Seducing the Princess (29 page)

Days after Beatrice learned of Gregory MacAlister’s probable murder of two innocent women, all to pave his way toward marrying into Victoria’s family, Beatrice still felt on edge and haunted by everything that had happened. How could she have trusted Gregory, a stranger, charming though he was, and so easily lost faith in Henry? Victoria herself seemed so unsettled by the Scot’s treachery that raising the question of marriage, again, seemed imprudent.

“Never you mind,” Henry assured Beatrice. “I’ll wait until the time is right. For as long as it takes.” At least the queen hadn’t objected to Henry Battenberg’s presence in England. She even asked if he would stay with them at Osborne House, then asked to hear about his ill-fated rescue mission to the Sudan.

But would there ever be a right time to petition the queen, so long as the very mention of marriage triggered her mother’s need to revisit her tragic losses? Beatrice’s only comfort was to imagine her someday wedding day—a bittersweet fantasy. It saddened her to know Marie wouldn’t be there to dress her for the most blessed day of her life. Perhaps only the death of her own mother—something she truly did not wish for—would permit her to marry Henry.

Meanwhile, questions remained unanswered about Gregory MacAlister’s motives for forcing himself on her when she didn’t succumb to his advances. The Court’s gossipmongers assumed he’d simply become infatuated with her to the extreme. But Stephen Byrne’s investigations indicated a conspiracy of sorts. Something to do with his old school chum, Prince Wilhelm—Beatrice’s unstable royal nephew.

Of course, Gregory had admitted to nothing. But, the more Beatrice thought about all that had happened, the more she suspected the Scot really had been involved in both his mistress’s and Marie’s deaths. It broke her heart that Marie’s little daughter was now without a mother and, presumably, without financial support. She was determined to find the girl and make sure she was well cared for. No return address appeared on the letter she’d found in Marie’s Bible. But she asked Stephen Byrne, after he delivered Gregory in shackles to Scotland Yard, to continue on to Paris and search for the child.

Beatrice prayed the British court would make certain Gregory never again walked the streets of London a free man.

Now, sitting in her bed chamber, she closed her eyes for a moment to rally her spirits. How blind she’d been to his ruse. How little faith she’d had in Henry and their love, to let that wicked man come between them and cause such misery. If any good had come out of the experience, it was that she was a wiser, more worldly woman. Happier, saner days must lie ahead.

“Jenkins?” she called out to the maid who had stepped in to fill Marie’s shoes for as long as they were on the Isle of Wight. Clara Jenkins was a local girl, whom Beatrice had chosen for her sweet and simple manner. “Will you bring me my pearls? They’re in the smaller of my trunks, in a quilted jewelry case of their own.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” The girl made a nervous curtsey, then scurried away toward the niche where the luggage was stored. Five minutes later, she poked her head around the corner, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know what I’m looking for. A quilt you said?”

Beatrice took pity on her. “Never mind. I’ll show you then you’ll know next time.”

It took her less than two minutes to locate the satin pouch that protected the precious pearl choker with the diamond clasp—a gift from her mother on her sixteenth birthday. No doubt it had last been put away by Marie. But when Beatrice untied the delicate ribbons that secured the outer flap, a folded sheet of paper and two envelopes fell onto her dressing table.

Beatrice frowned at the stationary’s familiarity—one letter from her own supply of hand-made paper, the other with Henry’s family crest pressed into the unbroken wax seal.

She dismissed the girl to give herself privacy then, with trembling fingers, unfolded the sheet of paper that accompanied the two envelopes. The writing was in Marie’s hand:

For Her Royal Highness, Princess Beatrice,

If you have found this and I am not with you to explain why these letters are in your hands, then it is because I am no longer able to confess in person my deep sorrow for having deceived you. You see, I have a little girl, and
elle est très belle
and most precious to me. But because she is a child of shame, I could not admit to you—and never to the queen, of course—that I had been so wicked as to conceive a baby out of wedlock.

But now this shame has been doubled by my attempts to keep my secret. I helped Gregory MacAlister play a very mean trick on you. At least he said, in the beginning, that it was a harmless joke, taking a few letters—yours to Henry, and his to you. Then he claimed it was for your own good—to prevent you from falling in love with a man the queen would never let you marry. He said it would break your heart. I believed him. How could I have known what a terrible man he was?

Later, when he told me to destroy all of the correspondence
entrée vous
, letting you neither send yours nor see Henry’s, I told Monsieur MacAlister I could not continue to deceive you. But he’d learned my secret, and he threatened to tell the queen about my child. His silence could be bought only by my doing as he commanded. For months I was so terrified that I did what he asked. But my guilt has become too painful to carry any longer. And so I will go to Gregory tonight and tell him I will no longer do as he says. I am convinced he is evil and a very dangerous man. I expect I may have paid the ultimate price, if you are reading this.

I know I do not deserve your sympathy or help. But I ask of you two favors. Please, protect yourself and your family by insisting upon his dismissal. Secondly, I beg you to consider rewarding my earlier, faithful years by seeing to my daughter’s welfare, in whatever way you think is best. I pray you won’t allow her to be cast, motherless, into the streets of Paris.

My heart goes out to you, Your Highness and
ma cher ami
. I beg your forgiveness. I would have given my life for you. Perhaps I already have.

My daughter’s name is Sophie. She lives with her nurse in Paris at the address at the bottom of this letter. Bless you for understanding that all I’ve done—whether resulting in good or ill—has been out of love.

Fondly,

Marie

Beatrice looked up from the letter, now lying in her lap, limp and moist with her tears.
Poor, poor girl
. Byrne was already, or soon would be, in Paris. She would get word to him of the child’s address. It pained her that, even with Marie’s incriminating letter to show the magistrates in London, there was still no actual proof that Gregory had murdered Marie, or his mistress, although Beatrice knew in her heart he had done it. What if they dismissed the murder cases?

He’d still face charges of assault against a royal. And she wouldn’t back down from her statements on that count, even if she had to appear in court herself and reveal every single embarrassing detail. If found guilty of attempted rape, his punishment would be swift and harsh. Two or more years of imprisonment at hard labor. But was that enough?

Her heart hardened.

One way or another—in payment for Marie, and for the misery he’d caused others—she’d see that justice was done.

Gregory found it amusing, how easily he’d escaped his jailers after the American agent left him at Scotland Yard.

The constables had been shifting him from the magistrate’s hearing, across the city, to a cell. The entire time he’d been in their custody that day, he’d played the beaten, humbled prisoner. The lingering purple and green bruises on his face and torn-up knuckles from his scuffle with Battenberg helped. His slumped posture, silence, and attitude of misery gave him a docile appearance. When one of his two guards went off for a piss, Gregory slammed his cuffed fists onto the bridge of the other man’s nose, stunning the copper just long enough for Gregory to hobble off and lose himself in Whitehall’s labyrinth of gritty warrens.

He stole clothes to replace those that marked him as a prisoner. Ridding himself of the leg and wrist shackles had been more of a challenge. Pick a few pockets; bribe a smithy to saw them off. Foraging for food and money as he went, he made his way across the English Channel to Germany. To the one place he felt safe. The one place he could always count on for shelter. With Wilhelm.

“Well, now you look more presentable,” the Crown Prince said cheerfully when Gregory had stripped off his traveling clothes, washed away the grime and changed into trousers and shirt leant to him by one of the prince’s retainers.

“It wasn’t a pleasant journey, let me tell you.” Gregory said with a tired sigh. “I think I’ll sleep for a week.” He took a seat at the mammoth banquet table, at the end of which Wilhelm sat. It was bare except for the single place setting in front of Wilhelm. The food, whatever it was, smelled delicious.
Sauerbraten
perhaps. His mouth watered. “Thank you for the clothes. And for letting me come here.”

Wilhelm used his good arm to gesture expansively while cradling the deformed appendage against his chest. “What else could I do?”

“Well, turn me away for one.” Gregory gave a tight laugh. “After all, I failed to accomplish our mission. But—” he added hastily in his own defense, “—I don’t expect any man capable of melting that bitch’s heart.”

“Dear Aunt Beatrice? Yes, I expect she was a challenge. Except…Henry Battenberg seems to have found a way.”

Gregory grunted. “He’ll be sorry when he discovers nothing but a cold fish in his bed!”

Wilhelm nodded but was uncharacteristically silent. The prince had dismissed his butler and servants, he explained, so that they could speak in private. He poured wine into a second chalice and held it out to Gregory. “You must be thirsty. Such a long, difficult trip.”

Gregory smiled, relieved. He’d worried, apparently unnecessarily, that the prince would be furious with him. Gregory drank deeply, standing up to circle the room while taking in the paintings on the walls—a Rembrandt, a van Dyck, a magnificent Richter landscape. He felt the prince studying him, as if considering what errand he might next assign his old school chum. But Gregory had already decided there would be no more schemes for him. He’d find a rich widow to marry. Settle down. Live the life of a gentleman. Not as grandly as he’d imagined with Beatrice, but he would have enough to be comfortable. He smiled.
If she is rich enough
.

When Gregory had drunk down half of the wine, Wilhelm roused himself from his private thoughts. “The thing is—I said to myself, Gregory MacAlister is a cherished old friend. We’ve been through a lot together. We know each other’s minds so well. And he understands the importance of power, of control…and the critical nature of my political goals.”

“I do.” Gregory toasted the prince and took another mouthful of the very fine wine, as rich and dark red as congealing blood, with a slightly unusual, but pleasant, nuttiness to the grapes. He’d have to ask the prince for a few bottles to take to his room. He’d undoubtedly be staying in the castle until he worked out other accommodations.

Wilhelm was still speaking in a tutorial tone, as if he were one of their professors from the old days. “…and so you will comprehend that, although I do appreciate your efforts on my behalf, I cannot condone your methods. The aggressiveness with which you pursued my aunt—” He shook his head in disapproval.

Gregory turned his back on the Richter’s lush trees and stared at his benefactor. “But when I wrote to you and reported that a certain amount of force might be required—”

“I assumed you would be far more subtle in your seduction.”

“Subtle?
With that cow?
You said yourself, that the ends justified the means and I should do whatever I thought was—”

“Within reason, dear friend. Within reason.” When the prince’s eyes lifted from his cup to focus on Gregory’s face, they were flint, conveying no more emotion than that rock. “Things got out of hand. Didn’t they?”

“There were unexpected obstacles.”

Wilhelm put down his cup and rubbed his withered arm with his good hand. “You murdered two women to get to my aunt. Then you would have raped her in the woods, had you not been stopped by my cousin, Battenberg.”

Gregory narrowed his eyes at his friend. He had told the prince nothing about his mistress’s death nor about the lady-in-waiting’s plunge, and as little as possible about what had happened at Osborne House. “How did you know about—”

Wilhelm held up a hand. “A letter arrived two days before you dragged yourself into my father’s palace. From Beatrice. It’s my guess she heard of your escape from someone in London and, having learned that you and I were involved in past adventures, projected your coming here to hide out from British authorities.”

Gregory laughed. “Well, so what? How can it matter whether or not the bitch knows where I am?”

“It matters.” The prince settled a gaze over him that felt like a sheet of ice.

Gregory gulped down another half of the remaining wine from his cup. His hand shaking, he refilled it from the carafe on the table.

The prince continued. “That you are
here
at all is an indication of our former friendship.”
Former?
Gregory thought. “The worst of it is—someone might discover you were sent by me, and assume I ordered you to attack my aunt. God forbid my grandmother should believe I had anything to do with your outrageous behavior.”

“But y-y-you—” Gregory stammered to silence. What the hell was Willy saying? Would he cast him out of Germany? Fine, then he’d return to Scotland and disappear into the Highlands, assume a new name, start a new life. “I don’t see how anyone can find out or, even less likely, prove you were involved. I’ll certainly never tell.”

“No, of course not. Unless you are drunk or bragging to one of your whores, or—”

“Never!” Gregory shook his head violently. This was wrong, all wrong. He’d had to be creative. How could the prince possibly fault him for carrying out his orders?

Wilhelm stared thoughtfully into his wine. “The problem is—even if
you
never talk about our plan, even if neither of us ever breathes a word of it, someone still might discover my involvement. That American my Aunt Louise runs with, he’s very clever. And then there’s Bea herself—surprisingly savvy, as it turns out. Her letter was most troubling. I almost think she knows all of it. How? What connection can she have theorized between the death of those two women, herself, a Scottish stable hand…
and me
?” The prince blinked at him with an impossibly innocent expression. “What did you let slip, friend?”

“I said
nothing
to her! Oh, my God, Willy—I said nothing to implicate you!” The sound of his own voice, unnaturally high-pitched, echoed back to him off the castle’s stone walls. He sounded like a stranger, taunting him with his own words. And the wine—
the goddamn wine!
—was making him thirstier rather than soothing his parched throat. He looked around for ale, water, anything liquid. Nothing. In desperation, he poured himself more wine and gulped it down between hasty words.

“Stupid pig,” he muttered. “Foolish, ignorant old maid. What does she know?”

Wilhelm observed him over the rim of his cup. “Careful, my friend. Bea is, after all, family. I may hate Victoria and find all things English disgusting. But Beatrice is blood. She’s always been kind to me. And in her letter, she has asked a favor of me that I feel curiously to my benefit.”

“Really,” Gregory scoffed, stumbling toward the prince, one hand on the table’s edge to steady himself. “What does she want? Your appearance at her wedding—if it ever takes place?” He laughed.

“She asked that if you showed up here, I might administer fair punishment for your crimes.”

Gregory stared at him, stunned speechless. So it was Beatrice who had revealed all to Willy. Willy the Emperor-to-be. Willy, whose appetite for power had yet to be satisfied and—if Gregory’s sense of the man was accurate—would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

“It seems,” Wilhelm said, “Bea was most grievously hurt by the loss of her lady-in-waiting. She never met your mistress but feels remorse for what you did to the woman. Blames herself, I expect, since it was your need to divest yourself of your lover in order to get to her, the queen’s daughter. And, if I interpret the tone of her letter correctly, she was rather offended by your fumbling attempts to deflower her.” Wilhelm gave him a smug smile.

Gregory closed his eyes. Opened them again. He felt so very dizzy. His stomach tumbled and twisted.
The wine. Red wine. Bloody German wine. More potent than I’m used to. Drank it too fast.
It had gone to his head.

“Punish-sh-sh-ment?” he slurred. “I should be
rewarded
for what…for what I went through for you.” He thumped his chest with a fist. “My own wo-woman. Sacrificed her for your stupid plot. I raked horse shit, for God’s sake! I suffered the disdain of those royal snobs and—” “But you failed. Didn’t you?”

“No one could have, could have—” Gregory waved a fist in the air, grasping for words that wouldn’t come to him. Why did he drink so fast? He needed his wits about him now, and they were floating far above his head.

Wilhelm said, “Let me finish. There isn’t much time now.”

Time for what
? Gregory thought.

“My grandmother is already wary of me. If Victoria ever came to believe that I put you up to molesting her precious Baby, there would be hell to pay. She would stop at nothing to thwart my every venture. I cannot afford to have Beatrice whispering in her ear, suggesting she suspects me of sending my agents to do harm to her and her Court.”

Gregory pressed his free hand to his head. “Sit,” he mumbled. “Got…to…sit.” The room spun and spun—a living kaleidoscope of images and hues—tapestries, dark oak furniture, paintings, coats-of-arms, Willy’s frowning face.

Then his fingers went numb. He heard breaking glass, felt cool wine splatter his ankle. Suddenly, he was down on the floor, on hands and knees. The pain in his gut—horrible. Panting for breath that didn’t reach his lungs.

“Poi-son?” he snarled. “You…you fucking poisoned me!”

Silence.

When Gregory managed to lift the leaden weight of his head, Wilhelm hadn’t moved from his chair. The prince shrugged. “My dear friend, I no longer can afford you.”

“But—”

“My crown. I must protect it.”