Seducing the Princess

by Hart Perry, Mary

  But all Henry cared about—God forgive him—was that this was not his Beatrice. Wrong hair color. Wrong features. Wrong everything. Assuredly, thankfully, not her. He thought he might weep with gratitude.

  Beside him, Louise gasped. “Oh, no!”

  Henry spun to face her. “You know her?”

  “This is Marie Devereaux, my sister’s lady-in-waiting.”

  Byrne stepped forward, gripped her arm and whispered into her ear. “The effects of desiccation. They can be distorting, misleading.”

  “No. No, I’m absolutely sure it’s her. Poor dear. How could this have happened?”

  “Then what about Beatrice?” Henry burst out. “You don’t think the two were together when—”

  “I should hope not,” Byrne said, his eyes black fire. “Come. We’ll send someone for your bags, Louise. We need to tell the queen as well as Beatrice. And find out what’s happened at this bloody house to bring the poor girl to this state.”

  Before Byrne had finished speaking, Henry was racing for the only steps he saw, leading up from the beach. Louise and Byrne followed close behind. By the time he reached the top, he was winded from the long climb, bent over at the waist with a painful stitch in his side. He peered up at the gray-stone house with its many wings and outbuildings. He’d forgotten how immense the place was. No quaint beach house this.

  They rushed along the path and up to the gates where Louise ushered them swiftly past guards, through a garden and into the central vestibule. A butler met them. He seemed rattled by their unannounced appearance.

  “Your Highness,” he said, bowing, “we weren’t informed of your arrival. I apologize that you weren’t met properly.”

  “The storm,” Louise said, “there was no way to reach you. Don’t fret, Sampson. Listen, I need to see my sister immediately. And Mr. Byrne has some rather disturbing news for the queen as well.”

  The butler frowned. “The queen is resting in her room. I wouldn’t wish to disturb her. The storm kept everyone awake last night.”

  Henry turned to Stephen Byrne. “Maybe that can wait. But Beatrice—”

  “Yes. Bea is our priority.” Louise turned back to the butler. “My sister is in her room as well?”

  “No, ma’am. She has gone out on horseback with the others to search for Lady Marie. The girl has gone missing.”

  “I’m for the stables!” Stephen Byrne barked, disappearing out the door.

  Henry lunged at the servant. “Where?” he shouted. “Where exactly is the princess now?”

  The man fell back a step, looking bewildered. “I’m sorry, sir. She’s searching for Marie is all I know. I can’t say which way she went.”

  “But she wasn’t alone, was she?” Louise asked.

  “Certainly not, ma’am. She took one of the grooms with her.”

  Henry’s heartbeat tripped. Dare he ask? How much worse could this get? His gaze met Louise’s eyes—hers wide and flaring pale blue fire.

  “Which one?” she cried. “For God sakes, which groom went with Beatrice?”

  “The young Scot, ma’am—the man the queen brought with her from London.” The butler looked from her to Henry, obviously flustered by her alarm. “Mr. MacAlister. They left together, a little over an hour ago.”

  Henry cursed. “We need horses. Now!”

  “Come with me.” Louise gathered up her skirts and bolted for the door. “If any are left, Stephen will be throwing saddles on them by now.”

  45

  Beatrice bent low against her mount’s straining neck as she raced down the narrow riding path, twisting through the woods. She ducked beneath branches bent low or snapped off in the storm, praying the animal wouldn’t stumble on the uneven ground and go down. Ahead she could see one of the massive felled oaks they’d walked their horses around on their way into the woods. She heard the Scot’s horse behind her, its lungs heaving like huge bellows, its hooves striking the ground faster and faster, louder and louder as it gained on her.

  Gregory had stopped shouting promises not to hurt her. She hadn’t believed him anyway. He must know by now she’d never trust him—not as a friend, never as a lover.

  She steeled herself for the jump, locking her leg around the jumping pommel on the sidesaddle. Woman and horse sailed over the trunk. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw Gregory’s mount easily clear the log too.

  By the time she reached the edge of the forest and burst out into the open field, Beatrice could feel her horse’s fatigue through the twinges of his muscles and its labored breathing. Still, she urged her mount onward, knowing she would be safe only when she came within sight and hailing distance of her mother’s guards at Osborne’s gates. Only if they saw her before Gregory caught up with her.

  Even though her horse strained to obey the urgent signals of her crop—Run! Run! Run!—her peripheral vision revealed the Scot’s mount edging up alongside her. She switched her whip to her left hand. Gauging the approximate position of the man’s face, she let loose with a vicious swipe.

  A loud crack was followed by a cry of pain and cursing. She felt the crop torn out of her hand. But before Gregory could make use of it against her, his horse balked and broke stride, slowing down as if confused by the scuffle.

  She’d bought a little time, yes, but only seconds. Beatrice knew her own horse might drop from exhaustion any moment. Osborne was in sight now, thank God. But she was still too far away for the guards to see or hear her. Or, at least, to realize anything was wrong.

  And then it happened. The miracle she’d been praying for.

  A pair of riders appeared in the distance, off to her right and across the field. She shouted and waved her arm above her head. When they didn’t seem to see her, she turned her horse away from the house, toward them, and rode as she’d never ridden before.

  Byrne saw the rider first. “There!” he shouted. “Who is it? The fool—what is he trying to do, break his horse’s neck and his own as well?”

  Henry’s heart leapt as the familiar shape of the bold rider became evident. “It’s her! Bea.” How could Byrne not recognize her? But of course, he hadn’t seen her ride like this before—glorious, breathtakingly wild and free, racing across the poppy fields at Darmstadt.

  Henry’s pulse triple timed. He stood in his stirrups, unable to take his eyes off of her. The princess’s hair had flown loose from pins and braiding, and spread out behind her in lush, wind-torn waves. Her face, even at this distance, appeared flushed pink with exertion. She leaned forward in the saddle, strong and confident.

  The woman was nothing short of magnificent. His heart soared.

  But there was something different about this ride. A desperation he hadn’t seen before.

  “Another rider. Fifty feet behind,” the American called out. “Is it MacAlister?”

  “Can only be,” Henry ground out between clenched teeth. He kicked his horse into a gallop, aiming for a point of interception with Beatrice.

  The groom must have been so intent upon catching up with the princess, he seemed at first unaware of the other riders’ approach. When he finally looked their way, Henry saw a flare of vicious anger in the man’s eyes, then the fear came. He’d been closing fast on Beatrice’s laboring horse. But now, seeing he had witnesses, he tugged at his reins and veered away from her.

  “He’s making a run for it!” Henry shouted.

  “You see to Beatrice. I’ll manage the joker.” Byrne tugged his Stetson down over his forehead and, leather duster flapping, took off after the man.

  As soon as Beatrice saw that MacAlister had given up chasing her, she slowed her horse and brought it, wheezing and snuffling, to a stop in the middle of the field. By the time Henry reached her, she was slumped forward over her mount’s neck. Milky froth dribbled from the animal’s mouth. Its eyes rolled in lingering panic and confusion.

  He spoke gently to the animal so as not to spook it as he dismounted, but all of his attention was on Be
a. “Darling, are you all right?” He reached up and lifted her from her saddle, only then remembering she always rode sidesaddle. How she’d stayed on through that insane ride seemed nothing short of a miracle.

  “Bea?”

  She turned in his arms at the sound of her name.

  “Henry!” Tears came to her eyes. “Oh, I’m so very embarrassed that you should see me in this state.”

  He couldn’t help laughing at that. “My darling, are you hurt?” He set her feet on the ground and pulled her tenderly into his arms. “Did he—”

  “No, I’m fine. Truly.” She smiled up at him. “I’m so glad you’re here. Even if you no longer want me as your wife, I’ll be forever grateful that you’ve—”

  “Hush,” he said. “Stop talking nonsense. I shall never stop wanting you—as wife, as companion, as my everything.”

  Her eyes widened, and he thought he saw tears shimmer behind her lashes. He would have said, and done, much more, but then Stephen Byrne appeared, leading two horses behind him by the reins, and walking Gregory MacAlister ahead of him, through the tall grass.

  Henry didn’t even think about what he was doing. He released Beatrice, stepped forward and bashed the man in the face with his fist, bringing an immediate spurt of blood from the Scot’s nose.

  “You fiend! I will kill you here and now.”

  After another minute or two, Beatrice had recovered her breath and cleared her head enough to think, I really should stop him. Truly, violence had never excited her. And yet…she took wicked pleasure in seeing Gregory pummeled by Henry Battenberg and brought, literally, to his knees.

  She looked at Stephen Byrne but he’d turned his back on the pair to study the sky, as if considering the improving weather. He allowed Henry ample time to punish the Scot and, when Henry had got Gregory down on the ground, pleading for mercy between kicks and punches, the American casually let the horses’ reins fall and inserted himself between the two men.

  Byrne braced a hand against Henry’s heaving chest. “Enough. The rogue will be well punished by the queen’s magistrates.”

  “I didn’t. Do. Anything!” Gregory gasped, jabbing an accusing finger toward Beatrice. “She…she asked me…begged me. Came on to me, a cat in heat!”

  “Shut up,” Byrne said. “I’m not talking about your attacking the Princess. You have other crimes to answer to, sir.”

  Beatrice stared at Stephen Bryne. What was he talking about?

  Henry rubbed his raw knuckles then slipped an arm around her waist. “Dear heart, I’ll explain everything back at the house.”

  46

  Days after Beatrice learned of Gregory MacAlister’s probable murder of two innocent women, all to pave his way toward marrying into Victoria’s family, Beatrice still felt on edge and haunted by everything that had happened. How could she have trusted Gregory, a stranger, charming though he was, and so easily lost faith in Henry? Victoria herself seemed so unsettled by the Scot’s treachery that raising the question of marriage, again, seemed imprudent.

  “Never you mind,” Henry assured Beatrice. “I’ll wait until the time is right. For as long as it takes.” At least the queen hadn’t objected to Henry Battenberg’s presence in England. She even asked if he would stay with them at Osborne House, then asked to hear about his ill-fated rescue mission to the Sudan.

  But would there ever be a right time to petition the queen, so long as the very mention of marriage triggered her mother’s need to revisit her tragic losses? Beatrice’s only comfort was to imagine her someday wedding day—a bittersweet fantasy. It saddened her to know Marie wouldn’t be there to dress her for the most blessed day of her life. Perhaps only the death of her own mother—something she truly did not wish for—would permit her to marry Henry.

  Meanwhile, questions remained unanswered about Gregory MacAlister’s motives for forcing himself on her when she didn’t succumb to his advances. The Court’s gossipmongers assumed he’d simply become infatuated with her to the extreme. But Stephen Byrne’s investigations indicated a conspiracy of sorts. Something to do with his old school chum, Prince Wilhelm—Beatrice’s unstable royal nephew.

  Of course, Gregory had admitted to nothing. But, the more Beatrice thought about all that had happened, the more she suspected the Scot really had been involved in both his mistress’s and Marie’s deaths. It broke her heart that Marie’s little daughter was now without a mother and, presumably, without financial support. She was determined to find the girl and make sure she was well cared for. No return address appeared on the letter she’d found in Marie’s Bible. But she asked Stephen Byrne, after he delivered Gregory in shackles to Scotland Yard, to continue on to Paris and search for the child.

  Beatrice prayed the British court would make certain Gregory never again walked the streets of London a free man.

  Now, sitting in her bed chamber, she closed her eyes for a moment to rally her spirits. How blind she’d been to his ruse. How little faith she’d had in Henry and their love, to let that wicked man come between them and cause such misery. If any good had come out of the experience, it was that she was a wiser, more worldly woman. Happier, saner days must lie ahead.

  “Jenkins?” she called out to the maid who had stepped in to fill Marie’s shoes for as long as they were on the Isle of Wight. Clara Jenkins was a local girl, whom Beatrice had chosen for her sweet and simple manner. “Will you bring me my pearls? They’re in the smaller of my trunks, in a quilted jewelry case of their own.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” The girl made a nervous curtsey, then scurried away toward the niche where the luggage was stored. Five minutes later, she poked her head around the corner, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know what I’m looking for. A quilt you said?”

  Beatrice took pity on her. “Never mind. I’ll show you then you’ll know next time.”

  It took her less than two minutes to locate the satin pouch that protected the precious pearl choker with the diamond clasp—a gift from her mother on her sixteenth birthday. No doubt it had last been put away by Marie. But when Beatrice untied the delicate ribbons that secured the outer flap, a folded sheet of paper and two envelopes fell onto her dressing table.

  Beatrice frowned at the stationary’s familiarity—one letter from her own supply of hand-made paper, the other with Henry’s family crest pressed into the unbroken wax seal.

  She dismissed the girl to give herself privacy then, with trembling fingers, unfolded the sheet of paper that accompanied the two envelopes. The writing was in Marie’s hand:

  For Her Royal Highness, Princess Beatrice,

  If you have found this and I am not with you to explain why these letters are in your hands, then it is because I am no longer able to confess in person my deep sorrow for having deceived you. You see, I have a little girl, and elle est très belle and most precious to me. But because she is a child of shame, I could not admit to you—and never to the queen, of course—that I had been so wicked as to conceive a baby out of wedlock.

  But now this shame has been doubled by my attempts to keep my secret. I helped Gregory MacAlister play a very mean trick on you. At least he said, in the beginning, that it was a harmless joke, taking a few letters—yours to Henry, and his to you. Then he claimed it was for your own good—to prevent you from falling in love with a man the queen would never let you marry. He said it would break your heart. I believed him. How could I have known what a terrible man he was?

  Later, when he told me to destroy all of the correspondence entrée vous, letting you neither send yours nor see Henry’s, I told Monsieur MacAlister I could not continue to deceive you. But he’d learned my secret, and he threatened to tell the queen about my child. His silence could be bought only by my doing as he commanded. For months I was so terrified that I did what he asked. But my guilt has become too painful to carry any longer. And so I will go to Gregory tonight and tell him I will no longer do as he says. I am
convinced he is evil and a very dangerous man. I expect I may have paid the ultimate price, if you are reading this.

  I know I do not deserve your sympathy or help. But I ask of you two favors. Please, protect yourself and your family by insisting upon his dismissal. Secondly, I beg you to consider rewarding my earlier, faithful years by seeing to my daughter’s welfare, in whatever way you think is best. I pray you won’t allow her to be cast, motherless, into the streets of Paris.

  My heart goes out to you, Your Highness and ma cher ami. I beg your forgiveness. I would have given my life for you. Perhaps I already have.

  My daughter’s name is Sophie. She lives with her nurse in Paris at the address at the bottom of this letter. Bless you for understanding that all I’ve done—whether resulting in good or ill—has been out of love.

  Fondly,

  Marie

  Beatrice looked up from the letter, now lying in her lap, limp and moist with her tears. Poor, poor girl. Byrne was already, or soon would be, in Paris. She would get word to him of the child’s address. It pained her that, even with Marie’s incriminating letter to show the magistrates in London, there was still no actual proof that Gregory had murdered Marie, or his mistress, although Beatrice knew in her heart he had done it. What if they dismissed the murder cases?

  He’d still face charges of assault against a royal. And she wouldn’t back down from her statements on that count, even if she had to appear in court herself and reveal every single embarrassing detail. If found guilty of attempted rape, his punishment would be swift and harsh. Two or more years of imprisonment at hard labor. But was that enough?

  Her heart hardened.

  One way or another—in payment for Marie, and for the misery he’d caused others—she’d see that justice was done.