Louis stood beside him as he waited for silence. He had promised to support his younger brother’s plans to round up volunteers, but made it clear he would not be among those sailing for Egypt or marching across desert sands to the interior of the Sudan. Louis’s young wife had extracted a promise that he would not risk his life so soon after their wedding and with a child on the way.
The first order of business, as always, was food and drink. Henry had ordered the staff to prepare tables with absinthe glasses and the traditional slotted spoons.
Seated before his own glass, Henry began the elaborate ritual by placing the spatula-spoon atop the rim of his glass, half-filled with the emerald green herbal liquor. He set a single sugar cube over the slots then drizzled cool water over the dissolving cube and into the glass, awakening and sweetening the exotic wormwood oils.
“And thus we set free the illusive green fairy,” he murmured as the clear green liquid slowly turned hazy then morphed into a mysterious opalescent cloud of liquor. At this moment, he always felt a bit like a wizard, conjuring a spell. Looking around the room, he saw others just as entranced by the ritual blending of the intoxicating drink, brought back by soldiers from exotic lands.
“Gentlemen,” he said, raising his glass when the transformation was complete, “we the second, third, and fourth sons of prestigious families, have at last found our calling.” The room settled around him as the few men still standing took their seats and raised glasses in a salute.
Then all was quiet. They waited for him to speak.
“I realize my message to you has provided few details of the mission I propose. It was little more than a call to arms, to those of us who find ourselves in similar circumstances. Not being first-born sons, we have little chance of inheriting our fathers’ titles or property. But that isn’t to say that we lack worth. And, in at least one way, we are fortunate to be free of the burden of being heirs.”
“Yes, all of that money weighs down my brother terribly!” a man standing at the back of the room shouted.
“Such a burden,” muttered another.
Laughter spilled through the room.
Henry smiled and nodded. “Yes, our elder siblings have the purse strings in hand. But we are free to adventure where we will. To find fame and our own fortunes.” He had their attention now, he could tell.
“Are you about to lead us on a new Crusade, Henry of Battenberg?” a count’s son from Milan asked, chuckling.
“Yes, Emilio, I am.” Now was the time for seriousness, and he paused to look around the room, his gaze suitably grave. No smile. Shoulders pulled back hard in his frock coat.
There was a buzz of interest and speculation around the room.
Henry set down his drink and held up his hand to silence them. “I propose an expedition, not of the religious nature, but of the humanitarian sort. Our brother in arms, General John Gordon, along with British soldiers and innocent civilians of assorted nationalities, are about to be slaughtered. And no one is doing a bloody thing about it. Not the queen of England, not the British Parliament or any of the governments whose people are trapped in Khartoum. The caliph will not grant his hostages safe passage through the Sudan and Egypt. Negotiations have failed, and these people will be murdered by the caliph’s soldiers unless someone does something, immediately.”
“We all know the dreadful situation, Henry,” a man said from a seat near the frosted glass doors. “It is lamentable, but if the English won’t step up and send their navy to squash the rebellion, what are we on the Continent to do?”
“What men of honor anywhere in the world would do for a comrade in distress—go to his aid. This—” Henry raised his voice as he brought his fist down on the table with a crash “—is the humane, the honorable thing to do. The civil war there has already killed thousands. Gordon, hero of the British Expeditions to China, went there as a goodwill gesture to help negotiate a peace between warring tribes. He got caught up in the middle of a nasty business. We, as the untitled sons of the civilized world’s finest families, can either stay at home—drinking, gambling and womanizing our lives away or—”
“Sounds good to me!” came a shout.
A flurry of appreciative laughter followed, but Henry didn’t let it rattle him or break his rhythm.
“—or we can go to Gordon’s rescue. I propose we sail for Egypt, however many of us are brave enough to form a relief party. We are brothers-in-arms, linked by the common cause of decency. We shall prove our manhood on the battlefield, for a just cause.”
Henry had no idea whether he would end up with a handful of volunteers, none at all, or a veritable army. But he’d had his say and, after a few moments of stunned silence in the room, he sat down and waited. If he succeeded in mustering a force and freeing Gordon, the queen would have to acknowledge him worthy of her daughter’s hand in marriage. That is, if he didn’t die on desert sands.
As the seconds ticked by, he began to think his speech had aroused not a single soul to action because no one had spoken or moved since he sat down. Perhaps the absinthe had been a mistake, making the men lethargic instead of inciting them to valor.
Then, as if it had been agreed upon ahead of time, first one man, then another, then a half dozen slowly rose to their feet. The liquor he’d swallowed belatedly burned in his stomach as his hopes plummeted. They were going to walk out on him. He closed his eyes in defeat and lowered his head.
Suddenly, a voice from the center of the room jerked him to life. “To arms! To arms, Second Sons!”
“To arms!” the room exploded with voices.
Henry opened his eyes to see nearly the entire room on its feet. By God, he had his army!
33
Beatrice walked down the steep flight of wooden steps built into the chalky cliffs. Below Osborne House stretched the pale beach of her childhood. The sea that day was a slick, gray-green, nearly as peaceful as a lake. The fishing fleet that left the island early each morning hadn’t yet returned. Spare nets draped over long poles above the high-tide mark, looking like laundry hung out to dry. Wooden-hulled skiffs and wherries in paintbox colors had been carried up and away from high-tide mark for repair or paint. She looked out across the lazy sea and breathed in the tangy salt that came off the spume as each wave ground noisily into the gravel on the beach.
The island had served as the royal family’s summer retreat throughout her childhood, a haven for the nine little royals to run as wild as they ever were allowed to run. One July, Albert decided his sons and daughters needed to learn how the daily work of their staff and servants was done, where the food on their table came from, and how the ordinary person provided for himself. Albert gave each of his offspring jobs. He built for them a Swiss cottage on the property that was to be their laboratory. He supervised them as they tended a vegetable garden, baked bread, polished silver, mopped floors, and laundered clothes.
To Beatrice, barely more than a baby, it had of course all been play. She was allowed only the simplest of tasks. But she remembered that summer as the happiest days of her life. Too soon after that, their beloved father had died. Then came the bleakest, most morbid months of mourning. How she had survived those years, when even the weakest smile or timid laugh was discouraged, she’d never know. She’d lost all hope.
Until Henry came along. In his arms, she’d have happily died. No vision of heaven could be sweeter.
How brief that bliss had been. She sat on a twisted chunk of driftwood and remembered all of it. Every precious moment.
After a while, feeling calmed by the sea’s soft music and silky breezes, she sighed and turned around to walk the long way up and over the dunes, back to the house. Above the rush and retreat of the waves, she heard voices and looked up.
A pair of figures stood silhouetted on the bluff high above her, against the cornflower-blue sky. A woman and a man—she was able to tell that much—but she could make out neither their words nor their features to identify them.
She watched in shock as the taller figure, in jacket and trousers, lurched forward and struck the woman with his open hand, hard. She staggered backward, nearly falling before catching herself against a bench.
Beatrice gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth to keep herself from screaming. Instinctively, she sensed that by revealing her presence she might put herself at risk.
She looked away for a moment, trying to slow her racing heart, trying to think what to do. By the time she reached Osborne’s gates and the guards on duty, the couple most likely would have moved on.
Indeed, when she did look back, the bluff was barren. And she had no idea in which direction the two might have gone—together or separately.
Beatrice’s first instinct was to avoid running into either of them. They’d obviously been having an argument. It had turned emotional, violent. She told herself she shouldn’t become involved in any way. The woman would be embarrassed and might not thank her for interfering; the man possibly still angry and unstable.
But wasn’t it her duty to see that no harm came to anyone on the family property? The pair might be strangers, townspeople. But, more likely, they were either local staff or members of her mother’s retinue, having traveled with them from London.
Beatrice hurriedly retraced her steps, climbing the cliff steps as quickly as she could. She rushed to the approximate place on the bluff where the two had stood. She looked around. No one in sight. Nothing moving. Gardens, cliff-side paths, even the beach below appeared deserted. Her stomach clenched. She felt suddenly queasy at the remoteness of the place. The salt air that had earlier seemed a breath of freshness, now came to her as a poisonous effluence. She covered her mouth and nose with her handkerchief and ran, fast as she could, back to the house.
The incident haunted her throughout the day. She considered asking around to find out who the quarrelers might be. But because of the glare of the sun in her eyes, and the distance at which she’d stood below in the coarse sand, she was unable to describe either of them. So what was the point? A man and a woman arguing. They could have been anyone. Because the queen kept her busy with correspondence throughout the rest of the day, she had little opportunity to question even Ponsonby.
By the time she returned to her bedchamber, Marie, with the help of two maids, had finished reorganizing and cleaning the room. They both changed from day dresses into silk tea gowns. While Marie arranged her hair in neat plaits, coiled around her head, Beatrice described the incident she’d witnessed.
“Have you heard of any serious disagreements among our ladies and gentlemen of the Court, or within the staff?” Beatrice asked, looking up from her seat at the dressing table.
For a second, the two women’s eyes met. Then Beatrice’s gaze settled a few inches lower, on a smudgy shadow on the French girl’s left cheek. Was it her imagination or did she see a heavier application of powder to that side of Marie’s face?
Marie snapped her head around as if suddenly aware she was being studied. “There you are, Your Highness. Done. Lovely.” Her forced smile was as rigid as a mannequin’s. “If I may, I’ll go lie down now. I have a little headache.”
“Wait.” Beatrice held out a hand. “What is wrong with your cheek?”
“Rien.” The woman’s nervous laugh failed to reassure. “It’s nothing.”
“That’s a bruise, isn’t it?”
“I—the trunk lid. I was careless and let it fall just as I was bending to take out a dress.”
Beatrice searched her lady’s wandering eyes, certain she was lying. Had it been Marie on the bluff, arguing with a man?
“Please, Princess…I don’t feel well.”
“No. What’s wrong? You’re not telling me something.”
Marie blinked. “I cannot. S’il vous plait. I am fine. You needn’t be concerned. A little accident is all it was.”
Beatrice stood up and looked at her levelly. “You and I will sit in this room, straight through tea, dinner, and the entire night, if necessary, until you tell me how you hurt yourself…or who hurt you.”
Marie’s panicked gaze flew in desperation around the room. At last she looked back at Beatrice. “Mon Dieu. You saw us arguing. ”
“I was standing on the beach. So that was you—the woman he struck?”
“Oui.” The poor girl’s cheeks burned with shame.
Beatrice swallowed back her anger. “It’s not you who should be embarrassed. Tell me who the monster was. I shall have him dismissed. No! Punished, severely.”
There was a quick flash of confusion in her lady’s pretty eyes, then a suggestion of another emotion that might have been relief. “He won’t bother me again,” Marie said softly. “He …I angered him. I’d made a promise to him but then changed my mind about keeping it. When I told him he went into the rage.”
“Who? Who is he?”Beatrice shook with her own brand of rage.
Marie drew a shuddering breath. “He’s gone now. Back to London,” she said quickly. “He won’t hurt me again, I’m sure.”
“How do you know? His behavior was outrageous. Who is to say what the vile man might do to you the next time you meet? Tell me who he is and I will protect you.”
Marie hesitated then seemed to give in. “The stable master, from Buckingham.”
“Mr. Jackson? But why would he strike you?”
“I know something about him, and I threatened to tell the queen.”
“I don’t understand. Explain.”
Having made her decision to unburden herself, Marie now spoke hurriedly, as if to be done with the conversation that so troubled her. “He lets people into the Royal Mews who shouldn’t be there. Outsiders. They pay him a fee. He calls it his Private Royal Tour.”
“Tourists?” Beatrice was astounded.
“Yes. Of course, he knows if he’s found out, it will mean his dismissal. I suppose I felt sorry for him, so I agreed to keep his secret. But now—mon dieu.” She stared at the floor. “If I hadn’t taunted him, hadn’t told him I’d go to the queen and reveal his illegal business, he wouldn’t have been so angry and lost his temper.”
Beatrice eyed the woman skeptically. Was she even now telling the truth? Something felt wrong about her story.
“I will find out if this is true. If it is, the queen will hear of it and your tormentor will be dismissed. Striking one of our ladies is unforgivable. But letting strangers inside palace grounds is a serious security risk to all of us.”
“I know,” Marie whispered meekly. She swiped at her tears with the sleeve of her dress. “May I please go now?”
Beatrice sighed. “Yes, get some rest. We’ll talk more about this later.”
“Thank you, Princess.”
Beatrice watched the woman step through the doorway that separated their two rooms. Some of the story made sense. A man who had taken advantage of his position in the queen’s employ had been found out. Well then, he certainly might threaten anyone who had the power to expose him. Now the stable master would most certainly be dismissed. Beatrice would insist upon it!
But why had Marie agreed to keep secret his shady business in the first place? She’d proven herself absolutely loyal to the royal family from her first day in Court. Had the fellow paid for her silence? Most likely. Had they been romantically involved? That seemed far less possible. Elton Jackson wasn’t educated or attractive, and must be at least twenty years older than Marie. To Beatrice’s knowledge, Marie had no lover. She’d confided in Beatrice that she’d been married once, but after her husband died she had no desire to remarry. She’d come to England in hopes of starting a new life. Since then she claimed to have turned away all serious suitors, saying she knew the queen preferred unmarried women around her, which was true. But what about the rest of her story?
Something was missing. Or twisted around to conceal a worse, more damning truth. She’d have to discover what Marie was hiding. And to do that she’d need help. Someone who was better than she at digging up secrets.<
br />
To her relief, it struck her that she already knew the perfect man for the job.
34
Louise had remained behind in London, unwilling to spend long days isolated with her mother and youngest sister on the Isle of Wight. True, if she’d made the trip, she could paint to her heart’s content en plein air; the coast was beautiful this time of year. But her current projects all involved sculpting, and she needed her studio in Kensington for that.
Her husband John Campbell, the 9th Duke of Argyll, known to the family as Lorne, had been appointed by the queen as the Governor General of Canada, and he was still in Ottawa. They often traveled independently, and sometimes lived separately for months at a time. The arrangement was as much his choice as hers. But the bitterness she’d once felt at having been tricked into a loveless marriage by her mother—that, at least, had been spent. She and Lorne were friends now, nothing more or less, although in the eyes of the law and the public they remained man and wife.
If she’d had a healthy marital relationship, she’d never have sought or accepted a special friendship with Stephen Byrne, known in certain circles as The Raven. As it was, the former agent for the queen’s Secret Service perfectly suited both her physical and emotional needs.
“Wonderful,” she said, smiling when she’d read Beatrice’s letter asking Louise to contact Stephen on her sister’s behalf. “I love having an excuse.”
Her lover had arrived in London three days earlier. They’d of course met, discreetly, his first day there. But she’d had her art exhibition to prepare for, and Stephen was on a mission connected to his most recent assignment—providing intelligence and protection for Mr. Grover Cleveland, who was running for the U.S. presidency. After the assassination of President Lincoln and then President Garfield, no one wanted to chance losing another of the country’s leaders. And so, she and Stephen had agreed to take care of business first then rendezvous in Bath for a leisurely spa vacation together at The Royal Crescent. She dashed off a note to him at his hotel.
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