, stepping closer to the contraption. He picked up the smallest ring and the crinoline expanded like a bird cage. “It’s enormous,” he said. “You could fit a small village under it.”
“I’ll take your word for that,” she said. She picked up her crimson dress and laid it carefully across his bed, then placed her long gloves on top of it.
She picked up his best hat and squashed it over her curls. “Shall we go?”
“After we wash your face.”
“My face?”
“Your mouth,” George said, pointedly not looking at her plump red lips. He held out his handkerchief. When she was done wiping her lips, she handed it back to him. He stuffed it in his pocket and put on one of his other tall top hats.
“Are we ready now?” she asked.
George nodded and fervently prayed that his valet wouldn’t come into the room before they got back. There was no way he could properly explain about the dress, let alone that enormous metal contraption on the floor.
Chapter 4
Drina felt strangely light and free wearing trousers. She wanted to run down the castle halls. And the coat was nice, too. It smelled musky and manly—like George. She lifted her shoulders and marveled at how warm it was. Most of her evening gowns exposed the top of her shoulders to the cold. She pulled the two sides of the coat together.
“That’s a good idea to cover your chest like that,” George said. “There’s rather too much of you upfront to be taken for a boy.”
“Well-spotted, George,” Drina replied sarcastically. “After nearly eight years, you’ve finally realized that I’m a girl.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I apologize, Drina. Cry friends with me.”
“Very well, friends,” she said. Out of habit, she put her hand on his arm. George flinched and stepped back.
“You can’t hold my arm dressed like that.”
She felt her face go fiery again. “I forgot.”
“It’s no matter,” he said, not looking her in the eyes.
Drina exhaled and began to walk.
“You can’t walk like that either,” he said from behind her.
She snorted in frustration and placed her hands on her hips. “Like what?”
“You know,” he said, walking with an exaggerated sway of his hips. “You sashay.”
“I do not.”
“Do too,” George replied. “It’s rather nice to watch, especially in trousers, but it’ll give us away.”
<
br /> Drina wanted to growl in frustration. Here she was risking everything for George and he was being critical of her. “How am I supposed to walk?”
“Don’t swing your arms so much,” he said, and walked by her in a ridiculously stiff fashion.
She copied his rigid, straight-armed stance and walked by him. “Better?”
“Worse,” he said with a laugh.
She couldn’t help but smile back at him—tightening their intangible connection. But then George broke it by glancing away and awkwardly stuffing his hands into his coat pockets.
He only thinks of me as a friend.
Frustrated with her own romantic silliness, she shoved her hands into her own pockets and managed to constrain her facial features to a more serious expression.
“That works,” he conceded. “Keep your hands in your coat pockets.”
Drina rolled her eyes in response and George grinned at her. She wished his smile didn’t make her feel all warm inside like drinking a hot cup of wassail.
She tipped her head down and continued walking. A footman opened the enormous wooden door to the courtyard and George called for a carriage. When it came rolling toward them, he opened the door and climbed in without looking back at her. She paused a moment … before realizing that men didn’t help other men into carriages. She pulled her hands out of her pockets and climbed up inside. It was so easy to get into a carriage without skirts or a crinoline cage!
She sat down on the seat across from George and folded her arms across her chest. “Where are we going to look first?” she asked.
“I’ve told the driver to take us to the Gate’s Head public house,” he replied. “It’s the nicest tavern in the town of Windsor.”
“Are you well acquainted with the taverns in Windsor?” Drina asked with an edge to her voice.
George raised his hands in surrender. “Not at all. Merely stopped for a bowl of punch on the way to the castle.”
The carriage halted in front of a brightly lit building. The facade looked Tudor, with white stucco and dark brown timbers placed in triangular patterns. Drina followed George through the front door.
The ceiling of the entire building was low, the main room decorated with a few green pine boughs. Drina pulled her coat closed and tipped her head down. She wished she could cover her nose with the coat, for the room smelled of pipe smoke and unwashed men. And from what she could see from underneath the brim of her hat, the room was quite full of unwashed men.
There were also a few unwashed women, dressed in vulgarly bright colors and low-cut dresses. She’d heard of ladies of ill repute, but she’d never actually seen one. One of the ladies looked to be even younger than Drina, sitting with men nearly twice her age. Drina’s stomach roiled. When Drina caught her eye, the young girl gave her a wink. She blushed and pressed closer to George.
He asked the man at the tap if he’d served a foreigner today. The man stroked his bushy mustache. “Can’t say that I ’ave.”
George then plunked down a coin and asked for two pints. The tapster took out two grimy mugs and filled them with ale, placing one in front of George and the other by her. Drina took her hand out of her pocket to pick up the glass, willing herself not to see the smudge marks on the outside. She raised it to her lips and sipped gingerly.
“Don’t like our ale?” the tapster asked, sounding affronted as he leaned over the counter to glare at her.
She felt several eyes on her, so she cleared her throat before forcing herself to take a large gulp. “V-v-very good,” she sputtered. “V-v-very strong.”
“That’ll put the hair on your chin, lad.”
Drina took another swig of the disgusting drink and coughed. “I think it’ll put hair everywhere.”
The tapster barked a laugh that made his crooked nose wobble, and another patron clapped her on the shoulder. She managed to finish half her glass before they walked out of the tavern.
It was so cold outside, even wearing men’s clothing didn’t keep the chill away. They walked only a few feet to the next public house. In the dim light from the lantern hung in front, Drina read the sign: The Green Dragon.
“Try not to draw so much attention to yourself this time,” George said, opening the door.
“Then don’t order me ale,” she said, feeling a little green and as fiery as a dragon.
The inside of the public house was just as dim as the exterior. She scanned the room, but none of the ruffians looked like her cousin. George sauntered through the room, glancing at every man there before setting down a coin and asking the barman for two beers.
Drina took a large gulp—apparently beer and ale weren’t sipped. It burned down her throat and she blinked in shock, but managed not to cough. She pretended to take a few more swigs, but left the glass more than half full.
George asked the barman if he’d served a German fellow today. The barman simply shook his head. He was completely bald on top, but made up for his lack of hair everywhere else. They also ordered drinks at the Dark Nun and the Widow’s Teeth, but there was no sign of Friedrich.
Drina wearily trudged behind George, her head feeling strangely light. She kicked the snow with her overly large boots.
“Surely there can’t be any more taverns in this small of a town,” she protested. “I can’t stare another beer in the face.”
He turned back to her. “We’ve visited every tavern in town. I thought we could check the local inn next. It’s the first stop in town, so perhaps your cousin never left there.”
It seemed like a reasonable idea. Drina clasped her arms even tighter around her waist and crookedly trudged through the snow after him.
The hostelry was called the White Hart and looked as if it had a higher class of clientele than the taverns. It was a large redbrick building, and she could see lighted candles in every room. George opened the door, which had a large holly wreath on it, and Drina was hit by a wave of warmth. She nearly dove into the building.
George walked straight up to the proprietor, a ferret-faced man wearing an emerald waistcoat and a golden chain. He asked for a bowl of punch and a private room. Drina was relieved to exit the large common room, following the man down a hall to a private parlor with faded yellow floral wallpaper. The room had a small table with several chairs and a large fire in the hearth.
George took off his hat and coat and gave them to the proprietor to hang on the coat rack. The man fumbled with George’s coat, dropping it, but quickly picked it back up off the floor.
“Sorry, sir,” he said. He hung it up and then put his arm on Drina’s coat sleeve, but she shrugged him off.
“I’ll keep my coat on,” she said in a gruff voice. “Don’t want it on the floor.”
George clapped his hands to draw the man’s attention from her. “Have you seen any foreigners about?”
“Besides the Queen’s husband?” the proprietor asked. He grinned at his own wit, showing gray teeth.
“Aside from Prince Albert,” George said. “I’m looking for … for a friend. A blond fellow with a German accent.”
He shook his head. “Haven’t seen him. But most of my customers keep to themselves and I don’t meddle in their private business.”
Drina’s stomach dropped, either from disappointment or too much beer.
“Are you sure?” George pressed, gesturing. “You haven’t seen a blond, tall man today? It is imperative that we find him.”
“As I said before, I have not.”
George cursed her cousin quite colorfully. Drina tried to turn her giggle at his language into a manly snort—but failed miserably. She covered her mouth with her hands, but the laughter bubbled inside of her.
The man bowed and left the room.
“What a waste of a night,” she said, sitting down in the chair closest to the hearth. “We missed a royal party, too.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
Another servant knocked on the door and brought in a bowl of hot punch. George squeezed the lemons and poure
d Drina a tall glass.
“Careful how much you drink,” he warned.
Drina sipped the hot beverage and instantly felt better. “I can hold my wine,” she retorted.
“I meant all of the beer you’ve already drunk tonight,” George said as he poured himself a glass. “And you don’t weigh more than a feather.”
She bit her lower lip before taking another small sip of the bittersweet brew. “I thought Friedrich and I were two of a feather—he was my dearest friend when we were children. But I guess he doesn’t care about seeing me again at all.”
“Or insulting the blasted Queen of England,” George added bitterly.
Drina laughed, although it was not funny. “Dear Cousin Victoria is not the most forgiving person.”
“Neither is my father.”
She drained the rest of her glass, the bitterness of the alcohol matching her own feelings.
“Slow down on the punch,” he said, setting his glass on the table with a clink.
“Why should I? The room is already spinning—hic.” She covered her mouth, but couldn’t contain her hiccups or giggles.
“Don’t tell me you’re already three sheets to the wind,” George said dryly.
“N-not in the wind,” Drina said, but her head felt lighter than ever. She was so deliciously warm and a little bit tired.
“You’re completely foxed!”
“I’m not a f-f-fox. I’m a f-f-fiery green dragon.” She burped and giggled again.
The door to the room suddenly opened; the proprietor had returned along with two thickset men. The shorter one had a long, full beard that would have put Father Christmas’s to shame. The other man wore a dark, tattered coat and a fur cap, his face hidden by a dark beard. He reminded her of Belsnickel—the German Christmas visitor who brought candies and nuts to the good children, but carried a switch to beat the naughty ones.
A Royal Christmas Quandary Page 3
