The Ring and the Crown

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “With great joy, we bequeath our gift to the royal couple. Five hundred barrels of our best Burgundy,” Hugh said, his hands shaking a little. He held out a bottle of the same vintage, presenting it to the minister and the lady with a bow.

  Isabelle wrinkled her nose. Five hundred barrels! That was almost their entire harvest. Now this palace would smell just like home—like a stinky, vinegary, earthy cave. “Awful generous of you, Hugh,” she said as they left the stateroom, once they were safely out of earshot. “Wasn’t it enough that they chucked me as a bride? Must we provide for the wedding feast, as well?”

  “It is but a small price to pay for our return to court. I can assure you, our generosity will be well rewarded,” he replied with a satisfied smile.

  She supposed that that meant he’d lined up another match for her. Who cared? She had drunk too much champagne the night before, and her head was pounding. It was the worst kind of hangover, since it wasn’t from merry-making—she had refused to dance the entire night, and had instead sat in a corner, downing glass after glass until she could barely stand. She wasn’t too sure how she’d gotten home, either. She had woken up in her bed with all of her clothes on, lying on top of the covers, her hair still in a bun, her makeup smeared on her face.

  The maid had awoken her to tell her that Hugh had arrived to take her to the gift reception. She had kicked and whined, but Hugh had insisted. So she had scrubbed her face and changed her clothes, while her maid had quickly put up her hair. Now she was walking in the palace courtyard, desperate for a cup of coffee.

  She didn’t want to bump into anyone, didn’t want to gossip about the stupid ball. She had heard enough the night before of Princess Marie-Victoria in her beautiful, magical, astounding blue dress. More annoyingly, it appeared from their passionate kiss in the middle of the waltz that Leo was actually falling in love with the princess, and was happy. She didn’t know what else could possibly worsen the very worst day of her life, when she saw Louis-Philippe walking out of one of the apartments of the castle’s east side, still in his ball clothes. He was rumpled and sheepish, his bow tie askew, carrying his frock coat folded over his arm. There were lipstick traces on his collar.

  She called his name and he jumped a little, startled. “Looks like you had a good night,” she said, a little stunned to see him so early in the morning, and obviously just coming home.

  He smiled, abashed, but he didn’t deny it. In fact, he stood up a little straighter, carrying himself with a newfound confidence. Isabelle understood instinctively that whatever the night had brought, it had made him a man. “Hey, Izz,” he said, ruffling her hair with a grin. He had never called her that before, nor had he ever been so casual around her.

  Isabelle remembered the shy boy who had looked at her with so much longing last night, and how she had fobbed him off—urging him to meet the rich American, or any other girl. But it looked as though the lucky girl lived in the palace. It was probably one of those daughters of the duke.…She felt a pang. How could he have grown up so quickly overnight? One night with one of those floozies had crushed his crush so completely? It wasn’t much of a torch he carried for her, then, if it had burned out in less than twenty-four hours. So much for his protestations of love. He was the same as all the rest—just some stupid boy who thought with his little brain.

  “Did I miss the gift presentation? Is Hugh mad?” Louis asked.

  “I don’t think he noticed. He was too busy preening—he was so proud of his overly generous gift,” snapped Isabelle. Coffee…was there no coffee to be had in this godforsaken palace?

  Louis cocked his head and squinted at her. “And how are you feeling this morning?” He fell in step with her as they made their way to the back gates. There were few courtiers out that morning, only the odd page boy, a few yawning footmen, and ladies’ maids running with irons to attend to their mistresses.

  “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “Just fine.”

  “I’m glad you got home safely.”

  She stopped and stared at him. “That was you, then? You were the one who took me home?”

  He nodded, and had the good sense to blush. “I tried to wake your maid, but she wouldn’t budge—apparently she had quite a good time at the servants’ ball.…”

  Isabelle was turning a bit red herself, as a few memories from the night before came back to her. She had sobbed in his arms, she remembered now. It all seemed so terribly melodramatic. “So, you dropped me off and went back to the ball?”

  He kicked at pebbles in their path. “Well…not exactly.”

  Ah. So he had come back here, then, after dropping her off like a sack of potatoes. She wondered if the girl he was with had witnessed her complete, humiliating breakdown. Isabelle vowed never to drink any champagne again. It was a vow she knew would be forgotten by the evening. “Is she rich, at least?” she asked.

  “I have no idea,” he laughed.

  Just then, footsteps on the pathway alerted them to the fact that they were no longer alone. A girl was coming out of the same apartment that Louis had just vacated. She was radiant and pretty, her hair golden as the sun, her cheeks pink and fresh: a proper English rose. She ran up to Louis-Philippe and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Isabelle had guessed correctly: she was one of those ducal daughters. Lady Celestine was her name. “Oh, hi,” she said when she saw Isabelle. “Um, Louis, you forgot your belt,” she said, handing him a black satin one.

  “Thanks,” he said, grinning widely.

  She wrapped her robe tightly around her person and looked up at him eagerly. There were red love marks all over her neck, and Isabelle hoped the girl would be wise enough to cover them up. Her father was notorious for his temper. The Duke of Montrose had five daughters, each one wilder and more reckless than the next. Celestine was the youngest, and the prettiest by far. “We’re all booked up this week with tiresome dinners, but we’ll be at the vernissage next week. See you there?” she asked.

  “You can count on it,” Louis promised. He glanced around and, finding the courtyard clear, kissed her right on the lips.

  “You’re so naughty! I’ve got to get back, I’m late for breakfast.” She laughed, pushing him away. “Don’t forget me!” she called gaily.

  The young couple looked so incredibly happy that Isabelle wanted to vomit. As she followed the whistling Louis to the waiting carriage, she thought she’d been wrong earlier: it was possible to feel even worse today.

  The wedding dress fitting was finishing up. Marie was smiling at the mirror, humming to herself as the ladies who surrounded her clucked and chatted. There was a lightness in the air these days since the royal ball. All talk in the palace was of Marie and Leopold, and the kiss that had sealed it on the dance floor. The prince had taken hold of the princess and, in a smooth gesture worthy of a true Romeo, dipped her back till she was bent at the waist and kissed her soundly in front of the whole court. The clapping and cheering were even more deafening than when the princess had first appeared.

  The wedding dress was flamboyant: gold in color, resplendent with magic. It was woven with the stars of the sky and the light of the moon; it was the most amazing, ethereal creation that anyone had ever seen.

  Of course, her ladies thought she was in a good mood because of the kiss, because of Leo, and because she was finally happy to be marrying him. None of it was true, but Marie let them think that. It was so much easier. After the ball, the prince had sent a myriad of invitations her way—requests to see her alone, for a stroll in the gardens or dinner à deux. But she had demurred, saying she was ill after the ball—that it had taken too much energy out of her—or that she was busy. This had only led to even more desperate and lovesick entreaties. Aelwyn had agreed to don the glamour and visit him one more time, but so far they had not found the right opportunity to make it happen. They had to be careful; they couldn’t take the chance that anyone would notice Princess Marie had been in two different places at the same time.

  “The Lovers’ Waltz.
” Julia smiled.

  “Huh?” Marie asked.

  “You’re humming it,” her lady said. “Oh Marie, your wedding will be wonderful!”

  Yes it will be, now, Marie thought. It will be everything I’ve dreamed of.

  When her ladies left, along with the tailor and his seamstresses, Marie put her day dress back on with the help of her nurse, Jenny Wallace. Wallace was the apple-cheeked caregiver who had raised Marie—who had wiped away her tears, fixed her helmet, understood each of her physical regimens. Marie called her “Wallace” because when she was little it was easier to pronounce than “Jenny.” Wallace was the one who had soothed away nightmares, and stayed up holding her hand when she was ill with fever. Wallace wasn’t a young girl anymore—she was now a sensible matron with several young girls of her own. But she still came to the palace once in a while to check in on “her princess” and to make sure the healers were prescribing the right medicines for the wasting plague. Wallace wiped her hands on her apron and frowned at Marie.

  “What?” Marie asked, trying to wipe the smile from her face.

  “You don’t fool me,” Wallace said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You cannot go away with that boy, my chick,” she said.

  Marie put down her book and regarded her nurse with alarm.

  “Of course I know. I’ve known you since you were a babe. I’ve seen how you look at each other—the way he smiles at you. The way you light up when he’s around, and only when he’s around. I wanted this for you, but I wanted it to be with someone you were allowed to love as well. Perhaps it was wrong of me to hope that it might happen,” Wallace said, putting her hands on her waist and regarding Marie with forthright disapproval.

  Marie paled. “What will you do, Wallace?”

  “It’s not for me to do anything,” Wallace sighed. “I’ve already done as much as I can,” she said, giving Marie a hard, knowing look.

  So it was not the Prussians who had insisted they replace her Queen’s Guard, after all. “It was you—you were the one—you told them to send him away.”

  “I suggested to your new family that it might make a nice gesture. Yes I did, my sweet, I did. I thought it would be easier for you if he went away.”

  Marie fell to her knees and put her head in her nurse’s lap. She had always found comfort in that lap. “Wallace, I can’t marry Leo. I can’t.”

  “But you looked so happy at the ball dancing with him,” Wallace said, as she stroked her hair gently.

  “That wasn’t me,” Marie whispered.

  “I knew it was too good to be true. I knew it. That wasn’t you down there, it was just a façade. What a great actress you are.”

  “How did you know we were planning to leave?”

  The nurse showed her what she had found in Marie’s dresser. A pouch full of gold coins; letters; keys that would unlock each door in the secret dungeon passageways. The first few items in their escape plan. All they lacked was the spell-key for the wards.

  “What will you do?” Marie asked, lifting her tear-streaked face.

  “It is your life, my dear. I cannot do anything except ask, what are you thinking? You cannot mean to do this. You cannot leave with him—you must know that.”

  “I have to,” Marie whispered. “I love him.”

  Wallace gave her one of her deep and sympathetic and terribly sad smiles. “But what about your mother? Think of what this will do to her. To lose her only child and heir—to lose the throne—”

  Marie shook her head. She hardly knew her mother. Her mother had loved her, but she would enjoy having a different daughter. Let Aelwyn be the strong, beautiful, healthy girl that Eleanor had always wanted—the girl Marie had never been. Eleanor was not losing a daughter; she was gaining a finer one than she’d ever known. But Marie could not tell her nurse that. She would have to tell Aelwyn to be kind to her nurse. “Mother will be fine,” Marie said.

  “You are wrong there—so wrong, my chick. Your mother will be devastated.”

  “But you won’t tell?”

  “I won’t—I promise, Princess. It is your life. But I beg you to reconsider. Think of the queen, of your country. Think of me. If you leave, I will never see you again. And think of yourself. If the Merlin finds out—your actions will be considered treason. You might lose your life in this venture. Is he worth that much to you?”

  But Marie did not want to listen. She stood up and walked away from Wallace, taking the small sad envelope of keys and coins away from her and stuffing it back into the depths of her drawer. She was tired of thinking of everyone else. She had spent her whole life trying to gain everyone’s approval: her mother’s, the Merlin’s, the court’s. She was tired of duty, of necessity, of royalty. But even so, she heard the sadness in Wallace’s voice, and knew her nurse had spoken truth. She would miss them all desperately—the palace, its people, her mother. She could not bear to think of Eleanor—what if she learned the truth? Or what if her mother never guessed? Each seemed awful in its own way.

  Hopefully Gill would come up with the money soon, and find a way to get his hands on the spell-key somehow. They had to get away before she could change her mind.

  The private opening of the Royal Academy of Art was typically the second biggest event of the season. Located in Burlington House, Piccadilly, its annual exhibition showcased the work of the best living artists of the empire. Wolf was looking forward to the event, as he had been a tad disappointed to miss Ronan at the flurry of dances and dinners that had immediately followed the ball. He was very much looking forward to seeing her again. He’d eagerly awaited her appearance at a party at Duchess Wellington’s, a dinner at Earl Pembroke’s, and at the opera on Thursday. But she was nowhere to be found. He was beginning to worry that she had taken Marcus Deveraux’s marriage proposal after all, and was in Avon planning her wedding.

  He followed the crowd into the main gallery, where paintings of every size, shape and color filled the wall up to the rafters in a jumbled fashion—portraits of the queen, of the Merlin, bucolic landscapes, fruity still-life studies. Wolf remembered a conversation he’d had with Marie about the formulaic stagnation built into the current artistic movements. She had argued that it was the kingdom’s very culture that was repressing true and enlivened artistic expression—everyone was too afraid to create something that would offend the Merlin, and so the only art that was produced was boring, pedestrian, inoffensive. Wolf sighed and thought she might have a point. Even the most important pictures—deemed the best by the Academy, and therefore set right at eye level—showcased the same cloying, patriotic tone as the lesser works.

  Wolf was bored. It had been weeks now since he’d fought that giant from Brooklyn. He was out of shape, and felt stuffed and lazy. Thankfully he had spoken to a few of the good fellows of the Queen’s Guard, and had set up a fight in a few weeks’ time. They’d agreed to meet in the dungeons below. He was looking forward to it, but for now his mind felt like it was full of cotton balls, fuzzy and useless—only consumed with gossip from the vain, venal strivers of the Lenoran court. Wolf had no interest in the usual aristocratic pastimes of shoot and hunt. So far the only thing he was interested in tracking was a certain golden-haired American bird.

  He spotted Archie and Perry with the aforementioned Marcus, who soon stalked off, and Wolf sidled up to the pair. He had seen them with Ronan the night of the ball, and guessed correctly that they were good friends of hers. “Hello, lads.” Wolf smiled. “Enjoying the exhibition?”

  “Wolfgang.” Archie nodded, raising his glass.

  “Evening, Prince.” Perry smiled.

  “What’s got him all hot and bothered?” he asked, motioning to Marcus, who was haranguing a waiter for bringing him wine instead of champagne.

  Perry took a lazy sip from his flute. “Oh, we were just riling him up a bit about being rejected so early.”

  “Rejected?” Wolf asked, ears cocked.

  “He proposed to Ronan Astor—the Am
erican girl. Remember her? The looker in the silver dress? I do believe you danced with her at the royal ball.”

  “He actually proposed?” Wolf asked, raising an eyebrow, even though he had been there when it happened, and had overheard the whole thing.

  “To get it over with. His mummy is threatening to cut him off if he doesn’t settle down. Lady Julia’s worried they’ll lose the pile if he doesn’t marry soon. Worried he’ll fall down, bonk his head and die—then what’ll she and her five daughters do?”

  “Good for Ronan for turning him down, then.”

  “Yes, she’s quite available,” Archie smiled. “Why? Interested, are you?”

  Wolf drained the rest of his glass and winked at the boys. “Maybe.”

  Perry gave him a fatherly nod. “She’s supposed to meet us here—she should be along shortly. I’ll tell her to find you. Come on, Arch, let’s see what atrocities they’ve put in the condemned cell.” He nodded toward the back of the gallery, where it was so dark and narrow it was hard to get a good look at the paintings.

  “Hey, that’s where they put my pieces!” Archie said, affronted.

  “I know, darling,” Perry said. “Maybe now you won’t waste so much of your time in your studio?”

  Wolf left them bickering fondly with each other, and walked the length of the exhibition by himself. Royal portraiture was always well-represented, and Wolf stood in front of one that depicted the Prussian court with his family in the middle. The resemblances were passable enough. King Frederick was seated on his throne, with one son to each side of him. Duncan Oswald, master-at-arms, stood next to Wolf, and Lord Edmund Hartwig next to Leo. The queen was next to Altmann von Vilswert, the Bavarian knight who was supposed to have been a favorite of his mother’s. Wolf squinted at the painting, wondering. Was that truly what his nose looked like?