The Secret Prince

by Violet Haberdasher

  “Maureen!” A haughty voice shrilled, and Cook stiffened.

  “’S the mistress,” Cook hissed in warning.

  Henry edged around the curve of the stove, trying to be inconspicuous.

  “Honestly, Maureen,” the lady continued, descending a staircase in the far corner, all emerald skirts and disdain. “I have been ringing for the desserts for ages, and clearly there is a very good reason as to why I have had to disengage myself from my guests to inquire after them personally.”

  “Yes, mum,” Cook said with a curtsy. “They’ve only just arrived.”

  “Only just?” the lady carried on in disapproval, having reached the bottom of the stairs.

  Henry grimaced, because suddenly he knew whose house this was.

  Frankie’s dreadful grandmother Lady Augusta Winter stood, hands on her hips, daring her serving staff to account for the late delivery.

  “I’m sorry, madam,” Henry said, stepping out from the nook behind the stove. “But the roads are slicked with ice, and it’s snowing again—” Henry broke off with a sigh.

  Grandmother Winter squinted at him and frowned. “Mr. Grim,” she began, “might I ask what you’re doing in my kitchen?”

  “Delivering cakes, ma’am,” Henry said, feeling his cheeks color with embarrassment.

  “And why are you delivering cakes, Mr. Grim?”

  “A street gang accosted the delivery boy. I ran them off, but he was injured, and I—er, I volunteered to come in his place.” Henry looked up, cringing still.

  Grandmother Winter had always made him feel as though everything he said were entirely wrong, and no matter what he did, there was no redeeming himself for the fact that he had grown up in an orphanage.

  “How heroic of you,” she said coldly.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Henry bit his lip and then winced as the split began to bleed again.

  “Perhaps, since you have saved the day, you would like to join the party.”

  Henry tried not to let horror show on his face as the kitchen staff gawked in his direction. He was certain that the only reason Grandmother Winter wanted him to attend the party was so that he’d embarrass himself or so that she might do it for him.

  “Actually, I should be going.”

  “Nonsense. I insist,” Grandmother Winter said, extending her arm. “You shall escort me back upstairs.”

  It wasn’t a question. Henry gave a small bow and, with a sinking feeling, did as he was told.

  2

  LORD HAVELOCK’S WARNING

  I’m ever so glad you came to my grandmother’s soiree,” Frankie murmured, staring up from beneath her fluttering eyelashes at the object of her torment. “Yes, well,” the boy said gruffly, desperately looking for someone—anyone—who might come to his rescue. “My uncle brought me. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “And did he choose those darling spectacles for you as well?” Frankie asked, trying to hide her enormous grin behind the delicate china pattern of her teacup. “I couldn’t help but notice how very nicely they disguise the squintiness of your naturally beady eyes.”

  “And I can’t help but imagine spilling my cider all over that silk dress of yours.” Fergus Valmont’s glare was murderous from behind his new spectacles.

  “Please do,” Frankie said, giving Valmont a wide smile. “I detest this dress. It’s a perfectly horrid shade of pink, don’t you agree? ‘Puce.’ The word alone sounds like cat sick.”

  “I can think of other things that remind me of cat sick,” Valmont muttered.

  “How could you say such a thing?” Frankie fake gasped, her blue eyes mocking. “Really, Mr. Valmont, there’s no need to bring up your personal hygiene.”

  Valmont made a strangled noise and gripped his cider so hard that his knuckles turned white.

  It was too easy, having a go at Valmont at her grandmother’s party, where the rigid constraints of society forced him to simper and play chivalrous. Because as much as Valmont pretended to have changed toward the end of last term, as much as he had lain off tormenting Frankie and her friends, she didn’t believe for one moment that he actually had changed.

  Valmont’s uncle had made him promise to be nice, and although he wasn’t quite as horrible as he’d been in those first few weeks at the academy, Valmont had insulted Frankie and her friends one too many times for her to forgive and forget now. Henry could spend a hundred more evenings playing chess against Valmont in the first-year common room. It didn’t mean that Frankie had to like the smarmy little arse-toad. Unfortunately, it wasn’t nearly as fun as she’d hoped, tormenting Valmont at this wretched formal party.

  Frankie glanced around the second-floor parlor, a converted ballroom festooned with lavish holiday decorations. Dozens of impeccably dressed gentlemen and demure ladies were engaged in polite conversation. It was even more miserable than the Maiden Manor School for Young Ladies—well, until she’d decided to get kicked out. That part, at least, had been gratifying.

  Frankie wasn’t used to attending her grandmother’s holiday soirees. Before her father had become headmaster of Knightley Academy, they had avoided the city during the social season, preferring instead the shabby comfort of their dilapidated old manor house. But now, for the school’s sake, Lord Winter had to keep up appearances. Frankie spotted her father in the corner by a potted fern, deep in discussion with Lord Havelock, Valmont’s strict uncle, who taught military history at Knightley.

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Valmont muttered as a hush fell over the room and everyone tried very hard not to look at all interested in who had just arrived at the party.

  Frankie turned, not bothering to appear disinterested. Grandmother Winter stood imperiously in the doorway, and at her side, looking as though he desperately wished to be anywhere else, was Henry Grim. He wore his formal school jacket soaked from the snow, a wrinkled shirt spattered with blood, and a pair of old boots. His brown hair, just long enough to be impertinent, stuck damply to his forehead, shading his eyes.

  “How perfectly dashing,” Frankie overheard the mindless Miss Swann whisper to her giggly friend from a nearby settee. “Perhaps he has just saved the life of a poor street urchin in peril!”

  Frankie snorted, certain that Henry had done no such thing. And just because Henry was sort of dashing these days didn’t mean that Miss Swann had to giggle over him with her friend. They didn’t know the first thing about him!

  “Excuse me,” Frankie said, abandoning a relieved Valmont.

  Henry was still standing uncertainly at Grandmother Winter’s side when Frankie reached them.

  “Hello, Mr. Grim,” Frankie said, bobbing a demure curtsy for her grandmother’s sake.

  Henry bowed and, with the faintest hint of a smirk, ventured that he hoped Miss Winter was having a pleasant holiday.

  Frankie wondered how much more of this ridiculously stilted behavior she would have to endure.

  Finally, after an excruciatingly drawn-out silence, Grandmother Winter cleared her throat and announced that she had best return to her respected guests.

  After Grandmother Winter had gone, Frankie grinned. “You used the wrong bow,” she said. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m not a foreign prince.”

  “Did I really?” Henry asked, his forehead wrinkling in anguish.

  “No,” Frankie said, snorting. “I was joking. Come on.” Henry followed Frankie across the room, acutely aware of judgmental glances and conversations that went hastily silent as he passed. “By the way,” Frankie began as she led Henry to a window seat, “did you know that your lip is bleeding?”

  “Er, right,” Henry said. “I got punched in the face.”

  Frankie burst out laughing and then quickly glanced toward the partygoers, afraid of their reaction. But no one seemed to have noticed. “Sorry,” she said. “Go on. You were punched in the face, and then you arrived at my grandmother’s formal party—I’m assuming uninvited—to tell me about it?”

  “You’ve guessed it,” Henry said with mock
disappointment. “And now that my quest is fulfilled, I’ll be going.”

  Frankie shot him a look.

  Henry sighed, suddenly serious. “I was playing cards with Adam in the bookshop—,” he began.

  “And he punched you in the face? I wouldn’t think he could reach,” Frankie interrupted.

  It was true. Henry had fast become the tallest boy in his year, much to his horror. He was having to scrape to afford a new uniform for next term. “Do you want to hear what happened or don’t you?” he asked.

  “No, I do,” Frankie said contritely.

  And so Henry hastily explained about the boys down the alleyway, and Alex’s being injured, and how Grandmother Winter had discovered him half frozen, huddled against her kitchen stove. Frankie was shaking with laughter by the end of it.

  “It isn’t funny,” Henry said. And then he raked his fingers through his hair and admitted, “No, it is. You’re right.”

  “Why on earth did you go down that alleyway in the first place?” Frankie asked, still teasing.

  “The Code of Chivalry. Helping those in need and all that.”

  Frankie raised an eyebrow, not believing for one moment that Henry would be so quick to rush into unknown danger just because of the Code of Chivalry—the same code that Henry, Adam, and Rohan had broken countless times over the last school term.

  “Shall I remind you of the time we plastered Valmont’s textbooks shut?” Frankie asked. “Or, how about that time we snuck into the armory so Adam and I could fence? Or pretty much every time you left the window cracked so I could climb—”

  “All right,” Henry said. “It wasn’t just because I felt obligated to help. Satisfied?”

  “Sir Frederick?” Frankie guessed.

  Henry nodded. “I keep thinking he—No, it’s ridiculous.”

  “Keep thinking what?” Frankie asked.

  “That he’s out there, waiting for us. Wanting revenge. Brooding over what we—what I—cost him.”

  “So you went down that alleyway because you thought it could have been Sir Frederick waiting to jump out and get you?” Frankie asked, surprised at Henry’s stupidity. “For someone supposed to be so clever—”

  “Forget it,” Henry said angrily. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not as though I’m meaning to track him down.”

  “I know that. But you shouldn’t …”

  “Shouldn’t what? Worry? Never mind that there’s a war coming and no one will listen to us, that Adam and I were nearly expelled, that Rohan actually was expelled? Or never mind that there’s a madman who tormented us for half a school term who’s out there somewhere, probably wanting revenge? Or never mind that I took an oath to serve and protect, and just because I’m a first year, I should walk right past trouble I can stop and go memorize a textbook instead?”

  When Henry had finished, Frankie stared at him, wondering when her sweet, eager-to-please friend had become so frustrated. Of course she’d been caught up with quite enough of her own dramatics last term, what with Grandmother Winter suddenly and unexpectedly coming to stay, putting an end to Frankie’s freedom. And then she’d nearly been sent off to a foreign reformatory….

  “That’s not what I meant,” Frankie snapped. “You shouldn’t have to feel so responsible for everything all the time, is all.”

  Henry laughed hollowly. “I have to be responsible,” he admitted, more honestly than he had intended. “There’s no one else to do it for me.”

  “Am I interrupting?”

  A shadow fell over the window seat, and Henry looked up.

  Fergus Valmont glared down at them. His evening wear was expensive and elegant, his blond hair slicked back with obvious care, and his shoes polished to a glossy shine. Perched on his nose was a pair of thin spectacles, their oval lenses catching the light.

  “Nice glasses.” Henry smirked.

  “Shut up, Grim.” Valmont meant it as a threat, but it came out sounding like a whine.

  But then, at least Valmont was calling him Grim now, a vast improvement from the beginning of last term, when Valmont had called Henry and his roommates servant boy, Jewish boy, and Indian boy.

  “If you don’t want me to talk, then why did you come over here?” Henry asked.

  “To commend you on your stylish formal wear.” Valmont’s lip curled.

  “Look,” Henry said, “I didn’t mean to come here. I didn’t even know there was a party.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Valmont asked.

  “What happened to playing nice?” Henry returned.

  “Uncle gave the condition that I had to be nice to you and your friends only at school.”

  “That personality of yours is a real winner,” Frankie noted under her breath, but Henry overheard and tried not to laugh.

  “If you don’t feel like being nice, then I don’t feel like telling you why I’m here,” Henry said.

  “Oh, come on. It’s pathetic,” Valmont snarled. “We all know you’ve got some demeaning little job as a dishwasher, and Lady Winter brought you up here during your break so everyone could have a laugh.”

  “That’s not true, Valmont,” Henry said icily.

  “What’s not true?” Valmont challenged, his blue eyes boring into Henry’s brown ones. “That everyone’s having a laugh at your expense? Because they are.”

  Henry took Valmont’s challenge, rising to his feet and glaring down at his long-standing nemesis. Back at the Midsummer School they’d been the same height, but these days Valmont’s forehead barely reached Henry’s chin.

  “Is that why you failed the Knightley Exam, Valmont?” Henry asked. “Because you were too proud to admit that you needed glasses?”

  Valmont paled.

  Henry realized with sudden regret that he’d struck a nerve, that Valmont truly had needed glasses—the way he’d always sat in the front row of military history, as though it were a prized, rather than a dreaded, seat.

  “I’m sorry,” Henry mumbled, but the damage was done.

  With a sneer Valmont emptied his mug of cider down the front of Henry’s shirt. “Oops,” Valmont said, his voice filled with venom rather than apology. “How terribly clumsy of me. I seem to have ruined your best shirt.”

  Henry looked down at his dripping blood-spattered shirt. “Hallway. Now,” he spat, daring Valmont to refuse.

  With a reassuring smile in Frankie’s direction, Henry—with Valmont—marched past the throng of partygoers, past the curious stares and accusing whispers.

  “What is your problem?” Henry demanded as they filed through the doorway and onto the lavishly wallpapered landing. “I said I was sorry.”

  “You take everything,” Valmont accused. “Miss Swann hasn’t shut up about you ever since you arrived at the party. She thinks you’re so brave and handsome, upholding justice like a real police knight.”

  “That’s what I was doing, Valmont,” Henry snarled, and then gestured toward his shirt. “This isn’t my blood.”

  Valmont’s eyes widened in surprise, but then he shook his head, as though trying to dislodge Henry’s explanation. “Whatever, Grim. I just thought you should know that you’re out of your league.”

  “With what?” Henry asked in exasperation. “Fighting you? Because the boys this afternoon were a lot bigger than you are. Or are you talking about Miss Swann?”

  Valmont’s cheeks reddened. “I’ll thank you not to talk about Miss Swann.”

  “I don’t even know who she is! This is absurd.” Henry shook his head, baffled. What good did it do them to chase after girls when they weren’t yet fifteen, when they were stuck at Knightley and restricted from female visitors, with Frankie as the only girl around?

  “You take everything I want,” Valmont accused.

  It was the old grudge again, back to their days at the Midsummer School, when Henry had been the first boy in five years to pass the Knightley Exam. Of course, the reaction to that hadn’t exactly been the honor and glory that was supposed to come with bre
aking the so-called Midsummer Curse. Especially because Henry had been a serving boy at the time, and no one even knew that he could read, much less that Professor Stratford, the school’s English master, had been secretly tutoring Henry at night.

  “I don’t do it on purpose,” Henry returned. The two boys glared at each other, hands balled into fists, each daring the other to make the first move.

  Suddenly, without warning, Valmont’s hands shot out and shoved Henry squarely on the chest.

  Startled, Henry stumbled backward. The soles of his old boots were worn down, and he slipped on the polished floorboards. Henry desperately grabbed hold of the banister, his heart hammering. Less than a step behind him, the stairs angled sharply downward.

  “Trying to kill me?” Henry asked casually, fighting to stay calm.

  “I—er, I—,” Valmont stuttered, terrified at how far it had almost gone.

  “Forget it,” Henry said, throwing up his hands in disgust. “This ends now. I’m not going to threaten you with the horrors my friends and I could plan for you back at school, and I’m not going to warn you again. The next time you pick a fight with me over anything less than life or death, I’ll—”

  “Ah, Mr. Grim,” someone said icily from the doorway.

  Henry gulped. “Sir?”

  Lord Havelock glowered at Henry, somehow even more intimidating with the absence of his master’s gown and tweeds. “Perhaps you are not aware of how to behave in such polite company, so let me enlighten you.” Lord Havelock glared at Henry with his signature Havelook of Doom. “Come with me.”

  Henry stared at his head of year in horror. It was just his luck to get into trouble with a teacher during the winter holiday.

  “Yes, sir,” Henry whispered.

  Lord Havelock pushed past Henry, disappearing down the dark thin staircase. Henry, with a backward glance at the broadly grinning Valmont, followed.

  Lord Havelock whirled on Henry at the bottom of the stairs, his dark eyes hard and glittering. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”