by Y. S. Lee
“Do you really think the Prince of Wales will allow you to molest me and go unpunished?” Silence. She swung about to face him, trying not to flinch as the movement jarred her shoulder. “I’m about to become the new favorite. If you ruin me, he’ll raise hell.” She ticked off the points on her fingers. “You’ll lose your post, of course. But also there’ll be the cost of paying me off. Do you have that sort of ready money? And there’s the scandal: you’ll have to explain things to your father. D’you really want to tell him that your entire family lost favor with the future king all because you couldn’t keep your mitts off a parlor maid?”
He stared at her, hatred glittering in his eyes. But though his hands were curled with rage, they remained by his sides. A sudden globule of saliva gushed from the corner of his mouth, and he swiped it away. Swallowed hard. “Devil take you,” he growled. But despite the curse, his voice was hoarse. “Get out of my sight.”
Mary obeyed.
She arrived at Prince Bertie’s apartments in a state that couldn’t have been less appropriate for a tryst. Trembling from her near escape. Undeniably sweaty. Hair perfunctorily tidied. Skirt torn. And, above all, in a rage. She would never see justice between these walls — would never hear an apology or see that equerry shamed and stripped of his privilege. But more than justice, in this moment she wanted to kill him with her bare hands. None of this boded well for her encounter with the prince, for which she was so unprepared.
She dallied as long as she dared, pacing the hall and trying to calm herself. She succeeded, to a certain extent. But pain shot through her shoulder whenever she tried to move it, and the bitterness of fear and anger was strong at the back of her mouth. If he tried to kiss her, she’d probably punch him in the throat. Perhaps she ought to return to her room, wash her face, and wait a quarter hour. Yes. It was only wise, and she doubted the equerry would inform the prince of what had happened in the meantime.
As she turned to go, the door to Prince Bertie’s apartments clicked open and she heard his querulous voice: “Is that you, Mary?”
Damn and blast. She dredged up the closest thing she had to a mild expression and turned. “Yes, sir.”
He wore a smoking jacket — peculiar, at this time of day — and a small frown that made him look nearsighted. “Why were you going away?”
“I — I was afraid, sir.”
“Of me?” He blinked. “Oh — because of who I am?”
She twisted her hands, relaxing into the role of timid ingenue. “Yes, sir.”
“You mustn’t think of that. Come in.”
Mary allowed herself to be led into the prince’s sitting room and given a glass of wine. She sipped it cautiously. “It’s very nice, sir.”
His smile was patronizing. “Of course; it’s a good French claret.” They sipped in silence for an awkward few minutes before he spoke again. “You must know, by now, how very much I admire you, Mary. I fear I haven’t been subtle in showing it.”
“Mrs. Shaw warned me against immorality, sir.”
“Pooh! Pure jealousy, on her part. Mrs. Shaw never set a male heart speeding in her life. I suppose she said you’d be ruined.”
“She did, sir.”
“Well, you needn’t worry about that; I’ll take care of you. And you needn’t call me ‘sir,’ either. Not when we’re here, like this.” He edged his chair nearer to hers, so that their knees were touching.
Mary battled a wave of nausea. She’d avoided thinking about the physical details of this encounter until now. That had been an error. “Wh-what shall I call you?”
“Call me Edward.”
“Not Prince Bertie?”
He pulled a face. “My mother calls me Bertie. When she’s not calling me Albert Edward Wettin.”
“I see.” And she did. This seduction was an attempt to balance his feelings of childish impotence. It was ham-fisted and grossly thoughtless, but it might serve to help him feel like an adult.
“Drink your wine, Mary.”
Her glass was very nearly full. “I don’t want it to go to my head, sir.”
He smiled. “Ah, but I do.”
Mary battled another queasy tremor. Dipped her head and drank. What was she doing? Was there anything on earth she could say to extricate herself while preserving her cordial relations with the prince? In all her far-from-sheltered life, she’d never imagined losing her virginity this way.
“That’s better,” he purred as she lowered the half-empty glass.
But when he reached to take the goblet from her, she clutched it tighter. “Mayn’t I finish it, sir? It’s a pity to waste such a fine wine.”
His smile was half impatient, half indulgent. “Of course. You’ll be more at ease then.”
Did he really believe so? She took a small sip of claret, seeking her habitual discipline, mental and physical. It hadn’t entirely vanished. She still had choices: she could fight and flee, jettisoning all chance of completing this case. Or she could comply with Bertie’s desires and preserve her cover a bit longer. In the first scenario, she would sabotage her first case as a fully fledged member of the Agency and create doubt about her suitability as an operative. In the second, she would sacrifice her very body — the only thing that was truly hers — for the Agency’s sake. Was it worth the price? She’d not heard from Anne or Felicity on any of the subjects she’d asked about, had had no contact since that mysterious Sunday summons.
Resentment flared within her, and with it panic. They’d as good as left her alone, operating without support or context. Did they deserve the sacrifice of her womanly self-respect as well? The answer came swiftly, although she’d have preferred not to acknowledge it: it was only thanks to the Agency that she had dignity at all. They had found her. Rescued her. Made her who she was. She owed them everything.
Mary drew a deep breath. She could do this. It was all a matter of discipline, and she had plenty of that. She had no expectations of her own, anyway. No beau, no plans for marriage. The only risk was to herself. The last mouthful of wine had a bitter flavor, but she summoned a shaky smile. “Well. Edward.” His name was strange to utter — this felt like an enormous game of make-believe. Which it was, she reminded herself. It was all a charade.
He smiled. “You’re very unusual looking. Rather beautiful. Have you Italian blood?”
“No, sir. My mother was Irish, though.”
“That accounts for the dark hair and eyes, then.” He touched her cheek gently, and she tried not to flinch. Her skin prickled, and she fought the urge to scrape her face clean. It was a poor effort, but again he seemed not to notice. “Would you like another glass of wine?”
“I had better not, sir.”
“Edward.”
“Edward.”
“Well, then —” He removed the glass from her reluctant fingers. Here, however, his polished seduction scene halted. He stared at her for a moment with an expression of frank, almost tortured longing. Then, without further preliminaries, launched himself toward her.
She toppled back into the chair with a startled gasp. His lips were surprisingly cool and not entirely unpleasant. They tasted of claret and tobacco. His mustache was a surprise: she couldn’t help but think of James Easton, the only other man she’d kissed, who was clean shaven. Instantly, she regretted the comparison.
Bertie drew back for a moment to look at her. “Your first kiss,” he said with pleasure. “I can tell.” He reapplied himself, now folding her into his arms, pressing forward. She stayed still and passive, hands by her sides, still trying to convince herself that this would be all right. It was remarkable how the same acts — a kiss, a caress — could feel so different. There was nothing technically wrong with Bertie: he didn’t smell bad or cause her physical pain. And yet her skin crawled at his touch, her stomach roiled in protest.
She focused on peripheral details — the steady ticking of a clock in the background, the soft swell of the chair cushion behind her shoulder blades. But try as she might, the squeamish reality of
what she was doing reasserted itself: Bertie’s lip-smacking technique, the pressure of his knee against her thigh, the scent of his pomade suddenly made so intimate.
“You taste so sweet,” he murmured. It was as though he were reading aloud from a script for the first time.
Mary said nothing, kept her gaze anywhere but on his face.
He removed her maid’s cap and dropped it on the floor. “That’s better.” He kissed her again, apparently unconcerned by her total lack of response.
She was doing well. Even when Bertie grasped her injured shoulder, she managed not to flinch. When his hand closed over her calf, she tensed only slightly, although even through thick, unglamorous woolen stockings, her skin prickled with revulsion. He didn’t seem to notice, however, and instead began to delve into her skirts, rucking them up, muttering something incoherent. His breathing was faster, heavier, and Mary wondered if she could safely count on this being a short encounter.
But when his fingers met the bare flesh of her thigh, her brittle self-control snapped. “No!” She pushed his hand away with a force that surprised both of them and sprang to her feet. “I’m very sorry, Your Highness. I — I can’t.”
He’d tumbled backward and landed on his bottom, and now stared up at her with shock and hurt. “What did you say?”
She scarcely believed it herself. “I thought I could do this to please you. But now I find that I can’t.”
“Why? What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing in the world, Your Highness.” She wished he would stand up instead of gaping up at her from the carpet.
“I thought you liked me.”
She drew a deep breath. “I think you’re a very kind gentleman.”
He pulled a face. “‘Very kind.’ Hell’s bells.” Then, suddenly angry, he scrambled to his feet. “But you came here. You drank wine with me. You let me kiss you!”
“I — I was honored by your attentions, sir.” If he was blind to the complexities of refusing the heir apparent, she was not the person to explain them to him.
“Then you can continue to be honored, damn it!” He seized her by the elbows and kissed her again, a kiss that was both angry and desperate.
Mary pushed him away firmly. “I’m sorry, sir, but no.” She tasted blood on her lower lip. “I apologize most humbly for having given you the wrong idea. I didn’t mean to change my mind; I thought I could — go through with it, to please you. But I can’t.”
Bertie glared at her for a long minute. She stayed perfectly still, wondering if he would try to force her, as his equerry had done. He was a smaller, softer man than his attendant; she could hurt him badly enough to make him stop if she fought without reservation. But how could she possibly do that to the Prince of Wales? If she did, she’d be lucky to escape jail. Yet she knew herself incapable of doing anything other than refusing him.
The moments stretched long, parlor maid and prince staring at each other in furious tension. Then, quite suddenly, Bertie seemed to buckle. He staggered back, face crumpling like that of a small child, and fell into his armchair, emitting a high animal shriek. It took Mary a second to recognize it as a sob.
She stood over him, feeling distinctly foolish. What was the proper etiquette for comforting a prince one had just rejected and made cry? Could she offer him a clean apron to blow his nose with?
“Y-you — felt — sorry for me?” Bertie gasped, between sobs.
“Er — well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that. I wanted to try to please you.”
“Why?”
“Well . . . because you’re the Prince of Wales. And you seemed keen.”
“So it was pity!”
Mary watched with horror as he collapsed into huge, shuddering sobs and curled himself into a ball. It didn’t help that he was correct. Pity hadn’t been her main incentive in agreeing to prostitute herself, but it had certainly helped make the prospect of doing so a shade less loathsome. There was nothing she could say now to improve the situation. It might be wiser to leave, before he recovered and was doubly furious with her — first for changing her mind and then for witnessing his breakdown.
Yet she balked at simply running away. It was true that he’d be ashamed afterward. He would resent her all the more for having seen him bawl. But he was appallingly vulnerable just now. The back of his neck — the only skin visible to her in his balled-up position — was pink with emotion. There was nobody to ring for: he’d not thank her for bringing the queen or another servant or an equerry to the scene. And so Mary waited.
As the minutes dragged on, however, she became increasingly concerned: rather than crying itself out, Bertie’s histrionic grief seemed only to intensify. Indeed, after ten minutes or so, it seemed to pass from sobbing into a sort of frenzy. Most physicians believed hysteria to be an exclusively female ailment, but it was the closest description Mary could find for the prince’s condition.
She stepped closer and said, quite loudly, “Your Highness.”
No break in the keening.
“Edward.” No, that was no good: he’d only adopted that name for his grown-up charade. “Bertie!” Her tone was loud and forceful but caused only the slightest hitch in his pattern of wails. The merest touch caused him to roll into an even tighter ball — like a hedgehog, she thought, protecting its tender belly. It was a disrespectful analogy but a distressingly apt one as well: the hedgehog had no other defenses. The young man before her was the future king of England — and the hedgehog defense was still all he could manage.
Damn Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth, she thought angrily. Bertie had enough work to do with ordinary growing up. Who knew how far the trauma of seeing his friend stabbed to death might have set him back? It occurred to her that she ought to curse Lang Jin Hai more, but she pushed that thought away with ruthless injustice. She approached Bertie, gripped his shoulder firmly, and delivered a resounding slap across his left cheek.
He flailed wildly, arms churning the air until he clipped her solidly under the chin.
Her neck snapped back. Ears rang. A bright flash of light blocked out vision for a moment. And then she saw him cradling his hand, still wailing, still beyond himself. “No!” he screamed, eyes dilated in panic. “I did nothing! Wasn’t me!” Bertie’s eyes were fixed with horror on a spot some two feet from Mary. It took her several moments to realize what might be the matter. He was in a nightmare of sorts, a recent and familiar one. She watched as he tracked an invisible figure, flinched as the figure approached, then moved past him. His attention was riveted just a few feet away and he gasped at what he saw. “Don’t, Bucky — just — no — somebody”— he glanced sightlessly about his bedroom, looking for someone to intervene —“oh, God, Bucky, don’t do it!” His eyes dilated further, and he flinched as at an invisible blow. “Stop it! Oh, somebody stop him!”
Mary could take no more. She found a decanter of dark amber liquid and flung its contents into Bertie’s face. He half screamed as the liquid filled his mouth and soaked his face, then promptly began to splutter and hack. His shirt and smoking jacket were very wet, and the room suddenly reeked of brandy. It was a long coughing fit — his ears were purple before he’d finished — but eventually, he blinked up at Mary with watery, bloodshot, focused eyes.
“What — what the devil did you do that for?” He clutched his red, tear-streaked face and gazed up at her with reproach.
“With respect, sir, I thought it unhealthy to allow you to continue. You seemed . . . beyond yourself.”
He gazed at her, struggling to comprehend. “I was crying?”
“Among other things.”
Bertie’s expressions were utterly transparent. He frowned, puzzled. Had a glimpse of insight. Then, his jaw slackened and he gasped in disbelief as memory rushed back. He stared at Mary with a blend of horror and excitement. “Could I have been dreaming, do you think?”
“I don’t know, sir.” She forced herself to be honest. “I thought you might be either dreaming or remembering.”
“Yes.” He nodded, slowly at first and then with increasing conviction. “Yes. I remember. I’m remembering! I think I’ve been dreaming about it, too — every night since it happened — but I’ve never been able to recall my dreams, never in my life. But this — this is different. I’m remembering, not inventing, I’m sure of it. I’d swear to it.” His elation collapsed. “I expect I’ll have to, once I tell Mother.”
She had to know. It was none of her concern, officially, but she couldn’t bear the suspense. “Do you mean — the dreadful thing that happened to you on Saturday night, sir?”
He stared at her, suddenly shamefaced. “Yes. I expect you’ve heard all about it.”
“Not from the servants, sir — gossip’s strictly forbidden. I know only what you told me the other day.”
His relief was almost comical. “Of course! Right. Yes. Well, that’s best. Gossip’s a dangerous thing.”
But he was going to tell the queen. That was what mattered. Although, of course, it no longer mattered as it once had. Mary no longer felt capable of appreciating irony. “I’m sorry about the brandy, sir.”
He blinked down at his soaking-wet clothes. “No harm done, I suppose — though I’ll have to explain to Mother how I got through that much brandy in such a short time.”
“There are always your equerries, sir. . . .”
He half smiled. “Yes. They may finally be of use.”
“Are you sure you’re all right, sir? Are there medicines you’re meant to take?”
He shook his head.
“Even after the . . . the tragedy? Your physician left nothing, no special instructions?”
Another denial and then, suddenly, “Oh, no — wait. He left some blue pills. And some calming drops.”
Mary’s mouth twisted. “A good idea just now, I think. Where is the bottle?”
“Dunno.”
She waited.
“Dressing room, perhaps. But I’d rather have more wine. That calms me, too.”
“Let’s begin with the medicine,” said Mary as she left the sitting room. “I’ll fetch some dry linens, too.”