Seducing the Princess

by Hart Perry, Mary

  It wasn’t until later that night, after Wilhelm had been entertained lavishly by Gregory’s parents at a dinner in his honor, that the prince indicated he wished to speak to Gregory in private. They retreated to the old library, sat smoking and sipping a fine Monnot cognac. Although Wilhelm appeared relaxed, boot heels crossed carelessly upon the ebony table top, Gregory sensed something disturbing in the prince’s attitude. His friend’s sly, sinuous attitude suited the salamander printed on the vintage bottle.

  Still, Gregory didn’t press. At last his patience was rewarded.

  “I have a job for you, mein Freund,” Wilhelm said.

  Gregory merely nodded. “I’m at your service as always, Your Highness.”

  “One of my English aunts is at risk of becoming an old maid.”

  Gregory burst out laughing. “Those are perhaps the last words I’d ever have predicted coming from your lips. How does this present a job for me? Am I to become matchmaker for the old biddy?”

  “Not at all.” Wilhelm studied the glowing ash at the end of his cigar. “I would like to see her with a man who has not only her best interests in mind but mine as well.”

  “And you think I might be able to find a suitable mate for her?”

  “I think you might be a suitable mate for her.”

  Gregory choked on his shock, his eyes tearing up as coughing spasms turned to laughter. “You must be joking. I have no doubt who you’re talking about. She’s the only princess still available, is she not? Beatrice.”

  Wilhelm nodded his head gravely. “Yes, Beatrice. You know her then.”

  “I’ve seen her a few times with her mother, coming and going from Balmoral. Even from a distance she seems quite plain and…unappealing.”

  “If she were appealing,” Wilhelm snapped, “don’t you think she’d be wed by now? She’s the daughter of the Queen of England, for God’s sake! Anyone who weds and beds her, in either order, will be set for life.” He seemed to realize he’d been shouting and quieted his voice though his face remained flushed. “I wouldn’t have come all this way to ask you this favor if it were so easy anyone could do it. I’m here because I believe you are uniquely qualified.”

  Gregory stared at Wilhelm in astonished disbelief. “I’m the third son of a minor baron. I have no money of my own. And not even my own mother would recommend me as husband to a princess. How does this qualify me?”

  “Stand up,” Wilhelm demanded.

  Gregory rolled his eyes, ground out his cigar in the crystal ashtray on the butler table beside his chair, and rose to his feet. He felt like a schoolboy called to task by his headmaster. Propping fists on his hips he stared down at his royal friend. “Well?”

  “When I look at you, do you know what I see?”

  Gregory laughed. “A penniless nobleman?” Having to humor Wilhelm was beginning to irritate him.

  “Not at all. I see a young Scot who looks remarkably like the old Queen’s dear, dead companion, John Brown. You could be his son, you know. The features are all there. Similar height. If your hair were a little redder in color, the resemblance would be startlingly obvious to anyone.”

  Now he was just confused. “And how does this make me of value to you, Your Highness?”

  Wilhelm pulled so hard on his cigar, its tip glowed like a fire opal. He rested his head back, eyes closed, savoring the pungent smoke—the picture of contentment. “I need a man inside the queen’s palace. Someone loyal to me, but also someone who can win the queen’s trust.”

  “And I’m supposed to be…what? The reincarnation of Brown?” Gregory shook his head. “You’re out of your mind.” It was only after the too-casual words had passed his lips that he realized the thinness of the ice upon which he was skating.

  Wilhelm’s eyes flared with dark fury and kicked out viciously with one boot, barely missing Gregory’s knee. “Our friendship will buy you only so much. Do not presume that my patience is unlimited.”

  Gregory fell back a step as if he’d actually been struck. He had forgotten how volatile the prince could be; his rage was legend. “I meant nothing by it, Your Highness. I spoke without thinking. You know you can count on me. Please, just tell me what you would have me do.”

  Wilhelm settled back into the soft leather of his chair. “It seems to me, with the smallest effort, you might win over the trust, perhaps even the heart of my dear Aunt Beatrice. Emphasize your brogue. Take to wearing your clan tartans. Use a little of that charm I recall you so easily employing on the frauleins.”

  Gregory returned to his chair. “But such a prank if discovered—”

  The prince put up his hand before he could say another word. “You think wooing the princess is treasonous? No, that’s too strong a word. Neither is it a childish prank. This is a serious strategy to improve my dear aunt’s life and, by the by, mine as well. There is a purpose to my request, if you will permit me to explain.”

  Gregory didn’t like the spark of excitement in those pale eyes. But he kept his expression neutral, leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs in a posture of rapt attention.

  “Bismarck,” the prince began, “believes I should do more to understand my grandmother’s political philosophy, as well as gain early knowledge of any decisions she may make that will impact upon Germany and Prussia. My time as monarch is fast approaching. The emperor, my grandfather, might as well be in his grave. My father is ill and unlikely to remain on the throne for more than a year before the cancer takes him.”

  “My sympathies, Your Highness.”

  Wilhelm waved him off. “Let us not be maudlin. Their departure is all to the good, as far as I’m concerned. The sooner they leave this world, the quicker I take my rightful place as emperor. And I have plans, Gregory. Grand and glorious plans for my empire.”

  Gregory felt a chill descend his spine, a slow trickle of ice water, and yet he was beginning to catch the prince’s enthusiasm. “Go on, Your Highness.”

  “Bismarck believes that Britain will stand in the way of my plans, if I do not bring her to heel. I must have England as my ally.”

  “Then why do you not simply ask your grandmother to stand by you in return for your promise to do the same for her? A simple alliance within the family.” It seemed reasonable to him.

  “If only it were that easy. Victoria hates me, but no more than I despise her. Even if I could force myself to grovel to the old woman, I doubt she ever will take my side in a serious dispute over borders or sovereignty. Unless I somehow get the upper hand over her.”

  “But you’re her grandson, her first grandson, and surely all the more precious to her. Are you sure you aren’t imagining—”

  The prince cut him off with a furious slash of his withered arm. “The queen has said to my face that she doesn’t trust me. So I must either change her mind—difficult if not impossible—or I must know her mind before she makes a move against me. That means I need someone inside Buckingham Palace who is physically close to her but loyal only to me.”

  “A spy.”

  “Exactly. Ideally, my man should be someone inside the family—all the better to learn her mind. And that is why I need to find a husband for the last princess.”

  The idea intrigued Gregory. He wasn’t convinced it was possible, but he was growing excited at the challenge. “And if I were to succeed in wooing the old maid?”

  “It doesn’t take a genius to foresee the vast rewards,” Wilhelm said. “Victoria may be as cold as a Siberian winter, and dangerous, to me and those who cross her. But for the most part, she looks after her own. Any man who marries her youngest daughter will have land, a title, and need not lift a finger to support himself for the rest of his life. Added to that, he will have my gratitude and generous financial compensation.”

  Gregory tipped his head to one side, considering. “You make it sound easy. As if you really believe it could be done.”

  The prince studied the ash about to drop from his cigar. A smile edged up
the corners of his lips beneath his trim mustache. “How many young girls did you seduce when we were at university? I expect you lost count. I never saw you fail.”

  “Ah, but—a young virgin is eager to be plucked. An old virgin is resigned to her status.” Gregory sighed and sat back in his seat, drumming his fingers on his crooked knee. It was admittedly a pretty daydream. He, the wastrel third son everyone said would never make good, moving into the queen’s palace in London. But there were so many ways the prince’s plot could go wrong. “Have you ever thought, Your Highness, that Princess Beatrice might not want to marry?”

  “Then it will be your task to change her mind. Convince her she’s desirable. Whisper sweet words in her ear. If my aunt wants to escape her life as Victoria’s enslaved companion badly enough, and if you charm the old Queen by reminding her of her precious John Brown, you cannot fail.”

  “Seduce the princess and make my fortune,” Gregory mused.

  “Are you game?”

  Gregory tapped the rim of his cognac glass. The fine crystal rang. “Why the hell not?” His prospects, it seemed, were looking up.

  12

  Buckingham Palace, London

  “They’re both coming for a visit? Oh, Marie, I can’t wait!” Beatrice thrilled to the news of her sisters’ visit. It had been too long. Miserable weeks of rain and gray skies. Boring weeks since the excitement of the wedding. “Mama says Louise and Helena should arrive sometime this afternoon. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “A family is to be cherished,” Lady Devereaux murmured. She brought Beatrice her sensible black leather shoes to go with her dour might-as-well-be-black dress. “Sisters are the most precious of all. I’m so glad you have them in your life, Your Highness.”

  Beatrice thought she caught a wistful tone in the woman’s voice, but before she could ask if anything was wrong, she became swept up in making plans for Louise and Helena’s stay. Maybe they would go shopping together—a rare treat—or spend a few blissful hours browsing through the newest selections at her favorite bookstore in Kensington? Louise’s American friend Stephen Byrne had mentioned a new book he’d enjoyed by a Mr. Mark Twain, The Prince and the Pauper. He’d called it “most entertaining.” And hadn’t that other young writer, Robert Louis Stevenson, recently published a new adventure? She’d adored his exotic adventure, Treasure Island. If she couldn’t have her own adventures, at least, through books, she might imagine daring escapades in distant lands.

  No matter what she and her sisters did together, it would be a marvelous relief from the routine of Court. These days, she saw too little of any of her sisters. One by one, they had escaped the Court and their mother’s iron-willed dominance over their lives. Each of the elder daughters had found her own path toward making a life for herself. Baby being the sole exception. And yet Beatrice held neither their freedom, nor her own captivity, against them.

  Crown Princess Vicky, the eldest English royal daughter—incurably bossy but dear to her nonetheless—had wed Fritz, the Prussian crown prince. He would likely become the Emperor of the vast German-Prussian empire any day now, as his father was frail and sickly, making Vicky an empress. They had eight children, and their first son, Wilhelm (Willy to the family) was now in his twenties. Although a troubled child, Beatrice had hopes he would outgrow his temper and obstinate nature. He would naturally be the next one to follow in his father’s footsteps and wear the crown. She hoped for his mother’s sake, and his country’s, that he would have matured, and his temper mellowed, before he came to real power. She remembered him torturing insects, plucking off their wings and laughing as they crawled helplessly about, before he gleefully squashed them. She suspected his cruelty had found other victims in the higher life forms.

  Alice, mother to the recent bride, came next of the five girls in the English royal family. Beatrice had adored and looked up to her second eldest sister, who had gently mothered her when their own mother was too busy with affairs of state. Married to the Grand Duke Louis IV of Hesse-Darmstadt, Alice had given birth to seven children. She still missed Alice with an aching sorrow, but tried to fill the void by corresponding regularly with her sister’s children.

  Then there was Helena, nicknamed Lenchen, married to His Serene Highness Christian of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderberg-Augustenburg, with five children and possibly more to come. Helena spoke little, and only in serious tones, of her marriage. Which made Beatrice wonder if she was truly happy. Nevertheless, the match was considered a success by their mother, who seemed to have her own gauge for measuring marital harmony.

  Finally, closest to her own age, came her sister Louise, wife to John Campbell, 9th Duke of Argyll, called Lorne by those close to him. How she would have loved to travel with Louise to see the wilds of the vast North American continent while Lorne was the Governor General of Canada. But of course, her mother wouldn’t hear of it. Too dangerous, she said. Too distant for Baby. For years she’d believed that her mother’s extreme measures to protect her meant she was specially loved. Now she wondered just how much of the queen’s mother-bear tactics were self-serving.

  But Beatrice refused to think ugly thoughts of any kind today. She loved her mother, and she cherished each and every one of her sisters. If she occasionally envied them their independent lives, she quickly reminded herself to be thankful for the little treasures in her own existence.

  Red roses. A reckless horseback ride across a field of blooming wildflowers. A stolen kiss by a prince. She tingled, fingertips to toes, at the memory.

  As Marie helped her dress for her sisters’ arrival, Beatrice let her gaze wander to the small stack of letters bound with a thin blue ribbon, lying on her dressing table. Henry’s letters. Another treasure. She let out a little whimper of pleasure.

  “Sorry. Have I laced your corset too tight?” Marie asked.

  “No, it’s fine. Mama thinks I should wear it as constricted as possible.” She gave a dry laugh. “She likes her girls slim, even if she is not.”

  Marie clucked her tongue in mild disapproval. “Now, now. The queen is a matron in years and allowed a bit more padding, as they say. You are too young for the matronly figure, Your Highness.”

  “Am I?” Does it matter?

  “Of course. Your young prince from Darmstadt, I think he will come for you and be pleased with your belle figure.”

  Beatrice felt a flutter in her heart. Again the letters called to her. “Do you know, until my niece’s wedding, I thought it the most natural thing in the world to spend the rest of my life as my mother’s companion and secretary. To never marry.”

  “You had no curiosity for boys as the jeune fille?”

  “As a young girl or even as I grew older. No, not really.” She sucked in her breath to let Marie cinch her waist in another inch. “I was terrified of the mustachioed, gruff old men who came to my mother’s office to discuss politics. Marry one of them? Never. And whenever I brought up questions about married life or having babies, the queen complained about the pain and humiliation of giving birth and how much trouble children were.” Beatrice gasped. “There, that’s tight enough, or I shan’t be able to eat a bite.”

  Marie spared her a fraction of an inch then tied off the laces. “Meilleur?”

  “Yes, much better. Thank you. Anyway, Mama once told me she sometimes wished she’d had no children at all, as hers no longer appreciated her. Can you imagine, telling your own daughter that you wished her and her brothers and sisters never born?”

  “I’m certain Her Majesty was not serious.”

  “Well, I’m sure she was serious.” In fact, rather than being offended, Beatrice had felt so sorry for her mother she’d tried to make up for the lack of attention her siblings paid their mother by being all the more attentive herself.

  The trouble was, tied to her mother as she was, even the company of the ladies and gentlemen of the Court did little to cure her loneliness. In fact, watching the ways they complimented, flirted, and competed with e
ach other made her feel all the more left out. She became even more aware of the special courtesies and the looks men gave attractive women. But never, ever gave her.

  “Do you know, Marie,” she said, lifting her arms to slip into her daydress, “just once in my life I wish someone would say of me: ‘That Beatrice, she is the belle of the ball…a prima donna...or, the toast of the town.’” She sighed. “I wonder what it’s like to be beautiful, or just to be thought of as beautiful by just one person. I would surrender ten years of my life to feel that special.”

  Marie was clucking again. “Mais non, Princess, you are a beautiful person. In your heart, in your soul…and when you smile, I see a—“

  “Stop, Marie.” Beatrice spun around to face her lady-in-waiting. Marie with her heart-shaped face and delicate dark curls and lush French accent that attracted men as honeycombs lure bears up the tallest trees. “You’re just being kind. I know what I am.” There was no escaping what she saw in the mirror each and every day. She looked old for her years. Drab. And her conversation was awkward and mundane. To deny these things was to deceive herself.

  And yet, there had been Henry—a true cavalier, who had seemed to honestly enjoy her company. When she had been with him—on the ballroom floor or riding out across the fields—she at least felt beautiful, even if no one else saw her that way.

  In the days following the wedding, before her mother ordered her reduced retinue away from Darmstadt and back to London, Beatrice and Henry had found opportunities to leave the crowd and go off by themselves. He had behaved as the perfect gentleman—except for those times when he stole another kiss or two, which had thoroughly delighted her. He dressed smartly, rode as though the devil was at his back, asked her opinion on all manner of things, and admired her sketches of the castle. His blue eyes snatched at her heart every time he looked her way. She wanted to be near him more than she’d ever wanted anything in her whole life. And yet she dared not hope that he would feel the same about her.