The Shadow of Albion (30 page)

Nervously, Sarah fluttered about the drawing-room, as if Herriard House’s small

army of servants had not already engineered all domestic matters to perfection, and

as if Cook did not have an array of tasty dainties prepared in the kitchen, awaiting

Sarah’s call. She paused to peer out the window, inspecting the carriages that

passed on the street below. A glance at the clock upon the mantlepiece told her that

she could not expect Miss Bulleyn for a quarter of an hour yet, so there was no use

looking out for her carriage.

It occurred to Sarah that she was not even sure where Miss Bulleyn lived. They

had always met in secluded public places, by arrangement, each new meeting fixed at

the close of the previous. But that near-clandestine arrangement would cease as of

today, Sarah vowed. If Meriel’s uncle could afford to set at naught the wishes of a

mere Marchioness, he would find the desires of the Duchess of Wessex a different

matter entirely.

The sight of a familiar figure in the street caused Sarah ‘ to emit a highly

unduchesslike squeak. It was all she could do to compose herself in a slightly more

ladylike fashion until Buckland came to announce her young visitor.

Miss Bulleyn was a figure of flowerlike perfection in white muslin and a

deep-poke bonnet. The ribbons that trimmed bonnet and dress alike matched the

deep green velvet spencer that she wore, and tiny emerald drops glittered in her ears.

She had the same Otherworldly beauty as –

But as soon as the thought formed it vanished, leaving Sarah momentarily

confused. She shook off her confusion to hug Meriel in greeting, a salutation that

was warmly returned.

„How well you look!“ Meriel said. „Marriage agrees with you.“

„The absence of my husband agrees with me,“ Sarah responded with tart

honesty, and Meriel’s green eyes danced with answering amusement.

„Then I will be glad for you that he is gone – but he is twice a fool to leave you

so hard upon the heels of your wedding.“ Meriel untied the ribbons of her bonnet

and set it aside, and then began calmly removing her crocheted cotton gloves.

„It was not of his own choice.“ Perversely, Sarah felt the need to defend her new

husband. „It was by the King’s order. Something to do with the Army,“ she finished

vaguely, suddenly realizing that though she had thought Wessex’s explanation

pedantic and boring in its length, he had actually told her nothing at all.

„And when the King disposes, what can his loyal subjects do save obey?“ Meriel

said.

It was undoubtedly not Meriel’s intent to make the simple statement sound so

scornful; Sarah decided that her nerves were playing her false after so many

sleepless nights. While she had no idea what Meriel’s politics might be, certainly

there was no malice in her friend. Sarah smiled to herself, shaking her head. Meriel’s

caustic words were no more than the truth, anyway, what could any of them do in

the face of King Henry’s commands? She had married Wessex because of them,

after all.

 
 „But I hope he does not make you too unhappy,“ Meriel went on.

 „The King?“ Sarah said blankly, and Meriel laughed, a silvery peal of affectionate

mirth.

 „Your husband, lobby! Although, if you are thinking of the King when you ought

to be thinking of him…“

„Indeed,“ said Sarah with exaggerated piety, „I should be very wrong not to think

of the King on every possible occasion.“

As she had hoped, Meriel laughed.

At first the visit passed smoothly, with the two women chatting of their common

experiences: books, shopping, plays they had attended. They did not have many

acquaintance in common – for though Sarah was not much fond of Society, she was

a figure in it, while so far as she could tell, Meriel did not go out at all. Sarah tried to

extract from her friend the promise that she would visit again, but Meriel’s response

was odd; not precisely evasion, but almost one of guilt. At last she said:

„I see I may not put it off any longer, but I pray you, Sarah, that for the friendship

we have shared, you will not hate me for what I am about to do.“ From a pocket in

her dress, Meriel withdrew a small velum envelope folded over a square of stiff

pasteboard.

Highly puzzled, Sarah took the mysterious billet. Opening it, she pulled out the

little square of pasteboard and read almost with incomprehension the invitation

written upon its smooth white surface.

„The Earl of Ripon requests the Favor of the Duchess of Wessex’s Attendance

at a Ball to be held upon the Occasion of the Presentation to Society of his Niece,

Lady Meriel Jehanne Bulleyn Highclere….“

„Your wicked Uncle Richard is the Earl of Ripon?“ Sarah said in astonishment.

Which meant, her mind informed her with pedantic thoroughness, that Meriel was

Ripon’s niece and, further, that her dear friend Meriel was the woman Wessex had

said was intended to entrap the Prince of Wales into marriage at the bidding of some

looming Catholic conspiracy.

„Yes,“ Meriel said in a low voice. „When I knew who you were’, I did not want

you to know, for your husband and my uncle are political enemies, but Uncle

Richard insisted…“ Her voice trailed off.

Sarah looked sideways at Meriel. It was hard to imagine anything more ridiculous

than that Meriel should be entangled in such a dark plot – but Wessex had said it

was true, and whatever Sarah might think of the man, he was not given to flights of

gothic imagination. If Meriel were indeed tangled in such a coil, surely she would

need a friend to help her find her way free.

„Oh, Meriel, pray do not look so Friday-faced! I do not care two pins for any

quarrel that Wessex and Ripon may hold,“ Sarah said, with more heat than

accuracy. „We two are friends, are we not? And I hope we shall remain so.“

„Then… you do not mind?“ Meriel asked in a low voice.

Sarah’ hesitated, choosing her words with care, for to tell Meriel she did not

„mind“ was to extend a carte blanche over Ripon’s contemplated treasons, and that

she could not do. Disgusted with her husband Sarah might be, but she was loyal to

the King, and it had not even occurred to her to doubt the wisdom of the Danish

treaty and the wedding that was its price. Sarah decided her first action must be. to

extract a promise from Meriel not to be a party to any plan to entrap the Prince of

Wales.

But Sarah would never know whether her common-sensical approach would have

enjoyed any particular success, for at that moment the door opened, and Wessex

strode unannounced into the parlor.

Wessex checked at the sight of Lady Meriel, but by then it was too late, for his

guest brushed past him. A heartbeat later James, Prince of Wales, came face-to-face

with Lady Meriel Highclere.

She swept him a deep curtsey, looking up from beneath her raven’s-wing lashes

into Jamie’s face.

„Duchess!“ Jamie said tardily, never taking his eyes from Meriel’s face. The

Prince hurried forward, raising Meriel up out of her curtsey. „Dash it, Wessex, you

never told me that your wife’s friends were such charmers!“

„Your Highness, may I present Lady Meriel Highclere? She is the niece of the Earl

of Ripon,“ Wessex said austerely.

Sarah stared at Wessex, surprised out of her mortification. How had he known

who Meriel was?

„Yes, that is right,“ Sarah said lamely. „She has just come to – to drink tea,“ she

finished, whisking Ripon’s invitation behind her back.

As if on cue, Buckland entered the room, carrying a heavily laden tea tray. Sarah

flicked a glance at the mantle clock. It was four o’clock, and Sarah had asked that

the tea be brought in now, but – oh! – her timing could have been better…

„Well,“ the Prince said heartily, „I must say that tea seems like a fine idea – and

with such delightful company, too. But I must take Mr. Highclere to task; Geoff

never told me he had such a handsome niece.“

„You will turn my head with your compliments, Your Highness,“ Meriel

murmured. A fetching blush rose into her ivory cheeks, and she clung to Jamie’s arm

as if unable to stand by herself. „I know that you are widely accounted a

connoisseur of many things, so that your praises must be held to be far more sapient

man those of lesser men.“

„Ah, well, a man in my position does have his opportunities,“ Jamie said, happily

swallowing this piece of outrageous flattery without a blink. „But do sit down, Lady

Meriel,“ he finished, conducting her to a chair beside the tea table and seating

himself beside her.

Filled with a looming despair, Sarah sank back down onto the sopha. She tried

not to look in Wessex’s direction – of all the times for the man to come back, why

did he have to return now, and in such company?

And what must he be thinking, to find her entertaining Ripon’s niece? It was true

Wessex had not forbidden the connection when he had told her of his suspicions

regarding Ripon’s plans, but then, he had not known of the connection – or had he?

Sarah did not choose to wonder – at least, not at this fraught moment. She

poured tea for her future sovereign, her guest, her husband, and herself.

And then realized, with Meriel and the Prince deep in the most animated of

exchanges, that Propriety demanded that she make some sort of conversation with

Wessex.

* * *

There had been a hint of Saint-Lazarre’s business, a hot enough lead that the King

had been willing, even after the furious upbraiding he had given Wessex less than a

day before, to set Wessex upon the trail; the source was one of Wessex’s own

contacts. Such promising information turned neglect of his new bride into a positive

duty. And so Wessex had saddled Hirondel and ridden for the fen country to tease

his informers out of their taciturnity. What he had learned there had been enough to

cause him to follow the trail across the Channel, to spend | three days in a French

port impersonating, a Breton fisherman on the run from the Army. He had barely

escaped impressment by a French shore party, but Wessex had no desire to spend

any time at all fighting for La Belle France in a naval capacity, either from the rigging

of a man o’war or from the decks of a prison galley, and had taken that near miss as

his signal to find his way back to England. His news was too important to risk

losing, and he was the only one who knew it.

On a bitter January day twelve years ago, the King of France had been guillotined

by a bloodthirsty Convention. Louis-Charles, the Dauphin of France, had been a

child only seven years of age.

Louis-Charles – King Louis XVII from the moment the blade fell upon his

father’s neck – spent only a few more months in the company of his mother and

elder sister, the fourteen-year-old Marie-Therese, before being taken away into „more

secure custody“ at an unknown location. By Christmas, his mother, his sister, and

his aunt were dead… but no one was sure where the young Louis-Charles was.

Wessex’s father Andrew had died trying to find out. In the wake of King Louis’s

execution, Andrew, Duke of Wessex, had gone into France at the White Tower’s

behest to try to save the rest of the French Royal family, especially the vital heir to.

the House of Bourbon. But Andrew had vanished without a trace, without any hint

of how close he was to the completion of his mission. And the whereabouts of the

young King remained a mystery that baffled all of Europe.

A band of emigres that succeeded in escaping France a few years later carried the

story that the boy had died in prison, but this tale had been seen by the Great

Powers as a fairly transparent attempt to consolidate France under Napoleon by

causing the Royalists, through Louis-Charles’s supposed death, to acknowledge the

emigre Comte de Provence as King Louis XVIII knowing that the Comte’s

unreformed Bourbonist sympathies would win French supporters not for the true

king, Louis-Charles, but for the devil they knew – Napoleon.

The Comte de Provence, however, had refused to assume the tide of King upon

the rumors of Louis-Charles’s death, instead challenging the French to produce the

body of his nephew or even a reliable witness to his death. But no one was able to

present Louis-Charles, dead or alive, and the succession was deadlocked.

So matters had stood for the next ten years. Belief grew that the young King must

be dead – for surely, if he were alive, he would have appeared, even if only to be

paraded as a suppliant puppet at Bonaparte’s Imperial court. And if he were alive,

Louis-Charles’s arrival on the political stage would galvanize the Triple Alliance to