I woke some hours later. My little chapel folly was still in blackness, the hearth cold and Stoker asleep on a chaise longue in the corner. He had not shared my bed, I thought with a pang. My head was clear, the opium haze cleared as a fog blown away by a great wind. I turned on my side, listening to a nightjar in the garden, singing a plaintive song.
The drug had left my bones feeling as if they had been filled with lead, and much of the memory of the night’s adventure had been lost. I pieced it together like an imperfect patchwork, recalling as much as I could of our excursion to the opium den and Scotland Yard. I put a finger to my lips. They felt tender, and when I rose later and studied them in the looking glass, I would find them swollen and bruised. And as I studied my reflection, I repeated the word that Stoker had moaned, the word that had burnt to ash whatever we had kindled between us.
“Caroline.”
CHAPTER
23
The next morning I woke to a tiny sledgehammer working its way around my skull. I rose and washed and dressed slowly and with great care. I found Stoker in the Belvedere, admiring his dermestids as they tidied up the rib bones of the rabbit. He peered at me over the case.
“You look like as though you ought to be on a slab at Padgett and Pettifer’s,” he remarked with maddening calm. He was not wrong. Violet shadows were smudged beneath my eyes, and I was unusually pale.
“How utterly charming of you. Do you talk that way to all the ladies?”
With a sigh, he poured a foul-looking concoction into a glass and handed it over. “Here. I have brewed you something to help with the headache.”
“How do you know I have a headache?” I demanded, giving it a cautious sniff.
“Veronica, I have extensive medical training as well as significant experience in debauchery. I know perfectly well that anyone who has imbibed not only a full opium pipe but a syringe of cocaine is going to feel like seven hells. Now, drink up.”
He was not wrong. It smelt vile and tasted worse, but I managed to finish it to the dregs and felt marginally better, or at least more alert. The little sledgehammer had been reduced to a mallet and the ringing in my ears had dulled to a modest buzz.
“What was it?”
“You do not want to know,” he said turning to his breakfast. Instead of our customary sliced bread toasted in front of the fire, a sort of buffet had been arranged upon a sarcophagus. I was not surprised at Stoker’s misuse of the thing—he had a snobbish dislike for anything later than the New Kingdom, and this particular artifact was firmly Ptolemaic. But it seemed a trifle irreverent to use it for the service of food, even if the aromas were enticing. From the kitchens in the main house had come slices of cold ham, boiled eggs, a pot of quince jam, a veal pie, and fresh muffins. They were not hot; the lengthy trip to the Belvedere saw to that. But they were springy and well griddled, and Stoker pounced upon them with a sigh of pure satisfaction. He took up a pot of honey and began to scribble designs upon them, his habit when confronted with muffins, crumpets, or toast. I had yet to see him eat a breakfast without subjecting it to a little creative embellishment beforehand.
He sketched out the design of a ship on one and had just begun drizzling a cat upon the other when Lady Wellingtonia appeared.
“Good morning, my dears!” she caroled. She beamed a hearty smile at us—too hearty for midmorning, I decided. Stoker jumped to his feet, but she waved him back to his chair. She edged past the coprolite from her last visit, giving it a stern look, and nodded in approval at the sight of the muffins.
“I see Mrs. Bascombe did as she was told. When I inquired about arrangements for your board, I was told you saw to your own breakfast and were given a cold collation at luncheon. That will no longer be the case,” she said with the satisfied air of one who has sailed into battle and prevailed. “You will have each morning a selection from the breakfast sideboard and a plate of hot food at midday. If you are not invited to dine with the family, you will be brought dinner as well.”
“That is very kind,” Stoker said through a mouthful of honeyed muffin.
She gave him a benevolent look. “I like to play Lady Bountiful. At my age, it is one of the few pleasures I have left. One loses so many opportunities for enjoyment when the knees go,” she told me as a mournful aside. Stoker choked lightly but we both ignored him.
She held up a sheaf of envelopes. “I have brought the post. I confess, I would have left it to the hall boy, but I was unforgivably curious.”
I took the envelopes from her and immediately saw the one that had kindled her interest, a thick specimen with a decidedly royal cipher engraved upon the reverse.
“It is from the Princess Louise,” I acknowledged. There seemed no possible way—and little point—in hiding the fact.
Her brows lifted. “Indeed! What august company you keep, Miss Speedwell.”
Stoker choked again, but I darted him a quelling glance. “You ought to drink something,” I said. “It would be a shame if you suffocated on a muffin.” I turned back to Lady Wellingtonia. “We made Her Royal Highness’s acquaintance through Sir Frederick Havelock. She is a sculptress, you know. She moves in rather Bohemian circles.”
“Oh, I know,” she said, her shrewd eyes thoughtful. “I have often felt sorry for her.”
“Sorry? For a princess?”
Her mouth twitched in amusement. “You are far too old for fairy tales, Miss Speedwell. Surely you know the life of royalty is not at all as we believe it to be. It is a prison—a gilded one—but a prison nonetheless.”
“Her Royal Highness said almost exactly that to me,” I replied. Too late I realized my mistake.
The shrewd old eyes sharpened. “You must have got quite close to her for the princess to make such an admission. That is quite a thing to tell a stranger.”
I shrugged. “Perhaps she was in a mood to unburden herself.”
“Perhaps,” Lady Wellingtonia said. “Royalty can be peculiar, and Princess Louise more peculiar than most. Did she tell you about her husband?”
“The Marquess of Lorne? We met him briefly. He seemed quite cordial.”
“He’s a famous imbecile,” she replied stoutly. “But he will be a duke and that is all that matters. Personally, I’ve never met a Campbell who was entirely trustworthy, but that isn’t Lorne’s trouble.”
“What sort of trouble does the marquess have?” I inquired.
She slanted me an enigmatic look. “There is no proof, only talk, but the talk is persistent. May I sit?” she asked, indicating a camel saddle perched upon a hurdle.
“Wouldn’t you prefer an armchair?” I asked, gesturing to a decaying wingback.
“Certainly not. I rode across the Syrian desert on one of these. Brings back lovely memories. I wanted to see the ruins of Palmyra,” she told me as she settled herself with astonishing agility onto the saddle. “I fancied myself another Jane Digby. Are you familiar?”
“I have heard the name,” I said. “An adventuress, I believe?”
She gave me a repressive look. “A woman who knew how to live,” she corrected. “Took four husbands—or was it five?—and the last was a Bedouin sheikh. We were friends after a fashion, Jane and I, but she took it amiss when I had an affair with her stepson.”
I smothered a laugh, and Stoker bent swiftly to his muffins, his color flaming red. Lady Wellie went on. “That sort of thing can damage a friendship, you know. Poor Jane. She’s dead now—been gone some five or six years. She was a decade older than I, but I mean to see one hundred.”
“I have no doubt you will,” I said. “You were talking about the Marquess of Lorne,” I coaxed.
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Yes, well, it’s a tricky situation, isn’t it? Louise has always been restless, always fighting against protocol. She was badly spoilt, if you ask me. The queen thought marriage might settle her down. She offered her a pair of suitors, an
d Louise chose Lorne as the lesser of two evils.”
“That seems rather cold-blooded,” I commented.
“That is royalty. It’s not so much the making of marriages as the commingling of bloodstock. But there wasn’t to be any commingling, not in Louise’s case,” she said. “They have no children.”
“Barrenness is a tragedy for a woman who wants a child,” I said mildly.
Lady Wellie thumped her cane against the floor. “Louise is not barren! She has a husband who won’t see to her.”
“The marquess is disinclined?”
“How daintily you put it, child! We were franker about these things in my day. The man won’t plow his wife.”
“But why not?” I asked. “The princess is pleasant and handsome.Certainly that is more than most princesses bring to the marriage bed.”
“And it would have been enough if Lorne liked women.”
I blinked at her. “You mean the marquess prefers men? In his bed?”
She shrugged. “That I cannot tell you. I can only say for a fact that he prefers the company of men to his wife. Whether that extends to the bedroom, only they know. There was some talk when she chose Lorne. The Prince of Wales flew into a temper and said his sister would never marry the man, but he would give no reason why. Without a compelling cause to break the betrothal, the queen let it stand. There are those who say the prince’s objections were based upon the marquess’s inclinations.”
“But that is just hearsay,” I countered.
“Hearsay that will not die. Is there at least the spark of a fire smoldering under all that smoke?” She shrugged. “Who can say? Perhaps the trouble is that Louise is frigid or in love with another man or Lorne has halitosis or likes stamps. No one really knows what goes on within the confines of a marriage. But there is talk, dreadful gossip. They say Louise has ordered the windows of the palace bricked up to stop Lorne escaping into Kensington Gardens to tryst with soldiers. Whether it is true or not, I can tell you that Louise has been unhappy. And an unhappy wife is a dangerous creature.”
She paused then, letting her words sink in. After a moment, she nodded towards the envelope. “Why don’t you open it and see what she wants?”
There was no reason to defer the inevitable. I picked up the horn I used as a letter opener and slit the envelope. The page was crested and the handwriting imperious. “Come at once. Do not delay and tell no one. L.”
I slipped it back into the envelope and gave Lady Wellie a winsome smile. “Just a request for a subscription to a charity she supports.”
Lady Wellie smiled back, and it was the smile of an old crocodile that has seen much. “So you say, child. And who am I to doubt you?” She gave a wheeze and put her stick down to dismount the camel saddle. In an instant, Stoker was at her side, helping her to her feet.
“Thank you, dear boy,” she said fondly. “You are a credit to your mother. Or the navy. I never can decide.”
He walked her to the door and returned, wiping the last of the honey from his mouth. “What did the letter really say?” he demanded.
“We are summoned,” I told him, handing over the letter. I tipped my head as he read it over. “Stoker, why do I have the oddest feeling that Lady Wellingtonia is enjoying a joke and somehow it is at my expense?”
He flapped a hand. “That is simply her way. She likes to play with people and you are her newest bit of catnip.”
“Catnip or mouse?” I asked. Only time would tell.
• • •
We made our way to Kensington Palace, following the same directions we had been given the first time. The butler had scarcely shown us in before the princess appeared. She wasted not a minute in cordiality but hurried us to her private sitting room, giving instructions that we were not to be disturbed.
Only when the door had been securely shut and we were alone did she relax a little. She plucked a letter from her sleeve and handed it over.
“Read it,” she commanded.
The paper was ordinary stuff. The writing was stilted, as if someone with education and fair penmanship were endeavoring to hide them both. The edge of the paper was heavily charred and the whole smelled of smoke.
“I have the ledger,” it began without salutation. “Bring your emeralds to the grotto at midnight and await further instructions. Tell no one or steps shall be taken.”
I made to hand the note back, but the princess waved me off with fingers that trembled. From rage or fear, I could not tell. I passed it to Stoker who studied it in silence. We did not exchange glances, but I knew he was thinking of our abortive trip to Littledown. Someone had indeed recovered the ledger after I dropped it and seized the opportunity to put it to use.
I longed to question the princess, but I was wary of her nerves. She was pulled taut as a bowstring, and without careful handling she might well dissolve into hysterics. I chose an oblique approach instead.
“How did the note arrive?” I asked.
“It was in the morning post, mixed in with the rest.”
“The envelope?”
She pulled a face. “Burnt. I wanted to destroy it, you see, so I flung both onto the fire. But I realized how foolish that was and I fetched the letter out again. It was too late for the envelope.”
“Was there anything of distinction about the envelope?”
The lines in her brow deepened as she concentrated. “The postmark was central London, but there was no other mark except for my direction.”
“And was it properly addressed?”
Her smile was sour. “Yes. All the proper titles in all the proper places.”
I did not want to tackle the subject of the ledger yet, and she clearly had no wish to volunteer the information. I continued to skirt the subject.
“To what emeralds does the letter refer?”
She clasped her hands together, twisting her fingers. “I have a parure composed of my wedding gifts. There is a tiara of emeralds and diamonds given me by my husband’s parents, the Duke and Duchess of Argyll. There is a bracelet, an emerald set with brilliants, and a locket, also set with brilliants. I wore it on my wedding day—it was a present from Her Majesty. There are a few smaller pieces, but those are the significant ones.”
“And this villain knows all about them,” I mused.
“Everyone does,” she returned snappishly. “The gifts were in every illustrated newspaper in the Empire. My wedding portrait was circulated widely, and the locket was quite prominent.”
“I presume it is of excellent quality.”
“Naturally.” Her mood was thoroughly awful, for which I did not entirely blame her. Hers really was a fishbowl existence, glorious as it might be, and suddenly I understood Lady Wellie’s inclination to pity her. How dreadful to have millions of strangers know the intimate details of one’s life, to pick over them like so many discarded bones from a banquet table, looking for the choicest bits of meat.
As if intuiting my thoughts, she began to speak, her voice low and thick with bitterness. “You have no idea how awful it is, knowing complete strangers are sitting in their homes, reading all about you, judging you, sometimes hating you simply because of an accident of birth. I do not know if I shall ever feel safe again leaving my house. I shall look into every stranger’s eyes thinking, ‘Is it you? Is it you who hates me so?’”
“I do not think you need fear the stranger on the street, Your Royal Highness,” Stoker told her gently. “This is the work of someone known to you.”
She blinked, her expression quite blank. “That cannot be. I will not believe it. It must be a servant. Perhaps that girl who cleans at Havelock House,” she began. “Have you even investigated her? Or have you been too busy playing at this to do the job properly? Perhaps I was wrong to trust you,” she blazed. “After all, it is your fault this villain has the ledger at all. And what have you managed to discover? Precisely n
othing. Days wasted, and you are no closer to saving Miles Ramsforth.”
My customary sangfroid deserted me at such a galling display of injustice. I made an impolite sound, and Stoker shot me a warning glance. To his credit—and my everlasting gratitude—he seized the moment. Heedless of the prohibition against touching royalty, he put a firm hand under her elbow and guided her to an armchair. When she was seated, he knelt at her feet, the very picture of devotion.
“Your Royal Highness,” he said with infinite gentleness, “I understand this is difficult, and far beyond anything you have ever encountered. But we are doing everything in our power to help you.”
She gave him a brief nod. “I know, Mr. Templeton-Vane. It is simply maddening, the waiting. And now this—it’s monstrous.”
Her lips trembled as if she would give way to tears, and he rummaged in his pocket for one of his enormous scarlet handkerchiefs. “Keep this. Just in case,” he urged.
She nodded again, biddable as a child, and he took her hand in his, as gently and respectfully as he would cradle a wounded baby bird.
“Won’t you tell me everything?”
Me. I noted the change of pronoun as well as the fact that he had shifted his posture slightly to put his back to me, creating an intimate twosome with the princess. He was blatantly cutting me from the conversation, but just as I opened my mouth to remonstrate with him, I saw the effectiveness of his methods.
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