Seducing the Princess

by Hart Perry, Mary

  Henry sank into the blackest of moods. He couldn’t have said how much time passed as he sat there immobile before the rustling of his father’s newspaper roused him. “Awful situation that,” the prince muttered.

  Henry sensed the comment was meant to apply to a situation other than his. “What is that, Father?”

  “The Sudan of course. Victoria must be out of her mind with concern.”

  He had thought of nothing but the queen’s daughter in months. Why would a faraway African nation concern him? Then he recalled. General Gordon, hero of the British expeditions to China, had been sent to negotiate the evacuation of British citizens after a dangerous uprising in northeastern Africa. Gordon had kept a modest military contingent with him and a civilian staff sufficient to aid his mission. He had negotiated with the Caliph for months, trying to convert him to Christianity even as the Caliph attempted to convert Gordon to Islam. Relations had been tense and grew even more explosive when the Caliph’s men kidnapped and beheaded a number of British citizens.

  “What has happened now?” Henry asked, his heart not yet invested in the conversation.

  “Gordon’s people are still under siege in Khartoum. The rebels have surrounded the city, and no supplies can get through.”

  Despite his preoccupation with his own future, Henry’s blood fired up. “Then reinforcements must be sent to break through the barricade.”

  His father shook his head. “Gordon is one of Victoria’s favorites. She’s been fighting with Parliament for weeks to get the government to authorize a rescue expedition.”

  “Good for her. I’d volunteer to serve.” Maybe that would impress the queen. He could imagine himself slashing away at infidels with his saber, arriving victorious at the walls of Khartoum to rescue Gordon, bringing the general and his grateful people home to England.

  Louis laughed and pushed a glass of brandy into his hands. “Henry, drink up and forget about it. You’re such a romantic. Do you think an old military veteran like Gordon incapable of getting himself out of this fix?”

  The prince sighed and folded his newspaper closed. “The English think they are all-powerful. That attitude will be their downfall. And Gordon’s too, I fear.”

  “I can’t fathom it,” Henry said. “Why not send in troops?”

  “Prime Minister Gladstone is as set against intervention as the queen is for it. Nothing will happen without Parliament’s blessing.”

  “But if a voluntary expedition crossed through Egypt to the interior…” Henry felt his father’s eyes boring into him. “No, seriously, if I let it be known I was mounting a rescue mission—”

  “Henry, don’t be ridiculous.” Louis said.

  “What? It would prove to the queen I am of value and deserve her daughter.”

  “It would get you killed, son.” Alexander gave him a stern look. “You have no idea what you’d be up against. The Caliph’s men are without mercy. They will defend their country and punish without mercy anyone who tries to take it from them.”

  “But surely, if Gordon and his people surrender—”

  His father looked grim. “No one will leave Khartoum alive. Take my word for it. It’s too late for them. Don’t do it, Henry. It’s a suicide mission.”

  Later that day, Henry thought about his ruined relationship with the queen. He’d approached her from a social angle, as a good man, as a reliable husband for her daughter. But what he should have done was to first make of himself a man after Victoria’s own heart. If a man didn’t appeal to her, she wouldn’t find him deserving of her daughter. And Victoria clearly respected military men. Strong men. Daring men. He could be all of those things for her. Then he would return to ask again for Beatrice.

  His only worry was not knowing why Beatrice had stopped writing to him. Maybe it was her way of letting him down gently, without final words of farewell that would be painful to both of them. Whatever her motive for silence, he had to find out.

  But first things first. He had an invasion to plan.

  31

  Beatrice studied her reflection in the cheval glass before heading outside to the royal mews. Her new plum riding dress fit beautifully, emphasizing her womanly curves—perhaps more pleasingly than her mother would have preferred. But, so far, the queen hadn’t remarked on the addition to her daughter’s wardrobe. Months had passed since the queen started her silent treatment—refusing to speak to Beatrice about even the most mundane matters. They sat at meals in silence. They walked out into the garden in silence. If one or more of the ladies of the Court, a visiting dignitary, or Ponsonby was in the room, Victoria carried on a light-hearted conversation with them as if nothing at all was wrong. She just didn’t include Beatrice in their dialogue.

  Beatrice tried to coax her mother into a chat by bringing up her favorite topics. Sometimes she intentionally antagonized her by mentioning Gladstone, commenting on the desperate situation in the Sudan, or pointing out the blighted blooms in the garden. Nothing persuaded the queen to speak a word to her.

  Having lost that battle with her mother, Beatrice threw up her hands and spent her time where she pleased—mostly in the riding academy, a long, narrow building that was part of the royal mews, and out riding with her usual escort, Greg. By staying busy, she kept her mind off of Henry’s desertion, as best she could. But the sting of his rejection was difficult to ignore.

  After weeks spent in and around the stables, she began to sense that something wasn’t quite right there. Occasionally, she glimpsed strangers, as she had once before, in small groups of two or four—some well-dressed and obviously of high social standing, others quite clearly of the middle class. They seemed to come and go, quite mysteriously, without any obvious reason for their being inside the palace gates.

  She asked Greg about them one day while she was brushing Lady Jane’s smooth russet coat. He shrugged, looking uncharacteristically petulant. “Not my responsibility, now is it, Your Highness?”

  She stared at him, confused, and was about to demand an explanation when he changed the subject. “Her Majesty informed Mr. Jackson she would be traveling to Osborne House in two weeks, accompanied by—” he looked pointedly at her “—the princess and a reduced Court.”

  “Really.” She quirked a brow at him. This was the first she’d heard of the trip. True, they traveled annually to the family estate on the Isle of Wight. But she and her mother usually discussed dates and made plans together. Apparently the queen took for granted that her daughter would meekly follow along, even if abused and ignored.

  “You didn’t know, Princess?” Greg asked.

  “No,” she admitted, more than a little embarrassed. When he’d gone off to his other work, she pressed her cheek along the curve of Lady Jane’s long, smooth neck, trying not to think about how hurt she felt. “When you love someone,” she whispered to the mare, “you show it with tender, respectful gestures.” By letting the person you love make their own decisions. Or, by writing promised letters.

  She felt desperately unloved.

  Beatrice spent another hour in the stables, relishing the pungent musky-sweet smell of the place, comforted by the contented whinnies and snuffles of the animals. She could hear Gregory and the younger lads working here and there in the stalls, caring for the horses. Eventually Gregory came back to check on her.

  “Sorry, ma’am, I shouldn’t have said.”

  “Said what?”

  “About Osborne House.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s all right, Greg. Better that I know the queen’s plans, however the news comes to me. My mother has become forgetful at times.” She wondered if Marie also had been informed, so that she might start the process of packing for both of them. But wouldn’t her lady have said something to her?

  On the other hand, Marie’s moods had been unpredictable of late. The young woman kept to herself whenever Beatrice didn’t need her. She rarely smiled these days. Perhaps she was ill and trying not to let on? She�
�d have to insist upon an explanation. Beatrice picked up the curry brush to give Lady Jane a few more strokes before leaving the mews for the day.

  “The queen,” Greg said in a low voice, “doesn’t appreciate you as she should, ma’am.”

  Beatrice’s eyes flashed to him in disapproval.

  “Another thing I shouldn’t have said?” He stepped closer and looked down at his hands when she didn’t answer. “Pardon me, Princess, but it’s true. You give your mother everything, all of yourself, holding nothing back. She should treat you with more respect.”

  “It’s not for you to say,” Beatrice said, although she of course agreed.

  “Nay, it’s not. But sometimes, the way I feel about a person, it just comes out.”

  What was the Scot saying—the way he felt? About her? She turned and looked up into his gray-green eyes, no longer averted as appropriate for a member of the queen’s staff. His hand came to rest over hers where she held the curry brush against her horse’s flank.

  Pull away, she told herself.

  It was unthinkable that a commoner should touch royal flesh. But wasn’t Gregory MacAlister also the son of a lord? Wasn’t he more than a mere stable hand?

  “Greg,” she said.

  He lifted his hand but didn’t move it away. Ever so lightly, he traced around each of her fingers with one of his own, like a child drawing his own handprint. “I hate seeing you so sad, Princess. Because of your mother. Because of that ungrateful Battenberg. If I can cheer you in any way…” He looked deeper into her eyes. She wanted to look away. She couldn’t.

  Her heart beat wildly at his touch, at his words. What was he suggesting? Was he offering comfort only—a simple expression of compassion? Or was there something more ardent, more physical suggested by his touch?

  She slid her hand out from under his. The brush dropped into the straw at her feet. “Thank you,” she said weakly. “But I’m fine.”

  Suddenly disoriented, awash in emotion, Beatrice turned and walked quickly away. Her knees wobbled. She felt the straw under foot shift, the floor tilt. Around her, the plank walls shivered as if electric.

  “Princess?” he called out from behind her. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m—yes, I’m fine.” Don’t stop, she told herself. Keep on walking.

  Gregory watched the queen’s daughter weave down the alley of the dim barn and out into the sunshine. He laughed to himself. Girl didn’t know it but she was his.

  He had seen it in her eyes. They had dilated nearly all-black at his touch. She’d trembled and reacted to him with unmistakable sensual awareness. He’d waited patiently for such signs these months as they’d ridden together, as he’d gently urged her to open up to him.

  At first he’d worried that she might cling to her hope of Battenberg coming for her, but the missing letters did the trick. She no longer seemed to believe the Prussian loved her. He just hoped his agent had destroyed their correspondence as they’d discussed. Without the princess’s letters ever leaving London, and Battenberg’s missives intercepted before they could reach Beatrice, communication had been completely severed between the two. Moreover, his spies assured him that, whatever had transpired between the pair in Darmstadt, or later in London, their relationship hadn’t yet progressed to the bedchamber. Kisses and hand holding maybe, but Beatrice was still a virgin.

  Which meant she knew almost nothing about sex.

  Which meant he could use her naiveté to his advantage.

  And now? He’d wait and let today’s little encounter sink in. Let Beatrice think about touching hands, about how much she missed Henry’s kisses and how nice it would be to be kissed again—by someone conveniently close by, someone she’d learned to feel safe with, and who knew how to please a woman.

  In the meantime, there was this bloody job in the mews to get rid of. He needed to move up in the world, and fast, if he was to woo a princess, the task set for him by Wilhelm. That’s where he needed the help of the queen.

  “Letter for you.” It was one of the youngest pages at Buckingham.

  Gregory snatched it from him on seeing the familiar wheat-colored vellum Willy favored for their correspondence. No royal seal, of course, but distinctive enough to attract the curiosity of mischievous pages.

  Before the lad could move away, Gregory pinched him on the ear, hauling him back. He scowled down at the sod. “Haven’t been taking a peek, have you, boy?”

  “No, sir. Not a bit.”

  Gregory studied the simple blob of wax that had not yet come free.

  “I better not catch you tamperin’.”

  “Wouldn’t do that, sir.” The boy looked honestly frightened. “Got it up at the palace and brought it straight down to you, sir, as the butler directed. I wouldn’t be peekin’.”

  Gregory released his grip, giving the brat a rough shove meant to be remembered. “Better for your health if you don’t,” he called after the boy as he scurried off across the yard.

  He peeled open the flap, unfolded the page. Just four words, in German: IS THE DEED DONE?

  The emperor-to-be was growing impatient.

  Gregory cursed and stuffed the letter inside his pants waist. This was the third time Wilhelm had asked for a report, each request briefer and more urgent in tone. He knew from experience how dangerous his old school friend could become if kept waiting.

  But winning the heart and trust of a virgin princess required subtlety, perfect timing. Surely Wilhelm didn’t expect him to slam her down on the ground and take her! Still, it appeared he’d have to speed up the process, if he didn’t want to risk Wilhelm sending one of his brutal envoys to reinforce his message.

  32

  The next morning, still in her night shift, Beatrice looked up from her dressing table at the tap on her bedroom door. “Come,” she said, and watched in the mirror as her lady-in-waiting stepped through.

  Without turning, Beatrice studied the reflection of Marie’s profile in the mirror. Far too pale. The young woman’s face was strained with concern, her pretty hazel eyes distant. Beatrice spun around on the tufted silk stool to face the girl. As soon as Marie saw that she was being observed, she produced a porcelain smile.

  “Your Highness, shall I arrange your hair for you?”

  Beatrice drew a deep breath. “Not just now. Come and sit with me for a while, Marie.”

  The young French woman frowned. “But you must go to the queen. No?”

  “The queen can wait,” she said firmly.

  Marie frowned but pulled a chair from the closest corner and sat. “You wish to talk to me about something important? You look so sérieux.”

  “Yes, I fear it is serious.” Beatrice hesitated. She had the feeling that the answers to the questions she was about to ask might result in more, rather than less, turmoil in the royal household. But she could no longer avoid seeking the truth. “You know that I have continued to write to Henry Battenberg, though less often.”

  “Of course.”

  “I need you to be honest with me.” Her lady’s eyes widened, the skin across her cheek bones tightening so that it looked as if it might split. Beatrice continued, “Has my mother interfered with my mail?”

  “The queen? Do you mean, does she steal your letters?”

  “Exactly. Have you witnessed anything that would indicate she or someone under her orders has taken my letters or destroyed them?”

  Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes. “But it so very sad, to suspect your own mother.”

  Beatrice let out a dry laugh. “When things go wrong I always suspect my mother.” Even though she had asked her straight out and the queen had denied it. “Answer me, Marie, have you noticed anything that might indicate she is tampering with my correspondence?”

  “No. No, I’m sure that is not possible.” The woman shook her head violently. “Her majesty would never—”

  “Then I don’t know what to think.” Beatrice was near losing her mind
with frustration. “Is it possible she’s enlisted the help of Ponsonby or someone else she trusts in Court?” She looked steadily at the girl.

  Marie choked out a sob. “M’accusez-vous?”

  “No, of course I’m not accusing you. Just answer my question.”

  “No, Princess, the queen—she has given me no reason to think she has taken your or Herr Battenberg’s letters.”

  Beatrice studied the girl’s stricken face. Now came the real question: “Then if it’s not guilt over keeping a secret for the queen, why these dark moods of yours?”

  Marie sniffled and brushed away her tears. “I suppose I…” Her gaze flitted around the room, as if to capture words on the wing. “I am worried for you. I see your loneliness and sadness, and it is only right that I feel sad too as you are my—”

  “Oh, good grief.” Beatrice pushed to her feet and walked across the room. “Stop it! Just stop it this instant. Hasn’t this family seen enough fretting and mourning? It doesn’t suit you, Marie. Don’t let the queen do to you what she’s done to me.” She reached out and pulled the younger woman into her arms and held her there for a moment. “Please. Let’s not shut ourselves off forever in a shroud of black bombazine and tears.”

  “Oui, m’lady.” Marie gave her a brave smile as they separated. “I will try.”

  “Good. Now, I shall treat myself to a lovely ride in the park with Greg. He, at least, is always cheerful. Will you fetch my riding clothes? The plum outfit again, please.”

  Marie opened her mouth as if to say something more, blinked twice as if undecided, then turned toward the armoire.

  Henry greeted each man as he arrived at the first meeting of The Second Sons. He had chosen Paris as a central location, well-suited to most of the young men he hoped to attract to the cause, and the turnout was even better than he had hoped for. Young noblemen from across the Continent answered his call to arms. Now they crammed themselves into a spacious private room in the chic Restaurant Durand at Place de la Madeleine. The establishment was favored by esteemed writers, including Émile Zola, as well as prominent politicians, artists and journalists. Today Henry would introduce his daring rescue mission to Khartoum.