“Is it?” Sir Dominic glanced at the other men. “Lord Brockenhurst?”
The viscount, who had sat in silence, lifted a leather satchel from where it lay on the floor beside him. From it, he drew forth a miniature portrait. “Prince Charles Edward Stuart,” he said, and handed it to James.
James sank once more onto his chair, and stared into a rendition of what might have been his own face. The visage might have been longer, but a painted version of his own black eyes stared back at him from beneath a wave of identical dark red hair. The features bore a striking resemblance to his own.
He raised his head and looked from one to the other of the intent faces watching him. Whether any truth lay in their claim or not would be determined later. Right now, he wanted to know what, precisely, their intentions were. Though with a sinking sensation, he realized he knew.
Lord Farnham and Viscount Brockenhurst exchanged a significant glance. Farnham ran his hand through his thick black hair, rumpling the faint streaks of gray. He cleared his throat. “You are well aware of the unrest throughout our country.”
“Of the unpopularity of Prinny.” Brockenhurst leaned his slender frame forward, regarding James with intensity in his hazel eyes.
James nodded. “And of the fact Parliament is even now debating a regency bill. I doubt there is anyone in England not aware of this.”
“It cannot be much longer.” Sir Oliver sprang to his feet with the energy of his athletic stature. “I fear our days grow short, for there can be no denying this time our good king is unlikely to recover. At the moment, Prinny, as unpopular as he is, must be acknowledged the most likely choice.”
“The effect on the country,” Brockenhurst said quietly, “will be devastating, with a bloody revolution the most likely outcome.”
“But there is another possibility,” Sir Dominic said. “You, a Stuart, a known supporter of the poor and underprivileged, can prevent this. Come forward at once and declare yourself the best choice for regent, then king upon the eventual death of King George.”
For a long minute, silence filled the salon, broken only by the crackling of the fire. James looked from one to the other of the intent faces—all focused on him. He leaned back in his chair and turned to Sir Dominic, the apparent spokesman for this bizarre group.
“You don’t really expect me to believe any of this nonsense, do you?” he asked at last.
“We have considerable documentary evidence. Brockenhurst?” Sir Dominic held out his hand to the youngest member of their conspiracy.
Lord Brockenhurst drew a handful of sheets from the satchel and gave them to Sir Dominic, who held them out to James.
James hesitated, then accepted them. Vaguely, he was aware that Christy stood behind him, looking over his shoulder. Why hadn’t she warned him of this? Surely she must have known—unless not a single word of truth lay in it. Then why go to this elaborate charade? If they wanted him silenced...
His thoughts roiling, he picked up the first of the papers and read the statement affirming that the baby boy born to Louise von Stolberg had been healthy, but switched with a stillborn infant. The real Prince James Edward Stuart had been placed into the keeping of Martin Holborn, fifth earl St. Ives, to be raised as his nephew until such time as it was deemed prudent to enlighten the boy as to his true identity. It bore the signature of Juliana, Countess St. Ives, who had been in attendance at the birth.
The next related a similar account, with the title Farnham scrawled at the bottom.
James leafed through the remaining sheets. All contained much the same information, in various hands from illiterate scrawls to elegant copperplate. Nine documents in all, each providing a variety of corroborating details, up to and including the deep red of his hair and the existence of an oval birthmark on the inside of his right thigh. As he stared at the sketch of this mark, made by the midwife, the identical one on his leg seemed to burn.
This wasn’t possible. None of this could be true. Yet that mark ... Memories came to him of his youth, of instructions given to him by his uncle—his supposed uncle—about duty and self-sacrifice for the good of those under the sphere of his influence. At the time it had seemed odd, for he possessed no estates, no armies of tenants or employees for whose interests he had to concern himself. With an elder cousin, he had no expectation of stepping into his uncle’s shoes. Yet the words had been repeated often, until James had taken them to heart.
“Do you not recall my father’s violent objections to your choice of a military career?” St. Ives’s voice broke across his thoughts. “Then how he suddenly relented and purchased your pair of colors?”
James looked up into the face which for once did not bear a sneer.
“I believed my father afraid of losing you, at first. But when I succeeded to his room, I learned the truth.”
Sir Dominic nodded. “We feared for your life—for the continuation of the Stuart line. But at the time there seemed little danger, and a Stuart who had served his country with a distinguished military career might be all the more acceptable to the populace.”
“I see.” James’s fingers tightened on the papers he still held. “You can have no idea how honored I am by your concern, gentlemen.”
Lord Farnham gave a short laugh. “You must admit to your significance.”
“If any of this is indeed true.” James studied the serious face, with the brown eyes that never seemed to smile. “This Farnham,” he said, holding up the paper. “Was he your father?”
The man nodded. “He died only three years after that, preventing someone from assassinating the prince.”
“Then your family has served the Stuarts well,” James said softly. The burden of guilt, of responsibility, of the entire Stuart legacy, descended on his shoulders like a mantle of granite. He straightened in a conscious effort to bear the suffocating weight.
“His grandfather,” Sir Oliver said, adding another layer, “died at Culloden Moor.”
The Stuart legacy. James rose and turned away, needing time to assimilate this, time to think—time to recognize the enormity of what they expected of him in return for all their conspiracy had done.
Warm hands caught his, and he opened eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed and gazed down into Christy’s drawn face. “Well, my dear?” he said softly.
“I need to talk to you,” she said.
He nodded. Lord, it would be good to slip away with her, to lose his concerns in her full lips, her generous love, her throaty, infectious laugh. Only she wasn’t laughing, now.
She gripped his hands. “Please, James?”
He touched her cheek with one finger, and an infinite sadness flowed through him, leaving a vast yearning in its wake. If, indeed, all this were true ... And with a painful certainty, he knew it was. It explained so many puzzles—and the reason someone wanted him dead.
He turned to the circle of men behind him. All of importance, all prominent in the government, and all waiting on his next words. Sir Oliver Paignton and Sir Dominic Kaye, both men whose names frequently appeared in the pages of the Morning Post in connection with their debates in Parliament. Lord Farnham, Viscount Brockenhurst, and Earl St. Ives, each an expert in a different office, each a commanding figure among his colleagues.
The significance of this new reality dawned on him. As a Stuart, as regent, as king, his concerns would not be mocked. He would speak with power and authority, and men such as these, men who dictated the country’s policy, would listen—and act. How much good he could do...
“James!” Christy tugged at his arm. “Now.”
His gaze lowered to her frantic face, and a slight smile twitched on his lips. “If you will excuse us, gentlemen?”
“Of course.” Sir Dominic rose, leaning heavily on his cane. “We will leave you.”
“No.” James stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Don’t let us disturb you. Is there another room, perhaps, where we could talk?”
“You may use the salon next to this, if you wish.�
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James caught Christy’s arm and led her out, forestalling Sir Dominic’s obvious intention to escort them there himself. “Does he think I can’t find my way for a journey of twenty feet?” he muttered to Christy.
She shook her head. “Bear in mind your rise in status around here. If you play with them, you’re going to have to get used to a lot of kowtowing.”
“If I play with them.” He closed the door of the next apartment behind them. “Do you think I have a choice?”
“I don’t know.” She crossed to the window which looked out over the drive. “Do you remember creeping along that just a couple days ago? It feels like it’s been forever.”
He came up behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders, drawing her back so her head leaned against his chest. “What did you want to say?”
She tensed beneath his fingers. After a long moment, she said: “I’m afraid.”
“Why?” He turned her to face him. “Christy, do you see what they offer me?”
She nodded, her expression strained. “Bloodbaths and revolution.”
“No!” He released her and paced to the hearth, then spun about. “No, no rioting in the streets. There wouldn’t be any need! Can’t you see? I could prevent all that. I could give the people what they want, the chance to lead decent lives.”
She shook her head. “Can’t you understand? You don’t become regent. Prinny does, that’s the way history occurs. And it doesn’t cause any revolution or bloodshed!”
He froze, studying her face, seeing her fear. “You mean I am what causes all that disaster? A Stuart coming forward to claim the throne?”
She nodded. “It must be that. Oh, James!” She buried her face in her hands, then looked up at him once more. “I saw two possible courses for history in your book. Prinny could be named regent and all would continue smoothly, and you record the events of this house party. Or there is a bloodbath, and the aristocrats are slaughtered in the streets—because a Stuart tries to claim the throne.”
In four long strides he reached her and grasped her hands. “Think, Christy. Did you see anything about a Stuart in my book?”
She stared at him, her expression confused, then she shook her head. “No.”
“Then that must be it. There are three—or even more!—possible courses of action. No,” he silenced her as she opened her mouth to protest. “Just think, Christy. This is Eighteen-Ten, not whenever you lived. The history you know hasn’t happened yet. And as we’ve seen from the unwritten portions of my book, it can be changed!”
“That’s what scares me—”
“No, listen. What if the riots occur because I do nothing? There is so much I could do. We could rewrite the history you know, make it better, relieve so much suffering.”
“James—”
He gazed beyond her shoulder, unseeing, ignoring her interruption. “Prinny is a wastrel, and very unpopular with the commoners. They would welcome a ruler who had their interests at heart, whose concern lay with the people.”
She stared at him, her expression aghast. “You’re having delusions of grandeur.”
Slowly, he leveled his regard on her. “They don’t appear to be delusions.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Christy clenched her fists. “James, listen to me! Stay out of this. Prinny may not be popular, but people love to grumble. They may complain a lot about him, but they won’t do anything. They don’t care enough. But you—your situation—would be different.”
“Why?” James shot at her.
“Because you’re a Stuart. I don’t know that much about English history, but the Stuarts caused a lot of suffering. They had the right to the throne, but not the support. Do you want to start it all over again? Lead an army against your countrymen and see your followers slaughtered on the fields? Or in the streets? Maybe that’s what your book referred to.”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t come to power by war, but by an act of Parliament.”
“And what if you’re not accepted by the government? What , do you think would happen then? The fact a Stuart exists—and one who’s a supporter of the poor, at that—isn’t going to remain a secret for long. The common people will see you as a champion for their cause. What’s to stop them rising up in protest, demanding you be made regent?”
He ran his hands through the thick auburn waves of his hair. “Confound it, Christy, if I am a Stuart—” He broke off.
“So what if you are? Do you think this is your divine destiny, or some corny tripe like that? Damn it, James, don’t hide behind stupid clichés. Think this through!”
She studied his face, and saw pigheaded stubbornness in the set of his jaw. Now was not the time for bludgeon tactics.
She went to the window and gripped the blue velvet drape. Deep breaths, she told herself. Calm down. It would be too easy to push too hard, force his pride into making the wrong decision. There had to be alternatives, ones that didn’t demand he deny his newfound heritage.
If only he had been left with his true parents, raised a Catholic and a pretender prince, he might have been content to live in exile in Italy. And she never would have met him, never would have found the book he never would have written...
Never. The mere thought of that, of never having known him, of never holding him in her arms, tore at her, leaving an aching void in her heart. Tears burned in her eyes, but she blinked them back. Dear God, she loved him.
She went to him and held him tightly, pressing her face against his chest. One of his strong arms wrapped about her, the other hand stroked her unruly hair.
“Of all the things I thought Sir Dominic might have to say, I never expected this.” His lips brushed the top of her tight curls. “But now that I know, you cannot ask me to deny it.”
“No,” she agreed in a very small voice, “but—” Slowly, she raised her head and looked up into his frowning face. “You can proclaim yourself a Stuart, but there is nothing that says you have to try for the regency, is there? Wouldn’t your very existence prove a sufficient threat to your Prinny? He might be willing to make concessions in his own habits and for the poor, just to prevent you from causing an uprising.”
“We shall see.” His expression remained unreadable. “You are quite right, today is not the time for decisions.”
She nodded, but in her heart, doubts remained. His very existence threatened the stability of the government. As long as he lived, there would be someone, somewhere, anxious to see him dead.
A knock sounded on the door, and it opened. Sir Dominic hesitated on the threshold. “Major?”
James released Christy. “I have accepted what you have told me,” he said, his voice steady. “I have not, however, made any decisions on how that will affect my future actions.”
To Christy’s consternation, Sir Dominic bowed. “As you wish, Major. Now, if you will permit me, I will show you to your rooms. We keep country hours at Briarly.”
To her relief, Christy found she and James had been placed in the same wing and on the same floor. It made it easier to keep an eye on him, to make sure no one—other than herself, of course—crept stealthily into his chamber at night. Satisfied, she entered her own apartment and greeted Nancy, who sat moodily stirring the embers in the grate.
“What’s wrong?” Christy drew up a chair at her side.
Nancy shook her head. “I was just wonderin’ ’ow the missus and the boys was gettin’ on with that maid the major ’ired.”
“They’ll be fine. And she’s only there temporarily, so don’t you worry about not getting your job back. I’m very grateful to Mrs. Runcorn for sparing you to me.” Her gaze narrowed on the girl. “What’s really the matter?”
“Ain’t nothin’ you can do a lick o’ good about, Miss Christy. I just wish—” She broke off and stabbed the poker into the side of a log.
“I can listen, at least.”
Nancy sighed. “Did you ever makes plans for your life, miss, then ’ave ’em go all astray?”
&nbs
p; A short laugh escaped Christy. “Yes. Badly. Have yours? What did you hope for?”
“I never knew nothin’ but thievin’, Miss Christy, not ’til I prigged that tattler of the major’s. Then suddenly—There was a whole new world, miss, with people the likes of which I never seen afore. And gentlemen—” She broke off.
“Men who treated you with a bit of respect?” Christy suggested.
Nancy nodded. “I swore I’d do whatever it took to make—a man—not ashamed of me. But it didn’t work. And then when I finds one what doesn’t mind ’ow I talks, all ’e offers is to set me up with my own carriage and say as I can dress up as fine as five pence.”
“What is it you do want?”
Nancy sniffed. “Well, I don’t mind the carriage part, nor the fine fallolls. But I don’t want no slip on the shoulder.” She drew a shaky breath. “I want someone to love, Miss Christy, but I ain’t no fit wife for a decent man.”
“You’re getting there. Just give it time. You’re using far fewer can’t words all the time. Hadn’t you noticed?”
Nancy nodded, and wiped her eyes on the back of her sleeve.
“I tries to talk right, miss. Not as I see where it’s doin’ me no good, though. No man what knows my past would ’ave me. Leastways, none as I could care about.”
“Maybe you just haven’t met the right one, yet,” Christy offered.
Nancy’s expression closed over. “And maybe I ’as.” She straightened, and shook her brassy curls. “Now, Miss Christy, you shouldn’t of gone and let me run on like this. Addlepated, that’s what I am, to go a-worriting myself over some mackerel-backed old looby. Settin’ up as a doxy wouldn’t be ’alf bad, it wouldn’t. Could make my fortune, I could.”
Christy opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. Love and a comfortable life. Who didn’t want that? Still—“Don’t do anything rash.”
“No, miss,” Nancy said, though she didn’t sound at all convinced. A deep, resonant gong reverberated through the house, and Nancy rose, as if relieved at the interruption. “Time you was gettin’ dressed for dinner, miss.”
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