“Yes, I am,” the prince replied.
“Good. That saves a great deal of explaining. Saint-Germain read Dr. Ramsay’s letter before writing his second set of instructions to you. He suggests that you read it first.”
With a distracted nod the prince broke the seal on Ramsay’s letter and opened it, gesturing vaguely toward one of the chairs by the fireplace.
“Thank you, Mr. Carmichael, I appreciate your candor. Please, sit down. ’Tis clear I should read all of these before we continue our discussion.”
A soft knock preceded the entrance of a servant with a tray bearing two silver goblets and a frosty silver pitcher.
“Ah, thank you, Michel,” the prince said as the servant offered Justin one of the goblets. “In Spain they call this drink sangria, Mr. Carmichael. It is a mixture of fruit juices and good red wine. I find it very refreshing after heavy exercise, especially in weather like this. My father keeps ice all through the summer in an icehouse above an underground spring.” He lifted his own goblet. “Deoch slainte an Righ.”
The old Gaelic toast to the King’s health surprised Justin, but a mere lifting of his glass seemed adequate response, for the prince had already turned his attention to the letters, only sipping at his wine distractedly. Moving into the window bay, where the light was better, the prince paced while he read first Ramsay’s letter and then the ones from Saint-Germain. Occasionally he paused to set down his wine and mop his face and neck with his towel. He glanced up once or twice as he read, but Justin could detect no change in his expression beyond thoughtful speculation. When, at last, he had finished, he stood gazing out at the gardens for a very long time, the letters all but forgotten in one hand, before turning back to his guest.
“The Master’s instructions are most interesting,” he said as Justin rose expectantly. “No, please sit down, my friend.” The prince waved Justin back to his seat as he, too, settled onto a chair opposite Justin, tossing the letters onto a table and taking up the pitcher the servant had left. “Saint-Germain says that I may be utterly candid with you.”
Justin made the prince a formal little inclination of his head. “You may rely upon my discretion, sir.”
“Yes, I am certain that I may.” The prince gave him a droll smile as he leaned across to refill first Justin’s goblet and then his own.
“First of all, then, may I suggest that we dispense with formality between us? Saint-Germain has suggested that I travel under the alias of Dr. Lucien Rohan. The Bostonians may know me as Count Rohan. I shall assume another surname later on, but that, too, will be a doctor. Such being the case, it might be prudent if you began immediately to think of me as a docteur and not as a prince. A slip of the tongue before the wrong people could be dangerous for both of us.”
Justin gave a tentative nod, endeavoring to make the necessary change of mental gears. “Very well, s—” He caught himself before he actually said “sir” and allowed himself a faintly sheepish grin. “Fortunately, as a physician several years my senior, you could be entitled to an occasional ‘sir,’ I believe—which ought to cover most any inadvertent slip I might make.” He cocked his head thoughtfully. “Are you a doctor?”
The prince smiled. “Let us say that I have sufficient medical training to pass for one—which is fortunate, since Saint-Germain intends that I should offer my services as a doctor to the British once I have met with your Bostonians.”
Justin gaped. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Ah! You are calling me ‘sir’ again! You must pay attention! I have leave to tell you more, and shall, but tales of dark doings are best told after dark, preferably over a fine meal. You shall dine with me this evening, of course.”
At Justin’s bewildered nod of agreement, the prince went on.
“I know. Saint-Germain has said to call him Francis, and that is as inconceivable for me as it is for you. But I insist that you call me Lucien. I am a very small prince.”
The last was said in such a tiny, wistful voice that Justin found himself laughing out loud.
“There, you see?” the prince said. “You do have permission to relax. It is essential, if we are to work together closely. And I hope you will not mind if I call you Justin. The name comes from ‘justice,’ does it not?”
Justin recovered enough to venture a quick grin. “It does.”
“Ah, justice. It is what we all seek, both for our royal Charles and for the people of the American colonies—and perhaps for the two of them together.” The prince snorted. “Not that you will ever obtain justice from the Hanoverian usurper in London. Are you aware that he has rejected the so-called Olive Branch petition recently offered by your Congress and now considers the American colonies to be in open rebellion?”
The news was like a dash of cold water in Justin’s face, and he felt a vague, sickly sensation in the pit of his stomach as he shook his head.
“Ah, yes,” the prince went on. “The London government is an evil force to be reckoned with.” He cocked his head at Justin and grinned. “Shall I tell you what my father is doing right now, to confound the enemy?”
“Prince—Alexander?” Justin murmured.
The prince nodded approvingly. “Very good. Your Andrew Wallace no doubt has told you of their escapades after Culloden, before you or I were even born. As it happens, mon cher papa bears an uncommon resemblance to our royal cousin.” He grinned. “For the last little while he has been leading the British Secret Service a merry chase, all through Wales, so that Charles Edward may be about his business with Saint-Germain. He has done this before, and doubtless will do again.”
In his astonishment Justin forgot all about deference to princes.
“You mean he’s doubling for the King?”
“He is. He began the chase in Paris, some months ago, so that Charles Edward might slip away from Florence unobserved. Now the chase has been shifted to Wales, where the English are convinced that he is waiting to take ship to America, to head the rebellious colonists. God willing, that shall, indeed, be my cousin’s aim, when the time is right; but meanwhile, the false scent provides excellent cover for doing other necessary things.”
Justin could only shake his head in amazement. “I had no idea.”
Prince Lucien smiled. “Fortunately, few people do. But enough of this. You must be tired after your long journey; and Saint-Germain desires that we embark as soon as possible for the New World. Have you made arrangements?”
“He said that I should rely upon your guidance in that regard, since you are more familiar with this area. He did suggest that we might wish to leave from Brest.”
“Very well. I shall have one of my men see to it.” The prince stood, followed quickly by Justin. “It will not be possible to leave for several days in any case, even if a ship were waiting now. Since the time of my father’s return is uncertain, I must make arrangements for my mother to manage the estate until his return. Saint-Germain knows this.”
Justin inclined his head. “Whatever you think best.”
“Good. Come, and I shall have Joinville show you to an apartment, where you may rest and refresh yourself.” He sniffed delicately at an edge of his sleeve and made a grimace of distaste. “I shall welcome the refreshment of a bath as well.
“After that, over a quiet supper, I shall share Saint-Germain’s instructions, and then we shall discuss our mutual Mother, the Craft—la Veuve, whose sons we are. I shall be fascinated to compare practices on both sides of the ocean. And incidentally, allow me to offer my felicitations that you are to be raised Master Mason upon your return. Saint-Germain informed me,” he explained, at Justin’s look of surprise. “He also has requested that I be present as his representative—which will be my honor and privilege. For that matter, since we are to be in one another’s company for a very long ocean voyage, I would be quite pleased to offer you instruction in the material of the Third Degree, both to profit the Craft and to help while away the time.”
“I—thank you,” Justin managed to repl
y. “Your generosity overwhelms me.”
The prince shrugged and smiled. “We are brothers in the Craft, Frère Justin. It is the least I can do for you—and for Saint-Germain.”
Chapter Seven
A French ship bore Justin and his royal companion back to the New World. Autumn squalls made the return crossing far more lively than his outward journey had been, but they also cut several weeks off the usual three-month sailing time. Since the port of Boston was still under British blockade, they came into Plymouth, where they arranged cartage for their trunks by wagon and hired horses from a local livery stable for the journey north to Cambridge.
It was late November when they finally arrived, and late in the afternoon of a chill, stormy day. Because of the hour and the weather, Justin decided to put the hired horses into the Wallace barn for the night; he would deal with their return to a local livery operator the next morning. The stable was empty as they led the animals out of a drenching downpour, suggesting that Simon either was still gone for the day or was keeping his mare at Washington’s headquarters, so Justin and the prince unsaddled, rubbed the horses down, and fed them. When they finally gathered up their saddlebags to make a dash for the house, Justin opening the stable door to lead the way, Andrew was just reaching for the latch from outside, cloaked and hooded and with a lantern in his hand, for night had fallen.
“Ah, it is you,” Andrew said to Justin, eyeing the stranger behind him speculatively.
“Andrew! I didn’t want you to have to come out in the rain!” Justin began, turning in confusion to glance at the prince. “This is—”
“Rohanstuart, Chevalier,” the prince said before Justin could finish, offering his hand to the elder Wallace. “But here I am to be known as Dr. Rohan—Count Rohan, if I must use an alias among the Bostonians. I am honored to meet you, sir. My father speaks of you warmly, as does my cousin.”
Andrew clasped the offered hand and bowed over it slightly. “Then the honor is mutual, sir,” he replied. “I trust that Justin has taken good care of you?”
The prince smiled. “He has, indeed. He is a credit to your family. After nearly three months in his constant company, I quite understand why he was chosen for his mission.”
As Andrew glanced at Justin in mild question, the younger man grinned self-consciously. “It will take me several hours to explain,” he said. “Meanwhile, perhaps we should go into the house. Is Simon expected anytime soon?”
“No, he’s been sleeping at headquarters for the past week or so. But I’ll catch you up on all of that later.”
With that they dashed into the rain, splashing across the soggy yard to duck under the eaves above the back porch as Andrew opened the door. Inside, Arabella was just sending the children up to bed and gave a little cry of relief as she saw her brother.
“You are back!”
“Uncle Justin, Uncle Justin!” the children cried, the two younger ones swarming around him to hug his legs and jump up and down excitedly. Charles, the oldest, settled for a manly handshake and insisted upon relieving his uncle of his saddlebags, though he staggered under the weight as Justin handed them over.
“Books,” Justin mouthed, to both Charles’s and Arabella’s delight. “And you lot,” he continued, trying to get the attention of the other two. “Let’s have a little decorum, please. You’ll make our visitor think we have nothing but a houseful of Red Indians!” He shook his head at their continued chatter and held up his hands for silence, which slowly came.
“Dr. Rohan, may I present my sister, Mistress Arabella Wallace. And these are her children: Charles, Sarah, and James. Children, do you think you can remember your manners enough to say hello to the doctor?”
Young Charles immediately offered the newcomer a grave handshake, but the two younger children suddenly went shy before the tall, self-possessed stranger, little James darting behind his mother to hide. Arabella dipped in a graceful curtsy, well aware who he really was.
“You are welcome to our home, sir,” she said. “I hope your journey was not too arduous.”
The prince smiled and kissed her hand in a display of Gallic charm. “Your brother was most excellent company, dear lady, and even the rigors of the storm fade from memory before your radiance.”
A blushing Arabella hustled the children off to bed then, while the three men divested themselves of dripping cloaks and hats and muddy boots and warmed themselves before the fire in the parlor. Andrew made the expected polite inquiries about the prince’s father, but Justin guessed that the older man’s more immediate curiosity had to do with the letters Justin was sure Andrew knew he carried. Their visitor apparently sensed the same thing. No sooner had Arabella returned from bedding down the children than the prince stood expectantly.
“The Chevalier is far too polite to say it, but I know he must be eager to hear of Justin’s travels, and to receive the various instructions he carries—all of which is most appropriately done in private. If I may, then, I should like to relieve you of some of the awkwardness of this moment by suggesting that I might retire upstairs somewhere for an hour or two. If someone will show me where I am to stay …?”
“But you must be frozen through and starving,” Arabella protested as Andrew murmured that it really was not necessary, and Justin looked uncomfortable. “What kind of a hostess would you think me, to send a man off to a cold bed and a cold room, without even a bite of supper?”
The prince smiled. “If you desire it, dear lady, I shall be delighted to come back down after Justin has had a chance to share his news. I am quite conscious that my presence here must be an imposition—and that you are nonetheless willing to accommodate me in the interests of our mutual cause,” he added, holding up a hand to still her protest.
“But, please. You will find my company far more agreeable if you first have satisfied your curiosity regarding Justin and his messages. I assure you, I am not offended. I shall be offended only if you insist upon leaving all of us in an uncomfortable position.”
So saying, he picked up his saddlebags and waited expectantly. After a glance at Andrew and Justin, Arabella made him a little curtsy and indicated that he should follow her upstairs.
“I shall bring you a warming pan and a tankard of mulled ale in a few minutes, sir,” she said, taking up a candlestick to light their way. “I hope you won’t mind that you must share a room with Justin.”
“Not at all. I have found him a most agreeable companion.”
When they had disappeared at the head of the stairs, Andrew nodded approvingly.
“He resembles his father,” he said to Justin, easing down into one of the chairs by the fire and putting his stiff leg up on a stool. “Did you meet Prince Alexander?”
Justin shook his head, sinking down on another chair opposite. “He was off in Wales, being a decoy for the King. And guess what! The King was at Leipzig with Saint-Germain! I met him. I actually met Charles Edward Stuart!”
“Indeed?” Andrew murmured, his face going very still. “And—how did you find my prince?”
“He was incredible! I couldn’t believe how well informed he is about the colonies. He follows every battle, every skirmish. He has a whole journal of newspaper items he’s transcribed in his own hand—and maps. I think his maps are as good as any Washington has!”
Andrew nodded, a fond smile lighting his one good eye and melting away some of the years.
“It is a way to keep the dream alive—the only way he knows,” he said softly. “Would that all this had come sooner.…”
As his voice trailed off, Arabella came back down the stairs and disappeared into the kitchen. Justin, recalling himself to the business at hand, pressed a hand against his chest and then against an outer coat pocket, confirming that the letters and other items he carried were still there.
“Before I give you the letters I brought,” he said, reaching into the outer pocket to extract the leather jeweler’s box, “I have something for you, from the King.” He raised an eyebrow as he handed
it across to the older man. “I warn you, it isn’t just another decoration. He said to tell you that it replaces the one you gave him at Culloden, and that he—hopes to see you wear it, before he dies.”
Andrew had started to open the box, but at Justin’s mention of dying he looked up sharply.
“He isn’t ill?”
“No, sir. But he—You’d better look at it. Apparently it will serve Saint-Germain’s purposes as well, but I believe this was a gift: from the King’s heart.”
Andrew eased the lid upward on its hinges, peering into the cushioning wool as he prodded it with one finger. Then he froze for just an instant before easing it open the rest of the way. The eye of Venetian glass looked out at them in all its pale glory, a perfect match for the single real eye that gazed down at it, suddenly tear filled.
“I—guessed that Saint-Germain would arrange for one of these,” he said after a moment. “But I never thought that my prince would provide it. ’Tis a work of art.”
Justin smiled, pleased with himself. “Saint-Germain sent along a bottle of special lubricant as well. It’s in my bag. I believe he’s provided additional instruction in one of his letters. There are several of those. I take it that this is part of some kind of disguise?”
“Something like that,” Andrew murmured. Closing the box, he set it carefully on the little table beside his chair. He kept looking at it from time to time, as if to reassure himself that it still was there.
“Perhaps I’d better see those letters next,” he said after a moment, clasping a monocle into his good eye.
Without comment Justin reached into his coat and produced an oilskin package from which he extracted a thick sealed packet, which he handed to Andrew. The Chevalier opened the packet and sorted through the variously labeled items, then opened one. While he read, Arabella went back upstairs with a tankard and a warming pan. She returned just as Andrew was finishing the first letter. Justin, meanwhile, had undone his cravat and was unbuttoning his shirt to get at the leather pouch still hanging from its thong around his neck.
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