George took out a coin and handed it to the sausage-fingered man. “Thank you for your help, sir.”
George stepped out of the station into the cold and snowy afternoon. He sighed again and pulled his hat down to cover his face more. He was about to get back into his carriage, but he went first to the three hansom cabs for hire that stood waiting for customers at the station—asking the first one if he took two young gentlemen into town the previous day. The driver shook his head and puffed his pipe. The next driver didn’t remember seeing the Prince of Wales or any other foreigner. George walked up to the third driver. He couldn’t see his face; the man’s coat collar was pulled up so high and his hat worn low over his eyes.
“Would you recognize the Prince of Wales, sir?”
“Yes,” the driver said with a grunt.
“Did you by chance drive him from the station yesterday?”
“Aye, I did,” he said. “What is it to you?”
George dug into his pocket and pulled out a couple of crowns. He held them out to the driver. The driver grabbed the coins out of his hand.
“Drove them to the White Hart,” the driver said as he shoved his hands back into his coat pockets. “They talked of drinking a beer before going to the castle.”
“Thanks,” George muttered, then went back to his own carriage and instructed his driver to return to the candy shop.
When he arrived, Drina stood at the clerk’s counter with a stack of brightly colored candies and several wrapped parcels. She waved at him and beckoned him to her.
“You’re much better than a footman,” she said, handing him her purchases. George held out both hands and she stacked sweets all the way to his chin. “That’s everything,” she said. She turned back to the shop clerk and added, “Thank you for all your help. Happy Christmas!”
The bald clerk beamed at her and rushed to open the front door. Drina gave him another glittering smile, and George was just grateful that someone held the door for him while his hands were so full. They walked to the carriage, where the footman came and relieved him of all the small packages. George was then able to assist Drina into the carriage and climb in behind her.
“Are we hot on the trail of the lost prince?” she asked with a saucy smile.
“More lukewarm than hot,” he said. “The stationmaster said the princes didn’t get on the London train, they got off of it. A cab driver corroborates his story and says he took the princes to the White Hart.”
Drina giggled and then clarified, “The White Hart?”
“I knew that sniveling fool of a proprietor was keeping something to himself,” George admitted with a reluctant grin. “I’ll return you to Windsor Castle and then I will go and make more inquiries at the White Hart.”
“Without me?” she protested. “That hardly seems fair.”
“I went to the train station without you.”
“But they don’t serve punch there,” Drina said. “And I’m quite dying to talk to the ferret-faced proprietor again, dressed in all of my finery.”
George dropped his head into his hands.
She knocked on the glass window. The carriage halted in the middle of the street. She opened the door and said, “Please take us to the White Hart.”
“Very good, my lady.”
He shook his head. “You can come with me, but I won’t let you near any punch ever again.”
“Unkind, George,” she said with a smirk. “Besides, you’ve already assured me that I give first-rate embraces when I drink punch. I would think you’d order me a second bowl.”
“The only drink you’ll be sipping is hot cider,” he said sternly, then groaned as the carriage stopped in front of the hostelry. The less pleasant memories of the previous night were fresh on his mind.
The proprietor opened the door to the White Hart and bowed them in. If the man recognized them as the bedraggled pair from the night before, he made no sign of it.
“A private parlor, sir and madam?” he asked in an oily voice.
“My lord and lady,” Drina corrected him and winked at George. “And yes, we should like a private parlor. Perhaps the one with the yellow flowers and some hot punch.”
They followed the proprietor to the same yellow private parlor from the night before. There was no sign of last night’s trouble. She allowed the proprietor to take her fur coat and to push her chair in. The proprietor offered to take George’s coat but he held out a hand.
“Not again,” George said, but did pass the man his top hat.
The weaselly proprietor hung the hat on the metal coatrack and bowed his way out of the room.
“You’re not having any punch.”
“Don’t be such a spoilsport, George,” Drina said with a distinct look of mischief. “’Tis the season to be jolly, after all.”
He shook his head. “We have enough problems without you getting drunk again.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I have no intention of doing more than sipping some of the hot punch to keep the cold out.”
The proprietor knocked, and a servant brought in a steaming bowl of punch on a tray with three lemons and set it on the table. He also placed beside it two glasses and a ladle.
“Will my lord and lady be requiring anything else?” he asked.
Drina said “Yes” as George said “No.”
“Did you serve the Prince of Wales yesterday, sir?” she asked.
The proprietor bowed in assent.
“Excellent,” she said. “Was there a blond gentleman with him? One who resembles me?”
“There was a young man with the prince. He didn’t remove his hat, my lady, but his features seem similar to yours except for the nose.”
Drina clapped her hands together. “We’re finally getting somewhere, George,” she said. “When were they here? And when did they leave?”
The proprietor scratched his oily head. “They got here just as it was getting dark. Around four o’clock, I’d say, and they left about an hour later.”
Both princes would have been long gone by the time George and Drina had arrived around midnight.
“And do you know where they went afterward?” George asked.
The proprietor shook his head. “I don’t, my lord.”
“Did anyone speak to either gentlemen?” Drina pressed.
The man scratched his head again and was silent for a few moments. “I believe Mrs. Strachey bumped into one of the gentlemen and apologized after. I don’t recall anyone else talking to either of them. The fair-haired gentleman didn’t talk to anyone but the Prince of Wales.”
“And where might we find Mrs. Strachey?” George inquired, relieved not to find another dead end at the White Hart. “Does she live around here? Is she a regular customer?”
“She’s in the taproom now, my lord,” the proprietor replied. “Should I go and fetch her?”
“Yes, do,” Drina said, before George could.
The man gave them a low bow before leaving and the servant closed the door behind them. George squeezed the lemons into the punch and ladled Drina a glass not even a third full. She raised her eyebrows as she took it from him, then brought the glass to her red lips and took a sip.
“It’s as lovely as I remembered,” she said, setting the glass down. “Well, we’ve finally made some progress, George. Prince Friedrich left the station and came here to drink English beer, which fits in perfectly with what Herr Bauer told us. Do you recall seeing Bertie at the state dinner last night?”
George shook his head. He wasn’t overly fond of the Prince of Wales and would certainly not have gone out of his way to speak to him or even to look for him. Bertie, as his family called him, had always annoyed George because he could charm his way out of anything. When they were little, Bertie had let him take all the blame when a ball they were playing with broke a window at Balmoral Castle. And a rare beating George had received for it, too.
“I didn’t, either,” Drina said, shaking her head. “But I wasn’t looking for him,
so he might have been there. There were over fifty people at dinner, after all.”
George downed his entire glass of punch in one gulp and set it down hard on the table.
She raised her eyebrows again. “Perhaps I’m not the one we should worry about getting drunk.”
Before he could retort, the proprietor knocked again and entered the room followed by a woman. Mrs. Strachey looked to be less than thirty, but not much less. Her black locks were fake and her face was highly painted. Her red dress was low-cut, showing nearly all of her ample bosom. She smiled vulgarly at George and winked. George dropped his gaze to the table.
“Mr. Ostler said you toffs wanted to see me,” she said in a thick local accent.
“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Strachey,” Drina said with a civil smile. “Mr. Ostler said that you spoke to the Prince of Wales last night. Do you have any notion where he might have gone after he left the White Hart?”
Mrs. Strachey leaned forward, and George thought that her breasts were going to fall out of her dress. He lifted his hand to cover the view. He didn’t want Drina to think he wanted to see them.
“Why, the Prince of Wales did mention that he was going to the frogs or something like that,” she said, touching her mouth. “But then he kissed me right here on the old sauce box and I forgot the rest.”
“The frogs?” Drina clarified.
“Definitely mentioned something about frogs,” Mrs. Strachey said with a high-pitched giggle.
“One last thing if you please, Mrs. Strachey,” Drina said.
“Anything, my lady.”
“Thank you. There was a blond gentleman with Bertie in the taproom,” Drina said. “Did that gentleman leave with the Prince of Wales or not?”
“With, definitely with him,” Mrs. Strachey said, winking again. “That one was a terrible flirt!”
George was about to give the woman a coin for her trouble, but Drina beat him to it. She placed two shillings in the woman’s hand and thanked her kindly for assisting them. The proprietor opened the door for Mrs. Strachey and they both left. George poured himself another glass of punch.
“She was a waste of time,” Drina said, taking a sip. “Unless you know of any tavern, inn, or town around here with Frog in the title.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Can’t say that I do.”
She drained the last drop from her glass and set it down on the table. “I can always ask Alice if she’s seen or heard from Bertie when we get back to the castle.”
“That’s as good a plan as any,” George said. He left a few coins on the table as he stood up, then took his hat off of the coatrack and placed it on his head. He pulled out Drina’s chair and helped her put on her coat. One beautiful arm and then the other. The same arms that had been around his neck last night. He was trying so hard to forget the embrace, but couldn’t stop remembering it every time he looked at Drina.
She stepped closer to him, her large skirt brushing his pant legs. “Are you all right?”
“Right as rain,” George said, taking a deep breath and offering his arm.
Chapter 10
Drina sent most of the packages back to her room, but she made George hold the six Christmas crackers as they wandered through the different royal apartments trying to find Alice. She opened the door to the nursery and was delighted to see not only Alice, but all of her younger siblings. Beatrice, the youngest, was blond, roly-poly, and barely three years old. She ran to Drina, who picked her up and twirled her around.
“Baby!” Drina said, balancing the girl on her hip. “Have you missed me?”
Beatrice put a chubby little hand on each of Drina’s cheeks and kissed her nose. The wet little kiss tickled and Drina laughed.
“I’ve brought you a present,” she said. She took a red-wrapped Christmas cracker from George and handed it to the little girl. Beatrice grasped it eagerly and wiggled to get down. Once Drina set her down, she ran over to her sister Helena and demanded she open it at once. Helena nodded; a soft glow lightened her countenance. It was no wonder that her family nicknamed her “Lenchen,” meaning “shining.”
Standing next to Helena was Carl Ruland, who was a part of the Royal Household and tutored Bertie in German. Drina walked toward the pair. Helena, at fourteen years old, still retained a childlike roundness and an unfortunate second chin, but she already had a massive Hanoverian bosom like her mother and both of her older sisters.
“Mr. Ruland,” Drina said, offering her hand.
He took it lightly in his own and bowed over it, formally. “Lady Alexandrina.”
He was handsome, if one liked black pointy beards and mustaches with a few gray hairs. Drina personally preferred to see a gentleman’s face.
“I was wondering if you had seen the Prince of Wales today or yesterday?” she asked. “Lord Worthington here is looking for him.”
Drina nudged George with her elbow, and he nearly dropped the rest of the Christmas crackers. He managed to bobble them between his hands before he caught them all. “Yes, I am looking for the Prince of Wales.”
“I’m afraid that Bertie hasn’t arrived yet,” Helena said shyly. She blushed and cast her eyes to the floor.
Fourteen is such an unfortunate age, Drina thought. You’re old enough to not want to be with the children anymore, but young enough to not be allowed with the adults yet.
“But we expect him any day,” Mr. Ruland said.
“Excellent,” Drina said. She took a green-wrapped Christmas cracker and handed it to Helena. “For you, Helena. Happy Christmas.”
Helena smiled. “Thank you, Drina. I love Christmas crackers.”
Drina took George by the arm and guided him around the room to where Arthur and Leopold were playing trains together on the floor. She gave them each a blue-wrapped Christmas cracker. Then they went to the desk where Louise was sitting, sketching Windsor Castle. Louise, even at the age of twelve, showed a distinct artistic talent. Her sketch was nearly perfect in proportion and depth perspective. Her brown ringlets framed her oval face and she gave Drina a welcome smile. Drina thought that Louise would probably end up being the prettiest of the royal princesses. She took a pink-wrapped Christmas cracker from George and handed it to her.
“Happy Christmas, Louise.”
Louise stood up and gave her a one-armed embrace. “Thank you, Drina. I plan to give you my drawing when I’m done with it.”
“I’ll treasure it,” Drina assured the twelve-year-old princess.
She took the last Christmas cracker from George and walked over to the windows that faced the city, where Alfred was standing looking out at the falling snow. Although Alfred was only a year younger than Alice, he wasn’t yet included in the state dinners. At sixteen, he wore his navy uniform proudly. He was a midshipman, and judging from the disdainful look on his face, he didn’t think he belonged with the nursery children. She gave him a smile and handed him the last cracker.
“I’m too old for such silliness,” he said. “But thank you all the same, Drina.”
“Of course you are,” she agreed. “But happy Christmas to you all the same.”
George was standing near Alice at the door. Drina walked over to meet them. Whatever they were saying, when she arrived they stopped abruptly, looking guilty.
“You didn’t get a Christmas cracker for me?” Alice said, sticking out her lower lip and looking very much like Beatrice.
“I got you something much better,” Drina assured her. “But you won’t get it until Christmas Eve when we open presents.”
“She bought you a book,” George added.
Drina bumped his arm with her elbow. “George! You’re not supposed to tell her.”
A loud crack filled the air and Drina smelled smoke. Before she could turn around to see what had happened, George careened into her and they crashed to the floor in a tangle of arms, legs, and crinolines. The fall knocked the air out of Drina, and it took her a moment to catch her breath—particularly because George was on top of her.
“What are you doing?” Drina demanded as soon as she had enough breath.
“I heard a gunshot,” he said. “Someone might be trying to assassinate—”
She pressed her finger to George’s lips to stop him from saying something that might scare the younger children. He was much too tactless to ever become a diplomat.
Drina turned her head to see Alfred holding the remnants of a smoking Christmas cracker in his hands.
“That was brilliant!” he practically yelled, looking in that moment much more like a boy than a man.
“George, it was an overactive Christmas cracker,” Drina said, but didn’t move her finger from his lips. They were warm and soft and she wanted to trace them with her fingertip. But before she could succumb to such impropriety, Beatrice hopped on George’s legs, followed by Arthur and Leopold.
“Huzzah!” Leopold exclaimed as he rolled off his brother’s back and onto the floor.
“All of you kindly remove yourselves from my person, before you squash me like a bug,” Drina wheezed from the bottom of the pile.
George scrambled off of her but managed to keep both boys on his back and began crawling around the room to their great delight. After going all the way around the room, he shook them off.
Beatrice ran up to him and grabbed his pant leg, shouting, “Me! Me! Me next!” He took her by the arms and swung her onto his back.
Drina slowly sat up. She missed George’s touch and his warmth the moment his body was no longer touching hers. With Beatrice still on his back, he held out his hands to pull Drina to her feet. As they stood looking into each other’s eyes, Drina found herself breathless again. His beautiful brown eyes were perfectly framed with his dark lashes: It was like looking into his soul.
Then Beatrice yelled, “Come on, horsey!”
Whatever spell they’d been under was broken. They released hands and stepped back from each other, and George galloped around the room to Beatrice’s loud squeals of delight. He set her down near Alice and Drina.
Alice gave her famous one-eyebrow raise. “George, I find it very interesting that when you thought you heard a gunshot, the only person you tried to save wasn’t a member of the royal family.”
A Royal Christmas Quandary Page 8