by Robin Paige
Charles did not speak the thought that came immediately to his mind: that some would consider Lord Warwick justified in being “difficult” about the Prince’s cavalier appropriation of his wife.
“I am not arguing that Lord Warwick is guilty,” he said, “I am only raising the possibility. In any event, it is not my most pressing concern at the moment. It is the missing pistol that I am most worried about.”
“The pistol? The one I gave Daisy?”
“Yes. It is quite likely to be the murder weapon. As I said a moment ago, I can think of at least one objection to the theory that the murder was part of a plot to implicate her ladyship, and that is the fact that the gun was not discovered at the crime scene.”
“I see,” said the Prince thoughtfully. “If the killer had wanted it to appear that Daisy had shot Wallace, he would have used her gun and left it beside the body, as if she had carelessly dropped it. The nail in her coffin, as it were.”
“As it were,” Charles agreed dryly. “The absence of the gun suggests two possibilities. First, that someone else—not the murderer—picked up the gun before Miss Ardleigh and Sir Friedrich discovered Wallace’s body. Second, that it was retained with the intention of—”
“Of using it again!” the Prince exclaimed. He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace back and forth.
“Yes,” Charles said soberly.
“You think someone might try to kill me?”
“I am considering the possibility of a conspiracy, and in that theory, there are two possible targets: Your Highness and Lady Warwick.”
“Daisy?” The Prince was startled. “But why?”
“May I speak frankly, sir?” Charles asked. He did not fear the Prince’s wrath, but he had to have his confidence.
“Assuredly,” the Prince said.
“Lady Warwick holds what most believe to be aberrant political views, Your Highness, and there are many among the aristocracy who have a deathly fear of Socialism. It is widely suspected that, as your intimate, this untrustworthy woman is the recipient of political secrets.”
The Prince had been frequently charged, in the press and elsewhere, with irresponsible pillow talk, to the extent that the Queen had refused him access to the Red Boxes in which she received State documents and had forbidden all of her ministers to discuss sensitive political matters with him. “What’s more,” Charles added, “you did visit a workhouse this morning, at her insistence. Some might see that as a clear indication that she has already seduced you to her side of the ideological fence, so to speak.”
The Prince stopped in mid-stride. “Assassination of the Heir Apparent for showing an interest in his less privileged subjects? This is not the first time I have viewed such terrible situations, you know. A decade or so ago, I went dressed as a workingman about the East End with Charles Carrington, having a look at slum conditions.”
“As you say, sir,” Charles replied, “you went incognito, with the knowledge only of those who supported your efforts. This morning’s trip is an entirely different matter, given Lady Warwick’s political leanings.”
He shook his head. “Your idea still seems extreme. Entirely irrational.”
“Extreme, yes, impossible, no. And conspiracies usually spring from an irrational conception. I think we must make provision for every contingency, however improbable it might appear. Would you not agree, sir?”
“Oh, I suppose. What do you propose?”
“To arrange for your security,” Charles replied. “You are admirably proficient with the shotgun, a weapon which is highly effective for self-defense at close range. And if memory serves, the Countess shoots reasonably straight.”
The Prince stopped pacing and straightened his shoulders. “Defend myself? By Jove, I most certainly could!” He frowned at Charles. “I don’t suppose you’re suggesting that Daisy and I spend the night guarding each other, after all you’ve said about our connection.”
Charles shook his head. “What I propose is that each of you withdraw a shotgun from the gun room, retire to your individual quarters with a trusted individual, and lock the door and windows. As your guard, I suggest your personal valet. Only one of you need remain awake. If anyone attempts to force an entry, you will have sufficient time to respond.”
“And who do you propose to assign to her ladyship?” The Prince pushed out his Hanoverian lip. “If you’re going to suggest Sir Friedrich, I shall have to object. After what I heard about his brash approach to Lillian last night, I hardly think he would be a good choice. And it won’t be Lord Warwick, either. In my mind, he is still the prime suspect.” He pulled his brows together. “In fact, I daresay he is far more likely to have killed Wallace than some irrational Anarchist.”
“I shouldn’t think, sir,” Charles said wearily, “that this is an Anarchist plot. In fact, I was about to suggest that Miss Ardleigh stay with Lady Warwick. She has uncommon courage and can be trusted implicitly, both of which are paramount conditions. She must act not only as Daisy’s guard, but her wardress.”
“Of course,” the Prince said, satisfied. “Miss Ardleigh will provide Daisy with an unimpeachable alibi. But what about Kirk-Smythe? Why can’t I have him? Guarding my body is his business.”
“With your permission, sir, Kirk-Smythe will work with me. We will serve as a roving patrol, a mobile police force, as it were, able to respond instantly should anything untoward occur.”
“Kirk-Smythe is a good man,” the Prince agreed, “thoroughly experienced in military maneuvers. But what of yourself, Charles? I shouldn’t think this sort of thing is quite up your line. Will you be all right?”
Charles smiled. “I think so. I’ve been in worse situations.”
“Oh, right. So I have heard.” The Prince turned to look toward the doors that opened onto the veranda, where the guests were gathering to observe the fireworks display. “But that was quite some time ago. I had almost forgotten.”
“So had I, sir,” Charles said. “So had I.”
26
I like high life, I like its manners, its splendours, the beings which move in its enchanted spheres.
—CHARLOTTE BRONTË
Destiny always has a sad side to it. For instance, I who was always longing to be free, have chained my life. I shall never he alone, never. I shall be surrounded by the etiquette of court, whose principal victim I shall he.
—EMPRESS EUGÉNIA, wife of Louis Napoleon of France
The fireworks were a splendid display, arching into the heavens in extravagant traceries of brightly colored light. For Kate, the sight awakened a deep nostalgia. She had grown up with Independence Day fireworks celebrations, and she had not seen such a presentation since she left New York almost two years before. So much had happened since then—her inheritance of Bishop’s Keep, the publication of more and more of Beryl Bardwell’s work, and soon her marriage to a man she deeply loved and respected. She couldn’t help feeling like the char girl in the fairy tale who woke up one day to discover herself transformed into a beautiful princess, able to do and have anything she chose. As she held Charles’s hand and murmured with the others at the golden showers of sparks, she felt giddy with wondering delight. But when Charles told her what he had learned during his teatime conversations and confided the plan for the evening to her, she sobered quickly enough.
“There may be some danger,” Charles said in a low voice, under the sound of the explosions that rattled the windows and shook the furniture. “But Daisy needs to be watched, and you’re the only person I can trust. Kirk-Smythe and I will be nearby, in case you need us. Will you do it?”
“Of course,” Kate said, and was rewarded by a swift kiss and a lingering touch. “But what do I do?”
“Just use your head,” Charles said. He squeezed her hand and was gone.
When the fireworks were over, Lady Warwick proposed dancing, but the Prince replied with a massive yawn that it had been an exceedingly long day and he for one was too tired even to play bridge. His Highnes
s having put an end to the evening, the others had perforce to agree. Although it was only a little after eleven, the company gathered their candles at the foot of the main staircase and trooped dutifully off to bed, or to whatever other pleasures they had arranged for themselves.
Kate waited a few minutes to be sure that the hallway was clear, then took her candle and went to Daisy’s room, where she found her and her lady’s maid in the midst of preparing for bed. A shotgun was leaning incongruously against a chest of drawers, on top of which was displayed a lavish bouquet of hothouse gladiolas and fern.
“I’ve never held one of those,” Kate said, glancing at the gun, “but I suppose you know how to use it.”
“Oh, quite,” Daisy said, as the maid finished brushing her hair. She dismissed her with a gesture and turned back to Kate. “There’s a tea tray on that table, Kate. Do help yourself.”
“Thank you,” Kate said, poured a cup of tea, and put several small cakes on a plate. She saw that the bed had been turned down, revealing lavish lace-edged silken sheets. On a bedside table was a bowl of heavily scented roses. The yellow damask draperies were pulled shut and a bright fire burned in the grate. The only sounds were the hissing of the gas lamps on the wall, which shed a golden glow over the room, and the ticking of an elaborate gold clock on the writing table, with the curious inscription, “I have had my hour.”
Wearing a gold satin dressing gown, Daisy pulled a yellow velvet chair closer to the fire and sat down. “I’m dreadfully sorry that you must sacrifice a night’s sleep just to keep a watch over me. But I must confess to wanting to talk with you in private. Charles has told me that—” She stopped, as if she weren’t sure how much she should say.
If Charles hadn’t already told her, he soon would, Kate thought. She sat down in the opposite chair and put her cup and plate on the small carved table beside it.
“Charles has asked me to marry him,” she said, “and I have said yes. Neither of us want an elaborate wedding, and his family is rather distracted just now with the illness of his brother. We hope to be married quickly, without fuss, in the local parish church.”
“Oh, my dear!” Daisy exclaimed, and clapped her hands. “I am delighted for both of you! Charles has always seemed to me to be a rare man, and you—” She put her head on one side, her gaze thoughtful. “Jenny Churchill is the only American woman I have known intimately. You are rather like her, you know.”
“But Lady Churchill comes from a wealthy family,” Kate protested. “I am an orphan, and Irish, and the aunt and uncle who raised me—he is a policeman in New York City—were very poor. I grew up in a family of six children, and had to make my own way in the world. I worked as a governess and ...” She stopped herself before she mentioned Beryl Bardwell. “And have done other things,” she finished lamely. “I don’t see how Lady Churchill and I can be compared .”
“That may be,” Daisy said, “but you and Jenny are both beautiful. Even more, you are both extraordinarily spirited and independent. I have always admired women who assert their freedom to do as they choose, no matter who says otherwise.” Regret flickered in her eyes. “That is a sort of freedom I have never enjoyed.”
Kate, who had been about to protest the idea that she was beautiful (her face was better described, she thought, as “strong-featured”), now found herself protesting the idea that Daisy was confined by anything.
“But how can you say that you’re not free?” she asked in amazement. “You, of all women—”
“Because I am the mistress of the Prince of Wales?” Daisy’s laugh was gently mocking. “Do you think I chose that distinction?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I did,” Kate admitted. “Didn’t you?”
Daisy pulled her dressing gown closer around her, her face half in firelight, half in shadow. “I admit to a certain scheming for Royal attention,” she said slowly, “but at the time, it was Bertie’s help I needed, not his romantic attentions. I was involved in a rather messy disagreement with Lady Beresford over a letter I had written to her husband, and Bertie was the only one who could intervene to save me from scandal.” She looked pained at the recollection. “But that’s beside the point. The truth is that once His Royal Highness has decided he wants a particular woman, it is utterly impossible for her to refuse him, however she may feel.”
“Oh,” Kate said, suddenly seeing through the romantic veil she and Beryl Bardwell had thrown over the affair.
“And once he has preferred a woman,” Daisy went on, “she is his alone—except, of course, that her husband may also enjoy her. But in many ways, the Prince is like a spoiled child, extraordinarily demanding of time and attention and fearful of spending an evening without some amusement. If there is a gap of even one hour in his engagement book, he looks at it with a sinking heart.” Her sigh held a bitter irony. “I should have had a great deal more freedom if His Highness had preferred someone else.”
“You don’t love him, then?” Kate asked. “Pardon me if the question is presumptuous,” she added hurriedly, but Daisy did not seem to mind.
“I am rather fond of him,” Daisy said, “and he is foolishly affectionate toward me. He is infatuated, I suppose, which is not at all the same thing as love.” She waved her hand as if she were dismissing the idea. “It is so hard to say what love is, don’t you find?”
“Well ...” Kate said. For her, love was an emotion not easily confused with any other. But perhaps that was because she had loved only one man in her life—Charles. What’s more, she had naively imagined that Daisy and the Prince must love one another deeply and romantically, else why take so many risks? Why engage in an affair, if not for love? Was it simply for the sake of passion? Or was one partner using the other for his—or her—own ends? Why indeed? The question required a great deal more thought.
“It is not just the time and the attention the Prince requires that makes my life difficult.” Daisy shifted in her chair, her pretty mouth tightening. “It is the extraordinary expenditure of money. To be painfully honest, Kate, the expense of entertaining Royalty is beyond imagination. The weekend’s entertainment—I could have fed all the poor in the workhouse for six months with what I’ve spent. And every time Bertie comes to visit, as he does quite often, his rooms must be redecorated and new entertainments prepared.”
“It must be quite costly,” Kate murmured, thinking that the price of a princely lover was much higher than she had imagined.
Daisy continued, almost as if she were talking to herself. “Brooke and I have already spent the whole of next year’s income, and we owe almost seventy-five thousand pounds, with little expectation of repaying. Reggie held one of my notes,” she added reflectively. “Perhaps, now that he is dead, I shan’t have to pay it. If that is true, Brooke will be very relieved. He is so anxious about money these days. If he could find some way to put an end to our dreadful expenditures, I’m sure he would seize it.”
Kate hoped that Daisy realized that she had not solicited this confidence about the Warwicks’ financial situation and would not come to regret speaking so openly. But everything Daisy said, especially her admission of the Warwicks’ extraordinary debt, pointed to Lord Warwick’s guilt. What if he had killed Wallace and implicated his wife in order to convince the Prince to find another mistress? Of course, the money Daisy owed Wallace would have provided an additional motive. Kate made a mental note to tell Charles what she had learned.
There was a long silence, broken only by the loud ticking of the clock on the writing table. After a time, Daisy spoke again. “Another great difficulty,” she said sadly, “is that having been preferred by Bertie, I find myself cut off from all other friends. There is no one to whom I may speak, no one whom I trust enough to unburden myself.” There was an unutterable sadness on her face. “Not even my poor husband, who long ago lost all love for me. Not that I blame him, of course. The Warwicks are a conservative family. They have been much embarrassed by the notoriety that attends my situation.”
Kate, hard
ly knowing what to say, remarked, “I suppose many of your friends are jealous.”
Daisy nodded. “They’re convinced that I have power, and they’re continually begging me to obtain Royal favors for them. Felicia Metcalf, for instance, wants a knighthood for her ne’er-do-well brother. She was furious with me when I told her yesterday that Bertie wouldn’t even consider passing his name to the Queen.”
Kate was listening attentively. Lady Metcalf had certainly been angry enough to kill Wallace for his imagined perfidy. Had she been furious enough at Daisy to attempt to make her look a murderess? Struck by the double motive, Kate decided it, too, was worth mentioning to Charles.
Now that she had someone to talk to, Daisy did not seem to want to stop. “But the loss of friends and companionship isn’t even the worst of it,” she said passionately. “There are so many things I wish to do and cannot. You saw my little needlework school, and you have heard me speak of the need to change the Poor Laws and encourage education and clean up the London slums. There are some things I am free to do, of course, but I must limit these activities, for everything I do reflects on the Prince.”
“Like this morning’s expedition,” Kate said quietly.
“Exactly. It was hazardous to take the Prince to the workhouse. There are those at Buckingham Palace, friends of the Queen, who find Socialist uprisings and Anarchist plots behind every such innocent expedition. This makes it dangerous for Bertie to entertain any view, however inoffensive, that has the slightest tinge of liberalism. And Bertie himself suffers from a great ambivalence. He is perpetually torn between his apprehension of what must be done and his desire to conceal from himself that all is not well with the best of all possible worlds. Those who reveal unpleasant things are not liked the better for it.” She shook her head. “So you see that my position—which so many naively envy—even denies me the right to express my political views or lend my weight to causes that cry out for my help.”
