The Queen's Gambit (The Wonderland Series: Book 4)

by Irina Shapiro

  “I am not sure I know what you are referring to, Your Majesty,” Henry replied smoothly. He knew exactly what she meant, but needed to find out how much she suspected, and how much she actually knew.

  “Don’t play the fool with me, Henry FitzRoy,” Mary said, her tone now imperial. “I know you are in contact with my father, and I can only assume it’s not to express your concern for his health and the well-being of the family. You are playing both sides and paving the way for yourself in case my father manages to take back his throne. Well, let me tell you something, cousin,” Mary said with uncharacteristic venom, “my position as the daughter of James II is rather a unique one, so the people of this realm will expect me to prove myself. Should I smell even a whiff of treachery, I will not hesitate to act, particularly if it’s against family. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Crystal clear, Your Majesty.”

  “Now, I am going to ask this question just the once. Can William and I rely on your absolute loyalty, Henry?”

  “Naturally, Your Majesty,” Henry replied immediately, wishing desperately only to escape from Mary’s clutches. Was it possible that Jocelyn had betrayed him in some way? Was their pillow talk designed to glean information for Mary? Jocelyn didn’t seem the type, but who did? A good spy was not someone you’d ever suspect. He had started the relationship with Jocelyn long before William and Mary took the throne, but Jocelyn’s position had changed, just as his own fortunes had shifted, and politics made strange bedfellows, as everyone was so fond of saying.

  “I’d like a little token of your sincerity, cousin,” Mary said with a small smile. Henry suddenly realized that she was much more comfortable in her new role than he’d realized. Mary wasn’t torn at all; she was enjoying every moment of this, her new position taking her mind off her childlessness. This was her chance to prove herself to her husband and atone for some of the disappointment of failing to provide an heir. Mary could be ruthless, so Henry had to tread very carefully.

  “A token, Your Majesty?” Henry asked, suddenly nervous.

  “Only a small one. I want one name from you.”

  “Your Majesty?” Henry stammered. Dear God, did she expect him to betray people? He did have a sense of honor, after all, even if he wasn’t really loyal to anyone but his own interests. To play both sides was canny; to give up one’s contacts was deplorable.

  “I want a name of a conspirator, Henry. Something I can take to my husband to prove to him that you are no threat to our reign. So, unless you care to spend the coming weeks in the Tower awaiting a trial, I suggest you come up with one quickly. And it best be a real name, not some wild goose chase which will end with us arresting an innocent man.”

  Mary leaned back in her high-backed chair, her eyes slightly hooded as she contemplated Henry. This was it, the moment of truth. If he refused to give a name, or gave her a false one, he’d be sealing his own fate. If accused of treason, he’d go to the Tower at best, or get executed for treason at worst. As much as he didn’t wish to give anyone up, he had no choice. This was self-preservation, pure and simple, and it was either his own future or someone else’s on the line.

  “A name,” Mary repeated, her lips stretching into a sly smile. She had him by the stones, and she knew it. A refusal was paramount to political suicide. Giving Mary a name would not necessarily keep him safe, but it would buy time, the time needed to see if this monarchy would last. If Mary and William were here to stay, he needed their favor and trust. Oh, they would never trust him completely, given his parentage, but if he managed to keep his place at Court and his title and estates; that would be enough for now. And if his uncle managed to raise an army and mount an invasion, Henry could decide which side he chose to be on then, based on his uncle’s chances of success.

  “Hugo Everly,” Henry finally said. He felt the bile rise in his throat as his stomach clenched in protest. There was no one else he could betray. Hugo Everly had a history Mary was well aware of. Having supported the Duke of Monmouth’s rebellion, Mary might have some sympathy toward him since he openly fought for a Protestant monarchy. Perhaps this wouldn’t have any serious repercussions for him.

  “Everly?” Mary asked, clearly surprised. “Really? But we just granted him a royal pardon. He nearly lost his life in pursuit of a Protestant monarchy. Why would he now plot against us, Henry? It’s nonsensical.”

  “People’s motives are not always as clear-cut as they appear,” Henry replied, inwardly cringing at his own choice of words. He’d just betrayed a man to save his own skin. His own motives were murky at best.

  “Have you any proof?”

  “Not at the moment,” Henry replied evenly, hoping Mary would leave it at that. Perhaps Mary would have someone keep an eye on Everly. The man was too clever to be caught, especially if forewarned. On the other hand, Mary would think that he’d lied to her, which would displease her and make her doubt his own loyalty. Either way, he was trapped.

  “I want tangible proof before the coronation. If that man is truly plotting against us, I don’t wish him to be present at Westminster. I expect to see you back here on April 10th, cousin. Good day.”

  Henry FitzRoy bowed low and beat a hasty retreat, setting out in search of Jocelyn. He was thrumming with fury, every nerve ending on fire as he affected a bland expression for the benefit of the passersby. He found Jocelyn at last, sitting with a few other ladies in a comfortable parlor, awaiting the summons of the queen. In Henry’s opinion, ladies-in-waiting were nothing more than dogs, kept on a leash all day by a lonely and demanding mistress. It was a great honor to be sure, but not one he would ever want if he were a woman. It was a wonder Jocelyn managed to escape from time to time, carving out time for a leisurely tryst. The rest of the time she was at the mercy of the queen and her own tyrannical husband, a man who treated her as a useful possession and a tool for his own advancement.

  Henry bowed to the ladies, apologized for intruding on their peace in his search for his wife, and turned to leave, cutting his eyes at Jocelyn as he turned around. He couldn’t just speak to her, so he’d have to wait around until she was able to escape for a few minutes and meet him in their spot. The ladies smiled at him demurely, their faces betraying nothing, but Henry was certain that they guessed the reason for his unexpected arrival. His wife was actually at home, meeting with her dressmaker in preparation for the coronation.

  Henry waited for nearly an hour until Jocelyn was finally able to get away. The queen dismissed the ladies while she went to chapel, preferring to pray in private rather than with her entourage. Jocelyn slipped into the curtained alcove, her lovely face flushed. “I’m sorry; I couldn’t get away,” she apologized as she faced him.

  “Jocelyn, please tell me it wasn’t you,” Henry said without preamble.

  “Wasn’t me what?”

  “Tell me you didn’t betray me. Mary knows about my activities. She’s ordered me to declare my loyalty and give up a man as proof of my sincerity. I’ve just condemned a good man to possible death, so please tell me it wasn’t you who gave me up.” Henry intended to remain calm, but his hands were digging into Jocelyn’s arms, his face inches away from hers as he searched her eyes for any flicker of uncertainty or guile.

  “She knows about us, Henry. She is a shrewd and manipulative woman,” Jocelyn replied, her face pale in the dim light of the alcove. “She threatened to tell my husband if I didn’t tell her the truth about your loyalties.”

  “So, you sold me out to save your own skin,” Henry hissed, furious. How could he blame Jocelyn when he’d just done the same thing?

  “Henry, you know my husband. If he learns of our affair, he will send me away and never allow me to return. He might even ship me off to some convent as punishment for adultery. I couldn’t bear that.”

  “Well, thank you for your honesty. I’m glad to know that your position is safe and you can continue to enjoy yourself at Court while a man might face execution for trusting me, and that his family will be decimated by these c
harges.”

  “Henry, I am pregnant,” Jocelyn breathed. Her eyes were huge with anxiety, a sheen of sweat coating her pale forehead.

  “And what bearing does that have on the situation?” he demanded, his face dangerously close to hers.

  “It’s yours.”

  “And how would you know that, madam?” Henry asked. “Are you telling me that you haven’t been performing your wifely duties?”

  “Henry, Devenish was away for several weeks in February. Don’t you remember? I am just over a month along, so there is no way it could be his.”

  “Don’t worry, Jocelyn. He’ll be so overjoyed to have gotten you full in the belly at last, that he won’t waste his time doing the math. He’ll accept it as his own, not that it matters. Your condition doesn’t justify what you’ve done. Don’t ever speak to me again, you worthless whore,” Henry ground out before walking out of the alcove. He would have been heartbroken to lose Jocelyn only yesterday, but right now he felt nothing but disgust for the woman he’d adored. He hoped that if the child were indeed his, Jocelyn would miscarry. He didn’t want that traitorous whore to be the mother of his offspring.

  “Henry, I love you.”

  The words hung in the air as Henry stormed away, no longer interested in anything Jocelyn had to say. “Love,” that was a strange word for what she’d done. He’d gotten off easily, but he could have been arrested and sent to the Tower, where he might have languished for years until either being released or executed. Hugo Everly would not get off easily though — not after the last trial. There would be no mercy for him.

  April 1689

  Portsmouth, England

  Chapter 60

  Max stared balefully at the group of men sitting around a large table in the center, laughing and talking as they downed one tankard of ale after another. The buxom wench who refilled their cups seemed to enjoy their ribald jokes, and dimpled at the men as she bent lower than strictly necessary when pouring the ale. She was going to make out well tonight if the men’s good humor was anything to go by. Their camaraderie was there for anyone to see, and Max suddenly felt a deep sense of isolation as he nursed his tankard in solitude.

  It had taken him over two years to finally return to the shores of England, but he was no longer the same person who could almost taste the rapture of his return to England while held captive in Barbados. His life in France had changed him irrevocably. Max genuinely missed Captain Benoit and Vivienne, but he especially missed the boys. By the time Max left the Benoits nearly a month ago, his pupils, Edouard and Lucien, spoke fluent English, were able to write and translate from English to French and back, and knew more mathematics than their father ever imagined possible. They had been a delight, especially Lucien, who was the more sensitive of the two. Edouard had shaken Max’s hand and thanked him for his efforts, but Lucien had flown into his arms and hugged him around the middle, visibly upset to see him go. The boys had spent more time with Max than they did with their own father, and their relationship was that of a father and his sons, or so Max liked to think, and the loss of that closeness left Max gutted.

  Before saying a final goodbye, there was only one more thing Max needed to do. Hugo and his family were long gone, but there was one other person that Max wished to see. Despite his better judgment, Captain Benoit gave Max the address of the family that had purchased Banjo, the slave boy who’d come with him from Barbados. To openly visit Banjo would have been unacceptable, and possibly upsetting for the boy, but Max waited outside the gate for several days until he finally saw Banjo’s mistress leaving the house with her page in tow. Banjo had grown a few inches over the past few years, but he was still the adorable child Max remembered from the voyage aboard the La Belle. Banjo was dressed in a colorful outfit made of velvet and silk, and wore a yellow turban on his head; the front adorned with a large ruby pin to which a single peacock feather was attached. The feather fluttered in the spring breeze, the iridescent colors shifting from blues to purples to greens, mesmerizing in their beauty.

  Banjo carried his mistress’s train as she glided toward her carriage, a yapping puppy in her arms. She was no older than thirty-five, a woman of refinement and good taste. Her clothes were elegant and clearly expensive, and her face was a testament to an easy life and a healthy diet. Many women in their thirties already looked like old hags, but the woman’s skin was still supple, her hair lustrous, and her teeth still in her mouth, as far as Max could tell from the small smile she bestowed on the dog. Max watched as the woman alighted the carriage, leaving Banjo to ride up front with the liveried coachman. Just before Banjo closed the door, Max heard the woman’s voice, and could almost see the smile on her face.

  “Merci beaucoup, mon petite chou,” she said. Thank you very much, my little darling. She sounded kind, which is all a child in Banjo’s position could ask for. The boy smiled, bowed, and jumped up on the bench after closing the carriage door. Max had seen what he’d come for, so he stepped behind a hedge before Banjo could see him from his perch. No need to upset the boy. Max walked away, satisfied that Banjo was well looked after. He had no idea what he would have done if he wasn’t, but now he didn’t have to worry about that. He hoped that someday Banjo would have a good life, a life in which he would be free to choose his own path, but for now, he was far better off than he would have been cutting cane fourteen hours a day on a sugar plantation alongside his parents, if they were still alive.

  Max finished his ale and made his way to his room at the top of the stairs. Tomorrow, he would set off for London. The original plan had been to go straight back to Cranley to confront Hugo before leaving this God-forsaken century, but having heard about the coronation which was to take place in two days’ time in London, Max couldn’t resist the lure of the spectacle. So far, he’d lived history in a way that no ordinary person could even dream of, but he hadn’t actually witnessed anything joyful or grandiose. Seeing the coronation would be a fitting end to his sojourn in the past, so a couple more days wouldn’t make too much difference to his ultimate goal. He could be in Cranley within a few days; back to his old life before the end of next week. The thought, rather than bringing him joy, caused Max anxiety. He pulled off his boots, threw his breeches over a chair and climbed into bed in his shirt.

  Three years was a long time to be away. What would he find on the other end of the passage? If Neve had borne a son, the entire line of succession would have changed. What if I’d never even been born? Max suddenly thought to himself. He supposed such a thing were possible. He might return to the twenty-first century to find that he simply didn’t exist. What then? Would his mother still be there? Would Simon? If Clarence never inherited Everly Manor, it was reasonable to assume that Stella Harding wouldn’t be there either, nor would her son. The more Max thought about his homecoming, the more anxious he became, tossing and turning for what seemed like hours before finally sinking into a fitful slumber, which was interrupted too soon by the sounds of activity from the wharf. It was morning; a cold and misty morning — the day he began his journey toward home.

  April 1689

  Surrey, England

  Chapter 61

  A lovely spring breeze caressed Liza’s flushed face as she walked toward the church, having left her horse and cart at the inn. The trees were budding, and the sky overhead was a clear blue, not a cloud marring its pristine perfection. The road was blessedly dry, not the muddy mess of a few days ago caused by nearly a full week of rain. On any other day, Liza would have enjoyed the time to herself, but today her mind wasn’t on the pleasures of nature. The past two months had been some of the hardest Liza had ever had to endure. Her remaining savings had been spent on tonic for her mother, which was really just laudanum sold for an exorbitant price by the local wisewoman.

  Her mother had been in excruciating pain as she neared the end, so Liza couldn’t bring herself to bargain or scrimp. Her mother had been the only person in her life who’d truly loved her; the only person who believed in her, and forgave h
er when she’d done wrong, as she so often had. She would have paid double if she had to in order to ease her mother’s suffering, but was still glad that a small sum was left over to get her mother a fine casket and a modest headstone. Sal Timmins had passed three weeks ago today, and then Johnny had gotten ill, sapping the last of Liza’s strength and funds. Thank heavens Johnny had recovered, but something needed to be done to restore the family’s fortunes. Her attempt to swindle Hugo Everly failed, as did her gamble with Josiah Finch, but there was one more thing she wanted to try.

  Liza passed beneath the lichen-covered gate leading to St. Nicola’s church and walked briskly up the path. It was mid-morning, so the church would be empty, and Reverend Snow free to hear what she had to say. Liza stopped inside the church porch, adjusted the shawl about her shoulders, and smoothed her skirts. She needed to look respectable for what she was about to do. The door was heavier than she remembered; she had to use both hands to push it open before walking into the solemn hush of the church. It looked just as she remembered it: squat and dim, the smell of wood, candle-smoke, and dust filling her nostrils.

  The reverend was nowhere to be seen, so Liza walked toward the lectern, her worn shoes making almost no sound on the stone nave. She would take a seat in the first pew and pretend to pray while she waited for Reverend Snow to arrive. To convey an illusion of piety might predispose him toward her. In truth, she’d stopped praying years ago. What was the point when no one was listening? God had forsaken her long ago, probably around the time she had forsaken herself. Had she remained virtuous, she might have a husband now to take care of her and her family, but she was all alone, with no one to turn to in time of need. She was acutely aware of what would happen to Johnny should she die. Her sisters would look after him until he was old enough to fend for himself, then set him out into the world with nothing to his name but his mother’s shame. With no money, no education, and no apprenticeship under his belt, Johnny would be lucky to survive. She had to set money aside for his future, money that would go to furnish him with a skill which would ensure a living. He’d have to support a family someday, and he needed to earn a wage. What she was about to do wasn’t for herself; it was for her son and his future.