Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (26 page)

Once I got there. Shivers joined my shakes.

Only the stupid are never afraid
, my common sense informed me.
Bravery is facing your fear.

I swear my inner voice’s snort of derision could be heard all the way to the wine cellar.

Nonetheless . . .

Fortunately, the Mono was at the kitchen station. I climbed aboard and pressed 3, remembering clearly my confusion and astonishment the day Drummond had introduced me to Rochefort’s strange contraption. Now the Mono was my friend, functioning as smoothly by night as it did by day, taking me exactly where I wanted to go.

The gas lights were turned so low, they barely flickered. Obviously, it was sensible to turn down the gas at night, but . . . I sighed, my fingers white-knuckling around the Mono’s handlebar. Next time I came, I would be accustomed to the Abbey cellars at night, I promised myself. I would not be constantly peering ahead, glancing over my shoulder, staring into the shadows of side passageways.

When the Mono stopped outside Julian’s workshop, I leaped off, shoved open the door, and paused on the threshold to savor the sudden change from gloom to pulsing life. Never had the hums and clicks of moving machines sounded so wonderful. It was like being enveloped in a warm blanket of good friends. Fear dissolved on the instant, I strode toward my little workshop with joy in my heart. I would bar the door, don my leather apron, and
stay there
’til morning, so I wouldn’t have to make the long trip back tonight, a journey which would take me past the wine cellar.

I walked up the three steps, turned my key in the lock, and let the sight of my own special place soak into my soul. Mine, all mine. My very own workshop—a lure more powerful than jewels or gold. Julian understood, he really did. Smiling, I moved forward, beginning a thorough inspection of my husband’s unique gift.

In the end, I had little more than an hour before Julian found me. And when his scold ran down,
he
kissed me soundly and escorted me back to my room, where we made up our quarrel in time-honored fashion. But by daybreak I’d winkled a schedule out of him that allowed me time in my workshop every day. Complete with my very own guard.

Marriage was proving to be an amazing adventure.

And the diversion the monarchists’ didn’t think they needed would be ready when the time came.

The major contretemps that erupted when Julian announced our intention of traveling to London had kept me from any private moments with Lexa and Phoebe, but today, in spite of my lack of sleep, the three of us settled in my bedchamber, with a footman outside the door under orders to allow no one in. I hoped to relieve the tension by indulging in a light moment, a discussion more dear to our hearts than the fate of the nation.

“Well,” I asked Lexa as soon as we were seated, “were you peeking out the window?”

Phoebe giggled. “We both were.”

Lexa cocked her head to one side, giving the matter serious consideration. “Cousin George is better looking than he was as a child. But his papa was always putting him forward even then. Mama didn’t like it . . . but she never liked any of the Hanovers. She said they were all jealous because after my cousin Charlotte
and her baby
died, I was heir
presumptive
. My Uncle York had no children. My Uncle Clarence could not produce a living child with his wife, though he had ten with his mistress, and Cumberland and Cambridge were below me in line of succession. So naturally Uncle Cambridge wished to put George in my way.”

“Childhood sweethearts!” Phoebe exclaimed.

Lexa shook her head. “Though I longed for companionship—I fair rattled through the empty halls of Kensington Palace—I was seldom allowed to see George.” Lexa ducked her head. “The king could not stand Mama, you see. He thought she gave herself airs. And he was right, of course,” Lexa added softly. Sadly. “Too much under the influence of Captain Conroy, Mama became shockingly ambitious, frequently acting as if the king and Uncle Clarence were already in their graves.”

“Oh dear.” Phoebe raised her fingers to her lips.

“It was almost a relief when Wellington seized the government,” Lexa admitted. “I was ten years old and could only be grateful I would no longer be dragged hither and yon by Mama and Conroy, displaying me as the future queen.”

“It was such a coup,” Phoebe chortled, clapping her hands. “I heard Mama and Lady Carlyon talking about it over the winter. The moment you reached your majority, they planned to winkle you away from your mama and Captain Conroy and bring you here, where we would make
you
queen, not your mama or her paramour. Oh! Lexa–Highness, I beg your pardon. I should not have said that.”

“I am sure it is only what you have heard at home,” Lexa acknowledged graciously. “And how else could Conroy have such influence over Mama, even though he has a wife and children at home?”

“I have often wondered how they did it,” Lexa said softly. “All I heard at Balmoral were loud voices echoing down the corridor and an occasional shriek from Mama. But as my dear Miss Lehzen informed me, the moment I reached my majority, Mama’s power was all in her head.”

“Who is Miss Lehzen?” I asked.

“My governess . . . and friend,” Lexa replied softly. “My only friend until I came here. I miss her sorely, but Lord Carlyon wished me to break completely with my past.” She brightened. “But he promised I might send for her when . . . when we are established in London.”

Silently, I sighed. It would appear Miss Lehzen was more Lexa’s mother than the woman who gave her life.

What had happened to the light moment I had planned, a bit of girlish speculation over a possible suitor? The high price of royalty—even talk of a young man was doomed to become a serious matter of state.

“And what about Prince George?” Phoebe asked. Bless her. “Will you take him as Prince Consort?”

Lexa allowed a slow smile to curve her lips, her blue eyes warmed. “If I thought he cared a whit for me, I might, for he has turned out rather well. But I rather think I like my continental cousins better. Particularly Albert. His older brother Ernest will inherit Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, where my Mama was born, but Albert is rather sweet, though a trifle younger than I. He has studied law and does not frighten me as some of my more militant cousins do”

“But Prince George is English,” Phoebe protested.

“He is a soldier,” Lexa retorted.

“Poor George,” I murmured. “I rather liked him.”

We sat in silence for a moment, lost in our own thoughts, until a new, rather appalling, thought struck me. “Lexa,” I said, “when you came to the Abbey, you were in disguise, and we were just three young women enjoying our comfortable cozes. But”—I frowned—“it occurs to me it’s time we remember who you are and what you are about to become. I think we must address you more formally.”

“No! I will not have it.” Lexa sat upright in her chair, fisting her hands in her lap. “I understand what you are saying, but please . . . you are the first friends of my own age I have ever had. Perhaps in public we should practice the formalities that will be demanded at court—if there ever is a court again—but, please, I beg of you, in private allow me to be Lexa, your friend.”

Phoebe and I murmured our agreement, but reality was creeping uncomfortably close. In the next few weeks Lexa would become queen or we would all be in the Tower, awaiting execution.

Chapter 20

Matt was gone for three days, but even though Rochefort and I had settled our differences on all but my personal contribution to the revolution, I glowed when he invited me to be with him when he heard Matt’s report. I rushed up from the cellars and burst into the bookroom in time to hear words flowing from our apprentice engineer like flood waters through a broken dam. Too excited to sit, he paced the floor, words spewing so fast I thought surely his tongue would tangle in a knot.

“Broadsheets everywhere,” he told us. “Cheeky bastards even put a crown on ’em, filled the whole page it did, side to side. Pasted in every window they wuz, with troopers tearing them down as fast they went up. Which only made people demand more. Covered the lot they did, from the City to the docks, St. Paul’s to Covent Garden, Piccadilly to Bond Street and Hyde Park. And in the stews where few can read, chaunterers wuz singing the story of the pretty young queen comin’ to save us all. Like a fairy tale, it wuz.”

“Troopers, you say?” Julian asked, sharply interrupting Matt’s enthusiasm.

“And a bobby or two,” Matt returned with the nonchalance of youth, “nothing to worry about.”

Julian heaved a sigh. “It’s my job to worry, you young idiot. What about massed troops?”

“Y’mean a whole bunch of the buggers in one place?”

“Exactly.”

“Just ’orse Guards an’ Foot Guards, marchin’ about as usual.”

“You’re certain?”

Matt glared, his accent broadening. “Guv’nor, I spent three nights, doin’ mebbe four or five taverns a night. “Ain’t no way I missed ’earing about an army camped in town or anywhere near town.”

“I beg your pardon,” Rochefort murmured. “And did you get any idea how the troopers and the police felt about the broadsheets? Did they
want
to tear them down, or were they just doing their duty?”

“Spoke to some of ’em. There’s always a few who’d do their duty if they wuz told to slice off their mum’s ’ead, but most of ’em wuz just keepin’ their jobs. I got the feeling they wuz as interested in ’avin’ a queen as the rest o’ London. The town’s buzzin’, Guv’nor, no doubt about it.”

“Any talk of how the M.P.s will swing?”

“Took a stroll down St. James, with all them gentl’men’s clubs left and right. Tried to stay inconspic’ous, don’t y’know. Went round back to the servants’ entrances, too. Had me some interestin’ conversations.” Matt paused, his thin face scrunching into a grimace. “The truth, Guv . . . seems there’s a mort o’ whispers, but when push comes to shove, who knows how many will stand up for a queen? Treason’s a scary old bugger.”

“And the Lords?” I asked Julian. “Do you expect them to stand for the queen?”

“We’ve had promises, but as Matt says, when the moment comes, who knows how many will actually have the courage to defy the Lord Protector.”

I turned to Matt. “What about ships in the harbor? Could there be troops hiding on board?”

“Not without I heard about it. Talked to the River Police too.”

“Matt,” Rochefort said after several moments of silence, “we sent you to London not only because you know your way around but because I value your judgment. So, dismissing those who will always sit on the fence until they see who is winning, will the people rise for a queen? Is the time right to fulfill our plans?”

Rochefort held up his hand as Matt opened his mouth, the light of a crusader shining from his sky blue eyes. “Wait before you answer. Think. Is there some problem, even a hint of a problem we have not yet heard? Something obscured by your enthusiasm for our cause?”

Matt frowned, sinking down into a chair at last, staring into the distance, obviously sifting through his experiences in London. “There was a bit of talk,” he said at last, “mostly among the bully boys in Seven Dials. They claimed, Cumberland, him what’s King of ’anover, was the only one tough enough to oust Wellington. Some of ’em . . . some even said, what use to England was a young girl raised in foreign parts.”

Julian didn’t even blink. Clearly, these were arguments he’d heard before. “Did you get the impression Cumberland was hiring mercenaries, paying people to talk against the queen?”

“Aye. And worse.” Matt looked up. “But there weren’t many of ’em, Guv. Just a handful ’ere and there.”

“Well?” Julian demanded.

“Lord, Guv’nor, don’t put it all on me!”

Rochefort smiled. “I’m not. After I tell the others what you’ve said, we’ll probably talk the night away, arguing over what’s best to do. But what you tell us is priceless, Matt. Reliable information is more vital than bullets.” Julian paused, eyebrows raised, waiting.

Matt ran a hand through his shock of blond hair, then faced Julian squarely, each word clear and deliberate. “Cumberland means mischief, and I haven’t the foggiest what Wellington plans, but the people are with us, ready for a queen. So if it was up to me, Guv, I’d say, yea. Let’s do it.”

“Then that’s what I’ll tell the others.” Julian held out his hand and, eyes solemn, the two of them shook on it. Quietly, I slipped out of the room. If I didn’t give Lexa Matt’s news, I suspected she would be the last to hear.

“Diversion!” I proclaimed, standing hands on hips, confronting Julian across six feet of seething space in our sitting room. We’d been arguing for some time, each refusing to budge from our convictions. I’d begun our contretemps languidly displayed on the sofa, possibly in the false hope that Rochefort might be seduced into agreeing with me. But as our conflict sharpened, my body straightened to poker stiff until, finally, extreme agitation drove me to my feet. In response, Julian popped out of his chair like a jack-in-the-box

“I told you
no
,” he roared.

I glared, unfolded my right hand from my hip, and held up a single finger. “One,” I declared. “If you fly
Aurora
from here to London, you will require so much fuel you can take very few passengers. You may, in fact, have difficulty making the distance at all. Imagine all our efforts gone to naught because you were forced to land in a field or crash into the Thames.”