47
Gregory found it amusing, how easily he’d escaped his jailers after the American agent left him at Scotland Yard.
The constables had been shifting him from the magistrate’s hearing, across the city, to a cell. The entire time he’d been in their custody that day, he’d played the beaten, humbled prisoner. The lingering purple and green bruises on his face and torn-up knuckles from his scuffle with Battenberg helped. His slumped posture, silence, and attitude of misery gave him a docile appearance. When one of his two guards went off for a piss, Gregory slammed his cuffed fists onto the bridge of the other man’s nose, stunning the copper just long enough for Gregory to hobble off and lose himself in Whitehall’s labyrinth of gritty warrens.
He stole clothes to replace those that marked him as a prisoner. Ridding himself of the leg and wrist shackles had been more of a challenge. Pick a few pockets; bribe a smithy to saw them off. Foraging for food and money as he went, he made his way across the English Channel to Germany. To the one place he felt safe. The one place he could always count on for shelter. With Wilhelm.
“Well, now you look more presentable,” the Crown Prince said cheerfully when Gregory had stripped off his traveling clothes, washed away the grime and changed into trousers and shirt leant to him by one of the prince’s retainers.
“It wasn’t a pleasant journey, let me tell you.” Gregory said with a tired sigh. “I think I’ll sleep for a week.” He took a seat at the mammoth banquet table, at the end of which Wilhelm sat. It was bare except for the single place setting in front of Wilhelm. The food, whatever it was, smelled delicious. Sauerbraten perhaps. His mouth watered. “Thank you for the clothes. And for letting me come here.”
Wilhelm used his good arm to gesture expansively while cradling the deformed appendage against his chest. “What else could I do?”
“Well, turn me away for one.” Gregory gave a tight laugh. “After all, I failed to accomplish our mission. But—” he added hastily in his own defense, “—I don’t expect any man capable of melting that bitch’s heart.”
“Dear Aunt Beatrice? Yes, I expect she was a challenge. Except…Henry Battenberg seems to have found a way.”
Gregory grunted. “He’ll be sorry when he discovers nothing but a cold fish in his bed!”
Wilhelm nodded but was uncharacteristically silent. The prince had dismissed his butler and servants, he explained, so that they could speak in private. He poured wine into a second chalice and held it out to Gregory. “You must be thirsty. Such a long, difficult trip.”
Gregory smiled, relieved. He’d worried, apparently unnecessarily, that the prince would be furious with him. Gregory drank deeply, standing up to circle the room while taking in the paintings on the walls—a Rembrandt, a van Dyck, a magnificent Richter landscape. He felt the prince studying him, as if considering what errand he might next assign his old school chum. But Gregory had already decided there would be no more schemes for him. He’d find a rich widow to marry. Settle down. Live the life of a gentleman. Not as grandly as he’d imagined with Beatrice, but he would have enough to be comfortable. He smiled. If she is rich enough.
When Gregory had drunk down half of the wine, Wilhelm roused himself from his private thoughts. “The thing is—I said to myself, Gregory MacAlister is a cherished old friend. We’ve been through a lot together. We know each other’s minds so well. And he understands the importance of power, of control…and the critical nature of my political goals.”
“I do.” Gregory toasted the prince and took another mouthful of the very fine wine, as rich and dark red as congealing blood, with a slightly unusual, but pleasant, nuttiness to the grapes. He’d have to ask the prince for a few bottles to take to his room. He’d undoubtedly be staying in the castle until he worked out other accommodations.
Wilhelm was still speaking in a tutorial tone, as if he were one of their professors from the old days. “…and so you will comprehend that, although I do appreciate your efforts on my behalf, I cannot condone your methods. The aggressiveness with which you pursued my aunt—” He shook his head in disapproval.
Gregory turned his back on the Richter’s lush trees and stared at his benefactor. “But when I wrote to you and reported that a certain amount of force might be required—”
“I assumed you would be far more subtle in your seduction.”
“Subtle? With that cow? You said yourself, that the ends justified the means and I should do whatever I thought was—”
“Within reason, dear friend. Within reason.” When the prince’s eyes lifted from his cup to focus on Gregory’s face, they were flint, conveying no more emotion than that rock. “Things got out of hand. Didn’t they?”
“There were unexpected obstacles.”
Wilhelm put down his cup and rubbed his withered arm with his good hand. “You murdered two women to get to my aunt. Then you would have raped her in the woods, had you not been stopped by my cousin, Battenberg.”
Gregory narrowed his eyes at his friend. He had told the prince nothing about his mistress’s death nor about the lady-in-waiting’s plunge, and as little as possible about what had happened at Osborne House. “How did you know about—”
Wilhelm held up a hand. “A letter arrived two days before you dragged yourself into my father’s palace. From Beatrice. It’s my guess she heard of your escape from someone in London and, having learned that you and I were involved in past adventures, projected your coming here to hide out from British authorities.”
Gregory laughed. “Well, so what? How can it matter whether or not the bitch knows where I am?”
“It matters.” The prince settled a gaze over him that felt like a sheet of ice.
Gregory gulped down another half of the remaining wine from his cup. His hand shaking, he refilled it from the carafe on the table.
The prince continued. “That you are here at all is an indication of our former friendship.” Former? Gregory thought. “The worst of it is—someone might discover you were sent by me, and assume I ordered you to attack my aunt. God forbid my grandmother should believe I had anything to do with your outrageous behavior.”
“But y-y-you—” Gregory stammered to silence. What the hell was Willy saying? Would he cast him out of Germany? Fine, then he’d return to Scotland and disappear into the Highlands, assume a new name, start a new life. “I don’t see how anyone can find out or, even less likely, prove you were involved. I’ll certainly never tell.”
“No, of course not. Unless you are drunk or bragging to one of your whores, or—”
“Never!” Gregory shook his head violently. This was wrong, all wrong. He’d had to be creative. How could the prince possibly fault him for carrying out his orders?
Wilhelm stared thoughtfully into his wine. “The problem is—even if you never talk about our plan, even if neither of us ever breathes a word of it, someone still might discover my involvement. That American my Aunt Louise runs with, he’s very clever. And then there’s Bea herself—surprisingly savvy, as it turns out. Her letter was most troubling. I almost think she knows all of it. How? What connection can she have theorized between the death of those two women, herself, a Scottish stable hand…and me?” The prince blinked at him with an impossibly innocent expression. “What did you let slip, friend?”
“I said nothing to her! Oh, my God, Willy—I said nothing to implicate you!” The sound of his own voice, unnaturally high-pitched, echoed back to him off the castle’s stone walls. He sounded like a stranger, taunting him with his own words. And the wine—the goddamn wine!—was making him thirstier rather than soothing his parched throat. He looked around for ale, water, anything liquid. Nothing. In desperation, he poured himself more wine and gulped it down between hasty words.
“Stupid pig,” he muttered. “Foolish, ignorant old maid. What does she know?”
Wilhelm observed him over the rim of his cup. “Careful, my friend. Bea is, after all, family. I may hate Victoria and f
ind all things English disgusting. But Beatrice is blood. She’s always been kind to me. And in her letter, she has asked a favor of me that I feel curiously to my benefit.”
“Really,” Gregory scoffed, stumbling toward the prince, one hand on the table’s edge to steady himself. “What does she want? Your appearance at her wedding—if it ever takes place?” He laughed.
“She asked that if you showed up here, I might administer fair punishment for your crimes.”
Gregory stared at him, stunned speechless. So it was Beatrice who had revealed all to Willy. Willy the Emperor-to-be. Willy, whose appetite for power had yet to be satisfied and—if Gregory’s sense of the man was accurate—would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.
“It seems,” Wilhelm said, “Bea was most grievously hurt by the loss of her lady-in-waiting. She never met your mistress but feels remorse for what you did to the woman. Blames herself, I expect, since it was your need to divest yourself of your lover in order to get to her, the queen’s daughter. And, if I interpret the tone of her letter correctly, she was rather offended by your fumbling attempts to deflower her.” Wilhelm gave him a smug smile.
Gregory closed his eyes. Opened them again. He felt so very dizzy. His stomach tumbled and twisted. The wine. Red wine. Bloody German wine. More potent than I’m used to. Drank it too fast. It had gone to his head.
“Punish-sh-sh-ment?” he slurred. “I should be rewarded for what…for what I went through for you.” He thumped his chest with a fist. “My own wo-woman. Sacrificed her for your stupid plot. I raked horse shit, for God’s sake! I suffered the disdain of those royal snobs and—” “But you failed. Didn’t you?”
“No one could have, could have—” Gregory waved a fist in the air, grasping for words that wouldn’t come to him. Why did he drink so fast? He needed his wits about him now, and they were floating far above his head.
Wilhelm said, “Let me finish. There isn’t much time now.”
Time for what? Gregory thought.
“My grandmother is already wary of me. If Victoria ever came to believe that I put you up to molesting her precious Baby, there would be hell to pay. She would stop at nothing to thwart my every venture. I cannot afford to have Beatrice whispering in her ear, suggesting she suspects me of sending my agents to do harm to her and her Court.”
Gregory pressed his free hand to his head. “Sit,” he mumbled. “Got…to…sit.” The room spun and spun—a living kaleidoscope of images and hues—tapestries, dark oak furniture, paintings, coats-of-arms, Willy’s frowning face.
Then his fingers went numb. He heard breaking glass, felt cool wine splatter his ankle. Suddenly, he was down on the floor, on hands and knees. The pain in his gut—horrible. Panting for breath that didn’t reach his lungs.
“Poi-son?” he snarled. “You…you fucking poisoned me!”
Silence.
When Gregory managed to lift the leaden weight of his head, Wilhelm hadn’t moved from his chair. The prince shrugged. “My dear friend, I no longer can afford you.”
“But—”
“My crown. I must protect it.”
48
“Courage, my dear,” Henry whispered in Beatrice’s ear as he took her hand and led her into the ivory-and-gold drawing room that overlooked the gardens at Osborne House.
Beatrice looked up at him and dared a tremulous smile. Never had Henry looked more dashing. In his regimental colors, medals ablaze on his chest, epaulets of gold fringe and polished black leather boots, he was the image of a nobleman of valor and distinction.
They had chosen to wait two weeks after his arrival at the Isle of Wight, and Gregory’s ignominious departure, before approaching Victoria again in the hope she might bless their union. The longer Henry remained in the household, a source of pleasant male companionship and security, the more comfortable the queen would become with him. Perhaps she’d even, in her advanced years and selective memory, forget that she’d kicked him out of England? In fact, neither she nor anyone else had mentioned his banishment.
Beatrice turned to Henry and dug in her heels to stop their progress across the room, toward where her mother sat. “What if she still won’t—”
“Hush, my darling. Let’s not think the worst until it happens.”
“Happens again. Like before. What if she still won’t give her blessing, after all you’ve done to win her over, after saving me from that monster of a man?”
“You did a fairly impressive job of saving yourself before I arrived.” He laughed, his vivid blue eyes alive. “I’ll never forget the sight of you galloping across that meadow like a steeplechase jockey. What a magnificent sight!” He touched his lips to hers, sweetly. “We must be strong now, my love. Just as strong as you were then.”
Beatrice’s stomach clenched. Her heart stuttered like a steam engine out of fuel as she considered facing her mother.
This time, they had asked for a formal audience. “No surprises,” Henry had said. But Beatrice feared this might put them to a disadvantage. Victoria would know why they were coming to her. She would have had time to prepare her objections, arguments, denials, and perhaps even a royal declaration that Henry leave Osborne, and perhaps all of England. Forever. There would then be nothing they could do to convince her—and Beatrice would be forced to choose between the two people she loved best in all the world.
It didn’t seem fair. Not at all.
Beatrice closed her eyes, drew a shaky breath, then stepped forward when she felt Henry fold her hand over his arm and lead her across the room to face the queen.
Victoria sat between two of her ladies, all three of them intent upon their needlework. The two attendants looked up briefly, then at each other when they saw Beatrice. No smiles. No greetings, except for a simple murmured, “Your Highness.” Then the ladies swept up their muslin, hoops, needles and colored threads, and drifted silently from the room.
Leaving Beatrice and Henry alone.
With the queen.
Henry looked at Beatrice. His eyes said, “Go ahead.”
Beatrice took a deep breath. But the words—the heartfelt, beautiful words she’s rehearsed to win her mother’s approval—she swallowed them down, unable to force a syllable past her lips. Instead, a familiar standby exploded from her lips, “Are you well, Mama?”
Victoria’s gaze remained lowered to her stitchery, her head of white hair a cloud hovering over her. “As well as I ever am, plagued by age and gout.”
Beatrice wet her lips. “May we join you for a while before dinner?”
“Of course.” Still not so much as a glance their way. Beatrice exchanged worried looks with Henry, wondering if her mother was even aware that he was in the room.
Henry settled Beatrice on the divan across from her mother, then perched beside her, putting a respectable space between them. Even so, she could feel the heat of his body radiating toward her, reminding her that this is what she wanted. Him. I want him!
They sat, all three, in silence. The only sound was the heavy tick-tock-tock of the Austrian clock on the marble mantle and the ka-chunk from the fireplace as a log fell into the embers, sending up a roar of sparks.
Beatrice reached out and clasped Henry’s hand so tightly his fingers turned white. She loosened her grip and cleared her throat. “Mama, I, that is we would like—”
“Herr Battenberg,” the queen interrupted, “I presume it is your doing that this audience has been requested?”
Beatrice rolled her eyes. Oh, no, this doesn’t sound good.
“It is, Your Majesty.” Henry’s voice sounded strong, determined. Beatrice smiled. Dear man.
“Then say your piece, sir.”
Henry released Beatrice’s hand and shot to his feet. Then, changing his mind, sat again, as though deciding he shouldn’t put himself above the little queen.
“Your Royal Majesty, I come seeking your grace and approval. I have acted on behalf of your daughter to protect her, more than o
nce. I will continue to make her safety and happiness my priority.” He cleared his throat then continued. “I remind Your Majesty of my attempt, albeit futile, to rescue General Gordon from the Sudan. I am at your service still, as I’ve ever been and ever will be. I feel I deserve your trust.”
Beatrice sighed. So far nothing at all about a wedding. What did Henry think he was doing? Perhaps he had decided to avoid the word marriage entirely, since it always sent her mother into paroxysms of fury? But how could he ask for her hand without mentioning taking her as his bride? She suddenly felt ill.
Victoria laid down her needlework on the cushion beside her and looked across at Henry, her sharp eyes as black as the tiny jet buttons up the front of her dress. “Come here, my boy.” She patted the seat on her other side.
Looking as confused as Beatrice felt, Henry stood and strode across the six feet between the two divans and sat gingerly on the edge of a cushion beside the queen, careful not to touch even as much as a single ruffle of her black silk mourning dress.
“Now, that’s better,” Victoria said. “I can see your face. And your eyes. The mirror of the soul, or so they say.” She gave him a coy smile. “What have you in mind, sir?”
Oh lord, Beatrice thought. She wished she could run from the room and not have to watch as her mother crushed their hopes.
“I, well,” Henry began again, “I suppose you have already guessed my intent. It has not changed since I first proposed to engage myself to your beautiful daughter. I love her and wish to be a good husband to her. To Beatrice.”
“I see.”
“And although Your Majesty and I may not have connected cheerfully on my first mention of this intent, I hope that my actions since then have softened your heart toward me and won your trust.”
“So, in your rambling way, you are asking for my Baby’s hand in marriage. Is that so?”
“I, well, yes I am, Your Majesty.”
Seducing the Princess Page 31
