The Golden Prince

by Rebecca Dean

  That wasn’t possible, though. Edward needed him. He was, after all, the only person outside the Houghton family who knew his secret.

  Grimly he wondered how Edward would manage in France without him.

  “The whole point of Prince Edward’s visit to France is that he will return home fluent in the language,” King George had said to Piers shortly before he had left the country for his durbar. “That being so, the elder son of the Marquis de Valmy is to act as Prince Edward’s equerry while the prince is a guest of the de Valmy family. It will ensure he doesn’t fall back on speaking English—and that he doesn’t run the risk of speaking French with the kind of John Bull accent the French find so offensive.”

  Had the King meant that Edward would be at risk of picking up a John Bull accent from him? He’d fumed, as only he could fume, over what he felt sure was a slur on his linguistic ability. He had, however, welcomed the thought of a break from his equerrying duties. Edward’s stay in France would turn Edward’s long separation from Lily into a separation of even longer duration. During that separation, Piers was going to lay siege to Lily.

  The gangway was being lowered and as the royal party gathered closer together, preparatory to boarding, he felt a surge of steely confidence. He would explain to her, as no one else could, that King George would never give his consent to a marriage between her and Edward. He would open her eyes to the fact that Edward was still a mere boy and that whatever he had ever said to her, the words had carried no weight. He would point out to her that he himself was far from being a mere boy. When he said he loved her—which he did—she could rely implicitly on that love leading to a very speedy, secure marriage. Something he knew all young girls yearned for.

  He would tell her that he absolutely forgave her for having her head turned when Edward had asked her to marry him. After all, what young girl wouldn’t want to be a princess and a future queen? Then he would tell her again that any such hope was a lost cause.

  He remembered her studio at Snowberry—a studio he had never been invited to enter. He would point out to her that even if the traditions as to whom a Prince of Wales could marry were different, it would be unthinkable for a Princess of Wales to dabble with paint and clay. As his wife, however, she would always be able to, and he would stress to her how important he thought it was for a woman to have a hobby.

  It was now time for them to board, and as they did, shielded from the snow by giant umbrellas, he was obsessed with the thought of how he was going to make Edward pay for all the slights he had suffered at his hands. For the way Edward had never treated him as a friend—although he had instantly treated the Houghton family as friends. For the way he had never invited him to call him David. For the way he had snatched Lily from under his nose.

  He ground his teeth together so loudly that Sir Dighton looked across at him in alarm. Piers was too deep in thoughts of revenge to notice.

  Chapter Thirty

  Pale February sun streamed into the white, gold, and yellow drawing room of the Marquis de Villoutrey’s elegant home in Neuilly, in the Sixteenth Arrondissement.

  It was a drawing room very different from Snowberry’s. Instead of comfortable chintz-covered sofas, Louis Quinze furniture was upholstered in heavy brocades. No jigsaw puzzles were within easy access, waiting to be finished. No chessmen were waiting for play to be resumed. It was a stiffly elegant room of mirrors and candelabra where gold-leaf gleamed and glowed. It was the kind of formal setting Louise de Villoutrey much preferred to Snowberry’s haphazard coziness.

  “How is Iris?” she asked Lily. They were seated on opposite sides of a low glass-topped table that was set on a centerpiece of ebony cherubim, enjoying coffee from black and gold Sèvres china.

  Lily, perched uncomfortably on a gilt-framed spindly-legged chair that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Versailles, shot her mother a wide smile. “Ecstatically happy. Though she’s spending quite a lot of time at Sissbury, she isn’t living there yet and won’t be until Toby has said a final good-bye to the Guards.”

  “Who will act as housekeeper at Snowberry, when Iris isn’t there to do so?”

  “Oh, we already have a new housekeeper. Millie’s sister. Tilly. She used to work for Lady Conisborough, but the Conisboroughs live a quite grand lifestyle. Lord Conisborough is a financial adviser to King George, and because Tilly has a weak heart, it all became a bit too much for her. The gentle pace of Snowberry suits her far better, and if she isn’t feeling up to snuff, Millie just takes over for her.”

  Her mother pursed her lips. It sounded very lackadaisical, but then things at Snowberry always were. She ran things very differently. At both Neuilly and at the de Villoutrey chateau in the Loire valley, the male staff wore a livery of black suits with waistcoats striped with red and, on formal occasions, navy tailcoats collared and cuffed in crimson. The embarrassing lack of formality at Snowberry was why, when she and Henri had been in England for Iris’s wedding, they had stayed with Sibyl.

  “And Rose?”

  “Rose is fine, Mama,” she said. “She loves living in London at Great-Aunt Sibyl’s, and she loves the feeling of financial independence she gets from her journalism.”

  At the mention of Rose’s freelance work for the Daily Despatch, her mother shuddered. With such a history, Rose was never going to make a suitable marriage. Even worse, she didn’t even think Rose wanted to make a suitable marriage. Iris, however, had already done so, albeit not very excitingly—and Marigold appeared to be on the verge of making a marriage par excellence.

  “It was a shame,” she said, ignoring her coffee and fitting a Sobranie into a long amber holder, “that Prince Yurenev had to leave the wedding reception for Marchemont so suddenly. We had only just begun to talk together when the message came that Princess Zasulich had been taken ill. He’s very charming. Sibyl, who knows him very well, absolutely adores him.”

  Since Maxim Yurenev was a Russian royal, exceedingly handsome and sinfully rich, Lily wasn’t surprised that he had made such a favorable impression. She tried to give the subject her attention, but her mind kept straying to David, for now that both of them were in Paris, all she could think of was when—and how—they would be reunited. Before they left England they had envisioned their reunion as being relatively simple to arrange. In reality it was proving to be the very opposite, for her mother was allowing her to go nowhere unaccompanied.

  Louise, having lit her cigarette, was studying the Russian imperial eagle distinctively stamped on it. It conjured up lots of delightful images. Marigold and Maxim’s initials entwined beneath the Yurenev crest and decorating table linen, bed linen, and stationery; perhaps even the buttons on the livery of their household staff. There would be visits to St. Petersburg and audiences with the tsar and tsarina. Perhaps next time the Russian royal family visited Britain aboard the imperial yacht Standart, Prince and Princess Yurenev would be invited aboard.

  The prospect of a Russian royal son-in-law was so intoxicatingly heady it almost—but not quite—overshadowed the news she had been saving until family matters were out of the way.

  “I have the most amazing news, darling. News you are going to find incredible.”

  Lily did her best to look interested, but her thoughts were still on David. Their plans had been that, under the guise of visiting the Louvre or Notre Dame Cathedral or the Eiffel Tower, Lily, accompanied by Marguerite and Camille, her two stepsisters, and David, accompanied by Luc de Valmy, who was acting as his equerry, would meet up “accidentally” and they would then persuade those accompanying them to give them some time together on their own—and to be silent afterward at having done so.

  The blow to this plan had been that Marguerite and Camille weren’t in Paris. “Such a nuisance, ma petite chérie,” her mother had said on greeting her. “They now go to finishing school in Lucerne and won’t be home until Easter—and finishing school is something I would like to talk to you about, Lily. But perhaps a little later, que penses-tu?”

  It
was something Lily had no need to think about, but she didn’t say so. She’d been too devastated at knowing it was going to be her mother, not her stepsisters, who would be accompanying her when she went sightseeing.

  “So far only a very few people know what it is I am about to tell you,” her mother said with a wave of her cigarette holder. “Though I am sure word will spread very quickly. Cela c’est une certitude.”

  Lily was only listening to her with half an ear. Accustomed to the freedom of movement her grandfather had always given her and that she, Rose, Iris, and Marigold had always taken for granted, it hadn’t occurred to her that her mother—who had always been too absent a parent to be a diligent one—would take the responsibilities of chaperoning so seriously. It was unexpected, to say the least—and it wasn’t the only thing that was unexpected.

  “Though I am here incognito, I’ve still had to pay my respects to President Faillières,” David had said with something like despair in his voice when, announcing himself to the butler as her cousin, he had telephoned her hours after her arrival. “It was a very formal occasion—just the kind of thing I thought I wouldn’t have to endure. The British ambassador, Sir Francis Bertie, was there, and President Faillières presented me with the grand cordon of the Légion d’Honneur. It was all very nice, but—oh darling Lily, I didn’t want to be in the Elysée Palace! I wanted to be with you, walking hand in hand on the banks of the Seine!”

  It had been a cry from the heart, and Lily’s hand had been trembling when she replaced the receiver.

  “… so, because of Henri’s friendship with Guy, you are going to have the extraordinary privilege of meeting him in circumstances of the utmost informality.”

  Lily struggled to bring her thoughts back from the urgent question of how she and David were to achieve the reunion they had dreamed of for so long.

  “But surely even in France people don’t take themselves so seriously,” she said, assuming the person being spoken of was a friend of her stepfather’s and not caring about the circumstances in which they were to meet—or even if they met at all.

  Her mother blew a thin plume of blue smoke into the air and said with exasperation, “I don’t believe you are listening to me at all, Lily! Henri’s friend, the Marquis de Valmy, has been asked to act as host to the Prince of Wales. Prince Edward is going to be staying with the de Valmy family in order to perfect his French and study French history and French politics, and … your coffee, Lily!”

  The cry of warning came too late.

  Lily’s reaction was so extreme that she spilled coffee down her dress and onto the Aubusson carpet.

  Instantly a footman was on hand to blot the carpet. Lily, uncaring of her ruined dress, said urgently, “Did you say we would be visiting the de Valmys? Will we be doing so soon? Will we be doing so this week?”

  Satisfied that the carpet was receiving proper attention, Louise said, “We shall be dining en famille with the de Valmys in three days’ time. It is the most amazing opportunity for us to become informally acquainted with the prince. Guy says he is shy, but has a most attractive manner. He is staying with the de Valmys incognito, as the Earl of Chester, but royal protocol will still have to be followed and so please don’t initiate a conversation with him, Lily. Allow him to speak to you first.”

  She stubbed her Sobranie out in an onyx ashtray. “Also, because he is shy, it doesn’t mean he will be approachable. His mother is the most unapproachable woman in the world. My friends in the Royal Circle tell me every time they meet with Queen Mary the ice has to be rebroken afresh. Familiarity, even with her ladies-in-waiting, is simply not in her nature. She is stiffness and formality incarnate. Since King George is similarly rigid in manner, I don’t expect Prince Edward to be much different.”

  The thought of David being even the teeniest little bit unapproachable was so funny it took all of Lily’s self-control not to giggle. Even harder was not telling her mother how different from his parents David was, how he was the most approachable, wonderful person in the whole wide world.

  As the footman finished blotting the carpet and her mother surveyed his handiwork Lily fought hard not to tell her all about David knocking Rose from her bicycle. About his visits to Snowberry. About how much they loved each other.

  It was a battle she won, for she knew it was a secret her mother would be unable to keep. But until David received King George’s permission for them to marry, it was a secret that simply had to be kept.

  “Il doit être pulverise maintenant avec un mélange une part glycérine et de deux parts d’eau chaude,” the footman said to her mother.

  “Oui. Immédiatement,” her mother responded, and then she said to Lily, “When Jacques has sprayed the carpet with his magic mix of glycerine and warm water, no one will be any the wiser about this little mishap. But not a word to Henri, Lily. Tu comprends?”

  Lily understood very well.

  She also understood that David could have no idea his host and her stepfather were on such close terms. If he had, it would have been the first thing he would have told her when they had spoken on the phone. She now had to telephone him with the news that though their reunion wouldn’t be a private one, they would at least be seeing each other in three days’ time.

  She took her opportunity two hours later when her mother, aware that she would soon be reciprocating the de Valmys’ hospitality and playing hostess to her future king, was in deep discussion with her chef.

  To the de Valmys’ butler who answered the telephone Lily said she was a cousin of the Earl of Chester and wished to speak with him.

  Seconds later David was on the line, saying tautly, “Lily? Is everything all right, sweetheart? Are you able to escape on your own for a little while?”

  “Not at the moment, but I do have news. In three days’ time I am to be a dinner guest of the de Valmys’! My stepfather and the Marquis de Valmy are close friends. Isn’t it wonderful? It means that it’s going to be far easier to see each other than we ever dreamed!”

  She spoke fast, not wanting to be caught on the telephone by her mother, who would assume she was speaking with Rory and might very well ask to have a few words with him.

  David, aware of the danger, was equally fast and abrupt in his response. “But that’s smashing news, darling! Absolutely brilliant! Except it means we won’t be able to rush into each other’s arms and we will have to be fearfully formal with each other! We have to meet alone beforehand. Try to think of a way, Lily. It will kill me if after all this time of being apart I have to treat you as a stranger when we meet, and instead of kissing you as I long to do more than you can ever imagine, I can only shake hands with you!”

  At the thought of how hard it would be for her, Lily’s heart tightened.

  “David …” She heard the sound of her mother’s footsteps approaching, and what she was about to say remained unsaid. Instead she said swiftly, “I have to go, David. But I’ll do my best to think of a way we can meet. I promise!”

  Hurriedly she replaced the receiver, turning to her mother with a quick bright smile. “Just another call from Rory. He wanted to know if I’d been cycling or horse riding yet in the Bois de Boulogne.”

  It was a lie she hated telling, but it was one for which she would hopefully be able to make amends in the not too distant future.

  “As you know, Mama, I haven’t, but I’d love to be able to. Perhaps in the morning I could borrow Marguerite’s bicycle, or Camille’s, and go for a ride in the park?”

  It wasn’t an unreasonable request. The Bois de Boulogne, a park bigger than London’s Hyde Park, was so near to the de Villoutrey mansion it could be seen from all the west-facing windows.

  Louise’s thoughts were still on the menu she had arranged with her chef. Would lemon ice cream be more suitable than lemon sorbet? Still pondering the problem, she said, giving Lily only half her attention, “But who would go with you?”

  “I don’t need anyone with me. At home, I cycle all over the place on my own.”
Deciding that the prince would probably prefer ice cream to sorbet, Louise said, still distracted, “Perhaps if Jacques were to accompany you …”

  Lily hugged her mother’s arm and, careful not to agree to the Jacques suggestion, said, “Thank you, Mama,” as if her mother had given permission with no strings attached.

  Before her mother took it into her head to speak to Jacques then and there, Lily changed the subject to one she knew would divert her mother’s attention from him. “Will you be reciprocating the de Valmys’ invitation, Mama? Will Prince Edward soon be dining here, at Neuilly?”

  Later that day, when her mother was taking an afternoon rest, Lily telephoned David with the news that she would be in the Bois the following morning.

  “Meet me at the north end, by the entrance to the Jardin d’Acclimatation,” David said. His voice was unsteady with emotion. “Oh, darling Lily! I can’t believe that after all this time we are actually going to be together again!”

  She didn’t spoil things for him by telling him about Jacques. Jacques was a problem she still had to deal with.

  To her great relief it was a subject not raised at dinner that evening. Instead, Louise’s conversation revolved solely around their good fortune at being able to meet Prince Edward in such an informal manner. Even her stepfather was impressed by it.

  “Though if I had given it any thought, I would have realized it was always in the cards that Guy would some day be asked to act as his host,” he said, wearing a swallow-tailed coat and white waistcoat even though they were dining en famille. “King Edward VII was a great lover of everything French, Lilli. We Parisians loved him, for he was as Parisian in tastes and manners as if he had been born here. Your present King is very different. If a country is not part of the British Empire, King George has no interest in it. In France we have great hopes that when Prince Edward is King, things will be very different.”