The Prince in the Tower

by Lydia M Sheridan

  A highwayman, an eligible parti, a squadron of dragoons, and swarms of tourists who couldn’t fork over their shillings fast enough? Why, they were all going to be nabobs!

  ***

  It was while he was performing his ablutions, absent any helpful sibling to bandage his wounds and prescribe spider detritus, that Edmund first began to feel old.

  Certainly he was only twenty-five, a mere stripling in terms of, say, Methuselah, or any of the other blokes of antiquity, but it was while he was lowering himself, wincing, into his bath, that the thought occurred to him (and he did occasionally have one which wasn’t caused by Lady Hellion), that the war was in fact over. Napoleon might have escaped once to lead the ragtag dregs of an army of old men and young boys to his Waterloo, but it was highly improbable, Edmund admitted to himself, that such would happen again.

  So, while trying to balance in his bath on only one buttock, cataloging his bumps and bruises, Edmund grew up. It was time to face the realities of life, not to mention the title and duties of the head of the family.

  It was unlikely that these should ever have been his lot to begin. The previous marquis, Uncle Louis, had remained hale and hearty until taking a tumble at a hunt, breaking most of the bones in his body, including his neck. When the child his wife carried proved not to be the son everyone so desired, the title had passed unexpectedly to Edmund at the relatively tender age of twenty-three. In vain had he protested being sent from the front, but his superiors in England and on the Continent had added their voices to those of his family. If Edmund was inconsiderate enough to stay in battle and get himself killed for honor and glory, there was only Cousin Alphonse to inherit and everyone agreed he was a bedlamite. Edmund was informed England needed men to serve on the homefront as well as the battlefield and sent grumbling home.

  But raising sheep and speaking occasionally in the House of Lords was not Edmund’s idea of serving his country. By dint of wearing down Lord Liverpool’s patience, he managed to wangle himself the job of tracking down the counterfeiters whose efforts could destroy England’s economy should they get out of hand.

  Edmund was no fool, however. If the War Office had any real fear of a couple of haypenny counterfeiters, they would never have given the assignment to someone with only a bit military experience and a ten-minute lecture from a seasoned campaigner in espionage. This was his chance to serve his country, to prove his worth off the battlefield. Unfortunately, while his natural bent for amateur theatricals and long observation of Cousin Alphonse helped enormously in his disguise, his soldier’s directness was conflicting awkwardly with the subtlety necessary for a spy.

  Then there was Kate, as he’d taken to calling the lady in his thoughts. Edmund couldn’t repress a smile, though the water had turned cool and his fingers pruney.

  Lady Katherine was a woman unlike any he’d ever met. Expecting propriety from her family, while she, wild to a fault, had all of England in an uproar with her highway shenanigans was rich, to say the least. Edmund hadn’t an idea in the world how to handle her, especially after the stunt she’d pulled last night, but what a heart she had, pluck to the backbone. Others might call the Grey Cavalier a common thief, but Katherine was anything but common.

  But Edmund had, however, had the wisdom to not let her know she was being handled. Enough that he knew what he was doing--more than she, anyway. He was a man, a soldier! who knew far more about life than a great ladder of a girl who had nothing on her mind but giving him sauce. Luckily, the dragoons were prowling the village, which should be enough to keep her at home and out of trouble, rather than prancing around robbing coaches or being daring and practically getting them both killed. Her tactics in the cavern, or lack thereof, still infuriated him, though whether at her gall or his own bungling, he wasn’t sure.

  But the very notion that the Cavalier was a woman had blown his careful, though naïve, plan from here to Kingdom come. Said plan being to capture the ringleader and toss him around a bit till he either confessed or led Edmund to the counterfeiters’ lair. Edmund acquitted Kate of being a counterfeiter with no evidence at all, aside from the fact that she couldn’t possibly have time to be both a thief and pressing false coin.

  The Lady Carolyn, on the other hand--

  Edmund seriously considered this idea, only to dismiss it. Lady Caroline would undoubtedly grow up to be an assassin, but at the moment she didn’t possess the subtlety necessary for an elaborate counterfeiting ring.

  He wasted several minutes on the contemplation of various members of Oaksley, with particular attention to the Countess Malford, before coming to the conclusion that he didn’t know nearly enough to compare personalities. He’d not find the ring leader that way.

  Now he just had to devise another plan, one ripe with cunning, to bust up the ring, save Britain, bestow honor and glory on his family name, and perhaps steal a kiss or two before the object of his increasing affections ended up on the gallows.

  And then there was the small matter of the clue he’d found in the cavern the previous night.

  ***

  Edmund spent what remained of his day cultivating the goodwill of the village. This was not as difficult as he first thought due to three factors: his purported friendship with Lady Katherine, for no matter how poor the Thoreaus were, no one denied they were the first family of the parish; his putative status as a wealthy bachelor hungering for True Love; and his incarceration on charges of impersonating the late Captain Harrison. The villagers considered this a compliment of the highest order and were eager to embrace a gentleman of such discerning intelligence.

  Edmund himself was surprised, but pleased, and felt his first attempt at spying was not going too poorly, despite the efforts of one Lady Katherine.

  Which reminded him of Lady Alice’s kind invitation to call.

  ***

  “I say, Gladys, if the Dragoons do manage to capture the Cavalier, we’re sunk,” predicted Mrs. Dogget with chilling accuracy at the next morning’s meeting of the Ladies Aid Society. Normally a group whose deeds were regularly noted from the pulpits of both St. Agatha’s (on one side of the green) and All Souls (on the other), the meeting had been called in order to work out arrangements for the pageant and related festivities. All the most influential ladies of the neighborhood were gathered in the drawing room of Mrs. Dogget’s snug home overlooking the green, feasting on plumb cake and tea.

  “Not necessarily,” chirped Miss Radish. “The publicity of an arrest alone would likely be enough to draw all sorts of spectators.”

  “But what then? If the fellow, whomever he is, is clapped up in Newgate, he’s of no use to us. They’re much more likely to hang him in London this time.” Mrs. Appleby helped herself to another slice of plum cake and munched gloomily.

  Rarely did it take the Countess of Malford such a long time to air her views. “Piffle. If the man is tried, Horace will see to it he is transported, if he cannot buy--er--scrape him an outright pardon. It’s quite the least we owe the rascal.”

  The ladies, who each, secretly and not so secretly, nursed a tendre in their bosoms for the dashing gentleman, breathed sighs of relief.

  Mrs. Kendall’s eyes lit up. “If anything happens to the Cavalier, we might hire an actor and stage robberies ourselves!”

  There was a hushed silence.

  “Matilda!” thundered the Countess. Mrs. Kendall looked apprehensive. “That’s the best idea you’ve come up with in a decade!”

  Mrs. Kendall turned pink with pleasure as the rest of the ladies nodded their approbation.

  After that, such rollicking good humor pervaded the group that it took barely an hour for plans to be laid, the chairmanships of various committees to be bestowed, and the remaining parts in the pageant to be cast.

  “--and Father Flannery will play the judge.” The Countess checked off another item on her list. “Now, we only need a Cavalier and someone to manage the production. Suggestions, anyone?

  Miss Radish stood. “I nominate Mr. Dalrymp
le.”

  "This is not an election, Barbara,” the Countess reminded her pointedly, though with less force than was her wont. "Still, the idea has merit.”

  “Physically he fits the Cavalier to a fare-thee-well,” opined Mrs. Kendall.

  "His shoulders are certainly broad enough,” added the Countess. These ladies’ words carried great weight, they being the only two present who had actually had the honor of being accosted by the highwayman. The rest knew his appearance by reputation alone, which lost nothing in the telling.

  "Hair that shade of gold is wasted on a man,” said Mrs. Dogget dreamily.

  “Those legs,” sighed Miss Letitia, wistfully.

  “Leading all the way up to his--”

  “Jeanne!” trumpeted the Countess. Really, the conversation was skating round the edge of vulgarity. She called for a vote.

  “Are we all agreed then, that Mr. Dalrymple should portray the Cavalier?”

  There were eager ayes all round.

  “What if he says no?” Mrs. Appleby asked sensibly. The ladies frowned at this spanner thrown into their plans.

  “He would not refuse if Katherine were in charge.”

  Everyone stared at Lady Alice, who had been unusually quiet this afternoon, even for her.

  Lady Alice, though amazed at her own temerity, could not let such a golden opportunity pass by, not if she wanted to see Kate married and settled before she was a confirmed ape leader. And to attach such a one as the dashing Mr. Dalrymple -- her maiden heart fluttered beneath her serene countenance.

  “Katherine has had a great deal of experience in managing amateur theatricals,” she said, and it was no more than the truth. “Also, she and Mr. Dalrymple are old friends from London. If she asked him to participate as a personal favor, I cannot think he would refuse.”

  Once more that afternoon, the Countess was moved to unconditional praise.

  “An excellent notion, Alice.” She bent a commanding eye around the room as though daring anyone to disagree.

  But since all the ladies with unmarried daughters were secure in the knowledge that these daughters all had positions in the pageant, from which it would be easy to get them in the way of Mr. Dalrymple, or failing that, perhaps one of the officers or titled tourists who were certain to come, they were content. The only one who had any objection was Miss Radish, who rather fancied herself an authority on the theatre, having once seen the great Kemble in her youth.

  Her opposition was voted down and the matter settled. A celebratory sherry was poured all 'round, and the meeting was adjourned.

  ***

  “You what?” Kate started up from the settee, The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders tumbling unheeded to the floor.

  “I was able to secure for you the directorship of the pageant,” repeated her aunt with admirable composure.

  “Aunt Alice, I have no time to do anything with the pageant,” protested Kate.

  “My dear, the harvest is in, the quarterly books are done. On what, precisely, do you need to spend so much time?”

  "So many things,” Kate replied vaguely, searching for an excuse which didn’t involve highway robbery or the capture of desperate, murdering counterfeiters. It was a task which taxed even her fertile ingenuity, but pickings would be ripe with the hordes of tourists expected for the festivities. Kate had no intention of missing such marvelous opportunities for filling the family coffers.

  Besides, and this was a reason she didn’t like admitting even to herself, but her dramatic soul craved the excitement, though uncredited, which the appearance of the Cavalier during the festival would cause. To take that away would reduce her to a mere -- she shuddered at the term -- spinster.

  Lady Alice continued to coax. “You work so very hard, Katherine, I thought this might be a bit of a holiday for you. And with the dragoons--”

  “Dragoons?”

  “--coming into the village, not to mention your nice Mr. Dalrymple, it would be the perfect opportunity to--to expand your social circle,” Lady Alice offered, as an inducement to tempt her recalcitrant niece.

  Kate narrowed her eyes, but could not refuse her aunt, who so seldom asked for anything.

  “Very well,” she conceded. “I accept.”

  “There is just one more thing, Katherine.” Lady Alice colored faintly, her fingers carefully smoothing the pages of the book Kate had dropped. She frowned when she saw the title, but was too preoccupied to lodge what she knew would be a futile protest.

  Kate couldn’t remember a time when her aunt had been unable to meet her eyes. Warily, she asked, “And what might that be?”

  “We, that is, the Ladies Aid, have decided that Mr. Dalrymple should play the Cavalier and you must ask him.”

  Kate couldn’t help it. She snorted with laughter.

  “Oh, I think not.”

  Lady Alice straightened and her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. After all, the wild blood of the Thoreaus flowed in her veins, too. But Kate forestalled her before she could speak again.

  “Auntie,” she said faintly, “did you say there were Dragoons in the village?”

  “Yes, my dear. They are quartered here for the winter. Or perhaps they are looking for the Cavalier. Miss Radish wasn’t quite certain.”

  Lady Alice, concerned when her niece fell back amongst the cushions, immediately took her pulse. That she pronounced it slightly elevated was of no surprise to Kate. Pork jelly was suggested and refused with loathing, so Lady Alice bustled off, returning with Caro’s medical supplies. Luckily, Kate heard her light footstep returning to the drawing room, so that when Lady Alice opened the door, Kate was feigning sleep in order to forestall offers of saline draughts, camphor liniment for her bruises, Balm of Gilead for muscle aches, or Daffy’s Elixir for general well-being.

  In truth, she ached all over and wanted nothing more than to sleep for days and wake up to piles of money, an obedient family, and no Mr. Dalrymple. But that was obviously impossible, so instead she concentrated on unraveling the mystery of the counterfeiting gang while Lady Alice moved softly about the shabby drawing room.

  Eventually her aunt covered her with a worn quilt, shutting the door quietly as she left. As soon as she’d gone, Kate flung back the quilt, dragging herself to the desk where a suitable amount of digging unearthed a stubby pencil and a sheet of foolscap which she proceeded to cover in a list of all those who might be involved in treason.

  It was obvious to the person of the meanest intelligence, which Kate assured herself she was not, despite her lack of success with the family accounts, that there had to be someone in the gang, who had knowledge of the area, the people, and Castle Wallingford. Someone local. So she immediately put on the top of her list Adam Weilmunster, for the simple reason that she disliked him so greatly. Second was the Countess of Malford, who, though regrettably respectable, certainly had the gall necessary for a successful operation. The third was Ethan Douglas. Unfortunately, though Ethan was more rambunctious than all the Thoreaus combined, even his own mama predicting her son would end up hanged or transported, Kate had to admit a thirteen year-old would be hard pressed to mastermind such an elaborate scheme.

  Kate sighed. No. None of the above had the correct combination of brass-faced cunning and ruthlessness to do something so dastardly, so she scribbled through their names, drumming her fingers to aid in thought.

  Turning the paper over, she sketched in a crude map of the village.

  At the east side of the green, far below the hill on which perched the vulture-like pile of stones which made up the castle, stood the venerable St. Agatha’s Church. On the west side, just past the road which ran directly north to south, stood the comparatively new All Souls. Immediately south of that was the Lady and the Scamp. The Inswith river wound past Wallingford Castle, west through the farmlands of Appleby Manor, then east, circling the village on three sides. Crinkum’s Lane led east, at right angles to the post road, past the various shops, the green, and finally the sacred spot on w
hich Captain Harry had been hanged. The oak tree which had given the village its name, and Kate her cover during various highway hijinks, stood, most massive of all, in a wooded area in the triangle formed of post road and river. Directly over the river to the west lay the lands of Bellevue. Opposite, on the other side of the road, lay the Malford estate.

  Kate was utterly certain that this told her something, but was unsure what that something might be, so she studied the map for a hint, a sign, a clue of any sort. Outside, she could hear the children playing Astley’s Amphitheatre.

  Quite recently, she had made the error of describing her two trips to the circus during her one, glorious Season in London five years before. The children asked for the story over and over again. It never failed to inspire in them the desire to be clowns, or ride standing on a galloping steed round the makeshift ring on what used to be the west lawn. This last, after she herself had taken a scary tumble off the galloping steed, Kate had vetoed firmly. However, even Lucy had been known to join in an occasional game of leapfrog. How she wished to take them all to the city she loved and show them Astley’s, the theatre, the Tower, and for Lucy and Caro, the balls and the glittering ton.

  Shameful though it might be, Kate had few qualms about what she was doing. Certainly banditry was morally wrong, and she still got a twinge every now and again when she thought of what her mama might say. But, she reasoned, if Papa hadn’t wanted her to become a thief, he could have refrained from frittering their money away on horses, cards, or ill-considered investments. Not to mention her grandfather, and her great-grandfather before him. In fact, she thought with a wry grin, the two were quite likely beaming with pride at her exploits from heaven above. If they’d been allowed past St. Peter, pranksters that they had been.

  A governess’ salary wouldn’t begin to keep a roof over their heads and it wasn’t as if Uncle Richard was of any use whatsoever. The last she’d heard he was on another jaunt to America or the West Indies, or the North Pole, for all anyone knew.