Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (24 page)

Was most likely a trap.

And yet . . . I liked him.

The silence lengthened. Julian crossed his arms over his chest and turned his most enigmatic scowl on the scarlet-coated young prince. “Would you be willing to swear, Highness, that you represent only your father and yourself?”

Prince George’s chin shot up, his chest swelled with indignation. “I would. I do.”

I believed him, but knew I shouldn’t. The big question: was the prince loyal to the House of Hanover or to the man acclaimed as the world’s greatest general, the man who had obviously favored young George’s promotion to the rank of colonel by the time he was twenty-one?

Were Wellington’s troops just waiting the prince’s return with a confirmation of treason that would put all our heads on the block?

If Julian had been an automaton, I couldn’t have heard more clearly the gears inside his head spinning, weighing his options, while each pregnant moment he kept his gaze locked on Prince George. “You have perhaps heard,” he said as the silent seconds grew ominous, “that I am something of a dabbler in machines. Perhaps you would care for a tour of my workshop?”

Workshop!
Julian would show
Aurora
to a colonel in the British Army? To a rival for the throne, no matter how many fine words he tossed before us?

But of course not. He had used the singular.
Workshop
. The one in the cellars held many wonders, but nothing that could be misconstrued as treason.

“I would be delighted.” The prince bounded to his feet. Enthusiastic over Julian’s inventions, or thrilled to be fulfilling his role as spy?

Men!
And they claimed females were difficult to understand.

“He’s gone mad,” Lady Thistlewaite hissed the moment Julian and prince started down the corridor toward the lift.

“Perhaps when Prince George sees all Julian’s inventions,” I ventured, “he will be more willing to believe that his time is fully occupied, rebellion the furthest thing from his mind.”

“I wouldn’t wager on it,” my mother-in-law returned with a decided snap. “Our Great Protector is undoubtedly hovering in his palace, just waiting to unleash his troops. The only problem with Rochefort’s fine escape tunnel—where do we go from there, with all Britain on alert to capture the traitors?”

An excellent question. Could we make it to Balmoral, where Lexa had spent the last few years? Scotland, after all, was always a hairsbreadth from rebellion and sympathetic to English traitors.

Perhaps if we left immediately . . .

And gave up all thought of restoration of the monarchy while Wellington lived. And that could be a decade or more. Though one and seventy, he was proving to be remarkably tenacious of life. An old soldier who had sunk his teeth in the juicy bone of Britain and refused to give way.

My mind conjured a picture of Elbert chugging out of Euston Station with soldiers squeezed into every carriage, even hanging on between cars. As many as four or five hundred if an extra carriage was added on. And there were now four locomotives on the London & Birmingham, two in regular use, two alternates, so no matter what repairs were needed, the trains ran on time. If all four were sent to London and loaded with soldiers, we could have two thousand troops on us in a matter of hours.

Merde!

Slowly, I shook my head. “I don’t think the prince was lying,” I said. “We can’t run from what could be a phantom army.”

“Do you actually believe That Man has lost his touch? That the mind that crushed Bonaparte is not determined to do the same to us?”

“No, Ma’am. But did you not say the whisper campaign has already started? Word of the princess being alive and well is spreading through London and beyond. And surely I had heard Lady Carlyon mention broadsheets and songs, rallying cries for those who hold the monarchy in their hearts. Even the circulation of sketches of a young woman wearing a crown.”

“Indeed, the town criers have been exceedingly busy. We pay them well.”

And would you have Lexa run away when triumph is within her grasp?”

“Her Highness’s safety is of paramount importance,” Lady Thistlewaite proclaimed, “even if we must wait for another day.”

“The time is here. Now. We can do this!”

“Then you’re as mad as he,” my mother-in-law cried. “You will kill us all.”

She had a point, which was why “young” was so often coupled with the word “foolish.” I sighed. As much as I espoused the cause of women of independence, this was a moment when I was relieved to fall back on tradition. “We will wait for Rochefort,” I said. “Perhaps he will learn more from Prince George, something that will help us decide what must be done.”

With what could only be described as a lethal look, Lady Thistlewaite sailed out of the drawing room, no doubt to consult with the Carlyons and the Wandsleys, leaving Lexa as a helpless pawn instead of the queen she should be. Which meant Lexa, Phoebe, and I would have a discussion of our own.

“Mama says Prince George is here,” Phoebe burbled as Tillie ushered my two new friends into my bedchamber. “What is he like? Is he handsome? Did he ask to see Lexa?”

Truly, until this moment, I hadn’t been certain Phoebe knew who Lexa was. While we settled into the cozy sitting area in front of the fireplace, I struggled with the facts, emotions, and possible fantasies battling each other in my head. The obvious seemed a good place to start.

“He is reasonably handsome,” I said. “Earnest, with good manners and a touch of military stiffness. I found him likable.”

“His purpose here?” Lexa inserted, obviously not put off by trivialities. I repeated our conversation almost word for word. “And you believed him?” she cried, clearly incredulous.

“Rochefort has taken him off to see his workshop. I believe he hopes to further probe the prince’s mind. Lady Thistlewaite,” I added, “does not trust him and has gone off to confer with our noble peers. I . . . I fear she is convinced we should postpone our plans.”

“No!” Lexa and Phoebe spoke together, eyes wide, totally shocked.

“I would agree,” I told them, “but we have not been party to the planning. We sit in the calm center while the storm swirls around us, all that plotting and planning from the Highlands to Cornwall and across the sea to Ireland—”

“Precisely,” Lexa exclaimed. “Surely we are far past the time when it can be stopped.”

“But we are discovered, and no one wishes to risk your life. If a delay means success at another time . . .” Incredibly, I heard myself arguing against my own inclinations.

“But stirring up the crowds in London has already begun,” Lexa asserted. I had never seen her look so stubborn. She was becoming more of a monarch every day.

“What I’m trying to say . . .” I took a deep breath and began again. “As much as I dislike admitting it, I think we must defer to those who have been doing the planning, most particularly Rochefort. And you, Lexa, must also have a say, for no one has more to risk.”

To my surprise, the future queen’s lips curled into a smile. “My opinion counts for very little if Rochefort will not take me.”

Shaking my head, I responded with a rueful smile of my own. “Will the day ever come when women lead men into battle?”

“Boudicca, Joan of Arc,” Phoebe announced triumphantly.

“And look what
happened to them,” I countered.

“Most women have better sense than to want to go to war,” Lexa decreed. “Wars are costly and drain away the best of our young men. Far better to engage in commerce and expand our horizons.”

Phoebe and I stared, our mouths inelegantly open.
This
from Lexa who had previously shown no depth of knowledge, or even interest in, the country she would govern. I had the impression she merely flowed with the Carlyon tide, a figurehead riding the crest of the monarchist wave. Not that monarchs ruled as they had in the old days. The cracks in absolute monarchy that
began
with the Magna Carta had long since become Parliamentarian rule.

Until the Lord Protector seized power.

Inwardly, I groaned. If Parliament, not George IV, had held power, what excuse did Wellington have for taking over the government?

But of course the answer was clear. Because the monarchy was a glorious figurehead, which should never be tarnished. And George the Fourth had been a disgrace to the nation for at least a quarter century before
Wellington’s
coup
.

But was living under a dictatorship better than a dissolute monarch? And, merciful heavens, I’d never asked what kind of government the monarchists had in mind. Surely they didn’t expect Lexa to actually rule . . .

No, of course not. The only way to win the backing of the peers of the realm and the Members of Parliament was to assure them their power would be restored.

No wonder Prince George had come dashing to the Abbey. With so many people aware of the projected
rebellion
, it was a wonder it had taken this long . . .

But it hadn’t.

I’d been shot the day after I arrived.

But how had anyone outside the heart of the conspiracy known that the Abbey was the center of the plot? That Lexa would be here?

A useless speculation. Each home, from Balmoral to Lord Carlyon’s vast country estate, contained a multitude of servants. Any one of them might have let slip a careless word. Then again, who killed the daguerrotypist? Did we truly have a traitor in our midst?

I rang for tea, but the camaraderie the three of us usually enjoyed was sadly subdued. Whether Prince George was friend or foe, there was little doubt—the enemy was among us.

Good manners demanded that Julian invite the prince to spend the night at the Abbey before beginning his long journey back to his post in Ireland. Lexa dined in her room, with six well-armed guards at her door and our entire private army on alert outside. Another sleepless night for Julian, as he anticipated Prince George proving to be a Trojan horse.

Nothing happened. The sun came up, spreading diffused light behind banks of gray clouds promising rain, but the countryside lay calm and peaceful, with no more sound than the twitter of birds and the ever-present hum of the machines in the cellar. As Julian and I bid farewell to the prince, we were only moments from breathing mutual sighs of relief when he said, “I regret I did not have the opportunity to meet my cousin Drina. Please convey my compliments to her and assure her that if the monarchy should be revived, I fully acknowledge her claim to the throne.”

I wasn’t sure if I was more stunned by his certainty Lexa was here or by his open statement of treason.

And then Lexa’s young cousin added, “I knew Drina when she was no more than a dumpling of a child, but a match was spoken of, even then. I would be obliged if you would express my warmest regards to my cousin and assure her I stand ready to share her burden.” Prince George straightened his shoulders, as if only now becoming conscious of the startling effect of his words. “If, that is,” he added stiffly, “she wishes my help.”

I gaped. Prince George was offering himself as Prince Consort?

Even Rochefort let two beats go by before he summoned a smooth, “If I should have the pleasure of meeting your cousin, Highness, I will gladly pass on your message.” He proffered a precise bow before escorting the prince down the steps to his carriage.

The moment Julian returned to the house, I dragged him into the morning room. “He
knew
. All the time he knew Lexa was here!”

Julian sank into a well-upholstered chair, steepling his fingers in front of his face. “So it would seem,” he muttered.

“Not a well-kept secret.”

“Obviously not.”

Was the prince’s offer of marriage sincere? I wondered as I stood at the window watching the dust settle behind his coach. Or would we find the entire British army camped in London’s parks, ready to annihilate our small band of monarchists?

I plumped myself down in the chair next to Julian and leaned close. “Perhaps the whispering campaign has been so successful that everyone truly believes the rightful queen is about to appear in their midst. You, your mother, the Carlyons, and the Wandsleys are all known monarchists. As was my father. And here we all are at the Abbey with a mysterious young lady from Scotland, while you darken the skies of Hertfordshire with a giant flying machine. Really, Rochefort, the astonishing fact is that you thought you could keep such a secret.”

He glowered, still and silent as one of Lord Elgin’s marbles. “You cannot have it both ways,” I added. “The whispering campaign was designed to pave Lexa’s way, was it not? So she would find London eagerly expecting the arrival of its rightful monarch. Without the whispers and the broadsheets, Lexa remains the deep, dark secret you wanted her to be. She arrives in town unheralded, is snapped up by Horse Guards, and hauled off to the Tower without so much as a whimper of protest. Believe me, secrecy is not your friend at the moment, although,” I conceded, “it might be a deal more comfortable.”

Julian raised his head, eyes narrowed above his steepled fingers. “I knew there was some reason I married you,” he growled.